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Chapter Text

The crows had been circling overhead for days. The maids shooed the children away from the windows when they tried to catch a glimpse of them, but they could not keep them out of the courtyards, nor stop their pale fingers from grabbing at the black feathers that littered the grounds. They were the same breed as the septas, who were in near constant fits, calling them minions of the Strangers come to warn them all of impending death.

Alyssa found herself perturbed by their superstitions at best and disconcerted at worst. The king had always been in ill health. He had told her once he feared he was not meant to live long after Rhaenys’s death, and all thirty-one years afterwards were borrowed time. His most recent ailment was a shadow of the illnesses they had lived through together, the ones that cut away the charming, clever man of his youth and left him weak in both mind and spirit. If he was meant to recover, then the maesters would see to his care and he would be restored to good health. If not, death was death, and there was no halting it once the Stranger laid his sickly gray hand on her husband’s breast.

Her concerns lay with her children, as to whether the unrelenting, vicious birds would allow their smaller lookalikes to pass through bringing news of Aegon and Rhaena’s progress. Rhaena’s last letter contained poorly concealed terror, recounting their recent tale of assault and humiliation. Their retinue had been surrounded by smallfolk pelting both mud and mockery. She had unsuccessfully tried to assuage her mother’s fears, writing that she would’ve taken all their heads if Dreamfyre had been allowed to attend her. The effort, though touching, had been absolutely ineffective to a mother’s eyes. Alyssa saw the scene as clearly as if she were there: Rhaena’s silver-gold hair marred by dirt clods, her eyes of wisteria shining with rage and fear. She imagined poor Aegon unintentionally cowered behind her as they were like to do as children.

The world did not coddle its men, but it trod upon its women. If those so-called “Poor Fellows” made good on their promises, Aegon would have his throat cut ear to ear, no better than a pig. Although a cruel fate in the minds of men, Rhaena would suffer far worse for the crime of possessing teats. She would be raped, beaten, and raped again until some man had the decency to end her humiliation and take her life.

Alyssa had begged at her husband’s knee for Rhaena to be allowed to take Dreamfyre for her protection, a plea which had fallen on willfully deaf ears for all who had attempted the same: Alyssa, Rhaena, and even the wiser members of Aenys’s small council. When the last letter had proven their concerns to be founded, Aenys pinched his face and fell ill that very night, some three weeks past. He could not bear to admit his guilt, and so it ate him up from the inside. It had festered as convincingly as any disease in the maesters’ texts, except it was unique in its inability to be healed by salves and poultices.

It was said that the Targaryens could not fall ill with any worldly ailment, which seemed true enough. Aenys’s ailment was a malediction of the spirit, a cancer of the soul, deeper than flesh and humors alike.

“Your Grace?” The door to her chambers opened, and Alyssa placed her thoughts aside. One of her ladies was waiting in the doorway, that Frey whose name she often forgot. The girl, although bone thin and overly tall in stature, had the presence of a mouse around her queen, scampering to dark corners to avoid her gaze. She trembled now with Alyssa’s amethyst eyes leveled directly on her own. “King Aenys– His Grace would like you to join him in his chambers.”

“With the maesters attending to him?”

“I do not know, your Grace. It was Ser Raymont who bid me to summon you.” The girl ran her fingers along her hem nervously, the same way Rhaena once did before claiming Dreamfyre. The memory squeezed tightly across Alyssa’s breast.

She proceeded to the king’s quarters regardless, the Frey girl trailing close behind. Her footsteps were inconsistent, sometimes falling far enough behind to be mistaken as a guard in skirts, then increasing her pace until she brushed against Alyssa’s side. She stiffened slightly whenever she did, then forced herself to fall back again. It was a horrifyingly consistent tone that echoed both through the halls and Alyssa’s ear. To be fair to the poor girl, annoyance was a far more welcome companion in the queen’s mind than the relentless fear that had plagued her since her children had left.

Alyssa did not suffer the girl long, however, sending her away as soon as they reached her husband’s door. Ser Raymont stood at attention, taking himself far too seriously for a boy of one and twenty. He was the sternest Baratheon she was ever sure to meet, the others all delightfully bawdy in nature.

“What company has my husband taken today, ser?”

“The maesters, this morning, your Grace, for healing, and then another not but an hour past bearing a letter for his Grace.”

“Did you happen to see the seal it bore?”

“It was a personal message for the king, your Grace.”

“Hm. Do they not teach you politicking in Storm’s End?”

“Yes, your Grace, and honor too.” She could not help but smile at the boy. Perhaps there was a bit of Baratheon in him after all.

“Very well. Might I enter now?” Ser Raymont flushed and opened the door, admitting her into Aenys’s chambers.

Her husband waited for her within, slouching in and amongst a mountain of pillows. Aenys was pale, even for a Targaryen, his complexion a startling chalky white. He still smiled upon seeing her, and tried to pull himself up into a proper sitting position. She frowned at the exertion and advanced to his bedside, arranging the pillows beneath him herself.

“I am not on my deathbed, sweetling,” he complained, taking her hand in one of his shaking palms. She could see the spidery veins traveling down his wrist in sharp relief, and squeezed his knobbly fingers tightly. He raised their hands to his mouth, placing a kiss on the ring he had gifted her weeks after Rhaena’s birth: a small ruby set in a golden band, a token of her new house.

“What bothers you, husband?” His brow furrowed over pale lilac eyes.

“I have decided you should be the first to know, before the snakes on the small council descend upon me. I have received a response from the High Septon on the matter of Septon Murmison’s exile from the Faith. It is… not the response I had hoped for.” She now saw that the letter had been balled in his other hand, wrinkled and wrung in his hands for– if Ser Raymont spoke truthfully –the better part of an hour. He handed it to her, releasing his tight grasp so she could straighten the creases with both hands.

The letter was marked with the Hightower’s seal, though written in the hand of the new Lord Hightower rather than his father, who had sent the last letter informing them of Murmison’s expulsion. Its sender was of very little importance compared to its content, which stole Alyssa’s breath from her chest.

The High Septon had not given his king the respect of a direct denial, it seemed, but saw fit to make a public denunciation to all of the Starry Sept, with transcripts surely being sent to septs across the kingdom. Lord Martyn Hightower did not seek to parse words, and quoted the man exactly. “Lord Abomination,” the wretched man had cried, “pretender and tyrant to the throne.”

“By the Gods…” she gasped, steadying herself against the bedpost. “This is a declaration of war.” She had no doubt how the smallfolk would take such a speech, those who already felt bold enough to attack the crown prince and his wife. The Faith Militant were already so consumed by religious fervor, ready to suckle any corrupted milk from the High Septon’s teat. It was a rousing speech, she had to give a testament to the man. Words were a fire of their own, something the dragonlords often forgot, and they would burn a path straight through King’s Landing using the smallfolk as kindling. She feared even the pious lords might rise against them, those who already harbored ill will towards the Targaryens.

The Hightowers, for example. The house had never been fond of the Targaryens, but this particular letter bordered on loathing. It concluded only with the stern warning that “His Grace should take great care to protect his own,” and no promise of allegiance. Piety would be the death of the Hightowers, she swore to herself, folding the letter up when she could longer bear its words.

“Calm yourself, sweetling. I have been king for four years, and faced as many rebellions in half the time. I am the blood of Aegon the Conqueror beyond that, and of old Valyria. It will take more than a septon to fall such a dynasty.”

“You must write to Rhaena and Aegon, regardless.”

“If you feel it necessary.”

Alyssa could not bear the way he spoke to her at times, even if she swore to herself it was from a place of love. Were they not his own children as well? The ones he had held in his arms like a piece of his heart incarnate? She had never considered herself an overly attentive mother, and yet her resolve was being tested. The pain of their separation gnawed at her chest day and night, and she could not bear his indifference.

“Do they not face the greatest danger of any of us?”

“I am afraid Septon Murmison holds that honor. We must pray for his journey to King’s Landing. You might want to pay a visit to the sept, to show our family’s devotion to the Faith in the face of adversity. I have no doubt the news will have passed through the mouths of smallfolk faster than any raven’s flight.”

- - -

Alyssa found herself not in the sept– a place so concentrated with unpleasant, heavy smells she could not bear to frequent it more than minutes at a time –but into the nursery.

Her children were simple, impious things who believed in only the things they could see and touch. Their gods were the ones of fire and scale who flew over their heads. She wondered if it was a common trait among children or Targaryens, who were so fond of naming their dragons after the gods of old. She hoped to hold the little pagans to her breast and alleviate her worries, if only for a single breath of time.

“Mama!” Little Alysanne’s eyes watered with excitement as she ran to greet her mother as quickly as she could in skirts.

Alyssa scooped the girl into her arms, cradling her as much as she could cradle a girl of five outgrowing her infant-like features. She pressed her nose into Alysanne’s fine blonde hair, where a smell like burnt flesh sat in and amongst the gentle curls.

“Have you been with the dragons?” Alysanne’s eyes grew in size and roundness as she realized her mistake, her lips knitting together in hopes of hiding the truth. Alyssa’s gaze shifted to Jaehaerys, who wore a neutral expression regardless of guilt.

“Did you take your sister to play with the dragons? After I explicitly told your maids to keep you from doing such a thing?” Jaehaerys merely shrugged in response. He was frighteningly precocious in many things, lying included.

Alyssa knew Viserys was likely the inventor of such a plot, however, having developed a recent fascination with the beasts that had him determined to claim a dragon of his own. Rhaena had made him promise to stay away from Dreamfyre while she was gone, lest the little schemer attempt to make the fatal mistake of claiming a dragon already possessing a rider. Alyssa did not know which of her little ones scared her the most: Viserys’s plots, Alysanne’s fearless encouragement, or Jaehaerys’s ability to make their foolish endeavors into flawlessly executed plans.

“They are so little, darling, they could hurt you if your father or sister aren’t around.”

“Not Silverwing,” Alysanne protested, “she could never hurt me!”

“She would not mean to, but it is difficult for babies to be careful.” Alysanne mulled over her mother’s claim, unhappy with her defeat.

“What if she is lonely without me?”

“Are you lonely without her? Just as you have Jaehaerys and Rhaena and your father, she has Vermithor, Dreamfyre, and Quicksilver to keep her company.” Alysanne pouted, but could not formulate a rebuttal. Tears beaded at the corners of her dark blue eyes, paling them to a shade like the ocean at midday. Alyssa smoothed her daughter’s hair.

“It is alright, little one,” she comforted. “One day, you will be able to play with her as often as you like, whenever you like.”

“And ride her like Rhaena does?”

“Of course.” Despite Alyssa’s best efforts, the budding smile at the corners of Alysanne’s mouth lacked the chance to bloom, for her eyes suddenly became fixed on the same object that had already caught Jaehaerys and Alyssa’s gazes just moments earlier. Jaehaerys had extended a small finger towards the window, his mouth ever so slightly open.

The black beast sat on the reddish stone of their window, a shroud that nearly obscured all light entering and did so by flexing its wings further away from its great frame. Its eye was entirely black, making it at once impossible to tell where the creature’s gaze fell and giving each the feeling that they were its target. As Jaehaerys shied away from the creature, Alyssa dropped to her knees to take her son into her protection.

Although it did not utter a sound, she swore she could hear its cry. She heard it rattling around her mind, hollow and yet unmistakable. An ugly, rough noise like the cry of death. The sound of crows filled her head.

Chapter Text

Death had not been long after word from Lord Hightower. The most recent news to breach the storm of crows above King’s Landing had brought greater tragedy to the minds of Aenys and his small council. Murmison had been crossing King’s Landing when a group of Poor Fellows had swarmed out of the shadows and hacked the man to pieces, along with several of his guards. Only the scrawny squire of a hedge knight pulled from Flea Bottom had survived to relay the news to his king. By his recount, he had only escaped by blending in with the street urchins.

Fighting smallfolk posed a beastly threat of greater worth than any iron or sword. Lords and their knights marched in lines across fields like a great metallic swarm. As her good father had once told them, they were nothing more than a feasting ground for dragons. Likewise, they could combat the Warrior’s Sons with relative ease. They were a band of young lords who fancied themselves heroes of the Faith if it brought pious tavern girls into their bed. They knew only the same foolish tactics as their fathers, who had been most valuable as Balerion’s toothpick.

The Poor Fellows, however, were a formidable threat. They looked the same as any smallfolk, lived among them, talked like them, smelt like them. Their battles were fought on their lands, in alleys and inns, alongside mothers and children. Dragons could burn cities, but not every village, nor scorch the underside of every rock. Poor Murmison’s death had proved that true. 

Alyssa did not imagine the changing of the air, a strange unseasonable heat that had settled over the city like a great weight. It was indiscriminate in its reach, placing a subtle hunch to every working man’s back outside the keep and twisting its way around every noblewoman’s neck. Even the dragons grew restless, screeching and snapping at each other’s wings, more violence than play. The crows, of course, had grown ever more present, their calls no longer imagination alone. When they cried together, it was as loud as a thunder clap.

She sat at her window more often than not, frustrated at her inability to do much else. The black clouds twisted and thrummed above the keep, bringing with them a cacophony of agonizing sounds. It was a fairly constant image, when there was a sudden break in their pattern. A great blast of white fire tore through the masses of birds, marking the path of a sleek blur of blue scales through the gaping hole. The dark creatures wailed their sorrows, but did not break formation as the irritated she-dragon burned hole after hole into the shroud. Dreamfyre was too proud to eat them, however, so they plummeted like black hail into the streets below. 

“You are so melancholy, aunt, I think the singers may write songs to memorialize your tragic beauty,” Alarra moaned. Alyssa looked over to her niece, who was stitching the seahorse of House Velaryon into one of the queen’s cloaks.

“To a child, sitting still for long periods of time must be a tragic thought.”

“You are too cruel,” Alarra pouted. “Nuncle, tell her how cruel she is.” Vaemond Velaryon, instead of defense, offered the girl a rather raucous laugh. “Now I am cursed to be the mockery of my own family!”

“Oh, do not pout, girl. It gives you such a melancholy look,” Alyssa teased. Alarra recovered from the wound remarkably quickly. She put aside the cloth and took her aunt’s hand, pulling her from the seat.

“We must go for a walk in the gardens, this stale air is clearly fouling our tempers. Uncle, accompany us.” It would be difficult to tell who was queen from the quick work Alarra made of her aunt, hooking her arm around her elbow forcefully. The knight saw no choice but to follow the girl. 

Even Alyssa admitted that the gardens of King’s Landing were most gorgeous when a wet heat hung over the city. It was such a time that only the flowers were able to bravely face the sky. The saplings she remembered from her youth had flourished into great fruit trees that hung their spoils over their heads. The fruits that had not been chosen for their meals grew fat and overripe on their branches, dripping sweet smelling juices onto the ground. The edge of Vaemond’s white cloak trailed through the yellowed pulp of crushed peaches on the ground. He did not seem altogether bothered, and instead plucked a peach still clinging to the sagging boughs overhead, pressing it into his sister’s hand.

“There are no gardens like these in Driftmark,” Alarra sighed.

“Not for lack of trying by your namesake. Our mother fought a great war against the salty shores of our seat trying to recreate the greenery of Stonedance. It is a doomed effort. The seas have drowned our soils too many times, and salt now sits deep in the earth,” Vaemond told his niece, tugging on her braid petulantly. She swatted his hand away. 

“If I recall correctly, Rhogar gifted Mother a garland of seaweed and driftwood for her fortieth nameday,” Alyssa remembered.

“I cannot imagine Grandmother taking that well.”

“Rhogar and Mother did not share the same humor, but she loved him. He was her dearest child, I think.” She smiled fondly to remember her stern, beautiful mother and the son that vexed her most. 

“Did Grandmother like living at Driftmark?”

“It was never her home like it is yours and mine, but I believe she liked it well enough. She loved my father, and her children, and we all came from those old stones. Our love was deep enough that she must’ve taken a bit of it into her. Nonetheless, it takes an early and prolonged exposure to grow very fond of the place, and four brothers to unearth all of its most fascinating secrets.”

“Do you miss Driftmark much, my lady?” 

“As much as you can miss a leg, or an arm.”

“I thought, perhaps, because it has been so long–”

“There is no time long enough for a place to stop being a home. It is my birth place, the home of my father, and the resting place of my mother. It is my most selfish desire that my children will one day see it and know that their blood runs with sea water as much as it does fire. When that day comes, I very much hope you will be by my side.” Alarra beamed at her aunt. She reached her hand into a young pomegranate tree, recounting her tales of Driftmark.

“I’d show Alysanne the coves first. It was always my favorite place as a child to escape my brothers. I once found a blue shell that Father said matched my eyes exactly. He wove it into–” She cut herself off with a strangled gasp. When she drew her hand from the leaves, it clutched the remains of a crow. Half of its body had been burned away by dragonfire hot enough to melt the feathers into the exposed pink flesh like a black webbing. Its bottom jaw had been either burned away or torn from its beak, so that its charred tongue hung freely, twitching in the throes of death. Alarra’s knees fell out from under her and her face slackened as she collapsed into her uncle’s waiting arms.

- - -

An unnatural silence reigned at the supper Aenys insisted the family take together as a celebration of his limited recovery. He was able to rise out of bed on his own, which they were supposed to take as a sign of restored health. She could not help but have her thoughts be tinged with newfound cynicism. It caused her only to see the dark pits under his eyes, his skin that blossomed new black bruises each morning. 

Whatever happiness she regained from the excursion by recalling her family’s history dissipated quickly upon the gruesome sighting and the heat pressed thicker on her chest than before. Even with the feast of lamb and Dornish plums before them, her stomach soured and she found herself pushing the stewed fruit from one side of her plate to the other. 

“You should eat, Mother.” Jaehaerys’s expression was strangely intent. It wasn’t altogether surprising, she often found herself astounded by the things that went on in her son’s head. 

“Thank you, love. But you shouldn’t worry yourself with such things.”

“Is the food not to your taste?” Aenys asked.

“It is not the food. I’m afraid I could only eat a thimbleful at the moment even if we were served a meal from Old Valyria.”
“Are you becoming ill?”

“Not with anything deadlier than nerves. Alarra had quite a fright this afternoon, and the maesters had to give her a cup of sweetmilk to soothe her fits.”

“I hope she is well.” 

“It is nothing that she has not seen before, although the poor girl is mortified.”

“You must send her my best.” The table fell back into nervous silence. It only lasted a few moments before Alysanne could not help but speak, her temper excited by Dreamfyre’s actions in the afternoon. According to her maids, she had been asking after Silverwing nearly every hour since she saw the dragon through the window. 

“Father, will you ride Quicksilver again now that you’re well?” It was an excellent act of concern, if Alyssa did not know her intentions.

“Of course, as soon as the maesters can confirm my good health.”

“The texts say that riding dragons may have restorative properties for dragonlords,” Jaehaerys blurted, then looked concerned for himself for making such an admission. 

“What texts are these? And how does a boy of seven go about acquiring them?” Aenys inquired, an amused glint in his eye.

“Jae is allowed to go wherever he likes,” Alysanne boasted. Jaehaerys winced as two sets of purple eyes– one a pale lilac and the other a deep indigo –fell on him.

“And why might you think such a thing?” Aenys asked pleasantly.

“He told me!” Viserys nearly choked on his own laughter, much to Alysanne’s confusion. Jaehaerys sunk down in his chair, flushing a frighteningly deep red.

“I believe we might…” His words were cut short by the entrance of Ser Addison. The man’s face held no glimpse of his emotion, and told very little of what he whispered into the king’s ear. A better indicator was the slow fall of Aenys’s smile, and the graying of his cheeks as the knight spoke. He set his fork down, but she could see how his hands shook regardless, as if he was in the depths of his sickness again. He uttered only a few hushed words to the Lord Commander, remaining silent to his family for those horrible, chasmic seconds after Ser Addison fell back from his side.

Aenys forced a pained smile again, stretching his thin, greyed lips across his cheeks.

“I am sorry, but I must call our meal to an end. I have urgent matters to attend to, but I urge you all to rest well tonight. We will leave for Dragonstone tomorrow morning, after we break our fast.” The children’s mouths began to open for questioning, and Alyssa needed no further leave to act.

“Come, children,” she beckoned softly, standing from her seat. She knew the dire look on the king’s face well, one that meant war was knocking at either a quicker pace or at a greater intensity than his advisors had expected. She did not need her children to become familiarized with the look of fear.

She led them from the room, Vaemond falling in line behind her. 

“Mother?” Viserys whispered, his face already knotted in worries that his siblings were too young to comprehend. “Are we in danger?”

“Not here, love. Our walls protect us, and the Kingsguard.”

“Then why do we have to leave?”

“It is an excellent season to travel, and it is far past time for your siblings to see their ancestral home,” she lied through her teeth.

“Why weren’t we told before, then? And why did Father look so upset?”

“Your father has been so sick recently–”

“Does it have something to do with Egg and Rhaena?” Bile began to rise in her throat, and she found herself unable to produce a proper response for any of his questions.

“You ask so many questions for such a little prince. It is no wonder all you Taegaeryns have white hair, with all that worry in your heads.” Vaemond ruffled his nephew’s hair. Viserys batted his hand away.

“Velaryons have white hair too, uncle.” 

“Only those unfortunate enough to have little Targaryen babies that put little white hairs on their head,” Vaemond bragged, showing his yellow hair like a piece of indisputable evidence. It was lucky for her brother that her son had not met any of their siblings, and could not formulate a proper argument. His uncle’s teasing had nurtured a slow, reluctant smile creeping up the corners of Viserys’s mouth. If the boy doubted their excuses, he accepted his fate well.

The little ones did not express the same worries as their elder brother until she tucked them into their beds. They looked at each other in the darkness as if conversing silently.

“Mama,” Jaehaerys whispered at last, “if bad men come, Vermithor and Silverwing will burn them away, just like Grandsire and Balerion.”

“Gods willing, your dragons will never see battle. It is not natural to them, not like hunting and flying. Your grandsire burned because it was the only way, not because it was the best way.” She caught her voice turning cold, only able to see images of fire dancing behind her eyes. She calmed herself, reminding herself of the innocence in their words.

“There are so many things you don’t understand yet, that one day your father will teach you. I promise you that. In the meantime, you must trust in your father, in me, in this family. Can you promise me that? No more talk of fire.”

“Yes, Mother,” her children murmured. Alyssa placed a kiss on each of their heads. 

“I love you, my darlings.” Their eyes were already drooping with the exhaustions of their day, and she crept out of their room to avoid breaking the trance. Only once the door was closed did she allow herself to brush the tears out of her eyes and take a deep breath of composure. 

“Lyssa? Are you alright?” Vaemond asked, to which she could only shake her head.

“How can a mother not be able to protect her own children?” She broke down into her brother’s waiting arms.

“You do protect them–”

“Not in the way they need. I am no dragon, barely of their blood. I am not one of them.”

“Good gods, you say you are not one of them, but you even speak like them now. You may not notice, sister, but I can count the dragons in this world without taking my boots off, a good portion of which already belong to your children. Perhaps it is not another dragon they need now, and a different kind of protection. They need a good and decent mother who loves her children, who can teach them the ways of men when their dragon’s blood renders them blind. I see that woman in front of me already.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“And you have the great ability to twist yourself into these horrible little knots. Now, let us get you to bed before you tangle yourself up again.”

Despite his best efforts, she undressed herself for bed in the same dizzying contemplation. She dismissed her ladies to an early night when they had tripped over themselves trying to help her. She was consumed by a profound sense of helplessness, over her own life and her children’s. It was pointless, if not impossible, to hate any enemy you have never met, and yet it seemed every man’s vitriol had been cast at her children.

Alyssa’s affection for her husband did not evade her good sense, and she had long known he was far from blameless for the endless conflicts that plagued his father’s fledgling realm. He had always expected that forgiveness would lead one to have a short memory. Once he had exiled Maegor for plural marriage, he thought the issue of Valyrian tradition had been washed clean from the Faith’s mind and he was free to marry his own children free of its ire.

Aenys was no fool. Alyssa knew that in her heart, and would defend the belief until the organ ripped itself apart in her chest. It was not his fault that there was no man– no matter what Maegor or his wretched mother claimed –that could take Aegon’s place. It did not matter which brother was born first, whether the approach was diplomacy or fire, the realm would never respect Aegon’s heir like they respected the conqueror himself. It was an impossible task, no matter how vigorous the training or how cunning the man.

The turmoil of his reign would surely lead her son to be that unifying hand again, a younger Aegon to mend the realm. If her son outlived his father, she reminded herself. 

She could not think on it much longer, her exhaustion dragging her into a fitful sleep.

- - -

Alyssa seized as she awoke, the warmth of tears still trailing down her face. She had dreamt of fire, consuming each of her children in front of her eyes like that twisted bird’s flesh. Alysanne’s screams, growing quieter as her charred tongue seized in her mouth, still rattled around her head as she made sense of the voice that woke her.

“They’re here, Lyssa.” Her brother’s face hovered only an arm’s length away. “The Poor Fellows– they've surrounded the walls in the night. The king has commanded the castle is evacuated at once.” 

A cold wave washed over her, constricting her breath.

“Where are my children?” She panted.

“Ser Addison has informed all members of the Kingsguard to escort their charges down to the docks.”

“Where are my children?” She pressed, meeting Vaemond’s eyes.

“Viserys has already been retrieved. He and the king are already on the docks.”

“Vaemond.”

“Jaehaerys and Alysanne were not in their rooms when Ser Maladon and Ser Olyver arrived.” The cry that ripped through her chest was more animal than man. 

“Lyssa!” Her brother grabbed her shoulder tight enough to bruise. “Calm yourself! There was no blood. Their nurses think they must have heard the panic, and decided to hide. They are little things, Lyssa, and know the keep better than anyone. How many cracks can they slip into? They are not hurt, I’m sure of it.”

His words and grip shocked her out of her panic, but they could not easily assuage the determination rising within her.

“I must find them.”

“Lyssa, half the castle looks for them now. What can you do–”

“I am their mother. I will find them.”

Chapter Text

“Where are the dragons?”

“Safely in their pens. Their room has been searched five times over, with no results. The prince and princess are not with them.”

Alyssa was able to maintain a fast walk through the halls, weighed down by only a thin shift. Vaemond could barely keep up with her pace, wishing for not the first time in his service that the Kingsguard were allowed to wear leather armor.

She suddenly turned on her heel, halting nearly mid-step.

“Then you are looking in the wrong place.” 

“What do you mean?”

“They have not yet traveled with their dragons.”

Young dragons were placed in their pens for days ahead of any expected travel to familiarize themselves with the feeling of discomfort. It would’ve been one of Aenys’s first orders in preparation for travel. He had described once how dragons would tear themselves apart in panic when trapped. 

Her children did not know that. They thought their dragons would be in the same place they had always been, in the great unfinished portions of the keep where dragonfire could not harm stone and mud. 

“They would’ve gone to the regular chambers,” Vaemond completed the thought aloud. 

Her walk became a run as the thought solidified into a destination, willing her legs to take her faster towards her children. The chaos in the halls was not so great that she could not weave nimbly through crowds of maids carrying fabrics and jewelry. She was near unrecognizable in her undressed state, and her white hair nearly common amongst noble ladies in the keep. 

As they made their course towards the unfinished wings, the crowds became small groups passing by, which became a handful of stray servants rushing past with nervous steps. Finally, they reached portions of complete solitude, where only the heartbeat of their own footsteps and the thick breaths of exertion rolling from their lungs accompanied them.

The isolation was what caused her heart to lift for only a moment at the sound of leather boots hitting stone, the thought that perhaps her children had been found by servants, who were conveying them out of the castle. It dropped to the depths of her stomach when she realized not only were they not coming from the right direction, but there was only one reason a gathering of men would be in the most remote wing of the castle.

Vaemond came to the realization at the same time, wrenching her backwards as the flickering light of their torches painted dark shadows on the walls in front of them.

“They’re here,” she whispered breathlessly.

“Go,” he ordered.

“I cannot leave you here!”

“Find the children, Lyssa. Go.”

“Vaemond–”

“There is no time. Run!”

She saw no other choice besides to follow his bidding. She tripped down the hall, her slippered foot catching the hem of her shift. She both felt and heard the tear as the seam ripped nearly up the side of her calf, but she did not dare to stop.She let her brother’s words drown out any thoughts she could’ve had about the sounds of steel clashing behind her. Go. Run. 

Her leg burned around the knot in her muscle where a cramp began to form. She strangled back her cry of pain, pushed the salted bile back into her throat. She could not afford to stumble or worse, fall. If the men were inside, they could reach Jaehaerys and Alysanne. She had little doubt about what they would do then. Hate consumed like fire, and she forcefully reminded herself of her dream until she felt half mad with concern.

She swung around the final corner, stumbling into the threshold of the dragons’ chamber. The room smelled strongly of dragon shit, which in turn smelled like scorched flesh and hair. Among the soot and shit sat two grimy children clutching each other in panic. In their states, sitting in their white nightclothes stained dark with filth, they could’ve been mistaken for any lowborn twins. They shrunk away from the door, crying soft tears of fright. Alyssa could faintly make out Jaehaerys’s voice whispering words of High Valyrian into his sister’s ear.

“It’s me, darlings, just me.” She dropped to her knees in front of them, begging for their sweet eyes to look at her without adult fear. Unable to voice such a thing, all she could say was, “look at me, look.”

Alysanne threw her arms around her mother’s neck, letting Alyssa kiss her filthy cheeks.

The reunion was sweet, but rendered short by the crunching of pebbles under the footsteps of a much heavier arrival.

“Vaemond!” she cried, turning around to greet her brother. “I worried you had–”

Her voice caught in her throat, or perhaps was swallowed by fear entirely. The man that stood in the door was no brother of hers, nor any man she had seen in her life.

Alyssa gathered her children behind her, their bodies slick with the cold sweat of terror. She pressed them into the corner as if a door would come into existence through force of will alone. 

Their slayer was unremarkable in appearance. There was an emblem stitched to his tunic, the seven pointed star of the Faith. He was unwashed, adorned in a simple brown tunic and trousers. Nothing about him suggested he was a great warrior among men, nor shepherd to the flocks of the pious who had wriggled over and under their walls like rats. He was only a man who had turned down the right corridor and it killed her. 

His gait was uneven and his slight limp caused him to approach them slowly. He brandished an axe, dulled along the edge. It would be no gentle death, clean like the blow of an executioner’s axe. She could hear Alysanne’s sobs, but they were faint compared to the rushing of blood through her ears. Even her own movements were distant, like something out of a dream. She could feel her children at her side, their squeals of terror as the man stepped closer, but the emotion inspired was dulled by conviction.

“Don’t hurt them,” she begged, even her own words muffled under the weight of her desperate thoughts. “Please, take me instead. Take me.” 

She closed her eyes and stepped forward, refusing to bear witness to the monster’s victory. From there, everything was sensations.

A small hand clutching her wrist.

Jaehaerys’s thin plea begging her not to go.

The salt of tears on her lips.

Running footsteps against stone.

A screaming cry ripping through her throat.

The press of leathered hands against the delicate skin of her neck.

The warm spray of blood against her cheeks, bringing a sickening metallic stench.

Her eyes flew open. She expected to see her own death, a pooling of blood red muddying the white fabric of her smallclothes. When pain did not hit in those short few breaths, she imagined far worse sights. Little Alysanne’s throat cut to the bone, Jaehaerys’s silvery hair soaked crimson.

Instead, her attacker lay in front of her, and his head a few paces hence. His eyes remained wide open in an expression of death’s thrall. Ser Raymont stood over the body, his sword drawn and his chest heaving.

Her brief stupor fading, Alyssa turned to try to shield her children from the sight, but found she was too late in action. Alysanne’s guttural cries ripped through her small chest, a sound somewhere in between tears and retching. She spilled the putrid remains of their meal down the front of her dress. Jaehaerys’s shock had not yet faded, his eyes staring at the head like great saucers on his face. His legs shook under the weight of his fear, and she feared they would fall out from under him.

“Your Grace!” Ser Raymont urged, already hoisting her son into his arms as carefully as a man could in a suit of armor and a sword in his dominant hand. Alyssa gathered her daughter before following the knight through the halls. 

They travelled not too long a distance before their second glimpse of death. A woman lay against a wall, doubled over. She had been one of Viserys’s wet nurses, Alyssa recalled with horror. She was cut across the belly, her insides spilled out around her waist shining red with her own blood. The greatest horror was that the poor woman still lived, groping at her own stomach in a futile attempt to push her guts back in.

Alyssa choked down the vomit pushing against her palate, grateful that she could feel Alysanne’s eyelashes against her neck and the girl could not see the sight.

“Close your eyes, darling, close your eyes,” she whispered. She ran after Ser Raymont faster than she had ever run, her gait barely breaking as her foot slipped on a slick pool of blood belonging to a man face down in his own death. She couldn’t tell whether it was one of their enemies or their own, soaked so thoroughly in his own blood.

She refused to allow herself to pay mind to anything but Ser Raymont’s white cloak until she felt the thick night air on her face. A steady rain was falling over the dark sea stretched out in front of her. He had led them to the docks, where a ship was being hastily loaded to sail into the night. 

She craned her neck, searching for a head of gold among the crowd to let her know that her brother had made it out. The rain beat on her face, blurring her vision and making it difficult to see anything farther than an arm's length away from her. She could see distinctive bronze and silver scales as Silverwing and Vermithor were loaded into the hold, looking nearly as petrified as her children and making anguished chirping noises. 

“My lady!”

A hand tugged on her arm, and her heart clenched in her chest, the remnants of panic still rubbing at her frayed heartstrings. Celia Tully’s green eyes filled with tears at the sight of her queen. 

“My lady,” she cried again, the rest of her sentence incomprehensible through the forceful sobs wracking through her small, shivering frame. 

“Where are the others, Celia?” The girl pointed across the docks to the group of her ladies, pressed together wearing only their smallclothes. Alyssa ushered Celia forward, until the girl was tucked into Lady Jeyne’s comforting arms. The elder woman stroked the girl’s auburn hair, which had wet to a ratty brown.

“What has happened? Alarra, what does she mean to say?” Alyssa commanded her niece. Alarra’s storm grey eyes held an impression of terror, and she held her jaw in such a way that it seemed she was attempting to keep her teeth from chattering. It was not good to handle such extreme elements so soon after one of her fits, but the girl put on an excellent show of endurance.

“They have said we cannot come aboard with you, my lady, and must wait for the next ship. But there is no ship, and will not be until the dockmaster can be retrieved from his bed.”

“On whose orders has this been decided?”

“I do not know, my lady, but they say the king.” 

“Then it is nonsense. You are the queens’ ladies, and serve me alone. Only I command you, and I command you to accompany me. Ser Raymont, see my ladies make it on board.” 

“Your Grace, I must urge that you and Princess Alysanne join us immediately.”

“Take the princess, then, but I must remain here for the time being. I must confirm that my brother is well, I will not leave without him.” 

“Ser Vaemond is most likely to be on board already, protecting his Grace and awaiting your arrival.” Ser Raymont’s voice had a strange cadence tied to his words, especially when he spoke Vaemond’s name. Her ladies watched her silently, refusing to leave until their queen made her decision.

“Very well, then,” Alyssa decided. She urged the women up first, feigning a refusal to leave Jaehaerys’s side, and the boy remained nestled underneath Ser Raymont’s arm. She was lucky that the rain must have obscured her features so well, for a pale shade had traveled over her expression, sinking below her chilled skin and blowing a harsh, cold wind through her heart. The women filed quickly over the wooden plank arranged to load passengers, a far narrower passage than she was usually afforded. Alyssa paused at its lip.

“Is something the matter, your Grace?” 

“I am not–” she started, “I fear I am so taken, ser, I may fall into the water.” Her head was stuffed with flying insects, each pair of their wings beating against the sides of her head. Alysanne weighed heavier than before and she felt her hold begin to slip. 

“Allow me, your Grace.” He took the girl from her arms, gently curling the girl underneath his broad shoulder to shield her from the rain. Alysanne, in the throes of exhaustion, cried for her mother only weakly and wordlessly. “All you must do is take one step at a time.”

Alyssa took one uneasy step forward, the beam giving a gastly cry at the sudden weight. She willed the next foot forwards, and then the first again, each finding a small purchase on the wooden rungs. It took only ten such movements before her foot hit the wood of the ship.

She stumbled onto the deck, drunk on exhaustion and the fierce cold that had soaked through her thin smallclothes. A steady arm grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her upright. She felt a secondary, smaller set of arms cling to her thigh. Ser Raymont had released one of his charges to keep her from slipping. 

“Alyssa!” A familiar, stuttering sob came from underneath the pounding of rain, and the tapping of a cane against wood. 

“Oh, my love,” Aenys moaned, taking her around the shoulders. “I feared you had been lost. And my children, my sweet children.” He released her to run his hand through Jaehaerys’s hair and lift his son’s head to meet his eyes. He wept bitterly at the sight, a king felled by the terror in the little prince’s eyes. 

“Your majesty,” a harried maester squeaked, his breath taken by the exertion of having chased after his sickly king. “I must advise you to hurry below deck at once, out of this cold before an illness takes hold.”

A great frustration passed over her husband’s features which she hastened to brush away.

“Go, husband, and take the children with you. I will be down in only a moment.” The maester smiled gratefully at his queen, taking the king’s unsupported arm. Aenys hobbled his way towards his chambers, casting her only a moment’s look of anxiety before leading their children away.

Only Ser Raymont and her ladies waited at her back then.

“You all must follow the maester’s advice, and warm yourselves,” Alyssa ordered, her voice deepened by exhaustion.

“My lady–” Alarra protested.

“A few seconds to myself, please.” The women filed away obediently, but Ser Raymont did not budge. It was very well, for it was only his company she needed. She walked to the bow, steadying herself against the railing. Only a few steps forward lay the frothing white sea biting at the ship’s boards. 

The Ironborn, she had heard in her father’s tales, thought of the sea at a constant war with the sky, and themselves as its allies. Aethan Velaryon had long disagreed. The sea was at war with every man who entered its domain, tearing apart the wood of their boats, filling their bellies with deadly salt when they wished to drink, and sweeping them so far out that land became a distant dream of happiness. The sea was at its war again that night, and she was half tempted to let it swallow her whole.

“My brother is dead.” It was a statement, not a question. She had known since Ser Raymont’s face had pinched at her mention of him.

“Yes. He took out fifteen men before he fell, and could’ve taken out ten more if they had not gotten him right through the heart. If the spear had been through his stomach, even, I’m confident he would’ve kept on fighting regardless.” If there were tears falling down her face, she could not tell, for the rain washed them away as quickly as they came. 

“He did not suffer, then?”

“No, your Grace. It is a quick death, and a noble one.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Whether to Ser Raymont or the dark seas in front of them, she did not know.

Chapter Text

“My lady, you must sleep.” Her senses were too dull to give any sort of start to the sudden intrusion.

It was Maris Baratheon, come to check on her. Alyssa had broken her promise to her husband, finding herself either unwilling or unable to part from the black waves and the dim light of King’s Landing. Once he realized she would not move from her place, Ser Raymont had draped his white cloak over her shoulders and left her alone with her thoughts. At least, she thought that was his intention. She now saw he had gone to his niece for aid. 

“You must want to change, surely?”

The thought hadn’t yet occurred to her queen, but she was suddenly forced to confront her own discomfort. The rain had plastered her putrid smallclothes to her skin, still smelling of Alysanne’s vomit, dragons’ droppings, and the thick iron scent of blood. The thin cloth had torn and frayed along the journey, leaving her glad the dress still hung on her shoulders.

It explained the overwhelming hollowness inside her, which she was startled to realize wasn’t grief at all. Grief couldn’t enter a body rendered empty by exhaustion, starvation, and anxiety. There was nothing for it to eat away at.

“Yes. Yes, I would. Thank you.”

There was not enough clean water for her to bathe in, nor any way to heat it up.​​ The sailors already seemed nervous enough with dragons onboard, she didn’t want to exacerbate their anxieties further. Instead, Maris wiped her body clean with the small amount of drinking water onboard, then dabbed her skin with perfumes to disguise the lingering foul odors. It would be half a sennight’s journey before they reached Dragonstone– if the summer’s currents served them well –and therefore half a sennight before she could be washed properly.

When she dressed and as clean as she was going to be, her thoughts shifted to a new pressing matter.

“Please summon Lady Alarra and Lady Maycey.”

“Your Grace, you might want to wait until you are well rested–”

“Their uncle is dead, Lady Maris. They deserve to know, so that they may mourn.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The room was small, barely large enough to fit four ladies, if they could be called that. Two ladies and two girls, perhaps, because her nieces were so young. 

Alyssa had always been preferential to Alarra, who resembled Daemon so closely in both spirit and visage. She had his exact shade of blue eyes, dark and clear as the waters that licked Driftmark’s base stones. His broad shoulders and square chin too, which she often complained made her look mannish. They were features that Daemon had inherited from their mother, the old Alarra, and brought the same familiar comfort to Alyssa’s heart.

Maycey favored her Darklyn mother, and all the features that came with the bloodline. Dark hair, dark eyes, a freckled complexion, and the blossoms of her mother’s full figure that would make her a very good wife one day. The girls shared only the look in their eyes, a steeled expression for whatever she had to say.

“Through the efforts of the Kingsguard, my family has escaped unharmed, but such a reward does not come without its losses. Ser Vaemond was slain in my defense.”

To their credits, neither of the girls fell into tears. When Alarra’s hand began to quiver, Maycey smoothed it between her palms.

“His body will be sent to Driftmark, and it is well within your rights to return to your fathers to pay your respects.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Maycey offered, startled by her cousin’s uncharacteristic silence.

“What about you?” Alarra finally said. She had a strange, almost petulant look to her.

“Pardon?”

“Your brother was slain. Will you not return home for his funeral?”

“I would if I could, but it is not the right time. My children need me, those near and far. When Aegon and Rhaena write, they will know me to be in Dragonstone. The other children will need my guidance while Aenys still lies ill. If his ailment grows worse–” She could not force herself to imagine the possibilities, as her mind would not need to wander far before images of calamity arose. “I am needed here more than there.”

“Who will mind you, then?” Her sweet niece asked, her eyes round like a doe’s.

“Do not worry yourselves with my burdens. I have long learned to handle my heart, and it is no frail thing. If you wish to alleviate my pain, it would give me great comfort to know you pay your respects in my stead.”

“If you wish,” Alarra resigned. The girls knew not to push at her any farther, especially not in her current state.

“Now– if your worries are assuaged –I am very tired, and I would like to sit with my family for a short while. Please escort me to Aenys’s cabin.”

Alyssa worried she could no longer stand on her own, and could only walk through the halls by placing a great deal of her weight on her nieces’ shoulders. If they noticed her to be unusually heavy, they gracefully gave no hint of their knowledge.

She noticed the thick veil of heat as soon as she entered the room. Her Targaryens had promptly taken it into their hands to heat their chambers to an unbearable temperature she did not know possible from her recollection of sleeping on ships. Her childhood memories were of persistently dark, chilled holds in which she and her brothers curled together to stay warm. 

She could not even understand how they withstood the heat, which already brought beads of moisture to her brow. It was the strangest legends that turned out to be true about the dragonlords. 

In the embarrassing, young years of their marriage she had once tried to join Aenys in his bath and nearly scalded herself in the near boiling water. In the colder months she had often tugged her children away from the fire, fearful that they would lean far enough to fall in. Many times after waking up drenched in her own sweat she mourned not having married a northman. 

It was still a welcome sight, seeing her husband with little Alysanne curled up in his lap and Jaehaerys’s head resting on his leg. Viserys sat at the foot of the bed, picking at the bedcover’s fraying edge. Aenys spoke in silvery High Valyrian to his children, a language she usually understood in mere bits and pieces, made worse by his softened tone and his familiar, casual speech maesters did not teach. He switched to Common as she approached, as he so often did.

“Are you alright, sweetling?” His eyes were searching her own for any sign of instability or anguish, and she knew he had been told of her brother’s death.

“Not now,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her children looked between their parents with bated breath. Their eyes were heavy lidded, but still shot through with the lingering traces of the panic.

“Very well,” Aenys redirected, “a story, then!”

“Of grandmother Rhaenys?” Alysanne had been fascinated with her grandmother since she had the mind to comprehend female warriors. She was not particularly interested in swordplay herself, but there was something uniquely fascinating about the dragonrider queen that caught her attention.

“Do you know the tale of how she claimed Meraxes?” 

Alysanne shook her head, “No.”

“Before Rhaena placed an egg in Jaehaerys’s cradle, all dragons had to be claimed by their riders. Meraxes had not been ridden since the loss of her first rider, Aerys’s sister-wife Daenerys. Many tried to claim her over the years, and her fire had in turn claimed Daenerys’s son, Baelon. After his death, many thought her a wild dragon who would never take a rider again.

“My mother would not settle for such a conclusion. There were many young dragons who she would have claimed with ease, but she wanted a dragon that could challenge Aegon’s Balerion. She went to Meraxes’s lair in the night, climbing down the walls of Dragonstone because her father forbade her to pursue the wild dragon. She brought a great stag she slew with her own hands to please Meraxes, then scaled her back while she ate. In the morning, her family woke to dragon’s roars.

“She was a silver dragon, just like your Silverwing. I wish you had known her. Mother would have wanted her granddaughters to claim her dragon after her death, Meraxes was so beloved to her.”

Alysanne had gone silent. She was not quite asleep, but blinking slowly as her eyelids grew heavy with sleep. Aenys stroked his daughter’s head, turning his attention to his quiet wife. Whatever question sat on his lips died quickly upon the intrusion of a familiar face lined with anxiety.

Grand Maester Gawen entered the room, but his disturbance was not far from the norm since the king fell ill. He often came bearing strange bottles and bowls for bleeding that made Alyssa’s stomach feel pale. The current potion in hand was a deep scarlet tincture.

“A draught for your sleep, your Grace. Although…” he noted the queen’s presence at her husband’s side, “perhaps it would be best to sleep alone tonight, to secure your rest.”

“Do you have so little confidence in your own brew, maester?” Aenys complained. Alyssa took it into her hands to pour her husband’s wine, accepting the maester’s bottle and tilting the liquid into the cup of fine Arbor red.

“In the Citadel, they teach us there is no better healer than what the body can do on its own. If your Grace wishes to recover from your ailment, you would assure its strength.”

“I have to agree with the good maester, husband. I will sleep in the children’s room tonight.”

“But–”

“Do not worry yourself. I will be at your side as soon as you wake.” She kissed his cheek, tucking a strand of golden white hair behind his ear. With that, his protest was extinguished before it had the chance to spark at all.

Once they retired to their room, it was decided that Alyssa would share the bed with the little ones while Viserys slept on a straw cot at his own insistence. Alysanne’s sleeping sounds had come soon after the torches were put out, but they were the only signs of sleep in the cabin. The wood planks groaned in agony every time Viserys shifted on his mat, creating a vivid symphony of a sleepless night. She couldn’t tell if Jaehaerys slept or not until his warm breath hit the shell of her ear.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered. They were the first words he had spoken to her all night.

“What’s the matter?” She rose from a sleep-like stupor, true sleep alluding her while images of the night still danced in her head.

“It’s all my fault we went to get the dragons. Aly wanted to wait for you. She wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t asked her to.”

“Do not be so hard on yourself, dearest. You are still so young, you and your sister have many more mistakes to make.”

“But– I broke my promise. I lied to you.” She turned to face her son.

“And it was very foolish of you. Do you know why I will not punish you for it?”

“No.”

“Are you upset that you did it?”

“Yes.”

“Will you ever do it again?”

“No,” he emphasized.

“Then you have learned. You broke a promise, and you saw what it could have done, what it did do. The crime serves as the punishment. Every broken promise is a seed, one that bears poisoned fruit. Some will manifest quickly, and others more subtle in their reach, but all will bring ruin. It is good that you have learned sooner than most.” 

She could feel his discomfort against her skin: his agitated breathing, his squirming limbs. He was a boy of seven, after all, and there was little she could impress upon him that he would not lose after a night’s sleep. She relaxed her grip, cupping his cheek in her palm.

“Swear your promise again.” She could hear him swallow anxiously. “Repeat the words after me. I will trust in you…”

“I will trust in you.”

“In your father…”

“In Father.”

“And in our family.”

“And in our family.”

“Do you understand why I make you swear this?”

“Yes.”

“Tell it to me, so I may know you understand truly.”

“If I cannot trust family, then I am alone. There is no one else who will love us without promises of power and glory.” His words were true enough, but so dreary in their sound, especially in the round mouth of a child.

“I know you are a clever thing, and know far more than you should for a child of your age. I cannot call myself entirely blameless, but you’ve read all the texts you could reach since the day you discovered the written word. You’ve read our histories, have you not?”

“I’ve read of Old Valyria, and Daenys the Dreamer.”

“Been reading Signs and Portents, have you? I do not believe that is among the texts maesters assign to young princes.” He shrunk again in shame. “It is alright. Your grandsire could often be found with the very same text, what little of it remains. That is an old history, and with it– older traditions. Do you know of them, as well?”

“Our dragons? We burn our dead with dragonfire, and rule from the skies.”

“Yes, that is true.” She did not know how to shape the words to make her meaning most clear. “It is our marriages that I mean to call note to. Do you know why those men came to our home? Why they tried to kill us? Do not be shy with your answers. There is no fear in the truth.” Even with her encouragement, her son was slow with his answer.

“It is Egg and Rhaena, isn’t it? No one wants to talk about them anymore, not even Vis.”

“Yes. The practitioners of the Faith– they do not always agree with the practices of Old Valyria and they have been especially cruel to your father. But the Targaryens have married brother and sister for a century, since the fall of Old Valyria robbed the world of its dragonriders. Daenys’s family came to an inhospitable land, ruled by men who cared little for their plight. These men wanted their daughters only to sire dragons for their house, to pollute dragons’ blood with the water of Andals and First Men. 

“It is these conditions that caused the dragons to wed each other, not any perversion. It is why Aegon married Rhaena, and why your grandsire wed his sisters. It is the greatest trust we place in our family: to bear our children, to defend our claim, to support us in times of trouble. That is the purest love. Not romance. Not friendship. The love within families, the trust we put in each other when we love. That is the trust I need from you.”

“I will, Mother,” he promised.

“I fear I have overwhelmed you. These worries should not have been yours for many years longer, but today has shown me we are moving beyond a time of caution. If I am ever taken away, you must know these things.”

His face twisted with concern, and she was compelled to press her fingers into the downturned corners of his mouth to smooth them.

“Do not worry, sweet one. I am here now and will be for as long as the gods allow.” She pulled him into her embrace, running her fingers through his hair.

It was Visenya who gave her such a speech, when she was not but nine and ten, shortly after Aegon’s birth. She could not– it even sickened her to do so –imagine her sweet children ever being wed. She only saw little Rhaena leaning over her brother’s cradle, her eyes lighting up when he wrapped his hand around hers, how she looked at Alyssa with such joy. 

“Mama, look! He likes me! ” she had cried. 

Her good father did not notice her apprehension every time he mentioned their future betrothal, but Visenya’s eyes were all seeing, or so it seemed to her as a girl. Her eyes were searching, and they caught things that her own husband did not. Although the circumstances had long fled her mind, Alyssa remembered Visenya sitting in her room, asking her if she had ever read the Old Valyrian texts in Dragonstone’s library.

The woman had– did –frighten her, but her words lived on in Alyssa’s head after all these years. The Velaryons did not feel the need to intermarry as freely, but they were not dragonlords. She was more than three quarters Andal herself through her mother and grandmother both, women of salt and Westerosi rock. The Targaryens had always stood alone, when they were lords and kings both. 

She had whispered the words until they lost all meaning to her while Aegon draped his cloak over Rhaena’s shoulders. Targaryens stand alone . 

- - -

Alyssa discovered dragons were not meant for the sea. Most of her family became permanent residents of the hold soon after departure, unable to stand on deck without depositing the remains of whatever porridge she convinced them to stomach into the sea. Their faces turned a horrible ashen gray that made them look like wretched statues rather than men of flesh and blood.

It seemed only Viserys inherited the Velaryon tolerance to the open sea, but used the ability to stare in the direction of King’s Landing for hours on end with a strange, twisted expression written on his face. She had not been able to convince him to eat at all, and he had grown frighteningly gaunt and pale along their journey, making him look far older than two and ten. He– and by sympathy, she –found peace only when exhaustion forced him to fall asleep against the rail, and the curve of his mouth and brow relaxed into a look of tranquility. 

She would order the seamen to carry him to bed, but he would only get a few hours of sleep before the nightmares would start. He would writhe in his sheets until the warmth of the lanterns awoke him and he found his seat by the water again. She was forced to watch his suffering from afar, unable to comfort him while her own grief ravaged her internally.

For all the misery and disease, the part of her that was her father’s daughter thought they were lucky the weather was particularly good for traveling. The waters flowed peacefully, lapping against the sides like “maiden’s kisses”, as her father would say. A light breeze filled their sails with air and their lungs with the smell of salt and seaweed. 

Her mother had a terrible wanderlust, and her father a talent for sailing. They had taken the family on so many trips across seas and from port to port that Driftmark often sat empty in their absence. 

On days like these, her father would have her take the wheel, much to her mother’s protests, and let her sail as far towards the horizon as the navigators would let her. “Where are we headed, Salty? ” he would ask, using the pet name her mother had many more complaints about. “Old Valyria,” she’d say. The sailors would grit their teeth and make their noises of disapproval, but her father would give a great laugh, clutching his stomach until his merriment gave him aches.

Alyssa did not lie to her nieces. She would give a limb to return to Driftmark, and to see her brother be sent off to sea. To hold her father in her arms while he wept, just as she did the day they received word her mother had died. To drink strongwine with her brothers and recall when Rhogar had convinced Vaemond to place a sea snake he had caught in their parents’ bed. Vaemond had been all of seven, and his mischievous streak lasted not an hour before he presented his crime to their mother. 

She forced their father to beat Rhogar, but Aethan could not see properly through tears of laughter, and his clumsy attempts at contact only made him laugh harder. In the end, the only one beaten had been their father, who was hit on the underside of his head by their mother in her frustration.

“Mother?” Viserys’s quiet voice pierced through her memories.

She suddenly found her face to be wet with tears, and her son’s eyes staring at her in concern.

“Are you alright?” Her words failed her through sobs of anguish, the accumulation of the past few days’ frozen grief. She mourned for the versions of Aegon and Rhaena in her head that were still innocent children, for the home she had found for herself in King’s Landing, for the part of her little ones that died when their lives were threatened, and for Vaemond.

Vaemond, her youngest brother who had decided to be a Kingsguard from the second he had been told she was going to King’s Landing to marry the prince. When he was told nine was too young to be a knight, he had cried so long and hard he made himself sick and nearly missed her sending off. He ended up being dragged to the docks by Daemon. His face had been dark red, streaked with tears and snot which he had smeared all over the front of her dress as he hugged her goodbye. 

She mourned the radiant smile on his face when he had taken his vows for her at the age of eight and ten. He promised to keep her and her children safe from all harm, and he had died by the hands of those very same promises. She could not pay her debt to him, and could not even if he still lived. He had given her three lives, and all she gave in return was bitter tears. 

These were words she could not begin to give to her own husband, much less her young son.

“I miss home,” he awkwardly filled the silence of her tears. “And Egg, and Rhaena, and Septon Murmison, and Brody, and all the other boys, and Uncle Vaemond most of all. He would spar with me, when Egg and I were fighting. He snuck me spiced cakes when I was in trouble. I know he was your brother, and if Egg or Jae were to die–” He became overwhelmed at the mere thought of it. “I’m so sorry, Mother. I’m sorry he died, and you won’t ever see him again.”

There was something sweet about a child’s grief, so easily spoken about and shared. She gathered her son into her arms, who was not quite a head shorter than her. He was warm with the subtle heat of dragon’s blood, though his embrace was gangly and awkward.

“Thank you, love. You’re a good son, and you’ll make a good man one day.” She kissed his forehead, hoping to banish that sorrowful look from his eyes.

She could not help but be proud of these children she bore, how they had grown to be so sweet and clever. There was a longer journey ahead of them than the one to Dragonstone, and she could only hope those traits would serve them well.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone rose out of the horizon like a great craggy beast. The black dragons waited to greet them, staring down with unseeing dragonglass eyes. The light within the keep shone through their frozen maws, like dragonfire building in the back of their throats. 

The Targaryens possessed great pride in the Valyrian architecture, and had no prudent instincts when it came to using their family fortune to preserve the old castle. Aerion, not two generations back, spent an outrageous amount of gold hiring masons reportedly blessed with the Smith’s hands to upkeep their ancient hold. The family subsequently had never kept abundant coffers. His ancestors saw no point in gold dragons, her good father had once japed, when they had dragons of flesh and blood.

Still, it was a beautiful castle, though beautiful was a sorely inapt word to describe the place. It chilled the heart and tied the tongue, the same sort of beauty dragons inspired in the hearts of many when they instinctively ducked as they flew overhead.

Neither Jaehaerys nor Alysanne had any memories of Dragonstone, though they had both been born within its walls. They stared at the castle with such stunned expressions Aenys gave a thin laugh. The sea travel had not treated him well, and he leaned heavily on the railing to stay upright. Even the laugh seemed to pain him, causing him to clutch at his stomach.

Her entire family seemed worse for wear after the long days at sea, though she supposed the sudden departure did not help their dispositions. Viserys’s eyes grew hollower by the day, a far cry from the rambunctious boy she had known not a sennight earlier. She could not stop the deterioration of their spirits any more than she could not seem to drive away the dark circles living underneath her eyes.

They disembarked in near silence, the meager staff of Dragonstone waiting for them on the black stones of the entryway. Most of the staff had been dismissed after Maegor’s exile, Aegon and Rhaena preferring to live with family even before beginning their progress. Only Visenya kept her chambers at Dragonstone, and she would often take flight with Vhagar for weeks or months at a time without any word of warning. Never one accustomed or fond of being pampered, she did not care what servants were present and the urgency of hiring a proper staff had fallen far to the wayside.

Aenys had only hired a castellan after the wedding, reasoning that Aegon and Rhaena would come back from their progress with a new need for privacy. And , he hoped, with squalling white-haired babes to fill the cradles he and his brother had occupied. 

The new castellan had held his position for barely three months, a Bar Emmon boy with some scraggly yellow hair on his chin that could not properly be described as a beard. He stood in deference to the only familiar face, and the only one to bring her comfort.

Old Maester Laeron had been serving at Dragonstone for as long as she could remember, and lived on the island all his life besides the years spent forging his chain. He was some distant Targaryen cousin, though neither she nor he could accurately trace his lineage. His hair had been black when he was young, but turned silvery white with age, making the family resemblance clearer with time. Many of the smallfolk on Dragonstone had remarkably Valyrian features, the results of many dragons sowing their seed across the small island.

“My lady,” the maester greeted Alyssa first. She returned his favor with a fond smile. He had drawn five of her children from her womb, all but little Vaella, who came too early for Alyssa to be sent to Dragonstone. 

“Your Grace,” he bowed his head towards the king, taking the chance to smile fondly at the children. “We received word of your approach two days after you left King’s Landing, leaving us little time to prepare Dragonstone for your arrival. You must forgive our tardiness.”

“It is alright, maester. We have brought many more hands to assist your efforts,” Aenys replied amicably. 

The bridge ahead of them led to another great dragon’s jaws, stretching open around the dark gates marking Dragonstone’s entrance. Aenys looked furtively at the uneven stones forming the walkway, and Alyssa decided to slip her arm around his waist.

“Come, husband, the children must be given a tour.” 

The castellan finally stepped forward. “An excellent idea, your Grace. Let me accompany you.”

Aenys gave his wife a private smile at the small absurdity of being given a tour of his own home. If Driftmark was Alyssa’s home, Dragonstone would always be Aenys’s.

They took a few unsteady steps before the sounds of wings clapping against air disrupted their progress. A great shadow passed over the bridge, leaving a gust in its wake. The accompanying servants scattered in fear, and even Alyssa involuntarily stepped backwards. Only the Targaryens seemed unbothered, Alysanne even giggling at the sight. Aenys tightened his grip around her arm.

“It seems the great girl has finally decided to join us.”

The silver dragon cried out, finding its perch on Dragonstone’s towers. She shook her wings out like a massive bird, staring down at the small group with a scrutinizing eye.

“Your Grace!” The castellan squeaked, “the smallfolk might be frightened to see a dragon so close to the castle.” 

“You mean that you are frightened, ser? The smallfolk of Dragonstone have enjoyed Balerion’s presence about the castle for more than a century, and Quicksilver is not a fourth his size. If you hope to manage our castle, it will be well worth your effort to familiarize yourself with the Targaryen ways,” Aenys bit with a smile on his face. The castellan’s face turned ghastly pale, then flushed red as the blood rushed back with a fury.

“Yes, your Grace. I’m sorry, your Grace.”

Alyssa wished she could remember Dragonstone with the fondness it deserved for housing her during the early days of her marriage, but it was a dark place even in the light of midday. It smelled of fire, not the wholesome kind from the hearth, nor even the burnt flesh scent of dragonfire, but the noxious scent of natural fire. It was the fire that came from the earth’s deep belches, which had supposedly given birth to dragons all those years ago. A sight and smell as unpleasant as true childbirth, Alyssa supposed.

Her children seemed sufficiently charmed by the morbid walls, fascinated with the little sober attention they could muster with the excitement of dragons flying overhead. It took Alysanne’s greatest patience– not even an hour’s turn, to wait until she deemed it appropriate to ask if they could see their dragons.

“They didn’t let me see Silverwing on the ship,” she reminded her father, as if she was owed compensation for a crime committed against her.

“Is that so?” Aenys asked, bemused at his little daughter’s indignant expression.

“Aye! I could hear her, but they said she would burn the ship! But she wouldn’t, I know she wouldn’t.”

“Yes, Alysanne, not aye. You are a lady, not a tavern wench,” Alyssa interrupted. Alysanne blew air through her lips in an attempt to procure a rude noise, but flawed form resulted in a weak, wet imitation.

“Dragons are not dogs, perzītsos. A dragon knows no master.” Aenys contemplated his own assertion, “you may order your brothers to do something, but they may ignore you if it does not please them. Dragons are the same, if not more contrary.” 

“I like Silverwing more than my brothers,” Alysanne said as if it settled the matter. Aenys gave another thin laugh.

“How can I argue with that? Ser Bar Emmon, please tell the dragonkeepers to bring Silverwing and Vermithor from the ship, on the orders of the little princess.” 

Alysanne smiled, but Alyssa began to feel a familiar gnawing feeling at her stomach. When the castellan had left and the children occupied with anticipation, she tugged her husband’s arm.

“I do not mean to vex, but– has there been word from King’s Landing? As to how the smallfolk were able to breach our walls?”

“That is no mystery,” Aenys laughed. “Our walls are half built, and they have been fortifying the Sept of Remembrance for a month.”

“You did not think it pertinent to inform me?” Alyssa could barely contain her horror.

“What good would it cause you? That I bear the burden is enough, it does not need to fall on the shoulders of my sweet wife.” 

Do you think I am not strong enough to bear your burdens?  She almost spoke, before biting her tongue. “I could have prepared the children for the departure if I had known of the threat–”

“And have them sleep every night, knowing they may not wake in the morning?”

“They could have died, Aenys. My brother died. Did you not think we deserved fair warning?”

“I did not think the threat would escalate so far.” You never do, she thought. 

“What made you believe such a thing?”

“The faith is an institution of piety and honor besides that. I did not imagine they would ever command their forces to kill small children in their beds.”

“Maybe they did not. The movement is not in the High Septon’s hands, and perhaps it never was. He sparked the flame, but no man can pretend to control a fire. It was your responsibility to know this.” She addressed her husband with an even tone.

“I would have you watch your tongue. I acted as I saw fit–”

“What action? Did you ask Lord Rosby for aid? He has one hundred men at arms that can make the journey to King’s Landing in a sennight, and was staunchly loyal to your father. Or perhaps Lord Darklyn? Maycey could have gone to her grandsire in Duskendale and asked for support personally.”

“We do not even know our enemy properly! Would you propose I’d have butchered every septon in the crownlands? All the smallfolk? Burn my mother’s sept?”

“I would rather any one of those over having our children die in my arms.”

“You are beginning to sound like my brother. Do neither of you understand the importance of sure footing?”

“While you plot the way, your kingdom sinks into the mire. I know the price of your ‘actions’ now, and it will not be paid with my children’s blood.” 

“Enough!” he hissed. All the eyes in the room met the pair. “I am your king, and you will behave in a way that is befitting my station. I will not suffer abuse from you, not while you are my wife.”

Her face burned, and she felt as foolishly indignant as little Alysanne. His gaze was unbending from her own, his face emotionless iron when compared to her own constantly shifting expression. She knew her cause was lost, but could not surrender for fear of seeing her children’s eyes bear witness to her shame.

The silence in the room broke, and so did their stare as Ser Bar Emmon entered the room.

“A present for the little prince and princess–” his smile faded as the intensities of five sets of pale eyes found his, each pair icier than the last. Only Alysanne seemed remotely happy to see the man and ran forward to claim her prize.

The dragonkeepers carried in the iron cages containing the little dragons, both tense and irritable from the trip at sea. Vermithor snapped his jaws around the bars at the sight of Jaehaerys, but he lacked strength enough to even shake the metal from its place. Silverwing was far more subdued than the bronze dragon, but still shifted impatiently. Alysanne presented the most outward excitement of any man or dragon, bouncing onto her toes to look at Silverwing properly.

Once she was assured all eyes and thoughts were away from her and onto the arrival of the little dragons, Alyssa took the opportunity to seize Viserys’s elbow and flee from the room silently. 

She should have talked to him on the ship, but the argument imbued her with the urgency grief temporarily stole from her. The old volcanic rock of Dragonstone held entirely different memories from the damp wood of the ship that had delivered them to its shores, one that reminded her of a far older legacy than the Velaryons’ prowess at sea. 

“Tell me,” she was able to say once she could breathe again, far from the king. She took her son’s hands in her own, pulling him to sit beside her in one of the effectively abandoned halls. “Tell me what you have been dreaming of.”

“Mother, I do not–”

“I am sorry, Viserys, that I did not notice before. I thought it was grief, but I know better now.” 

“They are just dreams.”

“Dreams do not make your eyes so distant. Dreams do not haunt, not unless the gods have given them to you for a reason.”

“I cannot–”

“You can, because you must. There is something coming, greater than any of the challenges your father has faced so far. A threat he may not have the strength for. I do not need dragon dreams to foretell that. But my imagination can only go so far, and I cannot prepare for the future with suspicions alone.”

“They are not clear.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I have seen so many horrible things,” Viserys whispered. 

“It is alright. I am here, sweetling.” 

“I see blood everywhere: running through the streets, soaked into our beds, and staining my hands. I see the Stranger at father’s shoulder, but his whispers are in my ear. He speaks in my grandsire’s voice telling me that blood will rain from the skies and there will be a cry from the people so loud the earth will shake with sobs. There are Quicksilver and Balerion twisted together in the sky, and Quicksilver gives a dying cry–”

“That is enough,” she commanded, a bitter chill sitting in her throat. Viserys’s eyes welled with tears. 

“You’ve done so well,” Alyssa softened her tone, “thank you.”

“I cannot close my eyes,” he admitted. “Without seeing it. And so I cannot sleep .” She wiped away the rogue tears spilling down his cheeks.

“You are safe here. No one can harm you while we remain at Dragonstone.” 

She was tired of making false promises to her children, but she did not know how else to soothe them. If she was being honest, it did a great deal to alleviate her own suffering. Her spat with Aenys had proven what she knew to be true deep in her heart. She possessed no power over her children’s safety, not while her husband could dismiss and humiliate her with a wave of his hand. 

If Viserys’s dreams proved true, it meant what she had always feared. Maegor would not be satisfied in Pentos while his nephew sat the Iron Throne. Aenys promised his brother years ago he would never kneel at his feet again, an oath sworn over a king’s sword. Maegor was a man of many flaws, but he had not forgotten that promise. If Maegor would not kneel to his brother, he would certainly not kneel to his son. Aegon was a boy of five and ten without a dragon. 

Aenys prayed for years his son would claim a dragon, reasoning to her that Aegon was still so young. The years Aenys saw stretching out in front of them were quickly coming to a close, and their son had no dragon. Is it a lack of spirit? Aenys agonized. Aegon was soft hearted, but he was no craven. 

She knew she must tell Aenys of Viserys’s dream, but the thought curdled in her chest as quickly as it formed. The vengeful little girl in her chest wanted him to be left bereft of information the same way he had left her. The rational woman said the knowledge was only relevant in the case of his death, and would do him very little good while he still lived and breathed.

Then, who would she tell? The answer was on her lips the moment she asked the question. 

“Go spar with the squires in the yard, and take Ser Raymont with you. The warm air might improve your health, as it does for your father. Do not worry anymore than you must. Worry if it aids our cause, not to cause yourself needless suffering.”

“Yes, Mother.” 

She did not hurry to the maester’s quarters, choosing instead a winding, contemplative route. It was a shame Sea Dragon Tower held the old queen’s chambers, or else it would have been Alyssa’s favorite part. Not a stiff competition, but a sorry loss all the more. When she was younger, she imagined the Velaryons must have had dragons many years ago, even though her father’s maester could point her to all the evidence to the contrary.

The truth was often less convincing than the ponderings of a child, when she could picture a dragon the blue-green color of the sea dancing in and out of the waves. In these fantasies, she was more often than not the rider of such a dragon. When she saw Dragonstone for the first time, it seemed her dreams came to life in the form of the pensive tower. It took the shape of her water dragon, staring out at the dark waves like it could smell the thick ocean scent of her dreams and craved it too. 

She often wondered if the Valyrians who built the keep long ago had known their bloodline was not only meant for the skies, but for the salt of the sea as well.

Alyssa admitted herself into the maester’s chambers, startling the old man at his desk.

“Your Grace,” he started, standing only so he could properly bow to her. “How may I assist you?”

“I must dictate a letter to my daughter.” Alyssa knew her letters well enough, but her handwriting often ended up looking no better than the scratchings chickens made in dirt. Her meaning must be made clear to her daughter, in the rounded, practiced script of a maester’s hand. “Not a word of what I utter must be passed to any other, not even the king himself. Can I trust you with such a task?”

“Of course, my queen.”

“Start the letter to Rhaena. It must be met by her eyes as quickly as possible.”

Rhaena,

We have been forced to flee the Red Keep. The Poor Fellows slew your uncle Vaemond, and attempted to slay your little siblings. We now make our home in Dragonstone. Visenya is away on her travels, but she will not remain long once she hears of our flight. She will be in Dragonstone and attending your father by the time this message reaches your eyes. 

On the trip across the Blackwater, Viserys began dreaming of Maegor. He sees Quicksilver and Balerion battling, and Quicksilver’s death. Whatever the meaning, it is clear your uncle will pose a great threat to Aegon’s succession. Your father’s health has worsened greatly along the passage. 

No matter the circumstances, you must not return. Remind the western and river lords of their oath to Aegon as the Prince of Dragonstone. If need be, make them swear on their knees. You must rally the Lannisters’ support first and foremost. Lyman Lannister is an ambitious man, and you must feed those ambitions if you wish to gain his favor. Fill his head with fantasies of him as Aegon’s Hand, or your children wed to his, his grandchildren becoming dragonriders. 

Above all, do not make promises. You cannot afford to break an oath, so do not make any you are not absolutely sure you can keep. 

Keep your brother safe.

Mother

If the maester was frightened or surprised by her words, he did not express his disbelief outwardly. He wrote dutifully, then rolled the letter into a tight scroll. 

“Before you seal it, another letter must be written and rolled around the first. Address this letter to Jocasta Lannister. This you might write in your own words. Inform her of our recent plight, and ask that she makes sure this letter reaches my daughter’s eyes alone.”

“You are confident she will not read Princess Rhaena’s letter herself?”

“I am almost sure she will, but it is a calculated risk. Perhaps it endears her to our cause, and she helps persuade her husband. Either way, there is no one else so sympathetic as well as possessing the ability to reach Rhaena’s exact location. She is the only hope.”

“As you wish.” He dripped hot wax along the crease the two letters shared, then pressed the wax with an old seal of House Targaryen, before Aegon gave them arms. 

“Send it to Casterly Rock, with the fastest ravens you can obtain.”

“Yes, Your–” The maester's words were cut short by a dragon’s roar. 

The growl was not in Quicksilver’s pitch, but had a lower, more resonating tone that sounded off every black wall until the she-dragon’s cries echoed and layered back onto themselves into a frightful cacophony. Her hands quivered in her lap, an instinctive reaction to the inhuman terror inspired by Vhagar’s very presence.

She should not be here, was the only thought Alyssa could grasp, not yet.

Chapter Text

Alyssa found herself unable to run down the stairs without becoming tangled in her skirts, condemned to a hobbled pace while cursing the Valyrian architects with the most vulgar words she knew. She entered the great hall minutes too late, the dowager queen’s reedy voice already echoing with the same awful intensity of her dragon.

“–him. Fly to Oldtown and make this Starry Sept another Harrenhal. Or give me leave, and let me roast this pious fool for you.”

Visenya stood taller and prouder than her own nephew, even at her advanced age. She wore her riding leathers, though she was rarely seen without them. They lacked the grandeur of a queen’s garb, outfitted for mobility alone and a ring to hold her longsword. A cruel smile played at her lips, taking a vibrant satisfaction in her nephew’s discomfort. He held his head high, even if he could not hope to match her stature.

“A gracious welcome, aunt,” Aenys responded coolly. “Though I’d have much preferred you held your tongue before you presumed the power to give me council. You are fortunate we have arrived so soon before you, that your rooms are already being prepared for your stay. I grant you leave to retire and recover from your journey. It seems to have frayed your wits.”

“Does my sister’s little dragon only have fire for his own blood? I fear you’ve misinterpreted our words, sweet flame.” Her japes were delivered devoid of any humor, as if she was remarking about the good weather. Her flat words sparked confusion in the small court as to whether she was being disrespectful at all. Aenys’s face twisted in an expression of anger or– more likely –pain.

“Mind your tongue, before I presume you to commit treason. You are dismissed, aunt.” 

Visenya did not linger or protest her sentence, but neither did she give her king the courtesy of a bow. She strode, instead, in Alyssa’s direction, brushing shoulders with the young queen while taking her leave.

“Meet me in my chambers,” she commanded, her order not softened by her blunted tone. 

Aenys waited until the woman was out of sight before clutching at his stomach. Ser Addison and Ser Maladon went to steady him, carrying him to sit at one of the great tables. His face went white with agony, and she could hear the painful grinding of his bowels as she approached, as if he was trying to pass boulders.

“Husband–” She reached out, but her words halted in her throat. The score of maesters brought from King’s Landing descended on her husband, obscuring him from her sight. She reprimanded herself for her foolish actions. Their quarrel had not been but an hour earlier, her presence would bring him no comfort.

She left so quietly it was easier to pretend she’d never been there at all, if not for Visenya’s words still rattling about in her ear.  

She should have gone to her children’s chambers. Entertained herself in their games, in which they always found a place for her as a fair maiden to be rescued. She could have gone to the yard to watch Viserys’s swordplay, or simply laid for an afternoon’s rest. She should have gone anywhere but Visenya’s chambers, and yet her restless legs would take her no other place.

The elder woman waited for her at her table, setting up marble pieces on a strange hexagonal grid. She rolled a black dragon in her hand as Alyssa entered.

“Do you play?” Alyssa shook her head.

“Shame. You Westerosi live in such a small world. Kȳvagon is a game treasured among the triarchs in Volantis. Maddeningly complex, though I find it an excellent representation of real politics. 

“Sit down, your Grace, and straighten that expression on your face. You are a queen, not an awkward serving girl.” Alyssa sat, only for Visenya to leave her seat to pour two cups of Arbor gold. She placed the silver goblet in front of Alyssa, then took to her own seat again. 

Alyssa took the cup on impulse, but paused once the rim met her lips. 

“Oh, good Gods, you do not think I am trying to poison you? The Seven Kingdoms have so little pleasures, and Arbor wine a gem among the few. I would not spoil such a treat with your death.”

The young queen took a polite sip, but her stomach soured towards the bitter drink. 

“Do you come to speak or degrade, dear aunt?” 

“My mood is admittedly soured, but I may ask the same thing of your husband. He comes to my keep, then dismisses me like a child without supper.”

“Dragonstone is Aegon’s keep. The prince lets you keep your chambers within its walls out of respect for your status.”

“If your whelp would prefer me gone, he may confront me. I do not imagine he would make a good stand against Vhagar.”

“Calm yourself. No one wants you gone, not even Aenys. He is under a great deal of pressure, and–”

“And his father took six kingdoms with merely three dragons and three thousand men. Aenys has five dragons– and the Black Dread if he would reconcile with his brother –to handle an unwashed army of peasants and pompous little lords. Do not tell me of the pressure he is under.”

“The circumstances are different, and you know it well. Building a kingdom is an easy task, keeping it far more difficult. Aenys cannot rule blood and ash.”

“I would far rather sacrifice a mere rabble piece if it means taking an elephant. Strategy is a game of balanced losses. But alas, my dear nephew is still the weak boy who cried himself back to babehood after my sister’s death. He once refused to slay his cat’s litter, you know. They were these horrible, malformed little things. One had two heads, one born without eyes, the third with no legs at all. 

“Sacrifices must be made, and weakness culled so the realm will be home to only the strongest. My Maegor drowned all three, and slew the mother with his training sword, so it would never bear another abomination.”

“Your son is a monster,” Alyssa choked.

“Great men are often called such. Are you ready to play, your Grace?” Visenya’s voice was even.

“I told you, I do not know the rules.” Visenya hummed her disapproval, advancing her rabble piece forward. Alyssa stood, reviled at herself for merely sitting in the woman’s presence. Her husband lay ill, and she sat with the woman who plotted to set aside his entire bloodline.

“Bid your little children good will for me, Alyssa. The dragonriders. They are welcome to my chambers if they ever want to play.”

- - -

Alyssa ended up retiring to her chambers for an early night. She dismissed all her servants but young Celia and Maris, the quietest of her ladies who would not chatter like her nieces or fumble like the Frey girl and inflame the headache blooming at her temple. Celia brushed her hair out from its braids, while Maris removed her jewelry. 

She slowly shed Queen Alyssa, as the queen’s necklaces, rings, and bracelets no longer pressed against her skin. A woman’s jewels could often lie as heavy as a king’s crown, she often thought. The woman in the mirror when the layers were peeled away was not her father’s Salty, her brothers’ Lyssa, nor her children’s Mama. She was Alyssa, the woman when you rubbed all of those girls away, raw and red.

“Let us bring you supper from the kitchens before you sleep, your Grace,” Celia whispered.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I could stomach a thing at the moment.”

“You have to eat,” Maris agreed. “You must retain your strength, while your husband has none.” Alyssa picked at her hem, chastened by their concern.

“You are right. My apologies, I have been–” 

“Your Grace, you do not have to justify yourself to us. Let me draw you a bath while Celia retrieves your meal.”

“Thank you.” She grabbed Celia Tully’s slender hand, drawing it to her bosom. “Thank you both, for caring for me.”

“This hard time will pass, my lady,” Maris whispered.

“Would that if I could believe that.” 

Later, when her skin smelled of dusky roses’ milk and her stomach was pleasantly full of a cod stew, she still could not find sleep. She had been laid to rest maybe hours before, having watched the crimson sun fall sleepily beneath the horizon, but there was no sleep to be found behind her eyelids. She was convinced there were pebbles hidden in her mattress, prickling her skin whenever exhaustion sought to claim her. A sorceress’s trick, she thought bitterly. Whenever Visenya is near, sleep runs for its dear life.

She adjusted her pillows beneath her head again, but did not get the chance to map the blackness of her eyelids for the hundredth time. The door to her room opened a crack, spilling a yellow strip of torchlight across the floor. 

For a brief second, she expected Vaemond to peek his head in, as he had always done to announce nightly visitors. It was usually her husband, and it was the siblings’ routine for Alyssa to signal whether Vaemond was to admit him or not. If not, he would invent some outrageous excuse for her, and delighted in describing her imagined bowel movements to the king.

Instead, it was Ser Maladon, who had replaced Vaemond for the first shift of her nightly watch. The black grief flew quickly through her head, leaving her composed enough to draw her blankets around her chest and address the knight.

“Your Grace, may Princess Alysanne be allowed entrance to your chambers?”

“She may.” Ser Maladon opened the door farther, revealing her daughter. Alysanne was in her smallclothes, and presented the very image of a sleepless night. Her curls snarled and knotted around her head like golden snakes, her blue eyes rimmed with the swollen red of exhaustion.

“Come here, darling.” Alyssa reached her arms out to admit the girl, who needed no leave to squirm underneath her blankets and rest her head against her mother’s breast. “What is the matter?”

Alysanne had been her golden ray of light through the darkness of the last few days, always lit up with her enthusiasm for the world. A girl of five, she did not have Jaehaerys’s brooding wisdom, but there was something innately curious within the girl that made Alyssa wonder whether her daughter would grow up to be brighter than her older brother.

“I cannot sleep.”

“I can see that. You smell tired, sweetling,” Alyssa murmured, rubbing her fingers through the knots on Alysanne’s head. In truth, her daughter smelled like dragon, but she amused herself on her daughter’s wonderment at her mother’s accurate nose.

“Are you and Father angry with each other?”

“We had a bit of a quarrel, if that is what you mean.”

“Does a quarrel mean you do not love each other anymore?”

“Of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”

“If love makes you happy, then you must not love Father anymore to be so unhappy with him.”

“That is not true at all. A husband and wife can be blissfully happy even if they do not love each other, and people who love each other very much can be miserable from time to time.”

“Why?”
“Say that Jaehaerys pinched you. You would be very upset with him, and may not even talk to him, if it was hard enough to bruise. Do you love him any less?” Alysanne weighed this in her head, seemingly angry at the very thought of it. 

“No. I do not think so.”

“It is the same with husbands and wives. When you are married, do not make yourself miserable with the thought of your own misery. Let yourself be upset when your husband slights you, but love him anyway.”

“Will Jae be my husband? Like Egg and Rhaena?” Alyssa should have known any words said to Jaehaerys would eventually end up repeated to Alysanne’s ears. He would surely have been pondering his own marriage, after she spoke to him of Valyrian traditions.

“I do not know. Maybe once– but I do not know anymore.”

“I think I would like it very much if he was my husband. We could ride on our dragons every day. We’re going to see all of Westeros on dragonback together, and it would be much easier if we were married. I would not have to write to my husband telling him where I am all the time.” Alysanne hated her letters more than anything. She loved to read them, but writing was worse than a chore, it was a torture.

“Your husband would not be with you?” 

“No!” Alysanne was horrified at the suggestion. “Only Jae and I. We are going to all seven kingdoms, like grandsire and Father, but we will not stop there. We will go to Essos, to see all nine of the Free Cities and travel down the Rhoyne and take the Valyrian roads to Slaver’s Bay. Then I’m going to ride with the Dothraki, though Jae says they’re brutes. I think he’s just craven. They wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me while Silverwing is there. We will ride all the way to Yi Ti, I think, and maybe Asshai, because I will be grown then and not so scared of shadows. Last of all, we will go to the Summer Isles.” 

“Where will you find the time for these adventures?”

“Jae is the third son, so he won’t have to be king or Egg’s Hand. He doesn’t want to be a knight, so he’ll have nothing else to do but travel. And I’ll be his wife, so I’ll go with him.” 

“And what about babes?” Alyssa knew her daughter was fascinated by babes since one of her ladies, Ellena Royce, had given birth to a daughter, Alayne, and left Alyssa’s service. Alysanne thought on the matter deeply.

“They will have to be dragonriders too, and come with us.”

“How many of them will there be?”

“Seven. A godly number.” Alyssa could not stifle her laughter anymore, but her amusement seemed to make Alysanne even prouder of her plans.

“Seven dragons? Good gods, are you going to birth all of Old Valyria? Does Jaehaerys know of these plans?”

“He is a boy, he doesn’t care about babes at all.”

“Will I ever get to see my little grandchildren? Your plans seem to leave me alone when I am old and grey.”

“I will have to leave one with you. A daughter, I think. One I do not like, so I will not miss her greatly.”

“You are very kind to your poor decrepit mother.” Alysanne giggled as her mother kissed her cheeks, laughing herself a flushed red when Alyssa’s kisses continued to her stomach. 

She found comfort only with her daughter’s warm cheek pressed against the skin of her neck, though sleep proved more elusive.

“Gods help me, I will protect you,” Alyssa whispered into her sleeping daughter’s ear.

- - -

“Mother, look!” Rhaena laughed. She tossed a chunk of her morning sausage into the air. “ Dracarys.”

Dreamfyre blew a stream of silvery blue fire into the air, blackening the chunk of meat before she captured the morsel in between her teeth. Rhaena muttered praise in High Valyrian, scratching underneath the dragon’s jaw. Aegon watched his sister with pure reverence.

“When will I get a dragon, Mama?” He whispered. She tousled his golden-white hair with her free hand, the other curled around little Jaehaerys.

“When you are ready, sweet one.” Whatever disappointment lingered on his face was wiped clean by Rhaena’s next words.

“Come, Egg! You can throw the next one!” The boy ran across the field, leaving Alyssa’s hand reaching after him. Don’t go, she thought, though she didn’t know why.

“Do not play too carelessly, children, dragons are not dogs!”

“Yes, Mother,” Rhaena assented, without any indication she had understood her mother’s words at all. 

Jaehaerys squirmed in her arms, his round face turning red. He opened his mouth and began to scream, louder and fiercer than she knew possible from a set of lungs she could probably hold in her hand.

“Shh… little one. What’s the matter? What bothers you so?” But the babe could not answer. “Are you hungry? Tired? I am right here, do not cry.” 

“Mama?” Aegon cried. Her son stood with his hands clasped around his neck, Visenya standing right behind him, a Valyrian dagger in hand. 

“Mama,” he rasped, lowering his hands to reveal the deep wound across his neck. “Mama, she hurt me.”

- - -

She awoke the blood red rays of morning seeping in through the small window in her chambers. She pulled herself upright, waking Alysanne from her rest. She hurried from her bed, ignoring Alysanne’s sleep-heavy pleas for her to stay. She pulled a robe around her smallclothes, wrapping the red silk around her as she walked from the room. 

Ser Richard was deep in a stupor as he stood, a guard to her chambers in name only. He blinked slowly as the queen strode past him.

“Your Grace!” He started at last. “What is the matter?”

Alyssa did not answer, and the old knight’s stiff joints prevented him from hurrying after her. She walked through the halls like a wraith of the early morning, draped in the color of blood. She did not stop until she reached her husband’s chambers, attended by Ser Raymont.

“I must see my husband.”

“The king is abed, your Grace. It is an early hour–” Ser Raymont argued.

“Move aside, ser, by order of your queen.” The knight followed her order, well cowed by his queen’s icy words.

Alyssa entered, but her loud entry did not wake the king. She shook her husband relentlessly until he awoke, a reprimand sitting at the tip of his tongue. She did not know what to say, but the rant was hot and bitter in her throat, more ravings than good sense. It did not matter. He needed to know. He must stop it. 

“Be silent. I must speak, and then we may resume our quarrels. I should have told you before, but I was– It does not matter. There are greater threats in our midst than pious smallfolk, and far closer, standing right outside our door. Viserys has dreamt a horrible future. He sees your death, and then Quicksilver’s, in Balerion’s claws. I cannot puzzle out how– but there is something terrible waiting. Your brother, maybe, or your mother, or the two of them working in tandem. They will bring blood and chaos. If they will not wait for your death, they will orchestrate it, and our children’s. Please, Aenys, you must help me.”

Chapter Text

He did not believe her, not at first. When he did, he only grew sicker. His words were careful, edged with the pain of mind and body. 

“What would you have me do, Alyssa?”

“You must call your lords to pledge themselves to Aegon as your heir apparent. There are many houses who were uplifted by your father, they will not break an oath to his house lightly.”

“They would think me mad to force the lords paramount to King’s Landing in a time of war regardless of cause. But to reaffirm the position of a boy in the westerlands, one who is already crown prince by all rights and precedent?”

“Your health weakens by the day, and your brother across seas threatens your position. Any lord would do the same with his bannermen if he thought his son was in danger.”

“How would I explain my decision? With the dreams of a child, not quite thirteen? Or shall I appear a man of paranoia, who cannot bear the thought of a brother some three hundred leagues away? I find myself disbelieving your tales.”

“Why must you reproach me?” Her voice was frayed with stress, tears springing easily to her eyes where she imagined herself so strong before. “Have I wronged you, husband, in expressing my concerns?”

“No– no, of course not. I am sorry, I truly am. You do not see how the small council hounds me, pulling me one direction or another. And Visenya comes to advise me to burn it all. Oldtown, the Sept of Remembrance, the Red Keep, Harrenhal again if it would sate her lust for fire. All my councillors plead for war and bloodshed, everything the Protector of the Realm should scorn with his full heart. Now you presume to tell me the greatest threat is one I have no knowledge of.

“Meanwhile, I cannot understand any of it, Alyssa. These lords and smallfolk, they held my father’s peace for twenty-four years. They could not manage it for more than a few moons after I took the Iron Throne. When my father heeded his counsel, they called him humble. They call me weak willed and easily cowed. When he ignored them, they called him wise. Me, they call ignorant. He exercised restraint and they knelt at his feet. My restraint is a chink in the armor to be exploited.

“I met these men when I was a boy. Stood at his side and learned from him. I am as legitimate of a king as they will have, and I am spurned for every action I take. You call me passive, and I am. I thought my task was kindness, and an even hand of justice. They do not want this. They want to reduce themselves to beasts, to rape and pillage and sow the land with the chaos they knew before dragons tamed them. How am I to rule men who would be happier to see a kingdom of ashes?”

He had been sick many times before, but this most recent deterioration frightened her. His was a disease of spirit, and he seemed ready to surrender. This was no spell of weakness, but a resignation to death. The creases on his face marked him as a man of sixty, his eyes hollowed out. When had this despair settled? Did she not know him as a confident man with a vicious tongue only a day past? Did melancholy afflict so quickly?

“I do not know the ways of men,” she admitted, “only those of mothers and wives. I know these women do not want to watch their sons go off to battle, to wonder if their husbands would make their home the next Harrenhal, and to worry their daughters will be raped if the outlaws bred by war reach their doors. Women have never been creatures of ashes, but–”

“If only all men bid their wives the time I give you. I hope you can forgive me, sweetling, for all the ways I have wronged you and worried you. I will take your advice into consideration.” 

But women are not soft and gentle all the way through, she finished in her head, tasting the bitter irony of his words. A woman’s love can harden like iron, and become a tool of war. This is what I want you to see, you fool.

- - -

Her husband proved himself useless to her cause, and so she dedicated herself as an agent in foiling Visenya’s plot. Unfortunately, her good aunt proved elusive when needed most. When Alyssa exhausted herself chasing the woman’s spectre about the castle, only then did the woman find her . 

She approached from behind, clutching Alyssa’s shoulder. She greeted the queen with a fond smile, sliding her hand down her arm to hook their hands together.

“Walk with me, your Grace,” Visenya commanded. 

“What would you have of me?”

“Why, only my dear family’s company. Take your midday meal outside with me, and bring your children and their little dragons. We will make an adventure of it. I cannot imagine the little princes and princess often getting the chance to soil their fine clothes with much more than duck fat drippings.” Her words, like always, had been an order. She did not give Alyssa time to answer, so the presumption was always that she would get her way.

Against her better judgement, Alyssa found herself rounding up the children for their meal. Ser Maladon and Ser Raymont both tried to convince her to let them accompany, but she dismissed them outright. If it was an outside threat, Visenya would easily dispatch them. If the threat was the Dowager Queen herself, neither could begin to stand in her way. 

The hill tops they would call a dining place were eerily reminiscent of her dream, and she held Alysanne’s shoulder to keep the girl from leaving her side. The ground was loosely packed and slick from the rainstorms of the days before, and the knee high grass passed the remaining moisture onto Alyssa’s fine skirt. 

Visenya waved to them from the top of a steep hill, forcing them to trudge up the muddy hillside. Reaching the peak stole the breath from Alyssa’s chest. A sea of bronze scales awaited in the valley below, shimmering blue-green waves forming as the great dragon adjusted her position.

Alysanne’s eyes were as large as saucers, flashing between utter awe and green envy towards the beast. Vermithor approached the massive dragon proudly, poking his nose at Vhagar’s closed eye. The dragon, without waking, huffed a hot breath that filled the little dragon’s wings with air and sent him flying backwards. Alysanne looked inclined to do the same, caught from surging forward only by her mother’s palm.

“Careful, little flame, Vhagar is no toy to be played with. She is the second mightiest living dragon, and she may eat small girls like you if she were to inhale deeply. Though…” Visenya added, seeing Alysanne’s disappointment. “Perhaps if you eat your meal with your mouth closed, legs folded, and all those ladylike things your mother loves, she will allow you to ride with me. Your brother, too, if he desires.” 

She did not address Viserys in her offer. Alyssa felt compelled to point out her own son had been greatly delayed in claiming a dragon, and two-and-ten was by no means a staggeringly old age, if he wished to take an older, strong minded dragon. She decided to hold her tongue to the issue.

“I do not know, Visenya, they are still so young–”

“Not any younger than I was when my father took me on dragonback for the first time. Every young dragonlord should understand the power dragons give us firsthand. I do not suppose Aenys has taken you flying before?”

“Absolutely not,” Alyssa was flummoxed by the mere suggestion. He had alluded to the activity once, when they had been married for a year or so. She had recently discovered her pregnancy, and rejected the proposal so vigorously he never dared mention it again.

“That is a shame. I imagine for you sea dragons it must be a bit like holding a ship’s wheel. The power is not your own, but knowing that you guide it– that you hold your hand to the fire –there is no better feeling.”

“I will consider your suggestion, but I can promise no more.”

Alysanne and Jaehaerys ate as quickly as they could while still technically following the rules for polite company. Their dragons bothered Vhagar’s rest until she eventually lumbered awake to prey on nearby flocks of sheep. Whatever blackened bits fell out of her jaws went quickly into the mouths of the younger dragons, who fought each other for unappetizing scraps. They seemed to be nourished mostly on her sheer presence rather than the meat. She snapped at them when they got too close or too rambunctious, but it never dulled their spirits. 

The children felt a similar awe towards their aunt, who seemed to be everything they could dream of and more. When she finished her meal, she offered to braid Alysanne’s hair.

“The wind turns your hair into a rope made to choke you,” she explained. It was decided that while she would give Alysanne intricate Valyrian braids, Alyssa would braid Jaehaerys’s hair into a simple, efficient plait. Aenys had been so proud of Jaehaerys’s hair, a brilliant silver and gold, he had never allowed it to be cut from birth besides a few trims the septas insisted would keep the hair healthy. His hair now fell well past his shoulders, and his brothers often teased him for looking like a girl, but it had become his personal glory.

While they braided, Visenya regalled them with her travels. She described to them the Titan of Braavos, and insisted flying past his broken sword was a far better sight than passing between his black granite legs. She had kneeled in the temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis.

“The red priests’ god, Rh’llor, I can understand him better than these prudish Seven. The power of fire is well worth worshipping. It is a shame their feelings do not transfer to dragons. Their red god lives in Vhagar’s stomach, I told them, and they scorned me. Pious men are eager to reject and fight in the names of their gods more than they are willing to accept and learn. It is the greatest danger they pose.” 

It was only when she began to describe the pleasure houses of Lys that Alyssa brought her stories to an end. Visenya shrugged her shoulders and stood, brushing off her leathers.

“It is time for a promise to be made good. Are you ready, little dragons?”

Alysanne looked to her mother, desperate for her approval.

“Go,” she nodded towards Visenya. Jaehaerys and Alysanne ran after her, nearly tripping head over heels climbing down the slick hillside. Visenya boosted the children onto Vhagar’s back. She strapped them into the saddle, Alysanne sitting in front of her and Jaehaerys clutching her waist from behind. Vhagar lumbered to her feet lazily, shaking the sleepiness away from her green eyes. When she unfurled her wings, the membranes shone a dull green. She began to flap her wings up and down, creating gales that blew strands of Alyssa’s hair out of her carefully made braids.

When Vhagar took to the skies at last, she could hear Alysanne’s voice.

“Sōvēs, Gēliotīkun! ” The little princess cried, urging her dragon to join them. The silver dragon took off unsteadily, unsure of her own abilities. Her wing beats grew faster as her confidence improved, and she took after Vhagar’s soaring shadow. Vermithor, already brimming with conviction, took after her. Alyssa could hear Alysanne’s shrieks of happiness, but the dragons quickly became smaller and smaller as they flew towards the clouds and she could hear no more.

She turned to Viserys, whose eyes were transfixed on the dragon overhead.

“Do you think–” He stopped mid sentence, pointing towards the sky. She followed his finger towards a great fireball in the sky, and Vhagar’s form plunging into the fury. Alyssa muffled her own scream with her hand, closing her eyes to the sight.

“Mother, it’s alright, look!” Viserys tugged her shoulder, forcing her to look up again. She saw Vhagar swooping down from the sky, unscathed by the flame. The riders on her back were unharmed, and whooped as she dipped towards the black sea. She flew low over the surface, skimming the water with her wing as she rolled onto her side. Visenya, from the saddle, reached to the side to pass her hand underneath the water.

Alyssa could not breathe every time Vhagar made a particularly steep climb or descent, and so the flight– which lasted minutes –seemed to take several hours. When Vhagar finally landed, the little dragons tumbling to the earth around her, Alyssa rushed forward to greet them. Alysanne slid off the dragon’s back, running to her mother. Her blonde curls, the stray strands freed from their braids, whipped around her face. Her cheeks had been made red by the wind and excitement.

“Did you see me, Mama?” 

Alyssa swung her daughter into her arms. “Of course I did. You were magnificent.”

Visenya and Jaehaerys trudged from behind her, talking in fast paced High Valyrian Alyssa could not keep up with. Her son was more animated than she had often seen him, swinging his arms out as he spoke in sweeping, elated gestures.

“Your children are natural dragon riders, your Grace,” Visenya called. “I have no doubt Vermithor and Silverwing will be the fiercest dragons to rule the sky after Balerion and Vhagar pass.” Alysanne beamed at her mother, her smile stretching from ear to ear. 

“You must tell me all about it,” Alyssa insisted, knowing the details would surely turn her stomach. As they settled into the grass again, Alyssa took Alysanne into her lap to undo the remains of her braids and comb through the tangles of her hair. 

She did not get far in her recount before being interrupted by a strained voice.

“Your Graces!” Maester Laeron panted, freezing briefly at the sight of the children. “I do not mean to alarm, but– His Grace will not wake from his afternoon rest. The grand maester requests you and the children return at once.”

Alyssa’s stomach twisted with fear, and Alysanne squirmed under her tight grip.

“What is the matter with him?” Visenya asked.

“The king is very ill, your Grace. Grand Maester Gawen suspects an affliction of the bowels, caused by his Grace’s own mind.”

“Why was I not informed?”

“I do not know, your Grace.”

Visenya moved, an unstoppable company of one woman as she charged down the hill towards the castle. Alyssa stumbled behind, the children by her side. Alysanne clutched her hand, batting tears away from her eyes.

“Will Father be alright?” she stammered, the boys leaning in with interest.

“I do not know,” Alyssa admitted softly.

Visenya did not stop her march until she reached the king’s chambers, throwing the door open while acting deaf to the protests of the two Kingsguard standing at watch. Alyssa, if she was in her proper mind, would have dismissed or shielded her children from the sick chambers. Aenys did not like his children to see his weakness, but her mind and rational thought were far from each other.

“Get out,” Visenya commanded the flock of maester buzzing around the bedchamber. “Get out!”

The maesters stopped their movements, looking at the intruders with disapproving stares. Visenya stormed towards a maester with a bleeding bowl, smacking the instrument out of his hand. It shattered as it hit the ground, sending white shards flying across the room. Alyssa pulled Alysanne’s face into her dress to protect her.

“Are you trying to murder your king, you fools? I will care for my nephew, before you all deign to commit treason.” Visenya did not wait for the men to exit before hurrying to her own chambers to retrieve her herbs and elixirs. Time was of the essence, she hissed to Alyssa before sweeping out.

The healers hovered nervously, unsure if the Dowager Queen truly possessed the power to dismiss them. In the lapse of clarity, they turned to the current queen for advice. She ignored them, weaving through the crowd to reach her husband’s side. She stroked his white cheek, stunningly cold beneath her palm.

“Go,” she whispered. “All of you.”

“Your Grace?” Grand Maester Gawen protested. “Only we are capable of caring for the king–”

“I told you to go.” She had seen what their treatments made of him, the wrinkled husk of a man who should be a robust young man of five-and-thirty. Visenya was not her son. She was no kinslayer. Still…

Alyssa grabbed Laeron’s arm alone, stopping him from leaving with the rest. 

“Stay. Watch her treatments. Make sure she gives him no poison or improper treatment. I will not have my husband die under my command.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

Visenya was not happy with the stray maester, until he swore he would not administer any treatment without her leave. When the maesters had left and the children finally sent to their chambers, the room was left with only the maester, Visenya, Alyssa, a serving girl sent to sweep up the ceramic shards, and the sleeping king. With the maester sworn as her thrall, her ire shifted to Alyssa as she worked.

“You should have sent for me as soon as he took ill.”

“Maester Gawen is one of the greatest healers in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Ah, these Westerosi maesters. No better than common butchers. I do not know if I can do much now that the illness reaches so deep.” Alyssa flushed with childish shame at being reprimanded like a girl poking her nose somewhere she shouldn’t be.

“He seemed to be making a recovery,” she defended, “not a sennight past.”

“And your maesters called him cured? You kill a tree by hacking at its roots, not pruning its leaves.” 

“The Citadel teaches–” Maester Laeron cut in.

“I do not care what your gods forsaken order teaches. I care that my nephew, your king , is not bled to death.”

The room was near silent afterwards. While the maester and Visenya worked, Alyssa sat at Aenys’s side, attempting to rub warmth into his fingers. His breathing was shallow and frail, but he was still breathing. 

The hours bled together as herbs were grinded into pastes, then heated until the liquid separated and was collected through a rag. The powders Visenya brought were dark and strange smelling, and distilled into a steaming, blood red liquid. She poured the mixture into a simple, clay cup. 

“Sit him up,” she ordered. Alyssa and Laeron pulled him up, an effort for two while he laid limp. Visenya tilted his chin up, pinching her fingers around his nose. When he opened his mouth to breathe, she poured the liquid into his mouth. 

“You are going to choke him!” Laeron protested. Visenya did not respond, tipping the cup forward. Aenys’s throat bobbed as he instinctively swallowed the liquid. When she was done, they lowered him back down. When Alyssa held his hand again, it was no longer cold. In fact, it was hot. Too hot, nearly feverish.

His breath returned as a terrible cough, his eyes flying open as he clawed at his throat. Visenya pulled him onto his side, hitting him firmly on the back as coughs wracked his body. He seemed to be trying to expel his lungs, the sharp coughs turning wet like flesh grinding together. He hacked phlegm onto the mattress: a vile, cloudy yellow mixed with the red brew. The sight caused Alyssa to choke on the bile pushing in her own throat, fighting to keep her meal down.

Despite the horror, she realized his breath was steady and strong and his eyes open, even if bloody from the force of his coughs. The king lived.

As much as she had doubted Visenya, Aenys’s improvement continued over the next moon. By the end of the first sennight, he was sitting up in bed. By the second, he was able to eat on his own and keep down the meals he was fed. He asked to see the children, then, and took his supper as they played on the floor together. Even Viserys’s smile returned when he saw his father, and he hugged his aunt around the waist. By the third, he was hobbling around his room and asked to be read the matters of the kingdom his illness forced him to neglect.

There was no Hand to perform the task, so Alyssa took to reading him the many ravens he received in the past moon. The rebellion’s grasping hand had reached more walls than their own, traveling its way through the Reach to the westerlands and leaving a trail of gruesome tales behind. She recounted many pleas from minor lords crying for aid, enough stories of rape and murder to make her heart grow cold to the words after a while.

There were no holy men in wars, she came to realize, only blackhearted opportunists frustrated by the miller’s daughter’s haughty refusal or the taxes owed to their liege lord. Her husband was much troubled by the news, rubbing his brow in frustration.

“Is there news from Aegon and Rhaena in this barrage of misery?” She flipped through the remaining messages.

“I do not think so. They must be occupied, if the Poor Fellows have reached the westerlands.” Her own stomach knitted at the thought.

“Your Graces?” A frightened voice came from the closed door.

“Enter,” Aenys sighed. A serving girl crept in, her hands shaking as she held a flask in hand. “What business do you have?”
“Your daily brew, from Dowager Queen Visenya.” After the second sennight, Alyssa had dismissed Maester Laeron from watching the queen, reasoning that she would have simply let him die if she wished him dead. She had accepted her suspicions about the woman were incorrect, and she had served the family well. A strange woman, but a well meaning one indeed. 

“A sweet relief. Bring it here, my girl.” She crept forward, pressing it into his hand before scurrying from the room like a mouse. Aenys uncorked the flask, pouring it in his cup. He swirled the drink in his hand. 

“A strange shade, don’t you think, sweetling?” He tilted the cup in her direction, revealing the dark purple of his tonic. He sniffed the drink. “And with a foul odor.”

“She is advancing her treatment, I suppose. A good thing, since you have drastically improved already.”

“There is no end to the gratitude I hold for my dear aunt, but I grow tired of her sickly sweet brews.” He gulped the tonic down, flinching as it settled in his gut.

“Come now, away from this horrible stack,” he gestured towards the letters. “Let us take a stroll about the castle.”

He offered her an arm, staggering up from his bed. He treated all his parts gingerly, careful not to push himself too hard or face the Dowager Queen’s wrath. 

“Perhaps we might see Viserys sparring in the yard.” She suggested gently. “He has been training this past moon, and he would like nothing more than to see you there.” 

While the letters informed him of the matters of the kingdom, she took it upon herself as they walked to give him news of their household.

“Viserys has been working himself vigorously, of course, determined to be a knight and defend his brother’s claim. The master-at-arms says he is not a talent at the sword like Aegon, but he has thrice the determination and will make a formidable warrior indeed. Jaehaerys has taken a fondness to Maester Laeron, asking him for access to all the tomes about dragons and Old Valyria. Wherever the maester goes, Jaehaerys is at his heels, and Vermithor never far behind. Both Alysanne and Jaehaerys refuse to surrender their dragons again, going so far as to sleep with them in bed. Alysanne is an incorrigible force by her own right. She will not be sated until she is seated on Vhagar’s back again. She begs at Visenya’s heels whenever she can be found, and when she eludes her small shadow, Alysanne becomes the terror of her maids. Your children are like to be the death of me.”

“I know no better dragon wrangler.” He rubbed her hand in his own, coming to a stop on the rafters above the courtyard. Ser Raymont watched over Viserys as he sparred below with a squire seemingly twice his side. Alyssa had no taste for swordplay, but her son flowed like a leaf in river waters avoiding boulders. He threw himself to the side whenever the larger boy charged, until the squire was sweating and red faced. It was not longer before Viserys struck the boy in the shin with his training sword, causing the poor child to crumple to the ground clutching his leg.

Aenys clapped his hands, drawing Viserys’s attention. The prince beamed when he saw his father’s gaunt face, his smile both shy and proud.

“He may match his uncle in prowess, one day,” Aenys boasted, though Alyssa flinched at the mere mention of Maegor.

“Sweetling,” he murmured. “You surely cannot hold such ill will towards my brother at this time. Visenya, though cold by nature, has proven herself a proper healer. She has restored me to my health, so that I may hold you in my arms again. For that, I owe her my life. I cannot allow you to hold the dreams of a grief-stricken child against her.”

“Your brother–”

“Is more than a day’s flight away, even on Balerion’s back. Whatever plot he may have, it will not be orchestrated by his mother, and that much weaker for it. Shake the fear away, for all will be well soon.” He fiddled with the rings on her fingers, many of them his gifts. 

“My king!” Grand Maester Gawen came running down the hallway in a way utterly undignified for his station. He wiped the sweat from his brow, indicating he had been running all the way from the rookery in Sea Dragon Tower. He clutched a small scroll in his hand. “My king, a raven has come for you.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Aenys laughed to his wife. “I have already received enough. You can put it with the others, and I will attend to it when I have the strength.”

“Begging your pardon, your Grace, but this is not like the others. It is news– from your children.” Alyssa swept forward, snatching the scroll from his clammy hands. She read as the maester spoke. “They sought shelter at Crakehall from the uprising, but the rabble surrounded the keep with a force three hundred strong. They are besieged, your Grace.”

She looked up to see Aenys steady himself on the black half-wall. He met her eyes with a singular, desperate look, his lips a horrible shade of grey. Before she could step forward to steady him, his legs gave out. The king crumpled to the ground without a sound, and the keep– perhaps even the kingdom –seemed to stumble with him.

Chapter Text

Visenya worked as if the fire in her blood burned in her hands. Sweat beaded her brow, her movements were feverish and yet sluggish all the same. When she gave Aenys another red brew, he went ghastly still and quietly choked on the supposed tonic until she was forced to expel it from his body lest it kill him. She wrapped her arms around his stomach, pulling sharply upwards until the liquid spilled forcefully from his mouth, dribbling down his chin like a babe’s spittle. He did not wake. 

“I do not understand,” she huffed beneath her breath. “You are a dragon, you weak fool, zaldrīzes,” she repeated in Valyrian, slamming her fist down on his chest. It was strange to watch him accept the blow, limp and helpless as a cloth doll. When she made to do it again, Alyssa caught her hand.

“What is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”

“He has resigned himself to die. My nephew proves himself as craven as he is weak.” 

“No,” Alyssa protested. “No, he hasn’t. The king is not to be treated as a whipping boy for your failures. Admit your potions have failed, that you have failed.”

Visenya’s eyes were steel to behold, unyielding and unflinching.

“Or perhaps,” Alyssa spat, “they have played their part to a perfection? What brew did you concoct this morning?” 

Visenya did not speak.

“What poison did you give him? You played us all like fools, did you not? Nursed him as a healer, all while biding your time. Then that draught– that sickly sweet, strange colored draught. What poison felled our king?”

Visenya ripped her hand back, only to whip it across Alyssa’s face. It stung viciously, and Alyssa brushed the tender flesh with her fingertips.

“You are a fool, just like your husband. I told you to play, but here you are, simpering and weeping like a shrinking flower. The dragon has withered in my sister’s line, it died the day she fell from her mount. Her sickly babe should have died with her. So here is the poison I gave your king: I gave him faith that he may recover and be half the king his father was.”

The Dowager Queen left, but her acrid words lingered in the room. The woman was a poison, Alyssa thought bitterly, a poison for the realm.

In her absence, she summoned the maesters again, who seemed to have taken their dismissal in stride. Their work was less frenzied, but no less disturbing to the eye. They brought their poultices and tonics, yes, but also their bleeding bowls and leeches. When they exposed the tender white flesh of her husband’s arm, she excused herself from the room. 

Alyssa was listless then, unsure of where she went while she lacked purpose. She wanted to contact Aegon and Rhaena now that she knew their location, but it was a pitiful hope. The letter had been sent from Casterly Rock, and all its contents were the knowledge of Lannister scouts. Any raven sent to or from Crakehall would surely be brought down by the hordes outside. A thousand rock slings could take down a raven just as easily as a single arrow loosed from a well trained archer’s bow. There was no king to send an army to disperse the forces, nor even a Hand to carry out his will. 

The queen’s only real power lay in shifting servants around, caring for her children, and writing letters. To whom, then, she could not decide. Many lords paramount would assume she was overstepping her place, and working over the king’s head while he lay ill. She had done all she could with the Lannisters, and no minor lord would take well to a woman endearing them in her son’s place. Her children, she was loath to accept, would have to save themselves. A king and queen they would be, and it was critical for them to prove it now more than ever.

In a fit of helplessness, she went to find the children. They were taking lessons together in the yard, blissfully oblivious to their father’s condition and their siblings’ peril. While Alysanne sat with her septa, Jaehaerys and Viserys sparred in the center of the courtyard. It was no serious bit of training, Jaehaerys was too young to properly hold the wooden training sword he had been given and more than a head shorter than his older brother. Viserys met his little opponent’s blade with weak parries and purposefully clumsy blows. To the side, Ser Raymont watched their match with an appraising eye, clearly meant to step in if the younger boy faced any risk of actual injury. 

Alyssa took her place with her daughter and the holy woman, who was instructing Alysanne on her needlepoint. The princess was eager to show off her work to her mother, a collection of flowers that the septa assured her was perfectly appropriate for young ladies of the princess’s age.

“I’m going to do Silverwing next,” Alysanne insisted, fidgeting with the lace collar of her dress. The septa guided her fingers to her lap.

“I only made seahorses when I was your age,” Alyssa remembered. “My septa insisted my house’s sigil would make good gifts for my father. I think he had one of those old pieces sewn into his traveling cloak. Perhaps you can give your work to your father.”

“I’ll make Quicksilver for him, Dreamfyre for Rhaena, and Vhagar for Visenya. Aegon and Vis will have to wait until they claim their dragons.”

“A good motivation, I should think. What of Vermithor?”
“Nothing for Jae.” Alysanne stabbed her needle into the canvas with a bit too much enthusiasm. “I’m very cross with him.”

“It is not good for ladies to scorn anyone, my princess,” the septa corrected. “Ladies must be kind and graceful to all.”

“All except brothers,” Alysanne groused. 

“Why are you cross with your brother, sweet one?”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. He only wants to read Maester Laeron’s books.”

“On Valyrian histories?” Alysanne’s brow tightened.

“No.”

“Tell me, Alysanne.”

“Medicine books.”

“For your father?” Alysanne shrugged. Alyssa’s heart sunk in her chest, looking out at her sons again. 

“Everyone’s sad all the time now,” her daughter admitted, her eyes fixed on her stitching. “Jae wasn’t supposed to be everyone else.”

Alyssa’s words caught painfully in her throat and she had nothing to say to her daughter. The septa rescued her in the silence.

“Come inside, my lady. The heat is not good for your health.” She took Alysanne’s hand and led her away, bowing her head to her queen as she left. Alyssa was left stricken, staring vaguely forward as Jaehaerys deftly swung his sword to strike his brother’s ribs, knocking the wind out of his chest. Viserys’s sword clattered loudly as it hit the ground.

- - -

Come the night before the second day, Aenys woke. It was not the wake Visenya brought, but a delirious half-sleep riddled with demands to see his children. The same children Alyssa was guarding to prevent them from knowing how dire the situation had become. The maesters thought it may give him the strength he needed to recover. They thought Aenys weak as well, resigned to his own death. They did not know her husband.

Still, she was determined to summon the children as soon as she had been woken herself, just after the hour of the wolf. Viserys had been pestering his servants from the moment he was confined to his chambers for the night, asking after his father’s health. He sat up in his bed the moment his mother opened his door, tangled and twisted in his sheets. 

“Mother?” He whispered through the dark of early morning. She cupped her hand delicately around his jaw. The baby fat that had once sat there was vanishing with age, leaving Viserys with a rather severe looking jaw. He still wasn’t eating enough, she noted.

“It is time to see your father. Go to his chambers, but do not enter his room until I have returned with Jaehaerys and Alysanne.”

“My dreams–”

“I know. I know,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. “There will be a time for that, but not now. You must be with your father.”

He followed her orders with few complaints otherwise, clutching a candle with both hands to steady his shaking palms.

“Will you be alright?”

“Of course, sweet one,” she lied cooly. He hurried off, while she wandered deeper into the castle to reach the nursery. 

To her surprise, Jaehaerys and Alysanne were awake as well. Alysanne had crawled into her brother’s bed, as she often did when the dark overwhelmed her. Her handmaidens put candles in her bedchamber to try to soothe her, but she began to fear the shadow monsters the flames made on the walls. Jaehaerys did not often refuse her when she was worried, though Alyssa suspected it was not imagined monsters which frightened her daughter that night. The children wormed and wriggled under the bedcover, speaking their queer Valyrian tongue to each other. 

Her father had never held as much interest in the proper Valyrian language as their dragonrider kin, and while her brothers had learned at the knees of maesters, she never had much patience for Maester Davon’s nasally speech and the phlegmy cough in which he pronounced the guttural sounds of the language. Her father saw no need to rectify her poor tutelage until she was betrothed to Aenys, and he insisted she learn at least enough to ask her new husband to pass the bowl of porridge. 

It was hard to teach a willful girl of ten any language, but her mouth had always formed clumsily around the odd sounds and phrases of Valyrian. The words jumbled together in her head when it was spoken to her. She spoke in the halting manner of a five year old, with pronunciation like her rather descriptive good brother told her sounded like she was holding an egg in her mouth and trying not to crack it as she spoke. 

Her children did not face the same difficulties. Aegon and Viserys learned at the conqueror’s knee, and Rhaena insisted on never falling behind her younger brothers. Jaehaerys was more interested in learning High Valyrian than he was in speaking Common, and as a babe he would toddle around speaking a strange mix of the two languages. He jabbered the tongue to Alysanne as often as he could, until she was able to stand on her own two legs and follow him around calling: lēkia, lēkia. Even if Alyssa had a greater understanding of the language, she thought that not even the most learned scholars could understand Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s language.

“Your father needs you, little ones,” she beckoned. They came spilling out of their bed, eyes wide and incredulous. 

“Should we dress?” Jaehaerys asked.

“No, there–” she cut herself off. There may not be enough time, she was about to say. “There is no need.”

She pulled them to the king’s chambers, where the maesters with the night shift had temporarily emptied the room for privacy. Viserys waited outside, his expression nearly manic with anticipation. When she went to accompany her children into the room, a gloved hand caught her arm. She turned to see Ser Addison’s intense stare.

“His Grace wishes to see his children alone.”

“What?” She was horrified at the mere idea. “I am their mother!”

“My apologies, your Grace, but it was the king’s order. I heard him myself.”

“The king has been bled out, drugged, and put into a stupor. What orders could he give in such a state?”

“He was quite insistent.” Ser Addison nodded at his fellow Kingsguard to close the door, effectively blocking her from the children. 

“What am I meant to do?”

“That is not my business, your Grace.” The man was unmoving. 

Grand Maester Gawen, his eyes bleary from a lack of sleep, brushed her shoulder.

“Perhaps your Grace might like to pay a visit to the sept, for the king’s health?” She wanted to protest, to force the brute of a man Addison Hill to stand aside, but she found herself powerless again.

There was only one septon attending the altars when she arrived, but it was no great abnormality. The sept was so sparsely attended there was little need for a great deal of septons, and the handful of others were surely attending business in the main keep, praying over Aenys’s head. 

The lone septon gave her a gentle smile. Oswyck was his name, she recalled. He was in charge of teaching the children on matters of the Faith. She knew little of him beyond their tales, and while her children were prone to recounting the content of their lessons in great detail, they spent little time on the character of their tutors. Septon Oswyck is tall, Alysanne informed her, but everyone was tall when the aptly called little princess was the frame of reference.

Oswyck was taller than most, even at his old age, but no giant among men. He fretted with his hands nervously.

“Your Grace, I did not know to expect you.”

“Then you will be the first to know, besides my guard. I wanted peace, not to be harassed by a gaggle of septas.”

“I can leave if you would prefer it, my queen.”

“No– My apologies, I do not mean to be so harsh.”

“Any lady would have permission to be short tempered in your position. I would not fault you if you were absolutely irate, your Grace.”

“Yes, but it is not a manner befitting a queen.”
“If the gods show us anything, it is that even kings and queens are flesh, predisposed to emotion.”

“What a funny thought.”

“Why do you say that, your Grace?”

“Since the day I was wed to Aenys– in this very sept –no one has dared tell me such a thing. Every child I have is a dragon, my husband is one, the conqueror was meant to rule because he was one. Is that why the Faith struggles to accept the Valyrian practices? Are they common flesh, like you and I?” 

“Your Grace, I have misspoken–” Oswyck’s face dropped.

“You are right, in many ways. Alysanne whined like any other babe. But she did it with a dragon in her cradle. Rhaena hated mushrooms, would push and play with them even when I told her not to. When I would send her to bed without supper, she would have Dreamfyre bring her charred bits of sheep. Can you imagine? The power of gods used for such childish petulance?”

“I never meant to imply such horrible things, your Grace. I have great shame towards my brothers, for what they have done to your family.”

“I know that. I hold no ill will towards you now. Nor any of your ‘brothers’. My husband is dying, and the kingdom with him. The gods will live on regardless. I cannot imagine they take great pleasure in hearing our demands. For instance, I come here to plead for Aenys’s life and they have no reason to grant my prayers. What have I done for the betterment of the world, to deserve a boon from the almighty?”

“You have given the king three trueborn sons, solidifying his succession–”

“Let us see all the good that does, shall we?”

“What could you mean?”

“Nothing coherent. Please, let us pray.”

She knelt before the Father’s altar, a far more intimate setting than the massive Sept of Remembrance where every action felt like a mummer’s show of piety. It reminded her of the small sept at Driftmark. Everything at Driftmark was smaller, closer together. She slept a stone’s throw away from her parents’ chambers, and her family ate side by side every night. When they prayed, they were shoulder to shoulder. It was around the same size, but lacked the same familiarity.

The lit candles filled the sept with thick perfumes trapped by thick stone, whereas every inch of Driftmark reeked of the sea’s sharp scent. The statues adorning the altars were masterfully carved, while in Driftmark nothing on the ground level stayed long without being washed away, so every figure they had was hastily and cheaply made. The Father’s statue stood in front of her, his cloak seemingly made of dragon skin and his hair pulled up into Valyrian braids. Even in their practice of faith, Valyrians were vain. 

Although she knelt before the Father, she was compelled to speak to another one of his faces, the one her mother had bid her never engage. Please do not take him, she prayed. Do not bring this storm upon us, or we may never see the light of day again.

- - -

Whatever was said within the four walls of the king’s bedchamber, Alyssa would never be privy to the information. The children were white with anguish when they emerged, unwilling to communicate any of their father’s message to Alyssa. Even Alysanne did not jabber for once, and said very sweetly that she would like to retire to her rooms. Jaehaerys slumped as if the world weighed on his back, but it was Viserys whose expression gave the most tortured explanation. His eyes were unfixed, but hollow, like he had seen beneath the Stranger’s veil. She wanted badly to ask what they’d heard, but held her tongue. She could not even ask her husband herself, as he’d fallen asleep in the brief time between their exit and her return, and the maesters refused her requests to wake him.

The children were put back to bed, but she doubted they would find sleep the rest of the night. She found herself pacing back and forth in her chambers, unable to find comfort in her sheets. Several of her ladies began to attend her as the sun rose over the horizon, first by trying to convince her to sleep, then by recommending they draw her another bath. She refused both offers.

She allowed them only to dress her once the hour was deemed reasonable to do so, in a black gown with blue wave-like detailing as a tribute to her house. They did not comment on her rather melancholy choice, silently weaving dark blue ribbons into her hair.

Alyssa broke fast with the children, but they could find nothing to say to each other while the seat at the head of the table sat empty. Alyssa mopped her thin gravy with bread, but felt ill at the idea of eating the dripping gray roll. When she stood, her meal was barely touched, merely rearranged on her plate.

Her children were led away by their tutors for their lessons, but she did not feel the urge to follow them. She retired to her chambers, a pain blooming at a temple. Her skin prickled when she attempted to lie down, so she stood. When her legs ached, she sat by the window. The air suffocated, but the windows were too narrow to be opened.

When she went for a walk, her legs could not help but take her to the wide halls leading to the king’s chambers. She did not want to go, but her limbs were traitorously curious in nature. She grew faint when she heard the noises from his chambers, the strangled moans and cries uttered from a mouth she knew. Undignified ramblings, for a man who had managed full sentences hours earlier.

She left as quickly as she arrived, the air suddenly bitter in her mouth. She did not dare to emerge from her chambers for the rest of the day, choking down a late day meal only when her ladies sat before her and refused to leave until she had finished her bread, cheese, and a glass of wine. It was only when her eyelids became heavy minutes later that she realized the wine was laced with a sleeping draught. She was too tired to feel incensed at the matter.

She fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, the first in a moon, perhaps longer. 

- - -

She awoke only around midday, when the maesters summoned her. Maester Laeron greeted her alone in her own sitting room.

“I am sorry for waking you, your Grace, but the matter cannot wait.” Alyssa pardoned him with a nod of her head, taking her seat before him.

“It is important that I know of all matters concerning the king.”

“The king– The night has brought a vast deterioration in his condition. Grand Maester Gawen has decided– with the advice of his peers, myself included –to give his Grace the milk of the poppy, to ease his passing.” Alyssa nearly choked, holding her hand over her mouth.

“His passing?” 

“When I heard, I insisted I must be the one to tell you. I have known you only in the most painful days of your life, my queen, and I do not wish to falter now. The king will not survive the day, your Grace.” Alyssa wiped away the tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, refusing to act like a child.

“That does not make sense. I walked with him only three days ago. He walked .”

“It has proven a most unnatural ailment, my queen. No ailments recorded in any of my books match his symptoms, not even those of unnatural means,” he emphasized. 

“I must see him.” She did not wait for a response, did not require one to strengthen her determination. She stood from her chair, running through the halls and nearly breaking through the doors to reach the king’s chambers. She would not be stopped by any knight, but none tried to oppose her.

“Let me be alone with him.” Grand Maester Gawen mopped her husband’s forehead with a rag, the only maester left at his bedside. They had truly given up on him. Their king.

“Alyssa?” Aenys’s voice was worn raw by the night’s moaning.

“I’m here, love,” she called. “You may leave, Maester Gawen.”

“Your Grace, forgive me, but– the illness has taken a great toll on his wit. He does not speak plainly like you and I.”

“Do you think I care? My husband is dying. Let me be with him.”

“If you wish, my queen.” Gawen stood up from his chair, his old joints cracking as he moved. “I will be waiting outside if you need me.” 

“Alyssa,” Aenys sighed as she took his hand. He lacked the strength to open his eyes. He knew her only by her voice and touch. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.”

“You mustn’t speak. Conserve your strength, love.”

“I am dying, Lyssy.” He had not used that nickname since they were children. It frightened her more than the maesters’ declaration.

“No, you are not. You aren’t allowed.” He let out a soft, wretched noise that could have been a laugh. He went silent for a moment afterwards.

“Where is he? Why isn’t Maegor here?” His mind was wandering, and his voice suddenly became childlike for it. His tone was thin like a snivelling child’s. 

“He is away in Pentos. He has been for years.”

“He hurts me when Father isn’t looking. He’s so much bigger than me.”

“He’s not here anymore. He’s gone away.”

“You can’t let him hurt the children. They’re soft, like me. He always said I was soft.” 

“You are not soft anymore, and you aren’t a child either. You’re a king now. He can’t hurt our children, not as long as you live.”

“It hurts, Lyssy, it hurts,” he moaned.

“I know it does. I am sorry, love.” If he tried to speak to her again, he spoke in no human tongue. It was a speech of pain and sorrow, slurred by the milk of poppy. 

“Muña,” he muttered in between strangled sounds, calling for a mother he had never known. She did not know what to say, so she did not speak at all. Eventually, he joined her in silence.

“Do you recall the day little Vaella was sent into the Mother’s arms?” Alyssa started, the memory scaring her for how quickly it flew into her mind. “She was not a strange pregnancy by any means, and burned as brightly in my womb as any of her siblings. You men would not know this, but I suspect carrying Targaryens in the womb is a bit like dragons in their eggs. I do not know for sure, and many women may claim they felt the same with their baseborn children– but I feel they glow with dragonsblood, like carrying a flame right at the pit of your stomach. Vaella was no different.

“The other five had been so easy and we had been so lucky– Rhaena squalled louder than the clamor of the crowds outside, Aegon proved a warrior from birth. I gave you robust babe after robust babe, and the realm told me I was a better queen for it. But with Vaella– my waters came a month before her time, and Maester Gawen said the babe was coming.

“I prayed it was another sign, that she was overly keen to come into the world, or the maesters had mistaken the dates–” she took a steadying breath, squeezing his hand. His fingers felt cold again, nearly ice between her palms. “Her siblings came with a roar, but she barely whimpered at birth. They were bright red, and her skin was a washed out pink. She was such a tiny thing, and so precious to me regardless. A head full of hair, a shade paler than Alysanne’s gold, and her little fingers were already reaching for her mother.

“You comforted me when I could not sleep apart from her. You told me sickly babes have lived before. You were small, and the maesters worried you would die as well. Maesters are meant to worry, you said, it is their nature.

“But she only worsened. She writhed in her bed, hot with fever, but shook even when wrapped in lambswool blankets. Then she could not move at all, and refused to take the wet nurses’ milk. The maesters told me to feed her myself, that frail babies thrived on their mother’s milk, but she would not suckle. I held her as she took her final breath and I did not– I did not even know at first, because she was always so still when I held her.

“When they finally pried her from my arms, I summoned you. Before the silent sisters had prepared her body, before she was given to the fire, before another soul knew besides the two of us and my handmaidens.

“I told you, then, I would never bear another child and you would never bed me again. I gave you leave to bed other women, so long as you never sired a bastard. I promised you I would not mourn our love’s loss, because I would spend the rest of my days with the fruit of it, our sweet children.

“You came to my bedchambers that night, and I believe I considered slaughtering you if you dared to lay a finger on me. But you did not. You laid in my bed, and you did not touch me. I thought it was the queerest thing, until you began to cry. I had seen you shed joyful tears for Rhaena’s birth, and solemn tears looking over your father’s funeral pyre, but never had I heard the soul wrenching sobs you cried that night. I had been too sore and furious to cry before, but your tears brought on my own.

“You promised me on that same bed, your eyes red with those same tears, that you would never take another, and you would never leave me alone with my grief.” Her tears were falling freely now, running down her cheeks onto Aenys’s brow as she bent to kiss his head.

“So please, do not break that promise now. The children need you. I need you. More than I did then. I thought I could withstand it, I thought I was resigned to your loss, but I know now what a fool I am. Please, Aenys– Please, you cannot leave me here alone. Do not leave me.” She kissed each one of his fingers with the same bitter sorrow, “Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.”

It was not right. He was too still, and not babbling as he was before. She called for the maester, her tongue nearly numb in her mouth. Maester Gawen entered, silent as the grave.

“There is something wrong with him,” Alyssa choked. 

The maester approached the king’s bedside to lay his fingers against Aenys’s white throat. She did not look to see his expression, instead caressing her husband’s cheek.

“Your Grace–” he finally spoke. “The king– he is gone.”

Alyssa wailed her agony, unwilling and incapable of muffling her grief or expressing it in any rational tongue. She rubbed his hand over and over as if to bestow her warmth into his flesh. It proved to be of no use. Aenys was gone, and her only hope of peace died with him.

Chapter Text

Quicksilver made herself an unknowable ghost in the last moons of Aenys’s sickness, but she had often proven herself unruly and contradictory for a beast supposedly controlled by the urges of flesh and fire alone. She was a fiercely proud and aloof beast, making her a strange companion for Alyssa’s mild tempered husband. There were none who could claim her temperament dampened her loyalty, however. Even when she chose her nest in the caves of Blackwater Bay, far from King’s Landing, the dragon always came when her rider needed her. 

Aenys credited his dragon with restoring his health when he was a babe, reinvigorating him and giving him reason to live past his mother’s death. He convinced himself in his younger years that he could not survive if she was felled on the field of battle. His father remembered Rhaenys’s fate well, and bowed to the boy’s whims far more easily than he would for any other cause. The boy prince’s misguided, steadfast conclusion resulted in Quicksilver being reared as a pampered pet more akin to a lap dog than a weapon of war. 

Still, she represented to Aenys the best the world had to offer. He had been at the greatest ease with his great silver girl, and insisted on presenting his children to Quicksilver for her approval. When bestowed her favor, each of their children were taken to the sky on their father’s mount as soon as they were old enough to hold themselves upright. If Alyssa recalled correctly, Alysanne was no more than a red-cheeked giggling babe when her father took her into the air for the first time.

When Aenys’s sickness rendered him immobile, Quicksilver’s visits grew less and less frequent until she seemed more like a legend peddled by the smallfolk than a creature of flesh and blood. She was white-silver like the moon, they whispered, and feasted only on the nocturnal raptors that rose from the bay during the inky black of the hour of the wolf. Aenys laughed a great deal when he first heard such a tale, since Quicksilver’s taste for the finest lamb had cost him a pretty penny over the years.

She had flown to Dragonstone when they made their departure, even if Aenys was too weak to take to the skies again. She’d kept the stray crows from King’s Landing at bay, warding them away with thin streams of white fire when they sought the ledge of Aenys’s window. 

When Alyssa wailed for her husband’s departure, her cries were drowned out by the hollering shrieks of his dragon. She roared like Meraxes must have when the scorpion bolt caught her through the eye, for even the smallfolk of Dragonstone– who were long accustomed to dragons flying overhead –shrank into their huts in fear. When she took flight, her fury drove her to raze entire flocks across the island. On the day of Aenys’s death, more tears were shed for sheep than a king.

Even at his funeral, there were remarkably few tears shed for the king. Besides his children, only soft-hearted Celia Tully wept for Aenys. Alyssa’s dried tears had been scrubbed from her cheeks when she was dressed for the ceremony. Her mad grief had been expunged from her skin and expression by her own command. Her hair was gathered and coiled underneath a dark net to hide the bloody patches where she had tugged it from its roots. Her skin was powdered to conceal the swollen pouches beneath her eyes. The pits of her nails were scraped clean of any blood or matter of sickness. One would never know their queen was anything but calm and collected by looking at her.

Alyssa did not go to the same lengths to suppress her children’s grief. She held Alysanne at her side, and the young princess grasped her hand like it was the tether between life and death. She squeezed until her little fingers drained of blood and turned a startling white. Her tears flowed freely as she looked upon her father’s altar, and rubbed her running nose on her mother’s black skirts. 

Viserys’s sobs were silent, but his chin wobbled even as he held his back as straight as an arrow. Jaehaerys had buried his face in his brother’s cloak to hide his own tears. He shook like a frightened dog and Viserys dropped his hand to his shoulder to keep him still. 

The dragons seemed to number among the somber, but no man could claim to understand the souls of dragons. No one had summoned Aenys’s silver dragon, but she arrived for the king’s last rites anyway. 

Quicksilver shone as bright as her namesake in the white, reluctant sunlight of early autumn. She could show no signs of human grief, but the beast moved with singularly mournful gestures. She watched the Kingsguard carry out Aenys’s wrapped body with a single judging eye, eventually laying her head on her wing like a hatchling would for comfort. Even the little dragons’ spirits were tempered, and lay intertwined with each other mere paces from Quicksilver’s great wing.

The winds over the sea carried the first chill of autumn, running a frozen hand through the crowd of black. Dragons did not thrive in the cold weather, as their dragon’s blood turned the water in the air to steam around their bodies. Pale wisps rose from their scales, blowing over the crowd like a foul-smelling fog. They were usually made irritable by the harsh weather, but they remained still while they watched over the king’s pyre. 

The gathering looked out over the king’s stone altar, his covered body laid atop a bed of straw. His crown was placed on his chest, the only symbol allowed to mark his identity. There was little to distinguish him from any healthy man when his frail frame was cushioned by linens. There were many who whispered he was not his father’s son while he lived, that one of his mother’s supposed scores of lovers sired him. The whispers only intensified as he grew into manhood thin and knobbly where his father was broad and robust. What would they say then, if they could compare the corpses of the two kings? Any man could be given the build of a conqueror in death.

The queen sang for her husband, her lone voice ringing high and clear over the suffocating silence of the mourners. The soft sounds of waves lapping against rock served as her only accompaniment, as it often had been when the sailors on her father’s ship went silent to hear her sing. Her song was no longer a child’s tune of chivalric romances, but a short, bitter dirge like the ones she had sung for her mother and the old king.

Aegon’s rites had been performed in the Sept of Remembrance. A choir of maids and young boys sang in a funeral befitting a king. A king was not supposed to be honored with his family and maesters alone. The realm should weep to hear of his passing. He should be displayed for seven days so smallfolk and lords alike could pay homage to his memory. Instead, his funeral was frighteningly similar to Vaella’s rites, performed on the same day of her death to prevent the religious from interpreting her death as an ill omen. A king should not suffer the same honor as a babe dead in cradle.

When her song ended, a swell of silent anticipation passed over the crowd. The Kingsguard shifted awkwardly towards the pyre, unsure as to whether to step forward with their torches under the fierce gaze of the silver dragon. It was planned for them to light the pyre by hand, since Vhagar and her rider had been spotted flying off into the horizon an hour after Aenys’s death, leaving only riderless Quicksilver and the untrained little dragons. All three were deemed unable to give their fire to the king’s pyre.

Quicksilver lumbered to her feet, snarling at the knights when they attempted to approach. The dragon took a step towards the royal family, her eyes snapping to Alyssa’s own. Alyssa’s next breath caught in her chest. She could not tell if it was recognition she could see in the dragon’s eye or the glimmer of bloodlust. What would a creature driven mad by grief do? What would a woman do?

The dragon rolled her head down, the silver sun dancing across her scales as she lowered herself. The air blowing across Alyssa’s face was thick with the rancid heat of dragon’s breath, pulling strands of her hair free from its careful arrangement. Alyssa could hear the distant sound of metal scraping across leather, indicating some fool had drawn their sword from their scabbard.

The moment broke and the dragon flicked its head back to the linen draped corpse of her rider. She opened her mouth and a jet of white fire bathed the pyre in her flames. The little dragons, who had not so much as charred mice before, rose to join their meager flames to the brilliant ray. 

Alyssa watched until her eyes were red and dry from heat, and she was forced to turn away. The sulphurous scent of dragonfire brought many in the crowd to vigorous coughing to purge the vile air from their lungs. The fire continued on long after Quicksilver settled back into her rest, the orange flames dripping off the straw onto the rocks below before suffering a quick death. 

Before she could begin to make sense of the scene, Jaehaerys ripped away from his brother’s grip and towards the fire. He evaded even Ser Addison’s grasping hand, running to his father’s pyre with a singular determination. Vermithor shrieked as her son stuck his hand into the dying flames. Jaehaerys screamed in pain as soon as his fingertips brushed the molten surface, but managed to toss the crown out of the fire. It clattered across the black rock, but the crown was not the focus of Alyssa’s attention.

Jaehaerys dropped to his knees, holding his hand to his chest. Alyssa ran to her son, dropping to her knees in front of him. She was nearly made sick by the smell of burning flesh, whether from her husband or her son, she did not know.

“Let me see,” she demanded. She could hear Alysanne’s sobs as she attempted to go to Jaehaerys, but Ser Addison’s grip was unfaltering once he caught the girl. Alyssa turned to her daughter, and met only the sight of the knights of the Kingsguard who had gathered to shield the queen and the prince from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Make them go.” Her voice was near seething. “Make them all go. And fetch a maester, for the gods’ sake.” 

“Yes, your Grace,” someone said, though she did not know who. She could not bring herself to care about anything other than her son. She cradled his face, wiping away the tears threatening to spill off his chin.

“Please, let me see.” Jaehaerys offered his wounded hand to his mother. To her relief, the burn did not extend past the first joints of any of his fingers, with the exception of a thin line of broken skin at the base of his palm. 

The maester confirmed her observations, and bandaged her son’s hand at the base of the funeral pyre. The burns on his fingers would not scar, he comforted her, but the burn on his palm was far more severe, extending down to the lower layers of his skin. When the maester had administered his care and was sent away, Alyssa confronted her son.

“Why would you do such a foolish thing? Would you have me lose a child at my husband’s funeral?”

“I could not let them burn Father’s crown. It should be Aegon’s now.” Alyssa bit her tongue instead of reminding her son that Aegon would probably choose to wear the conqueror’s ruby and steel crown, if not his own crown. She knew he spoke from a place of grief.

“Noble reasoning does make the action any wiser. You could have lost your hand, or your life.”

“Why didn’t I? Did my dragon’s blood save me?” Jaehaerys flexed his hand curiously. The maester’s ointments seemed to have faded the pain, but she feared he would worsen the damage. She wrapped her hands around his to still his movements.

“I do not know. It could be. Or the gods’ will, or the dying fire, or luck alone. It is best to not put your faith in any.” She pulled him up by his good hand, cradling him to the side of her body. “Come on now, your sister will be inconsolable until she sees you are wholesome.”

His eye caught on the abandoned crown, mere paces away from where they sat. Alyssa picked it up, running her fingers over the golden crests of Aenys’s crown. They had been misshapen by the heat of the fire, but the piece was otherwise unscathed. 

She vainly hoped Aegon would one day wear his father’s crown, even if he preferred others. The thought kindled a fierce burning in her chest, fed by injustice. Her eldest children should have been able to stand before their father’s pyre and mourn his death properly. Man’s meddlings should never have such power over dragons to keep them locked in a cage. They should be crowned on the very clifftop of his funeral, at the seat of their ancestors, and fly to King’s Landing with Dreamfyre and Quicksilver as their mounts. 

Alyssa swore as she walked from Aenys’s pyre that she would see the day come when Aegon wore his father’s crown. The cold winds washed over them, and Jaehaerys tucked himself further into his mother’s embrace. Whether it be moons or years from that day, she promised herself her children would ascend the Iron Throne.

Chapter Text

By the queen’s command, the entire body of the king’s household was summoned to the great hall of Dragonstone no more than an hour after his funeral. Her ladies were startled by her unflinching attitude so soon after the ceremony, but she did not fault them for their lack of faith. It was them who gathered the pieces of her from the floor of Aenys’s chambers and molded her into someone presentable, even regal. No one could fault them for suspecting her to be cracked and hollow beneath their carefully applied gowns and cosmetics.

“My lady,” Maris urged her before they departed her chambers, “you must rest.”

“My husband has done enough resting for the both of us,” Alyssa had said. 

She entered the hall flanked by her four remaining ladies, presenting like a company armored in fine fabrics. She was dressed in a mourning gown bare of lace or embellishments and covered her hair with a simple black veil, having chosen an outfit built for practicality. 

The Kingsguard stood at attention, Ser Raymont sitting with her youngest children and their nurses. Alysanne played with the stag pin he kept to adorn his cloak, but kept a steady eye on Jaehaerys. The young prince seemed to have been thoroughly hectored by his younger sister, and kept his burnt hand balled against his lap. Viserys sat among the few knights and their squires, but rose as soon as he saw his mother. All eyes turned to their queen.

“There is much to be spoken of, and not a word of it can be committed to record. Grand Maester, bid your peers to rest their quills for the moment.” When the maesters stilled, Alyssa freed her tongue again.

“My son, Aegon, is our new king, but he and my daughter are besieged in the westerlands and are unable to take what is rightfully theirs. In light of their absence, the Dowager Queen has taken off on Vhagar’s back. There is no doubt as to her destination: she flies east to Pentos to summon her son, Prince Maegor.”

“He cannot hope to be King Aegon’s regent,” Grand Maester Gawen puzzled, “the boy’s sixteenth nameday was not a moon past.” 

“He does not wish to be regent. He wishes to be king.”

“That is impossible. There is no precedent for such an action.” 

“Maegor is a warrior who wields Blackfyre and rides atop Balerion, and Aegon is barely more than a boy and dragonless still,” Ser Addison responded, his voice even tempered. “The Dragon seized the throne through dragonsfire and combat. Many lords will see Maegor as no less legitimate by doing the same.”

“You speak of treason, ser.”
“Ser Addison speaks the truth, Gawen, and can commit no crime by doing so,” Alyssa cut in. “It is pointless to fight truth when it sits in front of our eyes. I can promise the lords of the realm will not. The conclusion I have reached is that it is no longer safe to linger here. I cannot be certain Maegor will not put my children to the sword to secure his succession, and I will not risk it by delivering them into his arms by remaining at Dragonstone.”

“He would not dare. He would be labelled a kinslayer, abhorred by lords great and small,” Gawen said.

“Perhaps he would insist they were claimed by the same illness that took Aenys, or perhaps he does not fear the title at all. It does not matter which. My good brother is driven by his mad rages, and my children cannot be protected on the assumption of his rational thought. I have decided that the children and I must travel to Driftmark. My father and brothers will not allow any harm to come to me or my kin, and Maegor cannot risk striking House Velaryon. Maegor may be mad, but Visenya is whispering in his ear, and she is no fool. We will depart as soon as the ship is deemed ready, and its crew fed.”

“It cannot be the ship you arrived on,” Ser Addison pointed out. “Even if it flies under a different banner, Visenya will know its make.” 

“I will arrange for a merchant’s ship to be utilized for your travel.” The castellan was vibrant with the opportunity to be of some use. It helped that Maester Laeron stood at his side, whispering in his ear.

“It must be small and discreet. It should appear absolutely transparent to Visenya’s eye with its normalcy. She has occupied Dragonstone for many years, and has surely developed a discerning eye.” 

“What of the Kingsguard, Lord Commander?” Ser Davos asked.

“We must accompany the royal family to her Grace’s seat,” Ser Raymont said. “It is our sworn duty.”

“You may not,” Alyssa rebuked before Ser Addison could speak. “Our host must be small in number so as to not raise suspicion. I would not wish Maegor to divert his course and burn our ship at sea. The Kingsguard must stay in Dragonstone, and await their new king.”

“Your Grace, we cannot!” Ser Raymont protested. 

“You will, by your queen’s order. I cannot risk this usurper king killing the men most loyal to my late husband. By the gods’ grace, Maegor’s false reign will not be long, and my son will soon rally a host great enough to dethrone his uncle. When the day comes, I will bid Aegon to grant you all leniency for your obedience.”

“This is madness,” Gawen whispered.

“Swear to me you will stay here, Lord Commander.” Ser Addison stood silent still. The rest of the Kingsguard shifted uncomfortably, bound to their commander’s next words. “If you loved and served my lord husband as your vows command you to, swear to me you will follow my orders.”

“I swear it on my honor, my queen. The Kingsguard will remain stationed here.”

“I thank you, ser. Your service will not be overlooked.” She shifted the attention to the grand maester, who had turned a ghastly hue. “Grand Maester, you and your order must do the same.”

“Your Grace–” He made to protest.

“The Citadel is impartial, is it not?”

“Well–”

“I would like it to remain as such. My father has a maester in Driftmark who will care for all our needs, and therefore we no longer require your service. You will stay at Dragonstone.” The grand maester bowed his head in a gesture of obeisance, or perhaps he was too weak to look her in the eye. Either way, she knew he would take the oath as seriously as Ser Addison. 

“We will notify as many high lords as we can of the king’s death. We will not let Maegor work in secrecy. If they expect Aegon to be the next king, suspicions will be raised when the king’s brother claims the throne.” He paused, smiling fondly at Alyssa. “Your husband was a good man, no matter what was said of his political prowess in his lifetime. He does not deserve his legacy to be tarnished should Maegor prove himself a usurper.”

“You have been a most loyal servant, maester. Your service to the king’s memory may prove vital. The household staff, however, I will not risk. My good brother is known for his cruelty, and I will not let him have his way with those who have attended my family faithfully. The smallfolk employed will be taken to the town of Dragonstone, and provided passage to a port of their choice if they so wish. The nobles who soldiered across the Blackwater with us are thanked for their service, and will be sent back to their keeps with haste. All will be given a moon’s wages to send them off.”

“Beg your pardon, your Grace, but you cannot mean your ladies as well?” Maris asked, her voice soft.

“I do. It is no longer safe here for any of you. I will not trust Maegor around women of noble breeding, not after he has already stained Ceryse Hightower’s good name.” The decision irked her, but she was firm in it. 

“Let us attend you on Driftmark, then. We cannot leave you and the children alone in good conscience.”

“I will not be alone. My brothers will protect me, and I will be well attended in my father’s household. If you have concerns, they should be for yourselves only. There are hard times to come for all.” Rivers of blood, if Viserys proved a Dreamer.

“Please, my lady, there must be something we can do to help,” Celia begged, her eyes already watering. Alyssa looked at her ladies, each of them who had been silently strong for her these last few moons. She could only hope they could remain strong for a little while longer. She lowered her voice to speak privately. 

“If you wish to aid me, return to your husbands, fathers, and brothers. Endear them to my son’s cause and remind them who their true king is. Every one that stands for his claim will prove a faithful servant to me. If we do not meet again, I wish you all the very best, and may the gods protect you.” 

- - -

As there had been little to take with them from King’s Landing, there was even less to take from Dragonstone. Most of her wardrobe had been left at the Red Keep, so her ladies had very little work to do storing away her garments and jewels again. Only Celia wept silently as she tucked Alyssa’s fine oils into a velvet bag, creating little spots of deep purple on the maroon fabric. 

The children possessed even less: trinkets they refused to leave behind, books Jaehaerys was particularly fond of, and a training sword Aenys had bestowed on Viserys that he was quickly outgrowing. Jaehaerys and Alysanne cared only for their dragons, which Alyssa would begrudgingly allow out of their cages below deck and out of sight. 

The ship the castellan bought was some merchant’s vessel travelling to Myr loaded with goods collected from the Vale. They were sailing from Gulltown, and had only stopped in Dragonstone to rest and water their crew before the long passage to Essos. The name on its side was written in Valyrian characters, which Alysanne proudly translated to “ Green Haired Maiden ”. It was a fine ship, though small and manned by men from the Free Cities.

The captain was an altogether amiable fellow, proud of his Braavosi heritage and saw himself as a representation of the good will of the entire nation. He ordered his crew to load their belongings free of charge, and showed a fascination for the dragons instead of the abject horror their last captain held for the creatures. He promised to even allow them on deck if the little prince and princess desired, which Alyssa rejected outright. 

They left at the hour when the sun was highest, waved off by the motley group yet to depart Dragonstone. Her ladies insisted on standing at the docks, and Alyssa swore Celia’s eyes still shone a tragic red. They called out to her as the ship left the dock, but the sound scattered over the sea air before reaching her and seemed as if they were gaping in the air like fish. 

The children were in danger of tipping over the railing in their excitement to wave to people they had never cared to know by name. They were not in the least bit wistful about the departure, she noticed, for what was another home after they were forced to leave their last. 

It was a few short hours’ ride to Driftmark, and it seemed unfathomable the trip could be nothing else than brief and dull. Alysanne was laid down for her mid-day nap, sleeping with her head resting on Silverwing’s scaled stomach even when there were proper down pillows which would provide a far better rest. Regardless, the girl and dragon were both asleep as soon as they tucked themselves together.

Her sons proved more troublesome, Jaehaerys feigning sleeplessness even though she saw how his eyelids slid lazily over their sockets. Viserys, who was not so young as to be forced to take naps, offered to teach his brother a variety of knucklebones the squires played. Vermithor, never able to sit as well as Silverwing, stalked about the length of their small chambers. He was agitated by the living conditions, snapping his jaws together and growling softly until Jaehaerys spoke to him in soft Valyrian. When she last saw them, Vermithor was under his arm, content to be stroked like a house cat.

Alyssa sought out the salty stench of the sea air, only at rest when she could see the wind billowing in the sails taking them far from Dragonstone. The captain found his way to her side, offering her a cup of tea in exchange for tales about House Velaryon, the last Valyrian sea captains. 

“I hear Lord Aethan Velaryon has King’s Landing’s by the balls, or perhaps the gullet . It is said among sailors that the Targaryens’ fire is easily doused by the waters of House Velaryon,” the man praised midway through their conversation.

“I could not speak on such a rumor without disparaging my husband’s house.” The captain laughed, shaking his head.

“You surprise me, your Grace. I have heard you Westerosi women are all toothless and docile creatures, stripped of any heart by your prudish septas. Is it true your holy women remove their pleasure when they take their vows?” Alyssa sputtered her tea back into the cup, coughing loudly as the fumes of the spiced liquid filled her lungs.

“I– I cannot imagine where–”

She stopped upon seeing Jaehaerys rising from the cabins. He rubbed his eyes blearily, searching the deck for his mother. She was half-risen from her seat when she caught sight of Vermithor bounding up the steps after her son in a streak of bronze disaster.

Before she could order them to stop, two of the ship’s men leapt to hold the dragon back. She wondered vaguely if Braavosi men were inherently foolish, to believe they could restrain a dragon with bare hands alone.

Vermithor, though barely the size of a small horse, was rippling muscle beneath his scales and shrugged the men off easily, but she could see the tendrils of smoke leaking from his nostrils as he grew agitated. Her son did not miss his foul temper either, and flinched as Vermithor shrieked irritably at his attempted captors.

“ Lykiri, Vermithor!” Jaehaerys cried, but the dragon shook off his command like the words were merely annoying bugs flying about his head. He ran forward to soothe the dragon, but one of the men finally realized the error of his way and shied backwards from the enraged beast. His foot slipped on the slick wooden planks and his outstretched arm caught Jaehaerys’s cheek, hitting him soundly across the face. The shock of the blow and sway of the ship sent him falling backwards, and he landed with a painful thud. Vermithor roared in fury, his throat was red with fire. The man standing behind the dragon, oblivious to the danger ahead, reached his arm out to grab at his wing. The rest happened in the span of a breath’s time.

Vermithor whipped his head around with fire tumbling out of his mouth, spilling directly towards the innocent sailor. He threw up his hand to shield his face, but there was no stopping dragonsfire. The flames engulfed the man’s arm before he had time to time to scream, but when he did, the sound was bloodcurdling. The young dragon’s flame was not hot in comparison to his ancient brethren whose breath could melt stone, but it was certainly fierce enough to rend flesh from muscle. 

His companion in stupidity ran for his life, but slipped on the deck for the second time and slammed his brow against the ground. He scrambled backwards on his elbows, his eyes hot with regret and terror. The crewmen watching ran to retrieve a bucket of water from the sleeping quarters, or at least Alyssa hoped it was water, though the stench from her place ten paces away encouraged her otherwise. 

When the fire was doused, patches of the poor sailor’s skin were blackened and charred where his tissue melted away from his bone, crowned by weeping lesions travelling from his elbow to his shoulder. Upon sight, a boy serving as deckhand ran to the rail and emptied his stomach into the sea, and more than one sailor was left gray in the face. Alyssa could feel the blood draining from her own face. Vermithor retreated to Jaehaerys’s side, encircling his feet in a protective stance of the fallen boy. Her son was sickly pale, his hands clapped over his mouth.

The burned man was dragged away by the ship’s men, his screams turning to drawn out moans of pain as he was taken below deck. Alyssa stepped towards her son, but the bronze dragon turned his fierce eyes on her, growling his warning. She staggered backwards, her heart pounding at the mere suggestion of dragonsfire. 

A dragonkeeper finally emerged with a sizable chunk of meat in his hand, waving it like a banner until Vermithor’s eyes snapped to the bloody flesh. When the dragon was baited, he threw it down the narrow passage leading below deck. Vermithor’s instincts overtook his protective urge and he darted down the steps to catch the morsel in his jaws. Once he was out of sight, Alyssa took the chance to run to her son.

“Are you alright, my love?” She searched him all over, but he was not harmed besides a small nick on his cheek where the sailor’s knuckles collided with his cheekbone. 

“He did not mean it,” he whimpered, so softly she thought she mistook the words.

“What is the matter?”

“He did not mean to hurt him. I was scared and he panicked. I can feel his heart like my own. He didn’t mean to hurt him so badly.”

“I know, love.” Alyssa could not easily believe her son’s words, but she would not contradict him in a time of duress. He usually asked her to fix his hair into a braid since their ride on dragonback, but a strand had fallen out of place. She tucked the rogue blonde lock behind his ear.

“I must talk to him, so he knows I’m alright,” Jaehaerys insisted, pulling himself to his feet. Alyssa thought dragons could understand little more than commands and made very poor conversation partners, but her son’s eyes were fiercely determined. He bounded down the steps after his beloved beast.

She turned her unspent ire to the lone dragonkeeper, “And where were you, when he was allowed to leave our chambers? I brought you only because I feel the dragons would be unmanageable otherwise, and now it seems a boy of seven makes a more competent dragon tamer.” 

“ The young prince was abed when I left your chambers, and Vermithor by his side. There was no reason to believe they would be anywhere else during the journey. ” the lone dragonkeeper said. His tongue was thick and accented, his High Valyrian clearly adapted from some bastard Essosi language. She was not sure the keepers had ever spoken to her before, or anyone not in possession of a dragon. She was surprised he knew enough Common to understand her.

“Neglect on your part, then. If your men of your knowledge were not a scarcity you would be dismissed without pay.” 

Whatever the man said next, her knowledge of the tongue proved deficient. She made out only Vermithor’s name, and the word for anger. She was too prideful to ask him to repeat himself, instead huffing her dissatisfaction.

“Watch my son and his dragon, lest another man is maimed and the captain decides to throw us overboard.” 

The captain, however, seemed to take the disruption with the same good nature he’d shown them so far.

“Stallaro was a horrible hand,” he waved the news off like it was a mere inconvenience. She wondered now if his kindness was universal or only offered to them because of their status.

“But he will never be able to work again,” Alyssa protested, nearly shivering at the memory of a streak of yellow bone covered by the ash of the man’s own flesh. “They will have to take his hand.”

“We will take him back to Braavos free of charge, and in Braavos, even beggars eat like kings,” he bragged.

“Please, we must pay him for his loss, and you for your troubles.” The captain flashed a toothy smile.
“If you insist, your Grace.” His eyes suddenly flickered and remained over her shoulder. “Ah, a welcome sight,” he muttered, along with a few words in his mother tongue. “You might want to look, my queen.”

In truth, she could smell it before she saw it. Many claimed all seas stunk the same, of rotting fish and water plants. Alyssa could not agree. The water around Driftmark smelled like wet rock and salted fish. There was nothing rotten about it, and to her it marked the scent of life. Life, and home.