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Chapter Text

283 A.C.

The Eyrie

LYSA could only scream in pain.

This wasn’t meant to happen, not yet. It was too early. The babe wasn’t supposed to come yet, not for another moon's length. That is what the maester told her, he promised her! The muscles between her thighs spasmed and her panic-addled mind knew for certain it was her body saying something was wrong.

“Make it stop!” Shrilled the soon to be mother, the young Tully.

Arryn now.

The mattress she lay upon had her fear imprinted on to it, her nails —uncut and more akin to claws than anything else— uselessly dug into the beige and bloodied sheets of the birthing bed. Her breath no longer came so easily, lumped in her delicate throat as though it were a viscid tar. Black and vicious trying to suffocate her while she tore seam from seam, skin splitting at the torturously agonizing ousting of her son .

A bedmaid wiped at her forehead with a towelette. It was reminiscent of how her mother, Lady Minisa Tully, had once soothed her as a child. Soft hands would stroke Lysa’s auburn hair with a tender sort of affection she hadn’t known since. Her mother’s calm eyes and warm smile had been much more effective than the current drag of a rag across her sweat beaded hairline.

“Just a few more pushes, my lady.” The bedmaid asserted, shattering the brief sense of solace Lysa had found in the blurred memory of a dead woman.

She clenched her eyes shut, and crashed the back of her head to the pillows filled with goose down. Tears spilled over her lashline, slid down her cheeks just as the fluids from her innards slipped down onto the blankets and pooled beneath her.

“I can’t anymore,” She cried. “please, please I beg!”

Without her command, her legs began to shut on their own accord. The need to curl into herself, bring her knees to her chest and cradle her own head, ravaged through her weakened mind as an act of self-destruction.

Two more handmaids were at either side of her in an instant. They held her limbs down as she struggled against them. She did not know why, what she was fighting, what was happening to her. She did not know anything but the immeasurable burn of this torment.

“The babe is crowning!” Another voice called.

The Eyrie’s maester was an elderly fellow, clean and precise. It was him who assured she’d have ample time to prepare herself for the delivery and now it was he, who made such a grievous mistake, overseeing the birth of her child. 

Another scream bubbled up and out of her as she writhed wildly despite her weakness. 

This was meant to be an easy labor. She didn’t know much of childbirth, but surely it was not meant to last this long? It had been two full days, gods know she’s suffered through the whole of it. Lysa was a young and healthy woman. Why was this happening to her?

Why is it that The Seven never spare me? She thought. 

Had The Mother above ignored her pleas? Had she forsaken Lysa because of her sins?

She pushed, and then some more. She wailed so loudly her absent lord husband might have heard her all the way in King's Landing, in the high tower of The Hand. 

It did not matter which way her body feebly trashed, the pain in her abdomen cramped and twisted as if someone had reached into her and attempted to rip her womb from within. 

“One last time! Push, girl, push!” The maester commanded.

Lysa’s body was seized. She could register his words, hear them pang and prattle in her ear, but gods be good she couldn’t will herself to do it. Her head throbbed and she noticed just how aware she was of the slightest prickle of air against her pale skin. The dampness which coated every inch of her did little to disguise the sensation.

“I will die on this bed.” She whispered frantically. It was soft and waning like her wills.

Wide eyed and fearful, she could only gaze upon the ceiling in frantic helplessness.

She might have allowed herself to succumb to the pain had it not been for the hand which latched onto her own, as if an anchor that prevented the girl from being carried away into unconsciousness. 

“Nobody… will die… Lady Lysa… No one.” Her ears rung, the faint thrum of her heartbeat overpowering her senses, her hearing. 

Let go, she wanted to scream. She did not know whether the words were meant for the bedmaid or herself.

The embrace of the stranger would have been the divine ending to this nightmare. She would’ve curled into its arms like a frightened, wounded animal and allowed it to take her from this vile plane of existence.

She had wished that when her father had stolen her first child sired by her true love Petyr. She wished it when Jon Arryn had given her that prudent smile, half his teeth fallen with only soft gum left behind, at their joint wedding ceremony. She had wished it when his rancid breath wafted up her nose when he impaled her on his shriveled manhood. Decrepit as it was, it felt as though a sword had stabbed her with every thrust.

And how she wished for it now. 

End my pain or give me my son. That is all I want.

“Do it! You can, just once more!” The maester ordered.

It was her body which listened this time, perhaps in a desperate act of self-preservation. She didn’t realize until her vision went white that she was doing as he bid.

With the last of whatever semblance of strength she had left, she gathered it, plucked the reluctant fight which remained seated deep in her soul. Like men called their banners to a rally point before battle, she directed the last of her energy to her core and pushed.

And she felt her son loose from between her legs.

Her world fell silent as a sudden weight lifted from her pelvis and for a moment all she could wonder was,

Is it… over?

Lysa’s chest rose and fell so swiftly, she thought it may yet collapse in on itself. There was a distinct feeling of nothing. There was an ache in her body, a burn in her belly, yet the feeling of active pain calmed and ebbed away each breath she took.

A battle of attrition between her and her womanly obligations, and Lysa Arryn had won.

“Give him to me,” was all she managed.

When her babe wasn’t placed in her shaky arms, she craned her neck upwards, and called out a second time more urgently.

“I said give him here!” She exclaimed, almost breathless. The Maester was hunched over her babe and it wasn’t until her mouth opened to yell a final warning did a horrible feeling of dread come over her.

It wasn’t until she had calmed herself, did she notice there were no piercing cries which split the air. The room was still with only alarmed whispers. She felt fear set into her bones like a terrible chill. Her ribcage felt empty, and her eyes full with their tears, as something eerie crackled through her.

She watched as the maester turned to one of the maids in the chamber, finally giving her a clear view as he hurriedly rubbed at her babe’s back. He tried to stimulate any sort of response.

Her child, who she had nearly given her life for, could not be dead…

Could he?

“What is happening? Wake him up!” She raged, a newfound burst of energy seeming to have found her. “Wake him up! Why won’t he cry?!”

Why can’t she hear him cry?

A breath’s length felt like an eternity and the entirety of Lysa’s being stilled. Confined were the wails which teetered on her tongue, begged to be free from her vocal cords as the servant to her right recited a prayer.The ghost of her son’s whimpers echoed through the chambers like the first chill of winter. The noise haunted a place which it had never even existed. How could that be possible? Was this all a dream, what she deluded herself with as a means to escape this horror? Was her son alive, was he there at all?

“Mother above, protect this child. I beseech-” The servant’s hands were clasped together in reverence as she closed her eyes, a mumbled prayer spoken under her breath.

Why was she praying when Lysa’s son was near death?

The woman should be thanking The Seven that Lysa didn’t have near enough strength, nor a full consciousness of the situation, to shake some sense into her.

The salt of tears created a briny taste upon Lysa’s chapped, white lips. They were pressed into a thin, grim line as she watched her son. Pink and little with tufts of dark brown, near black muddled in her blood, hair. 

Prayer. What good was prayer when her innocent babe was slipping from her grasp before she even got to hold him?

…

Her body swayed, and Lysa Arryn called to the gods nonetheless.

It was a haze of words which tumbled from her lips with utter despair, the naivety of hope that maybe, just maybe, the gods would grant her this one little thing.

She could not remember what she had said that day, only what followed suit.

A soft whine came from her son's form, and then, to the relief of all, a tender cry emerged from his lips. He wailed and nothing had ever sounded so pure. It sent a wave of calm crashing onto her. It cleansed Lysa of the fear which knotted her muscles tight better than milk of the poppy ever could.

She didn’t think as she reached her hands towards the babe - her babe- who was being swaddled in white linens. Without a word the maester handed the young mother her boy and Lysa’s pain had been all but forgotten when she felt the skin of her chest press against his cheek.

Her child was frail and tiny, so very small. She cradled him against her and cooed, and Lysa’s sinuses burned with a bliss she had never felt before.

“My son. My blessed baby boy.” She uttered, nuzzling her nose against his as their cries mingled together.

She endured her marital duties, the aches and miseries of being with child, and then the excruciating pains of labor. But as she inhaled the scent of her babe, who still smelled of her blood -metallic and earthy- Lysa knew it had all been worth it.

I saw him. I watched my son in my dreams. Jolly and beautiful and perfect. Something so precious surely can’t be real?

An heir to the Eyrie and the end of her strife.

“My lady…” A voice began.

Her lips pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her ears were pricked up and keen to the breaths he let free, his soft fussing.

Clammy hands laid gently on her shoulder, and called her attention. Her head reluctantly turned towards the maester who bent at the hip to better meet her eye.

His fingers shifted the blanket from her child’s face before he brushed a gentle hand over his face.

“The heavens smile down upon us.” He paused, before he took a breath and continued. “And have deemed it fate to grant our good lord and yourself… a daughter. It’s a girl, my lady.”

Girl…?

There was a lull in the room as everyone’s eyes honed in on mother and daughter.

It was snail-like the way she pulled away from her child . The little one felt the warmth peel away and when she began to whine the dark corners of Lysa’s mind wished to sew her mouth closed. Her anxieties crawled up her spine as the feeling of whole faded. She felt less like being united with a missing piece, and more like she had been stolen from.

Lysa’s face twisted into something unspeakable; something no new mother should mar the innocence of their newborn with.

“I assure you, Lord Jon will be more than pleased by the news. He’ll be overjoyed to meet the babe once he’s sorted everything in the capital.” The maester spoke, though she didn’t listen.

Disappointment

The babe began to fuss louder.

“My lady?” He questioned

Malice

“She may want to feed. It’s best to see if she latches–”

And all the fear and anger of a girl-woman spurned.

“Fetch a wet nurse.” Lysa interrupted in a tone which brokered no argument, nor uncertainty.

She did her part, she wasn’t the one who failed.

A daughter was not freedom. She was another lock to Lysa’s cage.

This babe who she nearly died for, who she suffered for, did not deserve to suckle from her own breast. What child would make their mother have to endure this again? Perhaps more than once if her rotten luck kept up.

What babe betrays their mother upon first breath?

“At…” The maester was quick to take the girl from Lysa’s outstretched arms. “At once.”

She felt the burn return back to her body and could scarcely ignore her daughter being taken away. It was as though she could feel her moving farther and farther from her, the piece of her soul she had lost in the haze of battle slinking away. It was as unnatural and wrong to see her go as it felt for her to be in Lysa’s arms. 

On her bloodied bed, she was left alone as she mourned the loss of the son who never was.

301 A.C.

King’s Landing

ALAYNE’s light steps pattered along stone floors, the click of heeled shoes came in short and precise, echoing off the nearly barren walls of the staircase. It was peaceful here. A place of business the Tower of the Hand was, it demanded silence. Where the king had a seat of grandeur and loudness, the tower was modest. A king made his decrees and proclaimed his laws of the land while the hand toiled tirelessly to strike down whatever may stand in opposition to him here.

There was a certain grace to it, she thought. Humility.

It was a haze of grey and brown with the occasional silver glinting in the periphery, as the household guard posted at every corner bore the metallic armor that all men of the Eyrie did. Yet, in that uniformity, it all but forced one’s gaze to the sky-blue banners draped high above all else. They challenged all those who stepped into Jon Arryn’s domain to look away if they dared, to shrink beneath the nobility of the sigil.

House Arryn of the Eyrie.

A falcon woven onto the fabric, soaring over an ivory crescent moon. Many crests had been hung in this place. Once the Baratheon stag, the white-grey Hightower, the crabs of house Celtigar. Too many hands to count, at least in proportion to the number of kings to sit the Iron Throne.

Her nails scraped against the mortar of the wall placidly as she inched up each step. Her feet had memories of this place. They carried her here whenever she craved sweet respite, be it her intention or not. 

Alayne Arryn had always possessed a quiet pride about her despite the frailty her affliction caused. After all, her father was The Hand to Robert Baratheon, the first king of a new dynasty. 

That came with duty her father never ceased to remind her. Though, his words never did manage to bristle the dizzying weight of dignity she felt as daughter to the second most powerful man in Westeros.

She gave pause to her leisurely march up the stairs to her father’s study, steadying herself wherever her hand could reach. The damned trip up always felt like an eternity and the blistering heat she had sought shelter from still lingered. Her body felt more shaken than weak, yet it still chose to hinder her journey. 

Her lungs felt short of breath, a familiar sensation that she inwardly cursed herself for. She drew a deep breath, in and out, before she peered upwards.

“Smith, give me strength so I may make it through this day and the next.” Alayne rasped quietly while looking at the spiraled height of the tower.

Only a bit more to go, she thought. Her body nearly keeled over, weight resting on the wall which held her up as she leaned on the stone for support. She drew a shaky breath before laughing a small, breathless laugh.

What a sorry sight.

Her eyes locked to the top of the stairs in search of a distraction. She always mused how this place was more of a nest than anything. Tall and sturdy like a tree. At the highest point, nestled between rooms and corridors, falcons roosted. The true power of the kingdoms resided safely in the talons of the good, the honorable.

She had bid her guard to remain at the foot of the stairs, assuring him she could make the trek up a few flights. There was no desire to stoop so low as to ask for assistance because the heat had gotten to her. Father neared his four-and-seventieth nameday and still managed to drag himself up to his office with a backbone of steel, carrying himself as if ten years younger than he was.

A shame on herself really. It was, quite frankly, unfortunate that her strength didn’t rise to meet her determination.

Another moment passed before she was able to continue, and a few more until she stood outside the great oaken door of Lord Jon’s study. She rapped her knuckles across the sturdy thing, skin connecting with the polished and smoothed lumber. It was more out of courtesy than waiting for permission. Whether it be one knock or sometimes two, father would never turn her away. 

“Come in.” A voice called from within the chamber. 

Her fingers wrapped around metal handle and twisted, pushing through the threshold. Lord Jon wouldn’t be overjoyed with her presence, at least not when there were pressing matters for her to tend to. Pressing, of course, being tedious social obligations. He never did like it when she shirked her duties, trivial or not.

“Alayne—“ Jon Arryn began, eyes trained on his daughter who slipped through the entrance of his study.

The sun shone through the window which hung slightly ajar, letting the breeze carry into the stuffy room she knew her father had spent much too much time in.

“Why hello father.” She interrupted as she shut the door behind her.

It made a thud noise and Alayne quirked her lips upwards in a grin which said I pray you, attempt to get any work done now.

“I thought you were embroidering with Lady Rosby this afternoon?” The lord-hand huffed, setting down his brown quill. One of many by the look of it, the snapped stems of others littered about. 

The gentle wind tickled at the ends of her hair, dark burnt umber coloring a soft contrast to the blue of her gown. Rich fabric and fine craftsmanship, yet still too plain for her tastes. An eagle was embroidered on each of the cuffs, each stitch done in a dainty gold thread. It served as a lovely accent color, weaved all the way to the very top of a high and modest neckline. It covered most of her, save for anything above her collarbones.

“I did not feel like it . ” Alayne expressed simply.

She had never been one to embrace the more… in-style silhouettes of King’s Landing. She had seen the sort of gowns ladies of the court favored, cinched and fashionable, shoulders bared revealing the sharp slopes of their necks. Perhaps a cut which plunged too low.

God gods, I ought to become a silent sister at this rate.

“And that is… the only reason?” Jon Arryn’s brow raised, either judging or scolding. She never could tell, it wasn’t often she evoked ire from the old lord.

Alayne ambled towards the cushy chair -which was purchased at her behest- across from her father. The wood scraped against the floor with a horrible screech as she took her seat.

“That woman ceaselessly drones on of her betrothal, how gallant her intended is. It turns my mind to mush.” She continued incredulously.

She could already see the twitch in his brow. It made him more wrinkly than he already was. Like one of those wonderful sun-dried dates imported from Dorne.

Nevermind the fact that Jon Arryn’s endless lectures were much less sweet.

“You can’t forsake obligations because they bore you. A good reputation is built by keeping your word.” He sighed.

“I do believe sanity is needed first and foremost. I don’t suppose you’d want your favorite daughter to lose her wits, hm?” Alayne drawled, only to earn a look . 

“Of course not.” Jon said. “I'm just of the opinion that Dragonstone has less fortitude than that brain of yours. Don’t think yourself so easily defeated by needles and gossip.” It was small, but the teasing lilt in his voice was there.

“Put that theory to the test. The Crownlands will lose every battering ram and catapult, and you’ll be left with a mad daughter as reward.”

Alayne leaned forward, arms neatly folded in her lap as the whites of her teeth shone in recompense. She knew this dance better than any she partook in at feasts. It would be easier on the both of them to skip to the part where her father forgave the minor transgression she committed.

"Alayne .” he chastised as she lightly chuckled.

The Father above saw no better justice, naturally, than her father in the realm of men to reprimand her.

She raised her hands in surrender once her laughter died down and her father only puffed out a breath in response. His pale lip curled as he did so, though his wrinkled and sagged cheeks ate away the attention from his mock frown.

Lord Jon’s attention fastened back to the parchment in hand. He tapped the pages on to the desk, aligning them before pressing the seal of The Hand in place.

“You’ve made this a habit.” He said after a moment.

Alayne’s head quirked to the side ever so slightly, a curious hum bubbled from her lips.

“A habit?”

He folded everything quite prettily, crisp and proper, as the king's business was meant to be. He tucked the papers into an envelope before he set it aside. 

“Hiding up here.” The hand said before he reached for the next affair. He nabbed yet another ink-dipped quill before signing a document. “You know better, little moon.” 

That might’ve been the most laughable thing she’d heard as of late. She was her father’s daughter before she was a lady. Before she was Alayne . She knew no better than to turn tail in fear or boredom or happiness when the urge struck her. It was instinct to gravitate to the one person who’d always notice her absence despite her uncanny ability to fade into obscurity.

They were birds of a feather she liked to think. He speaks of her habits as if they were new, as if she hadn’t always been the dark-haired, sickly shadow looming behind him.

“Yet you still allow me to stay.” She answered. You’ve always allowed it , she wanted to say.

“I do believe I raised you better than to put blame on others for your faults.” He quipped.

At that, Alayne’s fingers gripped her skirts, bunching the handful into a ball of fabric. There was little in the realm of her capabilities besides being well-mannered. She supposed she did selfishly fail on account of that. 

“Yes. Yes, you did.” She conceded.

Alayne gave a little smile and outstretched her hand. His bony fingers wrapped around the meat of her palm and he gave an affectionate squeeze back, a distant expression on his face, even while his dull blue irises met her own.

“I’d have thought talk of marriage with Lady Rosby would excite you? Don’t ladies of your age enjoy discussing such things? Don’t tell me you find spending time with your ancient father more preferable.” Jon tried while his thumb roved over her skin.

Alayne could only sigh at that. After so many years of tears and pleading, she thought her father would have enough sense by this point to avoid any mention of marriage.

“Well perhaps if I had exciting news of mine own I’d be able to contribute to the conversation.” Alayne quipped and gently pulled the interlinked hand away. 

There was only so much guilt she felt when her father’s lips twitched downturned before he returned to his familiar, stolid visage.

It was petty, to be sure, but she could not help it. She knew it to be wrong, to push against her lord father’s judgement, yet the words always spilled from her lips before she could stop them. 

“I understand your frustration, but don’t let it poison your mind.” The lord hand began. “We’ve already settled this matter.”

Jon Arryn had refused the offer of near all available lords of Westeros as prospective matches. Where her mother Lysa was more insistent on sending her away, Lord Jon was content keeping his daughter close. Near skillful maesters and guarded by trusted men.

At eight-and-ten, Alayne hadn’t the faintest clue where her future resided. Something that drove her to her wits end when she lingered too hard. 

“Yes, of course. Settled.” She remarked, sarcasm heavy in her words.

Her legs began to tingle in restlessness. They urged her on to her feet, the light shuffle of the chair behind her sounding out again. Peculiar for someone of her affliction to hate sitting around as much as she did. She never enjoyed wasting away in one spot without reason.

“A good woman knows patience is a virtue. It’s key if you wish to be lady of a keep one day.” Jon called, a bit softer this time.

Alayne made her way around the bend of his desk and strolled towards the ornate cabinet tucked away in the corner. Intricate carvings lined the edges of the polished wood, pairing nicely with its golden knobs. A sheathed silver longsword leaned against the dark lumber.

“Well perhaps-” She grasped for the falcon-headed pommel of the blade and lifted it carefully as her muscles protested the heavy weight. ”I shall impatiently take my own keep then. Lady by conquest.” 

Jon’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Put that down before you hurt yourself.” He waved his hand up and down, beckoning her to follow his command. 

It would be more than poor luck if she managed to cut herself on a sheathed weapon. If someone could be stupid enough to do that, they more than deserved it. Though she didn’t voice that particular opinion. 

“Sorry, father.” She apologized boredly, the need to do so driven more on impulse than remorse, as she placed the sword back down. 

She made her way back, hands neatly clasped in front of her as she sidled up next to his desk. She took a moment to pour over the vast sea of papers littering the space, all sorts of sigils and seals from different houses, even the stamp of the Iron Bank of Braavos mixed in the chaos of crests and parchment.

“I know you’ve a warrior's spirit, but I ask you to leave the dangers of battle to men. A husband may not appreciate you outwitting and besting him in swordplay.” Jon crooned as he shifted documents in his hands.

“I suppose I can give up my quest for glory. Spare this hypothetical husband of mine the humiliation.” 

My future husband would have to be the worst swordsman to ever live if I could outdo his prowess. 

She could hardly walk at a brisk pace without losing her breath, let alone charge a battlefield in full mail and armed with steel successfully.

If that was the case, maybe I'm fated to be with Lancel.

The king’s cupbearer, a Lannister, and a man who looked more a woman than she did. Her musings were almost humorous. That was before the chill of dread crawled up her spine at the thought of actually marrying that bumbling fool.

Her body leaned forward, the blunt edge of Lord Jon’s desk pressing into her corset. She had forgone any false discretion or hiding her shameless snooping.

Her gaze caught on to the somewhat familiar seal of Dragonstone. Curiosity sparked in her gut and spurred her nosiness as she tried to subtly glance over it, realizing the letter was meant for a maester at the island fortress after a few lines. It’s when she snagged onto the words shaking sickness she had a hunch as to who it pertained to.

“Since when do you correspond with Dragonstone?” Alayne inquired. Her hands itched to snatch the letter and read its contents.

“I’m informing the maesters of your brother’s condition. They need to know how he’s treated here so everything can continue as is. You know he’s not keen on change.” Jon said, answering her assumption unknowingly.

Her skin prickled in unashamed excitement. The points of her teeth bit into the soft flesh of her bottom lip to stop the smile which threatened to form. If he was writing to the maesters that could only mean…

“So you’ve acted on my suggestion then?” Alayne chirped, like a bird who sang a sweet tune at the crack of dawn. “Is our sweetrobin flying the nest? Going off to ward somewhere?” The nickname was said with something that could be likened more to pettiness than innocent kinship.

Childish , she internally chided. Yet still made no effort to quell how her heart pattered giddily.

“Do try and sound less excited that your six year old brother is leaving us.” Jon simply continued to write.

You don’t sound particularly upset about it either.

“I wouldn’t have thought of Dragonstone. A fine choice on your part.” She ignored his advice and let an airy tone overtake her words.

“Stannis would watch over the boy well enough. He’s a stern man, but I think your brother would benefit from–”

“Less coddling,” she interrupted.

“More structure.” He finished, pointedly ignoring her comment. “Dragonstone is a short ride through the bay should he need to come back. I think it’ll be good for him, not to mention practical."

She’d wager her mother didn’t take this reasoning well. Alayne could already imagine the fit she pitched at the idea of her perfect boy being sent away to cold, bitter Stannis Baratheon.

Oh good heavens , how would Lady Lysa survive being parted from little Robert?! To not have him squealing like a piglet when something didn’t go his way, or to mouth at her breast like a babe he no longer was. 

“I’m impressed you managed to convince my mother to go along with this.” She said almost incredulously.  

At that, Lord Jon’s grip on his quill tightened and he cleared his throat.

Well that can’t be good.

“I haven’t yet,” He sighed. “I’ve only just discussed the matter with Lord Stannis.”

Alayne tilted her head in amusement. She pushed off the desk and crossed her arms just above her ribs. Her neck craned towards the opened window and the breeze which wafted through, unimpeded by glass.

“Independence is a foreign concept to either of them. She’s going to put up a fight.” Alayne half-scoffed, inching her face out of view as her lips thinned in judgement. She suddenly had the want to feel the sun peeking through the window on her skin. 

If there was anything Lady Lysa cared for most in this world, it was her precious son. A curious bond to put it politely, a repulsive one in truth. Alayne had yet to see someone more attached to a child than her mother. Bile rose in her throat whenever she was forced to endure their shared presence on her own, quite possibly amongst the most insufferable experiences of her life. 

A part of her wished Lady Lysa would follow Robert wherever he was shipped off so she may be done with the woman altogether. Hopefully she’d be married off by the time Lysa came back. That way she’d never need to tolerate her mother again in this lovely little fantasy world.

Alayne walked leisurely towards the sill and rested her hands on the frame.

“My mind is made. Her tears and anger won’t move me. Robert will be lord of the Vale one day, there are things he can’t learn sheltered in the capital.”

Alayne went silent when her father finished, no witty observation ready to be fired away.

Robert will be lord of the Vale one day.

A regretful pressure in her belly grew, prompting her fingers to take purchase on the nearest solid surface as her canines bit into her tongue.

Lord of the Vale.

She didn’t feel anger, she told herself. Convinced herself as she had for years. Anger … that wouldn’t be right. The Eyrie was her brother’s birthright, not hers. The gods intended other purposes for her.

But surely it was acceptable to feel this melancholy which corrupted her insides. She had reasoned some time ago that so long as she never acted on it, nothing was wrong with harboring such bitterness over something which was never hers. If only for the fact her father’s titles could have passed to her had she not been lacking in a certain regard.

“Best of luck to you then. You’ll need it.” She replied bereft of any humor.

Rays of light bathed her cheeks, infused her neglected being with warmth to fill the emptied crevices of her body. She always felt the closest to whole when she was under the sun.

She shook her head as if in an attempt to shed herself of more unsavory thoughts and pivoted towards her father once more. How she managed to turn sour no matter the circumstance must’ve been a true talent. 

“I think I’ll take my leave now. I’ve neglected my morning prayer and I wish to go to the sept.” Alayne said as she strode to her father’s side.

Lord Jon’s attention seemed to be piqued by her words as he peeled his eyes away from what he was working on to give her a small smile.

“Of course.” He agreed in a soft tone. “I do have a favor to ask before you go.” He grabbed a spare sheet of parchment and scrawled something over the blank space. Taking her hand into his, he placed it in her palm. “When you go to the library next, if you’d be so kind as to bring this book back to me.” Jon asked in earnest.

She peered down and read:

The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms

“Reading up on your histories then, father? I’m sure you're old enough to have met half the people in the book.” Alayne quipped cheekily, a bit of playfulness returning to her. 

Strange . It wasn’t often her father focused on things outside of his duties as hand. Logically, what could he possibly need from a tome filled with the names of dead nobles? It wasn’t probable he would find the answers to the debt the crown faced, or the plethora of other issues, between those yellowed dust-filled pages.

“Even I need to be reminded of the past.” He played along with a gruff chuckle. “It’s important.”

Alayne bent forward at the waist as she met Lord Jon at eye level.

“How important?” She questioned, not overtly interested in the actual answer, but mildly intrigued with what he had to say.

“Ah , well the fate of the kingdoms hangs in the balance, and who would I trust more with a task like that than you?” There was a confidence in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes which could almost persuade her to think it true.

He was always of the ability to make her feel like a child, ready to embark on the grandest adventure.

With a curt nod, she tipped her neck downwards and pressed a quick kiss in good-bye to his cheek. She felt the softness of his aged, hollowed skin and pulled away with a tender fondness. Before she was able to straighten herself up, however, Jon Arryn wrapped his grip around her wrist, arresting her movement.

“I know I have been rapt in my own ventures, but I haven’t forgotten about what you’re owed. You’re a delicate girl and I… I only want what’s best for you. You will have your match. Sooner than you may think.” His hands left her to rest on the desk before him.

Her father surely wished to test her aptitude in controlling her curiosities with all he’s surprised her with. 

She couldn’t help but raise her brow at his vague words before settling on simply trusting Lord Jon would reveal everything in due time.

“So long as the man is half as good as you are, I will be contented with your decision." She paused. “I know you’ll do what’s best for our house.”

With that she made her way back to the door she had slipped through a handful of minutes ago. It creaked open and her feet stepped past the threshold.

“I’ll do what’s best for you , little moon.”

And then, the door was shut.

“Ser Lucas?” She questioned louder this time, bemused by her knight's lack of response.

The eyes that met her own were a vibrant hazel below heavy set, dark eyebrows. They widened and rounded in a way which resembled the hunting hounds down at the kennels she harbored such fondness for.

Ser Lucas Corbray. He was a head taller than Alayne and two years her elder. His features were far from soft, though he did have a sort of youthfulness to him. A fine warrior, but not as good as his brother Lyn -from what she understood- the wielder of Lady Forlorn, house Corbray’s ancestral Valyrian steel sword.

His thin, pale lips curled into a small and awkward smile as the knight shifted in his silver armor. The sky blue cape which was clasped to his shoulders fluttered in the draft of the corridor as his heavy steps thumped behind Alayne’s.

“Apologies, my lady. I was… distracted.” He offered in a far off voice.

The courtyard was in view from where they leisurely strolled. Its neatly kept grasses and shrubbery created a lush cover. All the flowers scattered throughout the green space colored in a brilliant, kaleidoscopic manner visible from every which way.

“I asked if you’ll be joining me in prayer today? To have someone other than the septons lurking around is always appreciated.” Alayne repeated.

She slowed her steps to match Lucas’s and the two continued along the cobbled path in sync. As they walked side by side, she noted that he cut his brown hair shorter. He had once told her he thought it frivolous for a knight to worry more about having pretty hair than the practicality of having it shorn off when battle came. 

As his lips quirked up in a more genuine way at her spoken invitation, she decided she’d preferred his longer locks anyways.

“What difference does it make? We’d both be silent as statues, probably on opposite ends. I take my time with the gods very seriously.” He mocked, no disagreement to her question in his words.

A downy giggle poured from between her lips like silk, and through squinted eyes she watched as Lucas’s aquiline nose scrunched in amusement at her mirth.

“As do I,” She acquiesced. “But to share the sanctuary the gods have provided us is a special experience, don’t you agree?”

They drifted from the shaded protection of the arched cloister to the sun-filled courtyard, intent on cutting across the yard to reach the royal sept within the Red Keep. She could feel how the heat licked at her skin causing the sweat which pooled beneath the expansive layers of her dress to exacerbate.

He had a bit of a point, she could admit that. Alayne oft found herself able to focus best in the solitary quiet of the sept. The almost overpowering incense wafting through her sinuses with a burn, the familiar candlelight which flickered at the feet of The Seven. There was no uncertainty in the house of the gods, not of marriage prospects, or health; only the wordless affirmation the gods would reveal everything in due time.

All one could do was cleave to The Seven’s teachings and mercy in hopes they will show clemency in the face of sin.

But it was pleasant to have someone in her company who treated prayer with the same reverence she did. Ser Lucas was a pious and honorable man. That always lent her comfort. Consolation in the fact she had a companion who submitted so wholly to the gods.

“Aye, I do. Suppose I'm just used to sayin’ my piece to The Warrior with Hugh and the others.” Alayne was familiar with her father’s squire Hugh. He had short, mussed sandy hair with a cleft chin and a kind smile. A good man, as far as she could tell, whom her father was fond of.

“Not much I can pray to The Maiden for.” Lucas tacked on.

They passed the little fountain in the center fold and Alayne’s words flowed forth like the rushing waters which gushed from the spout.

“The Maiden?” She asked while she quirked her head in confusion.

“Who else would you worship.” He stated more than questioned.

His blue eyes narrowed when the light hit them. From so close Alayne could see the way his pupils constricted until they were but little dots in the expanse of his iris. His face scrunched up in an annoyed manner and she only rolled her eyes.

The other six you dullard.

“The Smith.” She said more to the bushel of roses to her side than the knight.

With her hand she leisurely raised it to the plant, the pad of her thumb catching the sharp point of its thorns as she grazed by. They were no longer in bloom, the fall months beginning to fade into the mild winters of King’s Landing. The flowers were dormant and left without color, beauty lost with the season’s change.

“What labor d’you need The Smith’s blessing for? Planning on taking up a craft?” 

Silence befell the two as they passed under the stone archway and padded into the corridor leading to the sept.

Nothing was ever simple for Alayne: Not breathing, not thinking, not living. Simplicities in life seemed to be dictated by a monstrous, skin-changing beast, hellbent on snatching away what little choice she had. It festered beneath her breast, putrid and ugly, sweet and beautiful, with an appetite for control. 

“...I want you to join me.” She deflected in silent command, to which Lucas only shrugged in adherence.

Alayne would not relinquish anything to the monster today, no matter how her chest warmed with a brief sort of contentness whenever she did.

She peered forwards in an effort to avoid Ser Lucas’s gaze, only to be met with a more sorrowful sight.

A flash of a black doublet and the rat-like grin of the wearer who stoked the embers of her irritation. 

Peace could only be held for so long until it was broken by chaos. For the amicable quiet which was, there was always someone to ruin it. Someone who, as of late, seemed to be around every bend of the Red Keep Alayne turned.

“Well, if it isn’t The Hand’s daughter.” Petyr Baelish called from a small distance as he strode towards the lady and her knight.

“Lord Baelish.” She nodded fairly curt. He stood before her in no time, an unsettling energy now crackled between two warm bodies. Even by her side, Lucas’s presence faded into obscurity as Littlefinger rested his sights on her steady frame. 

She could scarcely keep the sneer which longed to form at bay.

For someone low born his mere being managed to chafe her more than she cared to admit.

He was her mother’s beloved childhood companion and a part of the king’s council as the appointed master of coin. Harmless to some, an asset of sorts to others. 

“How do you do?” She asked disingenuously.

Littlefinger bowed his head briefly, a pathetic attempt at basic etiquette which only caused her lips to purse further. If he had any sense of propriety, he would know someone of his middling station should do more than a quick tilt of the neck when addressing a highborn lady such as herself, but she made no comment.

“I’m doing quite well.” He smiled, mouth waxed in arrogance. That damned grin never left his face when he spoke, as if it teased I know something you don’t. “I've got to say, the warm weather isn’t to my liking.”

“How terri-”

“Tell me, how are you feeling? I know you can be delicate to the heat.” He shifted on his feet before tilting his head.

Almost… mockingly?

Alayne’s lips thinned as he peacocked and a bout of anger-

Exasperation rose within her.

Her affliction was not a discreet secret. It was a loud inconvenience, but always left unsaid at court. Whispers followed, yes, but there were few who could so brazenly speak of her condition. Maesters and those who didn’t fear incurring the wrath of The Hand for disrespecting his beloved daughter.

“I find the weather lovely. The climate seems to agree with me fine enough, thank you for your… concern.” 

Alayne’s eyes slid to Lucas’s, only to be met with a heedless shrug.

At that, he chuckled. 

An unpleasant laugh which grated in her ears, threatened to seep into her brain and cloud her senses so she’d risk making a fool of herself. It sounded dismaying like pages being torn from a book or vials clanging against wood too hard. 

“Anything for a child of Lysa’s. It would be in poor taste-”

That pointed beard of yours is in poor taste.

“-to not check on her only daughter. We always looked after one another growing up.” Littlefinger said.

It was a wonder her mother could have fondness for anyone really. Rarely was there someone the woman could tolerate, let alone enjoy. For reasons unknown, which always left Alayne baffled, Littlefinger was one of those companions.

“Your mother’s always been a giving woman.”

Her insides crumpled up as she quelled the laugh which threatened to bubble up from between her lips. That certainly wasn’t the word she’d use to describe Lysa Arryn, but to each their own.

“Oh, she’s told me all about your shared time at Riverrun…” The temptation to lash twisted in her gut like a snake trying to squeeze her desires out from their hiding place. A beat passed and then another before a drop of venom coated her tongue, thick and warmed by her simmering discontent at being trapped just outside the doors to her place of solace. “Such chaos, no? A bustling keep in the Riverlands. I’m sure it was a far cry from your quaint home all the way in The Fingers.” Alayne deadpanned.

She didn’t bother to smile, to contradict her words with an ingratiating show of false-pleasantries. There were few she was able to hiss at, who she wasn’t expected to carry favor with, and Petyr Baelish happened to be one she didn’t particularly like. 

Alayne was well aware of the stain that was Littlefinger on the Tully’s good name, further pretext to her distaste.

He seemed almost unperturbed. Had she been less keen to detail, she may have missed the way his sharp features turned more rigid in lieu of her thinly veiled jab.

“Good memories I have of that place. Lord Hoster is a good man… honorable, like your own father. Nothing gets past them.” Lord Baelish’s green-grey eyes bore into her as he spoke. It felt less like a compliment to her father and more an observation. Words in the wind.

In truth, Alayne had little knowledge of the Tullys. Having spent her earliest years in King’s Landing, seldom did she leave the city despite being born in the Vale. Her health never did allow for much travel in youth, and, to be frank, she had no interest in visiting a marshland made up of quarrelling lords and fisherfolk. The capital’s comforts suited her more than enough.

And it wasn’t like Lady Lysa enjoyed telling stories of the family she had been born to either.

“I’ve no doubt my grandsire lives up to the family motto. Though, I've never had the pleasure of meeting Lord Hoster myself. I fear the journey to Riverrun is not one I've undertaken, and Tully’s are scarce south of the Trident.” She replied.

Perhaps those trouts would get on with me just fine…

They certainly had her mother’s disregard in common, it seemed.

Littlefinger swiped his shining tongue, the one which always seemed to sing her an unsettlingly flawless tune, over the top row of his teeth. He made a click sound as the muscle suctioned against the roof of his mouth, going quiet as he took a moment before he responded.

“A shame.” Was all he said.

Deceit was a cowardly, ungodly weapon to use, but one Alayne wielded easily enough. 

“Indeed. I do hope I'll be able to visit him one day, family is everything to me.” She partially fibbed. Any guilt trickling from her conscious smooth like streams coupling with a river at the junction between, swept away with the faster flowing current. 

She was a highborn lady and to be a lady, is to be the greatest liar of all. In her experience, that was. 

Conduct demanded good-temperedness and whether it was the broken body she was bound to, or the festered rot which lined her heart, she knew she was far from naturally pleasant. Lies and false smiles seemed to cover the stench of her failure, in that regard, better than the truth.

“You’ll have to excuse me Lord Baelish, but I really must be going.” Her legs ached to move. One foot forward and then the next until she could retire into the quiet of the sept. “Good day to you.” She bid without waiting a moment more.

Lucas nodded when she craned her neck further down the hall and, with that, she began to push past Littlefinger. As she drifted by she could feel his eyes pivot with her movement. It came as no surprise when he called a final time after her.

"Careful not to tire yourself, Lady Alayne. The Red Keep can be such an overwhelming place to navigate on your own. All that stress, you wouldn't want to worry everyone with another fainting spectacle." Littlefinger stated simply before the sound of his shoes hitting the stone floor reverberated through the empty space.

His words hit her back and caused her to tense as she gritted her teeth. Try as she might, it was near impossible for her fickle pride to ignore provocations when served to her.

"I am not alone. I do believe you're not so oblivious to miss my household's banner hung in the tower of the hand. My family, my father are all here and well." Alayne glowered as she whirled around. Like a beast who had been poked at and angered past the point of return. Memories of her father's favorite hunting companion, a gyrfalcon gifted by King Robert, snapping its beak at her when she rattled its cage in fascination one too many times came to mind.

Lord Baelish acknowledged her with the mere tilt of his head, as though she didn't warrant him being turned back around in full. And then- that smile.

"Of course he is. Apologies, I didn't mean to offend." Was all he told her before a quick bow, followed by a swift exit.

Ser Lucas’s walk stuttered as he approached her cautiously. Perhaps he feared she'd turn her wrath against him now, that she'd confront him once more of the aforementioned 'fainting debacle' from so long ago. Or perhaps it was out of guilt. She would not, of course, nor did she care to. 

Instead, she merely spun around once more to continue the march to her place of worship. There was a newfound resolve present within her, and a frustration which could only be soothed by humbling herself before those who truly mattered- The Seven.

Smith give me strength so I may make it through this day and the next.

Gods know she didn’t have enough on her own.

Chapter Text

301 A.C.

King’s Landing

ALAYNE felt her nerves abate with every leisurely pace forward. The weight of her arm rested comfortably in the crook of her father’s elbow as the pair stood at ease near the foot of the harbor’s dock. The waves agitatedly lapped at the wooden, algae-covered pilings as ships ceaselessly entered through way of the Bay. Every glided pass sent ripples through the waters as boats lined the coast of King’s Landing's bustling port. 

She looked out onto the water, watching it all. Big ships, little ships, vessels bearing noble sigils or merchant emblems stitched on to their sails. All littered on the Blackwater with their goods below deck. Fine arbor wines and priceless silks on some, others carrying lords and ladies of high birth. 

“Everyone seems positively ecstatic.” She half-snarked. “As if this is some… rare occurrence. His grace has held tourneys just as grand for less. He’s quite the creature of habit.” Alayne said as she inhaled deeply.

The salt in the air created a briny sort of smell which wafted up her nose. She was rather partial to the scent of the ocean. It was tethered to the memories of beaches and cliffs by the seaside. As lovely as the Red Keep was, it was only on the outskirts of the city one could escape the stench of King’s Landing fully. Nature overpowered the concoction of acrid stink the commonfolk created in their squalor.

“Peace, daughter.” Jon Arryn replied, sending a pointed glance to her. “Your words are as sharp as a well-whetted blade. It’s not everyday a son turns fourteen– let alone the crown prince.”

“These words of mine only wish to cut to the point . The last time the realm celebrated was because his grace brought down a single buck on his hunt. That alone was an accomplishment feasted until dawn if I recall right.” She chortled in a rather boorish manner.

Robert most certainly didn’t recall that night. The great, big oaf was so deep into his cup, I thought he may very well have drowned in it.

“Joffrey is almost a man grown, that cannot go un- celebrated. He is our future king, as it is. I do not always… agree with his grace’s eager revelry and the expenditures which go towards them, but this is as good of an excuse for festivities as any.” Jon sighed, the side of his face bathed in the bright sun. 

Alayne soured at the aforementioned princeling. He was likened to King Robert only in the way which he bristled at her displeasure through equal parts youthful arrogance, and idiocy begetting a court fool.

That boy's entire life could go uncelebrated for all I care. Wicked little thing.

“There will be no more celebrations if the crown beggars itself.” Alayne groused.

A blemished, well-worn hand came to hers. Her father’s skin felt like boiled leather against her softer flesh, though no less sweet. 

“At times I am entirely split on whether to rue or marvel at your pragmatism.” Jon began. He swiped his thumb across her knuckles once, twice, and then followed it with an affectionate squeeze.

“Split?” Alayne quirked her brow in confusion, shifting uncomfortably and setting her sights back to the water.

“Right down the middle.” Her father answered.

The dull blue of his irises flickered to the side of her face, roved the length of it as though lost in thought, before Alayne jutted her chin back towards the bay and tugged at his arm. Jon was snapped out of his reverie when she gestured towards the ship which inched forwards. Wind caught the sail at a slowed rate. The crew onboard got their heady ropes at the ready to knot around the pillars of the dock, other men on land readying longhooks to reel it in.

The boat was blazoned with the coat of arms of House Royce. A bronze shield studded with black iron, surrounded by rune-like scribbles.

Lord Yohn Royce and his sons, Andar and Robar.

All three esteemed guests were invited to Prince Joffrey’s bloody nameday celebration. From what she’d known of ‘Bronze’ Yohn, he had a love for the sport of competition. Even in his climbing years he was meant to be an avid tourney participant with more than a few victories won in his time. She had heard little more than idle talk of his sons, but from what she had gathered, they were meant to wield steel like ‘true Valeman’. Whatever that was meant to mean. She assumed it was implied to say they’d perform well enough in the lists.

Good, Alayne thought. Honor may yet soar for our homeland.

Her neck craned backwards for a moment as she tore her sights away from the waterfront, and took a gander at Ser Lucas off in the distance. He chatted with her father’s guardsmen, his body basked under the light. Ever attentive, he noticed her gaze and offered a small smile before he nodded to his companion and stood at attention.

Lucas will enjoy the jousts. He will do good, I know it.

She turned back around in time to watch as the ship docked, and three heads popped up from the lower deck; One with a head of grey hair and two with deep brown, almost as dark as her own. 

Yohn was the first to disembark. A wide and boisterous grin adorned his face as his heavy steps thumped towards them in a flurry. His tremendously large size left Alayne more bewildered than anything. Even from so far away, she could tell the man’s reputation preceded him. It was scarcely imaginable that someone could beat a man more likened to a giant in combat.

The distance between them closed quicker with every long stride he took. Alayne shot her father a questionable look, as though it asked: ‘am I seeing this right?’

“Lord Arryn!” Yohn called out, lively and loud. 

His sons followed behind, a few paces away from their lord father as they looked on with the same– if not more – zest of life and excitement.

“Lord Royce. I’m pleased you were all able to make it. I trust the journey from Runestone was pleasant enough?” Jon greeted in turn, sunken shoulders straightening up as Yohn stopped in front of them.

“Nearly thought we wouldn’t make it in time, but the winds favored us the whole way. The crew‘re all good men, knew exactly how to get us here right quick as well.” He answered.

Lord Royce dipped into a dutiful bow, and then his son followed, and then the last. Like chicks following their mother hen. That is, if the chicks were fully grown men hard with muscle and long of limb, and their mother hen was a powerful vassal with about as much softness as a rock.

When they had risen, it was Alayne Yohn looked to next.

“Lady Alayne. Gods , it’s been so long. You’ve grown so big. I still remember meeting you when you were a wee little thing, you know. Before Lord Jon whisked you off to the city.” Yohn chuckled gruffly while he surveyed her with a nostalgic eye.

She offered a courteous smile, though she had no recollection of such times. She had been naught but a few moons old when she and her lady mother had been plucked from the Eyrie and brought back with her father to the capital. Nonetheless, she did feel somewhat flattered by the vassal for keeping memory of her from so very long ago.

“ Ah, well… a reunion well needed then. It’s an honor to have such respectable landsmen here to represent the Vale. I’m sure tales of your house’s valour will prove to be true, my good lords.” She praised, trilling a fair tune like a songbird.

“We’ll be sure to do you and your lord father proud, my lady.” One of the sons spoke up.

He brushed past Lord Royce, and with the manners of a genteel lord, reached for Alayne’s hand and swept down to press a featherlight kiss on her knuckles. He lingered for little more than a breath before he straightened back out, bowing his head as he returned to where he had stood previously.

“I would… hope so.” She laughed, a bit breathless and her eyes softened ever so slightly.

The young lord was pleasing enough to her. His was a more modest look, the corner of his eyes slanted in a placid fashion. Pink lips smoothed into a slight upward curve. His clothes were a bit disheveled, his tunic askew, presumably the travel having taken a toll on his bearings. But it did not… ruin his appearance she supposed.

After all, Alayne could feel her cheeks warm with a fuzzy appreciation for the gesture. Her hand tingled a bit, and she ascribed it to being mildly pleased at such good-manneredness.

Behind him, his brother who was little more than a finger's length shorter, clapped a hand to the first son’s shoulder good-naturedly.

“Oh, he’ll try his very best, my lady, I know it. My brother wouldn’t want to make a fool of himself with such a lovely maid in the crowd.” He grinned between the two of them, that was, before his sights slid to Lord Jon. “And our– o-of course, our liege lord as well.” He coughed.

And that managed to bring a hearty chuckle from everyone involved, allowing for Robar to release a steady exhale of relief. She gripped her father’s hand a bit tighter in her amusement, as did he in return.

“I assure you, my Alayne is far more than just lovely, Robar. ” Jon added, lighthearted.

So the other must be Andar then. Yohn offered his sons a knowing look at the tail end of his tittering before turning back to her.

“Where’re my manners? Lady Alayne, these’re my sons–”

Yohn was gruff in his words as he displayed the first with pride, the elder. 

“This is Andar, and the other hellion is Robar. Don’t let him fool you, he can be just as agreeable as any of those mollycoddled lords when he’s not trying to rattle his brother.” 

“My lord father is too kindly on my brother.” Andar grinned at Robar in a brotherly manner, sibling camaraderie Alayne herself was much unfamiliar with. “He’s as wild as the stallions we ride back home.”

Robar gave him a devilish look in silent reply. He was comely in a rough-strewn sort of way. Beneath his leather jerkin, she could see the outline of a lithe, athletic figure. His face was rather middling in beauty, though he had a strong jaw, and plump lips curled at present.

“ There’s strength in a man’s willfulness. If my lord father was half so appeasing as some would like, I fear the kingdoms would fall into a state of chaos.” Alayne chimed as she deftly weaved in her praise. A seamstress diligent in her craft.

The youngers chestnut colored eyes caught Alayne’s careful observation and squinted in amusement as they watched her watch him. She tugged at her silks, color like a morning fog settled over the keep after a storm, and shifted her gaze to Yohn.

“Those other lords, mollycoddled and otherwise, aren't Valeman. It’s like comparing crisp apples to soft, soggy oranges.” She finished.

Alayne could see the way the towering –as tall as The Hound, at least – lord’s chest puffed out in pride at her sweet words.

Stroke a big man's big ego and it will do you wonders. No wonder sycophantry runs amuck.

Men always do love to hear those sorts of things. She recalled King Robert's drunken retelling of his glory days for the umpteenth time after she praised that he was as mighty as the storms which raged in his homeland during a feast once. Noblemen and women were all of the same ilk, delighted in honeyed words to balm over their own hubris. 

Not that I am a magnificent exception. Just self-aware in mine own false-pride.

“Aye, you’re a right clever one, aren’t you? The wit on this one is all yours Lord Arryn.” Yohn proclaimed jovially.

“I fear I cannot claim the praise for that. It’s all her. Never have I seen anyone with such a determination to expand their mind as Alayne does.” 

“Well then, she’s taken after your sense and plainly stole Lady Lysa’s face!” He turned to her, and her belly began to bubble with something not quite as pleasant. “Your lady mother was just about your age when I met her too. The likeness is in the nose and mouth, the eyes, that’s all Tully.” Yohn laughed, though she didn’t join this time.

No, instead, Alayne felt as though she had been thoroughly gutted like a fish, like the silver trout of her mother’s maiden house. Her innards churned and soured at the comparison. It threatened to bring a scowl to her face and bring ruin to her once sunny disposition.

“Your cousins ‘ve got the same eyes too. Lord Eddard’s brood. I saw it myself when I made the journey up North to see my son Waymar off to the Night’s Watch. All of ‘em did. All of ‘em except– gods what was her name… the smallest girl. Slip of a thing, all rowdy and…” Yohn trailed off in thought, fingers rubbing at his chin.

Her face had dropped a fraction, now more neutral than anything. Robar had attempted to send her another smile, though she merely shifted against her father and looked to him.

Behave, she remembered. Don’t let them smell the rot beneath the boards.

“I suspect you speak of Arya. From what Ned’s written, it’s her and her half-brother who favor the Stark look.” Jon filled the gaps in Lord Yohn’s memory swiftly.

He was well familiar with her cousins. They were the children of her good-uncle, Eddard Stark, a man whom her father saw more as a son than the one borne of his flesh. Not that he had ever said that out loud, a mere educated –and probably right– assumption on her part.

“Yes, yes, the half-brother as well. I remember now.”

“ Jon! That was his name. Rather glum lad, from when I had spoken to him, as brief as it was.” Andar interjected.

Right. The bastard at Winterfell. Father speaks so highly of Eddard Stark and his honor, I had almost forgotten he had fathered that stain to his marriage. If he felt so compelled to name one of his own after my father, why he couldn’t have made it one of his trueborn children is beyond me. A slight in my eyes to be the namesake of someone baseborn.

Her palm had half-crescents indented into it. So long as her father was there, she need not worry, she reminded herself

Still, the spittle on her tongue was sour. Tart like a glass of Dornish red wine. And she was rather more partial to Arbor Gold. Nonetheless, she kept a tame countenance nonindictive of the slight temper which roiled in the marrow of her bones. 

He might as well tell me I look like curdled milk. That would have been a more desirable comparison.

“There’s some way until we get back to the Red Keep and there won’t be much time for rest before the festivities. I’m sure you need some time to prepare, Lord Royce. You lads too.” Her father remarked.

His voice broke through the haze of her thoughts, and she was all but ready to journey back to the Red Keep. To rest, perhaps take tea, before they were expected at the tourney.

“I suppose you’re right, my lord. We wouldn’t want to start the lists off on the wrong foot. Though I must say, my father can be a real bear when he’s weary. It might work better to his advantage like that.” Robar conferred, his brother and father hummed and grunted in agreement.

The morning had come and gone, now supplanted by the afternoon. The sun gleamed unimpeded at its peak, blazoned onto the open blue horizon.

It seems the heavens have decided to bless this day after all.

Alayne jostled about the litter which she rode in the company of her mother Lysa and brother Robert. The roads beyond the city walls were well-trodden but unpaved, causing the wheelhouse to stagger and jerk over rocks and notches in the path. She swayed coolly as she pointedly ignored the two in front of her, an arm's length away; Instead, opting to gaze upon the rolling landscape of the Crownlands through the little window.

“Gentle my beautiful boy. Your mummy is here, you needn’t hurry.” Lysa cooed down to the son in her arms. 

Alayne clenched her jaw as she ignored Lysa’s faint hum which she soothed her Sweetrobin with. She bit down on the annoyance which bubbled up from her gut as she ignored the aggressive suckling sounds Robert made at their mother’s breast. With a rough hand, Alayne tugged aside the almost sheer powder blue curtains to get a better view of the outside.

In the distance, she could see the pavilions erected for the tournament, all the people, common and noble, creating a great big throng by the river. All sorts of colors weaved between each tent: the green of the grasses, many colored fabrics, the brown of wood.

Much to her chagrin, the sights of a tourney were not enough to distract her from the wet smack of not-so-little Robert’s nursing. The little milksop had been attached to her mother since they had passed under the city gates. Alayne had done well to avoid her gaze when Lysa had slipped herself from the confines of her gown, as well as the mind numbing chatter – or rather, incessant complaining– her mother forced upon her. 

“That dress looks too loose on you.” Lysa interrupted, unbidden.

Bite your tongue, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time.

Alayne held back the sigh which threatened to escape her. No doubt her mother would take that as another reason to lament. She took a breath before she turned to Lysa, face rigid and eyes reserved.

“I quite like this one.” Was all she replied.

“And the color, gods, what was the seamstress thinking. It makes you look ghastly. It brings out all the dullness in your complexion.” Lysa ignored her words in favor of boasting her own opinion instead.

Alayne made a mental note to let this gown see another day under the sun. 

In truth, she found it neither exceedingly beautiful nor unsightly. She did rather like how the blueish grey of the fabrics complimented her necklace, a steel seven-pointed star which rested at the hollow of her throat, the more she thought on it. Or perhaps it was the shade of disapproval which colored her mother’s face that she preferred.

Robert tittered against Lysa’s flesh. He unlatched and began to squirm before their mother shifted him upright. She sat him on her thigh and looped her arms snug around his belly after fixing her dress.

His limp brown hair feathered over wide, runny blue eyes as he raked them across her form. With a homely little smile, he reached a spindly arm forward to point in a mocking fashion.

“Mummy’s right! You look grey like a statue!” Sweetrobin laughed with glee.

Others take them both.

She much preferred when his stupid mouth wasn’t able to string along coherent sentences. It was clear in the way which the boy acted that he wasn’t the child who took more after their lord father. The softheaded simpleton was all Mother.

The heir to the Vale of Arryn, blood of The Eyrie, and the future Warden and Protector of the East. What sins had I committed for the gods to send this as my comeuppance?

Lysa swiped her fingers across Robert’s forehead and chuckled. She looked upon the boy as though nothing outside the carriage – nothing besides the two of them – existed. Alayne could not tell who needed the other more. Both were leeches all the same.

“Your sister can’t help her poor taste. We can only hope our words may guide her in choosing better next time.” Lysa tutted.

Bite your tongue, she told herself again.

She ought to take a personal sigil like her great-uncle the Blackfish. A falcon falling prey to a flopping fat trout on a field of blood red. 

“When I was your age, I was able to fill out all of my gowns. How lovely I was. Soft… and prettier than any other girl at Riverrun. You know–” Her mother started, unsatisfied with the ample speaking time Alayne was forced to grace her with.

“I’m sure you were, Mother.” Alayne cut in, sick of her voice. “I, and anyone else, would so clearly be deemed a lesser beauty next to you. I’ve not a clue on what it means to be appealing. Best not waste your words on someone oblivious.”

The coldness in her words settled over them like frost, and she wished it was enough to create a chill so harsh it formed a barrier more like The Wall at the edge of the world.

Alayne had no warmth in her heart for the woman before her. A mutual sentiment, to be sure.

“Don’t you speak to me like that, Alayne. I’m your mother, and I'm not at fault for your inability to accept friendly counsel.”

She scoffed and shook her head, finding her nailbeds of more importance than Lysa’s ‘counsel’.

“You’ve always been so sensitive. Your father never sees it, but I do. Anger isn’t good for you, you know. Huffing and puffing like a man.” Lysa insulted.

Before Alayne could deign her with a response worthy enough, the carriage came to a rattled slow and then halted. She gripped on to the plush cushion under her hand, nails scraped along the fabric, and snapped her head toward the window. Outside all sorts of people milled about, but more importantly, the sight of the Arryn guard posted around the wheelhouse in preparation for their dismount made her giddy to leave this moving cage dragged up from the seven hells.

She would have preferred to not meet Lysa’s gaze again, though unfortunately her mother blocked her path to freedom sat by the door.

“Apologies." She expressed in false regret, though it would take a fool to mistake her words for sincerity. It was too cold to be true. “You’re always right, I'm just cursed to be foolish enough not to think as you do.”

“C’mon! We can go outside. I want to see the knights now!” Robert shrilled as he squirmed in place.

Lysa’s stare didn’t pull away from her daughter, even as her Sweetrobin began to tug at her in impatience. It was an uncomfortable sight, and rare at that. She’d chance a pit opening up from the ground to swallow her whole as more likely than Lysa disregarding her son for her.

“Mummy, I told you, I want to see the knights!” Robert insisted once more.

Alayne remained stone-faced and unflinching, no matter how her stomach began to churn inward. Lysa only relented when the doors to the wheelhouse were opened.

The three of them filed out by way of the mounting block which had been placed under the carriage. The tourney grounds were in an organized chaos. Commonfolk had traveled in the hundreds to watch the event, only somewhat separated from the nobles who began the gathering at their seats. On the highest dais, there were banners hung boasting the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion joint together. Knights thundered past, astride their mounts. The clap of hooves and loud chatter rang in her ears as they all walked forth. They always had a good view sat next to the royal dais, courtesy of Lord Jon’s position as Hand.

Usually she’d spend the earlier bits of this sort of thing making amiable small talk with whomever was near. Buxom Elinor Rosby, soft-spoken, if not a little slow Lollys Stokeworth. Occasionally she’d indulge in sweet Princess Myrcella’s company at her father’s behest. She had helped the girl put together favors for the knights once or twice, braiding flowers into wreaths, though they had never been used; nonetheless, it had been more entertaining than Alayne expected. 

But the princess had not yet arrived, nor Lord Jon, and Alayne had little tolerance left for any other after enduring her mother for several minutes too many. In silent resolution, she’d decided she would enjoy the companionship of something which couldn’t speak to her far more than any lord or lady.

“Mother, Ser Lucas told me he’d be at the stables before the tourney started. I’d like to wish him luck before the tilts begin.” Alayne lied, voice projecting off Lysa’s back.

Her auburn haired head barely turned to Alayne as she continued walking hand-in-hand with Robert.

“Why bother asking? Go, see your knight… Luke, Luca– whatever his name is.” Her mother snapped.

Seven above, ward away the sinful and hateful ideas poisoning my mind.

Without a word, she pivoted herself in the exact opposite direction, and all but scrambled away. It was only as she finally began to gain much needed distance that her hopes of solitude were promptly shattered as a grating little voice rang out.

“I want to see Ser Lucas too! And the horseys. Can I go? Please, please. ” Robert’s voice prickled through the air like an embroidery needle. “If Alayne gets to go I should get to go too.”

Alayne tensed and her body froze in its place. She listened to little Robert’s protests grow louder, confirming her suspicions that she, in fact, wouldn’t be running away from this.

After a few attempts by her mother to reason with the little nuisance, Lysa reluctantly relented. Alayne’s shoulders dropped a fraction and sloped defeatedly as her brother came scampering towards her in a rush, his skinny legs going at as high a speed as they could.

“Be careful with him. I’ll send someone after the two of you if you’re not back by the time your father arrives.” Lysa called as her Sweetrobin fluttered to Alayne’s side, his sweaty fingers now grasping at her hand.

Robert blew a kiss to his mother, which Lysa returned, before he entangled his grip in Alayne’s fully. For someone so wiry, the strength which he held on to her was mildly surprising.

To herself she rolled her eyes before she looked down at her little brother with a less than savory look, holding back her grimace. He didn’t seem to take notice as he began to pull her forward, using his full body weight.

“Alayne hurry up you’re being slow.” Robert scolded, eager to see Ser Lucas who was most definitely not at the stables.

“Robert, you don’t even know where the stables are. Quit it!” She yanked him back once she saw her mother was out of view, and took a bit of pleasure from the undignified yelp which left him. With a hand rested on her hip, she ignored his protests in favor of looking above all the chaos in search of the horse paddocks.

“Come,” was all she said to the boy. She began to stride towards the less densely populated area at the back of tourney grounds, hidden from view.

They passed a legion of weaselly Freys, the infidel Thoros– gods , she can’t wait for Bronze Yohn to crush that man– of Myr. Alayne was even able to catch a glimpse of Loras Tyrell, his soft brown curls falling in ringlets off the nape of his neck as he moved between one tent to another in his graceful silver armor.

“Look at all of them! Their armor is so…” Robert’s voice waned off as he looked upon the men they passed by starry-eyed.

“Gallant.” Alayne finished for him.

The entrance to the stables stood before them after a few minutes of walking, the both of them slow in pace under the shining sun. She allowed Robert to untwine from her hold and push ahead. Before she ducked beneath the pavilion, she caught the sight of another which caused her to take pause. In the distance, she saw the unmistakable bronze of Royce armor. From this far, she knew that it wasn’t big enough to be Yohn, though she could not tell which son it was who looked on at her over the stretch of land between them.

She sent a small wave, as though over an entire continent, without waiting for response and followed the sound of her brother’s excited squeals.

The stables had well kept wooden stalls housing the various equines, some smaller, some bigger, all whinnying most like because of the buzz of excitement in the air. The noise couldn’t have been nice for them, all penned up like this. She ambled past the barrels and wooden benches, sent a cursory glance to the stablehands gadding about mucking out the horse dung or watering their charges.

“Where is Ser Lucas?” He shouted from across the pavilion.

She feigned looking around, before she shrugged.

“He must have left early. It’s quite chaotic out there, i’m sure he’s just preparing himself.” She lied easily.

She came to stand behind her brother who looked up at a lissome black mare.

“She’s a plain one. I don’t think she would be the best suited for the jousts.” Alayne commented. 

Robert mounted himself on the gate of the enclosure. He was cautious as the soles of his shoes rested on the beam closest to the ground.

“Why isn’t she good?”

Alayne stroked the mare’s snout, the shine of its coat soft on her fingertips. It was groomed recently. It nickered at her touch and she extended her neck a bit closer once she was sure it wouldn’t try and bite at her, sour memories of poorer tempered mounts coming to her mind as she leaned in.

“Well she’s a rouncey. They have an easy gait, good enough endurance, but they’re not particularly heavy or tall. Not incredibly fast either, not compared to others.” She said absentmindedly, giving the horse a last pat for good measure before she pulled away.

“How do you know all of that?!” He questioned with shock on his expression.

“Cracking open a book every once in a while helps.”

“ Wow … you’re really smart about horses, Alayne. Mummy says you’re not sometimes, and I laughed, but maybe she’s wrong.”

Robert struggled to stroke the horse’s chin, finger tips barely grazing the horse. His irritating grunts did nothing as to encourage the beast to lower its head for him.

“Yes… well, Mother’s about as bright as a bovine.” She murmured more to herself, watching her brother continue to fumble. 

The little fool really was incapable of doing anything on his own. How we are of the same seed, I will never know.

In an unusual bout of benevolence, Alayne was possessed to lean down. She scooped the boy into her arms without much struggle. He giggled as she adjusted him in her grip and turned them towards the horse.

“Gentle now, like this–” She took his little hand into hers and guided it to the horse. Their fingers, entwined as one, went along from the top of the crest of its neck to the base. Robert’s puerile nettling faded into a boyish innocence and she watched his eyes widen like saucers at the beast beneath his hand. He turned to her with a smile, and this time, it was easier to give him one in turn.

“She’s even bigger up close…” He laughed, seemingly bewitched. “Alayne, are you sure she can’t run very fast? Does it hurt her insides perhaps?”

It was silent in the stables save for the sound of gentle whinnying and the crunch of hay against the floors. Alayne raised her brow as she shifted her sights from the mare to her brother.

“What do you mean?” She asked, her curiosity piqued by the boy’s bizarre choice in words.

“It’s just that… sometimes when I run and play it makes my insides hurt. The maester tells me it’s because my body works extra hard, and that’s why they have to use the leeches on me. So the bad blood doesn’t turn me idle and angry.

The pressure in the cavity of her ribs began to build. It tickled at her throat like steam ready to make a kettle whistle.

“I hate it, but mummy says it makes me feel better so I must.” Robert sighed as he pulled his hand away from the horse and rested it on Alayne’s shoulder.

She knew that speech all too well, remembered the indifference on the Maester's face, each and every one she had ever known, before they would place large, slimy pale leeches onto her skin. They’d feed and fill with her bad blood until they were no longer translucent, but a gummy shade of red as they drained her. She always felt rather weak after leeching, not that anyone ever cared to hear it.

“It supposed to. Make you feel better, I mean.” She went silent for a moment as she bit the skin on the inside of her cheeks. “You should be careful whenever you play. If you ever feel tired or faint, make sure to rest yourself. You– we aren’t exactly made for physical strain, little brother.” 

Since when do I call him that?

Her heart stuttered as she looked upon Robert’s soft concave chest. She thought of his little heart which pumped beneath breakable bones, she imagined his delicate pair of lungs working to take air which refused them, she pictured the feeble Sweetrobin with her same pain.

Their pain, she reminded herself. She oft forgot it was among the only things they shared besides the noble name Arryn. Ironically, a boy no older than six was the only soul who might have understood her decades long plight.

“I’m strong, Alayne, I am! I don’t need rest like you. Whenever I run with Tommen to catch cats I'm just fine! It’s only when–” His voice went flat and his wobbly eyes averted hers. “When…”

“When what? Out with it.” She demanded, her impatience getting the better of her.

“It’s only sometimes when Joffrey comes to play.”

It must have been her bad blood which caused her anxieties to flare.

“He never comes to play with us, not really. He sent Tommen running off to find Ser Pounce saying something had hurt him. He– he chased me the other way when I tried to follow. I told him that the game wasn’t fun anymore, but he just kept after me. He said he wouldn’t stop until he caught me, until I started to twitch and shake like a freak hit by lightning.” His voice quivered and Alayne felt a surge of woe and rage grip her.

Her arms began to feel like jelly with Robert’s weight pressed down on them. She shifted him to her other hip, a refusal to let him go just yet.

The dastardly, no-good knave. That cruel little wretch of a prince could have killed him. He wanted to torment Robert, risk his life, for no reason besides his own twisted amusement. He wanted to hurt him.

“Robert, why didn’t Mother do something?” She deadpanned, face hardened.

Had she finally taken leave of her senses? The woman was half-mad, to be sure, but to turn a blind eye to her beloved son’s safety? His life was endangered, and no one had heard a peep of it. She knew her mother, she could be as fierce as a bear when it came to the boy. Even if it had been the king himself to hurt her Sweetrobin, Lysa would dare to show her claws. If she had caught wind of this, there no doubt would have been a blow-out as a result. A cat-fight between her mother and Queen Cersei. Hard words exchanged between her father and King Robert at the hounding of both their wives on behalf of their sons.

No. She couldn’t have known.

“Why didn’t you tell her?” Alayne grabbed his jaw and tilted his face upwards, forced his attention back on her. “Look at me. Why didn’t you tell her?”

“H-h-he said he’d do something–” Robert took a large breath, inhaled harshly through his nose. “–something worse if I told her.” A fat tear slipped past his lashline and glided down his pale cheek at Alayne’s badgering.

“Oh, don’t be so stupid. You should have told Father, at the very least!” She hissed.

Father would have never allowed such a thing to transpire unanswered for. Gods , if someone ever fancied themselves foolish enough to do something like that against her –

“Father never speaks to me! I never get to see him, only you do! He only ever pays attention to you, not me.” His face began to flush as more tears leaked from his eyes. Alayne felt her body curl inward as he thumped his fist against her sternum with force in his hand, and a scowl on his face.

“Gods be good, boy. You tell me then.” She intercepted his fist as he raised it at her again, her skin prickling under her dress, and gave him a firm glare.

“Let go!” Robert squealed like a piglet.

She sighed and took the base of his neck in her hand. She forced his face to the crook of her shoulder like she had seen her mother do numerous times to calm the raging little thing.

“If something like that happens again, ever, you come to me and I will fix it for you. Understood?” Her hold became a bit fiercer as she felt him dig his fingers into her hair, clutching her back through the strands.

He wept and the cries were lost in the now damp fabric of her gown. His face nuzzled against her shoulder and she thought it best to imitate what her mother would do in this situation. She swayed her body back and forth, pulled him tight, and let the boy hide away in her embrace.

As quick to laughter as he is to tears and anger this one.

“I’m not a freak. I’m strong, I am strong.” Robert blubbered on in search of her reassurance that he wasn’t the frail thing he was.

While she was rather partial to lying for the sake of courtly appearances, she knew there were things you simply couldn’t deny. And this was one of them.

Alayne had been a girl once, praying and pleading for strength which would never find her. Not a lot, never a lot. Even in her childish hopes, she did not expect to wake up with the power of a Dothraki savage overnight. Just enough to free her from her own cursed feebleness. Hope as she might’ve, her calls were never answered and the gods seemed to deem it blessing enough to keep her alive.

“Strength is a fickle thing. It doesn’t matter if you get older, stronger, it will fail you. Where brawn does not succeed, reason and diplomacy will always prevail. You need only patience enough to learn it.”

The Seven are stringent in their blessings, they are. Robert is no exception. If he is to be lord of the Vale, for the people’s sake and his own, he needs to have a good head on his shoulders. Time need not tell that he won’t become a fabled warrior, nor anything of the sort. That is already clear.

She straightened herself back out and he peeled away from her shoulder, face blotchy and the whites of his eyes now red.

“Now stop crying. You’re not a freak. You’re different, and that makes you special.” Alayne shrugged.

“What if I don’t want to be different?” He asked, his voice still stuffy from the tears.

“I fear you don’t have much of an option, elsewise we’d be having a very different conversation.” She chuckled. “Besides, I'm different too. We shall be remarkable and strange together, hm? That doesn’t sound so bad.”

She swiped her thumb beneath his eyes, fingers dipping at the shallowness beneath them and ridding him of his tears. Then, without much thought, pressed the lightest of kisses to his forehead. After they had recollected their bearings, she began to walk further down the stalls, Robert’s arms resting round her neck, and the sunlight poured through the back entrance of the wooden structure. His eyes, the same watery blue as hers, followed each stall they passed while quietly prattling off about Alayne ‘having to stop’ at each.

“Gods be good.” Alayne stopped dead in her tracks, breathless, with her mouth quirked up in what she could admit was awe.

Before the boy could complain about the stop, she gently grabbed his jaw again and turned his face towards the paddock which lay just beyond the threshold of the archway.

“What’re–” The boy stopped mid fuss with a slacked jaw. In sync, they turned to one another, and then outside, and back to each other again. “I WANT TO SEE THAT ONE!” Robert suddenly burst, and for once, Alayne complied without a snide refusal.

She pivoted and shuffled through the timber columns and felt her shoes sink into the earth. No matter, she sped toward the paddock lodging one of the finest stallions she had seen on the tourney grounds.

Its coat was white as milk, its body adorned in brilliant golden armor. It donned a crupper on its backside along a tailguard which rested over a neatly groomed plait. Alayne’s belly curved over the fence on the other side of the enclosure, the sight of such a magnificent destrier enough to make her nerves buzz. A squire fiddled with the beast's chest plate, a boy no more than fifteen, while he stroked the stallion's neck to get it to keep still.

“Excuse me!” Alayne called aloud, a smile lighting her face in place of the dour expression which had been present.

The squire jumped at the sudden shout.

“My lady? Is there… is there something I can help you with?” He asked, head tilted in confusion.

Alayne hoisted Robert from her hip to the wooden post, his rump secured on the make-shift stool and legs swung from the height before she continued. 

“Yes, actually. My brother and I couldn’t help but notice such a beautiful mount. Would it be alright if we got a closer look?” She inquired.

Her brother gripped her arm as she leaned over his small frame, a hand on either side of him, splinters prickling at the soft skin of her palms.

“Just let us!” Robert shouted. 

She lightly pinched him on the arm before he could voice out any other demands. He jolted, an ‘ow!’ sounding out. 

“Apologies, but I'm not sure I can. There’s not a lotta time before–”

“Oh please. It will only be for a moment, and it would make us both so happy.” Alayne explained.

The squire glanced around, as though checking to see if there would be someone to scold him for even hearing the idea. Once he turned back to her, a weary expression on his face, she knew she had won.

“Only for a few minutes?" He asked with a sigh.

“Promise.” She smiled.

The squire began to tighten his grip on the reins to lead the beast over. Alayne pursed her lips and let free a long, shrill whistle, and then a few more in bursts. It caught the horse’s attention, its head perked up at the noise that hit its keen ears and it began to amble on over.

Now this is a warhorse. Like one The Warrior himself would wish to ride into battle.

There was strength in its long strides. It had a towering frame and a short, thick back attesting to its heavier size. When it stood before them, tall and proud, she could see the lions engraved on its peytral. They were ornate and roaring and more extravagant than some of the armor worn by other participating knights . It came as no surprise as to who owned such a mount, surely worth its weight in gold. Only one man was gaudy enough to dress a horse like this. 

You can never mistake what belongs to a Lannister. Anything they own shines and glitters with gold and jewels.

She felt Robert lean back into her chest, perhaps frightened by the imposing figure before them, though she paid it no mind. Instead, she opted to use a firm hand to stroke the horse’s mane which remained free as the wind tickled at the loose strands. She soothed the dapple grey palfrey her father owned similarly when she was but a child riding in the same saddle as Lord Jon. He always fretted about her on horseback by herself.

“Don’t be afraid, I wouldn’t let it hurt you. He seems even tempered.” Alayne reassured her brother.

Robert reached a careful hand up to the horse, running his touch across its throatlatch.

It nickered, and she laughed, and then pressed her fingers deeper into the mass of muscle beneath her hand.

“Beautiful beast… What’s your name, hm?” She cooed in a honeyed tone as the trace of a smile ghosted on her lips.

“He doesn’t have one.” A voice answered airily from behind.

Alayne tensed, her hand arresting its movement, as both of the young Arryn’s whipped around to see who approached. Robert audibly gasped when he caught sight of the man, as did Alayne internally.

She gawked, quite rudely, at the oncomer.

Jaime Lannister.

Broad shouldered and dressed in extravagant armor to match his mount, he stood but a few feet away in all his glory. The sun’s light caressed his honey colored curls in the gentlest of ways, hair falling atop flashing eyes a verdant hue. As though chiseled from marble, his sharp features rested in an aloof manner with a golden brow arched upward. 

The gods must have been diligent in their work sculpting him such as that, Alayne thought. She was hard pressed to believe those cheekbones could simply be without divine intervention.

“What? Were you waiting for the horse to tell you?” And suddenly, she could not help but think he was much more beautiful when his mouth was closed.

“I–” She began as her brows furrowed into a line, lips parted ever so slightly as she sucked in a breath.

“I hate to dash your hopes, my lady, but he’s not that talkative this one.” Jaime drawled as he sidled up next to her. “Huh. I didn’t know your father let the two of you leave from his side?" 

"I don't need to ask his permission to take a stroll." Alayne quipped, feeling the embers of her annoyance begin to fan and flame in her belly.

"What would he think if he knew you were here without oversight? Outside of all places.” He mocked dismissively, ignoring her words.

She knew it was mocking. How someone could be blessed to look as he did, with such talent in swordsmanship, and still be riddled with dishonor and vitriol, she’d couldn’t make sense of it.

He once-over’d the stallion before he leaned his long torso over the fence. He yanked a strap on the chestplate to tighten it firm once, twice, and then looked at the squire who held the reins. 

“He still needs a crinet and something for his face, lad.” Jaime said to the boy before ruffling at the horse’s snout as Alayne had moments ago. The squire looked as though he was going to say something in reply, but only nodded his head hurriedly and scampered off to find the aforementioned pieces.

“I’m allowed outside?” Robert bleated, puzzled by the knight's words, the sarcasm flinging over his head. He looked offendedly as he tucked a bit closer to Alayne.

Their eyes met again in the silence and she had the sudden urge to turn heel.

Say something, Alayne. Open your mouth and use your words, you fool. 

“He’s… um… quite the impressive mount, Ser Jaime. Seems well-matched for the jousts. I’m doubtless the two of you will perform respectably. As always.” She complimented, not quite sure what else there was to say.

Where has my spine gone?

“Only respectably? And why’s that?” The golden knight turned to her, the beginnings of a lazy grin tugging at his pink lips.

It was her turn to set her shoulders back and stand straight and tall as she eyed him appraisingly.

“Men of the Vale fight today. They’ve travelled far and I expect it won't be for naught. I’m told it’s not in their nature to give up so easily, nor to lose.” She answered candidly. They were meant to fight with honor her landsmen, something that the man before her supposedly knew nothing of if his reputation was anything to go by.

As High as Honor were her words, and honor was meant to triumph near all, wasn’t it?

“I’m thrilled to be the one to teach them a new way of life then.” He said before his cat-like eyes slid past her, discarding her as if she wasn’t little more than an arms-length away.

Her attention fell from both the stallion and Kingsguard to see what had caught his notice. From the distance the glint of bronze armor shone as a man –Andar, she could see now– strode round the corner of the stables with purpose. His feet walked down the path of beaten dirt and his face was one of critical scrutiny when he got closer; eyes darted between Jaime, Robert, and herself she could tell.

He bore the ancient armor of his house, runic symbols of the First Men engraved into the metal. It was supposedly meant to ward away harm from the wearer. Peculiar that even after embracing the light of The Seven, the Royce’s still kept traditions of men who worshipped false gods and trees. Anyone would be better off making an offering to The Warrior for his courage rather than runes, however old and noble.

Jaime laughed, throaty and guileless, when Andar closed in. Alayne resisted the urge to chance another glimpse of the knight, and instead, shot a cordial smile to the Royce.

Robert pulled himself up somewhat and not-so-quietly whispered in her ear. His breath was hot and far too close.

“I like his armor too, but it looks uglier compared to Ser Jaime’s. Brown metal is worth less than gold, right?” 

“Robert!” She grimaced, and she could’ve sworn a wad of spit had hit her. 

Jaime panged his gaze between herself and Andar before he smirked. Wide with a full row of pearly, perfect teeth on display. It was as sharp as the blade which rested on his hip, and dripping with mirth.

“ Ah, I see. This must be the lad meant to beat me then?” 

Mocking.

“You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t think I even know the name of this soon-to-be champion. Is this your first tourney outside of the Vale? I’ve never seen you before.” The lion snapped his maw without hesitation. Before Andar even had the chance to fully descend upon them.

Andar’s eyes narrowed as he settled himself to Alaye’s other side, across from the Lannister. He didn’t quite meet him in height, and she suddenly mused that perhaps Jaime would miss him if they met in a tilt solely based on the difference that would be once they were mounted and armored. No doubt, Andar wouldn’t be astride a horse greater than the snowy destrier.

“Andar Royce, Ser Jaime. That’s my name.” He replied coolly. 

“You know of me? I’m flattered.” Jaime answered. “I'm sure it’ll be quite the shock how rowdy these things get down south. I’ve heard how rigid people can be up in the mountains, must make for a dreadfully boring audience.” His voice had a lilt of amusement to it. 

It was not in the well-mannered sort of way, rather, haughty. His words left a bitter taste in Alayne’s mouth, giving her the inclination to quip back a petty wisecrack on behalf of her kingdom.

Bite your tongue. I shan’t stoop to the level of a man such as he, it is not my place.

Alayne wasn’t a loud mouthed fool, something Andar seemed to share. To be raised in King’s Landing was to hold a bit more political savvy than to snap when faced with a bit of distastefulness. But this infuriatingly handsome man who had been in her presence for mere minutes had managed to belittle her, her father’s vassal, and her kingdom in the blink of an eye made it very hard to stay diplomatic.

Andar squared his shoulders as he stood his ground. His gaze flitted to Alayne for only a moment before he loured at Ser Jaime, face almost as hard as his father Lord Yohn, though not so intimidating.

“Don’t let rumors fool you, the Vale is crawling with knights who fight with the ferocity of ten men. Tourneys are always good fun for us. I’m not too focused on the frivolity King’s Landing has to offer. Not when I have something to prove this time.” Andar said, only to be met with that gratingly vexing chuckle.

"If you're half so decent as your lady claims, you might do okay. If you're not, well then, just... try and stay in your saddle." He patronized the younger knight before him, and watched as his squire approached with the rest of his destriers armor.

Before Alayne could interject, it was Andar who came to his own defense. His jaw was clenched as though he meant to break it with force, and his ears tinged a shade of red. Whether in rage or fluster, she could not tell.

Now that didn’t seem like–

“I’ll beat you, Kingslayer.” Andar bellowed, the moniker spat like a curse.

It made her blood rush as she grabbed her brother from where he had been sat like an animal spooked, and ready to flee.

“Alayne–” Robert started, and she silenced him out even as he tugged at her dress.

Jaime crossed his arms and, perceptibly, Alayne watched the corners of his mouth dip ever so slightly. It turned his taunting smile more sneer-like.

“You’re welcome to try. Not that you’ll win.” Jaime retorted.

Gods.

“No need for heedless name calling, Lord Andar. The gods tell us to hold even our foe in regard. All are deserving of our grace. Such slander will do nobody any good on this day of celebration.” Alayne broke in, an attempt to reign her father’s man in from whatever precipice of anger or pride or irritation he dangled on the edge of. She did not expect Andar to be as such.

“Well said, my lady. Your kindness, truly, it moves me.” Jaime grumbled disingenuously, with the need to seize the last word. He spared Alayne a last glance before beginning to thump away in the other direction.

“That horse needs to be readied soon, Martyn.” He called back to his squire, and with that, the golden lion stalked away until he went out of view.

The Royce looked away from where the Lannister had been, a crease hard formed between his brows.

“I– uhm, sorry. Your lady mother is asking for your brother, that’s why I came.” He swallowed.

“Best of luck to you, Lord Andar.” Alayne responded blandly as she backed away, turning her heel and striding towards the boisterous crowd a short walk away, Robert’s cheek resting beside hers.

Chapter Text

301 A.C.

Beyond the City Walls

JAIME’s ears rang as deafening cheers roared from the crowd. The noise split the once still air so explosively he could feel the palpable excitement which coursed through the tourney ground. 

His body buzzed with the vigor of victory, unhorsing men so easily as though he had been riding at rings. He desired more. He thirsted to drive his lance into the next man’s shield and then the next until his appetite was sated.

Jaime thrust his armored foot into the stirrup and kicked a thigh over his saddle, hand bearing down on the pommel. It was gold like his own armor, reflective of the sun which beat down onto him. He did not care how his hair, now sweaty, pressed over his forehead as he donned his lion helm, nor the humidity which almost wholly consumed him if not for his lifted visor.

His blood sung as it thrummed through his veins, its ballad one of lust. A need for this peacetime proxy of battle . He stared down the lists, eyeing his opponent decorated in bronze. Andar Royce waited for his shield to be readied, though he seemed rather preoccupied looking out in the stands to notice Jaime’s eyes.

The Valeman hadn’t done very much to get to this point, defeating a hedge knight, perhaps a Frey or two.

Walder Frey had brought nearly half of his brood from the Riverlands, and yet not one of his limp-haired, stupid sons had a grain of an idea as to how winning worked. Even the biggest, thick as an ox, had been dealt with swiftly by Mace Tyrell’s youngest son the day before.

Jaime knew for certain that the knight in front of him would topple to the ground easier. He had knocked the brother clean off his steed, and that would not please him half so much as this. Knights of the Vale and their prickly honor. They all walked around with sticks up their arse, the whole lot of them. They were a rigid people who customarily had a thing or two to say when they were hailed down from their mountains. Never a kind word for him, of course, but that was to be expected. A golden rule was anywhere generally north of King’s Landing was not somewhere to care for.

And what little this one’s judgement will do for him now. I’m happy to oblige and beat any man who wants to try his hand at besting me.

His destrier began to whicker and twist in place, its hooves beating against the overtrodden, torn ground. The beast seemed just as eager as Jaime to be free to charge. Another soul he was keen to oblige. 

“Ser Jaime, here!” His squire called from behind, voice almost lost in the thunder of shouts. Bets being placed, curses hollered upon him, kisses being blown to him.

A shield was pushed into view and Jaime took it without a word. He mounted it firm upon his arm, the painted lion upon a field of red pointed outwards, roaring as a cautionary to its foe.

A gangly fellow carried his lance in a double-handed grip, spindly arms cradling the pole. Jaime outstretched a hand and accepted it with thanks, and he peered upwards once more. Waiting. The Royce boy had yet to put on his helmet, much to Jaime’s chagrin, as his blood bay courser began to pace in the midst of the chaos. Right, left, and yet, every which way the beast would turn, the knight’s head would continue to twist right back to where his gaze had been locked before.

When Jaime followed his stare, he couldn’t help but raise a brow.

Unless the lad had taken a particular fancy to his liege, there were only two people he could be looking at as though he were a dog spurned by its master.

That cow of a woman, Lysa Arryn, or her sickly daughter. He’d wager his impending victory on the latter. 

Does he mean to joust his way to her heart then? He best hope she desires for a man of middling talents, and the ability to lose in any case. It would serve you better to focus less on ogling and more on picking up your damned lance. 

Jaime’s eyes traced the length of her oval-shaped face and its leaden undertones. She was primly dressed in dull silks which seemed to wear her more than, she, it, and her expression looked as though it had soured long ago. There was just about nothing which livened her features besides the pale blue of her rheumy eyes. They were rounded and watching.

‘I have something to prove this time.’

The Royce’s words echoed through the cavities of his mind and all at once Jaime ascertained that he had the opportunity to do something just wonderful . If not, slightly vindictive.

His gaze panged between the two before he kicked his horse to a slow trot, and adorned his face with a sharp smile. He tugged the reins towards the stands nearly centerfold, adjacent to the royal dais, and stopped when his horse was nearly snout to nose with The Hand’s daughter.

The immediate crowd amiably lowered to a rumble and all eyes were on them. The girl’s hands came forward to steady his steed, who had enthusiastically canted its face over the fence. As she raised her head, gazing up at him through dark lashes, Jaime could see the muddled confusement plastered over her expression. Her small, petulant mouth warped from a once grim line, now puckered into an ‘o’ shape.

“My Lady.” Jaime trumpeted over the noise, twirling the lance in his hand theatrically before bringing its tip to her reach. “Victory is sweet, but it would be even more so if you'd grant me your favor.”

From the corner of his eye, even with this damned helm of his, he could see the outline of his sister. Her gold hair shone in his periphery. He chanced a glance at her only to be met with her cocked head and hard eyes staring back.

Curly hair, near identical to his own, pulled up into a fanciful style with a golden crown nestled between two ropes made of her own strands. Inlaid with emeralds, akin to Robert’s crown in that way, it was a match to the pendant which was settled atop the curve of her breasts hidden away beneath velvet green silks. 

My sweet sister, beautiful even in her judgement.

“Apologies, Ser Jaime, but I seem to have mislaid my favor. I’ve–” Alayne began.

She barely managed to pull him from his reverie before her excuse was promptly interrupted.

“No, wait, Lady Alayne! Look.” A girlish voice called from above.

Low and behold, leaned over the barrier of the dais, there was Myrcella. Her golden curls spilled past her shoulders and over her face, nearly obscuring her from view as she outstretched her hand over the fence. The princess held a wreath of twisted leaves, blue flowers interwoven the whole way through. Ever gently, she tossed the favor down from the raised platform with a smile.

“ Oh. Thank you, princess.” Alayne faltered.

Only did Myrcella reclaim her seat when the garland of blooms floated and landed into the Arryn’s lap.

Her face was tight as she looked between Jaime and his lance. She wasn’t the only one, The little princess hadn’t turned away, nor had Alayne’s own kin. Her mother shot him a particularly nasty look from beside her, to which he continued to hold himself firm.

“It would be my honor.” He added, and he might’ve heard a scoff arise from his opponent, even from all the way over here. 

Alayne craned her neck backward, and it was only when he saw Lord Arryn gave her a slight nod, had he realized she sought her father’s approval.

Or permission. I don’t suppose this is something you’re sought for very often. If I were a superstitious man, I might have thought your weakly blessing would bring misfortune instead.

Fortunately, Jaime was not. Statues, trees, or spirits, none of them could tell him where his fate lay. So long as the weight of a sword grounded him, he had faith. Faith in himself, in his strength. Come bad fortune or good, so long as he could fight, he did not fear.

She sighed with the wreath clutched between her fingers before she pushed herself up. One step, then two, until she was close enough that she could reach out and grab him.

“Best of luck.” The hand’s daughter frigidly wished him as she slid her favor over his weapon.

Another wave of cheers burst forth from the crowd as he raised his lance, the cerulean coloring of the blooms a stark contrast to the golden wood reaped from the Summer Isles. His body jostled in the saddle as he rode to his position, a fire in his gut, and he stopped opposite to Ser Andar.

The whites of Andar’s eyes became scant as he narrowed them, eyebrows bearing down disgruntled with anger he intended for Jaime. 

I’ve done you a kindness. You’ll be arse-first in the dirt, pummeled by the lance your lord’s daughter has favored.

Jaime lowered his visor with his shield propped up and at the ready. His opponent mirrored him, if not more agitatedly.

In the blink of an eye, the two men spurred their horses to a gallop and thundered toward each other. The gallery shook, and Jaime honed in on the Royce’s shield as though it were blazoned with a bright red target instead of runic bronze. Everything slowed with the steady clop of his horse’s gallop. Andar charged him with vigor and vitriol, with something to prove.

Bloody well think again, boy.

Before the knight could hit his shield, Jaime shifted in his seat while he simultaneously leaned forward and struck his own lance true to its mark. The wood pole made a distinctive crunch before it splintered and cracked down the middle, shattering in his hand. Where Jaime was brought to a steep halt, his hand outreached in preparation for a second go if need be, Andar Royce rolled on the ground uselessly and unhorsed.  

Squawks of laughter and cheers erupted. Jaime dropped the hilt of his broken lance and trotted his horse around the jousting ground, his victory lap was lauded, and his name being hailed the victor of the tilt. 

“Three cheers to you, Kingslayer.” Andar ripped his helmet off when he managed to pick himself up from the ground. A curse let free when it snagged at his hair. He spat on the ground next to Jaime’s horse, spittle tinted a light shade of red. “You can settle with your victory as indemnity for your severe lacking in honor.”

Jaime lifted his visor, and smiled in reply.

“Between lacking in honor or lacking in skill, I believe I picked my poison better than you did. Try harder next time, it’s rotten luck to return home empty-handed.”

Andar glared as all men did when their prides were battered and was quick to run off the grounds, his tail tucked between his legs like a scolded pup.

Once back to his position, Jaime took the waterskin which was jammed toward him, and readied himself for the next.

“Ser Lucas Corbray of Heart’s Home!” The herald thundered.

The knight’s surcoat was striped black, red, and white. His shield boasted three dark ravens in flight, each carrying a scarlet heart on a blank plot.

Corbray…

The name was familiar, the sigil of the minor house only notable because of the heirloom passed down the family tree. Lady Forlorn. An ancestral blade made of Valyrian steel, once used by Gwayne Corbray, a skilled knight of the kingsguard, more than a century ago during the first of the Blackfyre Rebellions. It was like Dawn , the sword Arthur Dayne wielded a lifetime ago.

There were few in Westeros who possessed such hard to come by weapons. It was the stuff of myths. Not even piles of gold could persuade most to part with it. He had always wished to wield a sword like that, a want carried through a sum of years. The Kings of the Rock had possessed one once, Brightroar they called it. Uncle Gerion insisted it was still out there, somewhere, waiting to be reclaimed and brought home. He set sail, intent on journeying to the Smoking Sea according to the reports Father’s men brought, and never came back. That was much to his and his brother’s disappointment, Gerion was a good man.

“Do you know him?” He called down to his squire who had been enrapt by the new face.

“Well, uhm, he is Ser Lucas Corbray… of Heart’s Home…?” The boy responded sheepishly with a shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t really–”

Caddishly, Jaime was reminded by the steep decline in the quality of squires these days. When he was thirteen, he had already been champion in his first mêlée, and knighted by a living legend scarcely two years later. This one already had wispy stubble staining his upper lip, and held himself in a way which made Jaime wonder whether he had even used a tourney sword before.

“Aye, so I've heard. Would you be so kind as to tell me something I haven’t?” 

“ Um…” The boy had sense enough to turn around to one of the men a few feet away. “Oi, you! Who’s he here with?”

Pock-marked and long faced, his flaxen colored head swiveled around to meet them. His blue doublet was dirtied and had an ivory crescent moon sewn on the breast.  

“He’s in the Arryn’s service, ser. One of the finest swords I've ever crossed, if I do say so. ”

Seven hells another one. But it’s not a Lucas with the sword… no, no it was Lyn.

“Does he have a brother?” Jaime inquired.

“Two. Lyonel and Lyn.”

“Ah.”

The man who had killed Jaime's fellow brother of the Kingsguard, Prince Lewyn Martell, at The Trident. Jaime now recalled having met the man once, years ago. He fought with his lord –Lord Arryn– on the side of the Rebels and was bequeathed both his knighthood and his family’s blade on the same day.

“Lady Alayne.” Lucas called out, in the very spot Jaime had been moments ago. He raised his lance toward her in the same way too.

“I fear I've no favor left to offer you, ser knight.” Alayne smiled.

It looked almost playful and the regret tinged in her words carried over to his ears. With sense enough, Jaime realized he no longer vaunted the little blue wreath. It lay trampled in the dirt off in the distance, probably scattered under the foot of his own mount.

“Well, good thing I've only come to humbly ask for your blessing. A few words of encouragement is all I beg.” 

He nudged his lance toward her again, and this time, her grin upturned into a wider curve. Not curt, nor frigid, only pleased. Assuming, of course, that was her face of delight. He wouldn’t know. There were few times Jaime acknowledged her existence, usually when she was in the company of his twin and Robert. She always had a sullen, tight look to her when she’d get wrangled into conversation with the king. His loud drunken laughs–which neared ear-splitting yells– and red-faced spewing of mind-numbing storied tales of glory. That was before he’d go off, blatantly whoring in the middle of the hall, and Jaime would be forced to mind him in silence.

And then Cersei would whisper her venom for the podgy sot in the quiet of the night while I slide my hand between her thighs to make her wet, and her gripes turn to moans when I take her.

Alayne left from the seat she had scarcely settled and grabbed onto the pole, her hand encircled over the wood, and proclaimed her blessing loudly.

“May the Warrior grant your lance arm strength, Lucas. Good fortune to you.” She laughed before she released her grip.

Someone’s popular today.

The helm which had been tucked under his arm shifted to his hand, and before he placed it over his face in a single handed grip, he nodded to Jon Arryn.

“As High as Honor, my lord!” And with that, he trotted over to the ready.

When he passed by Jaime, the temptation to provoke this Lucas came strong. Father always despised his penchant to run his mouth, the need he had to seize both the first and last word. Cersei misliked it as well. He had caught the backside of her knuckles with his cheek more than once to know it. 

“Let’s see how that blessing does you.” Jaime snorted, somewhat muffled.

“Nicely, I reckon.” Lucas called over his shoulder before he took his place at the top of the lists.

His destrier reared up and down, once, twice, and then at the onset of a booming yell, Jaime charged. He rode hard, hips bouncing in the saddle, and when Ser Lucas came to strike him, he shifted in his seat like he had against the Royce. Zeroed in on his target, his lance struck and shattered, but upon collision he hadn’t noticed in the chaos Lucas had blown his own to smithereens as well. His eyes had seen the splinters before his body had felt the force of the blow.

Blood pounded in his ears as he gripped whatever he could take purchase on, distributing his weight so as to not go flying like a stone being catapulted. He did not wait to see if Corbray had fallen. His mount swung hard around the fence as Jaime felt a fresh lance find his hand. Again, they charged relentlessly. He didn’t shift this time, and as he guessed, nor did his foe. Another slam landed, and his opponent a miss. No blown lances, yet he took a new one as he flew down the grounds. Again. They both hit each other’s shields this time, Jaime took the brunt of a particularly hard one. 

Again.

Screams raged around them, assaulted his ears in the onslaught of excitement from all directions. It didn’t register to him.

He’s not half bad.

Time slowed to a crawl the fourth time. Breath came to him ragged and he knew that under this get-up he might’ve been likened to a starry-eyed child being offered custard filled pies and glazed lemon cakes on a bed of sweet jam. The closer the knight got, Jaime’s spine splayed rigid, and his form sat firm.

Wait.

If he had lingered any longer, blinked, he would have been clean off his horse and perhaps broken in a few joints. Unfortunately for Ser Lucas, Jaime had tucked forward in the nick of time. He’d done well to avoid being struck across the head, and instead vaulted his lance ferociously precise into one of the ravens on the shield. One moment there was a knight astride his horse, and the next there was a glint of silver armor being hurtled back the way it came from.

Jaime brought his horse to a skidded, steep halt, and the bulky man from before had been quick to catch the bit and reins. The destrier tried to rear again and was brought to heel, leaving Jaime to dismount and take a look at his handiwork. 

Lucas was helped up by two men. When he was on his own two feet, he swayed and patted one on the back before he pushed away and yanked his helmet from his head. Blood gushed from his nose and coated nearly the entire lower half of his face. The only break in red being the now-stained whites of his teeth as he grimaced. He looked half a boy and half a man as his thick head of brown hair bobbed past, and disappeared to the tents. Most like to find a maester.

Once again, the gallery shook with the rowdy onlookers, and Jaime raised his arm another time. The commons had always been fond of him. Accursed Kingslayer or not, they enjoyed watching a golden knight of the kingsguard live up to their wild fantasies. 

I do believe I'll leave the champion of this.

301 A.C.

Beyond the City Walls

TYRION strode briskly, weaving through the rows of makeshift tents. His were quick–well, about as quick as his legs could take him– and short steps. They came in one after another even as he swayed in the aftermath of his hearty imbibement of what felt like a dozen, and then some, flagons of ale.

But even then, I am not drunk enough for that to be so.

That much was certain. He was conscious enough to feel his gait was lighter, his pockets emptier than when he had arrived. Tyrion had lost a hefty sum, one-hundred gold dragons to be exact, to the king. Robert was more than eager to put his faith in young Loras Tyrell and bet his coin on the boy if it meant to spite Jaime. Father was less than pleased with the result of it all, he had hoped his eldest son would have been the champion of the tourney. He sojourned all the way east with a sizable retinue betting on it.

Well, we’ve all lost that bet. Even Cersei relinquished quite the piece of jewelry on account of our brother's defeat. An emerald pendant.

Tyrion approached a group of men in a huddle, some sat on a few wooden barrels, others stood on their feet.

“I wouldn’t suppose you lot have spied my brother? Tall, golden, perhaps more than a little angry?” He voiced from a few feet away.

They wore surprised looks when they blatantly stared, as most did, scoured his person for all the things people usually did. He was, decidedly, the very opposite of what he had described. Mismatched eyes, weedy flaxen hair, and even a smile which seemed to shame the great Tywin Lannister and their good family name. Or rather, the activities he partook to put that smile on his face in the first place. If it were not for his crimson doublet, the fine boots on his feet, they may have mistaken him for someone else. Unless they were clueless enough to be unaware–

“You’re the imp!” One called out, drunkenly Tyrion could hear, and pointed before his companion jammed an elbow to his ribs.

“Shut up!” He chortled.

“So I am. I’m also someone eager to find my kin, if you’d be so kind. The faster I can get to my brother, the sooner I can find myself a good goblet of Dornish red, and perhaps a good Dornish girl too if the night treats me well.”

It was near dusk and there was still a feast to attend for their dear nephew Joff’s nameday. A final hurrah to end the multi-day celebration. He was more concerned on making sure Jaime was both unhurt and lifted in spirits before then, when he might be too absorbed in the revelry to notice otherwise.

“Good and Dornish ain’t something I'd bet on. Bloody feisty them girls are.” One with a mop of black hair chuckled

“Being good and being sweet are two vastly different things.” His innuendo not going unnoticed as he coaxed another rumble of laughter from everyone.

“I–uh… Ah’ think he wen that’a way, mi’lord.” The one in the middle called back, his words slurred together, while he scratched the thick stubble on his chin. “Or maybe…”

“Ya idiot. Shite with direction he is. Yer knight brother went tha’ way, Lord Tyrion.” Another, taller, interceded before taking a swig from the wineskin clutched in his fist and jutting his finger a ways away. 

“Well it’s clear who can handle his booze better out of you two,” Tyrion grinned before he ambled off “You have my thanks. Do be sure to save some for the rest of us, there is still a celebration to be had.” 

As he made his way further down the tangle of pavilions and people, Tyrion couldn’t help but note a buzz in the air. The stands were alight today, and even the quieter souls seemed to watch a bit closer. His brother had assured that when he called upon the Arryn girl for her favor. Tyrion had felt surprised, near as much as the hand’s daughter looked to be, when Jaime trotted off with it. He had barked with laughter, earning a scoff from his sweet sister. Pestering was in order when he found his brother.

The girl also ran off. The moment the Corbray knight was unhorsed and went stumbling out of view, she was up and out of her seat in a rush, Tyrion recalled. Her lady mother a time later too.

He had heard Robert ask his most trusted advisor where he managed to lose both his children and wife when Lord Arryn joined him upon the royal dais.

It took little time before he had found Jaime. Pushing aside the flaps of a beige tent with a firm hand and thinly veiled annoyance graced on his features.

“Brother… you have made many a man poorer today, myself included. How do you answer this folly?” Tyrion jested lightly, hands tucked behind his back.

Perhaps it wasn’t the most sensitive thing he could have started with. But then again, what were brothers for; if not to douse you with equal parts love, and reality.

Jaime scoffed with a contempt that didn’t quite reach his emerald green eyes.

“A mischance. I took him too lightly, I suppose.” Jaime crossed his arms, though he still managed to have a lightness to him which told Tyrion the sting of defeat hadn’t soured him. “Shouldn’t you be halfway to the riverside by now? Don’t let me ruin your fun. I’m sure they'll have plenty of drink to celebrate with. The royal coinpurse will have spared no expense for our dear nephew, Cersei wouldn’t have let it be otherwise.”

“I’m doing you a charity, you see, I've turned a new leaf–”

“Really?”

“Incontestably. It’s plain to me how sorely you wished for brotherly comfort. I should not deny you that.” 

Jaime slapped his palm over Tyrion’s shoulder with a fondness no one else was quite able to capture like his big brother.

“It’s good to have you back. Things can get awfully dull when you’re not around for so long.”

“ Oh , but it seems to me you’re finding ways to entertain yourself just fine. If your lucky maid is anything to go by, perhaps more than fine. It took the better part of three decades, but dare I ask; have you finally made a friend?”

Quick to laugh, eager to draw his sword, and utterly lacking tact, his brother was sought after by many, and able to bring most to heel with the prospect of his companionship. But it was only family he trusted in confidence. Not even his sworn brothers were so privy. He had never told Tyrion explicitly, but he didn’t need to. Tyrion knew, he always knew.

“Seven hells, no. Nothing like that.” Jaime shook his head. “I think I'd rather Moon Boy, he might make me laugh at the least.”

Before Tyrion could quip anything further his attention was seized by a tall shadow which stretched over the ground from around the bend, and then the reedy young woman who took its place. He knew she had taken note of them– or rather, Jaime– instantly when her steps stuttered and her shoulders sagged. In all his attentiveness, his brother did not notice.

“Lady Alayne,” Tyrion spoke up, mirth in his eyes when her gaze dragged down to his. “We were just speaking about you. I do hope your knight isn’t too bruised, battered ?”

The muscles of her face twitched and her brows shot skyward. She stayed frozen in place for a moment before she sauntered towards them. Hands neatly clasped in front of her, chin held at a level height, very modest. Perhaps more coy. 

When she waded closer, Tyrion noted how wan she was. They’d spoken once before, perhaps, but she had been little more than a child and he a younger man. If he recalled, the only reputation she garnered in those days was for going into fits of wheezing while the keep went on about its business.

“My lords. The maester says he will be alright. The blood–” She made a gesture; fanned down from her nose while she shook her head “–it only made him dizzy. I demanded he go back to the castle and stay on bedrest, but Lucas insists a small hit doesn’t warrant coddling.” 

Jaime shifted in his scuffed armor and tilted his head. Tyrion didn’t need to see his face to know the look plastered over it. The face of a man about to say something cocksure and possibly vaguely insulting.

You’ve never been able to hold your tongue, and nor have I. A family trait.

In the recess of Tyrion’s thoughts, a small voice countered that they diverged at his own tendency to think through his words before he spewed them. Oftentimes that led to nastier barbs, but true to word in the very least. 

“He did better than I expected. But he was too sure he knew what I was going to do next. That’s where I got him.” Jaime acknowledged the knight’s performance with a markedly neutral tone.

It had been a splendid tilt, surely had everyone on the edge of their seats. At first, not many had been willing to place bets against Jaime, the competition was not often steep enough to pose a challenge to him. But with each pass that went on, numbers began to rise from the crowd quick. Naturally, Tyrion’s gold was all in on Jaime, and while Ser Lucas had given him a fairly decent run for his money, he had faith in the outcome which had been reached.

“I’ll be sure to let him know of your generous counsel.” Alayne smiled.

“Do.”

There was blood on the hem of her sleeve, splattered over the silver half-moons stitched onto the fabric. It was bright, probably fresh, and bloomed red.

“Pray tell, Ser Jaime, you seem to me an observant man. It would please me so if you were able to quell my curiosity on how Loras Tyrell managed to get you.” Alayne quipped back defensively, and unexpectedly.

And the lone falcon shows her talons. Color me surprised.

Weak of body and sharp of tongue, now there was someone Tyrion could read easily. Unfortunately for her own amusement, he was keen on dragging his brother for a drink or two before taking his fun down to the city. He’d prefer to not watch him trade verbal blows prickly and tired.

“My brother’s compliments sometimes sound closer to mockery, but are still well-meant. I’m sure what he means to say is that were it not for the encouragement of your favor–”

Jaime side eyed him with a raised brow, to which Tyrion paused to chuckle.

“He would have soared right off his horse. Jaime’s always liked to impress, and when you left, well… he was disheartened enough to be tossed off his steed.” He finished and mustered the best of a shit-eating grin when he glanced up at his brother.

To her credit, Alayne only sighed, recognizing the jest twisted into his words. 

The sound of footsteps a distance away caused all three to turn, and it was then he saw the figure of Ser Lucas.

Speak of them and they shall appear. For being so big, the capital is full of the same familiar faces.

“I shall leave the two of you be. I tire, and I've yet to tend to my nightly prayer.” Alayne said, absentminded as her eyes stayed locked to the oncomer.

“A shame, you won’t be joining the feast then? We’ll all try our hardest to enjoy the merriment without your happy company.” Jaime japed.

When Ser Lucas found his place at her side, he spared both Lannisters a nod and managed a stiff, pained smile for his lady. He looked worse for wear, the bridge of his nose deep shades of mingling purple and crimson, and a few bruises marring his flesh to match. A look passed between Lucas and Jaime, though it seemed his lady was more keen with her venom on his behalf than he was on his own. Lucas did not shrink, nor did he attempt to exchange pleasantries, he only stood waiting.

Waiting for her. She is your charge after all, and the night wears on.

“Thank you for your kind words, Lord Tyrion.” She observed him quiet, appraisingly, before his brother stole her eyes away. “I shall light a candle at the Warrior’s altar for you, Ser Jaime. Your performance was well today, you’d ought to thank the gods for that.”

There was an earnest quality to her words and a moist-eyed look which led Tyrion to believe she meant it with some genuine intention. He did not think it was words in the wind. In fact, he did not doubt there would be an extra candle lit in the sept tonight. Whether it was out of pity for the damned or the kindness of her heart was the real question. Though it was most like the former. The religious type are always so fickle. They loathed, they condoled, they condemned, it puzzled him tell which they truly felt for the poor souls so less than holy.

He will say something stupid and insensitive now. Another bet I will wager on.

“I assure you, no candle or blessing can unhorse another man. That was all my doing.”

“That’s not the point.” She sighed, her nerves beginning to fray, and her voice teetered between fatigue and vexation. “If you do not pray for yourself, who will? It’s not something one should leave to chance.”

“Questioning my faith, are you? Rather presumptuous.” Jaime prattled on, as though she hadn’t been exactly right.

It did not take a genius to figure out the Lannister’s were not the most pious bunch. Belief in the gods, sure, but devotees? Whole-hearted adherence of the Seven’s teachings? Not something practiced among them. Given the choice between the Sept of Baelor and a brothel, Tyrion knew which house of worship he’d opt for. His worship tendencies could be likened to a ramshackle, run-down, shack. Ugly, near non-existent, and poorly kept.

“Call it intuition. Lions are not the most subservient of creatures, even at their own peril. ” And that, strangely enough, brought a frown to her face.

Alayne took her knight's arm into her own and tugged him toward the main party preparing for departure. They walked but a few feet away before she called back.

“The seven hells burn hot with a place for us all, my lord.” 

And with that, she was gone.

“Fucking strange, that whole family.” Jaime grimaced and shook his head.

“I…” Tyrion couldn’t help the chuckle which left him. “I take back what I said. I don’t think she’s your friend.”

301 A.C.

The Tower of the Hand

JON sighed into his cup. The wine stained the rim of the metal as his drink sloshed around the goblet. 

Gods , his back ached. He paced the length of his chambers somewhat irate with his gaze honed in on the goblet rested on his desk, a pair to his own, barely touched. Lysa hadn’t been keen on chatting any further once he told her he was finite in his decision to send their youngest to Stannis.

He was far too old for all this nonsense. He had a kingdom to run, a family to shield from danger, a castle and keep so very far from this place. 

A kingdom in crippling debt to men I can’t trust further than I could throw them, a family –more specifically, a wife– who seem intent on resisting my every word, and the Eyrie which I will most like die before seeing again.

Oh the love he bore for Robert, for his king . He had started a war for the boy, he took on the responsibility of the seven kingdoms for the man. The king was big, burly, and gruff now, but in Jon’s eyes, it was impossible to see past the young man he once had the pleasure of raising. Strong and fierce and true of heart. The crown had long left his neck crooked and he certainly hadn’t strayed from each and every habit of his unbefitting of a king, but sense be damned, Jon Arryn would never abandon him.

He took another swig of his wine, careful not to take too much more. He wasn’t a young man after all, his poor innards wouldn’t handle it well. He ambled towards the drawer of his desk, shuffling through the contents until he found a blank piece of parchment. 

It was his duty to see his king through his reign. To protect him from danger.

And what danger you’ve gotten yourself into Robert. What danger I had a hand in putting you in. 

Jon Arryn’s words were As High as Honor . He would do his duty until his last breath. But as he sat down at his desk, uncovering his pot of ink, he thought of his children. His daughter. He’d sacrifice near anything for his duty, but never his daughter. His son was going to be safe, primed to set sail for Dragonstone within the fortnight, but Alayne…

Oh his sweet girl…

He’d suffer death by a thousand slashes before he let her fall prey to lions.

Lannister’s didn’t have reservations about harming the innocent, nor a fear of playing dirty to win a war. That much had been proven doubly in Jon’s lifetime, and he was certain Tywin was willing to make that thrice over if it meant he kept to power. Even as an ally, Lord Lannister's methods were... unsavory to be beholden to. What happened to the Targaryen children, to Rhaegar's wife Elia, it was always distasteful business to him. But even then, it had been the Lannister's to serve Robert his throne, so how could Jon dare counsel him to refuse the offering which came with it? Someone had to do it, better they didn't have to deal the final blow themselves.

But now the Targaryens are gone, and it is not they who would take the brunt of his wroth. It is mine own. My blood, Sweetrobins, and Alaynes. It cannot come to war, I must stop it before it does.

Tywin's name, his reputation, it meant something to Jon. A long, dark shadow cast to be near indomitable. To make an enemy of the Old Lion was already coming to a place he did not wish to be, but when those golden claws of his, his disgraced children, were so deeply sunken into the Seven Kingdoms? Into Robert’s line of succession? It complicated things beyond comprehension. The situation needed to be dealt with delicately and with the exactness of a falcon punching into its prey. There was no room for vulnerabilities, and so long as his family remained, the knife he meant to strike upon the enemy may yet turn on them instead. It was too great a risk, for everyone involved.

His skin had crawled so viscerally when the oathbreaker dared ask for Alayne’s favor, as though to mock them all more than he so flagrantly already had. The three times he had, to be exact. He should’ve sent Jaime to the wall, made him take the black like Ned had advised him all those years ago. He should’ve never told Robert to marry that traitorous Cersei. He had been a fool to let the Lannisters accumulate so much power, he saw that now.

There had been many enemies he had seen rise and fall in his lifetime. He had fought them all. The Blackfyres, the Targaryens, and now the Lannisters, they were all the same. He felled the last two, he’d do it again.

Jon dipped his quill into the ink and his hand hovered over the empty paper. His blood thrummed through his fingertips, warm and fast, and suddenly he had the feeling he’d need a whole flagon of wine to have courage enough to put the thoughts which raced through his head on parchment.

If Alayne went away now, would she be able to come home?

No… this wouldn’t be her home anymore, a blasted voice in his head echoed.

He hadn't seen Ned for seventeen years. Would he have to wait so long to see his Alayne? Would he see her again at all if she left so far away?

“She’ll be safe there.” He mumbled to himself, his free hand coming up to rub at his temple.

He knew it to be true, but oh how this old mind of his played tricks on him. The sweetest of memories; her little face and little hands which gripped on to him with such gentleness. Those were simpler times. Times when she’d only beg to take tea with him, and play with her dolls together.

His hand began to move on its own accord, his heart beating with a dull ache.

She wasn’t a small girl anymore, no matter what he so desperately wished to believe. She had grown, and far too big for this place. It was long-past time she had her own home, and Jon wasn’t selfish enough to keep her from that.

I can’t give her the Eyrie, but this… this I can give.

A part of him knew his daughter would be lost to him. Hers was a flower which would continue to blossom, even without his watering. She didn’t need her dear old father, not anymore.

Let the minstrels discover the girl worthy of a thousand songs. Let them sing of your kind soul and your sweet face, the goodness of your heart. They shall find no fault to ridicule, for I have known your entire life you are most easy to cherish. 

He took a breath before peering down to the words he had wrote:

Dearest Ned,

Perhaps Jon had sensed the doom before it had come to consume them all.

Chapter Text

301 A.C.

King’s Landing

LUCAS considered himself a bastion of control, a paragon of robust strength. The notion was not unfounded, nor borne of hubris, just simple actuality. He had been told as such his entire life. His brother Lyonel, Lucas’s senior by a decade and a half, who was near as frugal in his praise as he was with what little gold remained to House Corbray, was even able to regard his youngest brother’s ability with reluctance. 

He had never anticipated there would be a day that this hale heart of his would just about stop. It hadn’t been a possibility in his small-mindedness that there would be something so unpleasant in a perfumed court that would give him pause. That a single person could move his very being so wholly, even if just for a moment.

Yet, as he stood by the woman he was charged with safekeeping, he learned that even a lady such as she could cause his blood to run cold.

Alayne’s eyes widened with a quality he had yet to witness in his time as her sworn knight. It was reminiscent of the glacial river a stone's throw away from his family’s ancestral seat at Heart’s Home. Her irises looked as though they were black as the bottomless depths of the White Rib . They threatened to drown him in their terror and lock his body under a sheet of ice so that they’d be immortalized in his frozen thoughts.

“W-what?” She uttered into the quiet of the library.

There was scarcely a word adequate enough in the common tongue to encompass the sheer horror etched on her already sharp features.

“My Lady, the Lord Hand he is…” There was a hesitance in the servant’s voice as Alayne stood unblinking. “A sickness struck him in the early hours. His grace thought it best to send for you… the maesters do not think Lord Jon has much time left before he is overcome.”

Gods be good…

Lucas’s breath hitched, startled by the ill tidings. His liege may have been well into his sunset years, but to have The Stranger looming over him so suddenly? He saw him with his own two eyes, health as well as it could be at such an age, mere days ago. Lord Jon had been at the tourney for Prince Joffrey’s nameday, nothing amiss. Lucas had seen him laugh without strain, and walk with no pain in his gait.

He didn’t have much time to toil in the fog of his confusion as his lady pushed away from the desk she had been hunched over. The great big book once under her scrutiny was now all but forgotten as she drew further away from its open, yellowed pages.

“Where is he?” Alayne commanded, breathless.

“In his chambers, my–” The servant began, though Alayne didn’t wait for the tail end of that sentence.

In a flash, her feet pivoted towards the tall archway which connected the chamber of tomes to the rest of the Red Keep and she took off. A whirlwind of pale blue silks whipped behind her as she went forth with unprecedented speed.

Without a thought, Lucas raced after her. His quickened pace caught hers easily, the steel clank of his armor trailed after her as nobles and maids alike cleared their path in bewilderment. Widened eyes and judgement as they whispered behind their hands at the unusual sight. It was not everyday the court bore witness to the Hand’s daughter running as though the grips of the Seven Hells lashed at her heels.

“Out of the way!” Lucas shouted as he ushered his lady through the narrowed corridors of the keep.

He was on her right, fully prepared to escort her to Lord Jon’s side by any means necessary. Though, as listened to the sounds of her labored breath from his place, he wondered for just a moment whether he should force their pace to slow.

She wouldn’t.

One look upon her face proved as much. Paler than he had ever seen, he realized that her heart may give out before her lungs have the chance if he did such a thing.

She held her skirts bunched up in her grasps as she made her mad dash, uncaring of propriety or discomfort. It took little time before they arrived at the Tower of the Hand. Lucas pounded his armored fists to the door and his fellow brothers in service opened in response to his urgency.

Alayne pushed through without so much as a glance, her mind fixed. It occurred to Lucas at this moment that perhaps he was not the one in control, tugging along the reins of his actions. Like an imaginary collar tightened around his throat when he saw her stumble towards the stairs he had seen her climb so many times. 

Her pants left her ragged and frantic as she scrambled up the steps. One step, two steps, and three, Lucas strode behind her. The fourth caused him to stop dead in his tracks so as to not collide with her body as she tripped forwards, over the air which seemed reluctant to grace her lungs as it did his. It was a little fall. The gentle blue of her gown became scuffed with the dirt of the stone floor as her knees landed on the billowy fabric of her skirts. 

“Wait!” Lucas called as he reached his hand to her kneeled form.

Like harsh winds of the Vale’s mountains, she turned to him like a storm, slapping his hand away as if it had personally scorned her.

“Don’t touch me! Do not–” Alayne tried and failed to scold him when she began to gasp. She coughed as she tried to draw breath, but to no avail.

Her face twisted into something a mix between desperation and agony, as if it were her life on the cusp of its end instead. Alayne clawed for the next step and Lucas knew then that she’d crawl the rest of the way if need be– or until she couldn’t.

In utter disregard of her words, Lucas forced his arms under hers. His lithe, muscled body went under her shoulder and he dragged her up with one swift tug. She coughed once more, the sound climbing up her throat as he willed her to stand still.

She truly looked as though she had transformed to a woman crazed. Her hair undone where it had once been tightly coiled and tucked away, and her body shaking from the force of her wheezing.

“Look at me.” He said.

Their eyes met and Lucas did as he had always been taught. To soldier on.

“There’s no time for this fanfare, your father needs you . You need to breathe and you need to do it now unless you want to faint before getting to him. D’you understand?” He stated his words clear as his lips thinned into a grim line. His grip on her shoulder tightened as he felt her muscles tremor in his hold.

“Do you understand?” Lucas pushed once more, intent on dragging her back from whatever precipice of doom and inaction she managed to land herself on the ledge of. 

To lose yourself in the midst of battle is to do half the work for your enemy.

Her features twisted with brief shock, but quickly schooled into something more dire. Her breathing slowly leveled out as she inhaled and exhaled deeply.

And theirs was a formidable foe.

“Okay– okay, let us go.” She nodded when she was ready, a clammy hand reached for the wall as she supported her weight against his, clamboring up the stairs together.

Time, it seems, is relentless in pressing its advantage against us.

Lucas knew, the small voice at the back of his head persisting, that this would be the last thing his liege would want. If Lord Jon witnessed the way he strained Alayne, the way he spoke to her, he would undoubtedly be freed from his service under House Arryn.

But he’s dying now. Perhaps taken by The Stranger already. Does any of it matter anymore?

Like a smith's hammer being taken to steel over a brazier, the realization hardened him once more. Fathers tended to have this effect. A fissure cracking between what they wanted in life versus what they caused in death.

Flashes of his own father appeared to him before he shook them away. Not now.

They had practically glided up the steps, the view of the ajar doors just down the hall. Alayne pushed away from him, overconfident in her legs' ability to keep her upright as she stumbled through the threshold.

She paid little mind to the shining white armor of the man posted just outside. Lucas, however, couldn’t deny the dread which sent a chill up his spine at seeing the knight. He looked as though he guarded the gates of the seven hells.

His lady went just ahead of him, the Kingsguard briefly following her head of dark hair when she rushed past. 

Lucas met the unblinking stare of Ser Mandon. His eyes were a pale grey, and about as lifeless as the face of a long dead man on the cusp of decomposing, all his lifesblood drained away. A fellow knight of the Vale, though not the sort he felt any kinship towards. Whether that was due to a difference in stations, or the general unease he felt whenever beholden to Ser Mandon, Lucas was inclined to assume the latter.

“What happened?!” He heard Alayne gasp from within the chamber.

His steps halted, and as he watched her rush to Lord Jon’s side his breath seized. He did not enter the room, but through the doors he could see plain as day The Hand, pale as a sheet of parchment, on his deathbed. For a moment, he thought, if he focused just enough he was able to smell the rot.

It was visceral the urge he had to follow. He hadn’t noticed he began moving until Mandon’s arm came rough against his torso. Those hard eyes met his without feeling, narrowing as Lucas grit his teeth.

“Wouldn’t if I were you.”

Bloody bastard. Our lord is dying a few feet away and you stand here as though nothing’s amiss.

Sometimes it seemed the king’s men were his in more ways than just their service. Astray in hard steel. Besides Ser Barristan, perhaps, they all had that same flicker of darkness in their eyes. Lucas had watched it when they trained in the yard, learnt from it when they’d trade blows. Tasted it himself, his tongue perceiving what his eyes took in.

It was Lyn who had served it to me first. 

Lucas huffed as he stepped back, body aflame to be anything but a bystander. Lady Lysa muffled the violent sobs which wracked her with a hand tight to her mouth. Her shoulders shook with the force of it all as she stood at the foot of the bed. 

He paced the hall, looked at the chiseled corbels atop pilasters with little interest before he circled back to where he came from.

King Robert. The Demon of the Trident. Lucas had heard stories since he was young, of course he had. The rebel stormlord turned protector of the seven kingdoms. The late Lord Corbray, his own sire, had taken mortal wounds fighting for that man. Wounds The Stranger had deemed enough to take him. His grace did not look like the man they described in the songs. Not the man as strong as ten giants, not the man who had brought about the reckoning of a dynasty three-hundred years strong, but quiet.

Quiet. Now that’s something I'd have never thought to associate with him.

He sat by the old lord’s bed, Grand Maester Pycelle behind, without a word, eyes still as a grey-blue storm on the horizon. There were no tears, nor fear, only a sort of reluctance that was all too familiar.

Lucas didn’t bother to disguise his watchful gaze when it slid to the side. The intimacy of it all, the way Alayne hunched over the half-corpse, it made his chest tighten. He wasn’t meant to witness it, this profound finality. Lord Jon mumbled something Lucas couldn’t catch while Alayne clutched on to his limp hand.

“Father, please you’re not making any sense. You don’t– you can’t do this to me.” 

The desperation was so clear in her voice as she threaded her fingers through his, as if her mere touch would rejuvenate him. Bring the blood back to his face and chase away the death.

“What do you mean?” Alayne begged, breathless.

‘You and Father don’t exist anymore. It’s just you, Lucas. Like it’s just me, and just Lyn wherever he’s fucked off to.’ …That’s what you told me, Lyonel, wasn’t it? 

He had been of seven summers, still gentle-of-tongue and with a naivete that filled his head with dewy dreams which were always stolen when the sun rose. He had wept for his father, he remembered. And ever the thief, Lyonel had brought reality tumbling down upon him.

Probably for the better, Lucas concluded sullenly while he looked upon Alayne and her father. They would cease to exist too now.

“Father…” Silence. “Open your eyes. ” Alayne shook his hand and it fell from her grasp.

“Jon.” Robert bellowed

The both of them were left with no response as Lord Jon went silent a final time.

…

And so, hereafter, did they cease to exist. On a mellow autumns day, a candlemark before noontide, Lord Jon of House Arryn transcended the plains of this mortal life and surrendered to the indomitable hold of The Stranger.

Lysa’s cries turned into ear-splitting wails as she threw herself upon her late lord husband, her body coming between Alayne and her sire. His lady’s eyes were wide saucers, and she stumbled backward.

Before Lucas could step forward, Ser Moore be damned, Alayne began to clutch at her neck, and backed away until she hit the wall beside the door.

And then, she ran again. This time with death at her heels.

“Go after ‘er.” A voice boomed, and Lucas didn’t need to be told twice.

His armor clanged hard as each of his steps hit the floor harshly as he followed the trail of wheezing until the ghost of her blue silks whipped around the corner and up the stairs. Again, he made his way up the winding path up, feeling strangely heavier than he had before. 

“Lady Alayne!” Lucas yelled from the distance as his lady disappeared behind another door, her father’s study.

His knuckles rapt on the hard wood.

Thump, thump, thump.

???

King’s Landing

ALAYNE ’s breath was short. The door slammed behind her and her tears came unbidden, much to her own anguish. The metal of the latch clanged audibly as she locked herself within the chamber. Her insides hurt and she was sure that if someone were to slice her open, flay her skin and pull apart her ribs, her heart would be blackened and bruised beneath the surface. 

A gentle knock came, the thump resemblant to the boom in her ears. Alayne panted, a hand firm over her sternum, rubbing, rubbing, grazing across the points of her collarbones, dipped at the hollow of her throat.

“Open the door, sweet girl.” A voice mumbled through the thick lumber.

She shook her head, though he couldn’t see her, and screwed her eyes shut as her back hit the mortar and stone walls of her father’s office. The skirts of her gown, a pale lilac, bunched up at her ankles as she slid down and curled her knees to her chest.

Thump, thump, thump.

“Just leave me alone!” She blubbered, like a mewling babe.

It was petulant, wayward, unruly. Not at all how she was supposed to act. Endlessly being drilled by her septas on how to be a lady, what was expected of her, how to be obedient and good; it did little now.

“I’d sooner waste away outside this door.” The voice chuckled, gravelly and familiar. “I only want to help you. Speak to me. Tell me what’s wrong and allow me to fix it.”

The daylight poured through the opened window, linen curtains tied back. The sun's golden glow illuminated the room. It enfolded the tidy desk, the chair tucked neatly, a long rectangular book case stood in the corner.  

“Then I shall stay here forever. You hear me? Forever! Everything is– it is broken!” Alayne wept ceaselessly.

Thump, thump , thump.

She swiped away the tears with her sleeves, though that only served to dampen the fabric. Each rough pass only caused the softness of her skin to be stripped, and fresh new tears to wet and sting the raw and red-streaked flesh.

“And why is that?” The voice probed gently.

The Eyrie was now to be passed on to the long-awaited baby boy her mother had brought forth from the righteous pains of childbirth. With the turn of the moon, Alayne had been unmade so easily. From heiress, to first-born spare. What would she do when her father cast her down from his grace for the ugly little urchin meant to replace her.

“You don’t care,” She cried. “You have the son you’ve always longed for now. He’s your heir, go be with him. I’m sure it grieves you to squander your precious time on me.”

There was an audible sigh.

“Alayne… open the door .” The voice faded in and out.

It pained her so, every word he spoke. There was a cruel irony in needing someone. Theirs was your strength. A dual-ended blade, sharp and cutting. Her father was her champion. The man who’d cradle her when she wept, the same one who would vanquish all her foe; even if it were a thousand. Would he want to shield her anymore now that he had a son?

Surely, she could not survive without him. She did not want to .

Her fingernails dragged across her face, the pain a dull reminder to breathe as her head began to feel lighter.

Thump, thump, thump.

Even the pump of her heart throbbed with the need to be embraced. For her father to kiss her brow and call her his ‘little moon’. To tell her he loved her, to reassure that she had gone mad in thinking he would ever abandon her.

Her legs, long as they could be at two-and-ten, fell to the side as her fingers stretched out to shakily unlatch the lock. She pressed her hand to the cool metal of the handle and opened the door just enough to glimpse her father’s lively blue eyes.

“Do you… even love me anymore?” Alayne peered through the crack in the door.

Jon Arryn was crouched, weight rested on the balls of his feet. He was nearly at her eye-level, and she saw with clarity his expression was grave. He frowned at her question. Slowly, he brought his hand to the door and pushed it open an inch. When she made no move to stop him, he reached his hands through the gap and held her face.

It felt cold.

His thumbs caressed the expanse of her skin, his palms clammy against the wetness of her cheeks.

“In all my years of life, the gods have never blessed me again with something so precious as you. And you would be silly enough to ask if I still love you? I shall be forthright in confessing now; there is nothing more dear to me than you, daughter. That will never change.” Jon said with such conviction, it moved her to sob even more of her cursed tears.

Her lips wobbled as she sniffled and he pulled her into his arms. She was engulfed in the embrace, the blue of both their silks mingling together , and she nestled into his shoulder.

They stayed rooted in that spot for a long time before she peeled away.

The room was shrouded in shadows, darkness engulfing everything. Not even the moon dared to shine its light upon her. She grazed the dry flesh of her cheeks, a pathetic attempt to feel the hands that had once been pressed upon them.

“ Please don’t leave me ,” She echoed . The soft innocence of childhood but a dim ember dowsed in front of her, along with her hope.

Her father only looked on dully and vacant through the night. Unmoving, unseeing, and unfeeling, he made no move to reassure her. A husk of a man which begged to sink back into the earth, free from a place where it didn’t belong.

They stared in silence for a breaths length before her eyes began to burn unbearably. She understood it deep in her bones that to look away for even an instant would mean to lose him.

You were supposed to stay.

“Don’t go.” She repeated. The sound was hoarse and tired.

Lord Jon’s face began to blur.

Try as she might, she was never strong like her father. She was reminded of that when her eyelids clamped over her vision. The blackness kept her captive as her heart stuttered, yet she couldn’t shed any tears.

When Alayne lifted the veil from her eyes, there were only empty walls and nothingness to cradle her.

The room was deserted and the hour of the owl had now descended. She sat on the cold floors and let the chill take her. It grasped her with haggard, rough hands and shook. Shook her until she shivered, shook her until she felt her bones rattle within.

The disparity between her senses was uniquely familiar. There was no mind, no heart, no lungs inside of her. Only a mighty weight which anchored her to the ground and forced her down.

She sat, paralyzed, and stayed and stared. A blink when her dry eyes could not stand it any longer, a breath when her lungs burned in a plea for respite.

How…? 

Jon Arryn had been of an advanced age, but never weak. He took everything in stride, never like other lords who found no greater use of their time but to complain while they remained blind to their own incompetence. Father laughed, ate, and drank. He enjoyed taking walks about the keep with her, and found joy on horseback with his squire, as well as hawking with King Robert. Hale as any man could be, how could this happen so suddenly?

Pycelle is a liar. It could not be, it could not, please, gods help me.  

Minutes, or even hours had slipped away like that. Gone like a summer breeze, gone like joy. Days could have passed her by without so much as a glance of acknowledgement. Perhaps only if enough time had passed, and her body began to wither, would she have seen what lay beyond her own two feet.

Not likely.

It was only when hushed voices bled through the lumber of the door was she woken from her reverie. Familiar, but far. She could not make sense of anything, the blur of it all made it sound as though they were speaking riddled tongues. The noise only served as a bleak reminder that there was still a world outside her father’s study.

It was instinct, natural, when she brought a shaky hand to the seven-pointed star hung from her neck. Each of its jutted edges stabbed into her palm as she clutched it between her fingers, pressing a bit harder with each prick of pain.

Why would you leave me like this, with such a cruel good-bye?

It wasn’t until the talking ceased did she release the steel. Waves of hurt flared from her hand, spread across her flesh like a poison. It was no matter. Pain was but an old acquaintance of hers. She would not shrink from something which had bloomed alongside her in the very womb which she had been born from. 

Shakily, she used the wall to support her as she stood. It felt as though she were a fawn who had just discovered what their feet were meant for, an attempt to stumble through their little world blind.

Smith, give me strength so I may… make it… through this day and the next…?

She might as well have been blind, nothing visible to her obscured by darkness. It became a bit easier, each of her unsure steps, every pace forward. Her mind's eye was able to draw her path without guidance.

This was, afterall, her home. 

Eventually, she managed to feel out matches and a tinderbox, and struck up a little flame. The candelabra was then lit, each and every candle burning bright, and wax beads continuing their journey down the metal.

Something dripped past her wrist and down her forearm, warm and wet. When she brought it to the light, the sight of her blood gliding down and met with the once-pretty hems of her sleeves was what revealed itself. Near identical to the last dress she had soiled, wiping away the blood from Ser Lucas’s jaw in a maesters tent after he had been thrown from his horse by Jaime Lannister. But this time, it was her own lifesblood instead of his and, somehow, that almost lent a bit of twisted comfort. 

‘The seed is strong.’

Last words deserving of her ire as she looked upon her own red, weeping weakness. The great lord of the Vale’s final message was so laughable she could go into a fit of hysteria.

This strength? This is the strength you speak of, Father? Have you even known me for just a day in my life? For if you have, you would know I am a manifestation of everything the gods have broken in man. Nothing more than a detestable harbinger of corruption, and a warning call to my own doom. The only strength your seed has ever sired–

“No more...” Alayne whispered into the silence to strike down her own thoughts.

It would not do to blame another for her faults. Her father taught her that.

Her hand came upon the skirts of her gown and wiped harshly, leaving a coppery stain streaked across her silks. Her gaze took to her surroundings and everything was frozen just as her father had left it. There was brilliance in all this chaos she reminded herself as she sauntered to his desk of oiled oak.

The mess had worsened since she had last been up here. Orders which might never see those they intended to censure, reams of letters– gods , there were so many. She parted the sea of sand colored parchment and thumbed through each. There was nothing of note to her, of course, just the flourish of Jon’s hand which caught her eye rather than the tedious accounts recorded.

“Father, you’ll be so angry with me for rifling through your things.”

Alayne felt a bitter laugh itch at the base of her throat.

He’ll tell her how she had no business fretting over his affairs before relenting and telling her whatever it was she was curious about in the first place.

She had paused when she came upon the easily recognized sky-blue stamp of her own house. An unvarnished falcon, details lost in the wax. She broke the seal and skimmed the contents of the missive with a mild sense of wrongdoing.

Maesters… Dragonstone… Shaking sickness… blood letting… utmost care… weak constitution …

Robert.

This was the letter meant to be bound for Dragonstone? It must have somehow escaped Father’s notice, elsewise it should have long flown on the wings of a raven to the island fortress if he meant to send Robert to become Stannis’s page in the near future. 

‘The seed is strong.’

The epitome of strength they were, Jon Arryn’s children. As evidenced by the words he himself authored, not even he believed that rubbish. It was illogical, absurd even, for him to say such a thing. Had the fever taken him and spat him back out absent of his senses?

Her chest grew tight, muscles contracted over her insides.

Alayne didn’t need lies. Her father was the only person meant to understand that. Had he so easily overlooked her self-hood? 

You knew what Robert and I were, it can’t be us you spoke of. For if it was…

The mere notion of it sickened her. It had to be someone else who had stolen her father’s last words, because if it hadn’t been that, it meant he would have completely succumbed to madness. Forgotten her in his final moments.

The base of her skull rattled and felt light, as though splintered like an egg, yolk spilt through the cracks.

I can’t breathe, she realized.

Father was meant to say that he loved her. That the sad sum of her existence had always meant something because she had been dutiful and good to him. That he was proud she was born his daughter. Instead…

‘The seed is strong.’

A gored hand flew to her sternum as she wheezed.

It doesn’t make any sense?

Spittle that had turned warm slid from her tongue and through her parted lips. It strung up and down with each attempted inhale she took, only flinging away as she let out an anguished moan. In and out she tried and tried until it turned true. 

An attempt to steady herself was made as she shot a hand out to grip the corner of the desk, only to instead be met with the stack of letters. The sound of parchment cascading like rainfall fluttered in her ears as her hand slipped forward and sent everything to the ground, her belly curled over the table. Alayne groaned, dismayed, and swung her head low between the apex of her shoulders.

“Gods be good.”

After a few moments had passed, she gingerly turned hinged at the hip and plucked each sheet from the ground. 

She made a neat stack, tapped them twice to align them perfectly, and set everything to the side. When she stepped back to prevent herself from ruining anything any further, the white corner of something beneath her shoe gave her pause.

When she shifted her foot to the side and picked it up she unballed the cloth. It was small and square, made with a material delicate in her hands. It was a handkerchief. Plain and embroidered with the initials J.A. The wine stain smeared into the fabric only confirming what she knew, the red color too watery to be– to be anything else.

Father always did take to drink when he was unnerved. That, or when someone persuaded him to indulge with them. A social obligation he once told me.

With the cloth in her grip, she got closer to the wine cart stood in the corner. It had yet to be cleaned, nor restocked. She could see the dirtied goblets tossed on the side, and when she peered into the crystalline beaker in the middle, it was of note that it was only half full.

He must’ve had company then, before he… 

There were noises outside the door again. How long had she been in here, the question begged her once again.

One moment she had been combing through the library at the break of dawn, and the next she was here in the dead of night.

And all that happened in between.

None of the servants had come to clean the mess as they routinely did if she had caged herself inside the room this entire day. Beyond that, whatever was left behind the night before stayed just as it was.

Who?

Like a phantom, she floated to the desk once again and searched until she found the letter meant to be sent to Dragonstone. Her father will thank her for making the journey up to the rookery and sending this off. 

To Stannis’s men on that dreary plot of grey. There were other places to send the boy, why Stannis? He managed to steal my father’s presence and his ear in such little time. Had a friendship truly tendered between them after all these years of indifference?

The thump of her shoes bounced off the stone as she pocketed the letter. Her hand came to the knob of the door, heavy like her tired eyes, heavy like her beatless heart.

Too much. Too many questions. Praying shall fix this, all of this.

Morning bled through the curtains and Alayne’s eyes blinked open as her consciousness came back to her laggardly. She felt more tired than before having rested. Her maids came in gentle, tones soft as they prattled on of the need to dress, something of her lady mother demanding her presence in the throne room for the wake. The clang of plates and silverware atop her side table bounced around her ears, causing her to push further into the pillows.

She kept her back to the unwelcome entourage that had gathered in her chambers. Time passed and she gave them no indication she still lived. Eventually they had gotten the hint and  filed out, to let her eat in peace she heard one of them say. She did not. Her belly lurched and her appetite had escaped her completely. Then, again, one maid was back in due time, and the sun had risen higher in the sky and shone brighter in the room.

Everything felt fuzzy and her head ached with the sound of a thousand voices condensed into her skull.

“My deepest apologies, but–”

“Apologies? Apologies for what, have you mucked something else up so early in the day? I don’t need your excuses, I need you to get someone to take these plates away before they spoil. I don’t need the smell stinking up my chambers.” Alayne glowered at nothing in particular, cutting off any further speaking. “ Apologies ,” she scoffed.

“At once.” The maid squeaked.

The door opened, the plates clattered, and again, the door closed. The maid still remained, rather eager to get Alayne dressed if her insistence on remaining here was anything to go by. She wondered how snippy Lady Lysa had to have been for this girl to risk the wroth of one noblewoman over another.

‘You cannot forsake obligations’ her father told her, his voice broke in and made the others obsolete and silenced.

That’s what this is, isn’t it? Just another thing expected of me.

Ever dutiful, Alayne rose from her feather bed and let her linen sheets fall off of her like a second skin. She didn’t spare so much as a look to the girl, her existence that of a spider webbed in the corner.

When Alayne settled in front of the mirror it was a spectre who looked back.

“Dress me, and be quick about it… my mother won’t be made to wait much longer.” 

Deft fingers got to work at the laces of her pale blue dress. The bloodied, soiled fabric slipped from her shoulders and was soon replaced with black. The moon-and-falcon of House Arryn was sewn in pearls, and when the maid began to reach for a dainty silver belt, the length embedded with sapphires, Alayne only held her hand up in silent refusal. 

Next was the face paint and powder to mask the puffiness of her undereyes and the dullness of her complexion. A temporary fix.

And finally, a veil. The inky coloring gave the mantle a near impenetrable exterior, a shroud which would shield her. When her hair was pulled into a simple style, the veil was placed and held by an unembellished headpiece. When it went over her eyes, she could scarce see her own two hands in front of her.

“You look well, my lady. Er—um… all things considered.”

Bumbling idiot, Alayne wanted to snap, though she stayed silent. Undue nastiness was not expected of her.

The halls were brimming, though it was muted as opposed to the usual bustle. A blanket of damp gloom palpable as she was escorted to the throne room. When she crossed the threshold, the first thing she rendered was the strong scent of incense as it bombarded her, burning through her sinuses. 

Low murmurs in the air were negligible comparatively, but still came to her attention after some time had passed.

And there were silhouettes. Shapes shrouded in shadows of their true selves. The Iron Throne lorded over the room, looming high above. People were scattered through the audience chamber paying their respects, the occasional shuffle of movement rippling through the quiet.

Then there was one silhouette in the center of it all. She couldn’t make out the details, just a body laying flat upon a blanketed pedestal. The Stranger’s Wives, the Silent Sisters, circled it as vultures would an animal carcass like the omens of death they were.

She felt so heavy again. 

What do I do now? 

Was she now to be good daughter to the mother who wished her here? Dutiful lady who collects condolences she does not need, nor have want for? She had all these acts in spades, yet no will to play any of them. She was weary of disappointment. No matter what path she took, how hard she had tried, it was impossible to escape. She had spent so much time stewing with it, perhaps inadequacy was just ingrained into her now.

“Alayne.” 

Mother.

Alayne sighed aloud before she turned.

Lysa was in a gown twin to her own. She couldn’t make out the intricacies of her face, but could see her mouth set in a hard, grim line.

“Lady mother.” She bowed her head.

“I cannot see your face through that.”

“I’m astounded you were able to recognize me then.” Alayne responded, tone hard.

“Sweet child, I gave you that face. That body. I could pick you apart from anyone here blinded.”

Lysa moved toward her in an instant, hands coming to the veil.

“I want to look upon you. This makes you look like a wraith. Remove it from your face, you're not the one who died.”

“Wait, stop–”

Before she could bat her hands away, it was lifted. 

Her soul must have passed right through her, like a wisp of smoke slithering away. The candlelight in the chamber flickered and the sun poured through the seven-pointed star mounted above the Iron Throne. Alayne averted her gaze, frightened.

Hands came to her cheeks and pinched, though the color had all but drained away from her skin.

Don’t look, don’t look– her eyes, only look at her eyes.

Still as a statue, Alayne held her breath when her sights set on her mother. She did not dare stray, for if she did…

Her stomach lurched.

The body, no, no, I don’t want this, stop this.

“Don’t be nervous, Alayne.” Lysa pushed her thumb against the creases between her eyebrows. “Remember, there is no need for tears, only a few if you must. Your father wouldn’t have wanted us all lost to grief.”

Stop talking, stop touching me.

“I tried to keep you from that awful room like I had Robin, so you wouldn’t get sick. But oh, the king ordered it when your father's time was near up. You needn’t have witnessed him like that in the end… how hideous it was to see him senseless and slurring. That King, that king, he knows nothing of my own children and he would go against their mother’s protection.” Lysa tutted, as though speaking of a spat, rather than the death of her lord husband.

With crushing strength, she was pulled into an embrace. Alayne’s flesh crawled like thousands of fire ants skittered over her skin. Her mother was sound enough to lean her head on the shoulder facing away from the center of the room. 

When a hand came to rub the place between her shoulder blades, Alayne kept her arms firmly at her sides as she burned with the desire to shove Lysa away. 

“Everything will be alright. You, Robin, me, we will be our own little family. And now I can handle your marriage and find someone wise enough, maybe even in the Vale with us. This is only a small bump in the path, hm?”

Why would we go to the Vale? This is our home… and did Father not tell her Robert would be going off to Dragonstone?

Alayne stayed silent as her mother sighed and dragged her arms up to embrace back. She didn’t fight, limp and numb. With her cheek smushed against the side of Lysa’s pale neck, which faintly smelled of a nauseating mix of sweet perfume and her own soured milk musk, Alayne stared blankly at all the passerbys.

Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, Varys lingering in the corner, nobleblooded knights of the Vale, Stannis Baratheon, Pycelle, a few ladies of the court. All in dark garb, besides Ser Barristan. The king wasn’t present, but that was no surprise. He was probably drunk, abed with his own sin.

It wasn’t as though the body was going anywhere, and that man never did have a sense of urgency so long as she’d known him.

…

Her eyes widened after a moment.

Stannis.

“I wish to pray for him now. Father’s safe passage is of the utmost importance.” She lied knowing her mother had no such care for her, as Lysa had put it, overly zealous tendencies. Alayne’s eyes were honed in on the large, balded man in her periphery.

Lysa pulled back with a straight face and dug her nails into Alayne’s arms.

“Remember what I said, sweet girl.” 

When her mother walked off, Alayne could seldom turn anywhere in this damned place without seeing it. She tugged the veil over her face, her shoulders sagged with relief and the false sense of safety that came with walking blind.

Sightless made her feel better, made her feel less. Missing one sense seemed to dull the others.

She wasted no time descending on Lord Stannis. Even like this she knew he would be scrutinizing her every step. There was nothing in her which quite cared to be scared before him, not now. The frigid, honorable Lord of Dragonstone was the least of fears in this place. There were darker shadows she crept around, she would not cow to this man. This living man.

“Lord Stannis. ‘Tis an honor to have you here on such a dark day for my family.” 

“Lady Alayne. Lord Arryn served my brother long and well, in that he was due my respects.” Stannis greeted coldly.

It was cruel to hear and leant no comfort to her bleeding heart.

His gaze darted over her for a split second before he settled his gaze elsewhere. 

Does he even see me when he looks, she wondered suddenly. She had seen him many times before, of course. Could envision his fringe of black hair, that tight and stubborn face like cured leather. A watcher, that’s what she was, but never seen.

‘The seed is strong.’

She was beginning to think there had never been someone to see past her eyes, and find her soul.

“He’s deserving of respects from many, and how not? There was none so devoted as he to duty.” She nearly smiled. “I think serving King Robert was the greatest honor he ever did have. Before my little brother, his grace and Lord Stark were the closest to sons he had, and he loved them like sons, I know it.”

Temptation wasn’t the word she’d use to describe the need she had for the truth of it all. She’d pull apart Stannis’s own skull with bare hands if it meant she could pick his brain for what he might’ve known. For what he had to know.

"... but you. I wonder, what were you to my father? A kingsman, a friend, an ally? The two of you had business, another thing I am sure of. He told me as much.”

He may grind her to shreds with that square jaw of his. Like a dog does a bone, but what did she have left to lose but her mind if she didn’t ask? 

“Nothing of your concern is what.” He snapped back, near immediate. “The grief has left you brash, and you ask questions which aren’t yours to ask. The nature of my comings and goings is my own. Whatever business I had with Lord Jon died with him. You’d do well to reflect on what you’ve been told. If you don’t know the whole of it, that’s not without reason.”

Pride-riddled man as prickly as you are unpleasant. You dare tell me what I can and cannot know?

“The seed is strong,” She spat with venom. “Repeating, and repeating it, he kept going until he couldn’t any longer. You must know something. You have to because if you don’t…” Sadness welled up like a spout and choked her. She could not bring herself to say it.

Then you are lost to me, Father. Wholly, completely, I will have failed you. Pycelle is a liar, a liar. It couldn't have been your own health to fall flat. The strongest man I have ever known can’t have left me like that, in such an underwhelming good-bye. 

Willfully, she did not let tears take her. There was nothing weeping could do for her, that much Mother had been right about. She wasn’t a little girl, and there was a distinct feeling that Stannis would tolerate her even less if she acted like one.

My head is spinning. What happened, the truth of it all?

Stannis stayed quiet, and Alayne suddenly wished she had courage enough to take off the veil, unable to see his expression.

“He staved off death to see me, to tell me that. You can’t be cruel enough to believe that means nothing. I am asking, not as a bereaved daughter, but as a trusted companion to The Hand.”

Something must have possessed her in that moment, anger she realized. She heard more life in her voice, croaky and tired, than she had felt in what seemed an eternity.

“We had a shared interest in maintaining the king’s peace. He cared for my brother, and was willing to right wrongs long made. He kept my kin safe, and I shall do the same to repay the debt. Lord Arryn died in service to his king, like he was meant to. Quell your curiosities with that.” Stannis persisted in his own pigheadedness.

Died for Robert and wrongs and the king's peace? The seed is strong… but was it the king’s you were referring to, Father? 

“I don’t need your protection, I want your confession. Do not claim to do this on his behalf.” Alayne was quick with her words, this verbal slash of swords.

“I’m not looking to appease you. I’ll warn you once for out of respect for the dead; stay away from all of this, you’ll find no answers with me. The only thing I intend to do is serve by my brother's side and do my duty like I always have.”

Robert was open in boasting how much of a bore his brother was, how rigid. It wasn’t for love of him he kept Stannis on his small council, but a begrudging duty to family not even a king could escape. How the Lord of Dragonstone intended to serve by his side when she wasn’t entirely sure the king wouldn’t just punch a goblet through his skull before listening to this infuriating man wasn’t of her concern.

“Perish the thought, this isn’t his will. Do not claim to do this in his memory.” Alayne glared

To make an enemy of Stannis Baratheon was what she wished for no reason more than the spite which buzzed through her. Nothing would please her half so much as bringing forth his ire. It wasn’t wise, no, but her head became more clouded each moment she stayed here.

Alayne turned away and strode to the great oaken doors of the throne room, fire on her heels.

One says a thousand words when they don’t mean to. You, Lord Stannis, have done so.

But it wasn’t only him, was it? After all, Jon Arryn said but three measly words and nothing had ever meant more.

You will thank me for this soon, once I learn the truth.