ALYSSA II
The leaves of the old oak rustled gently in the warm breeze, and the faint clinking of teacups filled the silence between words. Alyssa Velaryon sat composed in her seat, her hands folded lightly around her cup, her fingers stiff from days of feigned calm. The scent of dragon's breath and fresh-cut grass lingered on the air, masking the scent of stone and fear that normally clung to the Red Keep.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne chased each other in a slow circle around the heart tree: its bark rough, its limbs wide and protective, its trunk bearing no carved face, just age. There was no weirwood in this godswood, just an old oak, solemn and broad, as if it had stood here even before the walls were raised.
Alyssa’s father, Lord Admiral Aethan Velaryon, sat to her right, his posture stiff, his cup untouched; he had brought his own goblet. He had aged so much since the days of Driftmark, since the war, since her Aenys had died. The sharp gleam in his eyes remained, but the rest of him had faded, softened by the grief of watching his daughter fall into the hands of Maegor.
Across from them sat Queen Ceryse Hightower, draped in delicate silks of steely grey, her hair pinned back with small silver combs shaped like stars. She looked not like a queen today, but a noblewoman playing court in some quiet corner of the world, her eyes dreamy as they followed the laughter of the children.
“They look well,” Ceryse said softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “Especially the girl. Alysanne has such… light in her.”
Alyssa forced a smile.
“Yes,” she said. “They are… my joy.”
It was true. Yet even now, with her children free and near her, Aegon and Rhaena’s absence pulled at her like stones tied to her ankles. And she could not forget the two babes: the girls who had been handed to her like tokens, whose cries still echoed in her dreams.
This place, the godswood, this small grove tucked inside a prison of walls and politics, was the only corner of peace left to her. No courtiers here, no sharp eyes of Tyanna, no Maegor’s shadow. Just old trees, warm sunlight, and the sound of children pretending they were still free.
“It’s good of you to come,” Alyssa said after a moment, turning her eyes to Cersye. “I did not expect such… kindness.”
The queen gave her a long look.
“You were a queen once, too,” Ceryse said. “And a mother. And a wife. It’s not our fault who we’re given to marry.”
Her voice faltered slightly. Alyssa caught it. Something in it sounded like confession.
Lord Aethan gave a soft snort at that, not unkind, but disapproving. He never approved of soft talk, not when it came to men like Maegor.
But Alyssa only nodded and returned her gaze to the children, letting the quiet fall again.
It was so easy, in this moment, to pretend they were simply a trio of nobles at rest. Not prisoners. Not widows. Not survivors of fire and war. Just women, just family, drinking tea beneath an old tree that had never asked for blood.
And for that brief moment, Alyssa let herself believe the lie. Just long enough to breathe.
Ceryse began by asking, almost casually, “And where is young Prince Viserys? I had thought he might be joining us as well.”
Before Alyssa could answer, her father Lord Aethan Velaryon spoke first, his tone clipped and factual.
“The king has taken him as a squire. He’s training with Maegor in the yard as we speak.”
Ceryse’s teacup paused halfway to her lips, her brow tightening with a flicker of something between surprise and offense.
“Oh,” she said after a heartbeat. “No one told me.”
Alyssa watched her carefully.
The queen’s voice was smooth, but Alyssa could hear the small crack beneath the surface; the sting of exclusion, the reminder that even as queen, Ceryse no longer held sway in the halls of the Red Keep. And Alyssa, though no friend of the woman, felt an unexpected pang of sympathy.
Ceryse Hightower had once been the glittering jewel of Maegor’s ambitions: his first wife, a match to bind the Faith to the Iron Throne, draped in silks and crowned in gold. But that was years ago. Since then, Alys Harroway and Tyanna of the Tower had each risen in her place, younger, more fertile, or at the very least more useful.
Now, Ceryse was still queen, in name, perhaps, but the crown had slipped far from her grasp.
Alyssa, who had lived through similar humiliations, understood.
Ceryse looked back toward the children playing near the heart tree, her expression momentarily wistful, almost yearning. Alyssa followed her gaze and caught that familiar, pained look in her eye.
Of all Maegor’s queens, Alyssa thought, she’s the one who seeks out my company the most. Not Alys. Not Tyanna. Just Ceryse. The one with no hope of having a child of her own.
Ceryse might have been proud and cold once, but she had no heirs, no hold on the king’s affections. And now, she looked at Alyssa’s children, Jaehaerys and Alysanne, with something deeper than envy. Longing.
The sharp clanging of hammers and the groan of stone being moved cut through the still air, and Alyssa Velaryon instinctively turned her head toward the sound. It was ever-present now; the sound of men building and walls rising, of the Red Keep grinding slowly toward completion.
“Always the sound,” she murmured, mostly to herself.
Across the table, Queen Ceryse sighed, lifting her cup with a delicate grimace.
“I’ve grown to loathe it,” she said. “Night and day, that endless noise. But… the godswood helps. A little peace, even if it’s never truly quiet.”
Alyssa nodded politely, hiding a flicker of exhaustion behind her teacup. Her father, Aethan, shifted beside her, clearly uncomfortable with what he viewed as idle court chatter. His jaw was tight, and he watched the construction through the trees as if it were a personal insult.
Ceryse turned back to Alyssa with that half-smile she wore like armor.
“And how have you and your children adjusted to… life here, in the Red Keep?”
Alyssa held her smile. It was important to look composed. Resigned. Dutiful.
“It’s… been a change,” she said, voice even. “Viserys is His Grace’s squire now. Most of his time is spent in the yard with the king or the master-at-arms.”
She gestured lightly toward the heart tree, where Jaehaerys and Alysanne had begun tracing patterns in the dirt with sticks.
“Jaehaerys reads often, studies. He watches his brother train when he’s not in the library. And Alysanne… she follows him… or me.”
She paused, just long enough to catch the queen’s eyes.
“Normally, Alysanne would have a septa. But under Maegor, the Red Keep has… none.”
Ceryse nodded slowly, her lips pursed. She did not speak against her husband’s decree, of course. She only looked away for a moment and said,
“It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To have a castle without a septa. Without prayers.”
Alyssa dipped her head in response.
“I take mine at the royal sept. Daily. I’ve taken up sewing, too. Helps the days pass.”
Ceryse nodded again, seemingly satisfied. Her own cup had gone untouched for several minutes.
But Alyssa’s hand remained steady only through force of will.
Yes, she had been sewing.
Yes, she had gone to the sept. Every day.
But beneath her needlework, letters lay folded, tucked beneath linens. Letters in her hand, bearing no sigils, coded in old phrases their allies would remember. Messages meant for the Lords of the Vale, the North, the Stormlands, and the Reach: for anyone who might still care that Aenys Targaryen’s blood remained in his children.
Viserys was Maegor’s squire. But that didn’t mean he was his creature. He was Aenys’s eldest son: the true heir.
Ceryse’s voice came softer this time, almost hesitant, as she glanced toward the Red Keep.
“And the… twins?” she asked. “Aerea and Rhaella. How are they faring?”
Alyssa’s breath caught. The teacup in her hands trembled faintly. For a moment, the gentle rustle of leaves and distant laughter of children seemed to vanish under the weight of that question. She didn’t answer right away; because saying their names, thinking of Aegon and Rhaena, burned in her chest like hot iron.
But she was a queen, or had been. And queens did not weep in the godswood.
“The wet nurses are doing well,” Alyssa said at last, her voice even. “They feed properly, sleep soundly most nights. And when I hold them…”
She trailed off, swallowed once.
“…when I hold them, it’s like I can feel Aegon. And Rhaena. It’s not the same, of course, but it’s… something. A piece of them that’s still breathing.”
Ceryse looked away, her eyes glistening in the sunlight filtering through the oak leaves.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Truly, Alyssa. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Alyssa nodded, though her jaw tensed. She didn’t miss the sharp breath from her father Aethan, or the brief twist of his mouth: disgust, not for Ceryse’s sympathy, but for the whole farce of it. The queen offering pity while they all lived under the roof of the man who’d made his daughter a widow.
But Alyssa accepted the comfort, because that, too, was a weapon. And oddly, it didn’t feel hollow.
“Something strange happened, though,” she said after a moment. “A few nights ago, I was in the nursery… and the king came.”
Ceryse’s brow lifted.
“His Grace?”
Alyssa nodded.
“He didn’t speak. Didn’t come near. He just stood in the archway… and watched them.”
She shivered, remembering the look in his eyes. Not warmth. Not exactly coldness either. Just… staring. As if trying to solve a riddle written in a tongue he could not understand.
Ceryse turned her cup between her fingers, then spoke carefully.
“He doesn’t understand children,” she said. “Or babes. But he wants to. He won’t say it. Not to me, not to anyone. But I think… it’s not only about the heir. He wants a child. A son. Or a daughter. Something of his own.”
Alyssa looked at her for a long moment, her face unmoved.
But inside, she was skeptical. Maegor wanted control. Power. A legacy, perhaps. But wanting a child? In the way Aenys had held his sons with trembling hands, or how Rhaena had cradled her daughters like fire too precious to put down?
No. It didn’t seem like Maegor.
“Maybe,” Alyssa said aloud, noncommittally. But in truth, she thought the words sounded more like confession than insight. A sorrow from Ceryse herself, who had once hoped to bear the king’s heir and had only earned his contempt in return.
She pitied her, in that moment. Not as a queen, or a rival, but as a woman left empty.
And yet, Alyssa knew she had to think of her own emptiness, her own future.
Maegor might have taken everything from her.
But her children were still hers.
And one day, so too might be justice.
Ceryse turned her head slightly, the delicate combs in her hair glinting in the light as she fixed her eyes on Lord Aethan Velaryon.
“My lord,” she said gently, “do you think the fighting with the Faith Militant will end soon? Will the realm finally have peace?”
Aethan, caught mid-sip of his wine, paused. For a breath, he looked almost surprised that the queen had addressed him directly; as if his usual detachment had suddenly cracked. But he recovered quickly, setting the goblet down and folding his hands together with the composure of a man long used to war and the weight of heavy decisions.
“There are no great armies left to oppose the king,” he said plainly. “The Faith’s banners are scattered. Their commanders are dead or in hiding. But the Red Dog, Ser Joffrey Doggett, and others like him still ride. Bands of former Warrior’s Sons, Poor Fellows, rebels who wear righteousness like armor but live by fire and sword.”
His eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed beyond the godswood, past the walls of the Red Keep to the roads and hills beyond.
“This war won’t end until they lay down their arms… or Maegor kills every last one of them.”
Ceryse nodded at that, slowly, solemnly.
“I’ve written to the High Septon,” she said softly. “To the Most Devout as well. I’ve urged them to speak out: to condemn these outlaws for what they are. Rebels, not champions of the gods.”
She looked between Alyssa and her father, as if hoping for agreement, for validation.
“Maegor’s ways are harsh, yes. But they must be. The king’s peace must be maintained. If this is the price, then it must be paid.”
Alyssa smiled.
A small, composed, queenly smile. The kind she had learned to wear when her husband was being told he was weak, when her son was being called a traitor, when whispers passed through court like knives in the dark.
But inside, she recoiled.
Peace through fire. Peace through dragonflame and heads on spikes. That was Maegor’s justice.
Aegon and Rhaena had burned beneath that peace. Thousands of others too. And now here sat Ceryse, eyes glassy, still begging favor from a king who had cast her aside and parroting his cruelty as necessity.
Alyssa said nothing of what she truly thought. She only nodded.
“Yes. The king’s peace.”
The laughter of Jaehaerys and Alysanne rang out across the godswood like a melody from another life.
They were playing monsters-and-maidens, Alysanne shrieking dramatically as her brother gave chase around the oak tree, his arms outstretched like claws. Their laughter was pure, untouched; for a moment, Alyssa almost believed they truly didn’t know where they were, what had happened to their brother, their sister. Almost.
Queen Ceryse’s gaze followed the children too, and Alyssa saw it again: the longing, the way her lips parted slightly and her expression softened. For all her elegance and cool poise, it was plain on her face: the ache of a woman with no children, watching those of another.
Then Ceryse turned back to Alyssa and Lord Aethan, her voice light.
“You’ll forgive me, I need to visit the privy. I’ll return in just a moment.”
She rose, gathering her skirts with a practiced grace. The Kingsguard, a silent figure in white and steel who had been watching them the whole time, shadowed her without a word, following at a respectful distance as she disappeared down the stone path that led to the castle corridors.
The moment the two were gone, the godswood felt quiet in a way it hadn’t all morning.
Alyssa stared at the path for a moment, just to be certain, then turned her eyes back to the clearing, to her children still lost in play. Jaehaerys had let Alysanne “rescue” herself now, and the two were sitting cross-legged, giggling.
It was the first time in weeks that Alyssa had been alone with her father.
No spies of Tyanna, no court watchers, no Maegor, and no gilded cage of politeness fencing them in.
She didn’t speak immediately.
She watched her children, arms folded tightly, chin lifted.
But inside, the words were boiling up. She had so much to say. Too much.
Alyssa didn’t even know where to begin:
Should she speak of the letters she’d been preparing?
Of how Viserys’s squirehood might be turned to advantage?
Of how Maegor had looked at the babes, with that unreadable expression?
Of how even Ceryse, withered, cast-off Ceryse, was now a possible tool?
So much to say… and so little time.
Her eyes shifted toward her father, Aethan Velaryon, still stone-faced, still watching the children. His profile was sharp as ever, the sea-weathered look of a man who had served three kings and lost much in doing so.
“Father,” she said quietly, voice taut. “We have only a moment. I-”
Her voice nearly broke.
She swallowed.
“I need to know. Are you still with me?”
Her fingers trembled slightly in her lap.
“Do you still believe in them?” she added. “In us?”
Aethan Velaryon turned his head slowly toward his daughter, his weathered face unreadable beneath the silver flecks in his beard. His voice, when it came, was low but firm: anchored, as always, like driftwood in a storm.
“I am with you,” he said. “With them. Always. That should never be in question.”
Alyssa exhaled; part relief, part irritation. She had known the answer before she asked, but still… she had needed to hear it.
But her father wasn’t finished.
“This tea with Ceryse,” he added, a note of sharpness returning, “is a waste of time. We could’ve found some other way to speak freely.”
Alyssa kept her expression neutral, her smile intact; though it no longer reached her eyes.
That was her father, always. Blunt. Humorless. A man made for ships and battles, not whispers and courtyards. His love was real, but it came in forms like alliances and protection, never softness.
“Every step I take at court helps us,” Alyssa replied coolly. “Ceryse may be the least of Maegor’s queens, but she’s still his queen. Her favor means safer footing. For me. For the children.”
Aethan scoffed.
“Her favor means nothing,” he said. “Tyanna commands spies in every hall. Alys is his broodmare. Ceryse is an ornament, an encumbrance he’s too proud to discard. You waste your words on a crown with no power.”
Alyssa folded her hands, keeping her voice even.
“I waste nothing,” she said. “Even ornaments can catch the eye.”
Her father turned from her, watching Jaehaerys and Alysanne again as they whispered conspiratorially beneath the boughs of the heart tree.
Then, his voice softened; just a fraction.
“I don’t want to argue about Ceryse.”
A pause.
“I want to talk about saving you, saving them.”
Alyssa looked at him. Really looked at him.
His eyes were still hard, but behind them… the flicker of desperation. A man who had lost his son-in-law. His grandson. His granddaughter. A man who had watched the tides wash away his legacy, his bloodline piece by piece.
Now, he was desperate to save her and three children who weren’t supposed to survive Maegor’s reign.
Alyssa swallowed. Her voice barely rose above the wind through the oak leaves.
“Then we talk. Now. While we still have time.”
Aethan Velaryon’s voice was quiet but sharp, each word clipped and purposeful.
“I’d hoped to spirit you all away from Dragonstone,” he said, eyes on the children still playing in the grass. “Back to Driftmark. Before Maegor called you to King’s Landing.”
Alyssa’s heart lurched: half in gratitude, half in frustration. So he had been planning something. Risking something. For her. For them.
And yet… he’d told her nothing. As always.
She lowered her voice, tone careful, but edged.
“You should’ve told me, Father. I could’ve helped. I’ve been laying groundwork too. I have… letters.” She glanced around, just in case. “Letters to send. To the Lord Paramounts. If you can smuggle them out…”
Aethan cut her off with a raised hand.
“No. Not yet. None of those letters matter.”
His eyes turned toward hers, steel-hard.
“Not until the children have dragons.”
Alyssa blinked.
“They do-”
“Jaehaerys and Alysanne,” he said, nodding. “Yes. Silverwing. Vermithor. But they’re locked away on Dragonstone, and Viserys has none. He’ll need one. Or tame one. Somehow.”
He leaned in slightly, voice lowering.
“You saw what happened to Aegon and Rhaena. They had dragons. And it wasn’t enough.”
Alyssa’s throat tightened. The names felt like knives, even now.
“You think more dragons would’ve changed it?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I think if we ever want the lords of Westeros to rise,” Aethan said, “if we want to take back the throne, your children will need more than names: the dragons will be a start.”
He gestured broadly toward the sky, toward the Red Keep’s looming towers.
“We can’t inspire rebellion with promises. We need to show them a future… one they can believe in.”
Alyssa stared at him.
“And you plan to… what? Smuggle us out of the Red Keep? Past his guards? Past Tyanna’s spies?”
Aethan’s silence was all the answer she needed.
“We never expected Maegor to bring you here,” he said at last. “None of us. He meant to keep you at Dragonstone, isolated. Safe, in his way. But this…”
He looked around the godswood again; at the walls, the tower windows peering down, the ever-present shadow of Balerion roosting nearby.
“This is a prison, Alyssa. And if we stay too long… it’ll be a tomb.”
Alyssa clenched her fists in her lap, the soft rustle of her skirts the only outward sign of the storm churning in her chest.
Aethan leaned in just slightly, his voice no louder than the wind through the oak leaves above.
“Your brother Daemon is on his way,” he said. “He’ll be here within the week, under the guise of representing Driftmark at court. When he arrives, he’ll help. There are… plans already in motion.”
Alyssa raised an eyebrow, but her father continued before she could question further.
“I know it’s asking a lot… patience. But that’s what we need now. Time. Care. If Maegor gets even a whisper of what we’re planning…”
He didn’t need to finish.
Alyssa already knew. She had imagined it too many nights in her chambers, sitting alone by candlelight, her quill in hand and her heart gripped by fear. Maegor didn’t merely punish rebellion; he eradicated it, root and stem.
“He’d wipe out House Velaryon,” Aethan said plainly. “Burn Driftmark to the ground. And he’d kill you. Your children. Even the babes. He’d say it was security, or justice, or necessity. But we know what it would be.”
“A massacre,” Alyssa murmured.
“Exactly.”
He reached over, placing a firm, callused hand over hers.
“We’ll get them out. But we must not rush. Not yet.”
Alyssa’s fingers tightened against his, the weight of her frustration tempered by the rare warmth of his touch: something not often offered from her grim, stony father. She gave a small nod.
“I’ll hold onto the letters. Until the time is right.”
They sat like that a moment longer, their quiet alliance sealed in the shade of the godswood; a father and daughter, once torn apart by tragedy, now bound by necessity.
But the moment passed.
The sound of footsteps returned, and both turned their heads.
Queen Ceryse was making her way back along the path, the lone Kingsguard shadowing her again. She smoothed her skirts as she approached, her face once more composed into a courtly smile.
Alyssa quickly shifted in her seat, composing herself. Aethan did the same, hands folded once more, the careful mask of calm back in place.
Their brief window was closed.
But there were plans already unfolding.