Chapter Text
The sky over King’s Landing was tinged with the rosy hues of the morning sun, bathing the castle’s walls with the warmth of a new day. From the high windows of the Red Keep, Alysanne Targaryen watched the bustling Keep ready itself for the day, with anticipation and unease. Today was the beginning of the tourney to announce her new sibling; the streets of King’s Landing were filled with merchants, nobles, and commoners alike, all eger to witness the grand event but also to make their fortune. Alyssane could feel their excitement, which travelled through the Red Keep and spilled out into the streets of Flea Bottom. The prospect of a new royal babe had brought her father, King Viserys, much happiness and thus the tourney to celebrate the new babe was meant to be a grand affair, one that would demonstrate the strength and unity of House Targaryen, but to also uphold his legacy. He would have his son, his heir.
As much as Alysanne was eager to witness the spectacle and the birth of her new sibling, she could not shake the tension and worry that knotted in her stomach. The birth of her new sibling would change everything. If a boy, her father and the court long awaited heir, then everything would change. In the eyes of all, her new brother would be the rightful heir to the throne. She did not know what would happen to her or her sister Rhaenyra or which one of them would be betrothed to the babe if it was a boy. But above all was the worry for her mother, Queen Aemma Arryn. Before her current pregnancy, she had lost more babes than any royal consort- the realm had mourned at first, but had given up hope for a male heir, and yet their father continued on, trying for his male heir. Alysanne wished she and her sister was enough for their father, enough so that their mother wouldn't have to suffer anymore.
A knock on the door pulled her from the thoughts and she called out for them to enter, smoothing down the folds of her gown - a deep red silk, fitted at the bodice and flaring into a skirt that moved like flames with every step. The neckline was adorned with delicate gold embroidery, the shape of dragon wings speaking across her shoulders, a reminder of the targaryen blood that ran through her veins. Her sliver hair cascaded down her back in a waterfall of intricate braids woven with crimson and black ribbons, and those braids that formed a crown upon the top of her head were adorned with small dragon-shaped pins, modelled after her own dragon, Heartfyre. Around her neck hung a chain of Valyrian steel, bearing rubies across the chain that glitter like fire in the morning light.
The door opened, revealing Ser Harrold Westerling, the loyal Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd. His face, lined with age and wisdom, softened as he bowed to her.
“Princess Alysanne,” he greeted. “The tourney is about to begin. The King has requested your presence in the royal box”.
Alysanne nodded. “Thank you, Ser Harrold. I will join him shortly.”
She took a deep breath and adjusted the dragons shaped pins in her hair, making sure each one was perfectly in place. Today may be for the long awaited boy heir, but regardless of what the birth of her new sibling meant, she was a Targaryen, a princess of royal blood, and that was all that mattered.
As she sat in the royal box, Alysanne was quickly joined by her sister, Rhaenyra, whose excitement was barely contained. The young girl’s silver-gold hair was crowned around her head and her gown of red, with a striking and stiff gold collar, was beautiful.
“Do you think it will be a boy or girl?” Rhaenyra asked, practically bounding in her seat.
Alysanne could only smile at her sister's enthusiasm, pushing her own complicated thoughts out of her head for now. “I don’t know, Nrya. But whatever happens, they will be loved dearly.”
Rhaenyra nodded, though it was clear that she hoped for a sister - she had whispered to Alysanne last night, where they curled in bed, what she hoped to name her new sister. Viseyna. Alysanne could only feel unease at the thoughts of her newest, yet to be born sibling. Between the realms and lords of Westeros known preference for male heirs, if this sibling was to be another sister, she dreaded what the realm would say about her mother. Would her mother have to go through more pain, more heartbreak, just for one son? Would her and Rhaeynra’s future ever be safe and secure without the birth of a son? Alysanne had no way of knowing.
Soon, the rest of the court arrived, including her father, King Viserys, his face glowing with joy and anticipation. He wore a dark, rich red robe, trimmed with gold, the Targaryen sigil was proudly displayed on his chest.
“Alysanne, Rhaenyra,” Viserys said, beckoning them closer. “Come, sit with me. Today is a day of celebration!”
Alysanne and Rhaenyra took their seats beside their father. Alysanne couldn't help but feel her father’s joy - today was for a celebration, a display of strength and unity. It was then when she saw Alicent Hightower approaching. As a handmaid of her mother and daughter of the Hand of the King, Lady Alicent was poised and graceful as ever. Her auburn hair was styled perfectly, her light blue gown accentuating her figure.
“Princess Alysanne, Princess Rhaenyra,” Alicent said, greeting them with a curtsy.
“Lady Alicent.” Alysanne replied, her tone cordial but cool. There was a time once when Alicent had once been Alysanne’s friend, but as the years passed, their relationship had grown cooler and distant.
Alicent took a seat next to her father, Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, overlooking the tourney field. The crowd's cheers rose to a deafening roar as the jousts began, knights in shining armour parading onto the field, their banners fluttering in the wind. As the heralds announced the beginning of the tourney, Alysanne’s attention was drawn to the many knights taking their positions on the field. Among them was Daemon Targaryen, her uncle, resplendent in black armour with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his chest.
Demon was a fierce warrior, his reputation as the Rogue Prince preceding him. He was a formidable figure, both admired and feared by many. Alysanne could only feel a mix of admiration but also wariness towards him. For his loyalty to his family and the suspense he created, as the Lord of Flea Bottom, Demon was cruel and unpredictable. And when he looked at Rhaenyra, Alysanne could only hold her sister away from his eyes, scared at the lust he projected onto her sister, who was still young enough to play with dolls and dream about knights.
Daemon caught her eye from the field and stared at her until the first round of jousting began. Alysanne forced herself to hold his stare, unflinching under his glaze. She was a Targaryen, and she was a dragon - she would not be afraid.
The crowd erupted in cheers as a set of knights charged at each other. Alysanne watched with interest, noting the skill and tactics of each participant. With each clash of lances and as knights were unseated, their banners failing to the ground, Alysanne found herself mentally calculating the odds of each knight's victory.
As the rounds continued on, Alysanne’s gaze was drawn to a knight who had just unseated his opponent with impressive ease. His armour was adorned with the sigil of House Hightower, and when the knight removed his helm, his features were revealed. He was handsome, with a sharp jawline and hazel eyes. Alysanne recognized him as Ser Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s older brother.
Alysanne felt her heart quicken as she watched him. There was something about his presence that she felt drawn to, a different type of confidence that set him apart from the other knights. When Gwayne glanced up at the royal box and their eyes meet, hazel and lavender, he gave her a small, respectful bow of his head. Alysanne felt a blush rise to her cheeks and quickly looked away, hoping no one had noticed.
As the jousts continued, the tension in the air grew. The number of knights dwindled, and with another round approaching, the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. It was then that Gwayne Hightower rode forward, his horse prancing with energy as he approached the royal box, his face both handsome and determined.
“Princess Alysanne,” Gwayne called out, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd who had suddenly quieted, his voice clear and strong. “Would you grant me the honour of granting me your favour, so I may ride with your blessing?”
Alysanne’s breath caught in her throat as the crowd hushed, all eyes turning to her. She hesitated for a brief moment, aware of this gesture that would be interpreted by the court in so many different ways. But as she looked into Gwaynes hazel eyes, she felt a surge of courage. She stood gracefully, her heart pounding in her chest. With practised motion, she untied a crimson ribbon from her hair, and let it flutter down to Gwaune.
He caught it with ease, a small smile playing on his lips as he tied the ribbon around his arm. The silent crown erupted into cheers, but Alysanne could sense the undercurrents of gossip already beginning. She could feel Alicent’s eyes on her, a mixture of surprise, but something - something more guarded.
Alysanne sat back down, her pulse still racing. Across the field, Gwayne prepared for his own match against her uncle, Daemon’s black armour gleaming ominously in the sunlight. His face was set in a determined expression, though a trace of his usual smirk lingered at the corners of his mouth. Alysanne knew that Daemon thrived on challenges, on proving his superiority in the most dramatic fashion possible. And today, it seemed, he had his sights set on Gwayne.
Alysanne was pulled from her thoughts as Daemon rose forward on his black steed, towards the royal box. She could only feel unease as he came to a stop in front of the box, a gleam in his eyes that hinted at trouble. Alysanne knew that look enough from Daemon to brace herself for whatever mischief he was about to unleash. The crowd felt silent once again, sensing the tension in the air. His gaze fixed not on Alysanne or even Rhaenyra, but on Alicent. Alysanne’s unease deepened, her eyes flicking to Alient, who had gone white, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“Lady Alicent,” Daemon called out. “Might I have the honour of your favour?”
The word hung in air like a challenge, and Alusanne felt her heart sink. She, like the rest of the court, knew of the rumours that had been circulating - that the prince Daemon had taken certain liberties with the Lady Alicent. That he had seduced her and taken her maidenhead. If there was any truth to them or not, the very mention of such rumours had cast a shadow over Alicent’s reputation, and now with Daemon’s public request, the shadow threatened to engulf her entirely.
Alicent’s face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She hesitated, clearly caught off guard by the request. Alysanne could see the struggle in her eyes—the desire to maintain her dignity and the fear of what refusing Daemon might imply. If she gave him her favour, it would only fuel the gossip, but if she refused, it could be seen as a public admission of guilt. The tension was palpable, and Alysanne felt a surge of protectiveness for her once friend. She knew her uncle’s games well, and she knew how cruel he could be when it suited him.
Alicent took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the ribbon tied around her wrist—a simple strip of grey, one of the colours of her house. With a steadying breath, she rose from her seat and walked to the edge of the royal box, her movements graceful despite the obvious turmoil within her.
With a forced smile, Alicent held out the ribbon to Daemon. “May this favour bring you good fortune, my prince,” she said, her voice carefully controlled.
Daemon’s smirk widened as he accepted the ribbon, his fingers brushing lightly against hers in a manner that was almost intimate. “You honour me, Lady Alicent,” he replied, his tone dripping with insincerity. “I shall carry this favour with pride.”
As Daemon turned and made his way back on his horse, Alysanne caught a glimpse of Alicent’s face. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but so was the hurt—the humiliation of being singled out in such a public manner, of being reminded of the rumours that clung to her like a stain. Alysanne’s heart went out to her, but she knew there was little she could do to ease Alicent’s pain. Daemon had won this round, and the damage was done.
The crowd, oblivious to the deeper currents at play, erupted into applause as Daemon mounted his horse and prepared for the joust. Alysanne watched him with a mixture of frustration and resignation. Her uncle was a master at manipulating situations to his advantage, and today had been no exception.
Both Gwayne and Daemon faced each other, and with the trumpets blared, their match began. Alysanne felt a knot of unease twist in her stomach, as she glanced at Alicent, who watched her brother, a now anxious expression, Daemon forgotten. Alicent’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white with the pressure.
Gwayne and Daemon took their positions, their lances poised and ready. The crowd fell silent, anticipation hanging in the air like a held breath. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, the horses charged forward, hooves pounding the earth as the knights lowered their lances.
The impact was thunderous. Both lances shattered against the shields, splinters flying through the air. For a moment, it seemed as though neither knight would yield, but then Gwayne’s balance faltered. His horse veered slightly, and Daemon seized the opportunity, driving his lance into Gwayne’s chest plate with a precise and powerful thrust.
Gwayne was unseated, tumbling to the ground in a cloud of dust. The crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and gasps, some celebrating Daemon’s victory, others concerned for Gwayne. Alysanne leaned forward, her heart sinking as she saw Gwayne struggling to rise. He was not seriously injured, but the blow to his pride was evident. She could only pray that any injuries he had were minor.
Daemon dismounted with practised ease, removing his helmet and striding confidently across the field toward Gwayne. There was a smug satisfaction in his eyes, a triumphant gleam that made Alysanne’s unease deepen. He extended a hand to Gwayne, but the gesture was more condescending than kind.
“Well fought, Ser Gwayne,” Daemon said, his voice carrying just enough mockery to make it sting. “But it seems today was not your day.”
Gwayne accepted the hand, though his expression was one of simmering resentment. “Perhaps not, my prince,” he replied through gritted teeth. “But there is always the next.”
Daemon’s smile widened. “Indeed,” he said, clapping Gwayne on the shoulder before turning away, leaving the Hightower knight to nurse his wounded pride.
As Daemon returned to his horse, Alysanne could see Alicent’s face flushing with anger and embarrassment. Her brother’s defeat, coupled with Daemon’s arrogant display, was clearly a bitter pill to swallow. Alysanne’s sympathy for Alicent grew, but there was little she could do to ease the situation. Alysanne herself could only hope that whoever Daemon faced next, that they would be the ones to defeat him.
The next round of jousting was called, and Daemon remained on the field, eager for another match. This time, his opponent was none other than a mystery knight. Cole was his name, but Alysanne had heard nothing of House Cole. The crowd hushed once more as the two knights prepared for their charge. Alysanne could feel the tension coiling in the air, a sharp contrast to the earlier matches.
The signal was given, and the two knights spurred their horses forward, their lances aimed true. The ground shook with the force of their charge, and the impact, when it came, was immense. But this time, it was Daemon who faltered. Criston’s lance struck with precision, driving into Daemon’s shield with such force that the prince was unseated, thrown from his horse in a spectacular display.
The crowd roared, the sound a mix of shock and exhilaration. Daemon, who had seemed invincible just moments before, lay sprawled on the ground, momentarily stunned by the blow. Alysanne felt a surge of glee that he had been bested, though she knew her uncle’s pride would not allow this slight to go unchallenged.
The Cole knight dismounted gracefully, his face impassive as he approached Daemon. There was no trace of gloating in his expression, only the quiet confidence of a man who had done his duty and nothing more. He extended a hand to Daemon, offering to help him to his feet.
For a moment, it seemed as though Daemon might accept the gesture. But then, in a flash of movement, he swatted Cole Knight’s hand away and rose on his own, his eyes blazing with anger. The crowd’s cheers faltered, sensing the shift in Daemon’s demeanour. This was no longer about the joust—this was personal.
Without warning, Daemon lunged at the knight, drawing his sword in a flash of steel. The crowd gasped as the prince attacked, the sudden violence catching everyone off guard. The Cole Knight reacted swiftly, parrying Daemon’s strike with a morning star, the clash of metal ringing through the air.
Alysanne’s heart raced as she watched the two men battle. This was no mere tourney match—this was a fight to prove dominance, to settle a score that had been brewing beneath the surface. Daemon fought with a fury that bordered on reckless, his strikes powerful but driven by anger rather than strategy. The Cole Knight, by contrast, was composed, his movements measured and precise, each parry and counterattack designed to wear Daemon down.
The crowd was frozen in place, too shocked to react. Even King Viserys hesitated, torn between stopping the fight and letting it play out. Alysanne glanced at her father, willing him to intervene, but before he could act, the fight reached its climax.
The Cole knight deflected one of Daemon’s wild swings and, with a swift movement, knocked the prince’s sword from his hand. The blade clattered to the ground, and the Cole Knight quickly followed up with a forceful blow that sent Daemon sprawling once more. This time, the knight held his morning star above Daemon’s head, a clear message that the fight was over.
For a tense moment, Daemon lay there, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on Criston’s. The two men stared at each other, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Finally, Daemon’s lips curled into a twisted smile, one that spoke of grudging respect and simmering hatred.
“Well fought, Ser Cole,” Daemon said, his voice tight with the effort of controlling his rage. “But do not think this is the end.”
Cole slowly lowered his sword, taking a step back. “I would not presume, my prince,” he replied, his tone steady but wary.
With that, Criston disregarded his weapon to one of the many squires that has come running and turned away, leaving Daemon to rise on his own. The crowd erupted into applause, though it was tempered by the knowledge that they had witnessed something far more dangerous than a mere joust.
Alysanne released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. Her eyes were fixed on Daemon as he retrieved his sword and mounted his horse, his expression dark and brooding. He rode away without another word, his defeat at the hands of Cole a bitter pill to swallow, but one that made Alysanne smile with glee. The hurt from Gwyne falling to Daemon lessed from this mystery knight.
Cole stepped forward before the royal box, and fully removed his helm. His dark hair and intense gaze had Alysanne know that he would be a favourite among the ladies of the court, and she could feel the excitement as he approached. This time it was Rhaenyra who leaned forward, his eyes bright with anticipation. Alysanne couldn’t help but smile at her sisters obvious admiration fro the knight - she had always been captivated by the stories of noble knights and chivalric deeds, and this Cole embodied all those ideals.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” he said, as he bowed, his voice steady and warm. “May I have the honour of receiving your favour for the final joust?”
Rhaenyra’s face lit up, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She quickly untied the ribbon from her wrist, a delicate piece of pale blue silk, embroidered with small silver stars. With a shy smile, she handed it to Criston, her eyes never leaving his.
“May the gods grant you victory, Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft but sincere.
Criston accepted the favour with a slight smile, his gaze lingering on Rhaenyra for a moment longer than necessary. “Thank you, Princess,” he replied, his tone filled with a quiet intensity. “I shall do my utmost to make you proud.”
As he turned to leave, Alysanne noticed the subtle exchange of glances between Criston and Rhaenyra, a silent connection that spoke volumes. It was clear that her sister was smitten, and Alysanne couldn’t help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. Rhaenyra was still young, and the world of court politics was fraught with danger and deceit. But for now, she allowed herself to simply enjoy the moment, pleased to see Rhaenyra so happy.
As the tourney continued, Alysanne’s thoughts kept drifting back to the impending birth that they were all celebrating. The masters had assured them that Queen Aemma’s labour was progressing smoothly, but Alysanne couldn’t help but worry.
The hours had passed, and the sun began to dip lower in the sky. The final round of jousting was about to begin, and the tension in the air was palpable. But just as the final charge was about to begin, a messenger burst into the royal box, his face pale and his breath ragged.
“Your Grace,” the messenger called out, his voice trembling with urgency. “The Queen… she is in distress. The maesters are asking for you.”
Viserys shot to his feet, his face a mask of fear. Without a word, he turned and hurried out of the box, leaving the tourney behind. Alysanne felt a cold dread settle over her as she followed her father, Rhaenyra close on her heels. The cheers of the crowd faded into the distance as they rushed through the halls of the Red Keep, the weight of what they might find pressing down on them with every step, the reality of the situation set in.
The sounds of their mother’s labour reached them in waves, each pained cry cutting through the air like a dagger, as Alysanne and Rhaeynra waited outside of their mothers birthing chambers. The Red Keep seemed to be cloaked in a heavy veil of dread, as though the walls themselves sensed the tragedy unfolding within.
Alysanne gripped Rhaenyra’s hand tightly, trying to keep her own fear from showing. She needed to be strong, for her sister’s sake, for their mother’s. But every agonised scream from behind the door made her heart clench with a terror she couldn’t shake.
“They should let us in,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice trembling. The fear in her violet eyes mirrored the dread Alysanne felt. “We should be with Mother.”
Alysanne nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She had pleaded with the midwives, with the Maester, even with her father to let them be there, but all had refused.
“This is no place for you, Alysanne,” Viserys had said, his voice strained. “Stay with your sister. That is your duty now.”
The door remained closed, and the cries grew fainter, more desperate. Alysanne felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She tried to maintain a façade of calm, but Rhaenyra could see the cracks.
“What if something happens?” Rhaenyra’s voice was small, childlike, and it broke Alysanne’s heart to hear her little sister so scared.
Alysanne squeezed Rhaenyra’s hand, trying to summon strength she wasn’t sure she had. “Mother is strong,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt. “She’s brought us into this world, and she will bring the babe too.”
But even as she said the words, doubt gnawed at her. The birth had been difficult from the start, and everyone knew the risks. Every Targaryen knew the price that could be paid in blood, as their words said. Fire and Blood.
The hours dragged on, each one heavier than the last. Alysanne and Rhaenyra sat together, their hands still clasped, their faces pale and drawn. They had grown up surrounded by tales of their ancestors, tales of valour and glory, but no one had prepared them for this—the waiting, the uncertainty, the fear.
And then, the screams stopped.
Alysanne’s heart leaped into her throat. The sudden silence was more terrifying than the cries had been. She stood up, pulling Rhaenyra with her. The two sisters stared at the door, willing it to open, praying for some sign, some word.
When the door creaked open, it wasn’t their father who emerged, but a midwife, her face ashen, her hands stained with blood. Alysanne’s breath caught in her throat, and she instinctively stepped in front of Rhaenyra, shielding her from the truth she knew was about to be spoken.
“Princesses,” the midwife said, her voice thick with sorrow. “I am so sorry ... the Queen ... she did not survive.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Alysanne’s vision blurred as the words sank in. She heard Rhaenyra gasp, felt her sister’s hand go limp in her own, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The midwife’s next words were a dull roar in her ears.
“And the babe … the prince ...” The midwife hesitated, her eyes filled with pity. “Prince Baelon is too weak. He will not survive the night.”
Rhaenyra let out a strangled cry and crumpled to the floor, her body racked with sobs. Alysanne dropped to her knees beside her, pulling Rhaenyra into her arms, but she could find no words of comfort. The grief was too overwhelming, too all-encompassing.
Their mother was dead. Their brother was to die, not even a day old. The family they had known, the life they had lived, had been shattered in an instant.
As the reality of it hit her, Alysanne felt a deep, wrenching sob tear from her throat. She buried her face in Rhaenyra’s hair, the two sisters clinging to each other as the weight of their loss bore down on them.