As I Lay Dying ━━ House of the Dragon

1.2: bruised

"What?" He's too drunk to understand, but it's still amusing to watch him try to make sense of her words. "I can't walk up those steps without aid." 

She rolls her eyes. Typical. Always expecting someone to clean up his mistakes for him. No wonder the King refuses to name him heir. "Well, I don't care to carry you. I was on my way outside, and you are in my way. So you can either wait here . . . " she considers it, "until Ser Criston finds you and drags you to your mother — " Aegon scowls, "— drag yourself up those stairs alone, or come with me."

"But — but I told you to help me upstairs." 

Alyssa could slap him. It takes an extraordinary amount of restraint for her to stop herself. She's tempted to drag him up the stairs and then push him back down. "You really are useless," she mutters scornfully. Thankfully, he doesn't hear. To his ears, she says "You really are an arse." 

He goes limp in her arms. She's not sure whether he's given up or passed out, but he lets her drag him out the door with all the strength she has left. The fresh air must force him to regain some sobriety, for his steps become a little more strengthened as they walk, Alyssa taking on the brunt of the weight. By the time they reach her favourite spot, she is coated in sweat, exhausted. She doesn't even have energy spare to train. Instead, she half throws him onto the ground, dropping down beside him in fatigue, hoping to catch her breath. 

Sometimes, there are moments when speaking reeks of sacrilege, and this is one of them. Alyssa almost doesn't dare speak — partly because her breaths are coming in ragged, irregular rasps, and her body feels weak for lack of air. Partly because of the exertion she suffered dragging Aegon out here, partly because she has never had the chance to build up much muscle on her body, being a woman — a lady, at that. 

It reminds Alyssa of her sister, Saera, lying breathless on the bed, red scratches lining her throat. Guilt sparks, and she picks at her nails again, feeling the sting of skin ripping off. She should not have done that to her sister. Despite what she said, Saera her only true blood. Targaryen blood is not like other blood, it holds no weight and no loyalty.  It does not hold families together, not like Stark blood or Arryn blood. It is whatever is mixed in with the dragon's blood that binds people together. Saera and Alyssa are bound by Royce blood. Aemond, Aegon, Helaena are tied by Hightower blood. Their only true allies in this city are their own families. 

Furthermore, Alyssa is supposed to be taking care of her younger sister. Saera is young, impressionable, weaker. Even if she has a dragon. Saera has always been sickly and weak — when she was younger, the maester's doubted she would live past her fifth summer.

"Will you stop?" Aegon demands, breaking through Alyssa's racing thoughts. 

"Stop what?"

"That," he gestures to where she has been picking at her nails, leaving the tips of her fingers raw and bloody. She had not even realised she was doing it. "Stop it." 

Alyssa sighs heavily. She should've left him by the stairwell. "I can't help it. It's only a habit." 

"An annoying one," he scowls. "Do you think I want to sit here, watching you mutilate yourself — " 

She snorts. "Mutilate?"

"Why can you not have a normal habit?" He snaps. When she meets his eyes, she is surprised to see that they are no longer glassy from alcohol, but dark and somber. "Not tearing the skin off of your own fingers." 

Alyssa had at first found his irritation amusing, but it is beginning to chafe on her patience. "A normal habit? Like your own?"

"I don't have a habit," he says, bemused.