1.2 | bruised
Alyssa likes to sneak out of her bedroom in the depths of the night. The night has always suited her — though her hair is thin and pale, under the cover of night it dulls, losing its Valyrian glow. The Targaryens may share blood with the gods, but Alyssa is as ungodly as any thing on Westeros. No dragon, no fire, no blood. When she was younger, she used to console herself with the fact that her darling sister, Saera, would always be less Targaryen. Though they both had shared the classic violet eyes that had made their House distinct, Saera lacked all Targaryen etherealness. She had Arryn brown hair, an average figure, and no interest in politics or power or war. That was, until Saera gained a dragon.
It just isn't fair. Alyssa is the perfect Targaryen; a spitting image of her father, who is almost a pure Valyrian. Saera could be Rhaenyra Targaryen's bastard daughter, if not for the witnesses who watched her birthed by Rhea Royce.
The night envelops her. Sometimes Alyssa prays — usually for a dragon. She has stopped doing so, recently, her Faith abandoning her as prayers go unanswered. Instead, she visits the dragonpit, dreaming of stealing the beautiful Sunfyre or the brave Vermax. Occasionally, she steals a sword and teaches herself the steps she watched Criston Cole teach Aegon, Aemond, Jacaerys and Lucerys in the training grounds that day.
Tonight should be one of those days. There is a wooden sword hidden out past sight of the Red Keep, in a half-abandoned clearing, ripe with weeds. But it's private, and it's Alyssa's own.
A glint of silver catches her eyes. For a moment, paranoia seeps, and she believes it to be a knife. "Who's there?" If it truly is an armed intruder, Alyssa would be almost useless, unarmed, untrained, a woman sneaking out in the middle of the night. Luckily, it is not. Well — if anyone could be an intruder in their own home, it would be Prince Aegon.
"What would you do, if it were anyone else but me?" he drawls, his words slurred by alcohol. Even from his distance across the corridor, he reeks of alcohol. "Scream and faint?"
Alyssa grits her teeth. She shows him her necklace, a miniscule shield with a shower of pebbles. "First, I would slit your throat. Then I would scream, call the guards, and faint. Perhaps I'd even pocket your knife for myself."
He blinks. "That's not an appropriate thing for a lady like you to speak of."
She scoffs a cynical laugh. "What would you know of being appropriate?"
Aegon looks away. He tries to take a step toward her — too drunk, his knees buckle and he almost falls face first into the ground. Alyssa steps forward, steading him with her hands. He's taller than her, and heavier than his lanky frame would suggest. Still, she's stronger than she looks, too.
"How drunk are you?" She's not laughing at him. She's just amused.
He sighs. "You sound like my mother." She waits. "I'm not drunk."
"Not a drunk, or not drunk?" she mocks. "Well, both would be a lie." Alyssa stares wistfully at the back door, leading outside. Her evening of freedom, slipping away. Well, maybe not, she thinks, resolve sharpening. She doesn't have to sacrifice anything for the wastrel of a prince. If he wants to drink his feelings away, he's welcome to. "Come on, then."
Aegon digs his heels in, staring. "What? Help me to my room."
Alyssa laughs. "Oh. No. I'm going outside."
"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.
They are both creatures of habit, Alyssa realises, watching him. She, because she repeats the same cycle everyday without fail, and expects change. Him, because he does not want to change. "What is your drinking and lechery, then, cousin? If not a habit, would you describe it as educational? Practice for your poor wife, whoever she may be?"
He hums. "Recreation. I rather enjoy it."
Any answer Alyssa has is muted by her reminder that Aegon is a prince, albeit a moronic one.
"Alyssa?"
She is surprised to hear his tone so sincere.
"Do you truly think me useless?"
Whatever Alyssa imagined he would say, this was not it. It must have stemmed from her prior comment; she had thought that he had not heard, but perhaps he simply pretended not to.
She opens her mouth to say 'Yes,' but as she turns her head to meet his eyes, she is struck again by the sincerity within them. Aegon has always seemed unbreakably shallow, his resolve to be a drunk wastrel hardened and defended. Yet here he sits before her, half-drunk, asking a question that seems to have the power to rip him apart from the inside out.
"Yes," she amends finally, but her tone is not harsh as it should have been. He inhales deeply, as if her words have confirmed one of his suspicions. "We are both useless," she continues, ignoring the way his head snaps back up. "You, a prince who does not wish to be king, and I, a Targaryen without a dragon. What are we, if not irrelevant?"
Aegon scoffs. "I would make a terrible king."
"Yes." Alyssa affirms. "And I would make a great queen. It does not matter; neither of us will ever need to prove it."
"My father does not need proof," Aegon whispers, and Alyssa feels as though he does not intend for her to hear it. "He believes it."
Alyssa feels a some sympathy for him, then. It is no secret that King Viserys favours Rhaenyra over all others, but to be constantly humiliated, deprived of what should be his birthright — it cannot be pleasant. Aegon has never seemed to care, however. Perhaps he wears his alcohol like armour. "Our fathers truly are alike," she muses. "However much they dislike each other."
"No," Aegon replies. "My father is a king. Your father is a fuck — "
"My father is a dragon," Alyssa interrupts, clenching the grass in her fist. "Your father is a king."
Aegon laughs, the sound brittle and toneless. "And I am not fit to be heir, and you are not fit to claim a dragon. What disappointments we must be."
She is picking at her skin again; there is a dot of blood, beneath her thumbnail. "If I had a dragon, do you think my father would summon me to him? To the free cities?" As soon as she speaks, she regrets it. It is too honest of her, to a boy who has openly mocked her before. Closing her eyes in anticipation, she waits for Aegon's laughter to cut her deeper than any knife.
He does not laugh. "No," he speaks, and she is glad that he does not lie, even if the truth is cruel. "He would not summon you to him. He does not want you."
If she had not asked, she would think he was mocking her. But his tone is honest, and she can feel his eyes on her. And, there is a part of her that is not sure which of them he is talking about.
Overnight, Saera's neck deteriorates.
In a matter of hours, it has gone from mildly red and raw to sore to touch, stinging everytime Saera tries to move it. Every word she tries to speak comes out hoarse and broken, as if Alyssa had reached down Sae's throat and torn out her vocal chords herself.
Genna, Saera's maid, is meek and quiet. Saera knows that the girl was born to a smallfolk couple in King's Landing — she's not sure how the girl gained a position in the royal household, but she must be relatively resourceful. She's barely elder to Saera, perhaps six and ten, but she's certainly prettier. Despite Genna's low roots, she's been blessed with bright orange-red hair, the colour of a weak flame. She's a tall girl, covered in freckles but with a pair of green eyes that seem to glow in the dark. Despite her beauty, the girl is quiet and meek, often fading into the shadows as best she can with hair alight.
Saera does not particularly care about Genna, one way or another, but a part of her feels responsible for her. She is Saera's maid, after all. And, most of all, she appreciates that the girl has not mentioned the bruises lining her neck. Her eyes may have widened and her hands trembled, but she had only pursed her lips and handed Saera a huge bejewelled necklace to cover the bruises.
Now, Saera is alone in her room. She's not sure she can swallow any food — even to drink, while it cools her throat, it also aches. Watching herself in the mirror, Saera quickly shifts the necklace to the side, softly touching the black paint of her skin. It stings, aches, so badly she flinches away from her own touches.
It doesn't make sense. How can Alyssa's touches mar her skin so thoroughly? How can she go outside looking like this, as if she has been manhandled and attacked in a way that is not fit for a lady of her standing. Her face crumples, stray tears escaping in her shame. She rips the necklace off and throws it on the bed, the now-ruined skin of her neck exposed to the air. Even her choked, restrained sobs ache like nothing other.
Sae steps out of her room, heading toward Alyssa's. She wants her sister's comfort; wants to be held and stroked and loved as her sister has done many times before, whenever Saera has come to her in tears over Aegon's vulgar insults, or Daemon's snub, or any inconvenience. In Alyssa's arms, Saera has never felt more safe — yet, now, as she seeks her out, she can't stop the thought at the back of her mind, warning her that her sister may not be so sympathetic.
You are a woman grown now. This was your own fault.
She doesn't dare knock on Alyssa's door. Instead, she allows herself in, seeing the room perfectly cleaned. Evidently, Alyssa woke early, and left.
Now that she is here, Saera is not entirely sure what to do. She looks around the room blankly, staring at the bedspread. Her throat aches at the sight of it.
"My lady!" A gasp from behind her causes her to start, and Saera spins around jerkily. Before her stands Elyse, Alyssa's handmaiden. She is carrying a large pile of sheets, but she sets them on the ground as she sees Saera standing there, dropping into a quick curtsy. "May I help you?"
"Yes," Saera coughs out, her voice hoarse. "I'm looking for Alyssa."
Elyse gestures toward the door. "She left with Princess Helaena, early this morning. I do not think she plans to return for hours, my lady."
With Helaena? There is a lump in Saera's throat at the thought that she could be replaced by her odd cousin.
"Forgive me, my lady," Saera looks up to see Elyse stepping forward. "Are you alright? You look to have been crying."
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Saera assures her, resisting the urge to brush the damning streaks from her cheek. Her voice cracks, a traitor.
Elyse lunges forward, tugging Saera toward her. "My lady, your neck —"
Saera wants to slap her away, but Elyse's hands are cool and soothing, and the pain in her neck relieves just at her touch. Elyse doesn't say a word, but her eyes are dark as pitch, a bottomless void. The maid is more outspoken than Genna, which Saera appreciates. A large part of her enjoys this; Elyse's affection, though she knows the girl is only doing her job, albeit thoroughly. This is what Saera wanted from Alyssa, why she sought her out.
"It hurts a little," her voice is soft and weak. Saera's not sure whether it's honest. The sympathy on Elyse's face makes it worth it.
"Oh, you sweet girl," Elyse shouldn't be talking to Saera so informally, but Saera can't find it within her to care. She's just glad that someone has noticed her pain. "Who did this?"
Saera stiffens.
(She never finds out what Elyse made of her silence.) The maid pulls Saera to her chest, hugging her tightly. It aches more, pressuring her bruises, but Saera embraces her back. She forgets to care about dust and dirt, and is just glad to feel the presence of another person, pulling her back down to reality. A comforting salve.
"How much does it hurt?" Elyse asks, after a minute or so. "To touch, or to move?"
"Not badly," Saera admits, a little ashamed. "It's only an ache, at the back of my mind."
"Brave girl," Elyse smiles, brushing a stray tear away from Saera's cheek. Elyse cannot be more than two years her elder, but she has years of experience in her eyes, a strange maturity. She is small in stature, dark-skinned in the same shade as the richest soils in their gardens. But even though her being embodies night, she is radiant, glowing like the morning sun at breaking through endless grey clouds.
"I'm not brave," Saera blushes, staring at the ground. "It was my own fault."
Elyse is silent. Perhaps she senses a trap, despite Saera's innocent proclamation. "I will get you some warm cloth. It will ease the pain; your sister often requires it."
"Yes," Saera agrees. "If that will ease the pain."
Elyse disappears, disappearing into the quarters that Saera dare not venture. Still, she is quick to return, and when she does it's with a damp cloth and a herbal remedy she proclaims is magic.
"Have you ever ridden a dragon?" Saera asks, at that.
"No, my lady," Elyse laughs as she presses the cloth to Saera's neck, tending her with a kind of care Saera does not recognise.
"That is the real magic."
"I can imagine," the maid says, perhaps wistfully.
"Perhaps one day, you will claim a dragon of your own."
a/n: actually love writing this omg i don't really care if anyone reads it because i enjoy it.
qotd: fave got (original series) character?
my queen in the north sansa stark, and ig arya stark too. if i saw more of margaery she might've beaten them both , but i haven't got to her part in the books yet
lyra xx