Queen Alysanne Targaryen POV
The sea winds howled fiercely above the Vale, rattling the ancient bronze windows of Runestone, yet within its cold and stately halls, a profound silence lingered—one untouched by the tumult of the storm or the clash of steel.
Queen Alysanne Targaryen sat near the hearth of Lord Yobart Royce's solar, her posture regal despite the weight of her years. Her silver-gold hair was braided tightly beneath her hood, emphasizing the sharpness of her features and the depth of her thoughts. The fire crackled beside her, casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls, but its warmth failed to penetrate the chill that had settled deep within her chest. Her hands lay folded neatly in her lap, yet her mind was a tempest—adrift in a tumultuous sea of fire, stone, and the looming shadows of uncertain futures.
This moment was not how she had envisioned it unfolding.
She had believed—perhaps naively—that the union could temper the wildness of the boy.
When she orchestrated the match between her spirited grandson, Daemon, and the formidable Lady Rhea Royce, she had done so not out of mere sentimentality, but rather through careful calculation. Rhea was a woman shaped by the harshness of the Vale, her tongue as sharp as the blades forged in its forges, her will as unyielding as the ancient stones that surrounded her. A creature born of both stone and bronze, she possessed a pride that could rival Daemon's fiery spirit. She will be the anchor he needs, Alysanne had thought resolutely. She will bestow upon him the purpose he has sought.
And for one fleeting night, perhaps, that had been true. A night filled with excessive drink and bitter venom, where emotions ran wild and truth danced on the edge of a knife. Then Daemon had vanished, escaping the Vale as though it were a suffocating prison, with Rhea standing as its unyielding jailer. He returned to King's Landing with nothing but contempt on his lips, his presence accompanied by a storm of rumors that swirled around him like dark smoke, casting ominous shadows.
"She's carrying bastards," one voice whispered, laden with scandal.
"Daemon never touched her," another retorted defensively.
"She's taken a Royce cousin to her bed," came a judgmental accusation.
"He called her the Bronze Bitch at court!" someone else chimed in, their voice dripping with disdain.
Alysanne vividly recalled the metallic taste of iron that had filled her mouth when she first heard those words echoing in the hushed corridors of the Red Keep. Each whispered tale felt like a dagger, sharp and piercing. Jaehaerys had been far from pleased, his expression darkening at the mention of such slanders.
"If this scandal festers," he declared one evening in the dimly lit throne room, his fingers grasping the armrests of the Iron Throne as if they were the only thing grounding him, "it will not merely remain gossip—it will turn into poison, spreading through the realm like a blight. We granted that boy Runestone. If she bears another man's son and that child inherits, it will bring shame upon the Crown in the eyes of half the realm."
Alysanne could see the depth of his discontent. He had never truly favored the match to begin with, a fact that was painfully clear. Yet, in the end, he had reluctantly come to an agreement—believing that marrying off Daemon, gifting him a title, and providing him a future in the Vale would mitigate the chaos stirred by his youngest grandson's reckless behavior.
"Land, legacy, and a leash," Jaehaerys had mused with a hint of hope.
"A dagger wrapped in silk," Alysanne had countered at the time, her tone graver than she had meant, shadowed by the weight of their reality.
Now, a heavy silence enveloped him, a silence that spoke of regret and unresolved tensions. As she watched him, Alysanne felt her own anxiety harden into a fierce resolve. Steeling herself against the uncertainty that lay ahead, she made her decision.
"I will go," she insisted, her voice steady and resolute. "To the Vale. I will witness the birth myself. If there is any truth to these whispered rumors, it shall not be a bard or a court fool who confirms it—it will be a Queen who does so."
Jaehaerys had not contested her decision. Instead, he merely closed his eyes, resigned, and murmured, "Take Baelon with you."
"He will come," she replied, a hint of conviction in her tone. "But Daemon will come too."
That assertion had required more persuasion than she anticipated.
She could still hear Baelon's voice in her mind, low and insistent as they stood together in the stone confines of the Tower of the Hand.
"Mother… do you truly mean to drag him into this?"
"If I must," Alysanne responded, her resolve unshakeable.
"He won't go willingly," Baelon pointed out, an edge of concern threaded through his words.
"He rarely does anything willingly," she countered, a trace of a smile forming on her lips. "And yet, he will go. I will see to it."
Baelon had offered her a faint smile in return—one that was a mixture of amusement and weariness, recognizing the inevitable nature of their conversation.
"And if he flat-out refuses?" Baelon asked, skepticism creeping into his voice.
"Then I shall remind him of the bond we share: I helped raise his father, buried his mother—my own daughter—and I still possess the power to silence dragonfire with a single glance from this Queen."
In truth, it had taken more than just a look to change Daemon's mind.
He had protested fiercely, throwing insults and threats as if they were daggers. The tension had been palpable, and it seemed he might walk out of the solar, leaving behind everything that mattered. But then she had spoken—calmly yet with a fierce intensity that cut through his bravado.
"If you abandon your wife while she births a child that may bear your name," she had said, locking her gaze with his, "I will see you stripped of it."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with promise. Daemon had gone very still after that, the muscles in his jaw tightening as his eyes narrowed, calculating the consequences. His breath had slowed, as if he were trying to find a way out of the inevitable. Finally, without uttering another word, he had turned on his heel and marched out, driven by urgency to prepare for the life-altering event that was unfolding just beyond the solar's stone walls.
And now, they were here.
Waiting.
Alysanne surveyed the interior of Lord Yobart's solar, taking in the imposing stone walls draped with richly colored Royce banners that fluttered slightly with the draft. The old runes above the hearth, worn yet powerful, whispered of ancient magic and tradition. A table stood before her, laden with an array of untouched food, its opulence a stark contrast to the anxiety that gripped her heart. But it all felt distant, as if she were observing it from a dream.
Each breath she took was measured and deliberate, every tick of time pressing upon her like a weight. Somewhere beyond those solid walls, Rhea Royce was screaming in labor, and with each agonized cry, the future of both houses Targaryen and Royce balanced precariously on the edge of a blade, teetering between legacy and loss.
Was the child truly Daemon's? Or had the intricate web she'd woven—every alliance painstakingly forged through trials of fire and gold—been irrevocably shattered by her own pride, reckless drinking, and an obstinate disdain for the opinions of others? Alysanne shut her eyes for a fleeting moment, allowing herself to hope against hope.
Let the babes be his. Let the blood be true. Because if that foundation of truth crumbled beneath her, what would follow would be a calamity beyond imagination, rendering the Faith Militant Rebellions nothing more than a mere brawl in a crowded tavern by comparison.
When the last echoes of screams from the birthing chamber finally faded into silence, Queen Alysanne wasted no time waiting for permission or the formalities of courtly decorum. With a determined stride, she rose, her elegant gown trailing behind her and sweeping over the rushes on the stone floor as she crossed the cold, unyielding corridor. Two cautious handmaids followed closely, their expressions tight with concern, and a silent steward from House Royce maintained a respectful distance, his presence more a shadow than a support. The air was thick with a blend of scents: the sharpness of blood, the sweetness of milk, the calming aroma of lavender water, and something primal—like the mingling of sweat, salt, and fate itself. It was a heady combination that seemed to cling to the very stones of the castle.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing the dim interior beyond. The warmth of the chamber contrasted sharply with the chill outside, illuminated by the flickering hearthfire and streaks of golden sunlight that dared to filter through a narrow stone window, casting a warm hue on the scene within.
Lady Rhea Royce lay upon the wide birthing bed, her hair damp with sweat, strands plastered to her brow as if nature itself was working to assist her. The hem of her shift bore the marks of her ordeal, stained and heavy. Yet despite the exhaustion etched into the sharp angles of her face, she maintained a proud posture; her back was straight, betraying a strength unfazed by her trials. As the Queen approached, Rhea lifted her chin defiantly, steadying her gaze. She did not flinch or shy away from Alysanne's scrutinizing eyes, her expression one of resolve in the face of adversity.
"They are healthy, Your Grace," Rhea said, her voice hoarse yet resolute. "Two sons. Born mere moments apart."
Alysanne paused beside the bed, her eyes narrowing slightly in surprise and intrigue. "Twins?" she asked, her mind racing with the implications.
Rhea nodded with a smile, a flicker of pride lighting her features. "The Maester believes they will be strong. They latched well, demonstrating their vitality."
At that moment, a wet nurse stepped forward, cradling the firstborn child wrapped in a soft robe of bronze and white, the cloth shimmering gently in the soft candlelight. Alysanne turned toward the infant, her heart quickening as she began to unearth the features she might recognize, the traits that could dispel the whispers and rumors that hung like a fog around the royal lineage.
Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld him.
He had brown hair, soft and delicately curled, and storm-grey eyes that held a depth beyond his tender age. The unmistakable square-jawed profile of House Royce sat firmly upon his tiny face—proud and unyielding, as if the weight of legacy rested upon his shoulders even now. Yet, there was more than the strong features of his house; something shimmered beneath the surface of his newborn skin, which was too perfect, his cheeks too smooth, and his presence too composed for one so newly born. He exuded a quiet beauty, regal and centered.
Within this child, Alysanne sensed a hint of Targaryen—not merely in the color of his hair or the shape of his features, but in his very aura. He radiated a stillness that seemed to command the air around him, as if the world itself hushed in reverence to the new life before her.
"What is his name?" Alysanne asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Robar," Rhea answered, her tone steady and filled with warmth. "I chose it for my father, and because he will one day be Lord of Runestone."
Alysanne gave a thoughtful nod, her expression softening. "A fine name. One that will suit him well, indeed."
Rhea shifted slightly in the bed, a wince escaping her as she adjusted her position. Her gaze flicked to the side, where another cradle sat hidden in shadow. "As for the younger one… I thought it fitting, since he is not tied to the Vale, that his name should come from… your side of the family. From the Targaryens."
Alysanne regarded her with a piercing gaze, a hint of surprise mingling with her curiosity. "Not from Daemon?"
Rhea's mouth twitched in a fleeting smile, though it faded quickly. "He barely spoke to me, Your Grace. I have no expectations regarding names."
The Queen inclined her head slightly, her demeanor not unkind. "Then we shall see," she replied, her voice imbued with a sense of promise for the future.
She stepped toward the second wet nurse, who bowed with a graceful nod and stepped aside, revealing the second babe swaddled in resplendent deep red silk, intricately trimmed in shimmering silver threads.
And in that moment, the world shifted beneath her feet.
This child was not merely handsome; he was mythic, a vision straight from the stories whispered in twilight. His hair, a striking platinum silver, was so pale it seemed to glow like molten light, catching every ray of the morning sun and casting a halo around his tiny head. His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of deepest violet, were startling and otherworldly, blinking once with a languid awareness—as if the babe understood the weight of the world even at such a tender age. His skin radiated a luminous quality, not just fair but ethereal, as though fire and moonlight had intertwined to kiss his very bones.
He did not wail, the sound one might expect from a newborn.
He did not wriggle or squirm in discontent.
He simply… watched, with a calm and knowing gaze that seemed to absorb the mysteries of the universe.
And for the first time in decades, Queen Alysanne found herself lost in that gaze, forgetting her own burdens, her own identity, captivated by this extraordinary child before her.
She had borne thirteen children, each one a part of her heart. Some had lived long enough to laugh and run, while others had been buried, each loss a wound that time could never fully heal. She had witnessed the rise of kings and the fall of queens, moments etched in her memory like remnants of a grand and tumultuous tapestry. But never—never—had she encountered a child like this.
Just then, the heavy door creaked open once more, breaking her reverie.
"Mother—" Baelon's voice sliced through the stillness, sharp and low. Alysanne turned just in time to witness him almost dragging Daemon into the chamber by the elbow, as if he wanted to keep him from escaping.
Daemon, the Rogue Prince, wore a scowl on his face, his silver hair tousled and wild, flecks of dust clinging to his riding leathers from the journey's arduous travel. He seemed like a man who would rather be anywhere but here, each muscle in his body taut with impatience.
But then he caught sight of the cradle.
His eyes briefly skimmed past Rhea, giving her barely a flicker of acknowledgment before his gaze fell upon Robar, a hint of surprise softening his furrowed brow. Yet, before he could fully process the scene, his attention shifted.
To him.
To the child swaddled in rich crimson silk, whose violet eyes met his with an intensity that felt almost electric, an unspoken connection binding them in that very moment.
And Daemon Targaryen stopped breathing.
His expression—arrogant, smug, perpetually poised for battle—vanished like mist in the morning light. The atmosphere in the room thickened, the air dense with an almost suffocating silence. The fire crackled softly behind them, its glow casting flickering shadows, but no one dared to break the stillness.
Then, as if awakening from a dream, Daemon took a deliberate step forward, his movement unhurried yet resolute. He advanced another step, and then another, drawn by an unseen force. With a tenderness that seemed utterly incongruous with his battle-worn demeanor, he reached down and cradled the silver-haired babe in his arms.
There was no clumsiness in his touch—no hesitance born of discomfort or reluctance. Instead, there was an unmistakable care, a sense of reverence that filled the space between them.
He held the child close to his chest, one hand carefully supporting the delicate neck, while the other shielded the tiny, fragile back. In that moment, all defenses fell away. Wordlessly, he leaned forward, lowering his forehead to rest against the babe's crown, as though drawing strength and life from this small being, as if the world outside ceased to exist.
The child remained still in his embrace, a serene expression on his face, merely observing his father with wide, curious eyes.
"Daemon?" Baelon asked, his tension palpable in the air.
Daemon remained silent, his body frozen in place as he locked his gaze onto the delicate features of the boy before him. The rigidness in his shoulders relaxed, and his lips parted ever so slightly, as if grappling with the weight of a profound revelation.
Then, in a tone that was completely foreign to her—a voice rich with emotion and unexpected softness—Daemon whispered, "Aerion Targaryen."
Alysanne blinked, taken aback.
It wasn't the name itself that struck her; rather, it was the way he uttered it. His voice was gentle, infused with an almost sacred gravity. It resonated with a reverence that made the words feel like a prayer, as if the gods had woven them into his very essence.
This was not merely a boy, but one forged from the crucible of fire, blood, and an ancient prophecy that twisted around their legacy.
In that fleeting moment, Alysanne realized that Daemon Targaryen, the wildest and most untamed of her kin, had stumbled upon something profound—something that silenced his mocking laughter and ignited a fierce protective instinct within him.
Aerion Targaryen.
A name that, in the unfolding tapestry of time, would either serve as a cornerstone of their lineage or act as a catalyst for chaos.
And the realm would never be the same.
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