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Chapter Text

The North was the largest, yet least populated, of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. The region was known for its cold and cruel climate, and so were its people.

There were many hills and pines scattered throughout the landscape, but few villages and strongholds could be seen, despite the vastness of the land.

Alyssa wouldn't trade this place for anything in the world. She loved the snow that fell on her hair, revered her old gods, and cherished the feeling of the icy wind in her long hair as she rode on horseback to hunt with her direwolves. She was usually accompanied by her older brother and heir to Winterfell, Aric Stark.

Even though he was now married to Helena Tully and had a beautiful daughter named Iara, he was still the same wild, fun-loving rogue he had always been.

"Come on, little sister, didn't you want to get back in shape?" he said, as he raced his stallion down a hill.
The younger Stark smiled at the challenge and pursued him.

Recently, Lys had visited Dragonstone for her son's second birthday. There, she had a "beautiful relapse" with his father, which resulted in a pregnancy of not one, but two babies. She left the castle without knowing about the children and returned home to Winterfell.

When she started getting too nauseous every morning and her moon blood didn't appear, it took her about three months to be certain. By then, it was a little too late for moon tea, so she decided to keep the babies. After they were born, Daemon had forced her to send them to Dragonstone. That was six months ago.

And now, she was finally getting back to her old self after the pregnancy of twins.

The young lady swapped skins with her mare, a form of warging, and challenged the horse to outrun Aric's stallion, causing her to gallop even faster.

"You're getting old and slow, brother," she said, laughing.
The heir's only response was a grimace.

"You don't think I saw you cheating?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You didn't say warging was strictly forbidden," the younger sister retorted.

"You could be 100 years old and you'd still be a sneaky little thing," he commented. "Now, let's go. We have business to discuss with the Boltons."

Lys tethered Star and followed her brother to the castle of the Dreadfort.

After a two-year summer, it was once again autumn, and they needed to collect taxes to prepare for the eminent winter. All the houses had done their part except for the troublesome Boltons.

"What if they flay me? You know the Bolton princes have a history of that," the heir said.

"I know. I've studied history, too."

Of course, the Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, would not allow his favorite children to visit the Dreadfort alone. They were traveling with 20 guards, but had strayed from the path for their little competition. Now, they were on their way back to meet up with their father's vassals.

"You two are 24 and 22 years old. When are you going to stop acting like this?" asked the oldest of the guards, Sir Axel, sounding annoyed.

"Sir, my sister and I can race horses until we're 60 if we want to. Forgive us if we haven't become as bitter as you are yet," Aric asserted.

The girl remained silent, giving Sir Axel one last look.
The future Lord of Winterfell narrowed his eyes at the walls of the Dreadfort.

"Aric Stark, the Black Wolf and heir to Winterfell, and his sister Alyssa Stark, Daughter of the North, Lady of Dragonstone," one of the Stark guards announced.
The Bolton guards looked at each other and gave a signal for the gate to open.

A cold wind swept over her as she rode through the walls. Nothing about this place felt good.

The Lord of House Bolton, Dean, and his son, Viggo, approached them unceremoniously.

"What a pleasure to have Starks in our fortress," Dean said with a smile.

"If it were truly a pleasure, you would have given us a better welcome. You knew of our arrival," the Northwoman declared. "Winter is coming, and your lords have not yet given us our taxes."

Viggo smiled. He had very blue eyes and blond hair, which he had inherited from his mother—a lady from the Reach, a cousin of a Tarly or something. She had been dead for some time.

Many years ago, Lord Dustin had suggested a marriage between the two to seal the peace between Bolton and Stark. Her father had, of course, refused.

"Lady Alyssa, how do we know that you Winterfell folk don't use our money for your own luxuries?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I see you with that beautiful gold necklace, Viggo. When I passed through White Knife village, they told me things are precarious. So, I think it's you who are squandering it," the older wolf stated.

"You're always so serious," Dean claimed. "We will give you the taxes. We just didn't do it before because we want her here. We want to marry Sara to Viggo."

Alyssa blinked. Her younger sister was now 19 years old, beautiful and delicate, but still unmarried. They had intended to keep it that way.

"Pardon?" Aric asked.

"Yes. Your sister is pretty, and being the Lady of the Dreadfort by my side is more than any third daughter could ask for," Viggo commented.

"Yes, clearly there are no more Targaryen princes for Sara to marry, as was the case for Lady Stark."

Lys sighed at the mention of a Targaryen prince. After her marriage to Daemon, a rumor arose in the North that her father was spurning the northern houses in favor of the southern ones. This was only intensified by Aric marriage to Helena Tully.

The two siblings exchanged glances.

"We need to speak with our father," they both said in unison.

There was a silent agreement between father and son, and Dean's youngest daughter returned with a bag of coins, handing them to the heir of Winterfell with a shy smile.
They left, feeling distraught. They preferred to sleep in the poor village rather than accept the hospitality of the house that flayed Starks.

But the idea of Viggo and Sara left her pensive. It would be good for the North and for the house, but not for her sister.
Perhaps Viggo was like Daemon after all, and maybe, just maybe, there was something good in him. Right?

Thinking about Daemon always left her throat feeling like ashes. It had been nearly a year since she had last seen him. His hair was starting to grow back, and it seemed that age—now at 33—had made him more handsome in her eyes. She wondered how he was, and how their children were. They had three together now. And the lady was far away from all of them.

The northern shouldn't have agreed to let the twins go. But after the birth, she had felt so sad and lonely, with such low self-esteem, that she hadn't been able to bond with the babies.

She felt guilty for having had them in the first place, and for that reason, she let them go. But now, she felt nothing but guilt.

Lys had already returned to her pre-pregnancy appearance and realized that her feelings after the babies' birth hadn't been fair to them. And now, out of vanity, they were so far away.

"Lys, what are you thinking about?" Sir Edrick asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"About my children, sir. I wonder how they are," the lady said. She had known Sir Edrick for so long that she saw no reason to lie to him. They had become friends. He was her elegant and honorable knight, like Jonquil.

"I understand, my lady. I can't imagine what it's like for you to be away from your children. When my mother was alive, she always said how much she worried and how she disliked it when I was away," he said. "But you'll see them again. The prince can't stop you from doing that."

The lady nodded and smiled at the knight.

"Thank you, sir."

After that, she went to join her brother, who was staring into the campfire.

The fire reminded her of her husband. She rested her chin on her hand and watched it.

"What do you think about Viggo and Sara? After I let you marry Daemon... I don't want to make another one of my sisters unhappy," Aric murmured, setting aside his sarcastic humor.

"A Bolton and a Stark... History doesn't even speak of that," she mused. "But after our marriages, we are hearing from all sides that our father prefers the South to his own blood. It would be good, politically speaking."

Her brother's gray eyes met hers.

"But a Bolton? It would be better to marry sweet Sara to a Reed. They are small but good people," he said. "Father will know how to handle this better than I will."

Alyssa approached her brother and leaned her shoulder against his.

"You will soon be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You need to start making your own decisions, brother," she said.

"Soon? Is Father sick and I don't know about it?" he asked severely.

The Northwoman shook her head.

"No, by the old gods, no. Our father is fine," she assured him. "But it is true that one day you will be the Lord of Winterfell and you will have to make more difficult decisions than this one."

Aric simply gave her a side hug and sighed.

"What would you do, little sister?" he asked.

"Honestly, it's a difficult question. It's love for our sister versus the duty we have to our people," she confessed, her gray eyes growing paler. "We are both idiots, because I also feel like I need our father for this conundrum."

They both laughed and leaned their heads against each other.

Gray Moon and Night Eyes appeared at that very moment. They had strayed from the path to explore.

Lys approached her she-wolf and scratched her behind the ears, where she liked it so much. Aric did the same and patted his beast's back.

Now at five years old, their direwolves were the size of a horse. According to ancient writings, this was the maximum size an animal of this species could reach.

But honestly? It was a little scary to see that her she-wolf was bigger than she was, and Night Eyes was even bigger.
They had set up a small camp near the small village of White Knife.

A cold, white snow was covering the ground.
She went to her tent and lay down between the furs, with Gray Moon by her side.

When the woman was alone like this, she let her mind wander—wander to the past, to the mistakes and successes she had made and could make.

She felt the animal touching her mind and warged into the direwolf's consciousness. Outside, the soldiers were drinking mead and eating skewers of meat. The aroma was unmistakable. The lady wolf could also hear the sound of laughter and conversation outside.

Lys returned to her own mind. Soon after changing skins, she still had Gray Moon's thoughts in her mind. This is what she used to help her forget the male who had once been her partner. Now her mind wandered to the delicious mutton she had eaten in the morning, the fresh, cold water she had drunk, and how fun it was to play with her brother in the snow.

The woman fell asleep with these thoughts in her head.

At dawn, the snow had thinned enough to let them leave to return home to Winterfell. It took almost a full day to get there, as the road was long and the snow didn't help at all.
Sir Edrick came to her and pulled her by the waist to lift her from her mare's saddle.

Of course, the young woman was an experienced rider and could have done it herself, but out of courtesy, she allowed the man to help her.

 

They entered the castle together and the guard turned to her.

"My lady, would you like me to escort you to your chambers?" he asked.

She turned to him, looking into his green eyes, and nodded. Together, they both climbed the stairs to her room—the room that had been Daemon's when he was here, but lys had taken for herself.

"Farewell, my lady," the knight said.

The young woman laughed.

"Sir? By the gods, after all we've been through, you can stop calling me 'my lady.' It's just Alyssa to you," she said, laughing.

"Forgive me, Alyssa," the red-haired man said with a nod and left.

The woman entered her chambers with a smile, until she noticed a letter on her desk. It had the symbol of a black dragon, which made her curious. The curious broke the seal and read the contents of the letter:

"Dear Mom, it is your favorite son, Brandon, who is writing to you. Dad has been very grumpy lately. I bet he misses you, as I do. That's why I wanted to ask your permission to visit you where you live. I asked Maester Gerardys, and Winterfell seems to be a very cool place. I also want to get to know my grandparents, aunt, and uncles, as I imagine it must be very cool to have a big family. When you receive this letter, please write back."
Signed: Felia the nanny, but with Brandon's words.

Alyssa smiled widely as she read the letter. If Brandon had really dictated it, he was a smart and charismatic little boy.

"Nothing of Maegor in him," she said softly to herself. It would be great to have him here in Winterfell, of course, but first, she had to find a way to talk to his father. The last time she had exchanged letters with Daemon, he had been curt and authoritative, telling her to send the twins to him as soon as possible or he would burn Winterfell. Of course, it was an empty threat—at least she hoped it was.

But it had incited a huge amount of anger and sadness in her. At first, she felt sadness because he was threatening her, which meant the babies would not bring the unity she sought. After the pain and postpartum depression passed, anger came.

She wrote back to Brandon:

"Son, you know it would be a delight for me to have you here. I would show you all the places I love so much, and I would introduce you to the culture of the First Men, which I insist you learn. Try to convince your father there, and I will do my best to bring you here."
Signed: Your mother, Alyssa Stark.

In the first two years after their separation, she and Daemon had no contact. However, suddenly, on Bran's second birthday, the prince invited her to see him. The young mother went to Dragonstone and it was great to see him. Since Brandon was already walking and talking, she couldn't help but cry, because she had missed out on that, and she was also emotional because he showed himself to be a good little boy.

And then there was the sex with Daemon, once at night and once in the morning, which resulted in the pregnancy of twins, which always made her feel stupid.

In any case, Lys needed to find a way to convince her husband to allow their eldest son to come here, but how?

Chapter Text

Since his youth, Daemon Targaryen had been known as the "Rogue Prince," the volatile and dangerous younger brother of King Viserys.
Otto Hightower claimed he could become even worse than Maegor the Cruel. Of all the things said about him, one was true—the knight was a lover of chaos and intrigue.

It amused him, perhaps it was what drove him. However, there was none of that on Dragonstone.

The prince engaged in various activities, such as sleeping with prostitutes, offering combat training, and sometimes even listening to the smallfolk of the island, but none of it could alleviate the boredom he felt.

The King's court, however, was very different. Tensions between Rhaenyra's "Blacks" and Alicent's "Greens" seemed only to worsen. Occasionally, the Targaryen would take Caraxes and enjoy the tension at court, but the last time he was there, he had finally been able to take Rhaenyra to bed.

Although this had been his dream for years, it made things awkward, as the queen used his visit to spread rumors that the princess was "delighting herself with yet another man." Thus, for protective reasons, he chose to stay away. A small part of him wondered if this rumor had reached a certain person.

As a result, the Valyrian found himself trapped in a cycle of eternal boredom on Dragonstone, and it was starting to drive him mad. Last week, Brandon came to show him a drawing he had made of a wolf. This reminded him of the boy's mother.

In a fit of rage, he tore up the drawing, and now his son was no longer speaking to him. On another occasion, he was training with a squire when he got frustrated with his slowness and delivered a heavy blow to his shoulder.

Despite his nature, it was not an everyday occurrence for the knight to be so cruel to those who were loyal to him. Because of this, he chose to withdraw and entertain himself with alcohol and prostitutes.

The mead in his mug reminded him of someone, which only made his head ache even more.

"Is this mead from the North?" he asked a chambermaid who was tidying up his quarters.

"I believe so, my prince. A ship from White Harbor recently arrived with new porcelain and mead," she said, sweeping the room with a straw broom. This made him throw the mug to the floor, though without much force as he was already slightly inebriated. He could hear the weary sigh of the girl beside him.

His head was throbbing, his thoughts were slow, and he felt his pride slowly diminishing.

"Did you know Lady Alyssa?" he asked the girl, who was cleaning his mess with a cloth.

"The Lady of Dragonstone? I'm afraid not, my prince. I've only been here for a short time, about half a year," she explained, kneeling with the wet cloth.

The man placed a hand on his chin. The alcohol had lowered the barriers of pride and arrogance he usually kept high.

"She was... she is very beautiful. She's Brandon's mother and the twins', you know them, don't you?" he suggested, reaching for a jug of wine and pouring it into his cup.

"I do, my prince. Lovely children," the girl confirmed with a nod.

"She tried to kill me. If she hadn't, maybe I wouldn't want her so badly." None of his words seemed to make sense, so the girl just chuckled.

"Write to her. Maybe she feels the same," the young woman said, curtsying. She approached the Targaryen prince's writing desk, took out an inkpot, a quill, and paper, and handed them to the drunk man.

The Valyrian looked at everything, putting the wine aside. A part of him said not to do it, but the part that was drunk didn't care. In this way, the Targaryen wrote:

'Alyssa, although you tried to kill me and I will never forgive you for being a neurotic bitch, I'm starting to think you used some kind of magic with the Red God so that I can't get you out of my head. If you don't come back, I'm going to go mad.'
Signed: Daemon.

The chambermaid took the letter and folded it.

"I will take it to Maester Gerardys to be sent to Winterfell," the girl said with an amused smile, putting the paper in her apron pocket.

The Valyrian said nothing more than to take a few good gulps of wine. When he was too drunk and his head was completely muddled, he thought about calling a prostitute to his bed, but he couldn't even manage that. He lay down on the large feather bed and rubbed his face. If Alyssa were here, she would be forcing him to drink glasses of water while telling him what an old drunk he was.

The prince ended up sleeping, overcome by a headache and drunkenness, but fortunately, he had a dreamless sleep. However, when he woke up at dawn, he was nauseous, sore all over, and trembling. He vomited everything into the washbasin and threw himself back onto the bed with a throbbing head, still shaking.

The maids who took care of his hygiene—Amber and Melissa—laughed among themselves when they saw him in that state. Both had been his lovers for a short period.

"Did you overdo it again?" Melissa, the brunette, asked. They gave him some tea, left a bathtub of very hot water in the washroom, and left again.

As he undressed and got into the hot bath, he tried to remember what he had done yesterday. He groaned as he recalled the letter. A letter to Alyssa, if his brain wasn't deceiving him. If he weren't in such a pitiful state, he would be running to try and reverse the situation.

However, instead of doing that, the man lay back in the hot tub, feeling his muscles relax, and thought about what it would be like to have his wife here again.

Although he inevitably missed the Stark, he had not forgotten her immense betrayal. She wanted him dead; her ultimate goal was his death.

Daemon was suspicious of everything and everyone, but to be honest, he never thought at that time that Alyssa would try to kill him. And now, even if she came back, that would still be a huge bridge of distance between them, because a part of him would always fear that it would happen again.

His reveries were interrupted when he heard a knock on his washroom door, which made him let out a huff. What an idiot would interrupt a prince in his bath?

"Who is it?" he asked sharply.

"It's me," a very small, childish voice answered him. Of course, only a three-year-old child would dare to interrupt a prince's bath.

"Wait there," he ordered.

Quickly, the knight left the warm embrace of the water and dried himself.

He put on black pants and a white shirt, nothing like his very elegant doublet. Upon opening the door, he was greeted by a little boy with gray eyes, silver hair, and round, rosy cheeks.

Brandon had not appeared in front of his father since he had brutally torn up his drawing. He had been very hurt by it and preferred to ignore him, an action that reminded Daemon of the boy's mother, who did the same after being hurt.

The man took a deep breath, knelt, and picked the child up.

"What is it?" he asked, pushing the boy's fringe out of his eyes.

"Yesterday, I was with the maester and he was explaining that everyone has a mother and a father. Sometimes one of them dies, or both, or disappears, but everyone has one, except me."

Daemon rolled his eyes. He knew Brandon well enough to know this was a performance to ask about his mother.

"You know very well you have a mother," the older man said.

"Then why isn't she here?" the boy retorted.

The last time he had seen Alyssa, Brandon was two years old. Now he was three and didn't remember her very well.

"It's complicated," he declared. "Your mother did something very serious against me, and that's why it's not safe to have her here."

The boy blinked, his big gray eyes fixed on his.

"Mom is not a bad person," he asserted with all the conviction in the world. "She teaches me to be good in her letters."

All the knight did was let out a long sigh.

"Your mother and those letters..." he murmured. "What makes you want your mother so much, huh? You have so many nannies."

"Dad, are you stupid? Nannies are not Mom."

The Valyrian's eyebrows knitted together. Anyone who dared to call him stupid would get at least a punch, but he looked at Bran's face and gave up.

"Don't talk to me like that," he asserted.

The boy lowered his gaze.

"Sorry," he said. "Can't Mom even visit? I want to see her. They say she's pretty," he added. His hand reached out to play with his father's hair.

"She is pretty," he assured him. "I don't know... your mother may not pose a danger to you, but she does to me."

"But if she doesn't like you, how were my brothers born? The maester said that Daddy and Mommy work together for a baby to exist."

The man raised an eyebrow. Should a three-year-old boy be talking about this kind of thing?

"It's complicated," he repeated.

His son pouted.

"Everything is complicated," he grumbled. "So, can I go to her?"

"And leave me? Do you prefer the mother you don't see over the father who is always here?" he asked, also pouting at him. He hoped no one ever saw him doing that.

"Yes... but I'll come back to you, Dad. It will only be for a little while," he promised.

"I'll think about it." He wasn't going to think about anything, but he wanted a little peace.

The boy let out a shout and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you!"

The father put the child down, and he skipped away.

In the beginning, right after Alyssa's departure, Daemon cared little for Brandon and left him in the care of nannies. That was until the baby started to crawl and gradually walk everywhere.

And when he seemed to realize that he was his father, he began to follow him, and then learned to say "dada." From then on, the Targaryen had no more peace and had no choice but to give in. He got used to spending time with his son. He wondered how Alyssa could ever have thought that Bran could be cruel.

He was curious, needy, and obsessed with dragons, but that was all—at least for now.

After the conversation with his son, the Valyrian dressed more richly, putting on a dark red doublet with gold, and went to Maester Gerardys' chamber.

The man was talking to one of his scribes when he saw his lord and gave him a nod.

"Ah, my prince, it's good you came. I wanted to let you know that I sent the letter you asked Carla to deliver yesterday."

The old man smiled as he said this. But Daemon had come here in the hope of maybe intercepting the letter. Since there was nothing more to be done, he gave a nod.

"Let me know if there's a response," he asked cordially, before leaving, he extended his hand to the man from the Citadel."Any letters from my brother's court?" he asked.

Gerardys handed him three letters, and after that, he left.
The dragon rider let out a sigh. There was nothing left to do. His head still throbbed from last night's binge, and his stomach was churning, but he forced himself to eat and drink lemonade to regain his strength.

The truth was there was nothing left to do, and the boredom threatened to crush him alive.

Maybe he could take a trip. The Free Cities would certainly entertain him, and a change of scenery would be good. Who knows, maybe he would even travel to the Stepstones again to check on everything.

The truth was, he was desperate for any spark of chaos and emotion.

In this way, he opened the letters from court and skimmed through them. None of them had anything very interesting except for one in particular. Apparently, his cousin Rhaenys had hinted that she wanted Laena's daughters to be the heirs of Driftmark instead of one of Rhaenyra's sons.

Lord Corlys had not declared anything, but this fueled the idea that the princess's sons were bastards of Ser Harwin Strong. And Aegon, Alicent's son, was getting close to a dragon—Sunfyre—which was another victory for the Greens.

This made him scoff. At least the intrigue had minimally animated him, but the idea of seeing Otto Hightower and all the "whores of Oldtown" happy filled him with such intense hatred that his entire body was on high alert.

One day, after Aemma's death nine years ago, he was so close to the Iron Throne, so close to being declared Viserys's official heir, to having his blood run through the swords and knives of the Conqueror's enemies. And now the damned chair was being contested by his sister-in-law and his niece.

His claim was getting further and further away. And after Alyssa left, the rumors about him trying to take the Iron Throne for Brandon had diminished.

The prince had little thought of actually doing this, but he liked the idea that people still considered his blood to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and now not even that.

Chapter Text

Sara Stark was the youngest daughter of Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Jade Arryn, the third of four children. At nineteen, she remained unmarried and childless.

Alyssa had spent much of her life alongside her father and her older brother, Aric. Yet, she always showed deep empathy and care for her younger sister. Sara was sweet and naive, but her extensive knowledge of plants was remarkable and surprising.

At that moment, Sara was sprawled across pillows, weeping. The mere suggestion of marrying her to Viggo Bolton had thrown her into intense distress.

“Sister, please calm down,” Alyssa urged gently, reaching out to touch the young woman’s arm.

“You all want to be rid of me!” Sara sobbed, her words nearly unintelligible through her tears.

“That’s not true,” Alyssa reprimanded softly.

Sara’s only response was another choked sob.

“Look, I was terrified too when Daemon chose me as his wife. In fact, I fainted in front of the entire court,” Alyssa said, trying to lift her sister’s spirits. “But it wasn’t all bad.”

Finally, the younger girl turned her tear-streaked face toward her older sister, sniffing as she brushed aside the brown locks clinging to her cheeks.

“Not bad? Lys, you can’t even see your children, and Daemon was so awful that you chose to kill him!” Sara retorted.

Typically, Sara was the gentlest of the four siblings, rarely expressing her opinions so sharply, which caught Alyssa off guard. But her words held truth, and Alyssa’s shoulders slumped. If the topic was arranged marriages, she and Daemon were far from a good example.

“Then think of our parents,” Alyssa countered, reaching out to tuck a strand of Sara’s dark hair behind her ear. “They were forced to marry, too, and now they love each other. Besides, there’s no need to be so upset—Father hasn’t given his answer yet, has he?”

The sweet girl sniffled again and glanced around.

“But I have a bad feeling about this,” Sara confessed. “I feel like Father will agree to it.”

“He might want… He’ll want to touch me, and I… I don’t want that,” she added, her blue eyes brimming with desperation.

“Sara, you’re not just any lady with a father who doesn’t care,” Alyssa assured her, wrapping her arms around her sister. “You have a pack. If this marriage to Viggo happens and he hurts you, trust me, we’d kill him. We’d never abandon you to a place like the Dreadfort.” She brushed her thumb across Sara’s cheek, wiping away tears, and kissed her hair.

Alyssa stayed with Sara, her head resting in her lap, until the younger girl fell asleep. Once she did, Alyssa gently settled her into bed and tucked her in. Though Sara was grown, Alyssa still saw her as her little girl. As a child, Alyssa used to tell their mother, Lady Jade, that Sara was her “very real doll,” braiding her hair and carrying her in her arms. She could never bear to see this girl suffer.

The Northerner left her sister’s chambers, sighing as she closed the door.

That moment stirred a memory. Now, Alyssa had her own “little doll.” She was the mother of a girl named Lyarra. Alyssa couldn’t help but wonder how she was doing. The babe was only six months old, and few letters arrived from Dragonstone with news of her and her twin brother, Aemon.

After their birth, Alyssa had made little effort to see them, exhausted and heartbroken from the pregnancy. Then the prince demanded they be sent to Dragonstone—with a threatening letter. She hadn’t even seen them before they were taken away.

Six months ago, Alyssa had been training with Edrick when a nursemaid interrupted, apologizing as she entered their chambers.

“Lady Stark? Would you like to see your children before they leave?” she asked.

The babes were in two delicate baskets. Alyssa glanced at them from the corner of her eye, straining through her exercises.

“No, you may go,” she commanded. And she hadn’t seen them since.

“Lady Alyssa?” a young scribe asked, a boy of twelve with dark brown hair and honey-colored eyes. She gave him a kind smile and approached. “Yes, what do you need?”

The boy shook his head and pulled a letter from his apron, handing it to her.

“It’s from Dragonstone. It arrived this morning,” he explained.

Her heart fluttered, and she nodded.

“Thank you.”

The scribe bowed and hurried down the stairs. Alyssa stared at the letter, its red Targaryen seal gleaming in the wax. It was likely another letter from her son, Brandon.

*‘Alyssa, despite your attempt to kill me, I’ll never forgive you for being a neurotic bitch. But I’m starting to think you worked some red god’s magic to stay in my head. If you don’t return, I’ll lose my mind.’*
*Signed: Daemon.*

Her vision blurred as she read those words, her ears ringing. It was a lot to process. First, who did this bastard think he was, calling her a neurotic bitch? Second, she’d never met a servant of the red god, but the thought of Daemon thinking of her made her cheeks flush like a maiden’s. *‘If you don’t return, I’ll lose my mind.’* She read and reread that line, each time feeling warmth spread through her chest, her heart skipping a beat.

Could it be true? Was it a prank, perhaps from Rickon and his friends? But Daemon’s handwriting was unmistakable—dramatic and elegant, as only a prince’s could be. He couldn’t mean it, though. He must have been drunk when he wrote it. Yet her father always said that what we say or do when drunk is what lingers on the tip of our tongue, not beyond it.

Was it true? Did he miss her? Was he going mad without her, even after everything?

The thought nearly made her skip with joy. She wanted to see Daemon now, to kiss him as deeply as the ocean, to drown in the feeling of him once more.

Perhaps they could live together again, bickering about their different cultures, arguing over trivial things, then lying together at night and strolling through the gardens in the morning, eating lemon cakes and talking about the future.

But if he still felt anything for her, maybe he’d allow Brandon to visit.

Alyssa returned to her chambers, grabbing a mug of buttered mead along the way. She sat, pondering how to respond.

She considered openings: *Dear Daemon, Beloved Daemon, Husband, Sender…* But settled on *My Prince* in the end.

*‘My Prince, I recently received your letter claiming you miss me. I admit I was surprised, given the state of our relationship. I ask that you clarify the truth of those words or whether they were written in a moment of vulnerability and do not reflect reality. However, I must confess that I, too, miss you—and Brandon, of course. I wish to be part of his upbringing and introduce him to my culture. Thus, I request that if you harbor any positive feelings for me, you allow the boy to visit. Once again, I apologize for what I did three years ago. I know you’ll never trust me or anyone else again, but I’ve paid enough. Please, let me have my son here.’*
*Signed: Yours, Alyssa.*

She sealed the letter with wax, imprinting the direwolf sigil. But then she wondered if she was humbling herself too much.

Daemon had made her so insecure that she believed he might plot her murder, which is why she acted as she did. He bore some blame too—after all, the fool had threatened her with a knife upon discovering her actions. Her father had never threatened her mother. That wasn’t how love was supposed to be. It shouldn’t hurt or push you away. That applied to both of them. The best thing was to stay apart forever.

As a younger woman, Alyssa hadn’t even thought of love or husbands—only freedom. She had nearly achieved that in this new phase of her life, so why did she still long for the prince? Perhaps *he* had cast a spell on *her*. The Alyssa of sixteen name days would never have accepted this.

So, she left the letter on the table. It was better left unanswered. They were the past. After all, what was love compared to freedom?

The Stark woman left her chambers to speak with her mother, Lady Jade Arryn.

The Lady of Winterfell was seated at her desk, reviewing various papers.

“Hello, Mother,” Alyssa greeted.

“Hello, Alyssa. When you come in like this, I know you seek my wisdom,” Lady Jade said, offering the chair across from her.

“You know me too well,” Alyssa replied, taking the seat.

“Brandon wants to come here, but I don’t know how to ask Daemon, and I don’t want my son to think I’ve abandoned him completely,” she confessed. “What should I do?”

Her mother sighed and turned to her.

“You can send Daemon a letter saying you want your son to visit. After all, the child came from your womb,” she explained.

“I’ve already written the letter, but I think it’s too romantic,” Alyssa admitted reluctantly.

Lady Jade ran her hands through her dark hair.

“Alyssa, after everything, do you still love that man?” she asked, her tone laced with judgment.

“No,” Alyssa replied quickly, though she knew it was a lie. “But I miss him. Honestly, I think… I might just be lonely.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow.

“Take moon tea and quench that loneliness. Send a letter demanding to see your son,” she ordered.

Alyssa nearly laughed.

“Mother! Are you suggesting I take a lover?” she asked, surprised that her mother, of all people, would propose such a thing.

“Well, if it keeps you away from that prince… Just be careful, for the love of the gods, not to have a bastard. You’re beautiful—so beautiful. Choose one man. Maybe you could stay with him until the end,” Lady Jade suggested.

The idea amused Alyssa. Truthfully, she hadn’t thought much about taking a lover.

“Thank you for the advice, Mother. It was simple but effective.”

Afterward, she went to the kitchen to fetch ginger cakes and headed to the godswood, where Gray Moon rested with the other direwolves. She gave the cakes to the wolf, who devoured them eagerly. As Alyssa warged into the beast, she felt the refreshing burn of ginger in its throat and shared some cakes with the other wolves, who ate alongside her.

The Northerner returned to her own mind and gazed at the scene: the four wolves, the weirwood trees, the gray sky. She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t have been born into any other house but this one.

It must be dull not to understand the inner magic of the old gods, to become one with animals, or to grasp the melancholy winter brings. There was so much in the North, so much with the Starks, that no Southerner could ever understand. They’d never see the beauty in the cold or comprehend the profound magic and mystery of a simple godswood.

Her gray eyes met the amber eyes of her direwolf in a moment of mutual understanding.

Alyssa lay down among the animals and warged again, hearing the fish swimming in the lake, the leaves dancing to the soft melody of the wind, her siblings licking and playing with one another. She lingered there for a long while.

When she returned to her chambers, she felt calmer, as if she understood everything and nothing at once, yearning to unravel all the mysteries of her people.

Instead, she went to write a shorter, more formal letter to the prince, only to notice her original letter was gone. She searched drawers and under objects, but found nothing.

Mary, her lady-in-waiting, who was folding dresses, furrowed her brow.

“My lady? What are you looking for?” she asked.

Alyssa glanced around.

“A letter… I left it here. Have you seen it?” she asked.

Mary smiled.

“Oh, yes! Laura saw it and sent it to the maester.”

Alyssa’s heart sank to ashes. Rose, Alane, and Layla would never have done such a thing—sent a letter without her permission. Her wolf’s blood boiled.

“And did I authorize that? I don’t want you meddling with my personal belongings like this,” she snapped, irritated.

Mary’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry, my lady. Laura only meant to be helpful,” she assured.

Alyssa stormed out without another word. Foolish girls. She marched into the maester’s study.

“Has a letter of mine arrived here?” she demanded of the scribes and the maester.

“Yes, and it’s already been sent to its recipient, Dragonstone,” replied an older scribe, Alexio.

“Damn it,” Alyssa muttered.

Now Daemon would see her humbling herself before him. His ego would swell even more. He’d think he could turn her inside out, and she’d still love him. He must think himself the greatest of all.

…

The knight slapped the prostitute’s backside hard, making her moan. The trouble with whores was their exaggeration—sometimes it was hard to tell if their pleasure was genuine or just a ploy for more coin.

He grabbed her blonde hair, gripping it tightly as he thrust into her faster and faster. After a few more sloppy thrusts, he came, panting, and gave her two light pats on the back as she moved to cover herself.

The prince pushed his sweat-damp hair back and let out a shaky breath.

“How much?” he asked the courtesan.

She tied her robe around her waist and began brushing her hair.

“Two bronze and four silver,” she murmured.

With a wave, the Targaryen went to his pile of clothes and handed her the coins.

“Want anything else?” she asked, her gaze drifting toward the bed, but he shook his head.

The Prince of Dragonstone requested a scalding bath and sank into the tub, relaxing his muscles. At least after indulging in prostitutes, he felt better, but it was fleeting, and the relentless boredom soon threatened to return.

Perhaps he could go to Braavos and spend time with his cousin Laena—surely there’d be enough entertainment there—or stay with Lord Corlys for a while.

As he walked through Dragonstone’s corridors, richly dressed, he finally thought of an activity: searching for dragon eggs. Lyarra and Aemon, at six months, still didn’t have their own.

The prince donned a leather doublet and gloves, braided his hair back, and left the castle’s comfort for the caves. Eight years ago, Silverwing had lived in an outer cave. As a female dragon, she likely left her clutch there.

Daemon climbed the rocky outcrops to the cave’s solid ground. The space was warm, with an impossibly high ceiling. He searched nearly the entire den, finding nothing until, at the back, he uncovered a pile of stones. Removing them one by one, he earned a few good scratches on his hands but found several eggs submerged in a pool. His hand reached into the water, which was warm, making him frown. How could there be hot water here, and why hadn’t it evaporated? Was it some internal system of Dragonstone? He vowed to research it later. The Valyrian pulled out a dark blue egg, almost black, but under the light, it shimmered with vibrant blue details. He placed it in his bag and searched for another. A purple egg caught his eye, its scales faintly lilac at the tips. He’d never seen a lilac dragon, so he added it to his bag and left.

On the descent, he scraped his knees. It stung, but Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, could endure it. As a child, he’d done the same. Sometimes his father, Prince Baelon, brought him here to explore caves, hoping to find a dragon or egg that would hatch for him. Back then, his dragon Caraxes still belonged to his uncle, Prince Aemon.

With his bag holding two dragon eggs, he headed to the nursery for his youngest children. Lyarra was asleep, while Aemon lay on his belly, playing with blocks.

“Prince Daemon,” a nervous nursemaid said. She was the youngest, a girl with shining blonde hair named Luana, who’d come from Lannisport for a new life. She was about eighteen and somewhat pretty, though her nose was odd, and she had no lips to speak of. And Daemon wasn’t usually picky, especially with blondes.

The Valyrian approached, giving the blue egg to Aemon and placing the lilac one in Lyarra’s cradle.

His children were identical twins, differing only in their sex and eye color. Aemon had green eyes like his, while Lyarra had revealed a striking pair of violet eyes. Both had Targaryen hair, though darker, reminiscent of their grandmother, Queen Alysanne. But everything else—the lips, nose, delicate chin—came from their mother.

Aemon smacked the egg none too gently and, like any six-month-old, tried to put it in his mouth, making Daemon chuckle.

Lyarra slowly opened her eyes, stared at the egg in her cradle, rested her head against it, and fell back asleep.

Daemon left the nursery, heading for the library, when a scribe interrupted him with a letter.

A letter sealed with gray wax and the direwolf sigil. He stared at it for a few moments before opening it.

*‘My Prince, I recently received your letter claiming you miss me. I admit I was surprised, given the state of our relationship. I ask that you clarify the truth of those words or whether they were written in a moment of vulnerability and do not reflect reality. However, I must confess that I, too, miss you—and Brandon, of course. I wish to be part of his upbringing and introduce him to my culture. Thus, I request that if you harbor any positive feelings for me, you allow the boy to visit. Once again, I apologize for what I did three years ago. I know you’ll never trust me or anyone else again, but I’ve paid enough. Please, let me have my son here.’*
*Signed: Yours, Alyssa.*

The letter was formal, revealing little of whether she suffered as much as he did, only admitting she missed him too. He yanked off his leather gloves, stuffing them in his pocket, his hands scratched from his earlier adventure.

*Yours, Alyssa.*

Was it true? Was she still his? Sometimes he wondered if the Stark had taken a lover. The woman was beautiful—undoubtedly the fairest in the North and striking even in the South. She wouldn’t lack for suitors. Yet, though not devout to the Seven, Alyssa adhered to a strict personal code.

After all these years, was he still her only one?

Then there was the letter’s main point: letting Brandon visit Winterfell. He had no issue being rid of the boy for a few months, but it felt like it would end her “exile.” Her punishment for trying to kill him was this—being separated from her son and the island she was lady of. Allowing this would let her off too easily.

Part of him urged him to bring her back, to have Alyssa here and feel the thrill of not trusting her, to make her jealous with all the women he’d bedded lately. The thought alone sent his blood racing. But what the hell was he supposed to do? The last time he gave in to such temptations, he ended up with two more children.

Sometimes, he still recalled the night they were conceived.

Alyssa had worn white and gray, the dress clinging delicately to her form, not vulgarly. That night, she was smiling, opening gifts with Brandon. He stopped her in the corridor as she left to rest.

“Prince Daemon,” she said, intending to curtsy and leave, but as she passed, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close.

“I missed you,” he said plainly.

“Pardon?” she asked, incredulous.

“I missed you,” he repeated softly, his hands moving to the curve of her jaw and ear.

Her response was to press their foreheads together and kiss him, which he returned eagerly, his hands sliding to her waist and squeezing.

Daemon deepened the kiss, his hands slipping lower, gripping the curve of her hips before moving to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. Alyssa instinctively wrapped her legs around him, feeling the hard evidence of his arousal pressed against her He carried her to the bed, clumsily, unwilling to break the kiss, kicking the door shut with one foot and laying her down gently before settling between her legs.

Daemon broke the kiss to trail a path of kisses along her neck and collarbone, his hands exploring her body with reverence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with desire. “I want you.”His hands reached for the clasp of her dress, undoing it slowly. Daemon pulled the fabric down, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath.

He paused, admiring the sight of her lying before him, before continuing his descent.

Daemon undressed Alyssa slowly, kissing each newly revealed patch of skin. He took his time, savoring the smooth texture of her skin and her sweet taste. When he finally had her bare beneath him, he paused to take in the sight.“Perfect,” he murmured, his eyes dark with desire as they roamed her body.

Daemon leaned down, pressing soft kisses to her breasts before taking a hardened nipple into his mouth.He sucked and nibbled gently, making Alyssa arch beneath him. His free hand explored the rest of her body, caressing her curves and teasing her skin until she trembled with need.

The men shifted his attention to her other breast, giving it the same care before continuing downward. He kissed her flat stomach and the delicate marks of her ribs before settling between her legs.

He pressed a soft kiss to her mound before parting her soft folds with his fingers. Looking up to meet her eyes, he ran his tongue along her slit, savoring her taste.“

Alyssa,” he groaned against her, “you taste so good.”He continued to lick her slowly, circling her swollen clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently.

His hands gripped her thighs, keeping her open to him as he devoured her.

Daemon felt her body tremble and tighten against his mouth, knowing she was close. He increased the pressure and speed, wanting to push her over the edge. When she finally climaxed with a sharp cry, he continued to lick and suck until she collapsed beneath him.

The prince climbed up Alyssa’s body, kissing and licking her skin as he went. When he reached her face, he kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked hoarsely, positioning himself between her legs. “I need you now.”He pressed the head of his cock against her wet entrance, pushing slowly until the tip slid inside.

Daemon paused for a moment, giving her time to adjust before continuing to push forward.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” she murmured softly.The Valyrian nearly came right then, realizing she hadn’t taken a lover in those two years.

Alyssa gasped as he filled her completely, her inner walls tightening around him.

“Breathe,” Daemon murmured in her ear, feeling her tense beneath him. “Relax and adjust to me.”

He began to move slowly, pulling almost completely out before thrusting back in. With each thrust, he went deeper and faster until he was pounding into her with force.Alyssa cried out in pleasure, her nails raking Daemon’s back as she writhed beneath him.

He felt her body start to tighten around him again and knew she was close

.“Come on,” he growled, increasing the speed and force of his thrusts. “Come for me, Alyssa. Let me feel you come around my cock.”

His crude words pushed her over the edge, and she screamed as she climaxed, her body trembling violently.The knight shook his head at the vivid memory. It would be good to have that every day again.

Though he still bedded various women, it wasn’t the same as with Alyssa. He hated the foolish romanticism of silly maidens, but it was different with others because there was no feeling involved. With his wife, there was always something—anger, desire, or contentment—between them.

Brandon appeared in the corridor, skipping with a bag larger than himself slung over his back. The child tried to pass by, but Daemon raised an eyebrow and stared at the boy.

“What’s that bag?”

he asked accusingly.“Oh… nothing,” Brandon replied, quickening his little steps.

With two strides, the prince caught up to his son and opened the bag. Inside were clothes, a dragon plush, and his blanket.

“Brandon,” Daemon reprimanded. “You’re leaving, and I didn’t know?”

The boy pouted.“I’m packing to go see Mommy,” he explained.

The prince ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily.“I said I’d think about you going to Winterfell, not that I’d allow it. It’s dangerous—you’re too young, the journey is grueling, and it’s autumn in the North,” he clarified.

“But Papa, I’ll take Dartax with me. He’ll melt the snow, and Mommy will protect me,” Brandon countered.

Daemon lifted Brandon into his arms and looked into his gray eyes.“I don’t understand this obsession with your mother,” he admitted.

“Don’t you miss her?” the boy asked.

The prince sighed.“I never loved your mother,” he said bluntly. “I liked her, but that’s in the past.”

Brandon blinked slowly and bit his nail.“But I love her,” he declared. “I want to see her, to remember her.”

“How do you love someone you don’t remember?” Daemon asked, intrigued.

“Do you remember your mommy?” Brandon shot back.

Daemon shook his head.“No, she died when I was your age,” he revealed.

“My mother’s alive, and you want me to grow up without one, like you did.”His son’s words made Daemon raise his eyebrows. For a three-year-old, the boy was sharp.

“And if you spend too much time in Winterfell, you’ll forget me. Is that what you want?” Daemon asked seriously.

“No, sometimes you’re mean, but I don’t want to forget you,” Brandon confirmed.

Daemon sighed. Why did that fool have to do it? Alyssa could visit Winterfell occasionally, and they wouldn’t be dealing with this mess with Brandon now.

It was all her fault—her reckless ways.

Chapter Text

That autumn morning brought a handful of dense snow. For several moons, the northerners had been waking up to a blanket of white ice, and everyone knew what it meant.
Alyssa was in her chambers, still lost in sleep when her door suddenly opened, startling her awake.

It was her older brother, Aric, and the expression on his face worried her. Her chest tightened, and a strange sensation came over her.

“What is it? Don’t you know how to knock?” she asked, trying not to show the sudden unease she felt.

Aric approached.

“It’s Mother. She’s sick,” he said, his gray eyes distant, staring out the windows.

Alyssa’s heart clenched even tighter.

“Sick? Just like that, so suddenly? I spoke with her two days ago, and everything seemed fine,” the Stark daughter said, getting up and putting a robe over her nightgown.

“A lot can happen in two days,” the heir of Winterfell murmured.

Lys turned to Aric. “Is she that bad?” the girl questioned, unsure if she really wanted to hear the answer.

Her brother’s gray eyes met hers, and she saw the storm in them.

“No,” she said in denial, shaking her head. “No, no, it's not winter fever,” the lady repeated. “The maester is mistaken; that plague was eradicated.”

Her brother’s silence filled her with despair. Her lip trembled, and tears welled up.

“No, no,” her voice grew softer with each denial.
She ran as fast as she could to her mother’s chambers.

When she arrived, guards stood at the door. Her father was sitting on a nearby bench, and her younger siblings were huddled together.

“Let me in, now!” she demanded of the guards.

“We can’t, My Lady. The maester’s orders,” one of them replied.

Lys looked at her father.

“Are you insane? You allowed this?” she asked, irritated.

When the Lord of Winterfell turned to her, the young woman immediately flinched, her shoulders slumping.

Lord Cregan’s icy gray eyes were fixed on her. The daughter of the North had no choice but to join Rickon and Sara, who were both silent.

“She won’t survive, will she?” Rickon murmured.

Winter fever had been a pandemic that killed hundreds in Westeros. Out of four people, only one survived. Even the young Princess Daenerys had succumbed to the illness. Thinking of this, Alyssa broke down, her body trembling with every sob.

Her mother, who always gave her the wisest advice, who insisted on doing her hair herself, who cared for the scrapes on her knees, and who slept with her when she was afraid of snowstorms and told her stories of her childhood in the Vale—her mother couldn’t leave her like this.

Alyssa stood up and pounded on the chamber door. “Let me in!” The guards pulled her away, and the young woman cried like a nursing baby whose mother’s breast was taken away before they were full. “I want to see my mother!”

Her father just stared at her, his eyebrows knitted together. He pulled her away from the guards with a single motion of his arm.

“Your mother is in isolation because winter fever cannot become a pandemic again. The North will need you and your brother. You can’t get this disease, do you understand?” He shook her forcefully, and she could swear she felt her brain rattle.

“The North has you! And Aric and my brothers! I want my mother!” the woman's screamed, tears streaming down her face, her voice choked with sobs.

Lord Stark gripped her tighter, almost painfully.

“And do you think I don’t want my wife? My companion for twenty-five long years, Alyssa? Do you think I don’t want my soul back?”

She looked into her father’s eyes, as gray as her own, and felt that he was about to fall apart.

Her parents had married when they were very young; Jade was fifteen, and Cregan was sixteen. It was an arranged marriage, and at first, they didn’t like each other much. But they gradually grew closer and became partners in every sense of the word. Her mother always said they were soulmates, like in the stories.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured back, falling to her knees on the floor. Her sobs grew worse. Alyssa felt a real, crushing pain in her heart.

Rickon and Sara led her back to the bench, and the three of them stayed there for hours, her heart pounding and her entire body trembling with tense anticipation for any news. She had to go to the bathroom more than once to vomit.

The young wolf remembered the time she had argued with her mother for not being able to love Brandon. Alyssa remembered that after being expelled from Dragonstone by Daemon, she thought her mother wouldn’t accept her, but she was wrong. Lady Winterfell had once again welcomed her with open arms.

The day passed with her sitting on that bench, feeling sick, until the maester offered dreamwine to her and her siblings, who were also under extreme stress. Her father remained stoic, but she knew he was broken inside.

As she was about to fall asleep from the strong effects of the dreamwine, she saw the form of Gray Moon in front of her. Her direwolf was hunting with her siblings, searching for their mother’s hunter. They had gone far this time and found nothing.

The young woman held out her hand to her animal, who rested its forehead against her palm. Its fur was cold and slightly wet, probably from the snow. Spring and Destroyer, her siblings’ direwolves, were also there.

Everyone ended up sleeping on the floor of Lady Jade’s corridor, all the direwolves there, except for one—Night Eyes, the alpha, was missing, as was his owner.

When she woke up, Lys didn’t even know what time it was. Her head ached, and her eyes burned from lack of sleep. She reached out her hand to Rickon, her youngest brother. But looking around, she noticed Aric had joined them. He was sleeping on top of Night Eyes.

“Where is Father?” she asked no one in particular as she got up.

The maester came out of her mother’s room at that moment, wearing a macabre mask on his face.

“Lady Stark, last night we put your mother in a very cold bath, which seemed to relieve her greatly. However, today she complains of being very, very cold. We are doing everything we can to make her comfortable.”

Winter fever worked this way: tomorrow they would know if she would survive or not. Her chest ached at the thought, and bile rose in her throat again. Her heart was pounding so painfully that she ran, but she couldn’t make it and emptied what little was in her stomach onto the floor once more.

Her siblings woke up at the sound. Sara sat up and fell silent. Rickon and Aric both got up at once.

“Any news?” they both asked.

The direwolves just raised their heads, then put their paws back on the others and went back to sleep.

The maester repeated the same thing to them. Rickon couldn’t hold back his tears upon hearing that, putting his hands over his face and sobbing softly.

“Where is Father?” Sara asked.

Lys wiped her mouth with a cloth an aide brought her and thanked him.

“He... must have gone to take care of something,” the oldest explained.“I’m going to talk to him."

The wolf lady went down the stairs to her father’s office. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like for him to see the love of his life with such a serious illness, possibly dying at any moment. She would be heartbroken if it were Daemon, and their relationship was already full of turmoil.

The office door was locked. She knocked once and waited. There was no sound from the other side. Perhaps her father was somewhere else after all. The young woman walked away and stopped a maid walking down the corridor.

“Excuse me, have you seen my father?” the woman asked.
The chambermaid raised her eyebrows slightly.

“I saw him entering the office this morning, My Lady. I didn’t notice if he came out,” the servant replied, bowing as she walked away.

Alyssa went back to the door and knocked again.

“Father!” she cried, punching the door this time. “Father, it’s me.”

Lys leaned her ear against the door, but there was no sound. He must have left, and the maid just hadn’t seen it.

The skinchanger reached for Gray Moon’s mind, sending her to search Winterfell for her lord father.

The northern woman moved away from the door and sat on a random bench, thinking again about her lady mother.ady jade must be so afraid now, and she was cold. Her mother hated being cold; she always complained about it.

Alyssa placed a hand to her face and began to cry again. She wanted to give her life to any god—the Old or the New, the Drowned God or the Lord of Light—to make her mother well again.

Gray Moon appeared when she was already red-faced and trembling. The direwolf had searched practically everywhere and found nothing.

This worried her. Where would her father go in a situation like that? However, when she skinchanged into Gray Moon, she noticed a slightly strange smell. It wasn’t strong, just odd. She sniffed the aroma all the way to her father’s office and then returned to her own skin.

She took the dagger she kept hidden under her dress and stuck it into the lock—once, twice, three times—but nothing.

“FATHER!” she yelled one more time. Perhaps he was in a state of melancholy and didn’t want to be disturbed.

The northern woman ran back upstairs.

“Did you find him?” Sara asked immediately when she saw her.

“No, I didn’t. Aric, come help me open his door,” she asked.

“I feel like something is wrong,” she murmured when her brother was by her side.

The heir of Winterfell followed her down the stairs, and both stared at the door to their lord father’s office. The future Lord of Winterfell took his sword, shoved it into the lock, and pushed hard, breaking the door open. They entered, and the foul aroma intensified.

Alyssa felt she could die right there from the immense pain the scene in front of her caused.

“Father, Father!” Her brother’s voice seemed distant as he knelt on the floor, checking his father’s pulse, and then looked at his sister, a sudden comprehension passing through his gray eyes.

She felt dizzy. A pain so intense possessed her that she didn’t know if she could go on.

The wman looked around and went to the table. There was wine, mead, and a dark liquid in a pot. She brought her nose close to the pot and smelled the poison. The lady dropped the liquid onto the floor.

Her brother’s interrupted sobs seemed to make her snap back to reality and see everything. Her father, the Lord of Winterfell, was dead.

Since childhood, Lys had spent most of her time with her father. He used to put her and Aric on his knees. They would ride horses. She was always with her father at his meetings, when he would listen to the smallfolk.

Her mother was locked in a room with winter fever, and her father was dead. She felt she had no reason left to live. Without a father to please, to make happy and help; without a house to govern, children to love—her siblings were all grown up. Why should she even stay here?

Gray Moon, sensing her intense pain, let out a howl—a wail so loud and full of lament that it made her collapse. Her entire body trembled with intense sobs.

The howl caught the attention of those nearby, who came into the office. The servants saw the scene and began to cry together. Even the approaching guards couldn’t hold back. The Lord of Winterfell had been a good man. For almost thirty years, he had governed the North with wisdom, and some there had known him their entire lives.

Her siblings Sara and Rickon arrived after another of Gray Moon’s howls. Sara stumbled and fainted on the floor the moment she saw it. Rickon let out a muffled scream while shaking the lifeless body, begging his father to come back. Of course, he got no response.

Everything seemed distant to Alyssa, as if she were watching it all from afar. Her entire body trembled with the force of her sobs as she begged the gods to take her instead and leave her father.

How could it end like this? How was it true that she would never see him again in her life? It couldn’t be reality. Her head ached. She could live another twenty years and never see her father again, never hear a word of advice or an order. Her gray eyes would never meet his again.

Her children would never remember their grandfather. The gods were cruel, so very cruel.

It was Ser Edrick who pulled her from the situation. His arms wrapped around her, and he led her out of the office as the Silent Sisters arrived.

“Don’t... don’t let my mother know,” she murmured to no one in particular. “My mother can’t know about this.”

Her guard squeezed her arm. “Your sister is with the maesters,” he warned. “It was a lot to take in.”

Alyssa felt a pain so intense she couldn’t imagine feeling this horrible even under torture.

She asked the maester for dreamwine. He told her to take only one sip a day, but she disobeyed and drank it all at once.

Ser Edrick took her to her chambers, and she fell asleep like that, tears still streaming down her face. Gray Moon joined her on the bed, sleeping curled up at the curve of her neck.

When the lady woke up in the morning, she closed her eyes and prayed it had all been a terrible nightmare. Her eyes still filled with water. She didn’t leave her room, paralyzed as she stared out the window. She was afraid that if she left her chambers, reality would hit her.

But without a prior request, the real world came to her. Ser Edrick had a letter in his hands, and his green eyes were red.

“Ser?” she asked.

The guard wore plain clothes—a white tunic and black pants. He came to his lady and gave her a hug, and she knew it was all true. She would never see her father again.

“My Lady, I am sorry to have to tell you this, but Lady Jade also did not survive.”

The news hit her like a strong wave when you are already drowning. The news left her completely dizzy and without direction. At twenty-two years old, Alyssa Stark had lost her mother and father. She would never see them again, never hear their voices, their advice, or see their faces. They wouldn’t see her grow old; they wouldn’t know who she would be in ten years. They wouldn’t know anything about her anymore.

The knight held out a letter. “It is from your lady mother. She wrote to you, to your siblings, and one for your father, in the days she was sick,” he explained gently. “I’ll leave you alone, My Lady. If you need me, just call.”

She looked at the letter and placed it on the table, unsure if she was ready to face it now.

Alyssa sat on her bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. She couldn’t bear such pain. It was as if her chest were being crushed. She just wanted to run away, to escape from that place. Then her eyes fixed on Gray Moon, her direwolf. Perhaps she could shed this skin for good and go live with her animal forever.
...
Daemon was bored once again. He had already been to the brothel, had sex with a whore, and had fun with a man. It was great entertainment, but it was momentary. He was putting on his leather gloves, getting ready to train, when he heard a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he commanded.

A young scribe with brown hair and a flat nose came to him with a rolled-up letter and handed it to him.

“My Prince, it is with great sorrow that I bring you this mournful news, but your mother and father by marriage have unfortunately passed away.”

The Targaryen raised his eyebrows. For a brief moment, he hadn’t understood until he realized that Alyssa’s parents had died. He wasn’t close to either of them. During the time he spent in Winterfell, their relationship remained courteous.

Sometimes he used to talk more with Lord Stark. However, the lack of closeness didn’t shock him any less. They were both healthy and looked younger than they were.

He simply nodded at the scribe, who left, closing the door behind him. He opened the parchment. It was a brief note from the maester of Winterfell.

It is with great pain in our hearts that the North announces that its Lady of Winterfell, Jade Arryn, and its Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, have unfortunately departed. Lady Jade was taken by winter fever, and her husband could not bear such pain.

The dragon knight raised his eyebrows. Alyssa must be completely destroyed. He had never in his life known a woman more devoted to her family than her.

She always spoke with great love of her parents, especially her father.

The prince left the letter on the table. Perhaps he could write a formal letter of condolences to his wife. After all, it was expected of him as her husband.

The Valyrian wrinkled his nose and thought about how this changed the game, politically speaking. Aric Stark was young, impulsive, easy to anger, and hard to forget. If Cregan would never forget what Rhaenyra had done to his daughter, then Aric would certainly seek retaliation for his sister. This certainly removed the Starks as allies of the blacks and could now even make them enemies, instead of just ambiguous.

This was a terrible play for Rhaenyra. The Starks were allies of the Tullys, who held the Riverlands, and despite also having Arryn blood, he thought Lady Jeyne might still choose to side with the Starks.

Daemon then looked back at the letter on the table and thought about Alyssa. What if she couldn't bear her parents’ deaths and joined them in the grave? Politically, it would be a good thing.

But he couldn’t finish the thought. His wife had lost her parents, and he was thinking that if she joined them, it would be a good thing for his niece. That was malicious even for someone like Daemon.

He wrote back to her:

Alyssa, I know that nothing I say now can alleviate what you are feeling at this moment. I still remember what I felt when my own father died. I was almost your age, and it didn’t hurt any less. However, though it may not seem like it now, the wound will heal, and life will gradually continue. If you wish to leave a place that reminds you so much of the people you loved, you can come here. I will forget what happened, given your vulnerable situation.
Signed: Daemon Targaryen.

He sealed the letter with red wax and stood up to deliver it to Maester Gerardys. On the way to the old man’s room, he wondered if his wife would really have the courage to come here. Maybe she would want to stay closer to her siblings. Well, at least he had done his part.

On the way back, he knocked on Brandon’s door and thought that now the boy really had no living grandparents. He was quietly playing with his stuffed dragon.

“Mommy’s parents died. She must be so sad,” he said as soon as he saw him.

The Lord of Dragonstone just nodded.

“Yes. Your mother is very close to her family,” he said, reaching out to brush his son’s bangs back.

“I wish I could hug her,” the child proclaimed, coming to Daemon, his large gray eyes filled with water.

The knight had no answer for that.
...
The crypts of Winterfell were an ancient place where all the Kings and Lords of Winterfell were buried. It was common for them to be alone, without their ladies, but she didn’t think it was fair to separate her parents, so her mother would also have her statue in the crypts.

She was standing, paralyzed, staring at the sculptor working on what was to be her father’s statue. Alyssa never imagined seeing him here so soon.

The northern lady only wished it were all a lie; she wished she could forget everything that was happening. Lys imagined her parents would come back at some point. It didn’t feel real.

She felt a cold hand wrap around hers and looked to the side. Her sister, Sara, her eyes as swollen as her own, pulled her up.

“Lys? Can you help me choose the flowers for the funeral?” she asked, her voice so small and hoarse.

The northern woman blinked, her gaze distant. Funeral. A funeral to bury the people who had raised and loved her. Alyssa couldn’t let herself fall and leave her little sister to handle everything alone. She was in pain too.

“I can,” she affirmed, her gray eyes still looking like two distant storms.

Chapter Text

The northern soil was blanketed in white snow, while the sky was darkened with heavy clouds. The entire landscape seemed to adopt a palette of white and gray, mirroring the bleak mood that consumed Alyssa.

Winterfell was teeming with people, yet the young woman had never felt so alone in her life. Nearly every great and minor house had gathered for the funeral of Lady and Lord of winterfell. But their presence only deepened her melancholy. Seeing all those people drinking wine and conversing, Alyssa felt as though her world had come to a complete halt while everyone else’s continued unabated. She could overhear the lords discussing whether Aric Stark and Helena Tully would prove as capable rulers as their predecessors. While their concerns revolved around the future, Alyssa’s thoughts lingered on whether she even wanted one. Her grief was so overwhelming that she lacked the will to go on.

Alyssa sat at an isolated table, her mind drifting to dark places—thoughts of how she could no longer bear this pain and the one way she might escape it: to leave this body behind and join Gray Moon, or to abandon everything entirely. Her reverie was interrupted by a heavy, warm hand on her shoulder.

She turned to find Roran Manderly, her former suitor and childhood love.

“My lady? I’m deeply sorry for your loss.” The familiar condolence offered no comfort—it must have been the hundredth time she’d heard those words today alone.

“Thank you,” she replied automatically, barely registering her own words as she offered the rote response to his sympathy.

Roran had married four years ago to another woman, a Blackwood named Emilly.

Their eyes met briefly in a silent understanding before he walked away.

His presence was soon replaced by another. Ser Edrick sat beside her without a word. Silence settled between them, broken only by the hum of conversations filling the hall.

Her brother entered the room, dressed in black with a gray cloak fastened by the sigil of the direwolf draped over his shoulders. Beside him stood his wife, Helena Tully, also clad in black. Though Aric tried to present himself as the new Lord of Winterfell with dignity, the shadows under his eyes and his disheveled hair betrayed his grief.

“Lords and ladies, the time has come to bid our final farewell to my parents,” he announced.

Alyssa shuddered at the thought but rose to her feet. Her guard gently took her arm, escorting her outside. This would be a symbolic funeral; her parents would be laid to rest in the crypts.

The Silent Sisters had done their work well. It had been two days since her father’s death and one since her mother’s, yet there was no foul odor.

Her mother, Lady Jade, wore a dark blue dress with a lighter blue cloak embroidered with birds. Her hair cascaded around her, and her skin was ghostly pale, her lips tinged blue.

Her father was dressed in gray, a wolfskin cloak draped over him, his hair tied back, the direwolf sigil emblazoned on his doublet.

The sight left Alyssa dizzy. Just a week ago, they had been so full of life, laughing and dining together as a family. Now, they lay in coffins.

Her younger sister Sara’s sobs broke the silence, piercing Alyssa’s heart. Her brother Rickon, by contrast, stood rigid, staring at their parents with gray eyes that seemed to deny the reality before him, as if expecting them to rise.

Aric stood near yet apart from the family, trying to remain strong. But Alyssa could see the pain and melancholy in his gray eyes—the saddest she had ever seen, though no tears fell.

The direwolves were also present, their behavior almost human. The four beasts sat quietly, each reflecting the sorrow of their respective master, as if they were avatars of the siblings.

A mournful tune began to play. Some approached the coffins, leaving words or small tokens.

Alyssa approached her father first, gazing at him.

“Why did you abandon us?” she whispered. “How can I live without you? You taught me everything.”

Staring at his closed eyes and pale, greenish complexion, she began to weep. This was the last time she would see her father, never again to meet his gray eyes, so like her own.

She moved slowly to her mother’s coffin, keeping her distance as the winter fever might still be contagious.

“Mother,” she murmured, all she could manage. Her mother had left her. Her mother.

The coffins were sealed after the farewells, to be taken to the crypts in a private moment, their location nearly a secret.

The four direwolves let out a haunting howl, a sound that unsettled everyone present.

Alyssa wiped her tears as best she could and approached her younger brother. Rickon still stared at the coffins. She embraced him tightly.

At her touch, Rickon broke, sobbing and clinging to her. Alyssa held him, her own sobs mingling with his.

After the funeral, the Lady of the North returned to her chambers. She noticed a letter on her round table.

Alyssa picked it up, noting the red seal bearing the three-headed dragon. Breaking it, she read the contents: the prince offered his condolences and suggested she could return.

For a long moment, she simply read the letter, not fully processing its words.

Her gaze then fell on another letter, one her mother had written before her passing. Alyssa traced the name “Jade” on the paper but wasn’t ready to read its contents. She placed it back in the drawer.

---

After countless moons trapped in the endless monotony of Dragonstone, the prince finally grew weary and returned to his brother’s court.

Daemon Targaryen had once thought the Red Keep a dull place, filled with baseless and tiresome rumors. That seemed a century ago, when Aemma was queen. Now, with Alicent Hightower as his brother’s consort, the court offered a certain entertainment.

On his first day back, at the family dinner, the Hightower girl made veiled, sordid remarks about his relationship with his niece. Daemon didn’t appreciate being the subject of gossip, but there was a twisted pleasure in the chaos. It was a welcome change from being pestered solely by his three-year-old son. Being accused by his sister-in-law of sleeping with his married niece? That was excitement, chaos—and chaos drove Daemon Targaryen.

He was strolling through the corridors, noting the effect his presence had on others, when he heard a familiar whimper. Approaching the staircase, he looked down.

Aegon Targaryen, aged eight, was striking Daemon’s son on the head with a wooden sword. Aegon was bigger, smarter, and likely had begun his sword training. At first, Daemon did nothing, curious to see how his child would react.

Brandon sat on the ground, clutching his head.

“Ugh, why’d you do that, cousin?” he asked softly, his voice trembling as if he might cry.

“You’re weak, worse than Jacaerys,” Aegon muttered. “Hmph, and Mother insists you lot think you’re worthy of my throne.”

Bran shook his head and stood. Daemon descended the stairs, noting the absence of guards or anyone else in the area. The little bastard had caught his son alone to attack him.

Upon noticing the rogue prince, the younger Targaryen comically dropped his wooden sword and threw an arm around Bran.

“Uncle! I was just teaching Bran some fighting moves for when he’s older,” Aegon said, flashing a grin to convince his kinsman.

It wasn’t Aegon’s falsehood or arrogance that irritated Daemon, but Brandon’s passivity. His son—his blood—had been struck, hadn’t fought back, and now allowed the other to lie.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed.

“Let me teach you a lesson, Aegon. Striking someone younger makes you a coward, and cowards don’t become kings,” declared the lord of Flea Bottom.

The boy swallowed hard.

“Sorry, Uncle,” he mumbled. “I just wanted to scare Brandon, not hurt him.”

Bran looked between them and lowered his head.

“It was nothing,” he said.

Daemon approached, his gray eyes softening. He didn’t offer to carry Bran, but he knew it was what the boy wanted.

The little bastard seized the chance to slip away.

Daemon knelt to meet his son’s height.

“Brandon Targaryen, if someone hits you, you’d better hit back! You have my blood, the blood of the Conqueror, in your veins. You can’t disgrace our name by being weak, like my…” The sentence died. The mere thought of his son being weak, like Viserys, manipulated by others, made him nauseous. Worse, it revealed how much he cared about the boy’s future—especially after he was gone.

Bran’s gray eyes met his.

“I froze. I’m sorry, my lord father,” he said formally. “It won’t happen again.”

With that, the boy walked away.

Daemon watched his son disappear into a distant shadow before climbing the stairs back to the corridors. His walk was interrupted again, this time by a guard.

“His Grace wishes to speak with you privately,” the white cloak explained, escorting him to his brother’s chambers.

Viserys sat propped on cushions.

“My king,” Daemon said with a bow, then sat.

“We haven’t discussed the death of your good-parents. Have you heard from Alyssa?” Viserys asked.

Daemon shook his head.

“No, nothing,” he admitted. “Why the interest? Her parents died. People die every day.”

His Majesty shifted in his chair and sighed.

“Well, her parents were the Lady and Lord of Winterfell. I’m curious how Aric Stark will handle the North.”

Daemon wrinkled his nose.

“Since when does the crown care about that frozen wasteland?” he countered.

“We don’t, not really. The North has always managed itself. Still, as king, I must offer condolences and ensure the loyalty of the new Warden of the North,” Viserys explained. “Lord Cregan was always pragmatic, especially after what happened with Rhaenyra and Alyssa. I hope his son follows suit.”

Daemon finally understood. His brother wanted to know if Aric was loyal.

“Trust me, Cregan’s anger was cold, restrained. Aric’s is more… volatile. Rhaenyra’s actions might have long-term consequences with Cregan, but with Aric, they could be felt sooner.”

The king leaned back.

“We have dragons. We shouldn’t need to worry about a Stark,” Viserys said firmly.

Daemon nodded.

“Have you offered your wife condolences?” Viserys asked suddenly.

Daemon gave a curt nod.

“You know, Daemon, at first I thought you’d finally settled with a woman. I even thought you might truly care for Alyssa. But then you sent her away, and yet you had two more children together.”

Daemon laughed. Viserys was fishing for the full story.

“It’s more complicated than you think. As for our other two children… a miscalculation,” he said with a smirk.

Viserys shrugged.

“One day, I hope to hear the whole story. But if you want your older brother’s opinion, Alyssa Stark seems good for you. And she’s beautiful.”

Daemon knew Viserys just wanted him away from his daughter.

The younger Targaryen stood, bowed, and left.

This time, he headed into the heart of the chaos. Alicent was in the court, dressed in dark green, surrounded by her supporters. Rhaenyra was there too, in red, her hair adorned with a crown of flowers, speaking with her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon.

Their eyes met, and a warmth rose in Daemon’s chest. He would miss this.

Elsewhere in the court, his son played in a corner with other boys—Jace and Aemond among them. That little pest reminded him of Alyssa Stark.

Even with his niece before him, Daemon’s thoughts drifted to Alyssa, grieving the loss of both parents. He wondered if she would accept his offer. Likely not. Her parents’ deaths might have sealed a final goodbye, as she would probably retreat to the bleak North. The thought didn’t thrill him.

His reverie was broken by his niece approaching.

“Uncle, you seem lost in thought. Thinking of something specific?” she asked politely.

The room seemed to hold its breath at their interaction.

“You,” he lied, his voice low. “What do you say we have another go?” His question was quiet, but not so close to her ear as to draw undue attention.

Her blue eyes sparkled.

He needed this—a woman who he felt more than just lust. It might finally silence the torment Alyssa had stirred in his mind for months.

---

Chapter Text

Winterfell was cloaked in gray. The sky hung dark, and for days and nights, an endless rain had battered the castle. She wasn’t fond of the water that fell from the heavens—her fur would get soaked, and drying off afterward was no easy task. So, she had little choice but to wander the vast expanse of the ancient castle, exploring empty corridors, hunting unsuspecting birds, and even trying to play with her siblings, though they were too steeped in sorrow for any merriment.

“Alyssa! Alyssa!” A gruff voice jolted her awake, stirring confusion. Where was the sound of the rain, so close to her ears moments ago? A shake to her body forced her eyes open, and it took a moment for the lady to realize she was back in her human skin.

Staring at her accusingly was Edrick, her guard.

“Milady, it’s been nearly four days since you left your chambers. I grew worried and took the liberty of coming to wake you,” the red-haired man explained.

Rage surged through her. Who was this man to disturb her? While sharing her mind with her wolf, the young woman could almost forget the tragedy that had recently struck her.

She sat up, fury burning within, tempted to growl but remembering she was human again.

“I didn’t give you permission to enter,” she snapped, exasperated.

“But your brother, your lord, gave me leave to check on you,” the man countered. “And I see you’re in a terrible state.”

Alyssa raised an eyebrow, puzzled by his words. She had bathed in the rain just yesterday and dried herself thoroughly. Her fur was glossy, and she’d eaten a fine roasted pig.

“How many days has it been since you last bathed, Lady Stark?” the Northman murmured.

The wolf-lady was about to retort when she looked at herself. She was no longer a wolf—she was a woman. And in this body, she had been lying in bed for days.

“I don’t know,” she replied softly. The young woman couldn’t say how long she’d been abed. Time, after all, was just a human invention—at least, that’s what she thought when she was an animal.

Edrick studied her and sighed deeply.

“Milady, I understand the pain you’re enduring, and I know it’s unbearable. I was very close to my mother, and when she passed, I considered throwing myself off a cliff. But I had people to protect here, and that’s why I carried on. There’s always something that drives us forward.” His hand found hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She stared at their hands—human hands, with five fingers, no fur.

“Ask one of my maids to prepare a bath,” she requested. For the first time in a while, she truly noticed her own voice, speaking words instead of barks or howls.

The redhead nodded and kissed her hair gently.

“Think on it, my lady,” the knight said before leaving.

Alyssa sat on the bed for a while, staring into nothingness. Her parents were dead. If she searched for them, she wouldn’t find them anywhere—only beneath the earth.

Laura and Mary entered her chambers, carrying a wooden tub from the washroom and lining it with a sheet. Another maid brought a pot of hot water, assisted by her companion in pouring it into the tub.

“Milady, are you feeling better?” Mary asked.

The foolish question made Alyssa want to bite the maid’s wrist and shake it.

“I still feel like an orphan,” she said, one eyebrow twitching involuntarily.

“Forgive my foolish question,” the girl murmured, looking down.

Laura, Mary, and Lena—despite nearly four years since her former ladies-in-waiting had left, Alyssa had formed no lasting bond with these three. If they hated her, they had every right to.

They filled the tub with cold water to temper the heat, making it warm.

Lena approached and helped her remove her dress, guiding her to the tub to bathe.

This time, the lady didn’t refuse the help. Her limbs felt heavy, her heart raced when she moved, and she was weak.

The three maids spoke calmly among themselves as they washed her hair and scrubbed her skin. The water gradually darkened, making her feel almost nauseous.

When she stepped out, she donned a simple black dress with long sleeves. Her hair was tied into a side braid. Looking in the mirror, she noticed she’d lost weight. Her hair was duller, her lips dry.

“Can you bring me something to eat?” Her voice sounded frail as she began to recognize her own self-destruction, reminding her why she was in this state.

Laura gave a quick nod and left swiftly. Lena handed her a square of cloth, as if anticipating the tears that soon fell—salty and warm—down her face. Her parents, the people who raised and loved her all her life, were dead. Dead. She would never see them again. Never.

Both girls lowered their heads as her sobs filled the room.

Laura returned with a tray of food, and Alyssa sat at the table. Wiping her tears with the cloth, she sniffled.

“You can eat with me,” she said, her voice steadying.

The lady ate bread, cheese, and strips of meat, but the food turned to ash in her mouth. She no longer had the strength even for this.

“Lady Stark, it will be alright. Think—your parents would want to see you well,” the blonde maid offered in comfort.

“And I’d want to see them alive,” Alyssa retorted.

Lena cleared her throat.

“But, my lady, you can’t surrender to grief. You still have three children who need you.”

The Northwoman sniffled.

“But they’re so far away,” her voice broke mid-sentence, her throat aching as she fought back tears.

“That’s all the more reason to live—to see them again, to care for them,” Laura encouraged. “They’ll need their mother.”

Alyssa sniffled and nodded.

“I… I’ll go see my siblings,” she said, rising from the table.

The food seemed to have given her some strength, though she still felt weak, fatigued, and exhausted.

Aric and Sara were together in the strategy room.

Her sister wore a dark blue dress, her hair woven into braids, her eyes lifeless. Her brother was clad in black leather, his beard unshaven, his hair pulled back into a ponytail. Alyssa’s heart lifted slightly at the sight of little Olivia, her niece, sitting in a chair.

“Sister, it’s good to see you’ve joined us,” the Lord of Winterfell proclaimed.

“Where’s Rickon?” she asked.

Sara shifted in her seat.

“He’s taken a short trip to the Neck. The Reeds are having trouble due to the rain,” the younger sibling explained.

“It’ll be good for him, I think, to keep his mind occupied,” Alyssa said softly.

Both siblings looked at her and lowered their heads.

“How… how has it been for you?” the Northwoman asked.

Sara swallowed hard.

“It’s… been difficult. I’ve been taking herbs to… manage my emotions,” the younger confessed.

“I want some of those herbs,” the siblings said in unison.

The eldest raised his chin.

“I’m not coping…” His voice cracked. “Now, as Lord of Winterfell, I just wish Father were here to tell me what to do.” His gray eyes filled with tears. “Mother gave me some instructions in her letter, saying I’d be as good a lord as Father, but… I’m not that good. I’m not even better than Lys at ruling.”

The wolf-lady looked down.

“That’s not true. Yes, in your youth, you drank and bedded more than you paid attention, but then you realized your responsibilities,” Alyssa said, trying to console the Lord of the North.

The three let out a muffled laugh.

Olivia, her niece, sat quietly. Her reddish-brown hair and brown eyes came from her mother, while her long face resembled her father’s. She was a sweet girl.

“And you? How are you coping?” her favorite sibling asked.

The Northwoman swallowed hard.

“I’ve been skinchanging with Gray Moon. It helps me forget,” she admitted.

The younger sighed.

“You know that’s dangerous, Lys. We don’t want to lose our sister too.” Sara’s blue eyes, so like their mother’s, pierced her heart.

Alyssa sat in a chair, looking at the new Lord of Winterfell, who resembled the old one so much it made her shudder.

“What’s the next step?” she asked.

“We’re in autumn. We need to keep stockpiling food for winter,” the Warden of the North cleared his throat. “With our new alliance with the Tullys, I’ve invested in mutton—it’s cheaper and lasts well if salted properly… And do we still have the alliance with Prince Daemon?” His gray eyes turned to her.

“I believe so… our personal quarrel shouldn’t interfere with our political dealings.” Her fingers traced the table absentmindedly. “He’s called me back. I’m considering whether to go.”

Both siblings stared at her.

“Gods, that man has you under a powerful spell,” the Northman muttered.

Alyssa shook her head.

“It’s not that. It’s just… You and Helena are the Lady and Lord of Winterfell, Rickon is your vassal, your personal knight, and Sara… well, she tends our glass gardens so well. I’m just here, taking up space.” She spoke defensively. Did her siblings think she was mad, accepting everything Daemon did? After all, it was Alyssa who tried to kill him.

Aric blinked.

“You could be my Hand,” he said, making air quotes around “king.” “I trust you. Since I can remember, you were always at Father’s feet during meetings or petitions.”

Sara furrowed her brow.

“You don’t get it. She wants to chase after her cursed prince,” she said accusingly.

“That’s not true!” Alyssa shot back.

“It is! You’re saying there’s no place for you here just to run after him,” Sara repeated.

Alyssa’s temper flared. She wanted to growl but restrained herself—she was human now.

“What’s gotten into you to speak to me like that?”

“The truth?” the young Northwoman replied.

Aric slammed his hands on the table.

“Our parents are dead, and you two are already at odds?” he demanded.

Seeing her brother like this reminded Alyssa of Gray Moon, of how the Night’s Eyes led them, the alpha of the pack.

The sisters exchanged glances and muttered apologies to each other.

The Warden of the North took a deep breath.

“It would be good to have you here, Lys, because I love you more than that fool who’ll only hurt you. But I understand your children’s needs and your ambition to govern on your own. Politically, it would benefit us if you went to Dragonstone and secured southern alliances to help us endure this winter.” His firm words echoed. Gods, he had truly grown. When they were younger, all Aric thought about were whores, fights, and feasts, and now he was a man. “As for you, Sara, before Father passed, he said you should marry—if not a Bolton, then someone else to strengthen us. You were young and small before, but now you’re a woman, ready for marriage and children.”

The maiden’s expression darkened. She trembled and lowered her head.

Alyssa pressed her hand against the lord’s arm and whispered, “Did you have to announce that now?”

She stood and placed a hand on her younger sister’s shoulder.

“Mother told me this would happen. She said I must be strong,” Sara said, holding back tears as she looked at the ceiling.

Alyssa furrowed her brow.

“When did Mother say that?” she asked.

“In her letter. You haven’t read yours yet?”

Alyssa shook her head.

“Not yet. I haven’t felt ready,” she explained.

“Read it. It’ll do you good.” The maiden kissed the back of her hand and nodded.

After the meeting, Alyssa returned to her chambers, took the letter from the drawer, and stepped onto the balcony. The rain had softened to a drizzle.

With a heavy sigh, the Northwoman carefully broke the blue Arryn seal and opened the letter. Her heart raced, her stomach churned, her heel trembled, and her teeth chattered.

*Dear Alyssa,*

*Since you were a child, you’ve always been so determined, so full of empathy and dedication to your people. That’s how you earned the title of Daughter of the North. You were always at your father’s feet during meetings, eager to be heard. I also remember how you longed for freedom, how clever you’ve always been, and how happy you were when the men of the house were away, leaving just the two of us, and you could pretend to be the sovereign lady of Winterfell. So much has changed since then.*

*My dear, I also saw you change the subject whenever I mentioned children or a husband. And now, at twenty-two, you have three children and a husband. Your relationship with Daemon has always been complicated because he is a complicated man. I know it’s not easy. Sometimes you and Aric drove me to my wits’ end, running around and always at your father’s side instead of mine. But you four are my greatest pride, and I’m proud to have raised you. I want my daughter to feel that same pride. I know you’re close to giving up now, but I beg you not to. Fight for your children. I want my grandchildren to know more than just fire and blood. I want them to know honor, to know me in some way. And above all, my daughter, think of yourself. Before you went south, I told you not to play any games. But circumstances are different now. You can’t afford to be a pawn in the game of thrones. I saw what happened the last time you didn’t make a move—my daughter, that princess nearly killed you while you were pregnant. Move the board in our family’s favor. I love you, Alyssa Stark, and if you ever doubt that, read this letter again and again. One day, I hope to see your beautiful gray eyes once more.*

Alyssa fell to her knees, clutching the letter, her mother’s final words. The orphan wanted more—so much more, so many more words of guidance. She sniffled, then steadied herself. She had to find her children and play the game of thrones.

---

Her niece was warm against his body, her silver curls twirling around her fingers as Daemon watched her sleep, her chest rising and falling steadily.

The prince sighed, imagining what it would be like if fate allowed this to be his life—Rhaenyra sleeping beside him every night. He pictured Jacaerys and Lucerys as his own sons, imagined Rhaenyra’s womb swelling with his child, a babe with white hair… theirs.

But it was all a dream. The sun was rising, and soon he’d have to leave, pretending none of this had happened.

Daemon slipped from the princess’s embrace, dressing in his white shirt and black trousers.

The woman stirred in bed.

“Uncle, are you leaving already?” she asked.

The word *uncle* made him flinch. He ran a hand over his face and nodded.

“Before your children or maids arrive,” the Valyrian explained.

She nodded and pointed to her lips. The rogue leaned in, gave her a quick kiss, and forced himself to pull away, retreating through the secret passage behind her dresser.

In his own chambers, he found Brandon Targaryen sprawled across his bed, clutching a dragon-shaped stuffed toy.

Daemon furrowed his brow. What in the Seven Hells was this child doing here?

The boy sat up, his chubby cheeks flushed from the warmth of the blankets.

“Father? Where were you?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“I should be asking *you* what you’re doing here,” Daemon retorted, incredulous.

“I had a nightmare and came to find you. I waited, but you didn’t come,” the boy explained.

Daemon shook his head.

“What do you think I am? Your mother, to come running after a nightmare?” he snapped.

The boy’s chin trembled.

“Then let my mother come here,” he demanded.

That little pest drove him mad. For a moment, Daemon considered strangling him until he stopped talking.

“If you open your mouth about your mother again, I’ll hit you so hard you’ll lose teeth you don’t even have!”

Bran sniffled and ran off.

The prince ran a hand through his hair. Damn the moment he hadn’t let Alyssa keep that brat. Perhaps he’d just send the boy to Winterfell to stay with his mother.

Daemon ordered a scalding bath to wash away the scent of sex, sweat, and Rhaenyra’s perfume clinging to his skin.

He sank into the hot water as soon as the servants prepared it, taking the time to shave his growing beard. A flash of memory struck him—Alyssa used to shave him herself. He closed his eyes and nicked his chin, blood dripping into the water.

“Damn it,” he muttered, pressing his fingers to the cut. This was why men still had wives, not just lovers—to shave their beards. He finished carefully, washed off the lingering scent, and dressed in a black doublet over a red shirt, fastening all the belts at his waist.

It was still early when he left the court for Flea Bottom. The area was surprisingly calm, with people walking the streets, some setting up stalls, others leaving brothels.

He entered a pleasure house he knew well, dismissing the thirteen-year-old girl who served as Mysaria’s assistant and climbing the stairs to her chambers.

He knocked once, twice, then a third time before she answered.

Mysaria wore a thin gray chemise, no jewelry, her hair loose. Noticing him, she moved to a hook and slipped on a black robe.

“Why cover up? I’ve already seen everything under that chemise,” he grumbled with a lopsided grin, entering and closing the door behind him.

The White Worm ignored his comment and huffed.

“What secrets do you wish to know today?” Her Lysene accent filled the room.

“The North,” he replied curtly.

She gave a sly smile and nodded.

“I knew you’d want to hear about your little wife,” she murmured. “First, my payment.”

The knight rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, producing two silver coins, three copper, and one gold.

“It’s a start,” the former courtesan grumbled, taking the money.

She took a deep breath.

“As you already know, Lord Stark and Lady Stark are dead. The Northmen don’t want to reveal Cregan’s exact cause of death to avoid him seeming a coward—suicide is seen as weakness in their culture.”

Daemon wrinkled his nose. The letter had implied Lord Stark couldn’t bear his wife’s death, so this was no surprise. He motioned for his former lover to continue.

“The North is tense with the new lord. They want a Stark to marry another Northman… Alyssa Stark was courteous at the funeral, but they say she was a wreck, spending much of it weeping with her younger brother. Since then, she’s barely been seen.”

His heart gave a treacherous lurch at the last comment, and he cursed himself. Why in the Seven Hells did he care about the woman who tried to kill him?

But the White Worm couldn’t know that.

The Targaryen shrugged.

“That’s it? Nothing more important?”

She sighed, and he smiled inwardly.

“Of course. Ser Edrick and Lady Alyssa seem quite close lately. My sources say they’re inseparable, and he’s the one comforting her.”

His jaw clenched.

Edrick. Of course, Daemon knew the name. He was like Alyssa’s sworn shield, though the North didn’t follow the Faith of the Seven, so they had no equivalent to the Kingsguard. They’d known each other for years, close friends, and it had never bothered him—it seemed chaste. But now that his wife was no longer a maiden and was alone, she might seek more than just comfort from her guard. The thought filled him with disdain, imagining another man seeing her beautiful legs—or worse, winning her heart.

“Fine. If you hear anything else worthwhile, send word. I’ll pay,” he said, leaving the room without another word, trembling with suppressed rage. Now Mysaria would know he was jealous of Alyssa.

He took a deep breath and thought of what he knew about his wife. Though not raised in the Faith of the Seven, Alyssa was bound by her own code of self-preservation, instilled by her honorable Arryn mother. She wasn’t the type to fall into just anyone’s bed—but Edrick wasn’t just anyone, a voice in his head countered. He’d known her for years, stood by her in every situation, and likely treated her better than Daemon ever had.

The man didn’t even understand why he felt something as trivial as jealousy. After all, that very morning, he’d been in another woman’s arms. So why couldn’t his wife do the same?

The Targaryen stopped at a tavern for breakfast, eating bread, cheese, and a pie, washing it down with ale while mulling over the information.

He hoped Alyssa wouldn’t choose the same fate as her father. Though she had wished him dead, the prince wanted her alive. She was the mother of his children, and if he grew tired of them, he’d need her alive to take them. More than that, he couldn’t bear the thought of her loving another. If that happened, Alyssa would never look his way again, and even the rogue prince couldn’t fathom why he cared so much about keeping her affection. Perhaps it was because her love, if she still had any, was rare. It had been a long time since Daemon had known someone who truly loved him. He couldn’t lose that.

Chapter Text

Alyssa stood watching the waves crash against the ship, the sun blazing hot and bright in the sky, casting a crystalline blue hue over the ocean, breathtaking in its beauty.

She heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind and let out a soft sigh. Without turning, she already knew who it was.

“My lady, we’re approaching,” her guard announced. “Are you feeling alright?”

Lys nodded.

“I suppose so. He’s not even at the castle, anyway,” she replied.

After countless internal and external debates about whether to return to the south, she had made her decision. Her mother’s letter had given her purpose, and it was this purpose that the Stark clung to, fueling her resolve to seek vengeance and honor her family’s name.

The northerner gazed at the horizon. In the distance, she could already make out the stone castle of Dragonstone. What she longed for most was to see her twins, Aemon and Lyarra—to learn the shape of their faces, their mannerisms. Of course, the young mother was also eager to see her firstborn, Brandon, though she had been informed he was in King’s Landing with his father. The news of Daemon in the Red Keep did not sit well with her; it only heightened her unease. What were he and Rhaenyra doing now, with scarcely anyone to keep them apart? Naturally, Lys didn’t expect Daemon Targaryen, lord of Flea Bottom, to remain celibate during their time apart, but she would have preferred he bedded every whore in the city’s brothels rather than lie with his niece alone.

Her heart raced, and her stomach churned as the ship docked on the sandy shore.

Gray Moon was the first to disembark. Alyssa could sense the wolf’s irritation at constantly shifting between south and north. The animal let out a discontented howl. Alyssa tried to soothe her by skinchanging, assuring her she could visit old friends.

Ser Edrick descended shortly after, and as the perfect knight he was, he took her hand to help her down the steps to solid ground, then lifted the hem of her dress to keep it from getting soiled by wet sand.

Alyssa gave the redhead a nod of appreciation.

“Thank you, ser. You’re always so gallant with me,” she remarked warmly.

The bearded man responded with a simple nod and offered his arm.

“It’s no trouble at all to serve such a lovely lady.” He playfully tapped his index finger on her nose, making her laugh. Together, with Gray Moon and the rest of her retinue trailing behind, they began the ascent across the long bridge to Dragonstone.

The warm welcome for her safe arrival came from the castle’s castellan, and servants hurried down to retrieve her belongings.

“My lady, Prince Daemon returned this morning from his trip to King’s Landing. He didn’t explain why he hasn’t come to greet you in person.” The man’s words left her dizzy. Daemon was here. She would have to face him again.

Her guard’s hand rested gently on her back.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Not anymore,” Lys whispered in his ear.

Her direwolf tugged sharply at the hem of her dress, urging her to enter the castle.

“Gray Moon!” she scolded. “By the gods, what manners!”

The wolf merely flicked her ears.

The castellan, a man she recalled as Brown, turned to her again.

“Lady Stark, I know you must be weary from the journey. Your chambers will be in Princess Rhaenys’s wing, as before,” he explained.

Her mind was still grappling with the fact that the rogue prince was somewhere in the castle. Her eyes scanned the surroundings for any sign of the Valyrian, but she found none. Instead, a small boy stepped out from behind a pillar. Her heart leapt, then filled with genuine delight.

“Brandon?” she asked.

The boy was unmistakably her son—white hair, gray eyes, chubby cheeks. He had grown taller and now walked with a newfound confidence, no longer stumbling as he once did.

The child approached hesitantly but offered a polite bow.

“Good day, my lady,” he said courteously.

Alyssa laughed at his formal demeanor, rushing forward to scoop him into her arms and hug him tightly.

“Brandon! It’s me, Alyssa, your mother.”

At first, the boy only stared at her. His gray eyes mirrored her own and those of his father, Cregan Stark. Alyssa swallowed hard, the earlier joy fading. Her father would never see how much his grandson’s eyes resembled his own.

“Mama?” Her son’s voice pulled her back from the wave of melancholy.

“Yes, Bran, it’s me,” she affirmed, gazing into his eyes so he could see they were the same as his.

Brandon began to cry, wrapping his arms around her and sobbing into the curve of her neck. Touched, Alyssa hugged him back, breathing in his soft vanilla scent—he had likely just bathed.

“You’re so handsome and smell so good,” she said, her hand tracing his warm cheek as she studied every detail of his face.

The boy hugged her even tighter.

“I prayed to the stars to see you, and they heard me,” he exclaimed.

Lys blinked softly at his words. Her three-year-old had been praying for her return. How could she ever have feared Brandon would be swayed by his Targaryen side and turn cruel? So far, he was a good, affectionate, and sweet boy, and she would focus on that.

The northerner kissed his nose gently.

“I prayed to the old gods to see you too. I missed you more than you can imagine,” she said.

The boy nestled his cheek against her neck and stayed there. She approached Ser Edrick, adjusting Brandon in her arms.

“Son, this is my guard, Ser Edrick. He’s very kind to me,” she said.

The redhead bowed and smiled.

“A pleasure to see you again, Prince Brandon,” he said.

The boy smiled back and nodded.

“The pleasure’s mine, ser. Thank you for taking care of Mama.”

Alyssa beamed, but heavy footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.

“Thank you, Ser Edrick. But I can take care of my wife now, can’t I?” Daemon’s voice made her dizzy, her heart racing and stomach twisting.

His hair had grown slightly longer, his beard neatly trimmed, and an arrogant smirk played on his lips as he leaned casually against a pillar, observing the scene.

Alyssa’s shoulders tensed. No matter what she felt, he couldn’t know how much he still drove her to the edge of madness.

“I doubt I’d last long in my husband’s care,” she retorted. Though her words were sharp, her voice remained measured, echoing the icy calm her father used when delivering cutting remarks.

The dragon knight’s smile faltered briefly before returning.

“As far as I know, I’m the one in danger here, dear wife,” he countered.

Of course, he’d bring up the fact that she had hired a mercenary to kill him.

Alyssa had no response, but sensing the tension, Brandon squirmed to play with Gray Moon. She set him down, letting him touch the direwolf.

Alyssa was acutely aware of Daemon’s presence, his piercing gaze on her. When the prince stepped closer, she thought she might faint from the tension coursing through her.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” he murmured.

Alyssa lowered her head and nodded.

“So am I,” she said, her voice breaking. Before tears could resurface, her knight stepped forward.

“My lady, shall I escort you to your chambers?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Gray Moon, look after Bran,” she instructed her wolf. “Son, Mama will be back soon.”

Her son waved, continuing to stroke the wolf.

“I thought you said you felt nothing for him,” Edrick muttered as they climbed the stairs. “That’s not what it looked like.”

“Oh, Edrick, he’s the father of my children. We have history, and the unresolved mess between us haunts me,” she admitted.

Edrick’s green eyes widened slightly at her use of his name without a title, but she now saw him as a friend—a true companion.

“I understand, my lady. Still, he’s your husband until you’re widowed. I can’t believe he’s worth your racing heart.” His words struck her deeply. How could someone like the lord of Flea Bottom stir the daughter of the North so profoundly?

Edrick left her at her door, his gaze lingering.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your bath. But remember, four children in four years might make you a rival to Good Queen Alysanne.” With a playful jest, the northerner kissed her hand. His lips were warm, and when he looked up, their eyes met briefly before he departed.

The young woman entered her chambers and headed straight for the prepared bath, shedding her clothes and sinking into the tub. She began to reflect on her next steps: meeting her youngest children, eager to know them, and catching up on recent events at court. After her parents’ deaths, the last thing she wanted was to hear about the wretched south, but now she was here.

After bathing and arranging her hair, the orphaned lady dressed in black, still in mourning and doubting she’d ever escape this grief.

As she walked toward the nursery, nerves gripped her. She would finally see her children, but what if they didn’t like her? What if they cried when she held them?

The young mother took a deep breath and entered the nursery. It smelled of soft oils, with pale yellow tapestries on the walls and a large brown carpet on the floor.

Alyssa shrugged at the nursemaids.

“Ladies, forgive my sudden intrusion. I am Alyssa of House Stark.”

Her words shifted their expressions from confusion to understanding.

“The lady of Dragonstone,” one murmured.

“Yes, and mother of the twins,” added an older woman.

Alyssa nodded and stepped forward.

“So, where are my children?” she asked eagerly.

The older woman pointed to the floor, where Aemon played with a wooden cube behind a large toy horse.

Without hesitation, Alyssa scooped him into her arms.

Aemon resembled Brandon, with a finer face and green eyes like Daemon’s, but the rest was all Alyssa, reminding her of her sister, Sara.

“Hello, baby,” she said enthusiastically. “I’m your mother.”

The baby blinked and placed both hands on her cheeks.

“Oh, I missed you too,” she said warmly.

She set him down and approached the cradle. Lyarra was sleeping, a dragon egg nestled in the corner. The girl was nearly identical to her brother, distinguished only by her chubbier cheeks and the shape of her chin.

“Hello, daughter,” the northerner whispered, carefully lifting the girl. Her warmth against Alyssa’s body was comforting, and the soft noise she made was utterly adorable.

“She’s calmer, isn’t she?” Alyssa asked, rocking the baby.

A dark-haired woman nodded.

“Yes, of the three, she’s the quietest.”

“Maybe it’s the Stark melancholy in you,” Alyssa whispered into her daughter’s ear. Lyarra opened her eyes, a unique shade of grayish-lilac.

“You’re so beautiful,” Alyssa murmured. “My princess.”

She placed Lyarra back in the cradle and sat on the floor to play with the energetic Aemon, who was now stacking blocks. The lady of Dragonstone spent hours watching him, helping him build towers and laughing when they toppled. Lyarra slept through it all, seeming a very calm girl, though her excessive sleep worried Alyssa.

Leaving the nursery, Alyssa went to find Brandon and Gray Moon, spotting them in Aegon’s Garden, with Brandon chasing the wolf.

The northerner laughed at her son’s efforts to catch up.

*Your pup is good stock, but he smells of dragon,* Gray Moon’s voice echoed in her mind, making Alyssa sigh.

*From now on, he’ll smell of wolf,* she retorted.

*I’ll see to that,* the wolf growled, then turned to the boy, pouncing gently and licking his face, making him giggle.

The northern lady watched the scene with serenity. She was back at Dragonstone with her children, Daemon, and the game.

“I didn’t think you’d accept my proposal,” Daemon’s voice came from behind, and Alyssa cursed herself for the jolt in her heart.

“I considered refusing. In fact, I thought about giving up entirely, but I couldn’t leave the children here with only you for the rest of their lives,” she admitted. “I came for them.”

The dragon knight stepped closer, standing beside her as they watched Brandon and Gray Moon play on the grass.

“Alyssa…” His tone was strange, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words.

The northerner waited for him to continue, but the sentence seemed to die after her name.

She turned to face him, noting his familiar rigid features, the sharp cheekbones, and the white hair pulled back as always.

The air between them grew heavy, the silence like a shroud, broken only by their son’s laughter and the wolf’s playful barks.

Alyssa wanted to say something—anything—but in that moment, she was at a loss.

“Daemon, am I your enemy?” she asked.

The prince turned to her, raising what little eyebrows he had.

“You tried to have me killed and are an avowed enemy of my niece,” he replied pragmatically.

“I tried to kill you because you gave me reason to distrust you, and I’m not anyone’s declared enemy,” she shot back.

“So, you and your house no longer bear a grudge against Rhaenyra?” he asked.

That enraged her.

“Why do you always take her side? I tried to kill you because I thought you were plotting to kill me to be with the princess. And Rhaenyra tried to kill me—while I was pregnant with your child! But you seem to have forgotten that!” Alyssa’s voice rose with each sentence.

“She’s my niece,” Daemon declared, his voice still restrained, unlike hers.

“And I’m your wife!” she countered.

“Aunt Nyra tried to kill me?” Brandon’s small voice broke through. For a moment, Alyssa had forgotten he was there.

“Aunt Nyra? What’s that about?” she asked, indignant.

Brandon clasped his hands, looking shy.

“Well, Jace and Luke’s mother…”

Alyssa shook her head.

“You’re friends with them?” Her disbelief was evident.

The boy shrugged.

“They’re my cousins, and they don’t hit me like Aegon does. They’re nice,” he explained.

Alyssa was stunned by what she was hearing and turned to her husband, who remained silent.

“You were in King’s Landing, close to the princess, I see,” she said.

Daemon’s eyes remained neutral, but his hand drifting to Dark Sister’s hilt betrayed him.

“You slept with her!” It wasn’t a question—it was a certainty.

“Did you expect me to remain chaste while you were in Winterfell with no plans to return?” he replied.

Alyssa lost all composure, running a hand through her hair and shaking her head until she felt dizzy.

“You could have slept with the entire brothel! Anyone but the princess. By the old gods and the new, Daemon, I swear if that whore gets pregnant with your child, not even Balerion himself could save you!” the northern wolf roared.

The dragon knight only laughed.

“Alyssa, do you think you scare me? You’re a woman, no match for a Targaryen,” he taunted. “If I father a child with Rhaenyra, you’ll accept it quietly like every other wife.”

Her gray eyes filled with tears.

“How dare you speak to me like that? If she gets pregnant, I’ll tell everyone the princess is a mother of bastards. I’ll rally the Starks, Arryns, and Tullys with the Greens to bring down that spoiled girl, and you’ll fall with her—along with all the children!”

Daemon grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

“Do you hear yourself? This isn’t the honorable Alyssa Stark who abhors chaos and war, who feared her own son might become a tyrant!”

“You didn’t like me?” Brandon asked.

“The ends justify the means,” Alyssa retorted. “I can’t believe you did this to me! I hate you, Daemon, and that’s the tragedy! Because I loved you, despite everything wrong with you, I loved you. But everyone was right—you’re a second Maegor, and you’ll die like him. I only hope you’re forgotten by history.”

Tears streamed down her face as she scooped up her son. Gray Moon let out a loud howl, and they left.

Chapter Text

Daemon leaned against a pillar, meticulously observing the interaction between Ser Edrick and Alyssa. Ever since their last argument, the Northerner hadn't left his wife's side for a moment; wherever she went, he was right there with her.

At that very moment, the woman was sitting on a bench with the redheaded knight at her side, the two of them deep in conversation. There was nothing carnal in their interaction, no careless touches—only lingering glances. It was precisely that which worried him: the way the knight seemed completely enamored with Alyssa, yet possessed the control not to touch her, to respect her. That was the kind of thing that could make the beautiful flower of the North fall in love, if she hadn't already. If his wife's love for him truly came to an end, the prince would gain no benefit from it. No love would remain for his house, and that would cause problems for his niece and, of course, for himself. A part of him didn't want to lose the young Stark's love, not only for political reasons, but because after so many years, and after having seen all his flaws, someone had been capable of loving him. Losing that would mean... Daemon was a lost cause.

The woman, who was focused on the conversation, turned her head and narrowed her eyes upon noticing him. She excused herself from the guard and walked over to him.

"Prince Daemon, for what reason do you spy on me like a crow?" she asked accusatorily.

The Valyrian chuckled.

"You are getting far too close to that guard. I'm keeping an eye on you to ensure you don't engage in any particularly illicit activities with him," he retorted.

The Stark's grey eyes darkened with fury.

"Be clear in your accusation," demanded the brunette, her arms tightly crossed over her body.

"I am accusing you, Alyssa Stark, of adultery. Of sleeping with your guard," he finally exposed. "According to the laws of Westeros, you could be struck seven times for that."
The lady raised an eyebrow and shook her head.

"But... by the seven hells, what happened that you hate me more now than when we were married?" she asked. Instead of angry, her voice sounded confused. "I am not sleeping with Ser Edrick. He is merely a good friend. And what right do you have to speak of adultery?"

"You know that, like all things, adultery is a sin for a woman, but common for men," he countered.

The young woman lowered her gaze to the hem of her dress.

"Do you truly wish to strike me seven times?" she questioned. "You are no better than a rotten man from Flea Bottom."

The Targaryen let no reaction show. Of course he would not strike Alyssa; she was too obstinate for that, and too important. But above all, she was the mother of his children. He would not subject her to such humiliation, especially over an accusation she had not committed—at least, not yet.

"I do not," he managed to admit. "Nor do I wish for you to betray me."

The Lady of the North shrugged.

"You have no right to demand anything of me." She left the room without another word and led the guard away with her.

The Dragonknight also withdrew and went to look for his son, Brandon. The boy was in his room, playing with his dragon, feeding it small pieces of meat and delighting each time the animal charred the food.

"Good day, Father," the boy said with his usual cordial tone, though he didn't pay his father any real attention. Instead, he brought Dartax into his arms and moved further away.

"Bran?" the prince inquired. "Why are you moving away? I don't bite."

The child cleared his throat.

"Yes, you do. And don't think I don't know about you and Princess Rhaenyra." The way this boy carried himself always surprised him. He was three, nearly four, but acted as if he were ten.

"Brandon, that is an adult matter. You don't even understand the situation," his father argued. "Has your mother been filling your head with this?"

The little boy ran a hand over his animal's scales and pouted.

"Mother didn't say anything, but I'm not stupid! I heard you arguing!" he retorted. "You have been betraying Mother, and you treat her very poorly."

Daemon had to grip Dark Sister tightly to stop himself from slapping his own son until he forgot his own name.

"And what about your mother with that guard? You find nothing wrong with that?"

The infant furrowed his brows slightly.

"Ser Edrick? He is kind, unlike you, Father. He and Mother are just good friends."

The prince tightened his grip on Dark Sister even more.

"Since when have you been speaking with this Edrick?" he asked, suspicious. Was it not enough that the man wanted to steal his wife? Did he want his son, too?

"Since he arrived. He tells me about what it's like to be a knight, what it's like to be a man of the North. He says I must reclaim my Northern roots, or something like that." Dartax, the dragon, laid its head in the crook of its owner's neck, and the boy hugged him tighter.

The Valyrian grabbed Brandon by the shoulders and shook him.

"I want you to stay away from him! You are not of the North, you are not a Stark, you are not stupid like any of them. You are a Targaryen, born of Fire and Blood." The white animal bared its teeth at him, but the older man silenced it with a few words in Valyrian that made the reptile shrink back.

The child's response was to pout. Daemon gave him a sharp slap on the head.

"Do you understand, Brandon? *I* am the one who has cared for you these past years. Your mother has no right to try and turn you into a little Stark puppet."

"Stop hitting him!" exclaimed the damned voice of Alyssa, with her lovely Northern accent.

At her side was Gray Moon, the giant she-wolf, almost larger than her owner, and in one of her arms, the baby Aemon.

"Alyssa, do not try to interfere in the upbringing of the son *I* have cared for these last four years," he ordered.

The woman raised her striking eyebrows and approached.

"What could Bran possibly have done that was so bad to deserve those slaps?"

The older man simply shook his head.

"The years change and pass, but you never cease to be a meddlesome little bitch."

"Little bitch?" she exasperated. "Do you have no respect for me at all?"

Brandon placed his dragon on the floor.

"You two are like a cat and a mouse," he murmured.

The Lady of Dragonstone sighed and knelt to be at eye level with her firstborn.

"You're right. And you don't deserve to listen to my arguments with your father. But tell me, what did the young man do to earn those smacks?" The Valyrian was surprised. He knew that initially, the Stark's dream had not been motherhood, and he remembered clearly how she seemed to hate the boy in his first months. But now, maternal instincts seemed to come so naturally to her.

"I did nothing. The... Prince Daemon was just stating that I shouldn't learn about my Northern heritage, Mother." And once again, the child's dialect surprised him.

"Husband, Bran may carry your surname, but he has my blood. He is a Stark, and I want him raised in the old ways," she explained. "And he should not be punished for that. I don't know if you are aware, since your parents were from the same house, but it is common for Westerosi children to have ties to both their father's and mother's families."

The knight rolled his eyes. After so many years of marriage, the woman still thought she could shame him by mentioning Targaryen incest.

"I am well aware of that, my lady. But I prefer it not be the guard who is in love with my wife who introduces that content to my son," he vociferated. "Do you understand?"

The young woman's grey eyes narrowed. She adjusted Aemon in her arms and held out a hand to Gray Moon, who was getting too close to Dartax.

"Is this about Ser Edrick? Does he truly make you so insecure?"

The man gripped Dark Sister even tighter, for Alyssa had managed to get under his skin. Why in the hells did he feel so threatened by a mere, lowly guard? He was a Targaryen prince, wielder of a Valyrian steel sword, Lord of Dragonstone, and rider of the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes. Why would a stupid knight be a match for someone like him?

"No," he replied.

"Then, by the gods, what is the point of all this?" the lady pressed. "Brandon is a good boy. It isn't fair for him to be hit for nothing."

The little prince walked slowly to his mother and stood by her side. Gray Moon, however, approached Dartax and sniffed him, and the dragon did the same, but there was no quarrel between the animals.

"Alyssa, you have always been meddlesome. How I raise my son is not your concern," he retorted seriously.

The girl blinked, indignant.

"Of course it is! Brandon is my son, too."

"The son you abandoned," the Targaryen replied.

"Abandoned? You threw me out!" she reminded him.

"Because you are a neurotic, traitorous, murderous bitch." The Valyrian couldn't even finish the sentence before the flea-bitten she-wolf jumped on him. She sank her teeth into his shoulder. Pain shot through Daemon's entire body, and his only thought was to get her off. He grabbed the dagger from his belt and plunged it into a part of the wolf. Alyssa let out a pained scream and set Aemon down to run to Gray Moon, who began to whimper in agonized cries.

The man placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying himself as he waited for the pain to subside. But his self-concern diminished when he heard his wife's desperate screams. He sat on the floor and watched as the Stark tore her own dress with her hands and pressed the fabric against her animal.

"Calm down, calm down, it's alright," she said to the wolf, but the lady herself seemed to be in physical pain.

He had struck her with the dagger below her neck, slightly to the side. The beast cried loudly, and its mistress sobbed heavily.

Servants came running at the sound of the screams.

"My lady, what happened?" someone shouted.

"Fetch the stablemaster! And a maester, whatever!"

The Northerner focused again on her wolf, pressing the fabric against its bloody wound. The pain in the prince's shoulder was still there, but more controlled now.

"If she dies, I will go with her! I swear by all the gods, I will!" For some reason, the man knew it was true. Losing her parents had already been a blow too strong for the lady, and now losing her direwolf?

Brandon was by his younger brother Aemon's side, both looking frightened.

Ser Edrick, of course, arrived before the stablemaster, bringing two other Northern men with him.

"Ah, gods, my lady," one of them said—that one was probably Kai, a boy newly recruited into the young woman's retinue. The men promptly positioned themselves beside the giant wolf, with cloths and healing unguents.

Daemon couldn't identify the moment he stood up, but before he knew it, he was on his feet, able only to watch. A large part of him hoped the beast would die; after all, the pest had irritated him for years. Moreover, this creature had wounded the Rogue Prince. However, he knew his partner would not withstand another loss.

The animal was calmer now, but he noticed something strange: the way the Northerner seemed completely paralyzed, her hand on the beast's neck.

The Targaryen moved closer to observe, but the stablemaster arrived with his apprentice. He knelt before the fallen wolf and began to sew its wound, while the other Northmen held Gray Moon to prevent further damage. All the while, the Ice Lady remained there, motionless.

"Father! Why did you do that to Gray Moon?" Brandon's small, irritated voice caught his attention. "If I could, I would have Dartax burn you to death!"

His son's statement made him raise an eyebrow. When had the two of them become so close? And what in the seven hells did the boy think he was doing, threatening him?
All the men present gathered to carry the enormous beast to a safe place. His wife went with them, sobbing again along the way.

Daemon flexed his bitten shoulder. He was the Targaryen prince, and he had received no medical attention. He looked down and saw Dartax on his firstborn's head, as the boy tried to carry his younger brother out.

The man simply took Aemon into his arms and turned to his eldest son.

"Speak to me in that manner again, and I will pull the teeth that haven't even grown in properly out, one by one!" he promised. The boy's dragon bared its teeth and roared at him. What in the seven hells was happening with these beasts today?

.......

Alyssa was absorbed in feelings of intense despair. She was lying in bed with Gray Moon.

Lys slipped into her girl's skin, feeling her terrible pain, the fear she felt, but also her fury.

"Who told you to return to this place! With this man!" the wolf reprimanded her severely. "You should have already challenged him for leadership of the pack and killed this male."

"Forgive me, little one, forgive me. I never meant to put you in danger. I love you. I am you and you are me," Lys murmured back in desperation.

"When that male attacked me, he attacked you too, Alyssa! I hope you feel and know that."

The daughter of the North agreed.

"I know. And if you die, then I will go with you. Daemon will have killed me, the mother of his children."

The Lady of Dragonstone returned to her own skin and examined her direwolf.

"My lady, the local stablemaster is a good animal healer. He said the cut was not too deep, and since Gray Moon is no common wolf, her hide is more resistant," Ser Edrick's voice emerged, comforting as always.

"The Old Gods are good," the young woman murmured. "Thank you, thank you again, Ser. You were quick to help me and bring the boys with you. I no longer know how I can thank you for so much."

The redhead shook his head and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"It was nothing, my lady. It is what knights do."

She turned to the man of the North, her grey eyes gazing at him with a depth and gratitude she hadn't felt in a long time.

"Prince Daemon of House Targaryen," one of her guards announced.

Alyssa felt her heart in her mouth upon hearing the announcement and grabbed the dagger her brother had given her so many years ago.

"Have you come to finish the job?" the Dragonknight questioned.

"You can bet on it," the lady replied. The anger of the Ice Flower merged with that of her wolf, and she truly lunged at her husband with murderous intent, but was stopped by her redheaded guard, who held her back firmly.

"You look like your wolf," he muttered. "Almost too much, in fact."

Even though she wanted to badly, her control was far from her hands now. Lys pushed herself forward; Gray Moon in her mind told her to attack, while the knight pulled her back.

"What are you doing here?" she snarled. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Your wolf bit me," the scoundrel's voice sounded surprisingly controlled, as if everything he was about to say was already too obvious.

"She was only defending my honor! Since my own husband loves to disrespect me!" the woman barked. "I hate you! I hate you, Daemon! I hate you so much my chest hurts."

The rogue's green eyes narrowed.

"Will the wolf live?"

"If she died, then you would have killed another one of your wives."

The Targaryen looked at Ser Edrick for a moment upon hearing his current wife mention the death of his former wife, whose murder he himself had committed.

"Alyssa... it was a rash reaction, I admit. I imagine that for you, losing your wolf would be like me losing my Caraxes."

The prince's apologies almost moved the woman within her, but the wolf barking in her mind only growled louder.

"Prince Daemon, please, Lady Stark is not comfortable with your presence here," her knight requested politely.

The Targaryen observed the animal lying on the bed and his wife, gave a slight nod, and left once more.

.....

After today's events, the Valyrian had a nagging suspicion. He had always known the connection between a Stark and their direwolf was strong, but after what he witnessed—the way Alyssa behaved almost like Gray Moon herself, how she suddenly fell still in that moment of despair—it made him remember something he had heard many, many years ago, something his grandmother Alysanne had said.

It was a family dinner. The Old King Jaehaerys was present, as were Viserys, Aemon, Rhaenys, his father Prince Baelon, and of course, the Good Queen.

Viserys was eating a chicken leg with great enthusiasm when he wiped his mouth and looked at the former queen.

"Your Grace, you have been to the North, haven't you? I was studying a bit more about the Northerners today. Are they as cold a people as the stories say?"

Daemon remembered how he found his brother's questions completely ridiculous. He was a Targaryen; the blood of Old Valyria ran in his veins. Why should he care about some people freezing their backsides off on the other side of the world?

"Ah, yes, Viserys. In the North, no one laughs with you. They know you by your blade and judge you by your worth." The lady, his grandmother, raised her eyebrows. "The Northerners are cold and full of mysteries. I once thought them frivolities, but there are secrets in the North that we Southerners will never know."

A shiver ran down the prince's spine at that phrase. He had been small then. Weak.

"Really? Like what, Grandma?" Princess Rhaenys asked with extreme decorum.

"When I went North, I visited the Wall. However, Silverwing refused to fly beyond it. That moment sometimes comes back to me. I also heard tales of men who could skinchange into animals in the North."

At that moment, Uncle Aemon let out a laugh.

"Mother, stop telling the children such things. They might actually believe them."

"You, Aemon, as the Crown Prince, must not underestimate the magic in Westeros. How can you doubt men who skinchange into animals, when you ride a dragon?" Queen Alysanne rebutted.

Baelon, his father, laughed at the reprimand his brother received.

"So, Mother, explain how a man turns into an animal?" the Spring Prince asked.
"Lord Alaric Stark allowed me to see the library of Winterfell. I came across a book by a maester who claimed to know people who were skinchangers, who could see through the eyes of their animals. Well, I do not doubt it."

Viserys smiled and nodded.

"How wonderful! I would like to see through a dragon's eyes."

Daemon had never paid any attention to any of that. But what if these skinchangers existed? And worse, what if his wife was one of them?

Chapter Text

The Northern woman lay beside her giant direwolf, Gray Moon. The animal was sleeping peacefully, and Lys remembered when her girl was just a pup and they used to sleep together. They were both young and innocent back then.

Thanks to the Old Gods, the wolf seemed to be recovering well. The stitches she had received had healed; she still limped and had difficulty eating, needing assistance, but at least the worst was over.

The truth was that Alyssa never expected Daemon to attack her so directly. Hurting her wolf meant hurting *her*. Of course, the woman knew her husband was resentful, hateful, aggressive, and punitive. However, after his letters a few months ago, the daughter of the North had believed he might still feel some passion for her. But in reality, the Targaryen hated her and had no respect for her.

She was stroking her poor, attacked animal when a guard announced Brandon. The boy gave his usual cordial greeting.

"Hi, Mama," he announced. "Is Gray Moon better?"

Lys helped him onto the bed and ran a hand through his silver hair.

"She is getting better, thanks to the gods," the young mother murmured back.

The wolf opened her amber eyes, and the little prince placed an excited hand on her neck.
"When you're better, we'll play," he promised.

The Northerner placed a hand on her son's shoulder.

"Has Daemon always treated you that way?" she asked, worried that while she was living her freedom in the North, her firstborn had been suffering at his father's hands.

"Not always, only when he gets angry," he explained.

She pouted.

"And he seems to get angry easily, doesn't he?" she inquired.

The little one just nodded, and she pulled him close for a hug.

Alyssa wondered how in the seven hells her worst childhood nightmare had come true. She remembered telling her lord father how much she didn't want to marry a monster.

The lady was just a sweet maiden back then. She was sitting at the table with Lord Cregan as he arranged a marriage between a Karstark and a Mormont.

"Lady Lara is too young to marry a man as old and rough as Elias Mormont," young Alyssa had murmured.

The Lord of Winterfell looked at her with his deep grey eyes.

"My daughter, I thought we had already spoken about this. Marriages are political means; they serve to continue the houses' lineages. If we were to look for people of similar ages who loved each other all the time, Westeros would no longer exist," her father explained pragmatically.

The little lady wrinkled her nose as usual.

"But Papa, would you also marry me to an older man? Someone who would treat me badly?" Lys had always been a child full of worries and questions.

Her father seemed intrigued by the question.

"To be honest, I think not, Alyssa. You are my delicate little ice flower. I want the best for you. I wanted you to know love as I did with your mother."

And it wasn't even her father's fault. Daemon had chosen her to enter into his misery, and now she was miserable because of him.

A tear streamed down her face.

"Mother, why are you crying?" asked Bran, his head still resting on her chin.

"Ah, Brandon, I... I feel so terrible for having married your father... I disobeyed my own father, I talked back to him. Looking back, I realize I was reckless."

Her firstborn shook his head.

"Look on the bright side, Mama, at least I was born... And Aemon and Lyarra, too." The boy's statement almost brought a smile to her lips.

"Yeah... At least that," she murmured back.

Gray Moon lifted her head gently; she was hungry.

"Can you offer food to Gray Moon?" the mother asked.

Without needing further instruction, the boy got off the bed, took the pot of beef, and started feeding strips to the wolf, who ate lying down, her jaws working quickly on the food.

"Lady Stark, Prince Daemon Targaryen demands an audience with you," her guard announced.

The lady furrowed her brows.

*"If you go, kill the male,"* Gray Moon argued through their mental connection.

"You can stay here, my love," she said to her little boy.

The woman tied her dagger to her thigh with a ribbon and left alongside her young knight, Kai.

"If you hear any scream from me, call the others and intervene," she requested. Kai was too young, only 17, and she doubted he was a match for Daemon.

"Do you think the prince would be capable of attacking you, my lady?" the youth asked.

"He already has," the Stark replied and entered the private room.

Daemon was sitting in the chair with his legs on the table. He wore his usual black and red doublet, and his silver-gold hair fell back from his face.

"You took your time," the arrogant man muttered.

The Stark just stared at him for a moment.

"I'll get straight to the point. Are you a warg?"

The question surprised her. Alyssa never thought Daemon would discover her skinchanger abilities, and moreover, she never imagined he would say it so directly. But she had no reason to tell him the truth.

"What is that?" she asked, playing dumb.

"Do you skinchange into that mangy dog?" the Targaryen rephrased.

The lady's hands clenched in irritation.

*"Mangy dog is your mother!"* Gray Moon growled in her mind.

"Daemon, why do you feel the need to speak ill of absolutely everything that is mine?" Lys inquired. "Not even when we married did you treat me this way."

The Valyrian chuckled.

"Don't play dumb with me! Are you a skinchanger or not!" The man's voice had already risen in tone. She suddenly felt nervous, her memories mixing with those of her wolf, from when she was attacked by him.

The woman observed him, noting his stiffness and the wince on his face every time he moved his shoulder. It was *her* bite! She had done a good job.

"I don't understand, why are you asking me this?"

Daemon got up from the table and went to her, standing alarmingly close. He was taller, and she could smell his scent, which had once made her so dizzy.

"Your connection with the wolf is too strong. My grandmother, the Good Queen, told me about your kind of people," he alluded.

The young Stark shook her head. The Good Queen Alysanne knew about skinchangers? How could her great-grandfather have allowed this?

Lys let out a sigh.

"It's true. I am an advanced level skinchanger, a warg. Gray Moon and I are one."

Her husband seemed stunned.

"That explains a lot," he muttered.

The prince's reaction almost surprised her. She thought upon discovering it, he would call her an animal or a supernatural thing and try to eliminate her.

"Grandma would have been happy to meet someone like you," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "Uncle Aemon wouldn't have believed it. Wait... Brandon is my son and your son. He can ride dragons. Do you think he could skinchange into Dartax?" he questioned.

The question made her raise an eyebrow.

"No... I don't think so. Warging into a dragon's mind would be extremely dangerous. They are very aggressive animals; the mind would probably get lost in the animal and not return."

Her husband just shook his head, seeming not to have understood a single word that came out of her mouth.

"So that's why you were so upset when I attacked her," he realized.

"You attacked *me*. There is no division between us," she clarified.

The Valyrian made a face.

"So, when I slept with you... Does the wolf know when we..."

Her eyes widened at the question.

"Ah, it's been a while since we've done anything... She just knows... well, you could say she knows we mate, that's how she thinks of it, but she generally doesn't intrude on that."

"You... You know how the wolf thinks?"

"It's complicated and very intimate, Daemon," she retorted. "And I can't believe you attacked me, called me a bitch, and as if that weren't enough, betrayed me with Princess Rhaenyra, who hates me, and still treat our son poorly!"

The older man's reaction was to roll his eyes.

"Are we back on this again?"

The younger one sighed.

"This... marriage is a failure, and a grand one at that. I cannot forget what you did to me, and you cannot forget what I did to you, but we could at least come to an agreement."

*Only if it's an assassination agreement,*
the wolf grumbled in her mind.

"You don't intend to kill me?" the scoundrel asked.

"A part of me does, yes. But I know that... you're a useless fool and no one but Caraxes would miss you, but I don't intend to kill you."

"Because you still love me?" asked the Targaryen, his voice betraying a hint of hope.

"No. I'm serious when I say I don't love you anymore. But you are still the father of my children, and I don't want them to grow up knowing their mother killed their father; it would be a terrible example."

The Rogue Prince pressed his lips into a line and gave a nod.

"The first part of the agreement is that you can't go around calling me a bitch," she stated. "I demand respect from you."

"And the second part of the agreement is that you won't cling to your guard," he completed.

Lys sighed.
"My relationship with Ser Edrick is not like that," she affirmed softly. "And the third part of the agreement is that you will never lay a hand on Gray Moon again."

"As long as she doesn't bite me again." Before he could finish the sentence, Alyssa quickly drew the dagger from her thigh and pushed him back against the table. Of course, Daemon was stronger than her, so to immobilize him, the lady had to drive the dagger through the back of his hand. He grunted in pain, and her grey eyes stared intensely into his green ones. Her other hand gripped his doublet; their bodies were close, one of her legs between his.

"Lay a hand on my wolf again, Daemon Targaryen, and I swear by the Old Gods and the New that you will die, and I will make sure you are completely forgotten, even by your own children."

Daemon's expression was one of pain. She had really gone too far with the dagger wound. The prince gave her a strong shove with his free hand, sending her falling onto her backside. After that, he pulled the dagger out of his hand and rushed to find a cloth to press against the area.

It reminded her of the old days when she had given him a slash with the dagger for leaving her alone after taking her virginity.

"Did you hear me?" the Stark asked as she got up.

"And what guarantees you that I won't kill you first?" Daemon inquired.

"Hm, of course you could. But unlike you, I am loved by the Tullys, the Arryns, and the Northmen... If you die, I think half the realm will be thankful, except for your personal little whore who shares your blood, of course."

The prince let out another grunt as he pressed the cloth against his hand. His wicked, perverse mind remembered times he had grunted in other moments. But seeing the Valyrian like that, so vulnerable, gave her a feeling of pleasure, of satisfaction—something she hadn't felt in a long time. She remembered the letter from her lady mother, the promise she had made to herself to make her proud. That had been her last request, and Lys would not disappoint her.
"You seem to be enjoying my suffering," the older man muttered.

"I am. You can judge me? When my wolf is lying in a bed because of you!"

She finally stopped looking at the prince's expression and stared at the cloth Daemon had grabbed. It was already dark and completely brown from the prince's considerable blood loss, and drops were still falling on the floor.

Alyssa almost suggested he see a maester.

*Let him die in his own blood. You should have hit the vein in his neck to kill the male for good,* murmured Gray Moon.
For a moment, silence reigned between them, broken only by Daemon's slightly labored breathing.

"If it has to be amputated... I'll take one of yours," he retorted irritably.

"I don't think so... unless it gets infected. I didn't drive the blade all the way through your hand."

With slow steps, the Stark approached him.

"Well, I hope you feel a small fraction of what I felt." Alyssa made the remark with much decorum and withdrew.

Her guard, Kai, took her by the arm and led her back to her chambers once more.

Her wolf was no longer lying on her side; she had her head up and was resting on all fours, relaxed with Brandon by her side.

.....

Daemon cursed his wife in every language he knew. After she left, he rushed to Maester Gerardys.

The maester examined his hand with a magnifying glass and made a face.

"It's quite deep. You and Lady Stark have returned to your warring days, I see," commented the old man.

The prince said nothing, he was in so much pain he didn't even tell the meddlesome old man to shut up.

The man immersed his hand in a basin of hot wine, which made him let out a shaky sigh. He could have sworn by the gods that his vision blurred from the sheer burning sensation. As if his stiff, painful shoulder wasn't enough already.

Then the maester offered him a cup of poppy milk mixed with water, and the Dragonknight drank it. The taste was horrible.

The maester had to stitch the wound, clean it with more wine, and bandage his hand.

"Come here every three days so we can clean this wound. Although it's not recommended, we'll keep it bandaged for at least two weeks to avoid the risk of infection from contact with dirt. Apply this ointment every night." The maester handed him a glass jar with a white salve. "When it starts to heal, it's best to begin with small exercises to restore your hand's full mobility."

The man left the room irritated. It would be a complicated life for someone like him not to be able to use his hand fully, though at least it was the left one.

As he replayed the tragic event, he remembered Alyssa's leg between his and felt his cock harden. He didn't understand what the hell that woman had done to drive him so crazy. After all, she had just threatened him and cut him, and all he could remember was the brief moment of heat between them.

The gods knew how he still remembered those delicious legs, how he loved to kiss and lick their inner sides, and the little giggles his wife would let out, or when he adopted a wilder approach and bit her thighs. It made him shiver.

Instead of going to his room, he joined his friend, Caraxes. The dragon was lying in his usual cave, taking a nap, smoke issuing from his nostrils with every breath.

"I think Viserys was right. I wish I could talk to you," he murmured. Only when he was with his dragon did the prince allow himself to verbalize childish, envious desires.

He also remembered that he was now certain Alyssa was truly a wolf.

Caraxes opened his eyes.

"I know you still prefer a female dragon, but are you going to tell me Alyssa is someone to throw away?" he asked his companion.

The beast shook its head.

"I'll take that as a no."

His animal finally noticed his hand and slowly touched a scale to it, careful not to hurt him further.

"It was the wolf. She is wild," he explained.
And indeed, his hand still hurt, as did his shoulder. He didn't like moving either of them because of the pain, and on top of that, the poppy milk was starting to take effect.

He sat down with his back against Caraxes for support, and, feeling slightly lightheaded, closed his eyes.

Due to the substance, he had a brief hallucination, a memory.

Alyssa was sleeping, and he was watching her: her cheeks pink from exertion, her hair splayed to the sides, her striking eyebrows, and her pink, full mouth.

He remembered leaning close to her and inhaling her gentle, fresh scent of flowers and ancient wood.

"Hmm, admire me later," the sleepy girl murmured.

The prince bit her jaw lightly and took one last long look at those beautiful legs before getting out of bed and starting to get dressed.

If he had known back then that he would never see those legs again, he would have enjoyed them more. Perhaps he should have even cherished more the fact that someone had loved him.

Chapter Text

Grief was a living feeling within Alyssa. On some days, she felt well and at peace with herself, telling herself that her parents were fine, that they were together, and that one day she would see them again and everything would be as it was before. On other days, Lys found herself completely disturbed, thinking about how her parents had died in pain and that it was the last thing they had felt, how she was a failure, and how they would be angry that their daughter had left her siblings in such a difficult time. She had nightmares of Lord Cregan and Lady Jade calling her a coward and repeating over and over that she was their greatest failure.

The daughter of the North had just woken from one such nightmare. She curled up and hugged her knees, seeking any comfort, but it was in vain. What if it were true? What if her parents truly thought her a great failure?

*Gray Moon?* The Stark opened the mental connection with her wolf, trying to find some comfort in the animal.

*Go to sleep, woman, and stop trying to control the uncontrollable,* she grumbled through the mental link. On the physical plane, the beast stretched out further on her bedding and went back to sleep.

The Northerner got out of bed, put a wool robe over her nightgown, and went out into the embrace of the castle's darkness.

However, the woman ended up cursing herself for not having taken at least a candle to light the way, as she stumbled three times in the corridors and even fell to her knees on the stairs. Thankfully, no one was there to witness her humiliation. Lys was also afraid of the dark; after all, she had heard servants comment about the spirits of the Conquerors haunting Dragonstone. Just thinking about the spirit of Maegor the Cruel made her spine tingle.

Her wandering had led her to an open hall. This room had no walls, only pillars to support the ceiling, and a stone firepit crackled right in the middle of the hall. The woman carefully approached one of these columns to observe the sea, as the room had a beautiful view of the beach. The full moon was reflected on the water, a beautiful sight that made her sigh. Her parents would never see anything like it, would never see anything, for they were dead.

"What are you doing here?" A voice behind her made her jump, nearly sending her to a certain death. Luckily, she managed to throw herself backward and land on her rear instead of forward into the abyss. Alyssa turned around and sighed in relief. It wasn't the ghost of Maegor the Cruel, though it was almost as bad. It was Daemon, the Rogue Prince.

The brunette crawled to the center of the room and then stood up.

"I couldn't sleep, so I came for some air," the girl explained.

Daemon's silver hair was messy, his hand was bandaged, and he wore black trousers and a fine white linen shirt, with a black robe over it.

For a moment, nothing was said between them, and the only sound was the crackling fire. The Targaryen approached the flames and almost touched them with his good hand. Lys watched the action with curiosity; if she placed her hand that close to the fire, she would certainly get burned.

"You have your tricks too, I see," noted the Northerner.

"I don't share my mind with a beast, however," he retorted, and she felt the disgust in his voice as he referred to her as a warg.

Alyssa lowered her head.

"But you and Caraxes have a deep connection, don't you? You, better than anyone, should understand what it's like to be connected to an animal."

Their eyes finally met.

"I don't see through Caraxes's eyes. He feels what I feel, and we are bonded, but not like whatever you have with that wolf of yours," he retorted.

The Northern woman laughed.

"I almost hear envy in your voice." The lady approached her husband, standing on the opposite side of the firepit. "Isn't that what you Targaryens are always shouting about? That you are dragons, the only ones closer to gods than to men, right? And yet, the Starks of the forgotten, frozen North are the ones who can become direwolves. It's ironic, isn't it?"

"You are closer to fleas than to gods," muttered her husband. "Don't try to compare a direwolf to a dragon, Alyssa."

His statement made her grimace.

"Of course. Only you Targaryens own all the power," she murmured. "But it's funny that everything you have, we Starks have too. You have dragons, we have wolves. You resist heat, and we resist cold."

"Wife, your house doesn't even come close to mine. If it did, you wouldn't have bent the knee so easily to the Conqueror," he retorted.

Alyssa simply gave a nod.

"Fine. I don't wish to argue with you in the middle of the night while I'm having another bout of grief."

The young woman approached the column once more and stood quietly, observing the ocean. Closing her eyes, she remembered the day she buried her parents, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. It was so cold that day. They were under the earth now. She feared forgetting them; she could no longer remember the color of the ring her mother wore on her index finger. Before she could act, tears were already streaming down her face. What if she forgot them? What if she forgot her mother and father? The people she had loved most in her entire life. Her sobs became more frantic. She should have spent more time with them, memorized every feature.

"Alyssa?" asked Daemon. Her sobs must have been loud, for he actually sounded concerned. With firm steps, he pulled her away from the column with his good hand.

"What is it?" His expression was confused, as if he truly didn't understand the reason for her sudden collapse.

"You... do you remember your father perfectly?" Lys knew her husband had had his father present until his twenties; perhaps he remembered.

The Valyrian remained confused.

"No... not entirely," he answered. "The years pass, and memories fade."

That did not help comfort her.

"Oh gods, but I don't want to forget my parents, I don't want to," she mumbled between sobs.

Daemon held her face with one hand and brushed his thumb across her cheek. His skin was warm and rough.

"It's not your fault. Their images may fade with the years, but you will still have the memories," he suggested. "You only need to look in the mirror to remember them, or at your siblings."

The lady sniffled. She didn't know why the Targaryen was comforting her. She hadn't forgotten what the knight did to her wolf, to their son, or the countless insults she had received. And she would never forget.

But she allowed herself to nod and hug him. Daemon was warm, as she remembered, and smelled of woody perfume. His two arms enveloped her tightly, and for a moment, they stayed just like that, with Alyssa's tear-streaked cheek pressed against his chest.

It was the Stark who pulled away first, wiping her tears with the palms of her hands.

"Thank you," the girl murmured before descending the stairs and running back to her chambers, stumbling twice more in the darkness.

When she returned, Gray Moon was waiting for her at the door, sitting on her haunches.

The wolf grabbed her nightgown with her teeth and shook her head, growling.

"Hey! What's gotten into you!" she shouted, pulling her clothing back, but the animal didn't let go, and half her sleepwear tore in the beast's mouth.

*What were you doing, mating with that male again?* Gray Moon's voice in the mental connection was a low growl.

*I did not mate with Daemon!* she retorted irritably.

*But you almost did! You threw yourself into his arms,* she countered. *Don't be a foolish woman, Alyssa! You are a wolf, and she-wolves do not yield to males unless they prove themselves. Sir Edrick, however, would be a good male for you and a great father for your pups.*

Lys shook her head. Sir Edrick was handsome, young, a gallant and kind knight, but the woman was married, and her mother had explained to her many times that a self-respecting woman only lies with and is courted by her husband.

The lady was so tired that she didn't argue further. She didn't even change her clothes, just threw herself on the bed, counted sheep, and fell asleep.

In the morning, after her bath, the Stark dressed in a simple black dress with long sleeves and a braid in her hair. Sir Edrick walked beside her as they made their way through the hall for a business meeting.

Alyssa intended to play the game of thrones, and for that, she needed to put herself in a good political position. Dragonstone was just an island; there were no armies or garrisons here, only a small port, some dragonglass in the caves, and, of course, dragons. But the lady also had alliances with the Starks, her family; the Arryns, her mother's family; and recently, the Tullys of Riverrun through her good-sister.

The meeting was small. Present were Castellan Brown, a farmer, Maester Gerardys, and, of course, Daemon.

Upon entering the room, all the men present stopped whispering. They stared at her with disdain or fear... So, they knew the Rogue Prince's bandaged hand was her doing.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Alyssa said cordially with a curtsy.

She studied the Painted Table; it was not lit at the moment, nor would it be necessary.

The lady went to her guard, who handed her the scroll she had asked the knight to keep.

"Gentlemen, as you know, Dragonstone is an island, the possession of the Targaryens, obviously, but still an island. However, I would like to make improvements for all of us here—not just us minor nobles who live here, but also for the smallfolk. And if the smallfolk enjoy living here, the news will spread. We could even receive some visitors from King's Landing, which means more labor, more taxes." Her father had taught her how to be pragmatic. As she was a woman, things would always be more difficult for the Northerner. Lord Cregan used to say she should arrive at a place showing she had knowledge; that way, perhaps she could get attention.

"Proceed, my lady," said the farmer. That man was already one of her moves, as he owed her gratitude; after all, it was Lys who had taken him from miserable King's Landing and brought him here the last time she was here.

"Right. Obviously, the North is our greatest ally. White Harbor will buy our salted fish. This food will serve to stockpile protein for the North in winter times. Of course, there will be a discount for my family, but production must increase, which will generate more jobs, more money for the workers, and, of course, more taxes. My cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, didn't want to accept any proposal since Daemon is the lord here, but I convinced her that our squid is better than that of the Ironborn, especially since there has been a slight friction between the Greyjoys and the Arryns..." Before she could continue, the economist interrupted her.

"And when did this intrigue between Greyjoys and Arryns happen?"

"Is it not known yet? My cousin told me by raven that the Greyjoys stole Arryn supplies in the Three Sisters islands," the young woman replied. "Anyway, we will send squid to the Arryns of the Eyrie. All this should earn us good coin."

The men, if they were surprised, didn't show it, but neither did they disagree.

"It's a good port plan," murmured Maester Gerardys.

She wished she had brought Gray Moon to hear what the castellan and the economist were whispering.

"But my lady, to accomplish this, we will need more ships," said the economist, a man named Urias.

"Ah, of course. This is still the possession of House Targaryen. Daemon will ask his brother," affirmed the lady. The people in the room looked at each other again; she had called the prince by his name, demonstrating intimacy.

"I will?" inquired the Dragonknight.

"We discussed this before, my prince." Of course, they had discussed no such thing, but it would be strange if Daemon denied everything, especially since the plan didn't seem so bad. "You were the one who had the best idea here, weren't you?"

The lords seemed to sigh in relief; after all, the plan they were thinking of agreeing to hadn't been devised by just a woman, but also by her husband.

"Yes, of course. I will send a raven to my brother as soon as possible," the Rogue replied.

The lords agreed.

"I will inform the men at the port myself about the shower of prosperity about to fall upon them, thanks to the Lady of Dragonstone and her Prince," murmured the farmer.

When she left the room of the Painted Table, Sir Edrick chuckled.

"My lady! I always knew you were intelligent, but the way you conducted everything... I can say Lord Cregan would be proud of you."

Alyssa smiled, feeling her grey eyes twinkling.

"Ah, Edrick, I am more than happy to hear that. I tried to assert myself as Father did, but I didn't know if it would work."

"It worked. I saw your lord father when he explained strategies, but I also noticed Lady Jade's astuteness. Sometimes she did the same with your father to get him to agree with an idea," explained the redhead.

Before they could talk more, Brandon appeared from the end of the corridor and ran to hug the guard.

"Hello, Ser! I've been making progress with the wooden sword. Do you want to come see?" the boy asked enthusiastically.

The young mother raised an eyebrow.

"Wooden sword? Brandon, you're only three years old," she stated with concern.

"Don't worry, Lys," the redhead assured her. "I'm supervising everything, and Bran knows it's still just play."

Reluctantly, she agreed.

"Well, I'll allow it because I trust you, Ser." The lady approached and picked up the boy in her arms.

"Ah, you're getting so big. What do you want for your nameday?" the girl asked.

"I want... you being here is my gift, Mother," murmured her son.

"What a flatterer you are," said the young woman, laughing and ruffling the younger one's hair.

"Well, we'll have a small ball in your honor," she explained.

Bran threw his hands up in victory.

"I'll dress Lya in a beautiful pink dress I made for her for that day," murmured the mother.

The firstborn rolled his eyes.

"Why does only Lyarra get clothes made by you?" he grumbled with a pout.

Sir Edrick approached.

"Because your mother is terrible at making boys' clothes. Once, the septa had her make a doublet, and it looked like a skirt," the knight commented with a handsome smile.

"Oh gods, you remember that!"

Even the little prince couldn't help but laugh.

"It's alright, I'll forgive you, Mother."

She was smiling when she noticed Daemon watching everything from a corner like a hawk. Lys ignored him and turned her attention back to the two men beside her.

"When you turn ten, you'll have a joust at your birthday," the knight promised.

Slowly, the scoundrel approached.

"Joust?" he asked.

Brandon nodded.

"Yes, Father. Ser Edrick wants to hold a small tournament for my tenth birthday. Will you participate?" he asked innocently.

Alyssa shook her head.

"Bran, your father will be an old man in a chair by then," the Northerner joked.

Daemon raised an eyebrow and held out his arms to take Brandon from hers.

"Well, but for now, I will participate and defeat all the young knights your mother seems to like so much."

It was the first time she had seen a normal interaction between Brandon and Daemon, and she was surprised by how natural it seemed.

"And will you crown Mama the Queen of Love and Beauty?" he asked.
Sir Edrick and Alyssa exchanged a look.

"I don't know, she doesn't deserve it at the moment," the prince replied.

The Northern woman shrugged softly.

"I have to go see Aemon and Lyarra," murmured the young mother and bid farewell with a wave. Sir Edrick bowed to her and Daemon and withdrew.

"I will leave you to have a moment alone with your children."

"I'll come with you; it's been a while since I've seen the twins," suggested the Targaryen, with Brandon still resting quite comfortably in his arms.

The three arrived at the nursery where Aemon and Lyarra were crawling together on the floor.

"Ah, hello, my loves," the Stark greeted them and sat on the floor. Bran got down from his father's arms and went to the floor to play with his siblings.

Daemon, being the arrogant and proud prince he was, sat in an armchair, letting his injured arm rest on it. He flexed his fingers.

"Does it still hurt?" inquired the wife.

"What do you think, Alyssa? It was a good cut you made," muttered the knight. "And your wolf had already done a fine job on my shoulder."

Lys stood up and went to her husband, placing a hand on his chin.

"Well, you deserved it, but... I'm almost seeing the Daemon from before now." The lady moved close enough to give him a kiss on the nose, but Lyarra appeared, tugging on the hem of her father's trousers.

"Girl!" reprimanded the older one, but he picked up the baby girl in his arms.

Meanwhile, Brandon was struggling to help baby Aemon, who was trying to walk. With his brother's help, he almost managed it.

"Congratulations, Aemon." Lys clapped for the younger one.

Lya, however, was much less energetic than her brothers. She watched them with her large, almost purple eyes but preferred to lay her head down and throw herself into Daemon's lap. Alyssa remembered herself; her father said she had been like that as a baby, too.

*Are you playing house with the father of your pups? Do I need to remind you that he almost killed me!* Gray Moon growled in her mind.

*I remember that. I remember it well. But Daemon and I made an agreement of respect. I keep my vows.*

*You should have made an agreement to slit his throat,* she retorted. *Perhaps I will do that.*
Alyssa sighed and sent Gray Moon the feelings she, as a human, had for Daemon to appease her, and then closed the connection.

The Northerner knelt on the floor to try to help Aemon walk, and in that moment, she looked at the family she had built with a Targaryen... Things could have been different between them if everything weren't already so broken.

Her husband's hand was bandaged, just like her heart. They had already hurt each other and tried to destroy each other too much. The path they would continue to pursue would destroy one another at the finish line. And beyond all the verbal insults, she would never forget that he had slept with Rhaenyra, the woman who hated her so much.
"Does your brother know about my new attempt on your life?" she asked suddenly.

"I didn't tell him. I don't like my brother knowing how often I'm injured by my wife, but someone from the court here must have informed him. I received a special letter from my niece calling you a rabid bitch." The Targaryen's statement made her swallow hard.

"Better a rabid bitch than a tame whore," murmured the lady.

Aemon babbled something incoherent and leaned back on his older brother's shoulders to take steps.

"Rhaenyra is a dragon," the prince replied.

"Why can't you just not defend her? Seriously, why can't you?" The children all looked at her as her voice rose.

The Valyrian's response was silence, his mouth contracting into a thin line. Lyarra bit his bandaged thumb, and he gave her a gentle tap on the nose.

"Thank you," uttered the daughter of the North.