Chapter 1: The Royal Hunt

King’s Landing, 115AC

Alyssa Targaryen

~o~

“The whole of our family off to celebration and adventure in the Kingswood!” 

Her father's excitement was clearly feigned. Even he wasn't oblivious enough to overlook the tension between his wife and his daughter. 

Alyssa looked up from the needlework she had been huddled over in the corner of the wheelhouse, determined not to show any favouritism towards stepmother or sister. 

“I am excited to hear about your hunt later, father.”

Rhaenyra, perhaps, could join the men: She defied expectations, rules, tradition. 

Alyssa would never dare. She loathed the stares she received as the second princess, she couldn’t imagine the disapproving looks if she behaved scandalous in any way. She didn’t have to. Lately, Rhaenyra reaped disapproving glances galore, even from their usually lenient father.

Right now, however his eyes were resting on his other daughter. He nodded at the embroidery. “Pretty.”

Alyssa smiled back and pushed the needle into the silken black fabric a little too forcefully and tore the last stitch. Red thread spilled out of the hole like blood. “For our brother.”

Her father cast a soft look at his son before he turned to his elder daughter. 

“You should ride out with me today,” he offered in an entirely obvious attempt to appease Rhaenyra.

Alyssa didn’t know what had happened between Alicent and Rhaenyra this time, but it were all variations of the same conflict. 

She ignored the discussion between her father and her sister and focussed on her needlework. There was nothing new there, either.

The king’s marriage to Alicent had left the three of them lonely but Alyssa had tried in vain to change that. Yet, she did not wish to spend her entire life torn between two factions. Life at court was a trial even without Alicent and Rhaenyra's quarrels. When the eyes of the nobles rested on Rhaenyra, they saw fire and blood come to life: hot-blooded at times, haughty and prideful, too, but a true Targaryen princess. They might shake their heads at her tantrums or mischief but in the end, Rhaenyra was the realm's delight. 

Alyssa had spent years fearing the moniker they would find for her only to realise that it was much worse never receiving one at all. The nobles at court looked at her too, but their glances just brushed her as they were trying to find something worth looking at. 

As a girl, Alyssa had often cursed the gods for making her the younger twin but those days were long past. She had accepted now that an heir needed a spare like a knife needed a throat.  But the throat had no need for the knife and she meant to escape the blade altogether before it bled her dry. 

This was a hunt. Her father thought she had come along to be a companion to his queen but in truth, Alyssa was hunting too, and something much less dignified than a stag.

A husband.

Her father was drowning in letters sent for his daughters’ hands, one of the senders would have to be acceptable. Granted, most of the great lords were interested in the elder daughter, the heir, the crowning jewel of the Targaryen family, but Alyssa was a princess too and much less demanding than her sister.

Of the great lords, Jason Lannister would be a fine choice: far away from here, with a secluded keep inside a mountain, and a wandering eye that meant he would leave her alone once she had done her duty.

Alyssa had looked into others, knew the Lineages of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms by heart. She knew how many sons each of the great lords had, whether he was widowed, how old he was and how healthy. She also knew, from a few excursions to the rookery, most of Rhaenyra’s suitors and whether they had offered to take Alyssa as an alternative.

Jason hadn’t. He was a proud man and proud men rarely pleased Rhaenyra, so all Alyssa had to do was to wait for her sister to work her magic and then go to soothe Lord Jason’s wounded pride. Some would call this scavenging, but Alyssa didn’t care. The perpetual second choice couldn’t baulk at taking the first's leavings, there was not enough time in the day.

~o~

The afternoon in the pavilion was wonderfully uneventful. Rhaenyra offended an old lady, Rhaenyra went off exploring alone, and Alicent followed the princess with her eyes wherever she went, which left Alyssa free to sample the wine (delightful), the cakes (somewhat dry), and the gossip (even drier). Most of the conversations she overheard while sitting, a little forlornly, in her armchair, revolved around Daemon’s war. They called it that, at least. Alyssa had little sympathy for her uncle: that had been a fool’s errand and would serve absolutely no one, just worsen the iron throne’s ties to the Free Cities for the next few years, increase the prices of imported goods from the east for the foreseeable future and eat away at the riches of Corlys Velaryon. 

Perhaps her uncle would die in this futile war, but Alyssa didn’t count on it. Daemon was not the sort to go quietly, far away from home. He was too stubborn to die when it would serve his family.

No, Daemon would lose the war and a thousand men, keep his life and his dragon, fight in the Free Cities to forget that blow to his pride, and return home after some meagre victory, desperate for a pat on the head from his older brother.

Alyssa understood. She, too, longed for her father's admiration, and it was a very rare treat.

“Is that what this was about? That I could be presented to your lords as some kind of boon?”

Rhaenyra had the sort of voice that easily penetrated every room. Sure enough, conversations died down to hushed whispers so that everyone would understand what the king and the princess were fighting about.

So, her father had offered Jason Lannister the hand of his elder daughter. No surprises there. If Alyssa would have chosen him, why should the king not do the same?

Of course, Rhaenyra was displeased. And now, she had not only rejected him, but she had also made sure that the entire court knew how little regard she held for Lord Lannister. Good.

It was time for the vulture to circle the carcass.

~○~

Alyssa found her prey in front of his tent with a cup of wine and a thunderous look.

When he saw her, he mustered only the barest hint of a bow and a smile.

“Lord Jason,” she said and curtsied, unperturbed, “we haven't been properly introduced, yet your face is so familiar,” she japed.

“My twin brother serves on His Grace's council, princess.” 

You don't say. 

But Alyssa had neither the face nor the position to demand a man of rank and intelligence and she knew what she valued most.

Lord Jason bowed but his eyes were still searching the grounds. Had he not understood Rhaenyra's refusal?

“Have you decided what you will hunt for today, my lord?”

He looked at her as if she was the imbecile here.

“Whatever His Grace will hunt for, princess.”

“I heard there are sightings of a white hart.”

“Indeed. A precious beast.”

Well, he was not interested in conversation. Fine. Jason Lannister would surely be interested in an opportunity to show off.

“You are an avid hunter, I am sure. Casterly Rock’s hunting grounds must be extensive.”

“Indeed they are. Much grander than the kingswood, and there is no finer game in all the realm.”

“I hope I shall see those woods someday.”

“I believe you will, princess.” He gave her a brisk nod.

It was no good. He clearly meant that she would visit her sister there. Did he truly believe Rhaenyra might be tamed by a man like him?

“I shall leave you to your preparations, my lord. I am certain you will be victorious.”

“Thank you, princess. I hope you have a taste for boar.” He grinned.

Not this much of a bore, sadly.

Alyssa nodded her goodbye then made for the royal pavilion, defeated. She had no taste for the dirt and bustle of the camp, so she ducked between rows of tents and walked around the grounds, carefully to raise her skirts and sidestep all evidence of man's bodily functions. 

Concentrated on keeping her skirts clean, she almost tripped over the fastening rope of a green pavilion, set back a little from the main line of the tents. Of course the Hightowers meant to be set apart.

Alyssa meant to turn back when she heard something that made her stay.

“The princess is as beautiful,” a man’s voice said, his tone persuasive. Lord Hobert? She didn’t know he could sound almost pleading.

Alyssa ducked behind a grey and green tapestry. They were talking about her sister.

“Her sister is beautiful. She is barely tolerable,” another man said.

They were not talking about Rhaenyra. They were talking about her.  

A sinking sensation spread in her stomach like fire. This was not Otto Hightower speaking, nor any of his sons. Alyssa didn’t know this voice, she was certain. She didn’t want to know it given what it had said.

“There are other qualities you value in a woman, I am sure.” 

They were discussing marriage. To her? It had to be one of Lord Hobert’s sons then. Was she good enough for his heir, at least?

Alyssa tried to pry the overlapping silks of the pavilion apart but found they had been waxed close with great care.

‘Indeed, and she possesses none of them.” That was harsh. On the other hand, perhaps his taste in women was terrible, so she could be glad he didn’t like her.

Lord Hobert spoke again, and most of the pleading had subsided. Instead, the command was in his voice again. Alyssa knew it well enough. 

“You will reconsider. She has been taught by a maester, spends every morning in the sept, gives alms to beggars, and those who know her well say she is courteous, sweet-tempered, and wise.”

“You make her sound like Alysanne come again,” the younger man scoffed. He wasn’t wrong. Alyssa certainly didn’t spend every morning in the sept, she just told the servants she would when she wanted some time away from it all. Usually when she had been invited to attend court in the morning. 

“Dance with her tonight. See how she pleases you. Then make your choice.”

Your choice. That was a luxury Alyssa did not have. The Hightower son would not find her pleasing. That was almost certain but Alyssa would make sure that it was definite. She didn’t want Lord Hobert or Lord Otto interfering with her carefully laid snare. The Hightowers would not serve her: They were too wrapped up in the struggles at court, too ambitious, too cunning. They would use her, and Alyssa had spent too much time being a pawn. She wanted out of the game, a place on the sidelines, or better yet, far away from the board.

~o~

Ormund Hightower

~o~

Alyssa Targaryen, his bride?

“No, sire,” Ormund said, his tone steel. His lord father did not like pleading. “I should wed a lady from the Reach. We must strengthen our ties to the old families if we ever mean to regain what was once ours.”

Lord Hobert winced.

“This is not the age of heroes, son. You will not charge at Lord Tyrell and take his crown.” His father liked to pretend he was a foolhardy young boy. Ormund had never once been foolhardy. Headstrong, perhaps, but never reckless. He knew his father found that difficult. Boys should be reckless, so that their father could teach them wisdom. Ormund was eight and ten now, however, and rarely required lessons anymore.

“Which crown?” he asked laconically, “I could only take his head.”

“And what good would that do? You can put it on a spike and gloat, but no man will wish to serve you, and murder rarely inspires loyalty.”

He had never said he intended to take Lord Tyrell’s head but his father hadn’t listened. He was also in the wrong this time. Murder did inspire the loyalty of certain men. Men Ormund did not wish to associate with.

“Daemon Targaryen inspires –” he began, only to prove a point, but his father cut him off.

“Daemon is a Targaryen. Brutality is their legacy. Ours is wisdom. Daemon might lose his life to pirates, or he might win a few pebbles in the Narrow Sea: It is naught. A war must be of consequence. Everything you do must be of consequence. So, think. Why will a Targaryen bride serve us?”

Another lesson.

“It will strengthen Ser Otto's position.”

It was obvious. His uncle had risen high at the king's court. Too high for Ormund's taste. The Lord Hand had eclipsed his brother in all ways but one: Not even the king, who gave him everything, could give him the eldest's birthright.

“His position needs no strengthening these days.” His father never seemed to mind that his brother had risen above him. He viewed even the Hand of the King as an instrument for House Hightower. “Why else?”

“Royal blood will flow in my son's veins,” Ormund guessed, annoyed. Much nobler blood flowed in his veins already.

“Royal blood flows in your veins now. Think. Who decided to raise a house of squires to rule over the Reach?”

“Aegon.” 

The name was bitter on his tongue. His great-grandsire had opened the gates of the city to Aegon. It had been Lord Manfred Hightower who had brought about the grand coronation in the Starry Sept that everyone in this realm used to count the years.

And how had the dragonlords repaid their family? They had raised a mere steward to rule over them.

“Indeed. And as the dragon has made a lord, he might make another. And whom would Viserys, Rhaenyra or Aegon name Warden of the South but their own blood? How could the Tyrells take up arms against us, against the Targaryens, when they know that all that keeps their unworthy behinds on Garth's throne is a Targaryen's decree? You might not be Warden, but your son will be. And soon enough, the noble families will protest, and look to the beacon of Oldtown for guidance. Your grandson shall rule the Reach, as our family did in the Dawn Age.”

That was why Ormund still listened to his father. Lord Hobert always looked ahead. It came with the position of his lord’s chambers. From above, everything seemed different. It was easier to arrange matters in the correct order. And yet…

“There must be other ways than to bed with dragons, father. You speak of blood: Hers will run in our family too and you know the beasts follow their masters. A dragon lair on the Hightower, is that your wish?”

“Is it only that? Or would you sing a different tune if I suggested Rhaenyra? Laena Velaryon?”

Did he insinuate it was boyish desire that drove him to reject the princess? That he would make a different choice if the girl was as beautiful as the Maiden come again?

“She seems simple.”

Ormund knew little about the second princess. She rarely spoke in public and seemed to like to walk a step or two behind her sister or stepmother. Rhaenyra was too fierce, Alyssa seemed too feeble. Both eschewed their duties where they could.

“She is beautiful,” his father’s tone had become more intent. 

Ormund remembered the timid looking girl that had left the wheelhouse this morning, dressed in violet silk, her embroidery clutched to her chest.

Bug-eyed, with a childishly upturned nose in an otherwise unremarkable face, Alyssa had not inherited the famed Targaryen beauty. She didn't even have the colouring with her blue eyes and her limp hair that was more straw than silver-gold. 

Rhaenyra was the true beauty. 

“Her sister is beautiful. She is barely tolerable.”

“There are other qualities you value in a woman, I am sure.”

‘Indeed, and she possesses none of them.”

“You will reconsider. She has been taught by a maester, spends every morning in the sept, gives alms to beggars, and those who know her well say she is courteous, sweet-tempered, and wise.”

“You make her sound like Alysanne come again.”

His father knew too well what Ormund wanted. A clever woman, but not cunning, never shy but not crass, a woman who could argue her opinion but never felt the need to shout it. A woman, in short, Alyssa Targaryen could never be. A woman like his mother had been.

“Dance with her tonight. See how she pleases you. Then make your choice.”

Your choice. Ormund knew it wasn’t, not truly. His father made the choices, as he had to, as Ormund would one day. Ruling required order, and order required sacrifice.

He reached for the seven-pointed star that hung from his neck underneath the tunic. It had been his mother’s once. Twice had the Mother’s emerald fallen out of the setting but he had had it replaced. 

She would have advised him to do his duty and pray. 

What should he pray for? A different Targaryen princess? A bride from the Reach? His father’s untimely end so that he could make his own choices?

Marriage was a duty. He had known this all his life, had seen how dutifully his parents had cared for one another without the slightest thing in common. Their polite courtesy, their quiet quarrels, always cautious not to give food to rumours. The Hightowers had to be above reproach. They were a beacon.

Perhaps the girl wouldn’t be so dreadful. And if she was, why, she was young, she was impressionable.

Ormund remembered the way Rhaenyra had spoken to Lady Redwyne. He hadn’t been there but his aunt had told him all about it in the family pavilion. Princess Alyssa had never said anything remotely remarkable. Maybe that was a good thing. 

He would do his duty: He would dance with the her. And he would find her lacking.

~o~

Otto Hightower

~o~

“I do not want to command her. I wish to see her happy.” Viserys sighed. “What of Alyssa? I feel we discuss her fate too little.”

“Most proposals are for Princess Rhaenyra’s hand, Your Grace. She is the…elder.”

Viserys ignored the uncourteous pause. As always, he liked to close his eyes to the truth. Otto understood.

“But Alyssa's nature is much more suited to matrimony.”

That was true enough. Most lap dogs were more troublesome.

“Indeed. And many lords have offered to wed the younger princess should Rhaenyra not be inclined to accept. I can provide a list, if you wish.”

“The poor child. I will not have her be the second choice.”

If Viserys had watched his advisor closely, he would have seen the expression in his eyes: a cat ready to dig its claws into its prey.

Otto had known Viserys’s guilt would manifest as pity.

“Well, there is one suitor whom I consider a good match in temper, interest and nature but –”

“Who is he?”

“Ser Ormund Hightower.”

It was daring. The lords of the realm would not be happy. First a Hightower queen, now a Hightower princess. But the king made his own choices. 

“Your nephew.” Viserys seemed cautious. He had to tread carefully.

“As gallant as he is learned. A great knight and a man of faith, calm, even-tempered and courteous. And he enjoys a quiet, orderly life. I am certain the princess will take a liking to him.”

“She would like Oldtown,” the king conceded.

She would like nothing much, as far as Otto knew. Princess Alyssa had no true passions, except for silence.

“Ser Ormund will attend tonight's feast. As for Princess Rhaenyra. There is another match. One closer to home.”

Viserys turned to Otto with interest.

This would be difficult to sell.

~o~

Alyssa

~o~

Alyssa was not usually the type to dress up for feasts. It would make all comparisons to Rhaenyra much more unfavourable. If she didn’t try with her appearance, then at least she had the potential to be beautiful.

Tonight, she had exhausted all her potential.

 After a lengthy bath, her maid Syrenna brushed her hair out and lit a fire so that it would dry quickly. Despite her dragon blood, the heat was uncomfortable on her already red skin.

Sometimes, Alyssa feared she was not Targaryen enough. She had won the kinship of a dragon, but more by accident than anything else. Her hair was too dark, more Arryn blond than Targaryen gold and silver, her eyes periwinkle blue and even her features were more Andal than Valyrian. It did not help that she had spent half her childhood in the Vale. Her father had meant to spare her the constant comparisons and the position in the heir’s shadow that had turned Daemon into an attention-seeking, petulant, irascible boy-man. His plan had worked thus far: Alyssa was the exact opposite. She never thought her father was particularly pleased with the result.

Perhaps he would be surprised tonight. Alyssa wore a lavish lavender and silver ballgown that brought out the hint of purple in her eyes. Her maid pinned up her hair in neat curls and she looked more than passable, judging by her quick survey in the tent’s brass mirror. 

“You look lovely, sweetling,” the king greeted her when she arrived, just on time, at the high table.

“Thank you. Still no sign of Rhaenyra?” she asked her father when she saw the empty seat at his side.

“Still out riding, apparently. But Ser Criston is with her.”

Did the thought of them together calm him? Had he not seen the look on Ser Criston’s face whenever he saw Rhaenyra? Most people wore that expression only in the sept when facing their gods.

Alyssa didn’t say anything. She could hardly share her thoughts with her father and now that she was trying not to think about Ser Criston and Rhaenyra, nothing else would come to her mind.

“Are you planning to dance tonight then?” her father asked after a brief pause.

“Well, it is a feast.” 

She could hardly tell her father what she had planned.

Lord Otto came, greeted her politely, then took his seat at the king’s side. From them on, Alyssa was left in peace.

She had enough to think about anyway.

Try and win over Lord Jason and ward off Ser Ormund. Two objectives in one night…that were two more than usual. Alyssa found the prospect of wooing a man daunting and she had found no literature on the matter. Desperation had driven to consider asking her maid, but that would have caused gossip and she loathed the thought of people talking about her. 

Alyssa had seen women flirt. They smiled, used their fans or busied themselves with their hair. That was why she wore a few strands down tonight, so that she could twirl them around her finger. Then she would have to pay him a compliment. Alyssa had prepared a few: his dancing, his doublet, his sword, what she had heard of Casterly Rock. All those were universal enough to keep her flexible. The part she dreaded most was the real conversation. She would have to try and appear interesting, or, if that failed, interested. Neither was truly her strong suit, but she had prepared a few topics of conversation that would hopefully work well.

At last, it was time for dancing. In the weeks before the hunt, Alyssa had practiced all the ballroom dances that were the fashion at court. Their dance instructor had always praised Rhaenyra’s fluid motions and called Alyssa’s movements wooden, but he had conceded that she knew the steps much better than her sister.

Alyssa was just trying to catch a glimpse at Lord Jason at the Lannister table when an unwelcome interruption deterred her.

“Princess,” Lord Otto brought his nephew forward like a horsemonger would present a fine stallion. “My nephew, Ser Ormund Hightower, has asked to meet you at last. I am certain you have a lot in common.”

They both wanted this meeting to be over, so that was something.

Ser Ormund Hightower was handsome. Alyssa had expected as much: He was Alicent's cousin, after all.

There, their likeness ended, however.

His light brown hair had only a very faint hint of Redwyne red and his eyes were blue. Ser Ormund, Alyssa conceded, looked every inch the shining knight, and unlike her uncle Daemon, he did not look as if he honoured only the “defeat your enemies” part of the vow. He was younger than she had expected, definitely younger than Lord Jason. No older than twenty, she estimated, because although he was tall with a knight’s build, his face had a certain boyishness that age had not touched yet. There was a haughtiness etched into his sharp, comely features that made it easy for Alyssa to reconcile the man before her with the bodiless voice that had slandered her this afternoon.

Lord Otto bowed, then left them to it, though Alyssa knew he was watching, assessing from afar. It made her skin crawl.

“Princess Alyssa,” Ser Ormund bowed. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance. How are you finding the hunt so far?”

Rhaenyra curtsied to no man. Alyssa knew she shouldn’t because she was a princess, but it seemed polite and she found it difficult to stand still when the other person bowed.

Not today, however. Not with this man. She is barely tolerable.

Usually, knowing that she was the less pretty princess made her uncomfortable. Now, it made her angry.

“Lord Osmund.” She stayed still. Getting his name wrong was good, forgetting his knighthood was better. Knights’ pride was notoriously prickly.

He did look slightly offended. Good.

“Ormund,” he said, choosing not to correct her on the title. That was a surprise.

“Ah, yes,” Alyssa said with a carelessness she wished she could have felt just once in her life. “Well, it is a strange name. Is it foreign?”

The Hightowers were an ancient house that had existed here long before the Valyrian Empire. They were the very definition of native here.

“It is the name of an ancient king as far as I am aware.” His tone was even, pleasant, but Alyssa was used to listening closely and thought she could detect a hint of indignation.

“I’m sure most names are,” she replied flippantly.

He forced a smile but it looked very natural. Ormund Hightower was a much better courtier than Alyssa. Pretension came easy to him.

“I’m certain you are right.” He offered her his hand. “Would you do me the honour of a dance, princess?”

Alyssa thought for a moment which response she would find especially repulsive. “If you can keep up,” she said, somewhat disparagingly. “And I dance only Valyrian dances.”

She added the second bit for good measure. If he was the type to reference ancient kings, then surely he could not be fascinated by Old Valyria. The people here usually meant the Age of Heroes, not the Age of Dragons, when they talked about ancient times, and everything that involved dragons and spells seemed queer, foreign and corrupted to them. They were right.

Even that indignity did he suffer with grace, however. Again, he mustered a polite smile. “I shall strive to match your talent, princess.”

Another barbed courtesy. He was very good at this.

As they walked towards the dancefloor, they passed aging Lord Ashford and a wave of body odour wafted towards them. Lord Ashford had clearly forgotten to wash. For about a fortnight.

She raised her hand to her nose on instinct, shielding herself from the stink, in the exact same moment when Ormund beside her stiffened, then pulled a pomander from his belt and held it to his nose. When he realised that she, too, had noticed the smell, he offered the pomander to her.

She got a hint of sandalwood, musk, and saffron, an unobtrusive, yet very pleasant scent.

“Oh, no, that is worse, I fear. I much prefer tuberose to wood.” By now, she was just making things up.

“Yet, you smell of lily-of-the-valley.” His eyes twinkled in delight when he could prove her wrong. He seemed like the arrogant, self-righteous type.

“My sister’s perfume,” she lied. Rhaenyra was not here to contest her.

Alyssa took her place opposite him. “I prefer not to speak during the dance. It ruins the sacredness of the steps for me.”

“I suppose that depends on the conversation, princess.” He smiled again though this time, Alyssa caught the edge to it. This was going well. He definitely disliked her.

Make your choice, Ser Ormund, and choose someone else.

During the dance, she stepped on his feet a few times for good measure, and perhaps with a little too much force. His voice still rang loudly in her ears. “There are other qualities you value in a woman, I am sure.” “Indeed, and she possesses none of them.”

At last, the torment was over. As the final notes faded, Ser Ormund bowed. “Thank you for the dance, princess.”

“I hope you learned something, ser.”

Seven be damned. She had called him ‘ser’. Well, there was no salvaging that.

With another stiff bow, Ser Ormund bid his leave and she was finally free to find her husband.

Lord Jason, however, who was unaware of his upcoming nuptials, was still drinking and playing dice at the lower tables.

For two dances, Alyssa waited on the sidelines of the dancefloor, refused Ser Harwin Strong and Lord Jasper Wylde and a few other lesser lordlings, watching Lord Jason with increasing irritation. At last, he rose from his seat and staggered towards the dancefloor. Alyssa realised that he meant to make for the privies but could not allow him to relieve himself before she was relieved of the burden of her plan. So, she stepped into his path on purpose, pretending not to see him after she had spent two hours watching him.

He noticed her. Better even, in this more fashionable gown, he seemed to have found something worth looking at. At least his gaze darted to the lowcut neckline of her gown once, twice, then he bowed. 

“Princess. We meet again.”

A wave of terrible breath hit her nostrils.

She curtsied low to escape the smell. He looked again.

Was she getting good at this?

Alyssa had never realised that talking to lords at feasts could indeed be entertaining.

“My lord. I hope the gods have granted you good luck.”

He looked at her quizzically. 

“I saw you play. Cards or dice?”

Please let it be cards. Dice was only chance, and that meant he was throwing his coin away.

“Dice.” He grinned. “I like the risk.”

Alyssa resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“That sounds exciting.”

She tried to make the exciting sound slightly suggestive but she had to fake a cough to explain why her voice had suddenly changed.

“Indeed.” Did he truly want to walk past her?

“Not as exciting as a dance, however.”

It was strange and entirely uncommon to see realisation dawn on Jason Lannister’s face.

“If you are not spoken for, princess, would you honour me with a dance?”

“The honour is mine, my lord.”

It was almost as if the gods sought to punish Alyssa for the charade she had put up for Ormund Hightower. 

Lord Jason barely spoke as they danced. When he had something, Alyssa had voiced only admiration. Nothing else was required of her. His attention was mostly divided between her neckline, the pretty serving wench that was serving at the table next to them, and the men playing dice at the lower tables. As if that was not bad enough, by the time the last notes rang through the stuffy air, Alyssa could barely feel her toes. And that was without counting all the times he had twirled her in the wrong direction, grasped her waist much too tightly or let his hands wander into forbidden areas. Worst of all, however, was the smell. The sour stench of wine mingled with old sweat and new garlic. 

Alyssa was glad when he sketched a bow in her direction after the dance and then made for the great door to the hallway, though not without a last look at the serving girl.

That was fine. Alyssa would be good at looking away. She hoped he would bed a different woman most nights if this was what he was always like.

Think of Casterly Rock. Think of the position, the freedom, the name.

The Princess in the West. That sounded lovely.

Alyssa looked up to the high table. Her father was talking intently to Lord Strong. Now that he had noticed her gaze, he looked up and gave her a smile, then motioned towards the dancefloor and nodded.

So he had seen her dance just now. She could only hope that Lord Jason would soon come to his senses, forget Rhaenyra and renew his proposal to her father.

~o~

Alyssa was dribbling some honey over her berries when her father entered in an uncharacteristically good mood. Rhaenyra had returned early this morning.

“Have I seen you dance with a certain young lord yesterday?” He wore a conspiratorial smile. 

“Yes.” Alyssa thought back to her dance with Lord Jason. It had gone quite well. She had not tried to be witty again and Lord Jason seemed to have liked her mostly silent admiration more. That was good. She was a near inexhaustible source of mostly silent admiration. Her eyes were made for reverence, her septa once said. Big and guileless. 

“So he meets your approval?”

“Indeed. Very much so, in truth.”

“Wonderful. I already expected as much. I have been told you have much in common.”

They were both blond. That was where their similarities ended but if her father wanted to convince himself this match was fated to ease his conscience, so be it.

“Indeed.” 

Lady of Casterly Rock. Far away from all this, the noise, the underlying strife, the gossip. Alyssa couldn’t wait.