Second Daughters
Preface
The Could have been Queen
STORM'S END 283 AL
SEPTA ALYS
Shrouded in white and adorned with moon pearls and diamonds, her Lady looked more like a corpse dressed for burial than a maiden of eleven name-days.
It was a woman's gown, Septa Alys realised. The material, slivery and spangled with small grey beads, could probably have kept a peasant's family dining for the rest of spring. The gown had been a gift, imported all the way from Myr and the sleeves were long tendrils of wispy lace, the bodice cinched around the waist.
Her mistress tilted her head to one side, like a dove considering a worm, and glared at her reflection in the mirror. Septa Alys wanted to cry. Her Lady seemed to be beyond all tears.
"I hate it," she said quietly, bony fingers skimming the silk, squeezing it tightly, "I won't wear it. I won't."
"You will," stated Septa Alys, her words blunt and unsweetened.
Her pampered little lady had no patience for sugared sympathy and nothing could provoke her to rage faster than pity. Spoiled. Petted. You'll learn to swallow what they feed you soon enough. She smoothed out the ruffles in the skirt. What Alys Rivers would have given for a dress as fine and beautiful as that? Her soul and probably her next dinner.
Her mistress wrinkled her nose, and began to fidget, tugging at the sleeves as though she might rip them into shreds. Slight, needle-like nails tormenting the lace, a songbird's talons scraping and ripping through gossamer skin.
"Get it off," she snapped at Septa Alys, wriggling as though the silk burned.
"Keep still," said Septa Alys patiently, coaxing the fingertips away from the lace. She then began to tease the fastenings at the back, watching as they unravelled and the gown sagged to reveal curdled skin, stretched tight over sharp protruding bones.
The dress melted into a puddle at her Lady's feet, silver glimmering against stone. Her Lady kicked it aside as though it were a diseased dog and retreated back towards her bed, leaving Septa Alys to muddle through silk and lace.
"I won't wear the stupid thing," snarled her Lady, pulling a shift over her pale skin. "They cannot make me wear it. I will not."
With her back turned to her mistress, Septa Alys felt secure enough to smile, fingers caressing the polished ridges of moonstones, sewn into the bodice.
You wanted to be Good Queen Alysanne and now you'll play Daena the Defiant. Her little Lady had always fancied herself a dragon but if she had the brains the Seven gave a snake, she'd learn to play the sweet-tongued doe.
"It was a gift," said Septa Alys, rising from the floor, cradling the gown in her arms as though it were a small child. "It was very thoughtful of Queen Cersei to send you such a lovely gift. You will thank the Queen by wearing it."
"I will thank Lady Cersei for her gift," said the girl stiffly, her jaw clenching, "But I will not wear it. You may put it away and fetch for Hana. I wish to walk in the yard before I retire."
"Queen Cersei," corrected Septa Alys wearily, "And you have walked enough for one day my Lady. Maester Cressen had warned you against overexerting yourself."
The girl glared sullenly at Alys as though hoping, through sheer force of will, to change her mind.
Her eyes were still pretty, the Septa noted, finding solace in some remnant of the lovely girl she had once known. You would have been a beauty. The eyes were blue, Baratheon blue, the colour of cornflowers and forget-me-not's. Pretty eyes. The sort of eyes you heard about in songs.
I loved a maid as warm as kindling, with ember in her eyes. Jase had sung that once. He'd been fond of songs but his voice used to crack and squeal. Septa Alys sighed, once more feeling remorse gnaw away in the pit of her stomach. Such as shame. She would never bloom as she should have.
"Shall I fetch Maester Cressen for some sweetsleep?" asked Septa Alys.
Her Lady's face paled, dry lips puckering into a pink line. One skinny arm jutted out, pushing the bedcovers apart and she climbed in like a belligerent child being put to bed without supper.
Alys Rivers had went to bed without supper too, but her bed had been stuffed with straw, her pillows had been rolled up rags and she'd shared her space with many other small, wriggling bodies.
The bed, like the dress, seemed to crowd her Lady, the enormity of it shrinking her even further. Sheets of gold, pillows of soft goose-feathers and two fat mattresses, all fit for a Queen. Her Lady sat up, back straight, and glowered furiously, pink staining her gaunt cheeks.
"You must learn," said Alys, spreading out the glorious gown atop a weirwood table. "To be more courteous. It was very generous of the Queen to send you such a dress. I daresay its style is very fashionable at court."
"It's extravagant," said her Lady, spitting out the new word as though it tasted peculiar in her mouth, "Her Grace wouldn't have a dress like that. It's ridiculous."
Yes, thought Alys, laughing somewhere deep inside, because the Targaryen's were the epitome of modesty and humility. Not that it mattered. She was sure the old Queen could have paraded around court garbed in a fishmonger's rags and her little Lady would still be extoling her virtues.
"It was beautiful," said Alys quietly, "The Queen was born into the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms. The realm is being rebuilt with the gold of Casterly Rock. I expect you will experience more extravagances at court."
Her Lady said nothing but settled back into the plump pillows, her stormy face turned away to seethe and rage at the candle flickering near her bed. Alys wondered if she would cry again but her shoulders were not shivering and salty tears were usually heralded by a raging storm.
"I will leave you to your rest my Lady," said Alys, smoothing one last crease out of the gown. "Are you sure you will take some sweetsleep?"
The petted little Mistress remained stubbornly mute until Septa Alys had reached for the door.
"Septa Alys?" she called, her voice soft, and ponderous. Alys turned around to consider the sickly creature curled up in the bed. A weak thing, all rattling coughs and quivering bones. Her blue eyes sparkled when they caught the fire though, and her pale hair was tainted by fickle orange flames.
"My brother is King, is he not?" she said thoughtfully, tilting her chin so that a shadow fell across her clenched jaw.
"Yes my Lady," conceded Alys warily, feeling as though she was about to stumble. "Your brother Robert is King."
"I know," remarked the little Lady, turning her face back towards the dancing candlelight. "And if he is King, then you must not call me 'My Lady.' I am not a Lady now. If my brother is the King, then I must be a Princess. I am Princess Rhaena now."
She was going to be a Princess. If rumours had it true, she may have been a Queen. All she had left now were her ghosts, and Septa Alys would not rip away another illusion from her clammy, despairing grasp.
My poor, silly little doe. The doe who wanted to be a dragon. And because she was young, and foolish, and spoilt she would consider that the greatest tragedy.
"As you wish, your Highness," said Septa Alys demurely, closing the door behind her and leaving her little Lady to her dreams.
Hello. This idea sort of cropped up after a series of 'what if' tangents in my head. The story does include about three major OC characters but they will be interacting with plenty of canon characters. I hope I write them in a way that doesn't come across as 'Sueish.' The story is rated T for now but I may increase the rating at a later date. Enjoy and please feel free to leave a comment. Criticism is accepted, so long as it is constructive. :)