"We are going to leave for Oldtown next week, Alarra," said Alysanne. "There are matters to be discussed with the Starry Sept."
"You and Father?" Alarra asked, incredulous. Father – traveling to the Starry Sept? What was going on in this world?
"Yes, it's a matter of – well – succession."
"Since when does the Starry Sept bother with succession?" Alarra exclaimed. "I thought that there was no doubt about the legitimacy of Aemon and Baelon."
"Alarra, you should be more polite towards your queen and stepmother," Father said sternly.
"It's all right, Alaric... Alarra, my dear, I didn't want to burden you with such troubles, but there are rumors – wicked rumors – saying that my children... my children... are unworthy of their throne and even their name, because their father was my brother."
"I'm thirteen, my queen, not three! I know about the Exceptionalism debate. I just... didn't realize it was that bad."
She hugged Alysanne:
"Good luck. I do hope you can resolve things with the Sept."
"Thank you, Alarra," Alysanne whispered. "I have left Lady Myranda in charge of caring for Aemon, Baelon and Alyssa, but please check up on them, too."
"Of course I will," she nodded. The boys loved the Northern legends she told them and the games she thought up for them, and while she couldn't be as interested in baby Alyssa, she liked it when Myranda allowed her to rock the cradle and sing a song to the princess.
"Septon Barth will be in charge, as usual. We won't be gone longer than two moon's turns, I hope... oh, and I'm taking Silverwing."
Alarra smiled: the queen knew that she loved watching dragons in flight. It had been a rare sight ever since the King died, and Alarra dearly longed for the times when her little stepsiblings would be grown enough to claim dragons of their own. What a magnificent sight it would be, with four dragons rising to the skies... and maybe more, if Father had children with Alysanne and they turned out to be dragonriders as well...
"Why are you allowing my daughter to be so acerbic towards you?"
"Hm, I do wonder where she gets it."
"I am another matter, Alysanne, because..."
"Because you are a man?" Alysanne's eyes gleamed with fury.
"I am your husband, and you know that a tone permitted between the spouses isn't always allowed between different generations."
"First, Alarra wasn't even acerbic. She was just pretty astonished, and anyone would be in her place. Second, she is always absolutely respectful to me in public."
"Have I ever been other than that?" Alaric whispered. He had bitten his tongue hundreds of times when a sharp remark was on its tip, and he had been learning as hard as he could to be more courteous. "Alysanne, I'm trying to get used to the southern ways, but I have only been staying here for a short while."
"I was thinking of my progress," she said. "I hope you brought something warmer than that. Your court should not overstay their welcome. All of that and more, in front of all your people of Winterfell."
Alaric cursed himself. Hearing all his foolish taunts again, after all these years, from her, was a torture.
"Oh, Alysanne," he groaned. "I wish I could take it back."
"No... no, I'm sorry I brought it up. It's just... this... these rumors... I have a headache from them, I can hardly think straight. I'm not angry about these things you said back then, not anymore."
"You should be. I was horrible."
She took his hand:
"I married you, didn't I?"
"Aye," he smiled faintly, "that you did."
"I wouldn't have done so if I was still mad at you... And I don't want you to think I'm trying to keep you from raising your own daughter... but do believe me, when it comes to her treatment of me, no disciplining is needed. After all the time she has spent as my lady-in-waiting, we are friendly enough to talk more informally."
Silverwing grunted happily: she always sensed when Alysanne approached her to go flying rather than just to pet or feed or train her. She nuzzled Alysanne's hair and even briefly touched her snout to the heads of Alaric and Alarra.
"She knows you already," Alysanne told her husband (Alarra was long accustomed to the dragon) as she climbed onto Silverwing's back. Straightening her hair anew was useless – it would be beaten back by the wind anyway.
She waved goodbye to Alarra and to the kids (watched over by Lady Hogg, they were keeping a respectful distance – Aemon was still afraid of dragons, and as for Baelon, Alysanne herself didn't want him to approach a full-grown dragon outside of the Dragonpit for at least another year). Alaric and the retinue would be traveling beneath her on horseback and in wheelhouses – they had discussed it and agreed that right now there was no point in Alysanne arriving ahead of everybody else. She would circle on Silverwing above them and land whenever the procession stopped for rest.
As she commanded Silverwing to fly and felt the familiar rush of cold air against her face, Alysanne glanced to her side. There was nothing to see but blue sky with rare small clouds, and her heart ached. Old habits died hard: on most of her flights, she used to be accompanied by Jaehaerys on his Vermithor.
Oh, Jaehaerys…
She has now been wed for ten days, and, to her utter shame, the initial grave feeling of betraying Jaehaerys had grown a bit less acute. She liked Alaric, and as far as she could tell, he was fond enough of her too. Their marriage was – she felt guilt for even thinking it – starting much more amicably than she had feared.
Get a grip on yourself. Jaehaerys would want you to find joy in your life. Would you rather enter a terrible wedlock and make yourself, your husband, and everyone else miserable? Besides, remember that you're still Dowager Queen, and if you are unhappy in your marriage, it gets reflected on the entire realm and not just on your family. You have seen Mother and Lord Rogar, you told Alaric about them yourself.
Silverwing rose higher and higher into the sky, and Alysanne felt as if the fresh wind cooled down her anxieties – as she always did whenever she went flying. She circled King's Landing, admiring Silverwing's scales glisten in the bright spring sun, and then hovered above Alaric's retinue, now making its way out of the River Gate.
Her dragon grunted affectionately again as Alysanne commanded her to do an elegant dive. Her breath hitched as the earth momentarily got closer, and as she surged towards the sky again, she felt significantly relaxed, especially after the emotional turmoil of the last days. They were going to make things right: she was much more certain of it now.
Lord Lyonel Caswell of Bitterbridge, a plump pale man of about thirty-odd, dressed in brocade (Alaric wondered if he really had that much money to spare, even in the warm and fertile lands of the Reach), welcomed them to his keep with slightly overdone heartiness, mostly directed at Alysanne.
"I remember well how you and His Grace visited my humble place seven years ago," he said. "It was a blessing to my house, Your Grace. My household has been spared from the Shivers, but I am so deeply sorry for your loss – His Grace and the gentle princess shall be remembered for ages to come."
There was a pause. Apparently, he wasn't planning to add anything.
"Thank you, Lord Caswell," Alysanne smiled, and Alaric noticed her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "But the realm is now thankfully recovering after the winter, and you might also recall that I have been blessed with a new consort to lend support to His Grace Aemon and our entire family. Lord Stark has graciously agreed to wed me."
"Ah, yes. I offer you my congratulations, Your Grace, my lord," Lord Caswell's wide grin became a bit forced, but he played the good host for the rest of the day, offering a tour of the newly-rebuilt town square (Alysanne went; Alaric declined) and presenting them with a lavish meal in the evening.
"I suppose much is to change now that we have a new king," he said at supper.
"Until King Aemon reaches his majority, I am going to stand regent for him, and I do not intend to depart from the course Jaehaerys and I have set together," said Alysanne, and now Alaric could swear her smile was cold.
"What's up with Lord Caswell?" he asked her later. "You didn't look too glad to see each other."
"He was among those who were very, and I mean very unhappy when I abolished the tradition of the first night," Alysanne said with distaste. "Lady Turnberry's agents have told me that he believes I have no business meddling in such matters because I'm a woman and this is a right of the men. Apparently, he still hopes the law forbidding it can be overturned."
"A right of the men? More like of animals with no sense of right and wrong," Alaric scoffed. Even when he was a boy who went crazy over any pretty woman in the vicinity, he had never participated in this ridiculous custom. He had always felt that forcing a girl into bed just because you could was pathetic rather than manly. What's more, if you did that, you ended up making enemies of your own smallfolk, the people who'd share their harvests in winter and rise to defend you against wildlings or the Ironborn or what have you.
Alysanne's face brightened at his words. Of course – he had seen how vehement she was all the time about the defense of women.
As sour as Lord Caswell was about the first night, he did not dare show it openly. They spent two more days at Bitterbridge, during which Alaric found a cheaper deal on fruit and vegetables than he had hitherto been able to procure for King's Landing (it helped that the town was located on the Mander, the Reach's main trading artery), and Alysanne held one of her women's courts, where she particularly made sure that the Caswells weren't defying her laws (for all that they didn't like them, they weren't).
Bitterbridge, true to its name, left her with a bitter feeling. Already, just as Alaric had predicted, some people weren't happy to see a Stark as her consort: apparently, Lord Caswell believed that all the "women's laws" were purely Alysanne's doing and thought that Jaehaerys had been a "good" (meaning: stifling) influence upon her.
All the more reason to clear the name of my poor children. The realm will get used to Alaric – and anyway we'll probably both move to Winterfell in ten years – but it's obvious that Jaehaerys's son needs to stay on the throne.
Their next and last long sojourn before Oldtown was, of course, Highgarden. Its steward Lord Garth Fossoway, still weak after his own battle with the Shivers, hadn't been able to attend the wedding and still moved with the help of a cane, but his freckled face split into a genuine smile upon their arrival.
"Your Grace! My lord! I wish you every happiness in your marriage," he said as he knelt in front of Silverwing.
"Thank you, my lord," Alysanne said, getting on the ground.
"Will you be willing to hold a women's court during your stay? My lady wife is in confinement, but my cousin Lady Betha will help you host it, if needed."
"I am delighted to hear it, my lord. I intend to hold it tomorrow – sadly, we can't stay long, but at least the women from the vicinity of Highgarden will be able to attend."
"Lord Stark," Lord Fossoway turned to her husband, "Her Grace has once mentioned that you greatly value the library of Winterfell. Our maester has set aside a few books from our own humble collection which might be of interest to you – and to Her Grace, for that matter."
Alysanne glanced at Alaric and was relieved to see him almost openly joyful at the offer. After the lukewarm reception at Bitterbridge, Garth Fossoway's thoughtful preparations were indeed akin to a bright morning after the night. She imagined he had racked his brains for hours, thinking of a suitable welcome to Alaric – rumors traveled almost as quickly as dragons, and it was already known in the Kingdoms that her husband wasn't one to be won over with feasts or tourneys or processions.
"Should you wish to pray before the negotiations lying ahead of you in Oldtown," Lord Fossoway added, "I remind you, Your Grace, of our magnificent Flower Sept, and to you, Lord Stark, I will be glad to show the Three Sisters, our godswood planted by Garth Greenhand."
Now Alaric looked flabbergasted: even in King's Landing, where lickspittles flocked at court like bees in a hive, nobody had been that respectful with him. Whenever his usual icy reserve broke, he looked like a child surpised with a nameday gift, and Alysanne's heart ached with tenderness as she thought how seldom it happened.
"I did tell you that quite many people in the south keep your faith," she said to him after they were shown their chambers.
"So far, though, few besides you have remembered it when talking to me," he replied. "And did you truly tell Lord Fossoway of my fondness for books?"
"Certainly. I remember your face when you showed me the Winterfell library for the first time – I don't think even the Lannisters treasure their gold mines that much."
He smiled, clearly touched, and gently squeezed her hand.
In the Hightower lands, spring was already in bloom, grass covering the fields like a green mist with splashes of color where the early flowers had grown. In the North, at this time, the snow has only just fully melted, Alaric thought. Over and over again, his heart was torn when he remembered his home. The mess that was King's Landing and the bright, toylike castles of the Reach only served to enhance his longing for the fields and mountains of the North and for Winterfell.
Their stay in Highgarden, though, had turned out to be considerably more enjoyable than the respite in Bitterbridge – he had to admit that. Lord Fossoway did show Alaric the godswood – three ancient weirwood trees with their branches entwined, as if locked in an embrace. Alaric spent almost an hour there, by the side of the quiet pond, and it briefly truly felt like home. In the Red Keep, the godswood was without actual weirwood, making it seem more like a cheap imitation.
The books from the Highgarden library turned out to be truly interesting, too, mostly concerning history and nature – Lord Fossoway or his maester, whoever picked them, had a good grasp of what Alaric and Alysanne would need. There was even a copy of Maester Wyllis's Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall – the only copy of this in Winterfell was fragmentary, and Alaric had searched high and low for a full one.
He gazed up into the sky, where Alysanne was circling above them on her dragon. She was delighted with the books, too. They even spent some time side by side in one of Highgarden's many, well, gardens, reading the first chapters of Hardhome, and Alaric felt a sharp pang of loss when Alysanne had to go for her women's court. For an hour or so, she had stopped being Dowager Queen and was just his dear lady wife, who leaned against his shoulder and put her hands over his as they turned the book's pages.
He was struck by a rather ironic idea: for him, proving Aemon's right to the crown wasn't just about preventing a civil strife – there was also some deeply personal gain in it. If Aemon remained king, then in slightly less than ten years Alaric and Alysanne would be able to permanently move to Winterfell, and there would be no more taking care of the entire realm, just of the North, and he would have infinitely more time to spend together with her. But should Aemon get declared a bastard of incest, then, even if Alaric's seed had already quickened and even if his first child with Alysanne was a boy, there were seventeen years to wait until that boy was born and grew up.
And, yes, the civil strife. Alaric would hate to see Alysanne's children turn against each other. He remembered the times of Maegor's war against Aenys and later Jaehaerys – even though the North mostly kept out of it, the tidings that reached them back then were ominous enough.
The Hightower was already visible ahead of them. Silverwing rose high into the air – the people of Oldtown, even if the raven telling them of the royal visit had been lost on the way, now knew of Alysanne's arrival beyond any doubt.
Lord Gyles Hightower cringed when he saw the dragon approach. The message brought by the raven spoke of the queen's coming, but up until the last moment, Lord Gyles hoped she wouldn't bring the beast. His mother, a Harroway, died in dragonflame, as did his wife's father, and Gyles had had an intense hatred for dragons since then.
Hopefully her discussions with Uncle Lemmar will be quick, he thought – he still called the High Septon Uncle Lemmar, except in public speeches, of course.
He knew what the discussions were going to be about: the persistent rumors that the little king was unfit for ruling because he was born of incest. Gyles would not dream of defending incest, but his logic was simple: the little king, as it was well-known, already had a little but speedily growing dragon of his own. Therefore, the best course of action was to declare loyalty to him and avoid face-to-face meetings as much as possible. The Exceptionalists, Gyles thought, were right in one sense: having a dragon really did give one a very large advantage in any quarrel.
The grey monster fell from the sky, as if intending to crush the city, before stopping just a few feet shy of its wall and landing as softly as a feather, perfectly coordinating the time with the arrival of Lord Alaric Stark at the city gates.
Gyles wiped the sweat off his forehead and went to kneel in front of the Dowager Queen on slightly shaky legs. For sure, she was good and kind, but when he saw the monster, he couldn't help but be reminded of Maegor.
Uncle Lemmar went to the gates to greet the guests as well, and Gyles was relieved to see that he at least was apparently ready to talk to the Queen rather than do something drastic and potentially catastrophic (shutting himself in the Starry Sept, cursing the royal dynasty... Gyles still remembered Maegor's times). He welcomed the Queen and Lord Stark to Oldtown and even blessed them, and the Queen smiled and said she was glad to see him for the first time since his election as High Septon.
Gyles let out the breath he hadn't notice he had been holding, and invited the guests to the Hightower, hoping that his voice sounded firm and not looking, not looking, at the grey monster.