The field was silent, save for the distant sounds of waves and insects in the grass. Even Lannisport was still. Or perhaps Alysanne simply could not hear the sounds from the city, so loud was her heart beating. The night was bitter, and though Alysanne's cloak hung heavy on her shoulders, she shivered anyway.
Jon and his men had disappeared into the Lion's Mouth what felt like hours ago. Alysanne knew it hadn't truly been that long, as the moon and stars had hardly shifted from their places. But it had certainly felt as though it'd been ages.
None of them dared to speak to another, or even hardly move. Wylla was silent as well, and Alysanne wished she'd commanded either Arya or Jorelle to stay behind. They never seemed so tense or nervous, or mayhap they just hid it well. Between the two of them, Alysanne could always count on one to break the tension with a jape.
"There, Your Grace!" Alysanne started at Jon Umber's excited voice, but followed where he pointed.
Sure enough, up ahead, a lone rider raced out of the gates of Casterly Rock towards their position. Jon Umber moved his hand to rest atop his sword, though soon enough he relaxed. The rider moved with such speed that it did not take them long to identify the rider as Arya.
Arya's horse slewed as she came to a hard stop. A wild grin split her face, and she thrust forward her hand, a crimson banner clutched tightly in her fist. "Casterly Rock is yours, Your Grace."
Alysanne's face split into a grin to match Arya's, and the sound of horns echoed around them; a cacophony that sang of the fall of the Rock. Alysanne lifted her head just in time to see Stark banners unfurled and the men cheered behind her. She called her men to a march, and they started towards Casterly Rock.
As a girl, Alysanne had hated the Lion's Mouth. The high walls and thundering waves had sent her into a fright every time she descended through it, and even now she found herself intimidated. The stone walls were impossibly high, and even over the echoing of a hundred hooves, Alysanne could hear the waves.
Though Alysanne so desperately wanted to take in everything around her, she could hardly focus on much more than the men who lined their path. Her men. They cheered and hollered as they passed by, and Aegon's Dornishmen cracked their spears into the ground. In that moment, Alysanne wished her cousin had chosen instead to wait beside her to share in her victory.
There were far too many of them for Alysanne to truly see the grandeur of the Lion's Mouth as they gradually made their way to the top. The longer they rode and the farther they climbed, the more elaborate it became. Enormous statues guarded the path, and massive lanterns hung from the ceilings. There were murals depicting Lannister victories, and the closer they rode to the top, the older the stories they told. Alysanne desperately wanted to study them all. There will be time enough to explore later. Now was the time to prove herself a Queen.
They passed murals depicting battles fought by the King's of the Rock, and soon the Lion's Mouth spit them out at the very top into a courtyard. Chaos greeted them.
Men cheered at her entrance, and Arya raced off to find Jon once more. The men who followed her spilled into the courtyard from behind her, and Alysanne yanked her horse to a stop. The Smalljon made to do the same, but Alysanne stopped him.
"Lord Umber, find Prince Jon and ensure he needs no assistance." Alysanne could not look away from the hostages gathered in the very center of the yard. Her heart clenched.
She recognized her great-aunt Genna almost immediately, though she was considerably… plumper than Alysanne remembered. She grasped a young boy close to her side and watched Alysanne with shrewd eyes. All of Alysanne's memories of her great-aunt were of a warm woman, who brushed her hair and put it in neat braids whenever she visited the Rock in the years before Alysanne left. The way she regarded Alysanne now was anything but warm.
Alysanne turned her attention to the young boy. He was too young to be her cousin Red Walder, and Genna was well past her childbearing years. A grandson, perhaps? Admittedly, Alysanne had paid no mind to her distant-cousin's children or lack thereof.
Another woman stood to the right of her great-aunt, and it took Alysanne but a moment of thought to remember her as Lady Dorna, her great-aunt by marriage to her great-uncle Kevan. Dorna paid Alysanne no concern and instead spoke in hushed whispers to a girl no older than ten by her side. That must be Janei. Alysanne had vague memories of her great-uncle Kevan mentioning her in a letter he sent on one of her name days.
But I thought she lived in Lannisport? They must have been brought into Casterly Rock once her army was spotted. Alysanne had fond memories of going with her great-uncle Gerion to visit their manse and running about with her cousins. Her cousins, and Joy Hill, who was a short distance from Dorna and Genna.
Alysanne struggled to quell a smile when she took notice of Joy. Distant though her memories of Casterly Rock were, Joy was among the brightest, and it pleased Alysanne to see that she looked well.
Just as Gerion had been her favorite uncle, Joy had been among her favorite cousins. What ever happened to her mother? Her grandfather had made no mention of either in his letters, following Gerion's disappearance. Alysanne wondered if Joy remembered her at all; she had only just passed her fourth name-day when Alysanne left for Winterfell.
"What do you wish done with the hostages, your grace?" Edwyn Frey asked.
Many and more stood with Genna, Dorna, and Joy. Members of the household, no doubt, as well as soldiers who had surrendered. All of them looked at her in fear of what she would do.
"Have Lady Genna and Lady Dorna sequestered to their rooms; members of the household as well. The men who surrendered will find home in the cells below," Alysanne ordered.
Lord Edwyn did not move. "Your grace would be wise to put the men to the sword."
Alysanne looked at him sharply. "I will do no such thing, Lord Edwyn. These men surrendered in good faith." Lord Edwyn had the decency to at least act ashamed as he left to carry out her orders. Ser Stevron would never have suggested such a thing.
Her men collected the swords, shields, and other weapons of the Lannister soldiers, and Alysanne watched silently as they herded them towards the cells. Put them to the sword, he says. Alysanne had no intention of putting men to death for the crime of following orders. For that was all they had done. They weren't the ones who cut Ned Stark's head from his neck. Nor were they the ones who murdered Elia and Rhaenys, as Alysanne had pointedly reminded Oberyn just the previous day.
Genna kept her scornful gaze on Alysanne as they led her into the keep. Let her rage. It was she who held Casterly Rock, not Genna Lannister. Alysanne raised her chin and met her great-aunts stare head on. They did not break from another until forced to, as Genna disappeared into the keep.
The courtyard continued on in its chaos even after they had led away the hostages. Her own men picked through the swords and the armor of the Lannister men who'd fallen, and the healers who'd followed after Alysanne descended on the injured. With a last sweep of the yard, Alysanne made for the ramparts.
Alysanne muttered for Wylla to wait at the bottom and began her climb. The stairs up to the ramparts were steeper than those at Winterfell, and Alysanne found herself winded once she reached the top. She might have attributed it to the thinner air, such was Casterly Rock's height, but the cramping pain radiating through her lower belly told her otherwise. Alysanne rested her weight against the stone edge of the ramparts to catch her breath, only to have it stolen once more by the view below.
From this height, Lannisport was a sprinkling of stars. In the daylight, or even an especially bright, moon-lit night, Alysanne knew the houses and manses, shops and inns would be naught but pinpricks. The moon was merely a sliver this night, not nearly bright enough to illuminate the distant city any more than the candles and lanterns did. It still reflected off the Sunset Sea in a thin, silver ripple that danced and swirled along with the waves.
The chilly wind, now at her back, whipped the hair that had fallen loose from her braid into her face and she shuddered. Alysanne shoved her hair out of her face and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The rustle of the wind dampened most of the tumult from the yard below, and Alysanne breathed deep. The cold air reminded her of Winterfell, of home. She knew should be down below, helping to direct the men, but by the gods did she just need a moment.
Alysanne tipped her head back to see the stars, the true ones in the night sky. They made her think of Robb, and how they had laid out in the yard of Winterfell one night after Maester Luwin told them of the patterns one could find. Alysanne traced those patterns now. She found the Sword of the Morning and the King's Crown beside it, the Ice Dragon further west, and further eastward from them all, the Stranger's Mantle.
Am I doing the right thing, mother? It was too late now. She'd taken Casterly Rock, her family's ancestral seat. There was no turning back, not that Alysanne had any desire to. Joffrey will rage once word reaches King's Landing. Alysanne had no care for his forgiveness. She only hoped Theon would reach Sansa before the news reached her cousin.
Once word of her victory reached her grandfather, he would be just as furious as Joffrey, if not more so. Will this be unforgivable, in his eyes? It didn't matter if it was, Alysanne told herself. For what place was there for him in her life, once this was done?
What of you, father? Would he find her actions beyond forgiveness? Would he take it as a betrayal? He betrayed you first. Louder than the anger that screamed through her very bones, though, were his words to her just before she departed Riverrun. His answer when she asked once more why he let her go, and if he'd even missed her at all. "Not a day goes by that I don't regret it," he'd said. Did she believe him? Alysanne wanted to.
The sharp echo of footsteps ascending the stairs caught Alysanne's ears, and she pried her attention away from the stars above. She expected to find Wylla coming to fetch her, but instead saw the large figure of Jon Umber approaching the top of the stairs.
"Lord Umber." Alysanne faced away from Lannisport and the sea beyond and forced a smile. "All was well with Prince Jon, then?"
Jon Umber faltered. "Your grace." He folded his hands respectfully behind his back, and his shoulders were hunched in a poor attempt at making himself appear smaller. An impossible feat, for a man of his stature. Alysanne frowned. "You're needed in the keep."
Heat flushed through her limbs, and her head swam. Something is wrong. "What is it?" Alysanne pressed. The Smalljon only gaped. Alysanne demanded twice more for him to tell her, her tone sharper each time.
"I think it's best you follow me," he finally sputtered out.
The pace that the Smalljon made through the halls of the keep did nothing to reassure Alysanne. She struggled to keep up with him, and so did Wylla, if her huffs were anything to go by.
They wove left and right, then left again through old, familiar halls. Once more, Alysanne lamented the fact that she had no time to truly stop and take them in. We're in the maester's wing, Alysanne recognized. She'd been there many times as a young girl, with scraped knees and many a splinter.
The Smalljon stopped outside a room, and Alysanne stormed in, only to freeze at the sight in front of her. Wylla nearly ran into her, stepping around her at the last second and gasping sharply.
A ringing echoed in Alysanne's ears, and the ground swayed beneath her feet. Not him. Please, anyone but him. The ground continued to sway as Alysanne stumbled into the room. Jon, her Jon, looked on helplessly from the foot of a bloodied cot pressed against the far wall.
"Alys," Jon trailed off. He said nothing else as Alysanne shuffledcloser. How long has he known?
The figure on the cot—a mere figure, for her mind refused to name him—lay limp, with one arm dangling over the edge. His skin was gray, and shallow breaths resonated through the room. Blood pooled swiftly beneath the cot, a poor imitation of his hair.
"Why didn't you send for me sooner?" Alysanne demanded. She threw herself to the ground beside the cot. The blood soaked into her skirts. How long has he been like this? It had been some time since they took the Rock and Arya rode to tell her. "What happened?" she croaked out.
Ser Addam's breath continued to break in quick gasps, and his skin was clammy beneath her palms. Alysanne swept his hair back from his forehead and grasped one of his hands in her own, clutching it close to her chest. She restated her question louder when no one answered, only to be met with a grim silence.
Alysanne wrenched her gaze from the man before her, only to find the room empty. They've all left. They've given up on him. Not her. She wouldn't give up on him. Alys spotted the supplies left by the maester across the room and clambered to her feet to grab them, only to be stopped by Ser Addam's rasping voice. "Alys."
Tears swam in her eyes as she settled back on the floor. She shushed him. "It's alright. You're going to be okay." Alys continued to smooth his hair back from his forehead and looked frantically about the room. There has to be something.
He shook his head. "My leg," he breathed out. His free hand trembled towards the edge of the blanket. She shushed him again and guided his hand back to the cot. Alysanne peeled black the blanket herself.
His leg was a mangled mess from where an arrow had split through, but that was not the wound that stole her breath. His stomach was cleaved open, only held together by bandages and torn linen. The biting scent of blood and death swarmed the room. Alysanne replaced the blanket with jittery hands. "Your leg will be just fine," she tried to soothe him.
"You're—" he coughed and blood splattered across his mouth and chin. "You're lying," he accused.
She stretched her sleeve over her hand and wiped the blood from his mouth. "I would never lie to you," she admonished. "We promised never to lie to one another. Remember?"
Alysanne remembered. She remembered how furious she'd been when her father hadn't arrived for her name day feast, even though he'd promised to come. She'd been three and ten. Alysanne remembered how gentle Ser Addam had been when he brushed the tears from her cheeks, and she remembered how his blue eyes had filled with sorrow when she asked him to swear to never lie to her. She remembered the sad smile that had touched his face when he swore to always tell her the truth, and she remembered his soft laugh when she swore the same. Alysanne could never forget such a thing.
"Aye, I remember." Ser Addam tried to laugh now, but instead more blood collected around his mouth. Her heart lurched as she wiped the blood from his mouth once more and eased him back against the pillow.
He squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth, and tears streaked down her face. She rubbed them away with her clean sleeve before he could see them. His breath began to rattle. "Little lion," His hand twitched in her own. "I'm so sorry. Tell your father that…" His words fell, and he'd mouthed the words more than he spoke them. He could barely drag air into his lungs and he struggled to keep his eyes open.
Alysanne shook her head wildly. No no no, this isn't how it's supposed to go. "You have nothing to be sorry for." She pressed her lips to his forehead. "Rest now," she whispered. "I'll be fine. We'll be fine. Rest, so that when the war is over you might show me Ashmark. It's okay." The mention of his home brought a small smile to his lips before his chest stilled.
"Ser Addam?" She shook him gingerly. Her hands fluttered helplessly above his face. "Addam," she howled. She grappled to her feet and sat next to him on the cot, leaning over him. She cupped his face in her hands. "Wake up. You have to wake up!" She shook him harder, her vision blurred, and she shook her head frantically. "Please, you need to wake up," she sobbed. This isn't real, it isn't real.
A gentle hand on her shoulder sent a jolt through her body. "Step back, Alys," Jon tried to coax her. "Let the silent sisters do their work." The mention of the silent sisters sent panic seizing through her chest. When did they arrive? They crowded into the room like crows, waiting to pick apart his corpse.
"No! Get them out!" Alys shrieked. She wiped at her tears, blood smearing in their place. They continued to file in anyway. "Do you not hear me? I said to get out!" Her throat felt raw as her orders fell on deaf ears. They continued to approach, crowding in on her like lions. Her chest tightened with every step they took. They stole the breath right from her lungs. They'll steal him. She clambered off the cot and shoved at the shrouded figure closest to her. "Get away!"
Jon shouldered his way to her. "Alys," he pleaded. She glanced at him and detested the sympathy that stared back. He grasped her hands away from where they clenched the silent figure's robes. She wrenched her hands from his and clutched onto his jerkin. Jon held onto her wrists, but did not try to remove her hands again.
Alysanne jerked Jon close to her. "Get them out," she hissed. "He will not have a burial. I want a pyre." Ser Addam was hers. He had been hers since she was only six name-days. They want to take him from me. They wanted to take him and bury him somewhere in the dirt where he'd be alone.
The silent sisters flew out of the room, only to be replaced by the Septon. She hated the silent sisters, and she hated this man too, she decided. "My lady, I understand your grief," the Septon spoke tenderly, as one would a babe. His voice did not mollify her, nor did his presence. The very sound of his breath made her skin crawl.
Alysanne snatched her hands free of Jon's and rounded on the Septon. "I am not your lady," she seethed. "I am the Queen of the North, and Casterly Rock is mine. You will do as I command and leave." Alysanne did not wait to see if he obeyed her before she rounded on Jon. "Tell the men to build a pyre."
Jon eyed her in askance. "Alysanne, are you certain?" He turned to Arya and Wylla, who had slipped in unnoticed. They watched on, eyes wide at the scene unfolding in front of them.
Rage coiled thickly around her stomach and wound its way deep into her chest. "That is a command, Jon." Resentment clawed at her throat. Why will no one listen? For a long moment, Jon only stared before he finally left the room.
Hardly a moment later, Alysanne surged forward and clutched at Arya's arm. The younger woman started. A nagging image ate at Alysanne, and her heart raced faster. Fire and blood, a burning tree. "Go fetch the eggs. Both of them. Tell Aegon to bring his as well."
Arya did not move except to rend her arm free. Blood remained where Alysanne's hand had been. "The eggs? Alys…"
Jorelle's armor clanked as she lurched into the room, and a sharp cry left her mouth when she saw the sight before her. "Do as I say, Arya. Please." Alysanne rubbed her hands on her skirts, but blood still lingered between her fingers and on the back of her hands. Arya tracked her movement and nodded silently, leaving to do as she was bid.
Only Wylla and Jorelle lingered. Wylla's face was blank, though Alysanne could see that her hands trembled. "Will you question me as well?" Alysanne asked. Jorelle had clasped a hand over her mouth, and slowly inched forward to stand beside Wylla.
Wylla slowly ran her eyes over the blood saturated into Alysanne's skirts, the blood marred her sleeves, and the blood smudged across her face. "I will only ask if you would wish to change, first."
Alysanne shook her head. "I would not."
Wylla inclined her head. "Alright then."
Alysanne refused to leave until the men came to retrieve Ser Addam. He did not leave me, even once. He did not leave her in Winterfell, and he hadn't left her as they passed his home. He'd been by her side always. They would not come for Ser Addam until the pyre was finished, which Alysanne knew would take some time. Wylla and Jorelle stayed at the doorway to ensure no one disturbed Alysanne, not that anyone would try. Alysanne returned to her spot perched at the edge of Ser Addam's cot, and waited.
The hours felt like nothing at all. Alysanne felt like nothing at all. All she could fixate on was Ser Addam's cooling hand in hers, the blood dripping into the puddle beneath her feet and soaking into her boots. His lips were blue, they were wrong. They weren't even blue in the way that they'd been that one day in Winterfell, when Alysanne insisted he help thwart Robb, Jon, and Theon in a snowball fight. His eyes were wrong, too. They weren't the steel gray that had once held so much laughter. They were just nothing.
Finally, Gregor Forrester and several men quietly stepped into the room, only wavering for a moment to take in Ser Addam and the state of Alysanne. One man removed his cloak to shroud Ser Addam, and only then did Alysanne rise from where she sat. The men lifted the cot together and began the long walk to the courtyard. Alysanne followed them with Wylla and Jorelle walking on either side of her.
Alysanne noticed nothing on the entire walk to the courtyard. Not the walls, nor the tapestries that hung from them. She did not even see the men who bowed to her, nor hear the men who offered her their condolences. It wasn't until they reached the courtyard that she noted anything.
They had constructed the pyre where the hostages had once been. It was not grand, nor could bear more than perhaps two men. It had been made from the wood of the false siege, and between the logs had been stuffed kindling.
Alysanne found a place beside Jon as people flocked into the courtyard. All of her own advisors, her soldiers who'd fought to take the Rock, the camp followers who had made the journey up through the Lion's Mouth, the Septon from earlier. It pleased Alysanne to see that none of their newly taken hostages had been sent for.
"You never told me what happened." Alysanne only talked to Jon, and paid no mind to those who offered consolations as they passed her by.
Jon peered at her with a sorrowful mien. "There was a man, a boy, really. We came across him in a hallway. He surrendered, and we dropped our guard, but he charged us before we could take his weapons. Ser Addam stepped in front of me and took an ax to the stomach for it."
Alysanne hummed. "And the boy?" Her hands twitched. She would see him dead. She would see Ghost tear his tongue from his throat, his fingers from his hands. She would see—
"Dead," Jon answered with finality. "I cut his head from neck with my own sword."
"I want his head." Alysanne caught a flash of silver from the corner of her eye, and she did not wait for Jon's response before setting off in its direction.
To the left of the great pyre awaited Aegon, a bundle grasped tight in his hands. Jon Connington only studied her with trepidation as she glided towards them. Oberyn and Arianne were amongst his group, along with the rest of the Dornish.
Aegon was the only one amongst them to step forward. "Alysanne, I'm so sorry." The rest of his party mirrored his sympathies from behind him.
She did not need his sympathies, nor any of theirs. She thrust her hands forward. "Do you trust me, cousin?" Alysanne did not waver. Not even when Aegon peered long and hard at the pyre, then back to her waiting arms. "Fire and blood," Alysanne whispered to him.
Aegon's eyes snapped to hers at her words. One last searching gaze and he nodded minutely, passing her the bundled egg. "Fire and blood," he parroted back.
Without another word, Alysanne spun and sought Arya amongst the crowd. She stood near Wylla and Jorelle, and Alysanne strode directly towards her. When Arya caught sight of her, she started walking as well, meeting her halfway.
Alysanne took the two bundles from Arya, as well as a lit torch. With a resolute nod, Arya pivoted and returned to her place. Alysanne did not. Eyes burned into her back as she approached the unlit pyre.
Alysanne did her best to hold her head high and keep her pace steady. Sticky blood tugged at the hairs on her thighs as she walked, and fresh blood still slipped out from her womb. Sharp knives plunged from her lower back throughout her belly, and not for the first time that night, she swallowed back bile. Alysanne knew what it was, or rather, what it had been.
Maester Vyman in Riverrun had confirmed it for her the morning of their departure. It had been too late then to turn back. She'd had no choice but to march onwards, and all had been well. At least until she'd felt the first knife plunge through her womb just before Oxcross. One of Wylla's girls, a healer trained in midwifery, told her the true nature of her illness when Wylla dragged Alysanne to her, after she refused to see the maester. But Alysanne had no time to grieve. Just days later, Aegon had arrived, then the Rock fell, and now — Alysanne had no time for that grief. There would be time enough later.
Carefully, Alysanne arranged the eggs on either side of Ser Addam. He hadn't believed her before she showed him, he'd hardly believed his ears when Alysanne told him just how they'd come into her and Jon's possession. Though he'd been more jealous of Dark Sister, Alysanne recalled fondly.
Once more, Alysanne adjusted the eggs. She thought of the babe that had died before it lived. Her and Robb's child, that she'd bled out as the Rock fell at her command. It will have to be enough. Alysanne lowered the torch and the dry brush stuffed between the wooden beams caught quick, swiftly engulfing the platform in flames.
Alysanne swiveled to face the men and women gathered. What was she to say to them? What could she say? They hadn't known Ser Addam, not as she had. Jon and Arya loved him in their own way, but not as Alysanne did. He'd been her closest friend, her father and her mother, in some regard.
As she retraced her steps to rejoin Jon and Arya, eyes chased after her. Alysanne concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, and a smear of red caught her attention. There, beside Jon. Once Jon saw where her eyes were focused, he plucked it from the ground. He held out the tattered Lannister banner for her to grab. Alysanne gingerly grabbed it and ran the silk between her fingers.
The yard was illuminated as the flames danced higher and higher in the sky. It allowed for Alysanne to better see the banner in her hands. Only her grandfather would use such fine silk for banners that would only hang over the keep. Fine silk, and thread of gold. She clenched it tighter.
Flames engulfed her vision, but something was wrong. There was something missing. Dreams from nights passed carved through her mind, and it felt as though her head was being split by an ax. A burning tree. A woman in lavender, a dragon bursting from her womb. A burning tree. Fire, licking at her skin. Fire, tearing at her clothes. A different woman amongst different ashes, with a song floating about her. Alysanne could just make out Ser Addam laying in the flames, alone. He's alone. He shouldn't be alone. He had never left her alone.
Alys took a small step forward, and Jon was quick to place a hand on her shoulder. "Alysanne, what are you doing?"
She shrugged his hand from her shoulder. Another step. "Trust me, Jon." Forgive me.
With a final peek down at the banner enclosed tightly in her fist, Alys decided then and there it would burn with her. Before Jon could stop her, she swiftly set off towards the flames. Confused murmurs broke out around her, Arya called out to her, but she did not stop.
As she walked towards the flames, she thought of Ser Addam. Ser Addam and his kind smile, Ser Addam kneeling before her in Winterfell on the eve of their departure. Ser Addam and the family he had left behind for her, because of her. Ser Addam, and the fierce flash of his eyes as he insisted that she was his family, and that he'd made his choice. Most of all, she remembered her first day with Ser Addam, and the way he'd told her stories of her father in their youth to put her at ease. Now it is my turn to put him at ease, on my first day without him.
The confused mutters only continued the closer she came to the pyre, and they reached a crescendo as she stepped into the blaze. Panicked screams bled through the roar of the flames and crackling of wood. Distantly, Alys could make out Arya struggling furiously against Jon's arms as he himself shouted frantically. Arya went limp, and her wails cleaved through the din. Forgive me, little sister. Even with Jon's distraught shouts, Arya's pained cries, Alysanne could hear Wylla's demands that someone, anyone, fetch water to douse the flames. A lone howl pierced the night.
Fire licked at her legs, then her arms and chest, kissed her lips, then soothed her tears as her mother never had, never could. It singed away her skirts marred by Ser Addam's blood, burnt to ash, her small clothes stained with the lifeblood of her child. It ripped from her hands what remained of a Lannister. Smoke swirled around her in silver ribbons and wound through her fingers and hair down into her lungs, but it didn't burn. She breathed it as easily and readily as she did the fresh air in Winterfell after a summer snow. The shouts and wails from beyond faded away and left her in silence.
Silence was not the nature of fire, however. Nor did it accompany blood. It could have been seconds or minutes after she stepped into the flames—Alysanne had no notion—that the shattering of glass joined the howl of the fire. Not glass, the eggs. There, through the veil of shimmering smoke, Alysanne could see the dragon eggs burst apart.
Aegon's was the first to emerge from its shell. The fire reflected off his golden scales so brilliantly that Alysanne nearly mistook the hatchling for a lick of flame. He shook the pieces of shell from his wings before crawling to Alysanne.
Her own hatchling was next, a shock of pearlescent white against the glow of the flames. Only her head popped through the egg, and she bit and tore viciously at the shell that refused to break. Alysanne leaned over and broke away the chunks that refused to fall, and her hatchling eagerly clung to her arm.
The last to hatch was Jon's. Bright red and furious. She screeched loudly into the smoke, extending her wings and fanning the flames. She did not hesitate to join her siblings, clawing into Alysanne's skin and scrambling up her arm just as Aegon's had.
The fire died away, but Alysanne did not. There she rose, bare save the hair on her head and the ash coating her skin, unharmed and unburnt. A thousand eyes bored through her soul. Jon and Arya, Wylla and Jorelle, Aegon, and all the rest watched her with trepidation.
Three dragons dug their claws into her shoulders and her arms, shrieking loud into the dawn of the morning, singing of the fall of a lion.