Jonquil's Pool was as lovely as Alysanne had always been led to believe. The bathhouse was overwhelmingly peaceful, a haven set aside from the war-ravaged Riverlands and dwindling town of Maidenpool.
Briefly, ashamedly, Alysanne wondered if the septas in the bathhouse would harbor her, hide her away should she return later. Alone. Just until it was all over, she could hide away as she had when she was a girl, hiding under her bedcovers from the summer storms. She'd don their robes should they ask it of her, at least whilst she remained hidden. It'd be a small price to pay for such quiet, and it would be no hardship to while her days away in a place such as this.
Most likely they would scorn me, refuse her and name her a craven, for surely the gods would not look kindly upon a woman who turned from her duty so.
Tiled mosaics covered the walls of the bathhouse, telling the story of Florian the Fool and Jonquil in a hundred shades of blue, green, violet, and pink. Even the floors were mosaics of tile and glass; crafted in the Myrish style, one of the septas proudly shared with them.
Aside from the septas, who lived in apartments on the opposite end of the bathhouse, and Sansa, whom Alysanne had dragged along with her to Jonquil's Pool, the bathhouse was empty. Empty, quiet, and warm thanks to the lit braziers and burning incense cloying the air. Sansa rested against the edge of the pool and traced the pattern of the tiles with her finger, and Alysanne idly floated to the stone altar of the Mother.
The marble effigy guarded the pool from the opposite side of the Maiden, soft lines of smooth marble as fine as the statues in the sept of the Red Keep. That depiction of the Mother had been fashioned in the likeness of Aegon the Conqueror's mother, Valaena Velaryon, or so Septa Elswyth had once claimed. And whose likeness is this, Alysanne wondered. One of the past ladies of Maidenpool most like, or whoever had been queen at the time.
The stone was cool beneath Alysanne's arms. She rested her chin atop them and closed her eyes. Piety had never been her nature. She'd sat dutifully in the Sept at Casterly Rock and then Winterfell when expected of her, and she'd joined Robb in the godswood often enough, but she'd never been much given to prayer enough to go on her own.
Longing bloomed deep in Alysanne's chest. A hollow longing that stifled and numbed her down to her fingertips. She wished to be a girl again, to return to the nights where she and Sansa would undoubtedly sneak into one another's rooms, awake when they should be asleep. They'd hide under thick furs with twined legs and arms, whispering dreams of princes and knights and chubby babes to call their own. She ached for the summer days spent in the godswood, braiding flowers into each other's hair.
Alysanne longed for a time when her thighs weren't stained with the blood of her babe and Sansa did not bear marks of Joffrey's rage.
Let it end. Let it end. Let it be over, Alysanne prayed. No more. She could not bear it. The men at the council said Joffrey's reign was in its death throes, or would be sooner than not. Alysanne tried desperately to picture the end to it all, to imagine what it would be like to finally set towards home. It seemed impossible. Let it end.
Girlhood had been infinitely easier than what her life had become - even with the petty squabbles and disappointments and problems that felt so achingly insurmountable, so infinitely impossible that the world would surely come to an end before they resolved.
Her eyes flickered up to the Mother's. Flinty, emerald eyes peered down at her through the haze of incense. Foolish girl, they mocked. Hopeless. Craven. Alysanne felt the fool for praying to the Mother, for if the Seven were real, what blessings had she ever bestowed upon her? Her own mother had died so she might live, and her babe had never quickened. The Stranger was more familiar to Alysanne, yet the Stranger had no home here.
With a heavy sigh Alysanne dipped under the water, drifting back towards Sansa. The septa who led them to the pool had left a selection of oils for them to choose from, set carefully in front of Alysanne's neatly folded blue dress and Sansa's green. Sansa had chosen the lavender oil, which she massaged into her hair.
"Did you sleep last night?" Sansa asked. Her voice reverberated around the room, one question becoming ten. The water rippled as Alysanne dunked her head under the water and reemerged, sending waves to the far ends of the pool.
"You know that I didn't," Alysanne mumbled. She stopped in front of Sansa and motioned for her to turn, taking the glass vial of oil from her hands and pouring a generous amount onto her own. It always took Sansa two attempts, so thick was her hair.
"I wish you would," Sansa sighed. Alysanne let the quiet speak for her and focused on working the oil into Sansa's hair. She wished she'd slept too, but the gods cared little for what she wished.
The oil smelled of more than just lavender; rose perhaps, or honey. Alysanne took her time in combing her oil-coated fingers through Sansa's hair. So rare were these moments of peace and solitude between just the two of them. She was in no hurry to squander it.
Scars peeked from beneath Sansa's hair. Alysanne brushed one lightly with her finger before reaching to grab more oil. The scars ranged from white to pink to red, but all begged for retribution to be brought to the Red Keep. Alysanne said nothing of the scars. Sansa had already spoken to her all she wished of King's Landing, had already recounted every beating and lashing she'd received at Joffrey's command. What she'd shared was enough for rage to set Alysanne's blood to boil.
"What dream was it this time?" Sansa asked. She rinsed the oil from her hair and bade Alysanne to turn, grabbing the oil from where Alysanne had set it aside.
"The meadow again." It was a ghastly dream, one that Alysanne wished had remained in Harrenhal. Sansa poured the oil over her hair and Alysanne shuddered as the dream rushed back to her mind.
In the dream, she'd been standing in a field of wildflowers in the hills that surrounded Casterly Rock. She'd known that field, she'd played in it as a girl. It was the same field she'd often make her Uncle Gerion take her to so she might pick flowers for her father and grandfather before she left and he went missing. The flowers were precisely as she remembered; spots of color amongst an endless blanket of verdant green - rich violet, bloody red, pink, white, orange, yellow, blue, each color brighter than the last.
Her father always stood across the meadow from her in this dream. Between them, a woman lay dead with a gaping wound on her belly, dripping poison. Her father always called for her, his cries of her name growing more panicked the longer the dream went on, insistent that she'd strayed too far from him. "Come back! You'll be lost," he begged.
It always ended the same. A lioness appeared to feast on the woman's corpse, heedless of the poison, and the moment it set its sight on her cold hands grabbed her from behind, jerking her to the ground. It was then she'd awaken in a cold sweat with heaving, gasping breaths.
Once, she'd attempted to take to her own chambers. Or, at the very least, her own tent so as not to awaken Robb. He'd refused to accept such a thing and would hear nothing to the contrary.
"What do you think it means?" Sansa asked. She poured more oil into her hands and set the now near-empty jar aside. As ever, Sansa's hands were gentle, insistent, yet soothing. Alysanne closed her eyes.
"I don't know. The dreams never make sense." Not at first, at least. The dream of the burning oak made little sense to her, not until Ser Addam's body sat upon the pyre. By then it was far too late.
Sansa wrapped her arms around Alysanne and rested her head on her shoulder, and for once Alysanne let the exhaustion seep in. She slouched against Sansa, her mind pitched and swam and her limbs felt as though bags of sand dragged behind her every move.
"Everything will be fine," Sansa said, her voice hushed. Her arms shifted to hold Alysanne tighter. Sansa smelled of rosemary and lemon, and her skin was warm and soft against Alysanne's. The lit braziers warmed the room astonishingly well, and Alysanne's cheeks flushed in the heat.
"I suppose." Alysanne mindlessly traced a finger along Sansa's arm before stepping away, plunging under the water to rinse away the oil. She hoped Sansa was right.
The sun was setting by the time they'd redressed and left the bathhouse to return to the keep. The first half of her day had been spent with Wylla, Jorelle, Beth, Joy, and Jeyne, and later, Lady Mooton had invited Alysanne to take her midday meal with her and her daughters. It'd been mid-afternoon by the time Alysanne finally set off for Jonquil's Pool.
Only Sansa had resolved to join her. She'd given her ladies the afternoon to themselves, something long overdue and fully deserved. When she'd left them, Joy and Jeyne were settling in to rework the gowns taken from Casterly Rock that Alysanne had given them, Wylla and Jorelle had planned to seek out their families and Beth, Cley Cerwyn. Cley would ask for Beth's hand any day now, Alysanne was certain of it.
Arm-in-arm, Alysanne and Sansa strolled back to the castle under the watchful eyes of Donnel Locke and Brienne of Tarth. Even having spent the afternoon in the bathhouse, Sansa looked impeccable. Her dress was pale green, a color Alysanne always thought she looked lovely in. It complimented her fair skin and lent to the slight flush of her cheeks, and her hair, already so vibrant and rich, glowed red in the late afternoon sun.
It was a pleasant walk, or might have been, had war not come to Maidenpool. The town itself was nearly empty, the smallfolk having fled into the Vale or further south after Lannister men sacked it some moons ago. Maidenpool before the war had been a clean town, charming and lively, with markets filled with merchants hailing from as far east as Volantis, peddling colorful, painted silks and fishermen selling that day's catch. Or at least that's what Lord Mooton's youngest daughter, Jirelle, claimed.
Now, Maidenpool was half a ruin. The market stalls, which had once been painted in shades of blues, yellows, reds, and greens, were in shambles; half burnt and collapsed, the paint scratched and stained with soot. Mainly soldiers wandered the streets and empty harbor; there were hardly any fishermen and there were no Volanteen merchants. Some houses had doors smashed in, and items deemed worthless by looters were left in the street or in piles by doorways.
The cries of dragons resounded above. Sansa and Alysanne stopped to watch Shaeleys, Vēzos, and Frostfyre circle high over their heads. The few people who hadn't fled Maidenpool ducked their heads out of their windows or stopped in their tracks to gawk up at the creatures. How long has it been since dragons graced the skies above Maidenpool? Over a century, surely.
The dragons continued to fly above them as Sansa and Alysanne resumed their walk back to the keep. Diving in and out of the clouds, the trio of dragons playfully burst upwards only to dip below once more, soaring to the bay.
The castle of Maidenpool sat on the shore of the Bay of Crabs, larger than Riverrun and made of pale pink stone. Whilst the town had the harbor, the keep brushed against the marshes. Tall reeds and saw grass crept up against the northernmost wall of the keep, and to the east, hills blanketed with soldier pines stretched beyond the horizon.
Unlike the town, the keep was brimming and near overfull. There was never not a servant or guardsman in one's path and it often seemed to Alysanne that a lord waited around every corner wanting something or other. Grey Wind and Lady greeted them at the gates, as did Lewys Piper.
"Your Grace," Her husband's squire hastily bowed. "Robb- the King, that is, wished for you to dine with him in his chambers tonight."
"Thank you, Lewys," Alysanne said fondly. Lewys darted away and Sansa bid her farewell, setting off in search of Theon. Brienne and Lady followed Sansa, and Alysanne continued on through the keep alone with Grey Wind and Donnel at her heel.
Maidenpool was a lovely keep, and like the town, Alysanne might have delighted in visiting it were there not a war. There were gardens filled with tulips, lilies, and roses, and a sept with grand windows and a domed skylight with the image of the seven-pointed star made of stained glass. When the sun was overhead, it cast rainbows around the sept.
The outer bailey served as a training yard for those in their retinue who wished it, and across the yard her father sparred with Tommen. Both waved to her and Alysanne cheerfully waved back. Her father and cousin, brother, had reached a tenuous understanding on the march from Harrenhal. They were friendly with one another, genial almost, provided no one mentioned Cersei, or the war.
"Tommen is improving," Donnel said. Alysanne bit the inside of her cheek and mindlessly pet Grey Wind.
"He is." It was not fair to Donnel, her continued reticence. Despite her growing, begrudging fondness for the man, his presence chafed against the sore wound that was Ser Addam's absence. Alysanne rather doubted that wound would ever heal. Still, Donnel has been nothing but patient. It would not hurt her to try. She patted Grey Wind and once more peered over her shoulder at Donnel. "He trains hard with Bran and my father. I don't think he's taken a day off since he arrived in Riverrun."
Tommen would never be the greatest swordsman the realm had ever seen, but one did not need to be so in order to survive a battle. He was decent with a sword and exceedingly clever, both would serve him just as effectively.
When they reached what served as her and Robb's chambers, Alysanne entered and Donnel assumed his post outside alongside Ser Olyvar Frey, who'd been Robb's guard for the day. Grey Wind shoved in ahead of her, as he always did. Impatient beast.
A dinner alone with Robb was just as rare as time spent alone with Sansa, but there was to be no council that evening, and Alysanne had dined with her father the night before. He'd mentioned dining with Tommen tonight.
A small table in their borrowed chambers sat in front of the window directly opposite the door, its surface covered with platters of food. The walls of the room were the same pale pink stone as the rest of the keep. A thick Myrish rug sprawled across the stone floor between the large bed at the far right of the room and their chests to the left. Above the bed hung a grand tapestry, depicting an old King of Maidenpool whose name had been lost to history.
"Alysanne," Robb greeted her. He kissed her, short and sweet, but Alysanne grasped his doublet and tugged him back to her. She leaned into him and the kiss turned slow and languid as Robb's hands settled on her waist. Much to her dismay, Robb stepped away to lead her to the table.
She considered tugging him back to her, or perhaps leading him to their bed. As silly as it sounded, given that she spent at the very least every morning and night in his company, Alysanne missed her husband. They'd not had a day between the two of them, spent in peace, since Winterfell. She wondered if they'd ever have such a luxury again.
Hunger, gnawing relentlessly in her belly, decided for her. Alysanne took a seat at the table opposite Robb and considered the fare before her.
The food in Maidenpool had yet to disappoint. There was fresh trout encrusted with sage and parsley, crab bathed in butter and garlic, a thick stew with carrots and celery, roasted vegetables from the gardens of Maidenpool, and a loaf of warm bread set alongside jams and dried fruits. Amidst it all sat a pitcher of warm cider, fragrant with cinnamon and apples, and another pitcher with what Alysanne presumed to be ale, as had always been Robb's preference.
"How did you find Jonquil's Pool?" Robb asked. He heaped a spoonful of the roasted vegetables onto his plate beside the mountain of crab and bowl of stew he'd already claimed for himself. He had the appetite of Grey Wind, Alysanne would swear it before the gods.
"It was beautiful. Quiet. I'd have spent the rest of the day there if I could." The rest of the war, though Alysanne did not dare voice it.
"There was no Florian, come to sweep you away?" He teased. His eyes sparkled, and once more Alysanne was reminded of easier times. She flashed him an impish grin.
"Aye, now that you mention it. He's to meet me outside the gates at midnight, you see-" a light kick from Robb, which sent her into a fit of giggles interrupted her.
The sunny, lopsided smile plastered across his face was the same one he'd had when he kissed her for the first time years ago in the godswood, though now his beard hid his dimple. His eyes glimmered the same, though, and his nose wrinkled just as endearingly.
She remembered it well. It'd been late morning, and she and Robb had slipped away alone without an escort. They'd been sitting beside one of the pools in the godswood, stockings and shoes removed to let their feet trail through the water, talking about something which Alysanne could no longer recall. He'd stopped talking long enough for Alysanne to look at him in concern, and she'd not so much as asked him what was wrong before he crashed his lips to hers. It'd been clumsy, at least on her end, but Alysanne would not trade it for the world.
Robb poured himself a cup of ale before filling her goblet with the cider. She raised it to him in thanks and took a sip; it was pleasantly warm, rich with cinnamon and cloves and honey.
"A rider arrived from Rook's Rest arrived today. Lord Staunton's declared for Aegon," Robb said.
"Already?" Alysanne frowned. They'd hardly been in Maidenpool a week, and the ride from Rook's Rest was at least that, if not more. It'd been thought that they'd need to send the Dornish to take Rook's Rest while the rest of what was now Aegon's host laid siege to Duskendale.
Robb shrugged. "It was no secret we marched for Maidenpool, he'd have heard of the Dornishmen gathering. It does not take a maester to puzzle it out." He tore a honeyed roll in half and shoved one half in his mouth, tossing the other to Grey Wind, who'd curled up beside Robb's chair.
"I suppose not." Alysanne took a bite of the trout and tried to recall who was the Lord of Rooks Rest. Surely not still Lord Symond. He'd been the master of laws for her grandfather Aerys even before Tywin was hand, and even then he'd been an old man.
She asked Robb if Lord Symond was indeed still the Lord of Rook's Rest and he nodded, swallowing a mouthful of crab. "Aye, though he's old and ailing. His son and heir Sefton rules in his name. He has strong ties to the Riverlands. His wife is of House Vance, I believe, and his mother was a Mallister."
"All the more reason to kneel to Aegon," Alysanne mused. That, and the threat of a large host bearing down on them. Their host was not a small one, even given the men who remained behind to defend Riverrun and Harrenhal if need be. No lord relished the thought of a siege, especially with winter swiftly approaching.
"If all continues as it has, we'll be home by winter." Robb said. He looked at her, hope sparking across his face, yet Alysanne found it hard to feel the same.
Home by winter. How long had it been since they left Winterfell? A year? Longer? Her nineteenth name day had passed, she knew that much. Alysanne was no simpleton, if she thought on it she could figure the precise time they'd been gone, but the thought of doing so twisted a knife into her heart. She did not wish to know precisely how long they'd been gone. Knowing made it real.
Home by winter. The war was a ceaseless nightmare, the end always beyond their grasp. They'd take King's Landing, and what then? What then would stand between them and Winterfell? The gods would think of something to plague them with, of that Alysanne was certain.
The cider warmed her to the bone. The food left her sated and full, and before long Alysanne was yawning. Robb studied her; concern pinched his brow and his eyes flitted across her face. Alysanne knew the sight he found was not a pretty one. She did not wear exhaustion well. The circles beneath her eyes darkened by the day, and her eyes were bloodshot more often than not.
"Will you take the dreamwine tonight?" Robb asked, watching her with mournful eyes.
"Not tonight." Alysanne did not meet his gaze, instead choosing to take a deep sip of her cider and peer out the open window. The last light of the setting sun painted the tall reeds crimson and burning orange, and Shaeleys' warbling trill joined the evening song of crickets and birds and croaking frogs.
"Alysanne," he pleaded. She continued to stare out the window, hoping to catch sight of Shaeleys. Wherever she flew, she remained out of Alysanne's sight. "You've hardly slept since Harrenhal."
"None of us have slept well," Alysanne argued. A good night's rest was scarce on the march. Though she supposed it was harder still when her nights were wrought with dreams of blood.
They'd returned whilst in Harrenhal, her dreams, and they'd followed her through the Riverlands. In the moon since they left that cursed keep she'd slept no more than a few hours each night. It frustrated her to no end, but what was worse was how it sent everyone to worry.
"That is not what I mean," Robb said, reproachful. Alysanne met his eyes, deep blue and boyish in their charm. She did not hold his gaze for long, lest she cave to his request.
It was incredibly difficult to refuse him. Her lips pressed thin and her words were sharp when she said, "the dreamwine makes me ill. It is a vile poison, I will not suffer it."
The few, full nights of rest Alysanne had stolen had been the nights she hadn't been able to refuse Robb. The very thought of dreamwine churned her stomach and set her teeth on edge. It never failed to settle in her stomach with a cold finality, a horrid weight meant to drag her to depths she'd rather leave unknown. That it tasted wretched did not help matters, it always lingered on her tongue come morning.
On any other night, she was driven from sleep by flames or frost, always before dawn and always with little chance of returning to her slumber. The dreamwine trapped her. It kept her in an unbroken loop, each dream more horrid than the last and leaving her fraught and driven to distraction the next day.
"I will not force you," Robb sighed, resigned. "But you need rest, Alysanne. Consider taking it at least once before we march again."
"You know what it does to me, Robb," Alysanne bit. She downed what remained of her cider in one swig. Robb held his eyes steady on her and Alysanne ducked her head, feeling rather like a chastened child. Damn him. "I shall consider it."
She considered it, then and there. She would not take the dreamwine, but if letting Robb think she might acquiesce set the conversation to rest, then by all the gods, let him think he'd made some headway.
"Thank you, Alys." Robb reached across the table to grasp her hand and Alysanne resolutely dismissed her budding guilt. He worried for her, and she hated that she could not ease his worry.
Robb stood and rounded the table, gently drawing Alysanne to her feet. He cupped her jaw and tilted her head up, sweeping a thumb along her cheekbone. "I worry for you, is all," he said.
"I know." Alysanne grasped his wrist, keeping his hand where it rested and leaned into his touch. "But you needn't. You've enough to worry about as it is."
He would always worry about her, the raised brow he flashed her said as much. Just as she would always worry over him. Robb's free hand swept along her neck and down her arm, and she was struck by how handsome Robb was. She pressed up on the tips of her toes to kiss along his jaw.
Slowly, her hands traveled down to unlace his trousers. He did not stop her this time, all too eager to aid her in her quest. He rid himself of his shirt and made quick work of her dress, fumbling with the laces until they came loose.
Robb cupped her face with his hands and kissed her, lips slow but insistent, unhurried for the first time in a long while. Robb nipped at her lower lip and coaxed her mouth open. Alysanne shuddered.
Divested of their clothes they fell into bed. Ever eager to please, Robb never left her wanting. Whether with his mouth or fingers or cock, he always left her sated. She was lucky in that way. Some men gave not a whit for their wife's pleasure. Robb perhaps cared overmuch, not that Alysanne minded.
That night was not any different. By the time Robb finished with her the sun had long disappeared, the moon having risen in its place. She ached splendidly, limbs weak and loose, and sweat dried sticky on her skin. Robb's seed was slick between her thighs and Alysanne prayed to whichever gods would pay her any mind that it'd take.
Despite the ardor with which Robb had taken her, sleep remained out of her reach. Robb did not have that issue. He slept easily and deeply, her husband, as was his nature. Alysanne nearly hated him for it. The sliver of moonlight that slipped into the room cast silver light across his face and shifted with the curtains in the breeze. Sweat-dampened curls fell over his forehead and stubble dusted his jaw, all that remained of the beard he'd rid himself of in Harrenhal. She swept an errant curl from his face.
Neither of them had closed the window, and a gentle breeze gusted in from over the bay. Alysanne slipped from the bed as silently as she could and gathered her dressing robe, using her discarded small clothes to clean herself. Behind the small table, under the window, sat a divan. Alysanne curled up on it and looked out over the bay.
The Bay of Crabs was not so different from the shores of the Trident, or even the banks of the God's Eye. There was familiarity in the salt marshes that lined the northernmost walls of Maidenpool's keep and in the tall reeds that swayed and danced to songs sung by frogs and insects. Another breeze brushed past her, jostling her hair and the curtains, and with it came the scent of salt and brimstone that accompanied marshes.
Along the shore, before the grass turned to the muddy marsh, the dragons slumbered. The moonlight glimmered off their scales and even the saddles, plain as they were, appeared elegant.
The saddles had been finished in Harrenhal and were by no means meant to be the saddles that they'd use forever. At the rate they grew, the dragons would outgrow them before the end of the year. Still, they thought it best to keep the dragons saddled more often than not. Dragons did not develop sores as horses did, the thickness of their scales didn't allow for it. Better for the dragons to grow accustomed to saddles now, whilst young. It'd prove a far greater challenge to acquaint a large dragon with a saddle than a smaller one.
Two lit torches caught Alysanne's eye. Two torches, held by cloaked figures, bobbing towards the dragons. She could only just make out silver hair on one, and a white direwolf bounding forward from the brush gave way the identity of his companion. Aegon and Jon. Whatever it was that drew them to the dragons so late, Alysanne did not intend to be left out.
Hurriedly, she grabbed her shift and Robb's trousers from where they'd been discarded and pulled them on, tucking her shift in and cinching Robb's leather belt tight around her waist. Grabbing a cloak and her boots as she passed, Alysanne slipped silently from the room. Not even Grey Wind stirred.
Neither Donnel nor Olyvar Frey had retired yet for the evening, and neither man said anything to her as she laced up her boots. They were not her boots but Robb's, though she did not realize so until she stepped outside the room to slip them on. Too late now. She would not risk waking Robb to retrieve her own. She continued down the hall.
"Your Grace? Are you well?" Donnel questioned. His sword rattled faintly in it's sheath as he hurried to catch up to her which, irritatingly, did not take him long. He had a good two heads on her in height, and longer legs to boot.
"Aye, I cannot sleep is all." It occurred to Alysanne that she had not been as quiet as she might have been earlier. Robb never liked when she kept quiet and whilst stone walls muffled sounds, wooden doors did not. Donnel blessedly could not see the embarrassed flush of her cheeks, though she felt foolish for being embarrassed at all. It is no shameful thing for a man to take his wife to bed.
Donnel said nothing as they left the castle and questioned her only once as they left the gates to wade through the sea of tents. She quickened her pace when she caught sight of Jon and Aegon in the distance, the dragons barely visible in the moonlight behind them.
Daemon Sand stood a short distance from the dragons and Donnel stopped beside him, not wishing to draw any closer. He never drew any closer than needed. Briefly, Alysanne wondered what Ser Addam might have thought of them. If he'd have been as wary of them as Donnel, or if he'd have been heedlessly curious of the beasts woken from stone.
"Forget something?" Alysanne called. Both men twisted around and Ghost bounded up to greet her, all too happy to accept her proffered scratches behind his ear.
"I fear our fun is ruined now, brother," Aegon said. Jon chuckled and Alysanne rolled her eyes. She shoved Aegon playfully as soon as she reached them.
"What are the two of you doing out here?" Alysanne asked.
"I couldn't sleep, and Aegon-" Jon scowled as he was interrupted.
"Of course you couldn't find sleep, Jon," Aegon said. He appeared far too pleased with himself. "You've a viper in your bed, and to hear her cousins tell it, she's quite the-"
"Shut up, Aegon," Jon demanded. He lunged at Aegon who dodged him, dancing just out of reach and snickering all the while. Jon continued his pursuit until Aegon stopped behind Alysanne. Jon glared, though the upward twitch of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
"I found him in the library, though now I wish I hadn't," Jon said. Alysanne glanced over her shoulder at Aegon, who bore a self-satisfied grin with little shame. "We decided seeing the dragons was far better than reading of them."
"We, is it?" Aegon stepped from around Alysanne and slung an arm around Jon's shoulders. "It was I who decided so. You wished to return to your chambers. Truly brother, you've no sense of adventure."
Jon and Aegon's bickering faded to a faint buzz. A few yards from where they stood, the dragons rested. Frostfyre, the red, and Vēzos, the golden, sat on either side of her dear Shaeleys. Already pearlescent and pale, the moonlight cast her dragon in an unearthly glow. Shaeleys lifted her head with a curious tilt and met Alysanne's eye. There was a pull, deep within her, that Alysanne thought she ought not ignore.
Alysanne drifted closer to Shaeleys and gazed into the eye facing her. A deep sapphire blue, her eyes brimmed with intelligence that Alysanne once hadn't expected to find. The dragon bucked her head and shook it, like a lion flaunting its mane.
"Lykirī, Shaeleys," she sang. Calm. Alysanne rested a hand on her snout, letting it rise and fall with each huffing breath the dragon took. Lazily, she ran her hand up to brush atop Shaeleys' head and to her crest of horns. Alysanne took a half-step back and regarded the dragon.
Surely she must be big enough to ride. She was still small, yes, but she'd grown larger since Harrenhal. The dragons were now bigger in body than a courser or charger, if only slightly, and with a wingspan to match. They were magnificent to behold. How big was the dragon Arrax when Prince Lucerys first rode him, all those years ago? From what drawings survived, Alysanne did not think him much larger than Shaeleys was now.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Shaeleys watched her and lifted her head. A challenge. Alysanne thought through the Valyrian commands recorded in the books, books she'd spent hours studying but whose knowledge now evaded her. "Rȳbās," she tried, but she received no response aside from a narrowed eye and a snort from Shaeleys.
Not listen, then. Alysanne steeled herself. Not calm, not listen… it struck her. Serve. "Dohaerās, Shaeleys," Alysanne whispered, though her tone was no less firm.
The word felt clumsy on her tongue but Shaeleys understood. The dragon dipped her head and settled low to the ground. Alysanne faltered. There will be no going back. If Shaeleys was not ready after all it would be her life.
Shaeleys flattened further to the ground. Others take me. Before she could think better of it, Alysanne climbed into the saddle and began fastening the straps around her legs.
"Alysanne?" Aegon said, finally taking note of her. There was a hint of fear in his voice. It amused her. "What are you doing?"
"What does it look like, cousin?" She finished buckling the straps and double-checked the latches on both. The reins hung loose, waiting, and Alysanne wound them firmly around her hands. She took a deep breath.
"Alys," Jon warned. Donnel and Daemon finally took notice of her and she heard both men calling her name.
Jon took a wary step backward. He knew she would not listen, and indeed she didn't.
"Sōvēs!" she cried, and Shaeleys obeyed. The dragon stretched her wings and trilled. With a great lurch, she flew.
The wind from Shaeleys' wings could be felt even from her back. The ground fell from beneath her, growing smaller and her breath seized. There was nothing between Shaeleys and the ground but air.
Shaeleys climbed higher.
Alysanne screamed and clutched the saddle horn, squeezing her eyes shut and ducking her head low. This was a mistake, a mistake that would cost her her life. She would slip from the saddle and fall to the ground and there would be nothing left of her to bury but gore and bones. The history books would tell the story of a foolish girl who thought she could fly but fell instead, they'd say she'd-
Shaeleys climbed higher.
Alysanne dared to peel open her eyes and Shaeleys crooned. Her breath caught in her throat. The Riverlands were a blanket of green below them, Maidenpool and its city nothing more than a child's toy, and the Bay of Crab's had become an inky blotch. Alysanne laughed, a touch hysterical, and found that she could not stop laughing.
She pressed forward in the saddle and Shaeleys flapped her wings once, twice, gaining speed before settling into a glide. Carefully, Alysanne sat up and spread her arms. The wind snapped her cloak and wound through her hair, snagging tendrils loose from her braid with icy fingers and numbing her nose. Alysanne grinned. The cold wind was almost painful against her teeth but it did not matter.
There was nothing below her. No ground, nothing. It should have terrified her, she searched for the fear she ought to have felt but found only joy. Alysanne caught hold of the reins once more.
"Forward, down," she called to Shaeleys. Her mind was as numb as her face and hands; she could not find the words in Valyrian but Shaeleys understood, anyway. There was something lingering at the outer reaches of her awareness, and if Alysanne nudged it, it nudged back. Shaeleys.
With a delighted screech, Shaeleys tucked her wings close to her sides and dove. The wind roared past her ears and stung her eyes, her stomach dropped and she was weightless as they plummeted towards the black bay below. Alysanne felt herself lift from the saddle. Were it not for the straps around her legs she'd have been in freefall. Alysanne screamed the whole way, and Shaeleys only dove.
The wind wrenched her cloak right from her shoulders and before Alysanne could so much as think to grab for it, it was lost. The water grew closer and closer, their reflections larger and larger, and still, Shaeleys dove.
Alysanne inhaled and braced, tensing and clutching the edges of the saddle and at the last moment, Shaeleys leveled and extended her wings. They soared over the surface of the water, the wind from Shaeleys' wings sending mist up around them. Alysanne's shriek broke into a laugh once more.
The water of the bay was a black mirror. The pale reflection of Shaeleys danced beneath them in a mirage of ripples and waves. Alysanne had seen nothing so beautiful as what Shaeleys had shown her that night, and she wondered if she ever would again.
They arced up into the air and back towards the shore, up and up until they soared high over the keep and the surrounding city. The night was clear, the moon bright, and Alysanne could see everything. She could see the canvas city of their army, the distant farmhouses, and the ships swaying lazily in the harbor, what few there were. The sprawling forest of pines, the pink castle of Maidenpool, it all seemed so small and inconsequential from Shaeleys' back.
A red blur surged past her with a pitched, whistling cry. Frostfyre, with Jon in the saddle. Alysanne whooped as Shaeleys plunged after Frostfyre, eager to race her sister. Frostfyre was faster than Shaeleys, but as they gained on them Alysanne wondered if both dragon and rider slowed on purpose.
Jon's grin was just as wide as Alysanne's. She might have shouted across to Jon, but what could she say that dragon flight could not? It was a heady feeling, one Alysanne feared she'd never tire of. Jon leaned low in his saddle and Frostfrye dove towards Maidenpool.
A yelp resounded from behind her before Alysanne could follow in Jon's path, and she glanced up in time to see Aegon, atop Vēzos, dive past them in a steeper dive than the one Shaeleys had taken only moments earlier. Aegon yelled the entire way down, cursing and pleading to someone.
If Alysanne focused, she could feel Shaeleys. She plucked at the fledgling bond now. Vēzos, she thought, to Vēzos. Her skin prickled as Shaeleys dove towards Vēzos as easily as if Alysanne had spoken the command.
Just as Alysanne's had, Aegon's scream morphed into laughter. Alysanne could have sworn she heard a shout of her name as Shaeleys streamed past Vēzos. They did not hold the lead for long; Vēzos soared past in pursuit of Frostfyre, a streak of gold as fleeting as lightning.
A crowd of torches spilled from the keep below. Alysanne sighed, resigned. They'd had enough fun for that evening. Shaeleys faltered a moment, huffing and slowing her descent. She was tired, Alysanne knew it. Felt it. Down. To the field, she urged.
The field grew larger and Shaeleys circled it as she drew closer. It was no smooth landing; Shaeleys slammed to the ground and Alysanne's teeth clattered. That, she thought, will need work. Shaeleys snorted, nearly mocking, and Alysanne patted her neck before setting to unbuckling the straps around her legs.
Her feet had hardly touched the ground when her father caught her shoulders and jerked her to face him. It startled her, as it did Shaeleys, who cried in indignation. Her father had never willingly approached her dragon, and never on his own accord. Shaeleys proved more irritated than anything and took flight just long enough to distance herself from the encroaching crowd.
"Have you gone fucking mad?" Her father cried. He shook her slightly, harried and panicked and as pale as a corpse. "What were you thinking?"
She had not yet caught her breath from the flight. All Alysanne could do was stare at him, dazed. Her father scoffed and pressed his hands hurriedly to her head, her shoulders, her arms, and upon finding her hale and whole he crushed her to his chest.
"If you ever do something like that again," he trailed off. He stepped back but held her firmly by the shoulders, looking her over for injuries he wouldn't find.
"I would apologize, but I'm not truly sorry," Alysanne finally said. Her father stared at her then laughed, dumbfounded. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, finally releasing her.
Her father must have sprinted ahead of the rest of the crowd, who were only just drawing close to where Alysanne stood. Most hung back, in fear or awe Alysanne did not know, save for Robb. Her father stepped aside as Robb marched forward, clutching her as tightly to his chest as her father had.
"You foolish woman," he said. He leaned down and kissed her more boldly than he'd ever dared in the sight of others. When he withdrew he stared at her in disbelief, a smile slowly growing. "You foolish woman."
Great gusts of wind signaled Jon and Aegon's landings, which were far gentler than Alysanne's. They landed some distance away and no one else did as her father had. Instead, they waited until Jon and Aegon were well clear of their dragons before descending upon them. Robb shook his head at Jon as he strode past towards Arianne.
Alysanne stepped out of Robb's embrace but held firm to his arms. "Did you see? I flew, Robb." Alysanne hoped he'd seen. She feared there were no words fit to describe what it'd been like.
"I saw," he chuckled. "I imagine there's not a soul in Maidenpool who didn't see."
The air somehow felt colder on the ground and she mourned the loss of her cloak. Alysanne shivered and Robb removed his own to drape it around Alysanne. She looked around at those who'd gathered.
There was Jon Connington, who looked as though he might keel over, with Ashara Dayne clutching his arm with an expression equal parts fury and terror. Arya dashed around them and reached Aegon before they could, barefoot with a dressing robe tied hastily around her waist. She smacked Aegon's chest before embracing him, then stepped back and shoved him once more for good measure. Faintly, Alysanne could make out the ceaseless questions Arya peppered Aegon with. She pitied her cousin, for she doubted he'd find any sleep that night.
Arianne held Jon's hands tight, Alysanne's ladies ducked through the crowd, and Catelyn and Sansa hovered at the edge, no doubt with a thousand questions of their own. Their questions would have to wait. Still holding tight to Robb's arms she peered over her shoulder at Shaeleys.
She'd flown. Ridden a dragon. Claimed a dragon. In the distance Shaeleys lifted her head, blue eyes meeting Alysanne's green.
Shaeleys was a part of her now, just as Alysanne was a part of Shaeleys.