Eyrie, 8th June, 297 AC
Alyssa
Under the shade of the birch tree in the courtyard of the Eyrie, Alyssa Arryn sat tucked into the thick root of its trunk, the massive History of Dorne opened across her lap. The book lay open to an arbitrary page—one she had already read once, twice, three times over without absorbing a word.
Across from her, emerging like a daydream from the filtered sunlight, stood a knight of the Vale. Ser Harwin Royce. He wasn't more than a few steps away, smiling at her with the kind of fondness that came from long acquaintance. Alyssa thought he might've cast a towering shadow if not for the Godswood tree behind him swallowing the light.
She tried again to read, her thoughts tangled. Her great-uncle, Lord Jon Arryn, was returning that evening from King's Landing, and with him came uncertainty—uncertainty that had taken root in her since the moment his last raven arrived. Alyssa Arryn, only child of Elbert Arryn, was the heir to the Vale—or at least, she had been until whispers began to grow louder than titles.
Usually burdened by duties and council sessions well into the night, she could hardly remember her last moment of peace. And now, even on a day when she had carved out time to simply read beneath her favorite tree, her mind refused to cooperate. Her thoughts were a flurry of unfinished letters, unspoken worries, and a growing list of tasks to complete before her uncle arrived.
Once. Twice. Three times, she read the same page. When a fourth attempt proved fruitless, she flipped to the next one and began again. Once. Twice… A muffled snort from Harwin interrupted the rhythm. She glanced up, ears warming.
"Must you stare at me like that?" she asked, her eyes still fixed on the book.
"I wasn't aware I was staring," Harwin replied, tone light and teasing. "But in my defence, my lady, there isn't much else to look at—just the usual grass, mountains, sheep… and you. And in my humble opinion, you are much better to look at than the sheep."
She snorted at his remark and tossed the book aside. Now that he was here, she knew re-reading The History of Dorne was the last thing on her mind
"Out of the goodness of my heart, perhaps I shouldn't move then—considering I'm much prettier than the sheep, in your opinion, no doubt."
"In my humble opinion," Harwin said with a grin, "you've been the prettiest sight I've had the pleasure of staring at since the day I first saw you."
"Are you trying to flatter me, Royce?" she asked, cocking a brow at the man in front of her. He stood there in full armor and sword, a knight of the Vale at twenty-one, yet still bearing that familiar boyishness in his eyes. He had been her companion since childhood—the one constant in a world that rarely offered constancy. The only person who had ever loved her without condition or hesitation.
"If that flattery might get me somewhere, then yes, Arryn, I'll flatter you. I'll write sonnets about your beauty and fight in every tourney wearing your favor till the day I die. It is my duty, after all, as your future husband, to keep you wrapped in a cloud of flatteries and flowers."
Alyssa let out a laugh, feigning mock surprise. "Wrapped in a cloud of flatteries and flowers? Would that not be terribly time-consuming, my lord? Are you quite certain you'd do all that—just for me?"
"For you, my lady Arryn," he said, stepping closer with a soft smile and a courtly incline of his head, "anything."
The warmth between them lingered for a heartbeat before he added, "I heard the Lord Hand will be visiting the Eyrie soon."
"Yes," Alyssa replied, the smile slipping just slightly. "My uncle is scheduled to arrive in eight days—for the remembrance. In his last letter, he mentioned he had an important matter to discuss as well."
Her mind drifted back to the letter—short, polite, and filled with unspoken weight. Her great-uncle Jon never wrote without purpose. And something about the tone had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Harwin cocked his brow and said, "Lord Arryn must be tired from smelling the shit being shovelled on the streets of King's Landing—and in the King's court."
He laughed at his own remark, the sound light and easy, like it had always been between them. Alyssa couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Perhaps," she said, brushing a speck of dust from her skirt. "But my uncle never seems to tire of cleaning up other men's messes. It's the rest of us who pay the price for it."
Harwin tilted his head slightly, the humor softening into something gentler. "You think his visit means trouble?"
Alyssa's gaze dropped to the discarded book at her feet. "When has a visit from King's Landing ever meant anything else?"
Alyssa recounted her past experiences in King's Landing—the Red Keep, and the monstrous Iron Throne forged of swords and daggers, surrounded not by grandeur, but by filth. Each visit blurred into the same dull memory: riding down streets thick with stench, disease, and desperation, only to be overlooked and ignored at court, a mere girl from the Vale in a place that did not care for mountains or moon banners.
Thinking back on it now, she remembered the grime of the city, the suffocating halls of the Keep, and quipped, "King's Landing is no different than an overcrowded pigpen. The city's riddled with disease, and the court with anxiety. The only relief I ever found was the solitude of my guest suite in the tower. I'd stand on the balcony and pretend I wasn't there at all—that I was back at the Eyrie, looking out over Sunset Hill, where the sky meets the clouds."
Harwin took a step back, glancing around. He took in the sweeping mountains, the rolling fog stretched across the horizon, the grazing sheep scattered like little clouds on earth. Then he looked at her—seated beneath the oldest tree in the Eyrie, the wind tugging softly at her hair—and said, "I don't think I could last half as long as Lord Arryn has, not if I couldn't wake up to views like this."
There was something in his voice, something behind the playful lilt. A softness. A truth.
Alyssa felt her cheeks warm. She smiled and stood, brushing off her skirts, then scooped up the book she had tossed aside. She held it up in front of her—not much of a shield, but enough to offer a flicker of distance.
"I should… head back inside," she said.
Harwin nodded, though neither of them moved. "You probably should."
His free hand lifted, unhurried, and came to rest along the line of her jaw. His thumb brushed gently over the skin near her ear. He didn't look away, didn't speak, and she didn't pull back.
For a long moment, they simply stared at one another. Alyssa shivered—but not from the cold. She recognized that look in Harwin's eyes.
She recognized that look in Harwin's eyes. It was the same look he'd worn the first time he'd offered her his cloak on a snowy ride home from Gulltown, the same look he'd given her when her mother died and she'd buried her face in his chest and wept until she could barely breathe. It was a look that said I see you. I have always seen you.
And before she could speak—before the space between memory and duty could close around her—Harwin leaned in and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to her lips.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't hurried. It was the kind of kiss meant for a girl who had never known what it felt like to be chosen, not really. Not since the day her mother left for Dorne, deaf to the world and deaf to her child's cries, and never returned. Alyssa was two when it happened, but even now, sometimes, the absence hurt more than the memory.
Harwin's touch was not an answer to that ache—but it was something. A warmth. A promise. When he pulled back, his hand lingered on her cheek. Alyssa didn't speak. She didn't need to.
"I'll see you at supper," Harwin said softly.
She nodded and turned toward the keep, clutching the old book against her chest. As she walked, the wind curled around her shoulders like a mother might have once. And for just a moment, she let herself imagine what it would've felt like to have both that love—and Harwin's—all at once.