Chapter 2: Alaeyne I
The warm rays of the morning sun caressed her skin. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the heat of it. It was pleasant. She had always liked the feel of the sun on her skin. Fitting for someone titled the "Sunrise Princess."
Pity that it was the only thing that was pleasant about this particular morning.
With her bereft father locking himself in his solar, the Red Keep had turned into a pit of vipers. The lords of the Realm, ever charming, incessantly spewed their venom and gossip. Much of it was directed at her. And the Princess had no desire for it, least of it on her nameday. So, she had sequestered herself to one of the balconies in the Keep, resolute to enjoy what she could from the disaster that was the day.
She heard the clinking of armor next to her. She opened her eyes and gave a lazy side glance toward the source of the disturbance. Her sworn shield, Criston Cole, instantly straightened as the Princess's eyes fell on him.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a moment, he looked like a fish, silent and with his mouth stupidly agape. He was clearly uncomfortable and did not know how to approach the Princess.
"My Princess?" he finally asked, insecurity laced his tone.
It only served to annoy the Princess further. She expected it from the lords crowding the halls of her father. She expected it from the maids and servants tending to the needs of the Keep. They all talked, they all whispered. She expected it of them, even if she did not like it. But to have her own sworn shield walking on eggshells around her, refusing to even acknowledge the matter, brought her a painful kind of isolation.
It was like she was the butt of a joke that no one would tell her.
She sighed and closed her eyes, at least she could enjoy the sun on this miserable day.
She had a good while to relax and calm herself before she was disturbed again. She heard steps behind her, approaching. She instantly recognized the gait and smiled. Perhaps the sun would not be the only pleasant thing this morning. This interruption was much more welcomed.
"Princess," came the unmistakable voice of her uncle a few moments later.
Alaeyne Targaryen opened her eyes and turned her head towards the new arrival.
"Uncle," she greeted, not caring to hide the clear excitement lacing her tone.
There stood Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince. The smirk that split his face was one she knew well. Provoking, flippant, arrogant, confident. She loved it every time she saw it. His long and majestic hair fluttered with the breeze. He was wearing his riding leathers, red and black, in the colors of their house. It took an effort to not let her own smile falter when she noticed.
She gave a quick look at Criston, the meaning of which was clear. The knight frowned but complied as he made his way out of the balcony. The Kingsguard eyed the Prince with apprehension on his way out. A look that was only returned with smugness from Daemon.
"Ser Crispin," Daemon greeted as the knight passed by his side. Alaeyne contained a giggle at the sound of the knight's armor made as the jape hit him.
"You looked better in your new Gold Cloak. More handsome perhaps," she teased in an innocent tone once the knight had left, aware that her uncle would notice the barbs in the hidden meaning.
While it was meant in jest, tension descended between the two as the words left her mouth. Unspoken things hung in the air. Words neither of them wanted to say.
But her uncle was not one to shy from banter or one to fret at tensions. His smirk merely widened at the comment. But there was a tightness to it. He acknowledged it, the tension, the uncomfortable situation. However, unlike most, he was not afraid to let it linger. To let it settle.
It made Alaeyne feel less alone. It made her feel acknowledged.
"And the colors of our house do your beauty more justice," the Prince answered with the same sardonic tone that had infuriated her father countless times.
He spoke of the dornish style silks she wore. Alaeyne often and proudly wore the red and black of her house. But she had to admit that the clothes were not designed to enjoy the hot weather of King's Landing, not like her dornish garments were. The tight-fitting leather and elaborate gowns customarily worn by Targaryens gave her a grace that projected the power of her house. But as comfortable clothes for bathing in the sun, they left much to be desired. The loose fabrics of the dornish garments and the lightness of the Martell colors, on the other hand, excelled at it, and they did not leave her looking underdressed while doing so.
The Princess could not fathom why her uncle and father had not adopted the garbs themselves. Misplaced pride, she supposed. But let them suffer in discomfort on their own.
"You still keep it?" he asked with a raised eyebrow but a note of pride and pleasure ringing out.
She followed her uncle's gaze and looked at the small table next to her. There, the wreath of flowers he had placed the day before on her head lay. It had begun to wilt. But Alaeyne did not care.
"I enjoy the gifts you give me," she answers truthfully. 'I'll treasure it until its beauty is gone, and then perhaps some more."
Daemon could never stay away from the lists. And each tourney he won meant another crown of flowers for her. Another title of Queen of Love and Beauty to her name. She, not so secretly, delighted in it every single time. It did not matter how many wreaths had been already bestowed upon her, it did not change the joy she felt at the following one.
Receiving that crown of flowers had been the last enjoyable part of her nameday celebrations. After it, the ravens from the Vale had come bearing ill tidings.
Daemon hummed approvingly as he approached.
"You ought to get handmaidens that know more hair stylings than dornish braids," he remarked while gently picking one of her brown locks. "Turn around," he ordered.
Alaeyne wordlessly obeyed, turning her head and allowing him access to her brown locks. She felt a tug at the strands of her hair as Daemon undid her dornish style braid and ran a hand through her thick hair. Then he began to braid. Daemon was soft, patient, methodical, and slow. It was obvious he enjoyed the process, the feel of her hair.
"I came to congratulate you on your nameday," he began, concentration and focus evident in his voice. "Ten and five is a milestone, but also a challenge. Just one year shy of my age when I was knighted. I am sure you will rise to the occasion."
It was also one year shy until she came of age and received full and official control of Dragonstone. Alaeyne would be lying if she forsook the giddiness she felt at the thought. The throne loomed ever larger. She gulped down the knot that had formed in her throat, slightly bobbing her head as she did so.
"Stay still, pet," came Daemon's quiet chastisement, devoid of any harshness. "I am trying to work here."
She nodded, on purpose this time. The quiet grunt coming from Daemon's brought a small smile to her face. A smile that left as soon as Daemon began to speak again.
"But-" he began again but could not continue.
"You are leaving." Alaeyne interrupted. She made no effort to conceal her disappointment. If he would leave her on her nameday, the least he could do is go with a guilty conscience. "For the Vale'' she added in an almost accusatory tone.
"Yes…" came his admission. It held no guilt. But there was a pause; he held his breath. Hesitation, he was thinking about his next words. Something so very unlike Daemon. "To attend to my lady wife," he finally breathed out.
Alaeyne bitterly scoffed. "At least today. At least between the two of us. Let us dispense with this farce. Let us dispense with the euphemisms. We both know you fly to the Eyrie. We both know you to see the…" her words are caught in her mouth. The tension that began with her barbed jest has reached its breaking point. And she did not know how to continue.
Alaeyne remembers the last time she called her a bastard. The Princess had done so many years back, in anger and resentment at another of Daemon's leaves. She remembered the fury she saw in her uncle's eyes that day.
It was one she had seen many times. On one particular occasion, when a knight of the Stormlands, deep into his coups, had called her a dornish whore. Before anyone could react, Dark Sister had cleaved his head in two.
She remembered his wild smirk after the fact. "Correct in one account. Deadly mistaken on the other," he had jested while nonchalantly wiping the blood off Dark Sister with his tunic.
That time she had called the girl bastard was the only one she had seen that fury directed at her, although with none of the violence that usually accompanied it.
"… girl," she managed to get out through gritted teeth.
There was a moment of silence with only Daemon's methodical hands working on her hair.
"The girl has lost her mother" he finally spoke. And with that, the tension and unspoken words held in the air were released.
Aemma Arryn was dead. Viserys, whether in grief or shame, Alaeyne did not know, had locked himself in his study. Now, the shadow of Lady Arryn's death blotted the Sunrise Princess. And the vultures that were the Lords of the Realm had descended with it.
"I hear them whisper," Alaeyne confessed. To another, she might not have revealed her insecurities so easily.
"Tell me who they are and what they whisper…" Daemon began with fire. "They will find themselves missing a tongue," he ended with a promise.
Comforting as his declaration was, the Princess ignores it. She does not need tongues cut off. At least not yet. But she needs someone to listen. Someone to know. And she knew Daemon was willing.
"They talk about how…" her voice hitched. She does not want to be so affected, but she cannot help it. "I am not the daughter he chose, the daughter he wanted. How she is the Valyrian daughter he would rather have."
Alaeyne does not remember her father's attempted elopement with Aemma Arryn. She was too young. But its shadow has hung over the Princess for her entire life.
"If…" It had been Daemon who had stopped her father. It had been Daemon who had brought him back to her. "If you had not been there, then my father would have lived a life in Essos with his chosen family," she finished with bitterness.
Daemon's methodical braiding stopped, and he laid a hand on the crown of her head. "My brother is not a strong man. But he loves you. That I know." He said as he gave her hair a soft, comforting caress. "As for the lords…" the motions of his hand stopped, "let them whisper, for now. When you sit on the Iron Throne, they will grovel at your feet."
Before she could respond, he took his hand off her head and gave her an affectionate pat on her shoulder. "I am done," he declared with an air of pride and accomplishment. He runs a hand through the newly made braid, examining his handy work.
"Gevie," he whispered.
The Princess did not speak the language with the mastery of her uncle. Valyrian had always eluded her. But she understood the meaning of this specific word.
"The braid or my hair?" the princess asked shily.
"Both" she could hear the smirk in his voice. Alaeyne felt his body shift as he leaned down to plant a kiss on the crown of her head.
"I will be back," he promised.
"Tell her…"
Alaeyne was not entirely sure why she said her next words. She had never asked her uncle to deliver a missive to her younger sister before. But she remembered that time, years past when Alaeyne had asked Daemon about her younger sister. Out of everything he said, what she remembered the most was being told that the girl in the Vale was curious about her estranged older sister in King's Landing. So, perhaps it was simply empathy for a girl who had lost her mother that prompted her next words.
"… that she is in my thoughts," she breathed out with difficulty. That is all she could give.
"Knowing that…"
The tone of her uncle surprised her, and she threw her head back to look up at him. In his eyes, she saw that all she could give was apparently enough.
"…will please her greatly," he finished with a barely contained smile. Not one of his smug or sardonic smirks. But a genuine smile.
With that, he took his leave in very much his own way. He said nothing more and began making his way out the balcony.
"Please tell Ser Criston to remain outside," she called out as she once again turned towards the sun and closed her eyes. She needed a moment to compose herself, and she did not trust Criston with her vulnerability as she did Daemon.
She took a deep breath. Perhaps a day in the training yard would go a long way in relieving the tension still inside her.
Alaeyne saw her mother on the way to her chambers. The queen was dressed in the red and orange of House Martell, colors she often favored over the Targaryen black and red. While looser than the customary Westerosi fashions, the dornish garments gave her no less the appearance of a queen. To Alaeyne, she had always been radiant. Beautiful. And she knew many in court agreed.
Alaeyne would have smiled at the sight of her mother. But it was clear Queen Eliadna was waiting for her daughter. Considering recent events, her appearance brought the Princess a sense of unease.
The Queen frowned as her eyes found her daughter.
"You look a mess," she chastised, but her severity softened when Alaeyne reached her. Once the Princess was within arm's reach, she took both hands to her face and laid a kiss on her forehead, not caring for the soot and sweat that covered it.
Her mother was right, of course. The long day in the training yards had left her covered in dirt and sweat and looking disheveled. Hardly the look of a Princess, many would say.
"Were I my uncle, I could walk into a room covered in caked blood and feces, and none would think me other than fierce and worthy of respect," she complained with a sigh.
"Your uncle-" began her mother, with the typical tone used to scold children. But she could not finish.
"Is a man, I know." Alaeyne quickly interrupted. She had gotten the same lecture from her father many times before.
"Your uncle," her mother continued, undeterred, "understand the importance of image. Of appearing elegant, of projecting power and authority." Intelligent eyes carrying a comedic light set on the Princess. "Or do you think his silver locks remain naturally immaculate after an entire night spent in Flea Bottom or the Street of Silk?"
Alaeyne already had her mouth open, ready to talk back. But no words come out. She had prepared a response before her mother spoke. But her mother's words have been unexpected, and she does not know how to respond.
"Remain your wild, fierce self, my love." The Queen brings up a hand to caringly coup her daughter's cheek. "But do so with class. You will one day be Queen, and you must project strength."
It was then that she noticed the braid on Alaeyne and brought a hand to it. Her eyes lit with curiosity as she examined it, and her brow raised in question once she was finished.
"Your uncle?" she finally asks while giving her daughter a side glance.
"You disapprove," Alaeyne stated. She is aware of the animosity between Daemon and Eliadna. It was more political than personal, but that did not stop it from hurting.
"No…" the Queen breathed out as she twirled the braid on her hands. "I just believe we do not give enough credit to Daemon when it comes to politics. Against all evidence to the contrary, the man is capable of subtlety." The queen gave a self-amused chuckle as she laughed at her own joke and raised the braid. "Do you know what this is?"
Curiosity overtaking her, Alaeyne shakes her head.
"It is braided in the style of the Warrior-Queen Visenya," Eliadna casually remarked.
It instantly becomes clear. A message to the lords of the realm, to the vultures. She was Valyrian, and she was to be Queen.
Alaeyne has no time to dwell on it as the Queen gives a weighty sigh.
"Your father wishes to speak to you," she said with no small amount of discomfort. Not because it made her uncomfortable but because she knew it would affect her daughter.
The Princess's brow creased in a frown. "Has he gone out of his solar today?" she asked, her voice hard.
"Briefly, for a Small Council meeting," her mother answered.
"I assume you had to drag him to it then?" the Princess responds with humor-laced cynicism.
Her mother smiled wickedly. She shared her daughter's sense of humor. It also confirms that, indeed, the queen had dragged Viserys into the business of ruling once again.
"I do not understand how it does not bother you. How you can be so calm about it," Alaeyne suddenly spat. In truth, it is something she had wondered about for years. "He has you, us, yet he wallows in self-pity for a woman he has not seen in more than a decade." The words spill out uncontrolled. The situation has left her devoid of her usual self-restraint.
Her mother gave her an understanding and soft smile. It is not what Alaeyne expects.
"Were we in Dorne, your father could have had the love of his life by his side as a paramour." Her smile saddened as she continued. "And you would have had a sister with whom to spend your days. An inseparable companion." Her voice took a serious tone and turned grave. "In Dorne, duty and honor may not be opposed to love."
"But we are not in Dorne." She gave a low, dark chuckle. "We live in a barbaric land where love is sacrificed at the altar of duty and honor. And the children are the ones made to pay the price." She gave her daughter a piercing stare filled with ambition. "Perhaps when you sit on the Iron Throne, things will begin to change."
Alaeyne could not hold her mother's gaze and turned her head downwards. The weight of expectation began to set on her shoulders.
"My love, look at me," came the calm voice of her mother.
She complied, but instead of finding the harsh eyes of a Queen, she expected, the Princess found the soft, understanding gaze of a mother.
"Each of us is capable of being bent and broken by the weight of duty. And the higher the station, the heavier the duty," she began, taking her head in her arms and laying her forehead against Alaeyne's.
"Are you telling me to forgive him?" she asked, one tear rolling down her cheek.
"No," she pulled back and laid a kiss on her forehead. "I am telling you to understand, just like I have. One day, you will be Queen. And you will be tested. The Iron Throne will weigh you down, just like it did to him." There was a pause. "Pray that you have someone to catch you, just like he had."
Daemon is the name that instantly enters her thoughts.
Her mother separated herself and gave her a small smile. "Your father loves you deeply. You are his heir. Now go."
Alaeyne hesitates. There is much she wanted to say. Much she wanted to contradict. But she does not find the words. Because ultimately, she understands. Not her father, not yet. But the Throne looms large, and she can understand what it feels like to be crushed under it.
So, instead, she asked a simple question.
"Do you know what he will say?"
Her mother shook her head.
"His words are for you alone."
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
AverageLucas
AverageLucas Hello, so here is the first real chapter.
So, I chose to set this one in King's Landing. My plan is to have the first couple of chapters set in King's Landing, where stuff is happening, to explore the character dynamics and politics of this AU.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is welcome.
— New chapter is coming soon — Write a review
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