Chapter Text
191 AC
On the last day of the seventh moon in the one hundred and ninety-first year after Aegon the Conqueror set foot upon the shores of Westeros, Jenna Dondarrion—wife to Baelor Targaryen, heir to King Daeron the Second—went into her third labor.
Dawn found the princess writhing in pain beneath a merciless summer sun. It was said to be the hottest day in living memory. As the hours crept onward and the sun climbed ever higher, even the deepest shadows beneath the Red Keep’s towers offered no refuge from the suffocating heat.
In the heart of the realm, within the Red Keep, servants hurried back and forth through the castle. They carried cold, damp cloths, lemon-infused water, various tools and linens—anything that might aid their lady in childbirth.
Meanwhile, seated before the red-painted door of the birthing chamber was the father of the child about to be born.
Prince Baelor Targaryen.
He nervously twisted the silver dragon-ring on his right hand. Right. Left. Then began the motion again from the beginning.
It wasn't the first time he had sat in front of this door, and if the gods were kind to him and his wife, it wouldn't be the last. Yet the same ancient fear gripped his chest as on the very first occasion.
Baelor had known fear long before he had words for it.
Born a crown prince in an age when his father’s position as heir had been as fragile as a reed bending in the wind, it had been impossible not to fear for his family’s safety.
Later, he also learned the fear of death on the battlefield, when one wrong move could mean life or death.
But he had never felt as much fear in his life as he did now.
Never like this.
For the woman in labor.
Because he knew that if the gods wanted it that way, there was nothing he could do for her.
And that was the scariest thing of all.
His own helplessness.
As minutes stretched into hours, he felt the seeds of doubt driving deeper roots into his heart.
Fresh white cloths were replaced one by one with ones stained pink, then red. Panic slowly found its way into his body.
He rose from the simple cushioned chair and began pacing the corridor, ignoring the glances of servants and guards alike.
Ten steps forward.
Ten steps back.
With every scream, his hands clenched into fists until the tan skin across his knuckles turned pale. Yet each time, he consciously forced his fingers to relax and resumed his pacing.
Ten forward.
Ten back.
At the next cry, he turned sharply and strode toward the door. As his hands touched the red-painted wood, a young maid stepped in front of him.
“My lord, you cannot enter,” Dayana said in panic, wringing her hands nervously.
“My wife is in pain!” he raised his voice.
He regretted it at once. He usually controlled his temper far better. Such outbursts he typically left to his youngest brother, Maekar.
As fear spread across the girl’s face, Baelor took a deep breath.
„I do not care about propriety when I am the reason she struggles behind the door of this room,” he finished, more quietly.
With that, he pushed the maid aside and entered the room.
The Seven be damned.
He did not care that it was improper for a man to be in the birthing room, save for the maester.
Let someone try to stop him.
They would remember why he bore the name Breakspear.
Inside, people moved about as though dancing to a song only they could hear.
In the far corner, a plain brown-haired girl wrung water from a cloth and silently handed it to a darker-skinned servant beside her, who moved without instruction toward the birthing bed at the center of the room.
His gaze fell instantly upon his wife, ignoring the disapproving look from his mother, Queen Myriah, who knelt at Jenna’s side.
He knew that look well—though it was not usually directed at him.
He was certain that when this was over, he would endure a long lecture on manners.
He quickly crossed the distance between them, which now seemed greater than anything else in the world.
The servants’ indignant cries were nothing more than an annoying buzzing to his ears.
He took the damp—more warm than cool—cloth from Sanda’s hand; the heat had drawn all relief from the fabric.
Gently, he wiped the sweat from his wife’s brow and brushed stray strands of her red hair behind her ear.
When Jenna looked up at him with tired eyes and a faint smile.
Baelor’s heart sank.
He had never seen her more beautiful than at that moment.
“I knew you would come,” her gentle laughter was a balm to his soul. “You can never stay away.”
Baelor took her hand. When a moment of pain flashed across her face, he pressed a gentle kiss to each finger.
“How can I stay away when you are in pain, my dear?” he asked, not waiting for an answer.
“A son of his father,” his mother sighed sweetly, gently stroking her daughter-in-law’s hand. “I hope you didn’t break anyone’s nose just now?”
A mischievous glint in her chocolate brown eyes as she looked up at him.
Baelor felt heat flood his face.
When his firstborn son Valarr was born, a guard tried to prevent him from entering the room.
The guard’s nose did not survive.
And when he stood at the door of the delivery room again when Matarys was born, no one tried to stop him.
As Jenna’s melodious laughter filled the air, Baelor realized that he would endure his mother’s teasing a thousand times over if he could hear that voice again for the rest of his life.
“At least the prince has been waiting outside for a few hours now,” Maester Gerrar Falcin agreed, a kind smile on his old face.
Then he turned to Jenna.
“Just a few more pushes, Lady Jenna. I can see the child’s head!”
Baelor allowed her to grip his hand with all her strength. It was the least he could do. He hoped his presence gave her even the smallest measure of strength.
He inhaled the sharp scent of lemon and blood alongside his mother just as Jenna’s cry was suddenly replaced by the wail of a newborn.
“Strong lungs,” the maester said cheerfully, looking at the child in his arms before placing the baby into Queen Myriah’s waiting hands.
She carried the child to the corner of the room to be cleaned while the maester began tending to the afterbirth.
“Thank you, my love,” Baelor whispered, pressing a kiss to Jenna’s damp forehead.
“As far as I recall, we created her together, my prince,” she replied, her emerald eyes shining in the candlelight.
Queen Myriah approached with a wide smile and placed the newborn first into Jenna’s arms. The child’s restless movements stilled in her mother’s embrace.
“Meet your daughter,” Myriah said, brushing a hand through Jenna’s hair.
Baelor’s mind went blank.
A girl.
“A little girl…” he whispered in awe.
He had never cared whether his children were sons or daughters. He only wished for their health—and his wife’s.
Yet deep within his heart, he had always longed for a daughter.
A daughter to spoil.
A daughter who would seek safety in his arms.
With trembling fingers, he brushed the downy softness of the baby’s cheek and felt a tear slip down his own.
Jenna laughed softly and passed their daughter into his arms.
As Baelor took the infant in his arms, a familiar yet new feeling washed over him. He had never gotten used to the moment he held his childrens for the first time.
Joy beyond measure—mingled with fear for the fragile life in his hands.
The first thing he noticed were the red strands of hair, glowing in the candlelight like flickering flames.
But at her temples, faint silver strands shimmered—the mark of Targaryen blood.
“She takes after you, my good-daughter,” Myriah said fondly.
The little girl nestled closer to his chest.
“Alyssa,” Baelor said suddenly.
“Pardon?” Myriah asked.
“I would name her Alyssa. May she be strong, swift, and full of life like her namesake.”
They had chosen another name long ago, in case they had a daughter.
But in that moment, Alyssa felt truer.
He wanted her to live as freely as Alyssa Targaryen, wife to Prince Baelon.
Jenna hesitated, then smiled tiredly.
“I hope she is as stubborn as her namesake,” she said playfully. “So her father may learn what it is to raise a stubborn girl.”
Myriah laughed, then turned to the nearest maid.
“Did you hear?” she gestured lightly. “Tell the king that his newest granddaughter, Alyssa Targaryen, has been born. Let the whole realm know.”
Baelor had never felt happier than he did at that moment.
His heart overflowed with love.
He felt so light, as if he could take on an entire army if need be.
Little did he know that this happiness would fade a year later—because of the decision of an interfering old man.
Three Months Later
Evening slowly descended upon the Red Keep. The last light of the sun painted the tower spires red before fading completely beyond the city. Outside, the waters of Blackwater Bay moved quietly, the distant murmur of the harbor reduced to a dull hum through the thick stone walls.
The nursery was bathed in warm golden candlelight. Tapestries embroidered with dragons adorned the walls. In the corner stood a carved cradle, its red-lacquered wood faintly gleaming in the glow. The air carried a soft mixture of milk and lavender.
Baelor sat wearily in a deep cushioned chair in the largest nursery of the Red Keep, gently rocking his youngest child in his arms.
His daughter had proven to be far more strong-willed than her brothers had been.
His son Matarys slept peacefully in the other cradle, his small chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
Alyssa, however, had no intention of sleeping.
Her two differently colored eyes watched her father closely—one the emerald green of her mother, the other the pale violet so characteristic of the Targaryens.
” What shall I do with you, little dragon, eh?” he nudged his tiny nose playfully.
The baby’s laughter filled the room. It was like the sound of tinkling bells.
He reached for Baelor’s silver ring with his tiny fingers and tried desperately to pull it off his finger.
The peaceful atmosphere was broken by the soft opening of the door.
Baelor turned and saw a familiar small figure standing in the dim light.
A child no more than four years old stepped inside. His brown hair moved as he hurried toward them, and in the candlelight two silver streaks shimmered as he passed the wall.
“What are you doing awake at this hour, Valarr?” Baelor asked his eldest son.
“I couldn’t sleep,” the boy said, pressing against his father’s leg before smiling at his sister as she reached out and grasped his finger.
Baelor sighed, exhaustion weighing heavily upon him. After long and draining council meetings, he had little energy left for two stubborn children.
Still, he shifted in the chair to make room for Valarr.
One arm held Alyssa securely, while the other gently stroked his son’s dark hair.
“What if I told you both a story?” he asked softly, careful not to wake Matarys.
“Please,” Valarr broke away from his sister for a moment, his two different-colored eyes fixed on his father.
Once upon a time, there lived a young knight in a kingdom surrounded by high mountains.
He was brave, strong, and fast—but most of all, stubborn.
One day, he received news that a mighty dragon had kidnapped his sister and locked her in a flaming tower.
The knight saddled his horse, strapped his sword to his side, and swore to save her even at the cost of his life.
He rode for days and nights until he finally reached the tower. The dragon rested there before him, its scales glowing red in the moonlight.
The knight did not back down. He raised his sword high and charged.
But before he could strike, the dragon spoke.
“Why are you attacking me, knight?”
The man stopped.
“You kidnapped my sister.”
The dragon slowly tilted its huge head to one side.
“I didn’t kidnap her. She came to me. She said she wanted to learn to fly.”
The knight looked up at the tower—and there he saw his sister sitting on the dragon’s back, laughing as the wind tousled her hair.
Then he understood that sometimes it’s not about saving the one you love… but learning to trust them.
The knight put down his sword.
And when his sister returned to him, he didn’t lock her in the tower anymore—he taught her how to wield the sword if she ever needed it.
Baelor felt his son’s head fall limply onto his shoulder.
By the end of the story, Valarr had fallen asleep—as had his sister, deep and peaceful in his arms.
192.AC.:
There was great commotion within the Red Keep.
It was Princess Alyssa Targaryen’s first nameday, and King Daeron had spared no expense—despite the child being barely one year old. Queen Myriah supported him fully.
Baelor felt the beginnings of a headache as he walked down the corridor. Though he had managed to prevent his parents from ordering the most extravagant displays, they had still spent far more gold than a toddler could ever require.
As he made his way to the nursery, the familiar noise of the castle seemed somehow muffled.
The hallways were decorated with silk ribbons and gold draperies, and candlesticks burned along the walls, filling the air with fragrant resin. Servants hurried past him, carrying packages, toys, and sweets, as if they were preparing for a royal feast—not a child’s birthday.
His footsteps echoed on the marble floor.
Too loud.
Or perhaps too empty.
The candlelight flickered, though there was no draft in the hallway. The curtain at an open window moved slowly, as if someone had just walked past.
Baelor paused for a moment.
He couldn’t explain it.
He had no specific reason.
He heard no shouts.
He saw no commotion.
And yet… something tightened his chest.
It was the kind of instinctive tension he had felt on the battlefield just before the enemy breached the shield wall.
The air seemed too thick.
Too quiet.
Baelor instinctively touched the hilt of the sword at his side—though he wasn’t wearing full armor today, the habit was deeper than he had thought.
The door to the nursery was only a few steps away.
And his heart…
beat like it was going to battle.
As he opened the door, her heart leapt into her throat.
Alyssa’s maid, Elayne Sand, lay on the floor, one hand still clutching the child’s ceremonial gown. She didn’t move.
Baelor rushed to the crib.
Alyssa.
The name echoed in his mind.
The cradle was empty.
For a moment, he could not breathe.
It felt as if someone had struck him in the chest. The world narrowed. Sounds dulled. All he could hear was his own heartbeat—too fast, too loud.
No.
This cannot be happening.
His fingers gripped the edge of the crib tightly. The wood creaked under his grip. His eyes scanned the room—the shadows, the corner behind the curtain, the bottom of the table—as if his daughter had simply… hidden.
As if this were a game.
“Alyssa,” he called out loud now.
His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. It was deeper. Sharper.
There was no answer.
He knelt beside Elayne.
He pressed his fingers to her throat.
A pulse.
Weak. But there.Relief and renewed panic swept through him at once.
Someone had knocked her out.
Someone had gotten in.
Someone had taken his daughter away.
The thought cut into him like a blade through flesh.
His blood began to boil.
The next moment he was on his feet, turning toward the door.
The corridor suddenly seemed too long.
Too open.
Too vulnerable.
“SECURE THE CASTLE!” he shouted, his voice sweeping down the corridors. “NO ONE leaves the Red Keep!”
That night, not only the princess vanished.
The silver dragon ring disappeared as well—the one Baelor had strung upon a fine golden chain and placed around his daughter’s neck, because she had always refused to let it go.
Far from the Red Keep, among the black rocks of Dragonstone, an old man with long, gray hair walked in the wind.
His clothes stood out in the gloomy landscape. His deep blue robes fluttered around him, more akin to a nightgown than a lord’s attire.
In one hand he clutched a gnarled staff carved from dark wood. In the other he held a crying baby.
The little red-haired girl would not stop crying. Her tiny fingers clawed at the air, as if searching for someone.
The chain around her neck glinted in the moonlight. The silver dragon rested coldly on her chest.
The old man bowed his head.
“I’m sorry, Alyssa,” he said softly, as if he had known her for a long time. “But it is for the greater good.”
As he crossed the threshold of the secluded cave, moonlight glinted briefly on the hourglass pendant around his neck before darkness engulfed his forever.
For a moment, light shone in the depths of the cave.
The next, there was only darkness.
And the roar of the sea—as if no one had ever been there.