As I Lay Dying ━━ House of the Dragon

1.2: bruised

1.2 | bruised

Alyssa likes to sneak out of her bedroom in the depths of the night. The night has always suited her — though her hair is thin and pale, under the cover of night it dulls, losing its Valyrian glow. The Targaryens may share blood with the gods, but Alyssa is as ungodly as any thing on Westeros. No dragon, no fire, no blood. When she was younger, she used to console herself with the fact that her darling sister, Saera, would always be less Targaryen. Though they both had shared the classic violet eyes that had made their House distinct, Saera lacked all Targaryen etherealness. She had Arryn brown hair, an average figure, and no interest in politics or power or war. That was, until Saera gained a dragon. 

It just isn't fair. Alyssa is the perfect Targaryen; a spitting image of her father, who is almost a pure Valyrian. Saera could be Rhaenyra Targaryen's bastard daughter, if not for the witnesses who watched her birthed by Rhea Royce. 

The night envelops her. Sometimes Alyssa prays — usually for a dragon. She has stopped doing so, recently, her Faith abandoning her as prayers go unanswered. Instead, she visits the dragonpit, dreaming of stealing the beautiful Sunfyre or the brave Vermax. Occasionally, she steals a sword and teaches herself the steps she watched Criston Cole teach Aegon, Aemond, Jacaerys and Lucerys in the training grounds that day. 

Tonight should be one of those days. There is a wooden sword hidden out past sight of the Red Keep, in a half-abandoned clearing, ripe with weeds. But it's private, and it's Alyssa's own.

A glint of silver catches her eyes. For a moment, paranoia seeps, and she believes it to be a knife. "Who's there?" If it truly is an armed intruder, Alyssa would be almost useless, unarmed, untrained, a woman sneaking out in the middle of the night. Luckily, it is not. Well — if anyone could be an intruder in their own home, it would be Prince Aegon. 

"What would you do, if it were anyone else but me?" he drawls, his words slurred by alcohol. Even from his distance across the corridor, he reeks of alcohol. "Scream and faint?"

Alyssa grits her teeth. She shows him her necklace, a miniscule shield with a shower of pebbles. "First, I would slit your throat. Then I would scream, call the guards, and faint. Perhaps I'd even pocket your knife for myself." 

He blinks. "That's not an appropriate thing for a lady like you to speak of." 

She scoffs a cynical laugh. "What would you know of being appropriate?"

Aegon looks away. He tries to take a step toward her — too drunk, his knees buckle and he almost falls face first into the ground. Alyssa steps forward, steading him with her hands. He's taller than her, and heavier than his lanky frame would suggest. Still, she's stronger than she looks, too. 

"How drunk are you?" She's not laughing at him. She's just amused. 

He sighs. "You sound like my mother." She waits. "I'm not drunk."

"Not a drunk, or not drunk?" she mocks. "Well, both would be a lie." Alyssa stares wistfully at the back door, leading outside. Her evening of freedom, slipping away. Well, maybe not, she thinks, resolve sharpening. She doesn't have to sacrifice anything for the wastrel of a prince. If he wants to drink his feelings away, he's welcome to. "Come on, then." 

Aegon digs his heels in, staring. "What? Help me to my room."

Alyssa laughs. "Oh. No. I'm going outside."