AEMMA. I hope I can one day see you as a mother. You'd be wonderful.
ALYSANNE. Only because I've had you to learn from.

Rays of sunlight streamed in through the window behind the king's chair, illuminating the small council's chambers. They glinted off the silver armor of the Kingsguard and the rings and other small jewelries that adorned the lords on the council.

More importantly, to Alysanne, they cast light on the translucent cups at each seat around the table, and highlighted their emptiness. She glanced at the pitcher on the table behind her once more.

Rhaenyra was late. The small talk from the other lords mattered little to her now. Her charge, the Princess Rhaenyra, had left her to serve as cupbearer in her absence.

It would not have mattered nearly as much as it did if she felt well-liked by the council. She was well-liked by the crown, but the crown did not speak for its council. Even then, standing in near-shadows, she could feel the watchful eyes of Otto Hightower upon her.

When it came to matters of the small council, Alysanne Waters was only as interested as she let on. But when Corlys Velaryon began to speak of pirates in the Stepstones, she did not bother to hide her raised brows or wide eyes.

"A man called Craghas Drahar has styled himself the prince admiral of this Triarchy," Corlys was saying. "They call him the Crabfeeder, due to his... Inventive methods of punishing his enemies."

The doors to the council's chambers opened then, and Rhaenyra hurried inside. Alysanne tore her eyes away from the map Corlys had laid out and fixed them on the Princess instead.

"Rhaenyra. You're late. King's cupbearer must not be late." Viserys leaned over, fixing his daughter with a look. "Leaves people wanting for cups."

"I was visiting Mother," she replied, and kissed his cheek.

He pulled away, sniffing the air. "On dragonback?"

Alysanne caught the eye of her King over Rhaenyra's shoulder, and they shared a smile. Then her gaze flitted to Otto Hightower, and she ducked her head. As Rhaenyra hurried over, Alysanne noted that she did smell of dragonhide, but paid it no mind. After twenty years serving House Targaryen, she was not unused to the scent.

While the council resumed their discussions on the state of the realm, she turned back to her charge, who took the pitcher of wine from her hands.

"You're late, princess," she murmured, smiling. "I had to make a round without you."

"Perfect," Rhaenyra replied. "Less for me to do."

She laughed. "Just like your father, you are."

Alysanne did not dare linger in the council's chambers longer than she needed to. With one last smile, she left Rhaenyra to her work. She had her own duties to attend to, ones more pressing than talks of the upcoming tournament.

Taelia Baratheon accosted her in the halls. "And what are you doing away from your Queen?"

"If you must know, I'm going to see Her Grace now," Alysanne replied, smiling.

"Good. Give her my well-wishes, would you?"

"Of course." She raised a brow. "And what are you doing, my lady?"

Taelia grinned. "Nothing you need to fuss about."

Alysanne scoffed, but decided not to press the issue. Taelia was truly of Baratheon blood― mercurial and not one to be crossed. Or questioned, for that matter. Still, Alysanne thought of her fondly, as one might their younger sister or their daughter.

She had made the journey to the Queen's chambers more times than she could count. It was not the journey through Maegor's Holdfast that bothered her, but the sight of Aemma on that chaise.

"I can hardly stand to look at you," she remarked. "It makes me hurt on your behalf."

Aemma only laughed. "This is my seventh pregnancy, but I must admit, it's never gotten easier."

"I'll have a word with your lord husband about that," she muttered.

Alysanne stepped behind the chaise and laid her hands on her Queen's shoulders. Aemma began to protest, but she sighed as Alysanne worked out the knots in her neck, her shoulders sagging.

"I don't need this," she said, albeit after some hesitation.

"I need this," Alysanne replied. "I much prefer it to hearing your husband debate the sex of the babe with his council."

"That's twice now you've called Viserys my lord husband." Aemma laughed softly. "How much is he bothering you today?"

"He always bothers me when your labors grow near."

"That, I know... But I must ask. Do you think I'll have a boy, Alysanne?"

Alysanne shook her head. "I've stayed by your side for five lost babes now. And I refuse to listen to juvenile squabbling over whether this one will be a son. What I want is a healthy babe, no matter the sex."

"Is it cruel of me to say that I only enjoy this stage of my pregnancy because I enjoy watching you two fight?" Aemma asked, laughing.

"We do not fight―"

"Oh, you go at it like Jaehaerys and Alysanne, may the gods rest their souls."

Alysanne smiled to herself, saying, "Well, I would hope it's not nearly that bad. I fear I cannot flee to Dragonstone if Viserys bothers me too much."

Aemma's hand clasped around hers, and she tipped her head back to catch her handmaid's eye. "I want you by my side, when the babe comes."

"Of course," she murmured, and squeezed her Queen's hand. "I'd be a terrible midwife if I wasn't there."

"I hope I can one day see you as a mother. You'd be wonderful."

"Only because I've had you to learn from."

Still, the thought made Alysanne smile. Herself, a mother. She had become a midwife to care for babes and their mothers, but she had never thought of that life for herself. Not in a very long time.

Aemma fell asleep in the chaise, but her sleep was fleeting. Alysanne remained in the Queen's chambers, fluffing pillows and turning back the bedcovers. Each time Aemma stirred, she would instruct her Queen to go straight back to sleep, to conserve her strength.

While Aemma slept, she brought out the old wooden toys that hadn't seen use since Rhaenyra's childhood. Soldiers styled in the painted uniforms of Targaryen men, the great black dragon and the little yellow one... Alysanne made a note to find a larger toy dragon to repaint in the likeness of Syrax, who had matured alongside Rhaenyra.

When Aemma finally did wake, she found her handmaid sitting on the floor, toy soldiers strewn about. Alysanne laughed and held up the black toy dragon, saying, "Dracarys."

"Mmm. Balerion." Aemma shifted on the chaise, saying, "A fearsome beast."

"Very much so," Alysanne replied, thinking back on the few instances she had seen Balerion in the flesh. Fearsome was a kind way of describing the Black Dread.

"Help me stand, Alysanne."

She did just that. Aemma clutched her wrist for a moment, her face screwing up as she wobbled on unsteady legs. Then she nodded and took a handful of steps forward, leaving Alysanne to trail behind her.

"Stay with me," she said. "I intend to speak with my lord husband, as you like to call him."

"And that's why you've dragged me along, is it?" Alysanne asked. "So you can watch us quarrel?"

Aemma only laughed.

When night fell, Alysanne found herself sitting in the chambers of her King. Aemma had gone to bed long ago, but Alysanne did not feel tired. She knew that she ought to try and rest, to prepare for the upcoming months when a babe's cry pierced the otherwise silent nights. Still, sleep evaded her.

She sat by the hearth, staring at the fire crackling within. She did not look at him, but she felt his presence to the right of her, felt his eyes on her.

"The babe will be a boy, Alysanne," Viserys said. "I know it."

"I do not wish to hear of it, Viserys," she retorted. "You've put Aemma through all the seven hells with these seven pregnancies, and in twice as many years."

"You know of my dream. You know―"

"And what if you are not a dreamer? What if you do not have such abilities?" She turned her head sharply, fixed him with a look. "What if the dream is just a dream?"

Quietly, he said, "Aemma has told me that this babe will be her last."

"Good," Alysanne snapped. "Perhaps your dream will finally die."

She stood so fast that the chair behind her nearly tipped over. With the smallest nod of her head, she muttered, "I will be quite busy these next few days, Your Grace. I fear we may not speak for some time."

She did not wait for Viserys to dismiss her. No, she strode out of his chambers, her hands clasped tight in front of her, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew there would be no punishment for her impudence, or even a reprimand. That was not how they conducted their friendship.

Halfway to the servants' quarters, Prince Daemon accosted her. Or, rather, he called out to her from yards away and waited until she acknowledged him.

"Visiting my brother, were you?"

Alysanne froze. With a long, deep sigh, she turned to face him, saying, "Unfortunately."

He grinned, sidling over to her. "I do like it when you get this way. Makes everything much more entertaining around here."

"I do regret my behavior towards your brother, my prince," she replied. "Though I cannot say you regret yours."

"My brother is a fool and a coward," Daemon said. "I like to think that I act as his counsel."

"Well, if His Grace is in need of counsel, he does have a Hand."

"Otto Hightower plays my brother for a fool. I would not."

Alysanne looked him over, her eyes fixing on the gold cloak fastened to his pauldron. "I thought you enjoyed your position, Lord Commander."

"Not as much as you enjoyed whatever position my brother had you in tonight, I'm sure," he muttered.

In truth, she ought to have been more insulted at such a remark. And for a brief moment, she did feel those things― anger, shame, resentment― but she surprised even herself by laughing at him.

"I am tired, Daemon," she said, shaking her head. "I do not have the strength to reproach you for that."

Before he could say anything else, she stepped closer to him, laid a hand on his arm. Dropping her voice, she said, "We have had our disagreements in years past, but on this, we are of one mind. I have always thought that Viserys should have named you his Hand."

Daemon met her gaze for one long moment. Then he pulled his arm away and walked off, leaving Alysanne in the otherwise empty corridor. She watched him go, the faintest smile playing on her lips.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hours had passed, yet no babe's cry echoed through the halls of the Red Keep. The longer Aemma's labors went on, the more a sense of cold dread settled in the pit of Alysanne's stomach, but she held her tongue.

Mellos had pulled her aside and whispered to her that the babe was in breech. She knew. Maesters and midwives alike had tried to turn it, with great effort, but it would not budge.

She had seen worse, Alysanne told herself. Much worse things had happened in the walls of the Keep, and much worse had happened to other ill-fated mothers. This would be trivial, something the Queen looked back on in years to come― but perhaps not fondly.

She heard Viserys then, speaking to the Grand Maester. He came to kneel at the side of the bed, and she chanced a look his way. Their eyes met, and she spun around to fiddle with the instruments on the small table behind her.

She knew that, had Aemma been more lucid, she would have laughed at the sight of them. The thought should have lifted her spirits. Instead, it brought her pain.

Aemma smiled as Alysanne pressed a damp rag to her forehead, dabbing away the beads of sweat on her brow. Her hand laid on the curve of her stomach, and she brought Alysanne's own hand to rest over it, clasped with hers.

"Soon, Your Grace," she murmured, praying that the doubt she felt did not creep into her voice. "The babe will come soon."

From the foot of the bed, Mellos caught her eye. Alysanne slipped her hand away and straightened up, instructing one of the younger midwives to take her place by the Queen's side.

Mellos had taken both her and Viserys aside. Softly, he said, "During a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make an impossible choice."

"Well, speak it," Viserys replied.

Alysanne did not need to say a thing. Mellos had taken Viserys aside to tell him what she had dreaded all along― that Aemma would not survive these labors.

Still, she remained at his side as he said, "To sacrifice one... Or to lose them both."

Viserys regarded Mellos with horror upon his face. Alysanne worried her lower lip, twisting her hands together. She ducked her head when he turned to her, choosing instead to stare at the stone floor.

"There is a chance that we can save the child," Mellos was saying. "A technique is taught at the Citadel, which involves cutting directly into the womb to free the infant. But the resulting blood loss―"

"Seven hells, Mellos," Viserys hissed.

Still, he cast a look towards Aemma, lying on the bed, her head lolled to one side. His breath caught in his throat, and it was some time before he asked, "You can save the child?"

Mellos's tone was grave as he said, "We must either act now, or leave it with the gods."

Viserys began to look about the room, his gaze fleeting, as if he expected an answer, a better solution from anyone. Alysanne could feel his eyes on her, but she had nothing to say. She felt panic bubble up in the back of her throat, rising like bile and threatening to spill out into hysterical laughter if she dared open her mouth.

She did not have a say in the matter. Mellos had not brought her as counsel, but as a midwife expected to assist him in whatever course of action the King chose.

Viserys did not speak when he gave his answer. He nodded and opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a strangled sound left him, and he asked simply if he could have a moment with Aemma. Neither Mellos nor Alysanne objected, and so he went to kneel by her side.

Mellos turned to her, and his gaze softened. "The gods are cruel."

"The gods." Her voice sounded far-off, as though it were not her speaking. "Of course."

He laid a hand on her arm, saying, "This is not easy, Alysanne. But it is a day that every maester and midwife encounters."

"Why did the gods choose Aemma?" She whispered.

Mellos only shook his head. Alysanne felt her lower lip begin to tremble, and she took in a long, deep breath. She would not give him reason to excuse her from her duties.

She had to have her wits about her, she told herself. If Mellos was correct, and the procedure saved the child, there would be a new babe in the Red Keep. She could not forget that she had an obligation to the child as well as the mother.

Aemma smiled when she neared. Alysanne returned the smile and laid her hand on her Queen's forehead, brushing away sweat-dampened strands of hair. Then she bent down and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

When she straightened up, she caught Mellos's eye. He bore a look of grave determination. With a nod of her head, the other midwives began to remove the pillows and cushions littering the childbed.

"They're going to bring the babe out now," Viserys murmured. He caught her eye, then glanced back at Aemma and smiled weakly. "I love you."

Alysanne stationed herself at the headboard, her hand clasping Aemma's. She tried to keep a smile on her face, tried to mimic Viserys and tell her empty promises, but it was no use. Aemma began to writhe at the sight of the scalpel in Mellos's hand.

Her hand did not falter. Neither did his. The babe came, and Aemma went slack on the childbed, and Alysanne had the brief thought that she deserved to be hanged.

Was that not what happened when someone killed the Queen?

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hours felt like days. Alysanne remembered standing at the childbed, staring at the bloody mess of sheets and the body of her Queen, as the maesters and midwives around her began clearing their stations.

She remembered moving to help until Mellos handed her the babe, swaddled in cloth and hiccupping. When she turned to adjust the babe in her arms, she caught a glimpse of red on the hem of her white handmaid's apron. His mother's blood.

The little prince would not latch to any of the wet-nurses. Alysanne sat with him, telling stories of his namesake, Baelon― stories that were incomprehensible to him, but soothed the ache in her heart. Mellos, who stayed by her side, would occasionally chime in with his own tales from Baelon's youth.

Viserys did come to see Baelon, if only for a handful of minutes. But when he held his son, he could not look at him. Instead he spoke to Mellos, as he would not look at Baelon and Alysanne would not speak to him unless called upon.

The moon had risen high into the sky when Mellos said, "You should rest, Alysanne."

"I do not want to sleep," she murmured. She did not say the rest― for fear that Aemma might appear in my dreams.

"You woke before the dawn," he pressed. "You've been up nearly a full day."

Alysanne stroked the tufts of pale hair on Baelon's head. "I wish to stay here, with the prince."

Still, she did not protest when Mellos took the babe from her arms. She stood by the door, her eyes fixed on the toys she had brought out the day before. The great black dragon and the little yellow one. Perched on a small side table, acting as sentinels. Watching over Baelon as he slept.

Then her gaze landed on the chaise Aemma had laid in, and she stood abruptly. She could not stay in the Queen's chambers. The smell of iron pervaded her nose, dizzying her, even hours after Aemma's death.

"I think I will retire," she said in a trembling voice. "As should you, Mellos."

But she did not. She wandered the halls of the Keep, wringing her hands together, trying to keep the hysteria at bay once more. Without a babe in her arms, without someone to watch her, she could feel herself falling apart at the seams.

She visited the kitchens and found herself a hunk of bread to nibble on. One of the cooks put a cup of wine in front of her, but she pushed it away. To drown her sorrows in strongwine would be to forsake Baelon, to forsake Rhaenyra, and to forsake all the other babes that she cared for.

And then she wandered again. She turned the Red Keep into Harrenhal, haunting its corridors with her gaunt face and blood-stained apron.

She did not know why, but she felt that she had to see Aemma. One last time, since she doubted she would be able to attend the funeral. She could not go on with her last memory of Aemma being one of pain and anguish.

The eyes of the Silent Sisters roved over Alysanne as she stood in the entryway to their chambers. She did not take note of the water dripping into a puddle by her feet, or the dozens of candles that lit the small room she stood in. No, she had fixed her eyes on the stone slab before her, and the body that laid upon it... And the man standing by it.

"You shouldn't be here," she found herself saying. "It's bad luck to look upon the face of death."

Viserys did not turn to look at her. Alysanne wrung her hands together, and she dropped her gaze. Many believed it was bad luck to look on the face of the dead, but she felt that the true misfortune would come from looking upon him in this private moment.

Each step forward made her stomach turn, but she pressed on until she stood at his side. And then she turned, looking not at him but at Aemma's body on the slab.

She was beautiful, even in death. Her silver hair had been braided back, and she wore a simple robe. No part of her betrayed the pain she'd endured, the horrific end she'd met.

Finally, she was at peace. Away from the aches and pains of labor, her duties as Queen, and the pressures of her lord husband to give him an heir.

They did not speak. Alysanne could feel Viserys's presence as he stood beside her, but she forced herself to stare at Aemma. Aemma, her Queen, whom she had failed as a midwife... And as a friend.

He wept beside her, and openly. From the corner of her eye, she could see his shoulders shaking, his head bowed. His sobs echoed off the walls of the small room they stood in. Still, she said nothing.

What could she say? Where did she begin? Years had passed since they last had to grieve for someone so close to their hearts. Did she offer her condolences, or did she first mend the rift between them? Would he prefer instead that she mourn in silence?

He reached for her then, and rested his head on her shoulder. In a soft, ragged voice, he murmured, "Aly..."

And she broke. She was choking on her sobs, pulling him in closer, her fingers curling in the fabric of his tunic. She held him so tight that she didn't know where she ended and he began.

"I didn't mean it," she whispered. "I did not think that― that your dream would die with her―"

He shuddered in her arms then, and she fell into another bout of tears. Did he realize how badly she needed him to forgive her? She was alone, aching for anyone to understand how the loss of Aemma had rent her in two.

Mellos could not understand. He had not known the Queen the way that she and Viserys had. Not even Rhaenyra, Aemma's closest kin, could fathom it. She had not been witness to the Queen's death, had not played a hand in it.

Did she deserve his forgiveness? Did she deserve it, when she stood there and held Aemma down as the maesters cut into her? When she knew that she would die, but smiled and told her empty promises anyway?

"I killed her," she said through trembling, gasping breaths. "Viserys, I..."

This time, he did not speak, but he pulled her closer to him. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, an undignified sort of whimper escaping her.

His forgiveness and understanding should have comforted her. Instead it doubled the weight on her chest. They were equally guilty, equally complicit in the death of the Queen.

They separated after what felt like hours. She tried to compose herself, her face wet with tears, her chest jerking with disjointed breaths. His own face was blotchy, and they spent some time dabbing at their red and puffy eyes in silence.

Alysanne did not care that Viserys had wet the shoulder of her frock with his tears. Worse things had stained her that day.

She reached out to Aemma then, clasping the Queen's cold hand in her own. When she drew her hand away, she held it out towards Viserys, palm outstretched.

"Something to remember her by," she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He took the small gold ring that laid on her palm, and she glanced away again, blinking furiously to stop more tears from falling. Aemma's wedding ring had become a keepsake, and she a memory.

"I do not blame you, Alysanne," he said. "You... You loved her as much as I did."

"I was not her lord husband," she replied, and laid a hand on his arm. "The love I hold for her is not the same."

She knew that he had meant well, yet she could not find it in herself to agree with him. Aemma had been a dear friend and a wonderful mother, but Alysanne did not love her in the way Viserys did. Admitting it made her stomach turn.

"Stay with me tonight," Viserys murmured. With a bitter laugh, he said, "I'm afraid sleep will evade me no matter what I do."

"It would be improper, Your Grace," Alysanne replied. "I cannot risk sullying your image."

"Aly―"

"If someone were to happen upon a handmaid in the King's chambers..." She shook her head. "It would invite speculation."

It was nothing they had not done before. Twenty years ago, when Jaehaerys ruled, they would talk for hours in his chambers and nobody would bat an eye. But now he was King, and she remained a handmaid, and they lived under the watchful eyes of the vultures at court.

Otto Hightower would jump at any chance to slander her name, to see her expelled from the Red Keep. And how suspicious it would seem, that the King invited his longtime friend into his bedchambers on the very night his wife passed. As if they had been waiting for the day.

Alysanne refused to give him reason to oust her. Her place was in the Keep, and she would remain there until she took her last breath, unless the King himself dismissed her.

With a final smile and squeeze of his arm, she left Viserys with the Silent Sisters. She took in heaving breaths of cool night air when she stepped into the hall, her body wracked with silent sobs.

Still, she did not go back to seek more comfort from him. It would not be right to lay such a burden on him in his darkest hour.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Alysanne Waters did not ask for anything. She was a handmaid, meant to serve, to carry out orders without question or protest. It went against her principles to think of herself before the lords and ladies she waited on.

But that night, she asked for a bath.

She sat in the tub for some time, simply holding the edges of the basin. A thought came to her, disjointed and hasty― she could slip away. She could let go and sink beneath the waters, and they would only find her once she had been lost.

Funny, that, she thought. Alysanne Waters, reunited with her namesake.

It would be so easy. Let go, and all her sorrows would fade with her. She was tired, so tired. Would it not be better to succumb, to be returned to the waters she took her name from? Celtigar or Waters, it would not matter― she would meet her fate in the way of her house.

But the rational part of her mind prevailed, and she tightened her grip on the edges of the tub until her knuckles went white. She did not want to die.

Baelon needed a nursemaid to look after him. Rhaenyra needed comforting. And who else would understand her pain than their father, the King? Would they not all feel her loss, if she were to surrender to the anguish plaguing her?

The water had gone lukewarm by the time she thought to wash herself.

Her stomach turned when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that sat against the wall. Fair white skin turned sickly pale in the moonlight, the curve of her spine jutting out along her back, purple-blue circles beneath her eyes...

With cold dread in her heart, she pushed herself to sit taller in the basin, until she could see her slender neck and the distinct shape of her ribcage beneath her breasts.

She looked every bit as monstrous as she felt.

The woman in the mirror caught her eye. Her eyes had a dull quality to them, empty and bloodshot. Her wet hair hung in limp ringlets around her shoulders. She might have smiled, but her face twisted into something too ugly to be considered such.

Her hand groped for the brush again, and she brought it to her arms. A pause. She let the brush run over the backs of her hands. The rough bristles scraped her skin, but she enjoyed the sting.

How else would she atone for the pain she'd caused Aemma? She could visit the sept, of course, and a septon might give her a penance, but would the gods accept it?

Sometimes she worried that the gods did not listen. She lived a life of devout prayer and worship, and yet they sent her no omens. Had she not prayed hard enough, or for the right things? How would she know that they had heard her prayers if they did not send her a sign? When would she be granted absolution, not by a septon but by the gods themselves?

Then she caught herself. It was sinful to question them. The gods could be cruel, but to lose faith in them would mean she could never be forgiven.

She brought the brush over her hands again and again, methodically, until they were pink and raw. Even then, she did not stop. The pain brought her peace.

Aemma's blood no longer stained her hands, but something else had stained her. It wrought its way past her skeletal ribs, settled over her beating heart, heavy as iron, and squeezed. She felt it when she held Baelon in her arms. She felt it as Viserys embraced her. She felt it again as she pressed harder on the brush, urged the bristles to scrape against her stinging skin.

The gods might never deem her deserving of salvation. She would have to make herself so.

birdie's comments!

you may be asking why this chapter takes place in 1x01. excellent question. i will not be answering it. but expect some present-day alysanne chapters alongside the flashbacks! and everything else will unfold with time :)

anyways the symbolism of the balerion and syrax toys watching over baelon and how their riders are his only living family,, viserys and alysanne being at the headboard and having the most physical and emotional proximity to aemma during her labors and death,, the ambiguity of the "his hand did not falter" line and wondering if it's mellos, cutting into aemma's womb, or viserys, holding her hand (and holding her down),,

i had a breakdown so bad while writing this that i listened to catholic hymns from my childhood to get that guilty inner monologue right. rip alysanne you would've loved the virgin mary

aemma arryn you deserved better than those two lame bitches viserys and alysanne !!! i hope you haunt them for all they're worth and then some !!!

on that note i had to make aly ditch viserys during their joint breakdown because if they kept hugging for any longer it would've ended up like rhaesaria in that one episode

alysanne modeled both ophelia and lady macbeth in the bathtub scene and as a theatre kid i felt like i had to mention that. but in the least serious way possible