A/N: Elinda and Gwyneth

[Dorne - Sunspear]

The morning sun peeked through the open balcony of the ornate Dornish chamber, casting a warm glow across the marble floor. Alysanne, her silver hair unbound and trailing in the water, sighed contentedly as she submerged herself deeper into the steaming hot bath. Her purple eyes fluttered shut, savoring the soothing embrace of the water as it eased the tension from her pregnant body.

The scent of exotic oils and petals of desert roses filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dragonfire that clung to her skin from her visit to her dragons – a reminder of her lineage and her purpose.

The door to the chamber opened quietly, and one of Alysanne's ladies in waiting, Lady Elinda Massey, entered with a tray of fresh fruit and chocolate, and a goblet of cool, refreshing orange juice. She approached the tub with a soft smile, her eyes reflecting the warmth of the early sunlight. "Your Grace," she murmured, placing the tray within reach. "Breakfast for you."

Alysanne's eyes snapped open at the sound of her title, her hand instinctively moving to rest on her swollen belly. "Thank you, Elinda," she said, her voice a gentle purr that held a hint of weariness. Despite the comfort of the bath, the weight of her unborn child and the responsibilities that came with it remained ever-present. She took a sip of the juice, the sweetness and tartness dancing on her tongue, before selecting a ripe plum and bringing it to her lips.

The warmth of the water seeped into her bones, providing temporary relief from the swollen ankles that had become a constant companion in her later months of pregnancy.

The door to the chamber opened again, and Lady Gwyneth Yronwood, the second of her trusted ladies in waiting, walked in, her footsteps light upon the marble floor. She carried a set of soft, clean robes and a bouquet of freshly picked lavender, known for its calming properties. "Your Grace," she whispered, placing the garments and flowers beside the tub.

"Your bathwater is getting cold," Gwyneth noted, her eyes filled with concern as she knelt beside Alysanne. "Let me help you out."

With the grace of a swan, Alysanne allowed Gwyneth to assist her in rising from the tub. Water cascaded down her body, revealing the swollen belly that carried the promise of new life.

Arianne's entrance was abrupt, as always, the door to the chamber swinging open without so much as a knock. The Martell girl sailed in, her dark eyes scanning the room and landing on Alysanne's exposed form without an ounce of concern. "Ah, perfect timing," she quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "You're almost dressed."

"Your pardons, my lady," Elinda began, reaching for a robe to cover Alysanne, but Arianne waved her off.

"There's no need for modesty between kin," Arianne said with a wink, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Besides, I've brought news that can't wait."

Elinda's cheeks flushed as she averted her gaze, still clutching the robe to her chest. The Dornish were known for their liberal views on nudity and personal space, but she had grown up with the more modest customs of the Seven. Alysanne, however, took Arianne's intrusion in stride, her own Dornish heritage making her less self-conscious.

"What news do you bring, Ari?" Alysanne asked, stepping out of the tub and allowing Gwyneth to begin the process of drying her off.

Arianne approached the bed, where the silk robe Elinda had selected lay in a pile of cerulean and gold, a gift from Laenor. "The Tyrells," she said, her voice carrying the weight of revelation, "they've sided with the Lannisters."

"I'm not surprised. No one wants to be on the losing side. The Tyrells are no different. They will support whomever they believe is their surest chance at victory. With Renly dead, presumably through the work of Stannis, and I having neglected to accept marrying Loras, the Lannisters appear to be their best choice. Especially if they want Margaery to be Queen." Alysanne reasoned.

Elinda, though trying to remain composed, couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort as Arianne's gaze lingered on her while Alysanne was exposed. The Dornishwoman's bluntness and lack of modesty was still a stark contrast to the Westerosi norms she had grown accustomed to. She felt her own cheeks redden further, but she quickly composed herself, focusing on her task.

"Your suspicions were correct," Arianne said, her eyes shifting to Alysanne as she donned the robe with a sense of urgency. "The Tyrells have indeed thrown their support behind the Lannisters. They played a pivotal role in the Battle of the Blackwater. There are also reports of using that... that abomination of a weapon."

Elinda's eyes widened in horror. "Wildfire?" she whispered. The mere mention of the substance sent a shiver down her spine.

"Yes," Arianne confirmed with a solemn nod. "The Lannisters unleashed it upon Stannis' fleet. It was... devastating."

Elinda's hand flew to her mouth, horrified by the thought of the destruction wrought by the fiery substance. She had heard tales of its use during the Targaryen reign, but the reality was far more chilling than any story.

"And what of House Velaryon?" Alysanne inquired, her voice tinged with fear. "Was Monford...?"

"Yes," Arianne said gravely, her smirk fading into a frown. "He fell in battle. His son, Laenor, now holds the title and lands of Driftmark."

Alysanne's face remained stoic, but the tremble in her hand as she reached for the plum she had set aside earlier betrayed her inner turmoil.

In the days leading up to his departure for King's Landing, Laenor reported his father had stressed to Laenor how important he was, and the need to prepare to inherit Driftmark.

It was as if he knew he wouldn't be returning.

And, perhaps he did.

The room grew heavy with silence as the gravity of Arianne's words settled over them. The death of Monford Velaryon was not entirely unexpected, given the chaos of war, but it still struck a somber note in the heart of Alysanne.

Her marriage to Laenor had been one of political necessity, but she had grown to respect and even care for her young husband. His valor and kindness had been a welcome surprise in the often cold and calculating world of Westeros.

Arianne watched as Alysanne's expression tightened, the plum in her hand momentarily forgotten. "I am sorry for your loss," she said, her voice thick with genuine sorrow.

Alysanne took a deep breath, pushing aside the grief that threatened to consume her. "Thank you, Ari," she replied, her own voice steady despite the tumult of emotions within. "It seems fate has made Laenor Lord of Driftmark sooner than any of us anticipated."

Arianne's eyes softened at the mention of Laenor. She knew the bond that had grown between her cousin and her distant cousin. Despite the political nature of their union, it was clear that there was affection between them. "He will be a just and fair lord," she said, placing a comforting hand on Alysanne's shoulder.

Alysanne nodded. Though their marriage remained a secret, the weight of her new title and responsibilities as Lady of Driftmark not lost on her.

"I must send word to Laenor," she said, her voice firm despite the ache in her chest. "Offer my condolences."

Arianne nodded solemnly. "And your congratulations, I suppose," she added, her tone laden with the unspoken understanding of the precarious balance of joy and sorrow that came with a death in war.

The cool morning air kissed her skin as Elinda gently draped the soft, warm robes around her, the lavender scent wafting up to embrace her. Alysanne's gaze drifted towards the balcony, where the distant roars of Visemyria, Elaenys, and Aegarax echoed across the red sands of Dorne.

Her thoughts swirled with the implications of Monford's death and Laenor's new title. House Velaryon had always been a bastion of strength and loyalty, and now that mantle had fallen to her husband, young and untested as he was.

Elinda, ever attentive, noticed the shift in Alysanne's demeanor and offered a comforting smile. "Your Grace, if you wish to send a raven, I can see to it personally."

Alysanne shook her head. "No. I think it would be best if I wrote him personally."

Gwyneth handed her a quill and parchment, and Alysanne took a seat at the writing desk, the gravity of the moment weighing heavily upon her. She dipped the quill into the inkwell, letting the ink stain the tip a deep black. With careful strokes, she began to pen her letter to Laenor.

"My dearest Laenor," she began, her hand shaking slightly. "It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today, for I have learned of the tragic news of your father's passing." She paused, allowing the words to sink in before continuing. "Monford Velaryon was a man of valor and honour, and his loss is felt deeply by all who knew him. May the Merling King grant him a warrior's death and a swift journey to the afterlife."

Alysanne took a moment to compose herself, the tip of the quill hovering just above the parchment. The words that followed were more difficult to write.

Her eyes filled with tears as she penned her words, but she blinked them away, focusing instead on the task at hand. "Yet, amidst this sorrow, there is also cause for congratulations," she wrote, her voice echoing the bitterness she felt. "With your father's passing, you are now Lord of Driftmark; a title that comes with great responsibility."

Her hand paused again, the quill quivering as she considered the delicate balance of her message. She knew that Laenor would feel the same mix of emotions she did—sorrow for the loss of his father and the weight of his newfound title.

"As your wife," she wrote, her script growing more assured, "I stand by you in this time of mourning, and in the days of rule that lie ahead. Your father's legacy is now yours to uphold, and I have every faith that you will do so with the same grace and valor that he did."

Alysanne paused to let the ink dry, the gravity of her words weighing heavily upon her. The parchment felt brittle in her grip, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the sudden shifts in fate that could be wrought by war. She took a deep breath, her gaze drifting to the balcony and the distant shapes of the dragons, their scales glinting like jewels in the sun.

"I am saddened that your father will not meet our child, but I am certain he watches over us from the dominion of the Merling King. Together, we will raise our son or daughter to be a true Velaryon, worthy of the legacy he leaves behind."

The words flowed from Alysanne's quill, her heart aching for the joy that Monford would never know, the joy of holding his grandchild in his arms. Yet, she knew that his spirit would live on through their child, and she vowed to instill in them the virtues that had made House Velaryon one of the most revered in the Seven Kingdoms.

"Our child, will carry forth the legacy of House Velaryon," she continued, her voice thick with emotion. "We will tell them stories of your father's valor, his wisdom, and his love for his house. They will know that their grandfather was a man of unshakeable loyalty and bravery, and that he gave his life fighting for what he believed in."

And protecting her secret.

Alysanne knew the importance of maintaining the illusion of Laenor's loyalty to House Baratheon. For now, they must tread carefully, their true allegiance hidden behind the veil of feigned obedience.

Her gaze fell upon the parchment, the words she had written a testament to the bittersweetness of the moment. She had never met her father-in-law, yet she felt a profound sense of loss for the man who had raised her husband to be the kind and noble soul that he was.

With a heavy heart, she continued her letter. "While it brings me great sadness that your father will not be present to witness the birth of our child, I believe that his spirit will guide us in raising them. We will ensure that our son or daughter knows the pride and honour of being a Velaryon, and we will strive to make him proud, as you have made him proud, Laenor."

With a sigh, she set the quill aside and folded the letter, sealing it with a dollop of wax. The crimson seal of House Velaryon—a seahorse rampant on a field of turquoise—pressed into the soft wax, leaving an indelible mark that signified the gravity of its contents.

"Elinda, please ensure this reaches Laenor without delay," Alysanne instructed, her voice firm despite the sadness that clung to her like a shroud.

Elinda nodded solemnly, taking the letter with trembling hands. "Of course, Your Grace."

Alysanne rose from the chair, her eyes misty with unshed tears. She approached the balcony, the soft fabric of her robe brushing against her legs. The dragons were growing restless, sensing the shift in her mood. Visemyria, the fiercest of the three, let out a low growl that resonated through the room. Alysanne stepped out onto the warm stone, the breeze playing with her damp hair. She leaned against the railing, her gaze lost in the horizon where the sun was just beginning to kiss the tops of the distant mountains.

Her thoughts drifted to her unborn child, the future heir to House Velaryon. She placed a protective hand on her belly, feeling the reassuring flutter of life within. The child grew stronger with each passing day, a beacon of hope amidst the dark clouds of war.

"Your Grace," Elinda said softly, bringing Alysanne back to the present. "Your presence is required in the solar. There are matters of state that need your attention."

Alysanne nodded, her thoughts still lingering on the unborn child that would soon be entrusted to her and Laenor's care. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the challenges that lay ahead. With a final look at the dragons, she turned and followed Elinda from the chamber.

The solar was a grand room, its high ceilings adorned with intricate murals depicting the history of House Martell. The light from the windows painted the floor with a mosaic of color, and the warmth of the day had already started to fill the space.

Her Uncle Doran awaited her, his wheelchair positioned before a large table laden with parchments and maps. His cunning gaze searched hers as she entered, his expression unreadable. The air was thick with the scent of burning candles and the weight of impending decisions.

"Ah, Alysanne," he said, his voice a dry whisper. "Your presence is most timely."

"Uncle," she greeted, her voice formal despite the warmth of their relationship. She approached the table, her eyes scanning the maps and parchments. The news of the Lannister-Tyrell alliance had brought a new dimension to their strategies.

Doran's gaze met hers, his expression as unyielding as the red mountains that surrounded Dorne. "The winds of change blow swiftly from the Reach," he said, his eyes flicking to the map where the Tyrell lio-n roared in gold. "Joffrey has cast aside the Stark girl and will now marry Margaery. A clever move by the Queen of Thorns, to be sure."

Alysanne felt a knot form in her stomach at the thought of Sansa's continued captivity. The girl had suffered enough.

"The Tyrells want their blood on the throne. This is the surest way for them to achieve that. Despite being a usurper, he sits the Iron Throne. He is another Aegon II, only, he is not trueborn."

Alysanne's words were a mix of anger and frustration. The Lannisters had always been crafty, and this alliance was a testament to their desire to cling to power at any cost.

"But what does this mean for us?" she asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied the map. "We cannot let them consolidate their power further. They have the Reach and the Westerlands. The Reach fields the largest army."

Doran's expression grew grim as he nodded in agreement. "Indeed, it is a formidable union. But we have our own allies and resources. We must play our cards wisely."

The mention of allies brought a flicker of hope to Alysanne's eyes. "Houses Velaryon and Celtigar stand with us, as well as many other minor houses," she said firmly. "But we must be cautious. They are technically bannermen of House Baratheon. We cannot risk exposing our hand too soon."

Her uncle raised his head. "I'm sorry about Monford. I am told he was a good man."

"He was," Alysanne agreed, her voice tight with unshed tears. "I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but from Laenor, I know he was honourable."

Doran nodded solemnly. "Your husband is now Lord of Driftmark... How does that feel?"

Alysanne took a moment to ponder the question, her eyes drifting to the floor. "Conflicted," she admitted. "I have been working tirelessly to restore House Targaryen, and now I am bound to an island I have never set foot upon."

Her gaze flicked back up to meet her uncle's, a storm of emotions swirling in her purple depths. "Yet, I am also proud of Laenor. He is a kind and just man, and he will rule well. Driftmark will be in good hands."

Doran's eyes searched hers, understanding the turmoil that lay beneath her calm exterior. "Your path is not an easy one, Alysanne," he said, his voice tinged with empathy. "But you have the strength of your ancestors within you. The dragon's blood runs true."

Alysanne's gaze drifted to the map once more, her mind racing with the implications of Laenor's new title. To be Lady of an island she had never seen was a strange fate, indeed. To be fair, she also couldn't remember where she was born.

Dorne had been her home for so long, her exile a prison wrapped in the guise of protection.

While she loved growing up in her mother's homeland, with its less rigid customs, a part of her would always wonder the life she could have had if her father hadn't run away with Lyanna Stark.

The thought came to her unbidden as she stared at the map of Westeros, the lands and titles she had been born to, now a distant memory, shrouded in ash and blood. Her life had been irrevocably changed by her father's actions, and she couldn't help but wonder what might have been.

If Rhaegar had never loved Lyanna, if he had not taken her away from her family and sparked Robert's Rebellion, Alysanne would have been raised in the Red Keep, surrounded by the grandeur and the responsibilities of being a Targaryen princess. She would have grown up with her brother Aegon and sister Rhaenys, their uncle Viserys and aunt Daenerys, their grandmother Rhaella, and their grandfather, the Mad King Aerys, whose madness had set the stage for the destruction of their world.

Her days would have been filled with lessons of statecraft and dragonlore, her nights with dreams of flying on the back of a fiery steed, ruling over the Seven Kingdoms as her ancestors had done for centuries. She would have been promised to a suitable match, perhaps even to one of her own blood, to ensure the purity and power of their line continued.

But instead, she had been born into a world torn apart by war, her family slaughtered, her legacy tainted by the sins of her father and grandfather.

Her mother was supposed to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aegon would likely have wed either her or Rhaenys.

Perhaps her name wouldn't even be Alysanne. Instead, it would be Visenya.

If the rebellion never occurred, her mother, Elia, would still be alive, a smiling, loving presence in her life. She and her two children would not have been murdered in the Sack of King's Landing.

Her mother's death had been a wound that never fully healed, a gaping hole in her heart that no amount of time or distance could fill.

The rebellion had denied her a chance to feel her mother's love firsthand, and not through stories.

Alysanne's thoughts grew heavy as she pondered the alternate reality where her father had not been drawn to Lyanna, where the Mad King had not lost his sanity, and where dragons returned to rule the skies. Her silver hair, a symbol of her Targaryen heritage, would have been met with awe rather than suspicion.

In this imagined world, she might have known the comfort of a mother's love, the warmth of siblings by her side, and the guidance of a father who was not painted as a villain in the annals of history.

Don't get her wrong. She loved her uncles and cousins. But, it wasn't the same.

Alysanne had heard the whispers of her mother's beauty, her grace, her kindness. How she had loved her father, Rhaegar, so fiercely that she had borne him two children, three, including herself, despite the fragility of her health.

And yet, it hadn't been enough.

Her father didn't know about her, nor had he ever met her, except for that one visit from his ghost.

Alysanne had to force herself to stop thinking of what could have been. There was no use lingering on it when it wouldn't change anything.

But, she could honour their memory.

She could make sure those responsible for their deaths were held accountable.

Alysanne was brought back to the present as her uncle Doran spoke again. "Cersei is an angry and spiteful woman," he said, his eyes cold and calculating. "She clings to her children like a drowning man to a rope, and her power is all she has left. She'll stop at nothing to keep it, even if it means tearing apart the very fabric of the realm."

Alysanne's gaze hardened as she thought of the Queen Regent. "The Lannister-Tyrell alliance won't last," she said with conviction. "When Robert was alive, he cared little for his supposed children. It was Cersei who ruled them, and even then, she was a poor mother. Which shows. My spies tell me she played the most active role in Joffrey's upbringing, grooming him for the Throne, and he is a monster. Yet, Myrcella and Tommen, who I am told she spent less time with grew to be well adjusted."

"I cannot speak for Tommen. But, Myrcella is a lovely young girl. Nothing like her mother, except for appearance."

"Then I suppose they've beaten the odds."

"The odds?"

"I'm sure you've heard the saying. 'When a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin; one side greatness, the other, madness, and the world holds it breath to see how it will land'." Alysanne remarked. "They believe my ancestors went mad due to all the incest..."

"And you don't?"

"I'm not sure what I believe. But, it has to be more than that. The Targaryens were not the only ones to marry close kin. It was the way of Old Valyria. Yet, we are the ones judged for it, even if it is in secret."

Doran nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Indeed, the gods are fickle and their ways are often misunderstood by mere mortals. But we must focus on the alliances before us. The Lannisters are cunning, and Cersei's fear for her children's safety and her own power will drive her to extreme lengths. With Myrcella in our care, we hold a piece of her heart hostage."

"She should be grateful Myrcella was sent to Dorne. There are many who despise the Lannisters. She should be lucky it was us who took her in. Uncle Oberyn always says, 'We don't hurt little girls in Dorne'. Not even the ones of those who cost us our kin."

Alysanne's words were filled with the sting of truth. The late Prince Rhaegar had been her father, and the death of his children had been a wound that never truly healed. Her mother, Elia Martell, and her siblings, Rhaenys and Aegon; their blood was on the hands of the Lannisters.

Doran nodded gravely. "Cersei has always been possessive of her offspring, a trait that only grew more pronounced after Robert's death. She'll view Margaery as a threat to her control over her son, and, by extension, the Iron Throne."

Alysanne's expression grew contemplative. "The alliance with the Tyrells is a shrewd move, but it's built on a foundation of manipulation and fear. The moment Margaery gives Joffrey an heir, Cersei's hold on him will weaken, and her resentment towards Margaery will grow. It's only a matter of time before the cracks begin to show."

Her uncle nodded in agreement. "The Lannisters and Tyrells may stand together now, but their union is as fragile as the peace that follows a storm. The winds of discord will blow again, and we must be ready to seize the moment."

"I will not forget my mother," Alysanne vowed, her eyes flashing with determination. "Nor will I forget what they did to her and my siblings."

Doran's expression grew solemn as he nodded. "We will see justice done, in time," he promised. "Your mother had a plan, you know?"

"What?"

"Your mother knew the war would eventually reach the Red Keep, and none of you would be safe."

"What was her plan?" Alysanne's curiosity was piqued.

"She intended to smuggle you three out with trusted maids."

"What happened?"

"She was betrayed. Somehow, someone found out about her plans and one of those maids was captured and tortured until she revealed your mother's plan."

The revelation hit Alysanne like a storm, her purple eyes widening with shock and anger. The thought that her mother had attempted to save both her and her siblings was a comfort she had never known, a secret hope that had been buried with her in the tomb of Dorne.

"Then, how did she succeed in sending me here?"

Doran leaned back in his chair, his eyes reflecting the pain of the past. "Elia had a loyal servant, a woman named Sarilla. She managed to sneak you out during the chaos of the Sack. Sarilla brought you to me, begging for my protection. I could not say no, not to my sister's last wish."

Alysanne felt a tear roll down her cheek, her mother's sacrifice laid bare before her. "And here I am," she murmured. "While Rhaenys and Aegon..."

Her voice trailed off, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air. Doran reached out a hand and gently patted her own. "They are with the gods now," he said softly. "But you are still here, and you have a duty to fulfill."

Alysanne took a deep, shaky breath and nodded. "I know," she whispered. "I will not rest until the Targaryen line is restored, and those who wronged us are brought to justice."

The room was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Then, Doran spoke again, his voice firm. "We must bide our time, Alysanne. The Iron Throne is not won by impulsiveness but by patience and strategy."

"This is why you would make a perfect Hand of the Queen." She returned.

Doran's gaze was sharp. "And what makes you say that?"

"Because you are wise, and cunning," Alysanne replied without hesitation. "You know the politics of the Seven Kingdoms better than anyone. And, you have always looked out for me."

Doran studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You flatter me, but I'm afraid my days of traveling and playing the game are behind me," he said at last. "My legs are old and my back is stiff. But, I will serve you in any capacity you wish, as your Hand of the Queen."

Alysanne's heart swelled with gratitude, but she knew she had to be careful with her words. "Thank you, Uncle," she said, her voice sincere. "I've also been considering other appointments for my small council. Uncle Oberyn as Master of War, of course, for his valor and legendary skill."

Doran's eyes lit up with a proud smile. "Oberyn would be honored, I'm sure."

"And what of Tyene Sand?" Alysanne asked, her voice tentative. "Would she make a suitable Mistress of Whispers?"

Doran's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Tyene. "Oberyn's daughters are... unorthodox," he said carefully. "But, they are also resourceful and deadly. Tyene, in particular, has a way with poisons that would make even the Faceless Men envious. If you can control her, she would serve you well."

Alysanne nodded thoughtfully. "And Rhea Celtigar as Master of Coin?"

Doran's expression remained neutral. "A wise choice," he said. "The Celtigars are shrewd administrators, and Rhea has proven herself capable of managing her father's lands well. Her loyalty to House Targaryen is unquestioned."

"I was going to offer Laenor the position of Master of Ships. With a Velaryon in this role, Targaryen reign prospered." She paused. "Though, given his father's passing, perhaps, now is not the time to ask it of him."

"Let him grieve, but he'll need a purpose," Doran said, his gaze understanding. "He is a good man, and will serve you well in any capacity you choose for him."

Alysanne nodded, caressing her swollen belly, which carried her and Laenor's child.

Her pregnancy brought a mix of emotions; fear, but also joy.

Fear of perishing in the childbed, like so many of her ancestors.

Joy, for the birth of another generation of a child with Targaryen blood.

And, again fear, for the future that child would face.

Her silver hair, a stark contrast against the dark wooden chair, fell in waves over her shoulders as she leaned back, considering her uncle's words.

"But what of the other positions, Uncle?" Alysanne's eyes searched Doran's, seeking his counsel. "I have not yet chosen a Master of Laws, and I will need a loyal and just man to fill the role."

"Not all positions are immediately necessary." He assured her. "It would be prudent to wait to name a Master of Laws. We are not yet at the stage."

"I have been penning ideas for things I wish to change, and when I do find a Master of Laws, it would be good for him or her to peruse it, to assess the functionality of them. Mostly to improve the lives of the smallfolk."

"You have your mother's heart."

Alysanne looked up at her uncle, her own heart swelling with a mix of pride and pain at his words. It was a rare compliment from Doran, one that she knew was not given lightly.

"Thank you, Uncle," she murmured. "It is my hope that I may do her memory justice in some small way."

Doran nodded solemnly. "You have her wisdom as well, Alysanne. Use it wisely. Now, tell me more of these ideas of yours for the smallfolk."

Alysanne stood, her robes billowing around her. "I believe that we must address the issue of food shortages in the realm," she began, her voice strong and determined.

"Many of the common folk are starving while the nobility feasts. We need to reform the way we manage our lands and resources to ensure that no one goes hungry. Perhaps we can implement policies that encourage better crop yields and fairer distribution of food."

Her uncle nodded thoughtfully. "A noble goal, but one that will not be easily achieved. The Reach has been the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms for centuries. Yet, they stand with the Lannisters; our enemies."

"For now," Alysanne mused. "Eventually, they will realize they are on the losing side. As we mentioned, this alliance will fall apart on its own due to Cersei's jealousy."

Her uncle nodded. "And when it does, we must be ready to offer aid to the Tyrells, to show them the error of their ways. House Targaryen has always been generous to those who bend the knee."

The room grew quiet again as Alysanne considered the future she was shaping. Her mind was a whirlwind of strategies and plans, each more ambitious than the last. It was a heavy burden to bear, but one she had accepted willingly.

The thought of her child's safety was never far from her mind. With the chaos of war and the treachery of the Iron Throne, Alysanne knew that she would need a trustworthy protector, someone who would lay down their life without hesitation for the heir she carried.

Immediately, Ser Robin Massey came to mind. The brother of Elinda, and her husband's paramour, there was no doubt of his loyalty.

His dedication to Laenor made him perfect for the position. He would defend Laenor's child with his life.

"We must also consider the matter of your Queensguard," Doran said, his gaze shifting to the window where the sun was now high in the sky. "Seven knights, sworn to protect the Queen and her heirs."

Alysanne nodded, her thoughts immediately turning to the fierce warriors who would stand by her side. "Indeed," she said. "The naming of a Lord Commander and six other knights to serve as my Queensguard is crucial."

The door to the chamber creaked open, and a young Dornish messenger stepped in, his eyes immediately searching for Doran. He waited, tense and uncomfortable, as the prince acknowledged him with a gesture. The boy approached the table, a rolled parchment in his trembling hand.

"Your Grace," he said, his voice quivering slightly as he offered the letter. "A raven has arrived from the Capital."

Doran took the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he broke the seal. The scent of the sea and the distant tang of ink filled the room as he unfurled the scroll. His eyes scanned the page, his expression unchanging.

"Littlefinger," he murmured, the name a curse on his lips. "It seems Lord Baelish has been busy."

Alysanne leaned in, her curiosity piqued. "What does the letter say?"

Doran's eyes scanned the parchment, his expression unreadable. "It appears Littlefinger was the architect of the alliance," he said, his voice tight with anger. "He played both sides, whispering sweet nothings into the ears of the Lannisters and the Tyrells, convincing them of their mutual benefit."

The revelation that Littlefinger was the architect of the Lannister-Tyrell alliance was not a surprise to Alysanne. The man was a master of manipulation, a spider weaving his webs through the courts of Westeros. Yet, knowing it was Littlefinger who had brought the two houses together made her more wary than ever. He had proven time and again that his loyalties lay with himself, and she knew that he would not hesitate to betray the Lannisters if it served his own purposes.

The messenger, a young Dornish boy with the grace of a gazelle, had arrived with the letter that changed everything. His eyes had been wide with excitement and fear as he delivered the news that Littlefinger had not only orchestrated the alliance but had been granted Harrenhal and named Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and Trident as a reward for his service.

Alysanne's heart skipped a beat as she took the letter from her uncle's hand, her eyes scanning the script for any clue as to what her spy had uncovered. The implications were vast. Littlefinger had played a masterstroke, securing for himself a powerbase that could rival the great houses of Westeros.

Though it was a ruin, from the days of her ancestors, the Conquerors, Harrenhal was a glorious prize, and was often used as a base for armies. Its placement was key.

Alysanne felt a sneer tug at her lips. Littlefinger, that sly weasel, had managed to elevate himself from a minor lordling to one of the most powerful men in the realm. It was a testament to his cunning and his ability to manipulate those around him.

He was definitely someone she would need to keep her eye on.

Alysanne had always found Littlefinger to be an intriguing character, a man who had climbed the greasy pole of power with surprising agility for someone from such a minor house. His rise to Master of Coin and now Lord Paramount of the Riverlands and Trident was a testament to his ability to play the game of thrones.

If he could manipulate the likes of the Lannisters and Tyrells, who knew what other schemes he had in the works?

Alysanne's mind raced as she pondered the extent of Littlefinger's power. His brothels were more than just houses of pleasure; they were fortresses of information, where the whispers of the realm's most powerful players were traded like commodities. His spy network was likely as vast as Varys', if not more so, and now he had the resources of a castle and a title to bolster his influence.

Ambitious men like him often grew hungry for power; never quite satisfied with what they had.

The room was silent as Alysanne absorbed the information, her thoughts racing. The alliance had shifted the balance of power in Westeros significantly, and it was clear that Littlefinger had his own agenda.

She had heard that he once challenged Brandon Stark, Lord Eddard's older brother and Catelyn's original betrothed to a duel for Lady Catelyn's hand.

Of course, he was unsuccessful, sustaining a garly injury to the front of his body.

Shortly after, he was sent away by Hoster Tully, whom had been fostering him.

Alysanne couldn't help but wonder if Littlefinger's current machinations were driven by a desire for vengeance or something far more calculated.

Suddenly, Alysanne remembered something.

"Wait. What about Arya?"

Arya Stark had been travelling to the Wall where her half brother was a member of the Night's Watch, only to be attacked by Lannister soldiers.

The girl, who had been posing as a boy, was brought to Harrenhal, along with other captives.

It was here she became cupbearer to Tywin Lannister who had garrisoned his men there.

Thankfully, having never met Arya, Tywin had no idea he had a Stark in his grasp.

But, if Harrenhal now belonged to Littlefinger, what did that mean for Arya?

The messenger pulled out a second letter, this time, handing it directly to Alysanne.

"She escaped?"

Things just got a lot more complicated.