Alyssa had just finished her first goblet of wine, and completely forgotten to meet Rhaenys later.
In truth, she was simply panic-drunk and not trying to drop her second glass of wine, which she had taken along for courage (and hydration).
Which was to say, she had finished three goblets, tripped on her own skirts somewhere near a tapestry of some Targaryen looking particularly judgemental, and shouted at a guard who dared to suggest she slow down.
The Dowager Lady of Parchments — a title which sounded far more respectable than the woman actually was — was making haste. Or something that resembled haste, if one squinted and ignored the sound of her boots thudding like hooves on stone.
“Seven bloody hells, Jocelyn,” Alyssa muttered, ducking past a pair of Lannister girls who were gossiping far too loudly about someone’s bastard child (probably true, judging by the tone). “Die and leave crates for your daughter instead of proper instructions like a decent woman, why don’t you-?”
She almost collided with a squire carrying a tray of pomegranates, cursed him to the Stranger under her breath, and nearly tripped on her own laces again.
It was fine. She was fine. Only a bit flushed, only a bit winded. (It was fine.)
In truth, Alyssa Baratheon — Penrose now, but really, who gave a pig’s arse? — had not seen her cousin since the funeral, and even then, it had been a blur of black lace and wine cups stained with grief.
She pushed open the doors with the flair of someone who had been raised in a house of storms and made entirely of drama, and called out:
“Rhae, if you’re decent, prepare to be disappointed. I’ve come bearing foul wine breath and questionable intentions!”
And then, quite suddenly, she stopped.
Because on the bed, in a small sunlit pool of peace, sat her cousin Rhaenys Targaryen — crownless, regal, barefoot — with a tiny, curly-haired child in her lap, chewing on a wooden hippocamp like it was made of dreams.
“Oh gods, you’ve replicated, haven’t you?”
Nyssie looked up and glared at her. A perfect Rhaenys glare for someone still learning how to walk.
Alyssa blinked again. “Well, oh dear.”
And then she grinned, marched in like she owned the place (she never had, but liked pretending), plopped down on a velvet stool that did not seem made for plopping, and said:
“Well? Are you going to make me cry like a little fool or shall we open your mother’s damned crates before she haunts me with more passive-aggressive letters?”
Pause. A glance to the child.
“—And you, little Princess of Hippocamps, don’t look at me in that tone of voice. I brought you a present. It’s in my boot. Don’t ask questions.”
And gods help them all, she meant it.
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