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Her youngest daughter was always curious. What's that, Mama? What's it for, Papa? Asking questions about things the other children understood without needing to be told, requiring explanations over and over again, explanations Alysanne was always happy to give.
A perpetual child, Jaehaerys called her, lip curled. A perpetual child, Alysanne thought, and thus hers, never to grow up or go away like so many of her other children did, never to be sacrificed on the childbed or battlefield. Her Winter Child, her little miracle, a reward from the gods for long years of service.
Water drips on her sheets, on her blankets. Cold, like snow melting, like the dull shimmer of the Wall spilling out before her. Alysanne closes her eyes and presses her face against the sheets, eyes squeezed shut.
Mama. A slender, delicate hand on her shoulder. Mama, what is this? Fingers, sliding through her curls. Mama, why is your hair so white? Mattress creaking, adjusting, accommodating the weight nudges away the blankets to settle at her side. Mama, why is it so cold?
Always so curious, her girl. Her Gael. My Gaelie-girl, she used to say, cuddling her daughter close. Gael so small in her arms, so fragile, humming all to Alysanne's lullabies and listening wide-eyed to her bedtime stories.
Gael's hand pushes under her nightgown, exploring her breasts. Her fingers are cold, cold as Visenya's had been, her breath cold on Alysanne's neck. Her hair taps against Alysanne's skin, lumpy with something that could be seaweed. Oh Gods...
Gael has never touched her like. Gael understood there were ways mothers and daughters did not touch each other, after the first time Alysanne nudged her back. Gael has never touched her like this, but Gael is reaching down to ruck up her nightdress, rubbing between her thighs, seeking, pushing, almost frantic with confusion.
What's happening to me? Her daughter nuzzles along her neck, like an infant seeking milk. What's wrong with me, Mama?
Nothing is wrong with you, sweet girl. That was what Alysanne had told her, every time Gael stuttered and fumbled through her lessons, every time she failed to understand the jokes her older siblings made, every time Jaehaerys could not keep his eyes from narrowing in disappointment. Nothing is wrong.
And then--and then. And then something was wrong, like the swollen nudge of a belly against her side, the soft breath on her neck. Wrong as Gael's cold, cold fingers, circling her nipples, Gael's legs weaving through hers.
What's happening to me? Her daughter's belly ripples. She had stood naked in her bedroom, eyes wide, as Alysanne's fingers pressed against her stomach. Gael's moonblood had always been erratic, they had not noticed until it was far too late for moon tea, too late, always too late.
Her daughter's tears stain her, bitter and chilled as sea foam. Alysanne squeezes her eyes shut, willing her own tears not to come, to not sob at her grandson writhing against her like a trapped fish.
She would've legitimized him. She would have, she swears. She would have taken him in and loved him as fiercely as she loved his mother, she would have taken him up on dragonback like she did Gael when her daughter was a girl, she would have, no matter what her Jaehaerys said or did, no matter how strongly he resembled his baseborn father.
What do you mean, there's a baby in there? Her daughter's fingers move against her, reaching, frantic, scrabbling for the truth. Out of there? How can that be? What did I do wrong, Mama?
Nothing, no matter what anyone says. Nothing wrong, my sweet girl. My sweet, brave girl, heaving for air in the birthing bed, sobbing, terrified. The two of them pressed together, legs entangled, Alysanne's hands on her daughter's skin as she begged her to push, push, please push.
Why do we make babies if all they do is hurt us? Her daughter's fingers twist inside her, bending all too far, all too wrong, boneless and fish-eaten. Why wasn't he perfect, Mama? You said he'd be perfect. A perfect Targaryen prince.
He was, he was perfect. A perfect Targaryen prince, squalling in her arms as her daughter slept. Neither mother nor babe were in any danger, the maesters and midwives agreed; she would not suffer Daella's face.
And Alysanne had been left alone with her grandson, her beautiful, squirming son. Ran her finger over the bump of his little chin, just like Gael's, smoothed the hair out of his face, soft curls like Gael's. Then he had blinked up at, and his eyes...his face, the whole of his beautiful little face, when she looked at it, really looked...
What happened to my baby, Mama?
Children resemble their grandfathers, of course. But.
Why was I going to bed each night with bruises on my legs, Mama? The marks on my hips?
Her daughter is a frozen ocean, she is caught at the bottom. Gael's lips quest over her collarbone, over her chest. She sucks, and Alysanne feels herself leaking sour milk, bitter and cruel as curdled blood.
Why did Daella have to get married so very quickly, Mama? Why did her belly get so big so fast?
Her fingers clutch at the blanket, dig into nothing. Visenya laughs, cold and cruel. Her daughter touches her as if twisting a key in the lock, relentlessly, torturously, door after door sliding open.
Why did Saera run away, Mama?
Alysanne had been so angry. Angry, angry, gagging on the dragon's wroth, burning, trembling, and the babe had looked so like him she could not breathe. Her hands had shook and there was a basin of water nearby, still full, still ready, waiting--
Why did you take my son, Mama?
Her grandson was a stillbirth. Blue skin, as if he'd been drowned. The maesters and midwives had been wrong in their predictions. Her daughter was seduced by a minstrel and bore a dead babe, she told the other children. Her daughter died of summer fever, they told the world.
Why didn't you fix it, Mama?
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. She mouths it into the sheets like she whispered into her daughter's hair as Gael shook and screamed, as Jaehaerys watched blankly from the doorway. I'm sorry.
She'd said until she was worse, until Gael cried herself to sleep, until Alysanne drifted off curled around her daughter, praying to the gods that tomorrow Gael would have forgotten this whole nightmare. She'd be the same as she ever was, all laughter and questions, her curious, beautiful girl, full of love and trust in the world.
Alysanne woke up and her daughter was gone. The bed was empty, the night was dark and full of terrors. She'd soared over the city on Silverwing's back, frantic, terrified, searching and searching. There'd been a body in Blackwater Bay, silver hair gleaming, floating--
Why don't you come and find me, Mama?
Gael lifts her head and their lips meet. She forces her tongue down Alysanne's teeth, forcing her mouth wider and wider, and down her throat comes a rush of seawater, of blood and filth and the detritus of a city, clogging her lungs and splashing into her stomach until it swells, a monstrous aching thing, a dragon of ruin tearing at her guts.
Why don't you walk into the dark with me?
A split opens in her daughter's belly, rising up through Gael's chest, her chest, her face. She splits in half and falls over Alysanne in a tidal wave, cold as frozen flames sinking through herskin. Alysanne swears she can feel the tears freezing on her own cheeks--tears of joy to feel her daughter again, her Gael, her Gael.
Then she's gone. Alysanne shivers in her bed, cold and dry and alone, so empty she can barely breathe. Her fingers press against the hollow ache of her own belly, digging in hard enough to draw blood from wrinkled skin.
"Soon, my girl," she whispers into the night. Her voice is a stranger's, weary, water-logged, impossibly old. "Soon."