Aline

Unlike like the rest of her family, she is not quite into the Faith of the Seven. Instead, she finds interest in the Gods of Old Valyria. As a child, she would sneak to Queen Visenya's rooms, with Viserys following after her like the precious brother he is, and ask her to tell her about the old ways. (Despite not being the mother of her father, Viserra would call Visenya 'Muñāzma' (father's mother). Visenya had long since given up on correcting her and even found fondness in it.)

She adores her dragon, a crimson she-dragon named Circe (or Cersei seeing as the name had to come from somewhere.)

Before her father's death, Viserra dreamt of marrying Viserys, like how Aegon married his sisters, and the ancestors did before them. Of course Maegor gets exiled and she ends up overhearing just before her father has his near-assassination that her parents are planning to wed her to not Viserys, but Lord Martyn Hightower's heir as way to placify the slight Maegor caused. When Maegor takes over, the plan is forgotten in the mess.

But in 44, when the death of Visenya occurs and Alyssa flees with Alysanne and Jaehaerys, leaving Viserra and Viserys to be matyrs, Viserra, who is nearly as distraught over Visenya's death as Maegor, convinces her uncle to spare them, as killing them will only fuel his enemies words against him.

And she grinds weirwood into his wine, to chasten him, to show him the error of his ways, to drive him mad: all at once.

The old gods show her the future, the past, the present. It is all true, and yet a sunset is gold then pink then red, and just like that, she must put one vision before the other, in the right order, or she will have the waggon before the horse. She knows his beginning and his end. She knows the blade by which he will meet his end. She knows the man against whom he will wield it. There is a bitter irony in it: undefeated, even in death.

Alys sees all this, and yet, the future is hazy, and more oft than not does she understand, truly understand, the weirwood dreams only when it is too late.

She is a barn owl, cursed to live in human form. She is one with the rivers and the earth and the trees, and yet here she is, in an ill-fitting roughspun gown, grinding weirdwood roots and bones and feeling tired with her work.

He barges in once again. Alys is not surprised, and neither is he.

Daemon, who distrusts everyone, even guileless old Ser Simon, is at ease around her. Does he know? That she is the root of it all? That he owes his nights and visions to her?

Perhaps he does. Every penitent welcomes penance, however recalcitrant they might appear at first glance.

Daemon sees horrors, yet he recognises the truth in them.

“You truly are an odd sort of woman,” he says, as he finds her preparing pastes and teas once again, in the darkest hour of the night.

He has said that before. He does not know what else to say. He is glad to see another living soul, to have a heart near him that is beating, like his own. He is no man for shadows and dreams. He likes a foe of flesh and blood.

“You are an odd man.”

They all told her he wants to be “Your Grace” but he does not much look like a Grace now, in his nightshirt, his hair a tangle, and his grip around his sword handle much too tight.

This is a man at his lowest, confronted with his lowest.

Crimes. Sins.

“What are you preparing?” he asks, with a hint of that suspicion that is his signature otherwise.

“Salves,” she only says. It is true. Alys rarely lies.

There is some of the juice she drops in his wine at dinner on the worktable, but he has asked a different question.

“Grover Tully died.”

“So I heard.”

He does not ask from whom. Daemon will not confront the darker powers at play here, will sooner believe himself the victim of overindulgence than the victim of gods. 

“The boy will ready my army.”

Every single word is a shield. A good man needs no protection from the truth.

Alys smiles and grinds a handful of beetles.

There is a pause. Daemon stares at her and she knows which impulse he is fighting. They all want to know. And then they curse her.

“Have you seen it?”

A man brought down. Low. 

She turns around to face him and finds him much closer than she had thought.

“The army?” 

Alys knows what it is he means. All men fear death but this man fears defeat. It is peculiar, since he is so well practised at it.

Daemon cannot ask her. His tongue would stumble over the words and his pride would sooner take his breath than voice his fears.

Alys raises a hand to his cheek. Her fingers are red with weirwood juice and blood but he does not flinch. Daemon Targaryen is a man well accustomed to bloody hands.

Three red streaks like claw marks.

Alys’ fingers linger. The warmth of him. 

She felt that when he battered down the castle doors and interrupted their dinner.

How hot the blood of the dragon runs.

Alys' blood is cold. How many has she seen born and raised and slain? Her heart has remained cold throughout the years. A barn owl cannot care for a man. It is not in her nature.

Her dark eyes find his. Violet. It is such an unnatural colour. Alys has always loved the purple flowers in the godswood, but they too are dangerous.

Daemon's gaze is wild with fear. She knows the look. In the sea of dreams and dread, he is a drowning man. 

And like every drowning man, now that he has found purchase, he will not let go.

When he reaches for her waist, Alys drags her fingers down to his heart. The juice leaves marks on his nightshirt. Should they find him dead on the morrow, they might blame the ghost.

Alys looks up. His face is hovering above hers. It is not desire that moves him, not this time.

Daemon is a man in pain, looking for the only comfort he knows.