ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great, Heir to the Great III

The sept was beautiful.

Alyx walked slowly beneath its rising arches, his steps echoing softly across the polished stone floor. Beside him, Septon Harrick—the head Septon of New Valyria and a man of calm voice and thoughtful eyes—moved with quiet reverence through the near-finished sanctuary. Morning light streamed through the high, open spaces where stained-glass windows would soon be fitted, casting patterned shadows across the blue-stone walls and white-marble pillars.

The materials themselves were a wonder: rich blue stone quarried near Lake Aemon, on whose banks Daemonholt stood. Cool to the touch, the blue stone was interwoven with smooth marble brought from the west. The result was a structure that shimmered with a regal contrast. The great dome above was still half-finished, yet it already outdid the one in Oldtown.

“It’s beautiful, Septon Harrick,” Alyx said, letting his gaze wander across the vast, vaulted ceiling. “Truly the grandest sept I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Septon Harrick smiled humbly. “Thank you, my prince. I am glad it pleases you.”

Alyx walked a little farther, his fingers grazing a stone column. “How fares the Faith here in New Valyria?”

The Septon clasped his hands behind his back. “It grows well—better than I had ever hoped. Your father’s legend has opened the hearts of many.”

Alyx glanced back at him. “How so?”

Harrick’s eyes lit with something between reverence and quiet amusement. “When the war ended and the chains were broken, thousands of freedmen—former slaves—came here. They were hungry, lost, searching for meaning. They began worshipping your father as the Breaker of Chains.”

Alyx’s brow rose slightly. “Yes, I have heard of it… How has that helped you?”

Harrick chuckled. “They called him a living god. We, of course, relayed this to the High Septon in Oldtown.”

“The High Septon fasted for a moon after hearing of it,” Harrick continued, his tone gentle. “He said the Seven came to him in a dream—that your father, the Great King, was chosen by the gods to bring the Faith to the East, and that we should correct the misunderstanding of these poor, lost souls and show them that King Alyxander was simply the Seven’s prophet, not a god himself.”

Alyx said nothing trying to suppress a laugh.

“And so,” Harrick went on, “we began to preach what the High Septon had seen: that the Seven worked through your father, and that, through him, the light of the Faith had freed them.”

Alyx finally nodded. This could only benefit his family’s standing with the Faith in the long run. “You’re doing good work, Septon. This only strengthens the empire—and the people…”

Harrick paused mid-step, a flicker of unease crossing his face so quickly that most would have missed it—but Alyx did not.

The prince turned toward the Septon. “What is it?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nothing, my prince,” Harrick said quickly, bowing his head. “Only a thought.”

Alyx did not look away. “Septon.”

Harrick exhaled slowly. “The Drōmakar, my prince.”

Alyx’s expression darkened. He knew the name all too well. For four years it had haunted the borders of New Valyria—whispers of flame and shadow, of blades in the night.

He remembered when his uncle Daemon had come to Sunspear two years past, seeking his other uncle Lord Maron Martell’s support. What had once been scattered cells of rebellion had evolved into a coordinated insurgency. The Drōmakar—“Dark Flame” in the common tongue—hid in the shattered ruins of ancient forts, deep in the wild hills where cave systems ran for leagues. Their enemies called them fanatics; their sympathizers called them liberators.

“They’ve struck again?” Alyx asked, his voice steady.

Harrick nodded solemnly. “Yes. But this time it was not soldiers or taxmen. They targeted the newly converted—innocents. Freedmen and their children—men and women who have embraced the Seven.”

Alyx looked away, his jaw tightening. “That is… concerning.”

“It is more than concerning, Your Highness,” Harrick said. “It is sacrilege. These are people who came to us seeking light, and now they are hunted.”

Alyx said nothing for a long moment.

“I ask you, my prince—no, I beg you,” Harrick continued. “Speak to your father, the king. This must be cut out at the root. It cannot be tolerated.”

Alyx met his eyes. “You’re speaking of war.”

Silence stretched between them.

Harrick nodded. “I am—regretfully. The source lies beyond our borders, in Volantis, Qohor, and Norvos, where the Old Blood still poisons the future. The rulers there may claim they want peace, but they have done little to stop their kin from funding the flame.”

“Your father gave them thirty years to end slavery.”

“And yet, how much has changed?” Harrick asked. “The markets exist in secret. Many escape and come here, bearing tales of horror and inhumanity.”

Alyx didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the rising walls of the sept. A ray of sunlight broke through the upper arch, illuminating the unfinished statue of the Warrior.

They continued the tour in silence. Harrick introduced him to a group of recent converts—freedmen from the Orange Coast—who lit up when they saw the prince. To them, Alyx was not just royalty; he was the son of the Breaker of Chains, the man who had given them their freedom.

They knelt as they greeted him, but he bade them stand. He asked about their lives before and listened to their sad tales.

One thing was clear his father had changed the lives of millions for the better.

=====

When the visit ended, Alyx left the sept with his guard flanking him. Mounting his horse, he made his way through the city toward the castle.

The city of Daemonholt shimmered in shades of sapphire. Its walls and sweeping bridges—carved from native blue granite had earned it the nickname “The City of Sapphire,” a name spoken with awe from the Myrian Fields to the halls of King’s Landing.

This was the last stop on his journey through the empire. A year earlier, his father had commanded him to conduct a royal progress: “Let them see their prince,” the King-Emperor had said. “Let them know their future ruler not through words from others, but through sight and voice.”

So Alyx obeyed, as any dutiful son would.

From the snowy North to the beautiful coasts of the Orange Shore, he had flown Vermithor. He broke bread in the frost-covered halls of White Harbor, listened to Rhoynish ballads in plazas along the reclaimed Rhoyne, and dined beneath a canopy of stars in the palaces of Lorath. The people called it the Prince’s Court—Alyxander, the heir, moving through the realm to know its people.

Often Alyssa accompanied him—more often than not, in fact. Jocelyn joined at times, as did Alyssa’s younger siblings; even his brothers Maelor and Baelor traveled with him for a stretch.

With Alyssa, things had been… complicated. At first they fought like cats in a sack, trading barbs and insults as sharp as spear-points. But slowly, something shifted—perhaps it was the miles they shared, the long nights by campfires, or the way she stopped mocking his swordplay and started helping him improve it. Somewhere along those thousands of leagues, without realizing exactly when it began, Alyx had fallen in love with her.

It was not sudden—no bolt of lightning, no flash of prophecy. He simply found that her laughter lingered in his mind longer than any victory, that her pride and wit could make even the stoniest lords bend. He remembered what his sister Olympia told him after she had given birth to her daughter: “Your betrothed has grown up, little brother. And so have you.”

Two years ago, Alyx might have tried to end the arrangement their fathers had set when they were children. Now, he would challenge the world to defend it.

As his horse trotted down the grand avenue toward Daemonholt’s central square, Alyx turned to admire the sweeping arches of the Grand Library rising behind the blue-stoned sept. Knowledge was something his father prized, to the delight of the maesters, whose numbers had doubled over his father’s nearly eighteen-year reign.

This city was the heart of New Valyria—perhaps the most troubled part of the empire, save for Noveria.

“I’ve never met such a war-hungry septon,” Kingsguard Ser Axl Tully, riding beside him, muttered.

Alyx laughed. “All my father’s men here want war, Axl. They think the Broken Daughters are ripe for the taking.”

Axl grunted. “I don’t like hearing men whisper that the King is weak.”

Alyx’s smile faded, just slightly. “If you hear anyone say that… take their tongue.”

Axl grinned. “It would be my pleasure, my prince.”

They rode on, deeper into the sapphire city, its streets buzzing with heat and motion. Merchants hawked their goods beneath bright canopies; guards patrolled with halberds in hand.

Alyx slowed his horse as they neared the castle, catching sight of a work crew. Buckets of lye sloshed against dark-red paint. Something had been scrawled on the wall, half-washed but unmistakable: Drōmakar Vezof! The Black Flame’s crude sigil—a dragon with seven severed heads—was still faintly visible beneath the foam.

“Damn these rebels,” Axl muttered, while Alyx glared at the wall in silence.

Soon they entered the castle, known as the Blue Keep—a deliberate mirror to the Red Keep of King’s Landing. The Red Keep was red; the Blue Keep was blue. Daemon had named it to provoke his cousin, Alyx’s father, who ultimately won that little spat—though Alyx no longer recalled how.

In the inner courtyard, the great and ambitious lords of New Valyria had already begun to gather. They bowed as he rode by—some in genuine respect, others with shrewd calculation. These were the “New Lords,” men elevated during the conquest who now wielded wealth, armies, and considerable political will. Born of war—of blood and fire—they were at last planting roots in the empire’s soil.

Alyx’s keen eye picked out five figures who stood tallest in influence:

Lord Ser Varyn Hill of House Hillspur—once a hedge knight from the brambled shores of Crackclaw Point, now lord of the Copperplain. His fertile lands, rich in copper, glittered in the heart of the Myrian Fields. Alyx remembered how his father had knighted the man himself after the Battle of Narmell. Varyn bore a weathered face and a quiet, dangerous smile.

Lady Myra Redstark of House Redstark—raven-haired and sharp-eyed, she ruled Lynsera, a city blooming on the Orange Coast. Her father, Lord Myron Redstark, had been assassinated by the Drōmakar. Her gaze never left Alyx as he passed.

Lord Quent Greymight—a veteran who had served with distinction during the war and been granted lands near Tyrosh.

Lord Cedric Dorran of House Dorran—second son of a minor Riverlands line, now master of the Golden Hollow. His inland domain thrived on wheat and wine. Cedric was young, smooth-spoken, and entirely too shrewd for his age.

Lady Aelora Vance of Moria—a widow with no warmth left in her, only iron. The Drōmakar feared her name. Rumor claimed she had drowned rebels in vats of dye to send a message after they killed her husband; the rumor was likely true.

They all bowed. Alyx acknowledged them with a nod—no more than necessary. He knew they had not come to Daemonholt by coincidence. Word of his arrival had reached every corner of New Valyria, and they had flocked here like vultures to a carcass—or hawks to a rising sun.

But he had no time for court games today.

Handing off the reins, he strode through the keep’s inner halls. Sunlight streamed through stained blue-glass windows, making the stone beneath his boots glow like sapphire.

Alyssa was waiting. They were bound for the Orange Coast—a short retreat to the royal hunting cottage near the sea—to spend some time alone before her father returned from King’s Landing.

======

Reaching her chambers, Alyx pushed open the carved wooden door—only to be tackled the instant he stepped inside.

With a burst of laughter, Alyssa leapt at him, arms locking around his shoulders. She used to knock him over and pin him to the ground when they were younger, but now Alyx was taller and broader; he caught her easily, staggering only a little as he clasped her waist and lifted her.

They kissed—brief, breathless.

Alyssa pulled back just far enough to smirk. “I miss the days I could knock you flat and sit on top of you.”

Alyx grinned. “I don’t mind you being on top of me.”

She laughed, a warm flush coloring her cheeks, as he gently set her on her feet. Her hand lingered on his chest a moment longer than necessary.

“We have four—maybe five—days before your father returns,” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Alyssa rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. Don’t remind me.” Crossing the room, she snatched a spear from a rack near her bed—the one he had given her last year, its head polished to a gleam. “I can’t wait to hunt tigers. I had the tip re-sharpened. Let’s see if they roar as loudly as everyone claims.”

Alyx chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Gods help the tigers.”

“And thank the Seven my mother isn’t here,” Alyssa added, spinning the spear with casual grace.

“When does she return from Myr?” he asked.

“With Father, I suppose,” she muttered. “If she had her way, I’d never be allowed to come along at all. ‘Not proper for a princess,’” she said in a mocking, haughty voice. “This is all our queen’s fault.”

Alyx rolled his eyes. “Here you go again.”

Alyssa stopped pacing and faced him. “And here you go defending her.”

“She wants you—Alyssa Targaryen, my betrothed and the future queen when I ascend the throne—to learn how to rule. How shocking,” he replied dryly.

Alyssa narrowed her eyes. “You’ve always had a blind spot for her. I don’t understand why.”

“Because she’s my father’s wife,” Alyx said evenly. “She’s mother to my brothers, and she has always treated me as her own son.”

“She’s a schemer,” Alyssa snapped. “And I hope she isn’t plotting to steal your birthright.”

Alyx stiffened. His voice, when it came, was cold. “You go too far, Alyssa.”

Silence settled between them; the spear’s tip rested on the floor between them like a thin blade of tension.

Alyssa folded her arms, her gaze cool and calculating. “Come now, Alyx,” she said softly but firmly. “You know the queen leads one of the strongest factions at court.”

Alyx frowned. “You mean the one that’s actually trying to keep the warmongers at bay? The one that speaks for peace when half the realm dreams of another war?”

“Yes,” Alyssa replied without flinching, “that very same faction.”

She stepped toward him, lowering her voice. “I had a thought, and it scares me, Alyx. What if she uses that power—her influence with the lords and with your father’s council—to start whispering in ears? Whispering that her son, not you, should be the heir. She wouldn’t even need to say it outright—just a word here, a nod there. That’s all it takes at court, and you know it.”

Alyx stared at her, jaw tight. “Alyssa…”

“Your father hardly pays court politics any mind anymore,” she pressed. “You know that. He’s busy with the wider affairs of the empire. The court is hers now, Alyx, and she knows how to play it.”

Alyx stepped back, crossing his arms. “I think you’ve been listening too much to your father’s bannermen—too much time with these ‘New Lords.’ You’re starting to see ghosts where there are none.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Ghosts, is it? Then what do you call the Drōmakar? My father’s bannermen are right to fear the danger if—”

“This isn’t about rebels—don’t change the subject,” Alyx cut in, his voice rising slightly. “This is about Rhaenyra, and your irrational hatred of her.”

“I can explain it,” Alyssa snapped, stepping closer. “She’s a schemer, Alyx. She always has been. She wormed her way into your father’s heart barely a year after Queen Myria—your mother—died. A year, Alyx.”

Alyx’s face went hard. “Enough.”

“No—not enough,” she shot back, stubborn fire rising in her eyes. “You were just a boy when it happened. She found him at his lowest and seduced him so she could be queen. Now she has sons of her own. You think she wouldn’t use her power at court for their gain?”

Alyx turned slightly, brow furrowed, but she wasn’t finished.

“I’ve heard whispers,” Alyssa went on, her voice dropping to a sharp hush. “Rumors from court—that your father is considering splitting the empire. You would rule in the East, and one of her sons would take the throne in Westeros.”

Alyx’s face froze. Hurt flickered in his eyes, then disbelief—then fury. His fists clenched at his sides. When he spoke, his voice was low and cold.

“Perhaps, Alyssa, you’re the one easily influenced. Perhaps that’s why Rhaenyra wants you to act properly and learn how to be a queen.”

She opened her mouth, but he stepped toward her, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Alyssa—she entered our lives after my mother died, and she cared for me, for Jocelyn. Even Olympia came to understand that.”

He moved closer, voice thick with restrained anger. “We Targaryens are supposed to stand together. We are the house of dragons, not vipers. Yet you, my love, sound determined to tear us apart over a few courtly lessons and imagined slights.”

Alyssa’s breath hitched. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Alyx said, turning away, his tone clipped. “What’s not fair is how easily you forget what family means. You speak of scheming, yet you came here with a blade sharpened for the very people who raised me. Think on that.”

He strode to the door without a backward glance.

“Alyx…” she called, her voice softening.

“I’ll see you when we leave for the coast,” he said, not turning around.

And then he was gone.

======

Alyx moved swiftly through the corridors of the Blue Keep, still trying to shake the remnants of the argument simmering inside him. He barely registered the soft sound of his boots on the sapphire-and-white floor, his thoughts spinning with Alyssa’s words—until a familiar voice broke the silence.

“My prince.”

Lord Varyn Hill stood at the far end of the hallway and bowed deeply.

Alyx drew a steadying breath. “Lord Varyn,” he said, polite but guarded. “You’re still here? I thought you would have ridden back to the Copperplain to gather your men.”

“I remained to await the Hand’s return, Your Highness. My son will arrive soon with our levies for the campaign,” Varyn replied with a respectful nod. “I hoped you would join us as well.”

Alyx seized the chance to turn his mind from Alyssa. “Of course. The threat the Drōmakar pose is growing. Two dragons will end things more quickly than one. I’ll be there.”

Varyn’s expression brightened with grim satisfaction. “I am glad to hear it, my prince. You and the Bronze Fury strike fear into their hearts, I’m certain.”

“It began, as you know, with assassinations—tax collectors, minor officials, grain overseers,” Varyn went on. “Then they started torching farms and raiding caravans. Beasts like these must be put down.”

“I agree,” Alyx said, his jaw tightening.

“But now,” Varyn continued, “we finally have more—locations. We’ve tracked them to several hidden redoubts.”

“Tell me about these hideouts,” Alyx said. He would learn the details at the council next week, but curiosity got the better of him.

Varyn began listing them. “Ruined Valyrian strongholds in the Myrian Fields—clever of them, hiding in ancient rubble. Another nest lies deep in the Forests of Cindarro, that cursed woodland on the Orange Coast where travelers vanish. And the most elusive? Beneath Tyrosh itself—sunken tunnels left by Caraxes and Balerion’s wrath.”

Alyx’s eyes darkened.

“It won’t be easy, my prince,” Varyn admitted, “but with you beside us, the campaign will move swiftly. Once Prince Daemon returns, we ride.”

He sighed, almost theatrically. “Truth be told, it could have ended a year ago.”

Alyx frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I assumed you knew,” Varyn said carefully. “The king—your father—nearly declared war. Everything was prepared. The Hand drafted an ultimatum to Volantis that would have forced their hand and given us full cause.”

Alyx stiffened. “That was when I was summoned back to the capital. My father sent me out on progress soon after.”

“Exactly,” Varyn said, nodding. “We all thought war was imminent—especially after he called you home. The Broken Daughters were vulnerable, the field was ripe. But then”—he lifted a hand and let it fall—“the king changed his mind.”

Alyx stood very still. “My father never told me.”

Varyn’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps he had his reasons. But many of us—myself included—wonder what made the king pull back…”

He lowered his voice. “There are some who say your father is—”

“Alarm! Intruders! Protect the prince—protect the princess!”

Steel rang against stone somewhere deep within the Blue Keep. Alyx froze for a heartbeat; then instinct seized him. His heart lurched into his throat.

Alyssa.

Without a word, he sprinted forward, drawing his sword in one fluid motion. Lord Varyn followed close behind, shouting for nearby guards to join them.

They rounded a corner and almost collided with two guards locked in vicious combat against men dressed as servants—one wielding a hidden blade, the other a curved dagger.

Alyx didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, parrying a thrust meant for one of the guards and drove his sword through the attacker’s ribs. Varyn tackled the second assailant, slamming him against the wall and burying a dagger in his throat.

The last attacker tried to flee, but a guardsman speared him cleanly in the back. Another imposter already lay bleeding out on the floor, his disguise soaked through.

“They were headed deeper in!” a guard shouted, wiping blood from his blade.

Alyx’s face went pale.

“Alyssa.”

He took off again—faster, heart pounding hard enough to burst. Every step toward her chambers felt like a lifetime. Ahead, he heard shouting and the clash of steel.

“Alyssa!” he roared, bursting through the door with his blade raised.

The sight froze him.

One man lay dead beside the bed, a knife buried in his chest. Another knelt nearby, wheezing, his hands drenched in his own blood. And Alyssa—his Alyssa—stood over him. Her silk dress was torn and soaked in crimson; blood dripped from her arms. Her hair clung to her cheeks, and her chest heaved with fury.

She held the man’s face in one blood-slick hand. With the other she slowly drew a sword across his neck, her voice low and venomous:

“You think you could kill me?” she hissed. “I’m Alyssa Targaryen. Daughter of the Rogue Prince.”

The man gurgled as he collapsed, blood pouring from the widening gash.

Alyssa stood for a heartbeat longer, then the sword clattered from her fingers as she saw Alyx. Their eyes met, and without a word she stepped over the body and fell into his arms.

“I’m here,” Alyx whispered, holding her close. “I’m here. Are you hurt?”

She looked up at him, blood smeared across her cheek. “No,” she rasped. “Just insulted.”

He blinked. “Insulted?”

“They sent only two amateurs to kill me,” she muttered, her pride flaring even now.

Alyx managed a broken laugh. “Only you would jest at a time like this.”

Lord Varyn entered behind them, his expression grim as he surveyed the corpses. “It was the Drōmakar, my prince—without question.”

Alyssa’s face twisted. “Of course it was. Cowards.”

Alyxander turned to Varyn, rage flooding his veins. His voice was icy. “You said one of their main strongholds is in the Myrian Fields?”

Varyn nodded. “The caves and two old forts.”

“Gather as many men as you can,” Alyxander said coldly. “We end this before my uncle returns.”

Varyn’s face split into a savage smile. He knelt. “I—and all the lords of New Valyria—am at your service, my prince.”

Alyxander said nothing. He looked down at the blood on Alyssa’s hands, at the still bodies on the floor, at the fear already turning into fury.

He would prove that he was truly the son of Alyxander the Great.

.

.