ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great, Heir to the Great II

Alyx ducked just in time as Oberyn’s spear sliced through the air above him. The wooden shaft cracked against the training post with a sharp thud that made several of the watching squires flinch. Oberyn didn’t miss a beat he spun, bringing the butt of the spear around with a flourish.

Alyx deflected it clumsily with his practice sword and staggered back.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Oberyn asked, grinning as he circled Alyx like a desert cat toying with a slower lizard.

“You’re only three years older than I am,” Alyx shot back, panting as he adjusted his stance.

“Oh? Is the imperial prince making excuses?” Oberyn’s eyes glinted with mischief.

Alyx’s jaw tightened, and he surged forward. Their weapons clashed in a flurry of strikes and counters. He fought with determination, his feet quick on the sun-warmed stones of the courtyard, sweat beading on his brow. But Oberyn was faster, more fluid he fought like the wind, impossible to catch and dangerous to underestimate.

A sudden feint caught Alyx off guard and, with one swift movement, Oberyn swept his legs from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. The breath rushed from Alyx’s lungs, and he lay there a moment, grimacing as pain bloomed across his ribs.

“Good work for a boy your age,” Oberyn said, offering his hand.

“I’m a man,” Alyx muttered, allowing himself to be pulled up.

“Barely,” Oberyn replied with a laugh. “You’re still afraid to step foot in a brothel.”

Alyx’s face burned. He remembered the last time Oberyn had dragged him to one, how the women had laughed at his wide-eyed discomfort, how strange and heavy the air had felt with perfume and heat.

“Ha! Look at that. Already red. This does not bode well, cousin,” Oberyn teased, clapping him on the back.

“Shut up,” Alyx muttered, brushing dust from his tunic.

“Well, I’m off to have some fun,” Oberyn said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“It’s not even noon, Oberyn,” Alyx said.

“Martell blood runs hot, my sweet prince. You’ll learn that soon enough.” He ruffled Alyx’s hair and walked away, whistling.

Alyx scowled, smoothing his tousled hair, and turned to find Ser Axl Tully, his sworn shield and Kingsguard knight, watching with a faint smile.

“You did well against the Martell,” Tully said, nodding approvingly.

Alyx grinned in spite of himself. “All because of your training, Ser.”

“I’m honored,” Axl replied.

The sun was climbing higher, and the courtyard stones were beginning to shimmer with heat. “Too hot today,” Alyx muttered, heading toward the cool interior of the palace.

The halls of Sunspear offered welcome relief. The sandstone walls blocked the worst of the heat, and the air carried the scent of citrus and salt. He walked the familiar path to his chamber, servants bowing as he passed. Inside, he stripped off his sweat-soaked tunic and trousers, pulling on Dornish robes light, loose, dyed linens that clung to his frame like water. The pale-cream fabric was cool against his skin, tied at the waist with a woven sash.

He let out a sigh and stepped back into the hall.

“Nothing to do today,” he thought.

He wandered aimlessly through the arched corridors of the palace, his footsteps echoing softly.

He had been sent to Dorne, his mother’s homeland two years ago.

He had been shocked by his father’s decision. Truly, he had.

He remembered that day clearly, telling Alyssa he would never be sent away, not after what he had overheard while spying from a secret passageway in the Hand’s Tower, listening as his uncle Maron and his father debated his future.

Alyssa had teased him mercilessly afterward, her smug grin dancing in his mind even now.

Six moons later, on his one and tenth nameday, his father called him in and spoke plainly. It was about safety, he said—about danger. A plot had been uncovered, meant to take the heir’s life. His father’s words were careful, but the truth was plain: assassins still posed a threat. Even after the House of Black and White had been reduced to melted rubble by his father, ghosts of its order remained.

“The Martells,” his father had said quietly. “They will keep you safe… you will be safer there for the next few years.”

And they had. His uncle and his wife, Lady Nylla, had welcomed him without reservation. His cousins Oberyn, Arianne, and Lewyn had drawn him in quickly. It had taken time, of course; for moons he had longed for King’s Landing. But slowly he came to like Dorne. As his mother once told him, blood remembers the land.

And it did.

He came to love the sharp red cliffs of the coast and the golden orchards near the Greenblood. He came to love the freedom of Dorne the lack of stiff court formalities, the boldness with which his kin spoke and lived. The people adored him. They called him their prince, though many still hated his father. Dorne was the first of his father’s conquests, after all, and conquest left scars.

He still visited King’s Landing every three moons, riding atop Vermithor. He would stay for a week or two at a time, spending his days with Jocelyn, Rhaenyra, his father, and even Alyssa his so-called betrothed. And there were his brothers, Baelor and Maelor, who swarmed him like ducklings each time he returned, always demanding that next time he bring them back to Dorne with him.

He loved them all of them.

And though it still hurt to be far away, he never doubted that they loved him too.

He walked toward his uncle’s solar—half-hoping Lord Maron would be in the mood for a game of cyvasse.They kept score now: forty wins for Maron, twenty-six for Alyx. Even so, he was catching up as he studied and played the game more and more.

He reached the door, knocked once, and pushed it open. The scent of spiced wine and parchment filled the room. Sunlight poured through the lattice windows, casting golden patterns across the floor.

But it wasn’t the wine or the books that caught his eye; it was the wall.

One entire wall of the solar was draped with an enormous tapestry, woven so intricately it seemed almost alive—a map, but not just any map.

“Ah, nephew,” came his uncle’s voice from across the room. Lord Maron Martell lounged beside a low table, fingers stained with ink. He looked up and smiled. “Well? What do you think?”

Alyx didn’t answer at first; his eyes were fixed on the tapestry.

“It’s beautiful,” he said at last, quietly.

“It is, isn’t it?” Maron replied, rising to stand beside him.

The tapestry was a map of the known world—Westeros and Essos both—deep red wherever Targaryen dominion reigned.

Alyx’s gaze went first to Westeros. He traced the outline of the continent—the icy sprawl of the North, the jagged fingers of the Vale, the wide green fields of the Reach, the winding rivers of the Riverlands, the Westerlands’ rocky gold, and Dorne, bold and sun-baked at the southern tip.

He noticed that the borders of the Crownlands and Stormlands were almost indistinguishable now, merged by red threads. That made sense: both were ruled by his family, and soon one of his brothers would be granted Storm’s End after Aunt Rhaenys. Lords and smallfolk alike had begun to call the united regions by a new name—the Kingdom of Stormcrown.

Westeros, all of it, was red under the Targaryen crown, held more tightly now than it had ever been, even in the time of the Conciliator.

Alyx turned his gaze to Essos.

Western Essos, like Westeros, was bathed in red.

His eyes roamed slowly over the sprawling continent depicted on the tapestry, taking in the newly stitched borders. It held three kingdoms—or provinces, as his father preferred to call them. His father had made it clear: only Westeros would bear the title of kingdom.

In the south lay New Valyria.

It stretched from the Stepstones to the Orange Coast, encompassing Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh, as well as the entirety of what had once been the Disputed Lands. These were now called the Myrian Fields, renamed in honor of his mother, the late Queen Myria. Alyx stared at that name for a long moment, his fingers unconsciously reaching toward the red-stitched script.

His uncle Daemon ruled New Valyria from Daemonholt, a new city rising in the heart of the former no-man’s-land. Once war-ravaged and desolate, the Myrian Fields had been transformed. Peace had turned the barren soil fertile; the conflict-scored plains were now a patchwork of farms, vineyards, and towns—a second Reach, many called it. Prosperity bloomed where blood had once run.

Uncle Daemon spent more time in King’s Landing than in Daemonholt, his duties as Hand of the King chaining him to the Iron Throne rather than to his provincial seat.

Alyx’s gaze travelled northward, past the golden fields of New Valyria, to the province of Andalos.

It encompassed the ancient Andal lands and the territories once ruled by Pentos. The city of Pentos partially destroyed was being rebuilt like many of the Free Cities after the war and now served as the provincial capital. Andalos was governed by a Pentoshi merchant lord named Ios Sovail, a man who had cast his lot with the Targaryens early in the conflict. In return, he had been allowed to rule as Lord Governor.

Rumours, however, clung as thick as summer fog in the capital. Many whispered that Ios was merely a placeholder, a temporary steward until one of Alyx’s younger brothers or even Alyx himself claimed the mantle of Lord of Andalos. After all, Ios did not hold the title Lord of All the Andals; that honour rested solely with the king.

Finally Alyx looked farther north, to the cold, sea-brushed lands once known as Braavos and Lorath.

Now they were called Noveria, a name from the ancient tongue of the Rhoynar, resurrected and given life by royal decree. The province was ruled directly by the crown: no governors, no provincial lords, only emissaries of his father’s will.

At its centre a new city was rising, Alyxandria. Built atop the ruins of Braavos, it was meant to rival Oldtown as a beacon of knowledge and art. Scholars, architects, and dreamers flocked there, funded by coin from the Iron Throne and by the vision of the King-Emperor. Even the Citadel was erecting a new tower in its heart.

To the further east lay the Three Broken Daughters, the cities of Volantis, Qohor, and Norvos. These were the cities that had lost the war, yet many still spoke of finishing them off with one final campaign to bring them fully to heel and make the empire even more powerful.

Alyx knew well of the lords in New Valyria, especially those most vocal in calling for another war.

The tapestry was history made manifest, proof that his father had done what even Aegon the Conqueror could not. He had built an empire—an empire across two continents.

Alyx stared at it for a long time, his chest swelling with quiet pride. Yet beneath the pride lay a heavy question: What would he do with it all when it became his?

“All this will be yours one day,” Maron said, breaking Alyx from his thoughts.

The words echoed exactly what he had just been pondering, as though his uncle had plucked them straight from his heart. He turned back to the tapestry.

Could he truly rule all of this? Would he ever measure up to his father? The question pierced deeper than he expected. How could he carry the weight of an empire built in fire and blood—an empire forged by a man who had shattered centuries of history to create something entirely new? How could he hope to follow in the footsteps of King-Emperor Alyxander Targaryen, the Great Conqueror?

Would the lords respect him? Would the people fear him? Or would they see only the shadow of a far greater man? What if he failed, what if he became the reason it all fell apart?

His heart constricted. The edges of the tapestry seemed to blur; triumph felt like burden.

“Alyx,” Maron said, concern softening his voice. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Alyx lied quickly. “Just…admiring the tapestry.”

Maron studied him for a moment, then stepped beside him. His gaze lingered on the sprawling map, pausing on the red-dyed Dornish coast.

“I once hated your father,” he said quietly. “He conquered Dorne, humiliated the Martell name and he took my sister.”

Alyx looked up, surprised by the frankness.

“But in the end,” Maron continued, “everything turned out as it should. Part of me still resents him—for the war, for Myria’s choice, for what it cost us. But I know…” He paused, voice softening. “I know Myria would hate me if I held on to that.”

He turned fully to Alyx. “She loved your father, Alyx. Truly. I didn’t want to see it at first….”

Alyx lowered his gaze. “I’m starting to forget her not her face, but the little things. The way she laughed. The songs she sang. Every time I think of her, it hurts, so I try not to.”

Maron’s expression grew stern but gentle. “Don’t do that. Don’t run from her memory. Carry it always. Remembering love isn’t weakness—it makes us strong.”

Silence settled between them for a heartbeat. Then Maron sighed. “Your uncle Daemon will arrive soon.”

Alyx perked up. “He is?”

“Oh yes,” Maron said dryly. “The great Archon and Hand of the King, deigning to visit us lesser Dornish. He’s meeting with me to discuss certain matters.”

Alyx smiled, his earlier gloom already fading. “I can’t wait.”

“Good,” Maron said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Be useful—help your aunt prepare for the Hand’s visit.”

Alyx nodded. “Yes, Uncle.”

=====

Alyx stood waiting, squinting up at the cloudless sky. His cousins flanked him, with his uncle and aunt close by. The sea breeze was hot and dry, carrying the scent of salt.

Then came the sound a deep, echoing beat of wings. Caraxes.

The Red Terror streaked across the sky like a bloody lance, spiralling once before dropping low and landing hard beyond the outer walls. The ground trembled beneath their feet and dust billowed in waves. The dragon let out a guttural hiss as it settled, wings folding with a leathery crack.

“Always showing off,” Maron muttered.

Alyx grinned, eyes locked on the dragon’s massive silhouette. From Caraxes’ side a tall figure slid down with practiced ease: Daemon Targaryen, Hand of the King and Archon of New Valyria. His white-blond hair was bound back, and his long cloak flared in the wind. Most striking of all was the gleaming golden arm at his left side, intricate and burnished like living art. Some had begun calling him Daemon Goldenhand, though Alyx knew his uncle loathed the name.

As Daemon strode forward with his usual predatory confidence, Alyx’s smile faltered.

Behind him walked a girl in a flowing blue gown, silver clasps glinting at her shoulders…Alyssa.

Alyx let out a low groan.

“By the Seven,” Oberyn whispered. “That is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Irritated, Alyx smacked Oberyn’s shoulder.

“Ow! What was that for?” Oberyn laughed, clearly delighted. “I didn’t realize she was taken.”

“She’s just an annoying brat,” Alyx muttered.

Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Alyssa’s smirk when their gazes met sent a flutter through his stomach. She was more striking than ever taller now, sharper. It had been a year since their paths had crossed. She had spent most of her time in Daemonholt while he remained in Dorne, and she hadn’t been in King’s Landing during his recent visits.

They had written, of course letters filled with half-snide remarks and challenges.

“You’re a lucky man, cousin,” Oberyn said with a grin.

Alyx smacked him again. “Shut up.”

The gates opened, and Daemon and his small retinue crossed the courtyard. Maron stepped forward first, ever the proud lord of Dorne, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Prince Daemon,” Maron said smoothly. “Dorne welcomes you again.”

Daemon gave a half-bow, voice silky. “Prince Maron—Lord of Dorne,” he emphasized, a glint in his eye.

Alyx rolled his eyes. His uncle never missed a chance to needle Maron though the jabs were far more playful now than years past. Maron caught Alyx’s eye, raised an eyebrow knowingly, and suppressed a smile.

Then Daemon turned to Alyx.

“My dear nephew,” he said, spreading his arms. “I hope you’ve not become too Dornish.”

“No such thing, Uncle,” Alyx replied, stepping into his uncle’s embrace.

He felt the cool weight of the golden hand on his back as Daemon patted him once. “Good. There’s some Targaryen pride left in you.”

“I’ve still got wings.”

“And fire, I hope,” Daemon replied with a knowing smirk.

Alyx ignored Alyssa, acting as though she weren’t even there.

Even when she cleared her throat—loud enough to echo through the courtyard—he kept his gaze fixed on Daemon, trading pleasantries as if she did not exist.

“Did the Dornish sun melt your brains, Alyx?” Alyssa asked, her voice equal parts honey and bite.

Alyx turned toward her slowly, expression blank. “Oh, Alyssa, you’re here too? When I saw only one dragon overhead, I assumed only one Targaryen had arrived.”

Alyssa’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you…”

“None of that,” Daemon interjected, his golden hand glinting as he raised it between them.

“But kepa, he…”

“Not here, Alyssa,” Daemon said, sterner now. Then he smirked. “You may beat him up in private if you must.”

Alyssa folded her arms and glared at Alyx.

Daemon turned to his nephew, amusement in his voice. “Greet your betrothed properly.”

Alyx sighed theatrically. “Welcome, Alyssa.”

“Use my full title,” she insisted, nose tilting imperiously.

He rolled his eyes. “Welcome, Princess Alyssa.” Stepping closer, he lowered his voice: “Your royal pain-in-the…”

Alyssa gasped, scandalized.

“Enough!” Daemon clapped a hand on both their shoulders and chuckled. “Let’s get inside before we start a royal scandal.”

“Indeed,” Maron said, already turning away.

Alyx and Alyssa continued to bicker as they walked through Sunspear’s arching sandstone halls.

Oberyn, sauntering behind with his usual smirk, leaned toward Alyssa. “A goddess born of flame had I known such beauty would grace Dorne, I’d have composed a sonnet.”

Alyssa halted, expression cool. “Please do. Then shove it down your throat.”

“Princess Alyssa…” Oberyn began.

“That’s the Princess of the Orange Coast to you,” she interrupted icily.

Oberyn clutched his chest in mock agony. “Wounded—mortally so. Yet I see your heart is already promised…to a good friend of mine.”

Alyssa flushed. Alyx blinked in surprise as color spread across her cheeks; she quickly looked away.

When they reached the private wing, Alyx took over as guide. He led Alyssa through shaded courtyards and corridors lined with mosaics of Rhoynar queens and Martell heroes. Now and then she paused to stroke the cool stone or admire the strange Dornish flowers blooming on the balconies.

Alyx found himself glancing at her more often than he meant to—watching how her silver-gold hair caught the light, how a subtle smile played on her lips when she thought no one was looking.

Catching him staring, she tilted her head, bemused. “What are you looking at?”

He blinked, then shrugged. “Oh…nothing. Just something odd about you.”

“Odd?” she shot back.

“Your eyes—they’re…bigger.” He scratched the back of his head. “Very beautiful,” he added under his breath.

Alyssa squinted. “Well, your… um… your—”

Alyx grinned. “By the gods—Alyssa Targaryen, stumped? At a loss for a comeback?”

“Shut up,” she muttered, swatting his shoulder.

He laughed, and the tension between them eased as they continued the tour.

=====

The feast that night was a grand affair, the great tables lined with every sort of food. The scent of spiced lamb, sweet Dornish wine, and roasted peppers filled the hall, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the rhythmic clapping that followed the minstrels’ pipes and drums in the corner.

Alyx found himself seated between Oberyn and Alyssa—a placement that felt like a particularly cruel joke from the gods.

Oberyn was in rare form, leaning close to Alyssa and whispering bawdy tales that made her laugh behind a delicately raised hand. Each time her laughter rang out, Alyx shot his cousin a dagger-sharp glare. Whatever frost Alyssa had brought with her had long since melted.

He tore a piece of bread a little too forcefully, fighting the urge to scowl outright.

Across the hall he could see his uncles—Daemon and Maron—leaning together in quiet discussion. Alyx’s brow furrowed. Rumour said Daemon had come to Dorne because something was happening in New Valyria—something grave enough for the Hand of the King to seek Dornish aid.

That alone twisted Alyx’s stomach. Daemon, asking Dorne for help? The man was hardly known for warm feelings toward the Dornish.

What was happening in New Valyria? A rebellion? Had his father finally decided to march on the Broken Daughters—Volantis, Norvos, Qohor? Were they headed for another war? Too many questions.

“Why are you glaring at my father?” came a soft, amused voice behind him.

Alyx jolted, turning to find Alyssa watching him, her eyes sharp despite her smirk.

“I wasn’t glaring,” he muttered. “I was…thinking.”

“Well, stop thinking. It’s dull,” she said, leaning in. “Why don’t we slip out of here? It’s dull here. Maybe we can find the yard and have a spar…it’s been too long.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “You seemed to be having plenty of fun with Oberyn.”

Alyssa shrugged, grinning. “Obie is a funny man.”

“Obie?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yes—Obie. He asked me to call him that,” she replied sweetly, letting the words hang.

Alyx’s jaw tightened. “Of course he did.”

Alyssa seized Alyx by the wrist and—without waiting for permission or protest—hauled him up from the table and out of the feast hall. He barely managed a glance back at Oberyn, who answered with a mocking wink, before the doors swung shut behind them.

They walked the quiet stone corridors of Sunspear, torchlight throwing flickering shadows across their faces.

“I missed you,” Alyssa said softly after a moment.

Alyx glanced sideways at her and smirked. “I missed you too… though perhaps not that much.”

She shoved him hard enough that he bumped into the wall; he laughed.

“I returned to King’s Landing a week after your last visit,” she went on as they stepped into the open air, “and I don’t want to go back.”

“Why not?” he asked, brow arched.

Alyssa huffed. “Because our dear Queen Rhaenyra has decided it’s time I behave like a proper future queen—no more sparring, no more riding. Mother’s forbidden it, and even Father has gone quiet.”

“So the queen managed to sway your mother?”

“She makes me sit through endless councils, listening to old men drone about tribute, grain, and treaties. I hate it. I hate her.”

Alyx snorted. “Perhaps I should ask my father for a new betrothed, then.”

Alyssa froze. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” His smile widened.

She stalked closer, eyes narrowing. “You won’t rid yourself of me so easily. I’ll be queen—a warrior queen, like Visenya.”

“You don’t even have a dragon yet,” he teased.

“I will,” she muttered. “And I already know which one.”

He raised an amused eyebrow but let it pass.

Their sharp words soon softened. Wandering through the palace gardens and up a winding tower stair, they shared easier conversation. Stars glittered overhead, the moon casting a silver glow across the sand-dusted rooftops.

Alyssa spoke of life in New Valyria—the golden towers of Daemonholt, Westerosi lords aping Valyrian airs, and the unrest simmering beneath the surface. Alyx told her of Dorne and his own adventures.

At last they reached the tower’s summit. Leaning against the stone balcony, they gazed out over the vast Dornish night in companionable silence—

—until, inevitably, they began bickering again.

=====

Alyx walked beside his uncle into the courtyard. Overhead came the thunderous sound of Caraxes preparing for flight wings stretched wide, tail lashing with impatience.

Yet Alyx’s attention drifted from dragon and rider to a small group of women climbing down from a sand-coloured carriage. He recognised several of them at once—Alyssa’s handmaidens.

He frowned. “Alyssa and Uncle Daemon arrived on dragonback,” he muttered. “So why are her maids only turning up now?”

Before he could puzzle it out, Daemon turned to him. “Alyssa will be staying here in Sunspear,” he said lightly, “until your next journey back to King’s Landing.”

Alyx blinked. “What?”

Alyssa, standing just behind Daemon, gave him a wicked little wink.

Maron stepped forward. “We are honoured to have you in Sunspear, Princess Alyssa,” he said warmly.

“Indeed,” Oberyn added with a flourishing smile. “The Princess of the Orange Coast can only make Dorne shine brighter.”

“Dorne is bright enough already,” Alyx muttered.

Daemon shot Alyssa a pointed look. “Keep away from the Dornish men,” he warned dryly.

Maron barked a laugh.

Turning back to Alyx, Daemon clapped him on the shoulder. “Bring her home safely—and try not to quarrel. You’re not children any more.”

With that he swung into Caraxes’ saddle. The great red dragon growled, then surged skyward on a blast of scorching wind that rippled through the courtyard. Alyx watched until dragon and rider vanished among the clouds.

“I did tell you I wasn’t going back,” Alyssa said, stepping to his side.

“Just needed to convince dear old kepa,” she added.

Alyssa turned to Oberyn. “So—you’re going to teach me the spear, yes?”

Oberyn bowed with theatrical grace. “It would be my greatest delight, Princess.”

Alyx opened his mouth, found no words, and simply exhaled. “This is going to be a disaster,” he muttered, falling in behind them.

But deep down, he wasn’t really complaining.

.

.

Next :

Alyxander the Great, Heir to the Great III: Alyx Goes to New Valyria

Alyxander the Great, Heir to the Great IV: Alyx Returns to King’s Landing

Alyxander the Great, Heir to the Great V: King Alyxander (POV)