ASOIAF: Alyxander the Great, Heir to the Great I

The final chapters will focus on Alyxander and his son, exploring how Alyxander works to ensure his empire remains intact and that the line of succession is secure.

This chapter and the next will follow the life of Alyxander the Younger, from his early years until he reaches adulthood, highlighting the people who influence him and shape his development.

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Prince Alyxander stood outside the birthing chamber, hands clasped behind his back, shifting from foot to foot with barely contained energy. Beside him, his older sister, Olympia, sat on a stone bench with all the regal boredom a girl her age could muster.

“Do you think it’ll be a sister or a brother?” he asked, turning to her.

Olympia didn’t even glance at him. “I hope it’s not another stupid brother,” she said, smirking.

He scowled and nudged her with his elbow.

She elbowed him back harder. “Ow!” he muttered, rubbing his side.

“Children,” Princess Saera said sharply, standing beside them with her hands folded in disapproval. “Mind yourselves.”

Alyxander rolled his eyes but said nothing. Olympia stuck out her tongue behind the princess’s back, and he barely held in a laugh.

He glanced again at the heavy doors leading into the queen’s chambers, wondering what was happening behind them.

He didn’t understand why Olympia was always so cold toward Rhaenyra. Their new mother had only ever been kind to them. After their mother, Myria, died, it was Rhaenyra who had comforted him, sung to him when he couldn’t sleep, and dried his tears when he missed Mother too much to pretend otherwise.

And now she would give him more family. He hoped it was a brother no, two brothers would be even better. He was already outnumbered by girls with Olympia and little Jocelyn.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of boots on stone.

He turned to see his father—King-Emperor Alyxander—approaching across the corridor, the black and red of his cloak fluttering behind him like wings. Beside him strode Prince Daemon, still as lean and dangerous-looking as ever, his silver hair cropped shorter now that he served as Hand of the King.

Trailing after them were Lady Rhaelle and… Alyssa.

Alyxander stiffened and quickly looked away, pretending to study the flickering torch on the wall. Alyssa always found some way to make fun of him. Last time, she had hidden his riding gloves and blamed it on Jocelyn; the time before that, she’d sprinkled pepper in his bathwater. She was impossible.

But he always got her back. She didn’t have a dragon, and he did and he never let her forget it.

The doors to the chamber creaked open.

Princess Rhaenys stepped out, regal even with the sheen of worry still clinging to her. Her eyes swept the gathered family and then softened.

“Two babes,” she announced, her voice rich and proud. “Two boys.”

“Two?!” Alyxander and his father exclaimed at once, blinking in unison.

Rhaenys grinned. “Come. Come meet your sons, Your Grace.”

Alyxander felt his heart leap. His father placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and guided him inside.

The chamber was warm and still, the fire in the hearth crackling softly. The scent of lavender and blood lingered in the air. On the great carved bed, Queen-Empress Rhaenyra reclined against silken pillows, her cheeks pale but glowing with happiness. Her silver-gold hair was damp, strands clinging to her forehead, and in each arm she cradled a swaddled infant.

Olympia and Jocelyn rushed forward, squealing with delight, their laughter echoing off the stone walls as they bent to coo over the babes.

Alyxander approached slowly. He felt his father’s hand rest reassuringly on his back.

Rhaenyra’s tired eyes met his, warm and shining. “Come see, sweet Alyx,” she said gently.

He stepped closer, drawn like a moth to flame. The babes were tiny red-faced and wriggling, soft wisps of pale hair on their heads. He reached down and brushed his fingers against the smallest one’s hand, marveling at how the tiny fingers curled instinctively around his own.

“What are their names?” he asked, glancing up.

His father looked to Rhaenyra and then back at him. “Baelor,” he said, motioning to the babe in Rhaenyra’s right arm, “and Maelor,” he added, nodding to the one curled in her left.

Alyxander repeated the names under his breath, feeling something warm blossom in his chest as he stared down at his brothers.

He had two brothers now, and the boys outnumbered the girls.

That was enough.

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Wooden blades clashed under the morning sun, their sharp cracks echoing across the training yard. Prince Alyxander gritted his teeth as he swung again, trying to land a blow on his opponent but Alyssa was faster.

She danced around him with maddening ease, her footwork fluid, her strikes light but precise. Her long silver-blonde braid flicked behind her as she ducked under his swing and tapped him sharply in the ribs with the edge of her practice sword.

“Too slow again, Your Grace,” she taunted, a teasing smirk on her face. “Are you going to let a girl best you in front of all these squires?”

Alyxander’s jaw clenched as he heard a few muffled chuckles from the sidelines. The other young nobles training nearby pretended not to watch but he knew they were.

He attacked again, harder this time, frustration driving him. Alyssa sidestepped, kicked his leg out from under him, and sent him sprawling.

Before he could scramble up, she dropped onto him, laughing as she wrapped an arm around his neck in a headlock.

“Yield!” she cried playfully. “Say it!”

“Enough!” barked Ser Benjen Stark.

The Kingsguard knight strode over and pulled Alyssa off her cousin with one firm arm. “That was too far, Princess.”

Alyssa pouted, rolling her eyes. “Well, maybe he should have fought better if he didn’t want to be bested.”

Alyxander lay on the ground a moment longer, staring up at the sky in utter humiliation before rising slowly and brushing dust from his tunic. His face burned as he saw several squires poorly concealing their grins.

Benjen turned to him. “You were too emotional. You lost focus. You let frustration guide your hand instead of your mind.”

Alyxander glared at the wooden sword in his grip. Then he muttered, “Why is she even here? This is for men. She should be sewing or… or doing something womanly.”

A sharp intake of breath followed. Alyssa’s eyes narrowed. “Really?” she snapped, stepping forward. “Lucky for you, I’m better at being a man than you are.”

More quiet laughter rippled through the squires, and Alyxander’s cheeks went crimson. Benjen merely sighed and shook his head.

The lesson ended soon after, and Alyxander did not wait to speak with anyone. He stalked off alone into the castle gardens, the morning light filtering through arches of stone and vine.

He hated feeling like this weak, foolish, humiliated. He was supposed to be the Crown Prince, heir to the greatest empire the world had ever seen, son of the great Alyxander; they even shared a name. And yet he couldn’t best Alyssa, a girl, in a simple practice match.

Lost in thought, he heard her familiar voice behind him.

“Don’t sulk,” Alyssa called, her tone light and infuriatingly smug. “You’re not good at that either.”

He didn’t turn. “Go away.”

“No,” she said, stepping up beside him. “You’re not brave, you know.”

He scowled. “I am.”

“Then prove it,” she replied, eyes flashing.

He glanced at her warily. “How?”

Alyssa leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “My father told me the king is meeting with your uncle Maron today, just the two of them, no one else allowed.”

“So?”

“So… it’s supposed to be a secret,” she said. “My father thinks it’s about succession. Maybe about your little brothers. Maybe he’s going to name someone else his heir.”

Alyxander froze. “I am my father’s heir.”

“Who knows? Maybe you should go and find out.”

Alyssa tilted her head. “You’re not scared, are you?”

He glared at her. “I’ll do it.”

Alyssa grinned. “Then go. Let’s see how brave you really are.”

Without another word, Alyxander turned and strode off determined to prove that he was, indeed, brave.

Alyxander moved quickly through the winding halls of the Red Keep, glancing over his shoulder to be sure no one was following but of course, someone was.

He slowed only slightly as he turned a corner and nearly ran straight into the queen herself.

His step-mother stood with a harried expression, her silver hair coming loose from its braid. Two squirming toddlers—Baelor and Maelor—pulled at her skirts, refusing to stay still despite the best efforts of three exhausted maids.

Rhaenyra looked up in surprise. “Alyx, my sweet. Where are you rushing off to?” she asked with a tired smile.

Baelor saw him first. “Alyx!” the boy shouted with glee, waddling over as fast as his little legs could carry him, Maelor chasing close behind.

Alyxander’s annoyance melted instantly. He bent and swept them both into a quick, tight hug. “My brave little dragons,” he murmured, ruffling their soft silver-gold hair.

Rhaenyra’s smile softened. “Why don’t you stay a while? Your father will be busy all day something important, I’m told. Spend the day with us. They’ve missed you.”

Alyxander hesitated—he wanted to—but Alyssa’s challenge rang in his mind.

He pulled away gently. “I would love to, truly,” he said. “But… I remembered something. Something I need to do.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head but said nothing as he straightened, gave her a final smile, and ran off down the corridor, leaving her with the giggling twins.

As he hurried toward the Hand’s Tower, he heard footsteps behind him and groaned aloud. “Alyssa.”

“I need to see if you go through with this,” came her smug voice. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

“I don’t need you following me.”

She only shrugged, matching his pace. “I’ll do anything I want.”

He scowled but didn’t stop her.

Slipping through a side passage toward the upper levels of the tower, they rounded a corner and spotted Olympia walking hand-in-hand with her betrothed, Ser Duncan Hightower, a tall, golden-haired knight.

Alyssa stopped, snorting. “Ugh. Look at them—your sister, marrying a Hightower. Can you believe it?”

Alyxander frowned. “Duncan is a kind, valiant knight, and Olympia loves him.”

“He’s not one of us,” Alyssa said with disdain. “Not Valyrian. My father says it matters.”

Alyxander shot her a hard look. “It doesn’t matter to her or to me.”

“Of course it does, you idiot,” she snapped. “Your sister’s children will be half-breeds.”

“I am a half-breed too, Alyssa,” Alyxander said coldly.

Alyssa had no answer for that, and Alyxander lengthened his stride.

Soon they reached the Hand’s offices. A pair of guards stood at attention outside, and from behind the thick wooden doors came the muffled hum of voices.

“This is it,” Alyxander whispered. “They’re inside.”

Alyssa grinned, excitement gleaming in her violet eyes. “Well? You said you knew a way.”

“I do,” he muttered, leading her around the corner to an old alcove hidden behind a faded tapestry bearing the Targaryen sigil. He pushed aside the heavy cloth, revealing a narrow slit in the stone.

He looked back once, then slipped inside.

Alyssa followed close behind, brushing cobwebs from her sleeves. “Seven hells, this place stinks.”

“Quiet,” he hissed. “We’re almost there.”

They crept through the secret passage, barely wide enough for two. After a few twists and turns they came to a peephole, a small gap in the stone covered by an iron grate. Beyond it lay the Chamber of the Hand of the King.

They were just in time.

Through the thin crack in the stone wall, Prince Alyxander could clearly make out his father’s voice.

“I said no, Maron. He is my heir. He will remain here in the capital where he belongs.” King-Emperor Alyxander’s tone was firm, commanding—final.

“But he is also a Martell,” came the low, impassioned reply from Lord Maron of Sunspear. “He deserves to know the blood of his mother, to know his kin his people.”

Alyxander stiffened beside Alyssa in the hidden passageway. They were talking about him.

The king sighed. “He can visit a month, two at most. But I will not have him sent to Dorne like a fosterling or a ward.”

“He is also my sister’s son,” Maron snapped. “And you forgot her quickly enough. How long did you wait before wedding your new Targaryen wife?”

Boots scraped against stone.

The king’s voice dropped, cold as ice. “Watch your tongue, Maron.”

Maron did not flinch. “I will not. You married Princess Rhaenyra and now have two more sons. Forgive me, Your Grace, if I question your intentions.”

“Alyx and Jocelyn love Rhaenyra,” the king said sharply. “She has done nothing but help me raise my children with grace. She is not some scheming villain. She is your nephew’s mother now no less than Myria was.”

Maron scoffed. “Not yet. And who knows what will happen? Who knows what will happen when Baelor or Maelor are older and your court decides it wants a full-blooded Targaryen on the throne? Not a half-Martell one.”

Alyxander’s heart beat faster as he listened.

A long silence followed.

Then the king repeated, flatly, “No.”

Hidden in the shadows, Alyxander felt something warm flicker in his chest. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. Father will not send me away.

But Maron pressed on.

“The boy is not safe here,” he said. “Even now the Essosi send knives in the dark. You’ve forgotten how dangerous the Red Keep can be. In Dorne, I can keep him guarded—away from the poisons of court. While you—”

“I know how to protect my family,” the king all but shouted.

Maron’s tone turned to ice. “Like you protected Myria?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then came a crash—metal striking stone, perhaps a goblet flung across the room.

“Get out,” the king snarled.

Maron did not move immediately. “Think on it carefully, Your Grace,” he said at last, voice level. “Dorne protects its own. I only hope you do as well.”

Heavy boots strode toward the door.

Alyxander grabbed Alyssa’s arm, and they slipped out of the secret passage, past the guards, and down the winding stairs of the Hand’s Tower.

“That was close,” Alyssa muttered, fixing her hair.

Alyxander didn’t respond at first, still reeling from what he had heard. His heart hammered in his chest.

“You’re going to be shipped off to Dorne,” Alyssa teased with a smug grin.

“I am not,” he muttered, voice hard. “Father will never allow it.”

He would never…

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I want to explore more of this world…specifically what the new generation is like.

Alyssa is, essentially, Daemon’s daughter through and through. She also possesses the worst traits of her grandmother and namesake, Alyssa Targaryen, the sister-wife of Baelon.

Alyxander is focused on integrating newly conquered provinces and maintaining peace across the realm.

His son and heir grows up in a turbulent court, where new factions are beginning to form, some hungry for war, others desperate to preserve peace.

Alyxander also faces a personal crisis, one that ties back to his father from his previous life.

There was supposed to be more in this chapter but iam too tired today will post that in next chapter.