
The Great Hall of the Red Keep transformed with nightfall.
Torchlight danced along stone walls draped in crimson and gold, music echoed from minstrels perched on balconies, and the air was thick with roasted meats, spiced wine, and the low hum of political conversation. The court had recovered from the earlier shock quickly—as it always did—but the ripples Alyssa had caused were still spreading beneath the surface.
Alyssa was seated at a respectable distance from the royal table—close enough to be seen, far enough to be evaluated. She was keenly aware of the glances sent her way: some admiring, some resentful, some hungry.
It didn't take long for Margaery Tyrell to make her move.
The girl approached with an easy smile, the sort that invited confidence rather than demanded it. She was beautiful, yes, but more importantly, perceptive.
"You're Alyssa Stark," Margaery said brightly, as though they were simply two girls meeting at a summer gathering instead of players on a dangerous board. "I hoped we might speak. It's not often someone our age makes the whole court stop breathing."
Alyssa smiled back, genuine this time. "I imagine you're quite used to that."
Margaery laughed softly and took the seat beside her without waiting for permission.
Olenna Tyrell followed more slowly, cane tapping against stone, sharp eyes missing nothing. "I thought I'd see for myself," the Queen of Thorns said dryly, "whether the wolf pup had teeth—or merely a clever tongue."
Alyssa inclined her head respectfully. "I hope I'm not a disappointment, my lady."
Olenna snorted. "Gods no. Disappointments don't make Petyr Baelish look like he's swallowed sour milk."
Margaery bit her lip to hide a grin.
As the feast continued, conversation flowed easily—fashion, travel, music—but beneath it all Alyssa felt the careful probing. Margaery leaned closer, voice lowering conspiratorially as if they were simply friends sharing secrets rather than heirs of great Houses.
"Moat Cailin sounds... incredible," Margaery said with genuine warmth. "To build something like that so young—schools, trade, soldiers loyal to you. I wish more people understood that power doesn't have to be inherited to be real."
Alyssa's smile softened. "I didn't want to wait for permission to matter."
Margaery laughed quietly. "I like that." Her gaze lingered, thoughtful. Beautiful, clever, driven, she noted privately. Far better than half the suitors who preen and posture before me—men and women alike. The idea formed unbidden that being bound to Alyssa Stark would hardly be a burden at all.
Olenna, who had been listening with deceptive disinterest, tapped her cane once. "You seem quite taken with one another," she observed dryly, eyes sharp as needles. "Tell me, Lady Alyssa—are you already betrothed?"
Alyssa shook her head. "No, my lady. My father has not yet found a match he deems suitable—though he has received many offers for my hand since I began ruling Moat Cailin."
Olenna hummed, filing that away, while Margaery's interest only deepened.
Alyssa's expression sharpened just slightly, honesty edging into her voice. "Most who've sought my hand don't want me," she said. "They want Moat Cailin. They want what I've built. They imagine my rule as something temporary—something to be corrected once a husband steps in."
Her gaze was steady. "But my retainers serve me. They won't bow to some upstart who thinks my sex makes me a placeholder, an excuse to rule in my stead."
Olenna's mouth curved into a sharp, approving smile. "Good," she said. "Any man who needs to diminish you to stand taller is already too small to matter."
Margaery nodded softly, eyes bright with understanding. As she did, she glanced toward her grandmother, meeting Olenna's sharp gaze for a brief heartbeat and giving the smallest nod in answer to an unasked question. "I think," she said carefully, returning her attention to Alyssa, "that it's refreshing to hear a woman refuse to be handed over like a prize."
Across the hall, Alyssa felt eyes burning into her.
Petyr Baelish sat stiff-backed, nursing his wine, humiliation still fresh. Fury churned beneath his practiced charm—but tangled with something older, more dangerous. His gaze drifted briefly to where Lady Catelyn Stark would have sat if she were present, had the Lady of Winterfell chosen to come to King's Landing.
Catelyn, he thought bitterly.
And Alyssa—her firstborn. Her face echoed Catelyn's in ways that twisted the knife deeper. He wanted to hurt the girl, yes—but part of him wanted her favor, her attention, her approval. The thought unsettled him almost as much as it enraged him.
On the dais, Cersei watched everything.
She liked the girl's spine. Liked that she hadn't groveled, hadn't apologized for existing. Liked that she'd built something without leaning on her House's shadow.
And yet...
Powerful young women were dangerous things.
Especially ones the King laughed with.
Her gaze shifted then, drawn unwillingly to the royal table. King Robert sat sprawled in his seat, laughter booming as he draped an arm around a pair of women perched far too comfortably in his lap.
Alyssa felt a flash of sharp disdain—not for the women themselves, who were only surviving as best they could, but for the blatant disrespect of it. To do it openly, in the Great Hall, with the Queen present... it was crude. Vulgar. And no matter how much of a cunt Cersei Lannister might be, Alyssa thought grimly, she did not deserve that humiliation.
Later, Robert beckoned her forward with an easy grin and a slosh of wine. "Come here, girl," he said loudly enough for several nearby lords to hear. "You've got more sense in that head of yours than half my council."
Alyssa obeyed, pulse quickening despite herself.
They spoke briefly—of the North, of Moat Cailin, of hunts and roads—and then Robert chuckled, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. "Ever thought about joining our Houses one day? Strong blood makes strong kingdoms."
Her stomach tightened. Alyssa kept her smile steady. "That decision rests with my father, Your Grace," she replied smoothly. "My father will see that I am well matched."
Robert only laughed, clearly unconcerned, but as Alyssa stepped back into the crowd her thoughts raced. I need a contingency, she realized. And I ,need to ask my friends what they think—before the King decides for us all.
Varys, meanwhile, smiled faintly from the edges of the feast. Plans were already forming. Alyssa Stark was exactly the sort of variable that changed the shape of the board. A private meeting would be necessary—soon, and quiet.
After the Music Fades
Later that night, Alyssa gathered her advisers within the safety of her temporary estate. The laughter and music of the feast felt distant now, muffled by thick stone walls and guarded corridors.
Lysa spoke first. "You handled yourself well. The Tyrells are interested—particularly the girl. That could be useful."
"Or dangerous," Branric added. "The roses have thorns."
Kael nodded. "Baelish is wounded. That makes him unpredictable. I recommend we limit his access to you as much as possible."
Alyssa's lips curved, sharp and deliberate. "No," she said calmly. "We start taking over his businesses."
The room stilled.
"The whorehouses alone are a vast source of coin," she continued evenly, "and an even better source of information. They hear everything. And frankly"—her eyes flicked briefly, cold and satisfied—"screwing over Littlefinger has its own appeal."
Torran let out a low whistle. "Risky. But effective. If done quietly, he might not even realize what's happening until it's too late."
Kael's gaze sharpened with interest. "I can begin identifying which of his holdings are weakest. Discreet acquisitions. Shell owners. Debts."
Lysa nodded thoughtfully. "It would undermine his power without ever drawing a blade. Strip him of influence piece by piece."
Branric grunted. "And if he pushes back?"
Alyssa met his eyes without hesitation. "Then he learns what happens when someone mistakes my patience for weakness. No matter how this ends," she added coldly, "Littlefinger will die."
Silence followed, heavy and deliberate, the weight of her words settling over the room before she continued.
Alyssa exhaled slowly, processing it all. "Cersei hasn't decided what I am yet," she said. "That worries me more than outright hostility."
"And Varys?" Torran asked.
Alyssa's mouth curved faintly. "He'll come to us. He already is."
She moved to the window, looking out over King's Landing—the flickering lights, the shadows between them.
"This city is rotting," she said quietly. "But rot can be cut away. Or burned."
She turned back to her advisers, eyes steady.
""We move carefully. We protect my family. And we never forget—every smile here hides a knife."
She paused, then turned her attention to Lyra. "How are the children in the orphanages faring?" Alyssa asked. "And how soon can we begin transferring them north to Moat Cailin? It may be faster—and safer—to move them by ship rather than by carriage."
Lyra nodded, already thinking several steps ahead. "They're holding on, but the sooner we move them, the better. Ships from Blackwater Bay could take small groups at a time without drawing too much attention. I can have the first ones moving within days if you give the word."
"Do it," Alyssa said without hesitation.
As the words left her mouth, a familiar unease settled in her chest. Time was slipping through her fingers. The events she remembered—the beginning of the canon timeline, the spark that would ignite Season One—were only a few short years away. She had already changed so much, but not enough. The thought worried her more than she allowed herself to show.
She turned back to her advisers, expression tightening. "The King mentioned joining our two Houses in marriage."
The room reacted at once.
Lysa's face hardened. "That cannot be allowed to happen on his terms," she said immediately. "A royal match binds you, but it also cages you."
Branric's jaw clenched. "If the King presses the matter, it becomes dangerous. Not just for you—for the North."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "It explains Baelish's interest as well. Once men see you as a prize instead of a ruler, they start plotting ownership."
Torran crossed his arms. "We'll need contingencies. Delays. Alternatives. Allies who make such a match... inconvenient."
Alyssa's voice cut in, firm and unyielding. "I will not marry Joffrey," she said flatly. "The boy is a vile bastard, and I won't bind myself—or the North—to him."
She drew a steadying breath. "But I need a shield. As much as I hate it, I may have to wed someone else—someone chosen on my terms."
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the girl who haunted her dreams. If only it could be her, Alyssa thought, a pang of longing twisting in her chest. But that isn't feasible. Not yet.
Alyssa nodded slowly, the weight of it settling in. There was still so much to do—and not nearly enough time.
Outside, the city slept.
Inside the Red Keep, the game had only just begun.