Alyx began her trade along the Honeywine openly, without subtlety, for Vanea deemed the river safe enough for bold coin. Three days later, past the crossing at Sweetwhisper and onto the road to Rhodalea, the path turned harsher. Here, she sold her wares with quiet hands and discreet words. Yet, the road proved safer than she had feared.

  She traded in the shadow of Castle Rodden, where the bazaars were lively and thick with the scent of roasted nuts. Her caravan resupplied, then cut through the deep woods, crossing a secluded bridge to Flower’s Rush. It was a town of incredible beauty near Downriver. From there, she turned south of Oldtown, trading, trading, and trading still through the rural Reach.

  Once, she even saw a sign pointing toward Meadowsmeet, the bordering land of Beachcastle. She stared at it for a long moment, wondering if Daleria was there, laboring herself with trade such as herself.

  Trading in Vanea’s name had been an enjoyable experience for her. The business flowed and was surprisingly easy. Furthermore, the Reach lived up to its name; the settlements were gorgeous, the people were warm and lively with full bellies.

  The trade was a game of wits played by the wealthy. The farms were bountiful, food cheap, and even the poorest smallfolk seemed capable of buying many goods from stalls. But the wine… the wine was the real deal. The nobles were rich, the merchants richer, and property owners like Vanea were kings in all but name. Even the pious were involved in this web of coin, for septs rose like were an oft-sighted sight near Oldtown.

  So forth she rode, into more villages, farms, properties and markets

  Robin proved himself invaluable over the past days. He remembered routes, names, details. He knew when a man would sell cheap to be rid of worry, and when a woman would rather starve than feel cheated. His knowledge and actions were always joining the board as if a piece entering just when required.

  He was also… lovely. He was loyal and hardworking. There was also a sweet brightness to him that felt truly so rare. He brought her small gifts—a perfect apple, a skin of treated wine, a wildflower plucked from the roadside. He cheered the days of the journey. Even though Alyx knew his favor toward her was likely causing from Daleria's memory, Alyx felt a genuine warmth in him. He was almost charming. Almost. She ignored that thought aside, deeming it not necessary.

  Vanea’s retainers rode with them at a respectful distance. There were eight in total, but Alyx’s attention was drawn, more than once, to their captain named Harlon.

  He was a large man, broad and tall. His beard was blond and full, and his hair was long with a short ponytail. He wore no sigil Alyx recognized: only a deep blue cloak fastened with a plain iron clasp.

  He was unfailingly courteous. He saw to the guards, to the horses, to the camps. He was always present when Alyx needed something, and never when she did not. When she asked for water, it was already there. When she mentioned a torn strap, it was repaired before dusk.

  They were on the way to Springbrook when a knock came at the wooden frame of her window.

  "My Lady?"

  Alyx slid the shutter back. Harlon rode beside the carriage, holding out a skin of wine.

  "The morning is damp," Harlon rumbled, his voice vibrating in his chest. "Spiced wine, warmed by the fire before we set out. It chases the chill."

  Alyx took the skin, feeling the warmth seep into her hands. "You are thoughtful, Ser."

  He offered an easy smile. "Lady Vanea gave me strict commands. 'See to her comfort as you would see to a queen,' she said. I would hate to disappoint my mistress. Or you."

  "I am hardly a queen," Alyx demurred, taking a sip. The wine was rich with cinnamon and cloves.

  "To the eyes of a hedge knight like me, the difference is negligible." He guided his horse closer. "If the road rocks you too hard, say the word. I will have the men clear the stones by hand if need be."

  Alyx chuckled. "That would take a fortnight to travel a mile."

  "Then we would have a fortnight of pleasant company," Harlon countered smoothly.

  She made it to Springbrook with her caravan, then, trading loads of goods until they received Vanea’s message.

  Finally, three weeks later, the route was Oldtown.

  They passed through the eastern gates, the guards waving Vanea’s caravan through with familiar nods. Harlon rode at the front, shouting for carts to make way.

  Alyx peered out the window. The sheer age of the place pressed down on her. Every cobblestone felt like history.

  To her left, dominating the Whispering Sound, lay a sprawling complex of domes and towers connected by bridges of stone.

  "The Citadel," Robin whispered, pointing.

  Alyx followed his gaze. She saw the weeping dock where acolytes took boats to the Isle of Ravens. She saw the great green sphinxes guarding the gates, their marble eyes staring blindly at a world of ignorance.

  A pang of bitterness struck her chest.

  There lay the sum of vast knowledge. Every book, every scroll, every secret of history and healing. And she, who loved books, who loved numbers, who craved the why of the world, was barred from it. Not because she lacked the mind, but because she lacked the cock.

  Sheep, she thought, her expression souring. Daleria taught me more than those sheep in gray ever could.

  Though she averted her eyes with disdain, there was still a lingering feeling of mixed melancholy and frustration.

  "Look," Robin said, pointing across the wide expanse of the Whispering Sound bay.

  The bay glittered blue and silver, teeming with ships—Summer Islander swan ships, heavy Qartheen spice-galleys, the sleek galleys of the Arbor. But rising from the western bank, distant yet imposing, was a dome of black marble with windows of leaded glass.

  "The Starry Sept," Alyx murmured.

  It was the former seat of the High Septon, the center of the Seven for a thousand years before the Targaryens built their dome in the capital. Even from across the bay, it felt judgmental, a stern eye watching the city. But not as much as the High Tower, which dominated the sky.

  "Tough business over there," Harlon said, riding beside the window again as he nodded toward the sept. "The pious don't pay as well as the sinners, My Lady. And they ask for discounts in the name of the Seven."

  "We shall stick to the sinners then," Alyx replied, tearing her eyes away from the religious grandeur.

  "A wise choice," Harlon grinned into his beard. "The wine is better, too.”

  The caravan rumbled deeper into the city, toward the harbor districts where Vanea’s warehouse awaited. The smell of the sea was stronger here, mixing with spices and tar.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Vanea’s warehouse opened toward the inner harbor, its doors wide and tall enough to swallow wagons whole. Beyond it stretched the harbor market, a maze of stalls, awnings, and shouting voices pressed tight against the water’s edge. Salt stung the air. Bells rang. Ropes creaked. Gulls screamed overhead.

  Alyx’s stall had been prepared before she arrived. It was modest, yet wide and covered with silk curtains. No sigil hung above it. No name. Only Alyx was present for those who want to know a name. She took her place just by midday, Robin and two retainers assisted her as the trade flowed easily throughout the day.

  She sold glassware first—Vanea’s unique Myrish crystal cups and slender decanters etched with vines. Then spices, bolts of pale silk dyed in river blues, jars of honey and the sweet wine from the vineyards across Honeywine; flavored with various fruits and honey. Each transaction was a small battle, and Alyx learned the rhythm of the city quickly.

  She executed her trade with grace until the late afternoon when the start started dipping. The High Tower's tall shadow stretched across the cobblestone square ahead. And from there, a man stepped forth.

  He was a lean man with gray hair, wearing a robe of red over his green colored merchant’s silk. His hair was black with gray streaks, long and combed back. His face lacked the beard to style, though there was a touch of hair, shaved yet still leaving faint black on his skin.

  He bowed low gracefully. “Well met,” he said. There were rings on his every finger, a mix of blue, black and red.

  “My Lady trades late,” he said softly. His accent was strange; not foreign enough to place, but not wholly Westerosi either. “The sun is nearly spent.”

  “So are honest men,” Alyx replied coolly. “Speak your business.”

  The man inclined his head. There was a glint of amused interest in his eyes above his smirk. “I have something you might wish to see. Something that apparently has been waiting for you.”

  Her fingers tightened around her skirt, swinging from Vanea’s given purple-green merchant’s dress. “You mistake me for someone else.”

  “I do not,” he said.

  In his hands, wrapped in dark cloth, he carried something small. Slowly, he drew back the cloth. A circlet crown lay in his palms. The gold twisted in gentle, looping patterns. Set along the circlet were small red stones. At the center rested the heart of the crown: a single stone, oval and deep. Its color was crimson like a ruby, but there was something different in tone, something purer—red as ripened wine held against the sun, yet tinged faintly with pink, as though dawn itself had been trapped within the crystal.

  It burned with promise.

  “Beware,” Daleria gripped Alyx’s hand. “They are moving.”

  They stood below a bridge of pale stone that vanished into the mists of the Sorrows. Their boat drifted through the ruins of Chroyane.

  The Festival City, the Rhoynar called it such. But it was dark and fearful today.

  Stone men stood half-submerged along the banks. Some were statues, moss-choked.

  Some were not.

  Alyx felt them before she saw them—the scrape of stone on stone, the wrongness of movement where there should be none.

  “Do not speak,” Daleria murmured. “And do not look too long.”

  One of the stone men turned its head.

  Its face was frozen mid-scream, lips cracked, eyes hollow and dark. It lurched forward, water cascading from its shoulders.

  Daleria stepped ahead, her blonde hair lifting in a wind that did not blow. She raised two fingers, tracing a symbol and murmuring words in a tongue Alyx did not recognize, older than Valyrian, older even than the Ancient Rhoynish Daleria had taught her.

  The air thickened. Then, the stone man froze. Not stiffened, ended. Whatever motion had animated it ceased, as if time itself had withdrawn its permission.

  One by one, the others halted.

  “Are they… dead?” Alyx whispered.

  “Already,” Daleria replied softly. “This is a mercy long forgotten.”

  They rowed on.

  Soon, Chroyane rose before them like a dream drowned too slowly to forget itself.

  Streets of water wound between half-sunken buildings. Golden tiles still clung to walls beneath rot. Green obelisks jutted at odd angles from the muck.

  “This was called the Festival City,” Daleria said. “The Rhoynar believed joy was a form of worship.”

  “Was it?” Alyx asked.

  Daleria smiled faintly. “For a time.”

  They made for the island ruins at the city’s heart. They passed the frozen horror and made for the ruins on the island, reaching the Palace of Love.

  Inside a forgotten hall, vines choked marble columns, but the walls... walls were alive still. Carvings covered every inch of gold, telling stories of a people who loved the water as a mother feeding them. They depicted women crowned with reeds and gems, hands weaving thread that turned into cities, then flames, then stars.

  Daleria led Alyx to a relief carved into an alcove. It showed a colored art of a woman with flowing hair that blended into the waves. On her head sat a circlet; a crown dominating any art she witnessed across Rhoyne.

  Daleria ran her fingers along the carving, brushing away lichen.

  Alyx leaned closer.

  One figure stood apart from the rest, barely recognizable now. The stone had cracked. The face was worn smooth. But the depiction of the crown was clear.

  Beautiful, elegant, and far from simple: a circlet depicted in wide artistic loops, curves spreading from it and blending with waves in intricate patterns.

  There was a single stone at its center. Crimson as it could be, yet still with a noticeable touch of pink hue.

  "Lhroulu,” Daleria murmured, running her fingers over the cold stone. “It's her later name. She is the first daughter of Rhoyne. The smiling daughter, they call her. But her true essence is long forgotten in time. Even to those who still remember Mother.”

  She turned to Alyx. “She was a queen of continuance,” she said. “The Weaver Queen.”

  Alyx’s throat tightened, and heart hammered against her chest fast. She felt as if she wasn't merely learning, but listening to words never meant to be heard.

  She traced the carving with her eyes. A woman, half-formed in water, draped in nets of waving vines. “Who is she?” Alyx turned to Daleria, desperate to anchor herself. “Truly, mistress, who is she? I am tired of riddles."

  “But I am true to you, Alyx. The truest.” Daleria smiled, approaching. “Words will never be enough for her. But hear, she wears a beautiful crown.”

  She stood a breath away from Alyx then, reaching out to brush her hair back behind her ear, her fingers lingering. “It is a crown someday to be found,” she said lightly, affection thick in her voice. “Just as you were born.”

  She chuckled softly, flipping her hair back, a playful gesture made elegant in her magical beauty. The moment was breathtaking, until Alyx inhaled.

  “You keep speaking of prophecies... I do not understand," she murmured vulnerably, as she was already melting in her presence.

  “You will, one day.” Daleria’s palm cupped Alyx’s cheek. “You are the word that this world needed to speak. And I love you.”

  She leaned in. They kissed, then, and they came together in a dream beyond time.

  Black stone marked water, mermaids dragged men, bodies slapped against each other; life substantialized in life’s laughter.

  They tangled together, Daleria’s lips never leaving hers, drinking from her as if left in a drought that lasted thousands of years.

  Across the blue flashed red that burned the green, fear raged into screaming silence. She felt it then, fire without heat, and a heart that cried: let there be ash.

  Alyx topped Daleria, urgency swapping with reverence. Passion turned into need, Alyx delved her head into her legs. Moans dissolved into air—life’s echoes across time.

  Water without depth. It broke itself, to forget itself. The earth cried black tears as it tore itself apart, searching, enduring to reach itself. A crow cawed, watching, seeing as land created beasts to breathe fire, branches to feed fire, so it can devastate itself into continuance.

  They were one then, eyes lost in the void of the other, as lost as being in being. The great river itself watched their joining, patient and eternal.

  Water without depth. Something atop, every element beneath red engaged with each other. To live or to stop? Such cried ice and fire.

  They kissed once more, tired yet wanting. It was deep and long, long as if unending.

  The light then was the final; a brightness no eye can witness, yet, yet every part of her recognized.

  “Are you buying?” A merchant asked, still holding the crown.

  Alyx was baffled for a moment, forgetting how to speak. “Y-you…” She tried. “W-who are you? How did you…” She stared at the circlet before lifting her face in a frown. “How did you get this?”

  “Some things are meant to stay hidden.” He smirked. “I am just no one.”

  “No one…?” Alyx repeated him in confusion. “A merchant who speaks no name offers no trust."

  The merchant shrugged. “If you seek for names rather than crowns…” He started to wrap the circlet back.

  “Wait!” Alyx reached out, halting him.

  Then, she gulped. Gathering herself with half a second of breath before locking eyes with him in determination.

  “Tell me this only,” said Alyx. “Why me?”

  He grinned. “I read a scroll about this circlet. It said 'a woman kissed by the sun, with hair the color of dawn' would reclaim it. Your hair makes a reputation fast in trade, Lady Alyx.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a controversial murmur. “And let me tell you, The Citadel’s secrets are not as well-kept as the Maesters would like to think."

  A chill went down Alyx’s spine. The Citadel. If this was stolen from the vaults of the Maesters despite the impossible odds…

  She was concerned, yet she still stared at it. Drawn by it.

  “We cannot buy without Lady Vanea’s word, Lady Alyx.” Harlon stepped forward, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

  “I will buy with my own coin,” Responded Alyx.

  “My Lady.” Harlon’s expression stiffened. “This is not appropriate. The contract states—"

  “Since when am I forbidden from buying trinkets?” Alyx frowned, turning on him. “I do labor for the Lantern, but I am not a slave, Ser.”

  “I strongly advise against this.”

  “You cannot restrain me where even your bed girls are allowed with their indulgences. Away.” She turned back to the merchant, her heart racing. She needed that thing.

  “How much?” She asked nervously.

  “Three dragons.”