Chapter Text
KING’S LANDING, 05:23
Her children are missing. All three of them.
Gone from their beds, covers upturned, not a single trace to be found—even Aegon’s little beast had been stolen from its chains.
She picks at the beds of her nails restlessly as she runs down the Keep’s darkened halls, Ser Criston trailing behind her as she comes to an abrupt stop in front of her stepdaughter’s chambers.
Without hesitation, she pounds her fists against the oak doors—heavily, insistently, endlessly—only coming to a stop once the hinges swing open and she’s face-to-face with a bleary-eyed Rhaenyra.
“Alicent, wh—“
“Where are they?” She interrupts hastily, squeezing herself between Rhaenyra and the door to slip further into the princess’ living quarters. “My children, are they here?”
“It’s rather early for your harpy impersonation,” a new voice grumbles, and Alicent turns to find Daemon leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, an unimpressed look on his dour face. “The birds aren’t even chirping yet, and you’re already here nagging on like an overexcited parrot.”
“Do not overstep your bounds, Prince Daemon,” she says coolly, hands folding together against her waist, “I do not appreciate your tone, nor am I pleased by your words. You may be my husband’s kin, but I am still your Queen.”
“Pulling rank already, eh?” He drawls through a yawn, lips forming an unpleasant o-shape as he expels the air from his lungs obnoxiously, like a car tire suddenly going flat. “The only Queen I acknowledge is—“
“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra calls, effectively cutting off whatever it was her brute of a husband wanted to say, “what is it about your children? Are they well?”
Yes. Her children. That’s why she was here.
“I would not know,” she answers stiffly, turning her back to the prince, “considering they are not in their rooms.”
The other woman inhales sharply, and she vaguely registers Daemon’s muttered curses as he stomps back deeper into the bedroom, mumbling all the while.
“Perhaps,” Rhaenyra begins, pointedly ignoring the man’s petulant actions, “they have hidden in the Dragonpit? Especially with Aegon’s blooming bond with Sunfyre, I’m sure—“
“Aegon’s dragon is gone as well.”
She’d like to see Rhaenyra explain her way through that one.
“The kitchens, then,” the princess offers with a weak smile, “for all we know, they got hungry and wanted a head start on breakfast.”
“Yes,” Daemon says through yet another yawn, “and we all know just how piggis—”
“—they are nowhere in the Keep,” Alicent finds herself insisting, stepping closer to her former friend and very kindly ignoring the Prince, who was once again haphazardly situated among the blankets. “I have looked everywhere: the Pit, the kitchens, the library, the gardens, the Sept, even the stables.”
“Gods, how long have you been up for?” She vaguely hears Daemon utter from behind her, and Alicent just barely swallows the urge to order Ser Criston put a bullet through the Targaryen’s throat.
“The Ser Criston and I have roamed all of the Red Keep, and yet my children are still not in my arms, where they belong. What do have to say for yourselves?”
Her children, her precious babies, taken from her in the middle of the night. In her own home. For all she knew, the Stranger had found them and taken them into His cold, dead arms.
“There is nothing for us to say, Alicent,” Viserys’ daughter whispers, holding both arms out like a peace offering, “Daemon and I have done nothing but sleep this night, I swear this to you.”
“Are your words meant to be a comfort?” She asks, tears stinging her eyes as her fingers sting from their cuts, “what good is your promise when all of my children are gone? How can you say that when your boys are safe and sound, asleep in the rooms next to yours?”
“Alicent,” Rhaenyra breathes, taking a step towards her, arms still held out in a placating, almost mocking manner. “I will do everything I can to help, they’re my siblings, of course I want them safe.”
“You want them safe so the public won’t turn on you,” she spits back, fingers curling tightly into the linen of her nightgown. “There is no need to hide your disdain for them, Rhaenyra, there are no cameras around to court.”
“Technically, there’s one camera,” Daemon drawls, and Alicent whips her head back to find Rhaenyra’s smug, wretched husband wandering back into the sitting room, phone in hand.
“It’s too early for your bullshit,” she hears the deep, unmistakable baritone of Lord Corlys sigh from the phone’s speaker.
“Unfortunately, my friend, it’s not my bullshit you’re dealing with this morning,” Daemon grins, a mean glint in his blue eyes before flashing the screen in her direction—where she catches the slightest glimpse of the Sea Snake in an oddly wrinkled white sleep shirt—and quickly turning it back to him. “I trust they got there alright?”
“Yes,” Lord Corlys grunts, “they came knocking on our door a little over two hours ago. No idea how they got here, but they’re here.”
“What?” Alicent can’t help but ask, striding over to the armchair Daemon made himself comfortable in and snatching the phone right out of his hands, paying no mind to his indignant yelp. “Who is ‘they?’” She demands, staring wide-eyed at Lord Corlys, who blinks mutely at her. “Lord Corlys,” and that seems to snap him out of his reverie.
“Your Grace,” he coughs, rubbing his free hand along his beard, “your children are safe.”
At his words, Alicent allows herself to sigh in relief.
“They came to us in the middle of the night,” the mariner continues, voice still rough with sleep, “Aegon’s young dragon is also with us, Your Grace, the hatchling has made himself comfortable in one of the fireplaces.”
“Why are they with you in the first place?”
Lord Corlys shrugs in reply.
And if she weren’t so overcome with relief, Alicent might have scolded the man for the impropriety he has shown his queen.
“We haven’t had a proper conversation with them yet, My Queen,” a husky voice butts in, then Lord Corlys’ wrinkled white shirt moves—sliding off until his chest is completely bare; the camera is adjusted and suddenly Alicent finds herself staring right at the Princess Rhaenys, who has made herself comfortable on top of her husband, palm cradling her chin as she uses her elbow to prop herself up on Lord Corlys’ chest. “They were dead on feet when they arrived, it seemed unfair to question them when their exhaustion was so obvious.”
“The King’s children show up at your doorstep and neither of you thought it would be a good idea to let anyone know?” She manages to demand, despite the widening of her eyes and the sudden thickness in her throat.
“Not this early in the morning, no,” the Princess admits, clearly stifling a yawn as fingers—Lord Corlys’ fingers—brush her hair back and out of her face. “We would have alerted you at a more reasonable time.”
“Do not patronize me on rationality, Princess,” she warns, “it is not as if your childr—“
“The only patronizing one here is you, Your Grace.” Princess Rhaenys snaps, the sleepy drawl in her voice vanishing instantly, “it is neither my fault nor my husband’s that your children chose to flee the Capital. If you wish for answers, it should be them you ask, not us.”
“And where are they now?” Alicent asks, even as she can feel her cheeks warm from the princess’ scolding.
“Asleep,” Princess Rhaenys tells her, “all tucked up in Daemon’s rooms.”
“That means you can quit yelling now,” Daemon butts in, and Alicent looks up to find him lounging against the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table before him. “And take those damn rollers out from your hair, it’s not a flattering look.”
“Daemon,” she hears Rhaenyra sigh, “I think the Queen has been through enough this morning.”
“There’s a reason rollers went out of style in the 90s, Rhaenyra. If the Queen wants her curls that much, she could use a curling iron like the rest of the modern world.”
Alicent can do nothing but blink in disbelief, and attempt to convince herself that this was all some terribly bizarre dream she’ll wake up from in no time.
“Besides, her children are in good hands and her rollers about to come undone and—wait.” The Rogue Prince interrupts himself abruptly, turning his attention away from his wife and to look at Alicent, rather, to look at the phone still in Alicent’s hands.
Heaving himself off the sofa, Daemon crosses the room in three long strides, plucking the device from Alicent’s fingers to glare indignantly at his cousin.
“You put them in my room?”
It takes every ounce of Queenly restraint in Alicent’s being to keep her mouth from dropping open. Of all things Rhaenyra’s brute of a husband had to say, it was to wail about a bedroom?
She hears Princess Rhaenys sigh through the screen.
“The other rooms have to be prepared,” the princess replied patiently, as if she were speaking to a child. “They have to be aired out before anyone can stay in them.”
“Are you telling me there’s a fucking dragon asleep in my bed right now?”
“No,” Princess Rhaenys sighs, the slightest bit of irritation coloring her voice, “the dragon is presumably still downstairs, in one of the fireplaces. Sleeping. Something we were doing as well, before you interrupted.”
“If this one,” Daemon argues, waving a hand around in her—the Queen’s—direction, “hadn’t barged in like a fraying lunatic with soda cans for curlers, we all would’ve been sleeping soundly.”
At this point, Alicent has lost count of the number of faux pas this dastardly family has been able to commit in the span of seven minutes. (And the tiniest part of her no longer cares.)
“If it would make Her Grace feel better,” the woman begins, ignoring her cousin’s childishly disrespectful comments, “we are more than welcome to host her here at High Tide so that she may speak to the children in person.”
“And why can’t you just send them back?” She asks, stepping closer to the phone, “they belong here. With me, their mother.”
“It would be cruel,” the princess says as Daemon flips the camera back toward Alicent’s face.
“Cruel?” She scoffs in disbelief. “It’s cruel to reunite children with their mother, is that what you’re saying, Princess?”
“There’s no need to put words in my mouth, Your Grace,” Princess Rhaenys drawls, annoyance seeping into her even tone as she straightens up on Lord Corlys’ chest—and suddenly Alicent is very aware of the Princess’ bare shoulders and of the white sheet wrapped loosely around the swell of her chest—before continuing, “I only meant that it would be cruel to have the children travel back to the Capital so soon. The gods only know how long they’ve been out and about; it’s best if you come to them, and allow them to recuperate from their… adventures.”
“I think the Princess has a point, Your Grace.” Alicent glances back up to Rhaenyra, who looks infuriatingly earnest in her agreement. “If you go to Driftmark, it would ease the travel burden on my siblings, as well as give you peace of mind. You wouldn’t need to wait here so anxiously.”
“Does High Tide have a tower, my friend?” Daemon asks loudly, shouldering his way back into the conversation and snatching the phone right back from Alicent’s hand. “You know what they say about witches and their towers…”
The rest of their conversation is cut off by the shutting of the bedroom door, leaving the Queen, the Princess, and Criston Cole in the sitting room. There is nothing but an awkward silence between the three of them, and Alicent’s fingers begin to push at her cuticles as Rhaenyra remains still.
“To Driftmark, then?” The Princess says after an uncomfortably long pause and Alicent nearly breathes a sigh of relief.
She turns to Ser Criston with only two words on her tongue.
“To Driftmark.”