Chapter Text
A sweltering summer’s heat hung over the city of King’s Landing, as Rhaenyra Targaryen, the princess of the Iron Throne, darted along the street, like an arrow loosed from a bow. Behind her, Harrold Westerling called for her to stop, but that only brought a laugh from her lips, and she ran on. The knight of the Kingsguard, unfortunately bedecked in white enamelled armour over heavy ringmail and leather, was cut off by a merchant’s wagon, and she was running free. A cabbage seller tried to grab for her, perhaps in the hope that the knight may reward him, but she dipped under his reach, and he stumbled backwards, falling across his wares, and sending them rolling in the dirt. Above her, soaring through the sky, Syrax called down. It was only half a roar, in truth, because she was still a young dragon, barely large enough to be flown, with scales more yellow than an entire meadow of sunflowers. She cut a gallant figure in the sky, slicing through the winds like a knife through cheese. Rhaenyra stopped to admire the sight, until she heard the panting Ser Harrold catching up to her.
She went to dart down a side-street, as dark and dingy as it was, but found another of her father’s men, Steffon Darklyn, blocking the path. She twisted left, but the knights Arryk and Erryk were there. Four knights of the Kingsguard, and she allowed herself a moment to feel proud that it had taken them all, before Ser Harrold caught her. Syrax half-roared down to her, but Rhaenyra just laughed, and the dragon was appeased. The city smelled of fruit and flowers, she thought, here at least, in the great markets, where people came from leagues around, as far afield as the Reach and the Riverlands, to peddle their wares. A hundred eyes had turned on the four knights in their ornate white plate, each with a face drenched in sweat. Beads of it were catching in Ser Harrold’s salt and pepper beard. “You caught me.” Harrold knelt before her, and she wondered if he would chastise her for running. Instead, he laughed. “Aye, princess, we did. Now come along, your mother wishes to speak with you.”
Her mother? She had thought the white cloaks must have come from father. He was king now, because great-grandfather had finally passed, peacefully in his sleep, or so Maester Mellos had told her. She had been worried he might have been hurting, but the maester assured her that death had been virtually painless, like drifting off into sleep. That mustn’t be true, she thought, because when she went to sleep, she always knew she would wake up the next day. Now, her father spent all his days in the small council chambers, with old men rambling about coins and laws, all of which bored Rhaenyra. Her father’s mood was all frayed at the moment, as he waited for the arrival of a new Hand, another old man, no doubt.
“That was quite a chase you put us through, my lady,” Steffon Darklyn gave her a wink, and she responded with a wry smile. Steffon was friendly to her, once taking her on a tour of White Sword Tower, even letting her read from the White Book. Arryk and Erryk were nice enough, and Harrold was a sweetling underneath his gruff fuzz and fur. They were a part of the family, she thought, though they had no royal blood, and they couldn’t ride dragons. She pitied them for that.
She had first ridden when her great-grandfather, the old king, had clutched her in his spindly arms, his fingers wrinkled and gnarled, like old incense sticks, save all they carried was the smell of age and illness, and taken her up on his dragon, Vermithor, who the singers called the Bronze Fury. He had just taken her around the spires and towers of the Red Keep three times, but it was her earliest memory. She could remember reaching out with tiny hands, clutching at the air, and giggling, and the king had laughed with her, before descending into a fit of coughs. The wind had whipped at her hair, and, from that day, she had fallen in love with the skies.
Her great-grandfather was gone now, and Vermithor with him, fled to the wilds of the Dragonmont, on Dragonstone, lost in grief and fury. That meant that only two adult dragons still held residence in the city. There was her Syrax, barely large enough to qualify as grown, and Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, ridden by her uncle, Daemon. Her father had been a rider once, but his mount, the Black Dread of Old Valyria, was an eyeless skull, now, watching on from the walls of the throne room, burnished onyx from the heat of his flames.
The gold cloaks at the gate parted as Ser Harrold led her back into the confines of the keep. Syrax let out a final, shrill roar, before coming to a land in the outer bailey, upsetting a black tomcat that had been lounging around in the dirt. Syrax nudged at the creature with his nose, curious, but he was swatted away by sharpened claws. The bailey was busier than usual, Rhaenyra thought, and there were men in curious uniforms she had not seen before, milling around beneath the Tower of the Hand. They wore dark green ringmail, with boiled leather upon their legs and forearms, and helms cut into the shape of a stone tower. Upon their breasts, they wore the tower of the south, a beacon against the dark, the sigil of House Hightower, the lords of Oldtown. They were the Hand’s men, she knew instantly.
They too parted before the white grace of Ser Harrold. They passed the great keep, where stood the Iron Throne, in all its ominous glory. The doors were closed, but she heard voices within. The king was holding court, perhaps in honour of his new councillor. Down the Serpentine Steps, they traipsed, and past the kitchens, which elicited a glorious aroma of honeyed ham, roasting and sizzling upon an open flame, and then the White Sword Tower, at which point the brothers Cargyll made their departure. At the bridge to Maegor’s Holdfast, Ser Lyonel Deddings stood watch, though he was no white-cloak. The others of the order must be standing watch over her father, she decided, and she afforded Ser Lyonel a smile. He was a young, homely knight, and his face flushed at the attention.
Inside the Holdfast, beyond the red, stone walls and the moat of viciously sharp spikes, there was no less clamour. Septas milled around like livestock, and servants buzzed at their duty like bees in one of Lord Lyman’s apiaries. She could smell the sharp scent of lemon on the air, and knew to follow it, to where her mother was holding her own type of court.
Queen Aemma Arryn’s belly was lightly swollen with the baby she was carrying, and she covered it with light silks of blue and red, allowing her skin to breathe in the noonday heat. The heady scent of stewed dates and figs hung in the air, sending tendrils across the room, and a plate of lemon cakes and raspberry tarts was laid out on the table. Instinctively, Rhaenyra stepped towards them, led on by their intoxicating aroma.
Another woman was sat at the table with her mother, who quickly introduced her. “This is the Lady Falia, of the house of Fossoway. She is the wife to your father’s new Hand, Ser Otto Hightower.” Falia Fossoway was a stern lady, full of sharp points. Her nose and chin and ears were all pointed, likely to prick the skin if you got too close, and she was tall and austere, even when sat down. Her silks were shades of green, and a pair of ornately bejewelled apples hung from the lobes of her ears. Her hair was the colour of syrup, and was held up in a bun at the back of her head, tied with a net of gold filigree. At her side, sat a girl Rhaenyra’s age, whose eyes were fixed on a tart. She held her hands together in her lap, sitting quietly, so as to not disturb the grown-ups. “And this is their daughter, Alicent. She will be staying with us, whilst her father serves yours. You should welcome her.”
The final words were said with a veiled pointedness, and Rhaenyra knew it would be unwise to ignore them. She sat on the plush sofa opposite Alicent, who afforded her a shy glance, but nothing more. Rhaenyra pushed the tart that had earned her attention towards her, gently. The crust was golden and crumbling, and a network of latticed lines held the gooey red innards within. “You can eat it if you want.” She offered, but Alicent shook her head. “I’m not hungry,” her mother shot her a judgemental look, and Alicent remembered her graces, “my lady.”
Rhaenyra looked to her own mother, who inclined her head slightly, urging her to persevere. Rhaenyra girded herself, and ploughed ahead, like a knight into the field of battle. She extended her hand to the other girl. “Come, Alicent, let me show you the gardens and the godswood. The air may do your appetite some good.” Reticently, Alicent took her hand, and Rhaenyra helped her to her feet. Slyly, she tucked two of her mother’s lemon cakes into a pouch under her silks, hoping that the pilfering had gone unnoticed. The arch of her mother’s eyebrows suggested that it had not.
She held Alicent’s hand all the way to the gardens, sensing that the girl felt ill at ease within her new home. They passed back up the twisting serpentine steps, and then beyond the slate-roofed hall at their top. The godswood lay behind the sept, and was an acre of spacious green, clustered by groupings of gentle elms and alders. It smelled of summer, the flowers releasing their floral scents into the air, and the grass was wet with dew. Ser Harrold, her white shadow, left them at the gate, standing guard there, and a servant brought them a red rug for the ground, to spare their silks from the dampness. Rhaenyra laid it out at the foot of a drooping willow, whose yellow leaves seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, and then fell to her knees upon it, a laugh on her lips. Alicent remained standing, awkward and uncomfortable, as the princess looked up at her. “Why don’t you sit?”
Alicent’s finger’s twitched, but she quickly hid them from view, holding them behind her back. “It would be improper, my-” Rhaenyra collapsed backward, exasperated. The view over head was a cascading shower of tiny yellow leaves, and beyond it the open sky. What she would give to be upon Syrax right this moment, cutting patterns through the clouds. “My name is Rhaenyra. You can call me that, not your lady.” She rolled onto her side, again looking up at Alicent, her arm rested beneath her head, as if asleep. “You can stay standing, if you want, but when your legs get tired, you’re always welcome down here.” She patted the rug beside her. Alicent seemed to think on it for a few moments, before lightly perching herself upon the edge of the crimson fabric. Rhaenyra smiled. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
She looked at the girl again, taking her in. Her hair was nut brown, and cascaded beyond her shoulders. Her cheekbones were as sharp as her mother’s, but the rest of her seemed less pointy. Her silks were also green, but she wore no jewellery or ornamentation, save for a silver chain around her neck. When she sat, she knelt on her knees, with her hands folded in front of her. She didn’t smell of horses, so Rhaenyra assumed she had ridden in a wheelhouse, as was the style for highborn ladies. She had never understood the appeal of them herself, however. She would much prefer to be upon Syrax, or fail that, a horse, free to roam, instead of caged like a canary.
“You’re very quiet. Is that what your mother taught you?” Alicent shifted herself nervously. Her eyes never lingered on Rhaenyra long, instead flitting away to some far point in the distance. “My father,” she mumbled, her words uncertain, but it was something, at least, “he says I should watch how I speak in the company of kings and queens.” Rhaenyra shifted again, onto her front, cupping her hands beneath her chin and resting them upright, her elbows against the fabric. “I give my father cause to chastise me for speaking out of turn, too. You need not worry here, though. I am neither a king nor a queen.” Alicent’s eyes lingered longer on her that time. “But you are a princess. That’s similar. I think-”
A laugh escaped Rhaenyra’s lips, and it echoed back to her, through the trees of the godswood, and off the walls of the keep. “That’s your problem, then. Thinking. I try to avoid it, if I can.” Hesitantly, Alicent laughed with her, and soon the godswood was alive to the song of their laughter, with even the birds joining in, adding their chittering voices to the chorus. With gentle fingers, she shepherded the lemon cakes from within their pouch, and handed one to Alicent, who took it, albeit gingerly. “Do you have lemon cakes in Oldtown?”
The girl nodded, her hair bouncing as she did. “Uncle Hobert adores them. He has the lemons brought fresh from the finest orchards of Dorne.” She seemed to realise then that she had been talking for multiple sentences, and her eyes dropped away, down to the lemon cake itself. They were small and round, made of soft sponge soaked in syrup, tart and tangy, yet also sweet and indulgent. Rhaenyra bit into hers, enjoying the feel of her teeth cutting through the delectable centre. Alicent, on the contrary, only nibbled at the age, like a squirrel feeding on nuts.
“You won’t enjoy it as much doing that,” Rhaenyra pointed out, “take a big bite, then the flavours all come together.” Hesitantly, Alicent followed her advice, widening her mouth, and scoffing down a heaving mouthful. She had bitten off more than she could chew, for it caused her to break out in a series of coughs, which echoed throughout the godswood. Rhaenyra rolled over to her, slapping her on the back, hoping to dislodge the blockage, like maester Mellos had once shown her. When the coughing stopped, it descended into a fit of giggles from both the girls.
“Tell me more about Oldtown,” Rhaenyra eventually managed to ask, as their laughter subsided into a pleasant silence. Alicent seemed to perk up even further at the mention of her old home. “It truly is the most wondrous of cities. Ships come from as far east as Qarth, baring all sorts of exotic things, from animals, to spices, sometimes even people. The maesters buzz around all aflutter, from the oldest of men, to the youngest of boys, always clad in their funny grey robes, many smelling of honeyed beer. My uncle, Lord Hobert, entertains the grandest of feasts, with captains from all around the world. There are brightly-coloured lords of Myr and Lys, or squat whalers from Ibben. Even ebon-skinned men from the Summer Isles, with gowns of bird feathers, holding more colours than the rainbow. All day you can hear the chanting of the septons in the Starry Sept, and at night, the queer red-cloaked mages light their fires, and chant against the darkness, holding the stars at bay.”
She seemed to settle into herself as she talked, and her eyes misted over, picturing the city that lay so many leagues away. She didn’t name her as ‘my lady’ once, Rhaenyra noticed. As she spoke, she allowed her shoulders to fall back, and a smile played daintily upon her lips. Rhaenyra laughed at her tales of great feasts in the high hall of the High Tower, or sneaking into the streets of the city to ask questions of the young maesters, all so keen to impress. She decided that she liked this side of Alicent Hightower, when she was away from the rules ascribed by her mother and father. “Tell me of the view from the top of the High Tower. They say you can see as far as the Wall!”
Alicent laughed. “Not so far. On a clear day you can see the Trident, a blue ribbon through green fields, and the Mountains of the Moon, bleak and austere.” Rhaenyra rolled onto her back, staring up at the sky. Clouds moved listlessly across the blue expanse, and the sun shone bright, merciless in the heat. “And what of King’s Landing? Can you see it?” She need not imagine what it was like to see the world from above, for Syrax had shown her, time, and time, and time again. “A bump on the earth, but yes. Sometimes you can see the city.” A sadness seemed to take over Alicent again. What must it be like, Rhaenyra wondered, to be pulled from your home in such a way? King’s Landing and Oldtown were both bustling cities, but they were very different, it seemed. The picture Alicent painted of Oldtown was one of academics, their minds hard at work, and priests, preaching the piety of their respective faiths. It was a place of learning and culture. King’s Landing could hardly be described as that.
It was a city of smells, not all of them pleasant, and exotic tastes, lingering on your senses. It was a city of noise, from dawn to dusk, and then all the times in-between and after. It was a city built on coin and hope, where men of all kinds came to make their name, and few and fewer managed to achieve it. Grasping ambition made its root here, not a lust for learning, but a want for power. Even at seven she could see all that. She wasn’t blind to it. Perhaps she would find it strange to be supplanted into the life of Oldtown, and then she would have sympathy with Alicent’s plight. She resolved that she would help the other girl, in the attempt that she might find a happy home here.
“Come on, let me show you something.” She pulled Alicent to her feet, all in a hurry, and dragged her from the godswood, leaving their red rug behind them. “Princess!” Ser Harrold called to her as they darted past him, but she made the white knight no mind, and merely barrelled on, Alicent flapping in her wake. Outside the stables, she stopped, panting, her silks burnished with dust and dirt, and her brow beaded with sweat. Alicent was correcting her hair, and making sure her own gown still covered her underclothes, when the mighty head of Syrax poked out of the nearest stable. Alicent was taken aback, almost tripping over her feet, but Rhaenyra caught her. “He’s mine. Go on, he won’t hurt you.”
Alicent didn’t seem keen to make the approach, so Rhaenyra helped her. Tentatively, she ran her own fingers through the other girl’s, so that they were entwined, and then gently led her closer to the dragon. Alicent’s steps were small and slight, but bravely, she made them. Syrax gurgled a welcome, and brought a smile to Rhaenyra’s happy lips. The dragon was inspecting Alicent with an odd intensity, but no roar did he unleash. That must be a good sign. When they got close enough to touch, Rhaenyra guided Alicent’s hand to the hide of her friend. Alicent’s eyes almost popped from her head, but she did not pull away. “It’s warm, and dry. Did I expect it to be wet and slick?” Suddenly, a hesitant laugh burst forth, and again, the two of them laughed in chorus. A few of the men-at-arms had gathered around them, watching on, and Ser Harrold had caught up, though he kept his distance. “Her name is Syrax.”
“Hello, Syrax,” Alicent purred, “you’re beautiful.” Rhaenyra watched proudly, as her newest friend softly petted her oldest. Whether it be in King’s Landing or Oldtown, dragons would amaze, and girls would be girls. She hadn’t always had the best of luck befriending other girls her own age, but something about Alicent seemed different. She wasn’t one of these perfectly pristine little visions that her mother brought to court, whose septas had taught them to sing the songs of the little birds. Alicent was different, flawed and shy, and alone. Rhaenyra liked that. She was alone, too, except for Syrax. Now they could be alone together.