Work Text:
Even from afar, the raging fire in the hearth licks Alicent’s cheek, slithers inside her constricting green dress, inflames her skin. Alicent felt sweat trickling down her back. Burning to the bone.
A son who is not her son is sitting by the fire with one of his eyes gouged, barely stitched together. Familiar faces are in the room, but Rhaenyra stands far from Alicent, protecting sons who are not her sons with a maternal instinct that is foreign to Alicent.
The face Rhaenyra wears for Alicent is wringing her stomach. Contempt, betrayed, Alicent wants to look away. It reminds her of the day when the king announced that he was to wed Alicent. But she is trapped under the water. Unable to swim free or breach the invisible containment within.
“Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velayron.”
the words pours from her mouth unwillingly.
“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”
No. Stop. Alicent cries her futile pleading.
“You will do no such thing.” She hears the immediate terror in Rhaenyra’s voice.
“Stay your hand.” The king demands.
“No, you are sworn to me!” Alicent shrieks. Her heartbeat wrenches her insides and silence sweeps the floor as everyone looks upon Ser Criston’s reaction.
“As your protector my queen.” Ser Criston answers with no hesitation.
“Alicent, this matter is finished, do you understand?” The king breathes down on her, warns her callously.
This matter is finished. This matter is finished. Please, this matter is finished. Alicent pleads to herself, she hopes it would not be futile.
As the king turns away, in one swift motion her hand reaches for his dagger, and her feet carry her to the last place she wants. To her Rhaenyra.
Stop, you fool! enough! Alicent screams inwards, unheard. She weeps. She wails as Rhaenyra deflects her assaultive arm.
“You’ve gone too far!”
“I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, upholding the law. While you flout to do as you please.”
“Alicent let her go!” the king imposes but the fire, the blade, everything burns her into madness. Inflames her involuntary rage that cannot be controlled by her opposing consciousness.
“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It’s trampled under your pretty foot again.”
“Release the blade Alicent.”
“And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that you feel entitled.” Alicent spat
“Exhausting wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.”
Rhaenyra’s assertion sears her skin more than the fire licking the air.
“But now they see you as you are.”
No!
She rips through Rhaenyra, flays her love’s skin open until blood gushes from the wound. Her mouth parts in horror, the realisation dawns acrid on her tongue.
Alicent screams inwards, unheard, in vain. She weeps.
She weeps herself awake.
She weeps when she is awake. Her teeth chatter and her hand trembles.
A phantom derivation from an unmade decision. The heat of the fire was vivid enough to overwhelm her waking senses.
It all Felt like a second life, a second skin. She feels as if her cries came from another form of her unwanted existence. It would not cease even as she sits. Her nightgown drenched in her burning sweat. She clutches her chest to calm her thundering heartbeat. Nausea makes her heady, threatening to spill.
“Alicent?” Rheanyra calls from the balcony behind the chiffon drapes hanging on the arch, dancing softly from the winds of dawning Qarth. Alicent hears Syrax's distant roar.
Her lady wife slithers through the fabric as she approaches her. Concern paints her beautiful face. The realm’s delight even in another realm.
“Alicent, my love?” Rhaenyra sits beside her, takes her trembling hand, brushes her long brown curls sticking on her neck.
“Talk to me.” She gently coaxes her, tips her chin to look her in the eyes.
Alicent focuses on her voice, takes in her beauty. Rhaenyra has bathed and Scented herself in Spiceflower and Lemon. She dressed herself in a Qartheen garment that leaves one of her breasts bare. Her long silver hair fashioned in a single braid just like her war general ancestor, Visenya Targaryen.
Rhaenyra becomes just that, the war general of Qarth, the dragon of the Pureborn. Anything to uphold the life she and Alicent currently share, away from the prying eyes and the scheming machinations of Westeros, she jumps to the machinations of other kingdoms.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I never want to be married to your father.
“I know love. I know.” Rhaenyra brushes her fingers through Alicent’s locks over and over again as she pulls her to rest on her shoulder, soothes her sobs with her caresses.
“Tell me again.” Alicent pleads. Her voice merely whispers.
“We took all our most expensive jewelleries, shoved them in our bags.” Rhaenyra’s voice is gentle and soft. The story has become a tale to comfort, a lullaby in distress. A reminder of their freedom that has been earned.
“We flew across the narrow sea under the cloak of the night, the stars our only guide. We bound our chests, cropped our hair and dressed ourselves as boys. The Pureborn graciously took us in. So long as I participate in their wars.” Rhaenyra continues.
“But in return, we did whatever we wanted. Drink the best wines, wear the best fabrics, eat cakes and all manner of delicacies to our heart’s desire. Study the arts of higher mysteries.” She looks down and gives Alicent a smile.
“We love who we want.” Alicent chimes hoarsely.
“We love who we want.” Rhaenyra echoes as she tuck Alicent’s falling strands behind her ears.
“With Syrax, no one dares to even touch us.” Rhaenyra affirms.
Her lady wife has excelled with the sword in such a short time since many years ago, has been possessed by the strength and talent for conquest of her ancestor. She fights with her sword like silk in the wind. But the last sentence of that tale is a generous lie to comfort her.
Her ability to fight does nothing to deter her enemies. Alicent heard the assassins gurgling last breaths by Rhaenyra’s blade in the night. The leery eyes of Warlock’s thirst for the power her lady wife wields, the merchants’ jealousy over the Pureborn’s favour for her.
All for her. Alicent wonders whether Rhaenyra would lead a safe and quiet night if Alicent had stayed to wed her father. Perhaps remove herself as a burden to Rhaenyra and reject the King’s proposal to grow old as a spinster or a Septa back in Hightower.
But her thoughts are loud for Rhaenyra to hear, she who has known Alicent so thoroughly, who has been bound to Alicent by shared hardship and suffering in those early days of their desertion as the future queen and the future heir. Moulded to resemble in mind, united by uncommon ways.
“I would do it all over again.”
“What?” Alicent gazes upon her.
“I do not regret it, Alicent. Not one second.”
All the senseless schemes of her father, the senseless death of Queen Aemma, the senseless King’s affiliation to her, it was all necessary to carve the only sensible path they currently walk. Alicent realises this as she sinks into the depths of her silver eyes. Silver waves under the moon they rode past many many years ago. Silver stars they chart in the night sky. Silver teeth from their adolescent giggles of their freedom whistling in the night air, when Syrax took them far and away.
“And i.” Alicent replies.
“Good.” Rhaenyra coos, takes Alicent’s lips with her own. Alicent swallows the fire from Rhaenyra’s mouth, burns her insides, and she would let it engulf from her organs to her bones, from her toes to her fourth finger clad in a ring of promise.