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It was difficult, Alicent felt, to know that you were born to be someone quite different from who you were. Even more difficult to hide it, and then to hope no one ever wondered why your fingernails dripped blood.
She had learned early on that she was broken, or at least capable of breaking—her father always said so, and her many sleepless nights proved it. She was eleven the first time she couldn’t breathe in a room full of air, and Otto had called the maester only to be told his daughter was perfectly fine, and therefore a liar.
“Look around you, my lady,” the maester said. Alicent couldn’t; the world was dark, candle snuffed out. “Look around, why do you cry? You’re safe.” Hearing him as though through a tunnel, Alicent wanted to laugh. If she had ever been safe, the feeling was already foreign. Her whole life had been built on her father’s terror, his horribly calm fury. His affection. His grief. She loved her father, and her father never felt safe, so why would she? It was as though her mind had heard an unspoken order—fear, always fear—and taken it farther than anyone would have demanded. Well, she always was obedient.
She thought she had righted course when her father brought her to King’s Landing. For many moons, she didn’t break skin, breathed fully, kept her meals down and slept through the night. The princess Rhaenyra had that effect on her naturally, or perhaps Alicent was only obeying a new master, one who demanded happiness, almost too much happiness, the kind that cramped your stomach and left your cheeks aching. Like a dog, Alicent cleaved to Rhaenyra’s affection in the hope that doing so would make her whole. Otto smiled at her sometimes, in those days. Rhaenyra smiled at her always.
In hindsight, she knew even then. She’d known all along.
***
On an otherwise unremarkable Sunday when Alicent was sixteen, she and Rhaenyra were wandering the halls of the Great Keep, admiring the paintings and tapestries. It was a frequent pastime of theirs, one Rhaenyra often insisted on—the Targaryens were far from prudish in the art they commissioned, full of naked skin and writhing bodies, and it amused the princess to see Alicent blush. “Gods, you’re like a septa,” she’d laugh. And then: “Red is a good color on you, you know; it sets your eyes off nicely.” Which of course only made Alicent’s cheeks hotter, which made Rhaenyra laugh louder and harder. And so on, and so on.
This particular day, though, Rhaenyra was oddly quiet as they walked arm in arm. When they reached the end of a dimly-lit hallway, she stopped so suddenly that both of them stumbled. Looking up at the art on the wall, Alicent wasn’t surprised at Rhaenyra’s fixation—Otto often complained about this painting in particular, how lurid and distasteful it was, and she suspected it was thanks to him that it hung in an untraversed part of the Keep. What did surprise Alicent was that Rhaenyra didn’t look over to laugh at her, didn’t mock the way her eyes darted across the bodies, unwilling to land anywhere in particular. The princess stood straight ahead, apparently memorizing the scene. So, as though Rhaenyra had asked her to mimic, Alicent did the same, ignoring the way her stomach turned on itself in knots. An old habit—that should have been her first clue.
Though she had seen the piece before in passing, she’d never really looked at it. At first, it was precisely what she thought it would be: an image of men and women in various states of undress, committing acts Alicent couldn’t even name. This was typical of the Targaryens’ artwork, and for several moments Alicent was confused: what was it that had so outraged her father, who was accustomed by now to Valyrian taste, and so stunned Rhaenyra, who was never shocked by anything?
It was only when Alicent looked closer, forcing herself to focus on the brushstrokes she would ordinarily shy away from, that she understood what she was looking at. Which is to say, she understood nothing at all.
It was not an image of coupling, at least not how Rhaenyra had explained the act to her two years before (information she gleaned from her uncle). There was no insertion, which Alicent knew to be vital—this was something that made sense to her in its cruelty, that a woman must be painfully torn open for a child to emerge. But here, there was no pain, and there would be no children. Instead, two naked women floated next to each other in a tree, their hair twined together although their bodies didn’t touch, and two naked men stood between their legs.
Alicent focused on the westernmost woman, whose hair was as pale as Rhaenyra’s, still rigid beside her. The woman’s face was odd, as though she’d been frozen midway through a sneeze: her lips were parted, her eyes clenched shut. But it was the man who puzzled Alicent most: his hands were on the woman’s legs, nowhere near the manhood that must be out of view, and his feet were planted firmly on the ground even as the woman hung suspended. Alicent couldn’t understand how this man could begin the process that now numbered among her fears, how this woman could be sufficiently hurt when she floated so far above him.
There was something else, too, a thought that Alicent instinctively shied away from, then reluctantly returned to when her mind refused to wander. Once something was thought, it was difficult to unthink it, and doing so typically required a blood sacrifice: from her fingers, her wrists. Unable to oblige her mind while her body stood captive, Alicent just looked, and looked, and thought, traitor to herself: Why would an artist paint a man who doesn’t look like a man? Her heart beat almost painfully, a warning sign.
But it was the truth, at least so far as Alicent could tell. Yes, Targaryen men had long silver hair, and this man was no exception; there were strands of moonlight that trailed down his bare back. But Alicent had seen her eldest brother without his shirt a handful of times—such a thing was unavoidable in a castle with so many boys, and Gwayne was always the wildest. Even as a child, he had some muscle in his back, ropey and strange and so different from hers. His hips were narrower, his shoulders broader. No one would mistake them for one another.
From the back, the man in this painting didn’t look like her brother did. His back was too smooth, his body too narrow, his hair longer than even Daemon Targaryen’s. But of course he was a man, because there was nothing else he could be.
“My mother and father have begun to speak of my marriage.” Rhaenyra’s voice pulled Alicent away from her thoughts, something she was ordinarily grateful for. This time, though, the princess’s voice was dull, a far cry from her typical teasing, and Alicent’s fear only increased, her breath growing shallower.
“Surely they cannot mean to marry you off now? Not while your father still has no heir?” Before Alicent could begin to panic in earnest, as she knew she would, Rhaenyra shook her head. The two of them still stood facing the wall, but the painting had begun to blur before Alicent’s eyes, and she could no longer trust what she saw.
“No, not now,” Rhaenyra said. “I believe they mean to accustom me to the idea by speaking of it often, as though it’s something to look forward to.” Out of the corner of her eye, Alicent watched the princess’s lip curl. “It’s thought that I will be unduly reluctant to do my duty to the realm.”
Though her mind was still foggy, Alicent heard the familiar ring of the insult. “Has my father given His Grace that impression?”
Rhaenyra shrugged, her shoulders stiff with tension. “I cannot pretend to know what goes on in my father’s mind, or in Lord Hightower’s.”
“You are fortunate,” Alicent said before she could stop herself. Over the past few years of watching her father politick in King’s Landing, she’d realized that her mind was precisely his, only with a few missing pieces. She knew that this must be why she once disgusted him so, and why her popularity in court so pleased him now. Otto and Alicent both lived in a labyrinth, enemies awaiting at every turn. The difference was that Otto could fight them in times of strife, and Alicent could not, and this was where she was most defective. So she was told. So she knew, without needing to be told.
Alicent’s unplanned outburst softened Rhaenyra, who turned toward Alicent and tugged at her hand until they faced one another.
“You aren’t a bit like your father, you know,” Rhaenyra said, staring down—Alicent was profoundly glad that her fingers were clean, free of any dried blood. “You’re kind, and generous, and you always laugh at my jokes even when they’re not funny at all, and you let me show you paintings that horrify you and you never complain.” She smiles; Alicent can feel her heart beat in her hand. “And you’re smart. Smarter than he is—I wish you could be Hand for a day, and then he would see, because you’d solve all of his boring problems in a matter of hours and be done in time for tea and cake.” Then, almost inaudible, Rhaenyra whispered, “You ought to have a dragon,” and this was the final straw for Alicent, whose breath sped up almost wearily, as though tired of playing its part.
She shook her head. “Rhaenyra, you mustn’t say these things. My father would not like it, even in jest.” She can only imagine what Otto might do if he knew the crown princess had disparaged him to his only daughter, the poisonous lies he might tell the king in an effort to marry Rhaenyra off faster, send her farther, far enough that Alicent would never see her again. Alicent could not fly on dragonback, and she would never have a dragon.
Rhaenyra scoffed, her grip on Alicent tightening. “Jest! I do not jest; what have I said that isn’t truth? I’d swear all of it on all of your gods, and on anyone else’s.” Alicent opened her mouth to protest, and Rhaenyra let out a noisy sigh, dropping her hands and turning back to the painting.
“I apologize, I didn’t bring you here to upset you,” she said, sounding frustrated. “Or to speak of your father. I only wanted to—the talk of marriage has made me think—” She made another sound, low in the back of her throat. It was rare to see Rhaenyra struggle with her words, as rare as it was to hear her apologize, especially for such a small offense. Alicent felt wrongfooted, as slow as a child in her effort to follow their conversation.
“I wanted to ask for your thoughts on this,” Rhaenyra said finally, gesturing to the painting, which was still terrifyingly opaque.
Mortifyingly, Alicent trembled as she faced the wall once again. For once, her mind wouldn’t supply her with a pretty lie, which meant she was forced into honesty. “I find I do not understand it.” The words came out desperate, and for a moment she believed that Rhaenyra would help her make sense of what she was seeing, as she had made sense of bedding years before. That they could giggle about it, even, as the chambermaids did. That Alicent had misunderstood what was in front of her, that she was stupid—what a comfort that would be, what a comfort it had always been.
But Rhaenyra didn’t explain anything. Instead she nodded, as though Alicent had given the right answer without knowing the question.
“I haven’t understood much lately,” Rhaenyra said softly. Then, gesturing to the art: “This least of all.”
Alicent had always known what the princess was thinking, even when she’d rather not. Dragons were open creatures—they concealed nothing but their eggs, and even then, their path was easy to follow. But this time, Rhaenyra was inscrutable, face inhumanly still, as though she’d sunk backwards into a weirwood tree. It was an uncomfortable, unbearable stillness that permeated the hall—Alicent was about to break it, to say something, anything, when Rhaenyra stepped forward, once again grabbing Alicent’s hand. This time, she lifted it to her lips.
Alicent felt that she must be going mad, finally, as she knew she eventually would. There was no other explanation for Rhaenyra’s mouth on her fingers, on her palm, pressing into her wrist and tracing her veins so lightly that Alicent could hardly feel it. Perhaps in madness, Alicent had refashioned Rhaenyra as a witch—that would explain why, when the tip of the princess’ tongue landed in the crevice between hand and wrist, Alicent felt the movement below her stomach. Perhaps Rhaenyra had disembodied her, scrambled her. Distantly, she was grateful: now a man would never split her open.
Rhaenyra’s lips trailed further up Alicent’s forearm until they reached the sleeve of her gown; the movement tugged Alicent closer than ever, so close their skirts were touching. Rhaenyra lifted her head and, with her free hand, began to trace Alicent’s cheek, gently, as though she were made of glass. It was the gentleness that spoiled everything—a witch wouldn’t be gentle. A disembodied head wouldn’t notice the brush of fingertips, wouldn’t blush so furiously and feel so dizzy.
Voice choked, Alicent said, “What are you doing.” It was not a question, nor was it a statement: she felt they ought to invent a new phrase for words that crawled out of one’s mouth on fire, covered in ash. Rhaenyra dropped her hand, looking dazed.
“I should not have—I’m sorry—I wanted to understand, I wanted you to understand,” she said, each syllable striking the air hard, then landing broken.
Alicent thought, wildly, that Rhaenyra had failed miserably: Alicent had never understood less, had never possessed less capacity for understanding anything at all. In other circumstances, she might have been overjoyed to be so detached from her mind. She didn’t know what to call this feeling, but it wasn’t joy, although it skirted the edge of it. She just stared at Rhaenyra. The princess looked miserable, her eyes flickering across Alicent’s face as though looking for something. I wish I could help you find it, Alicent thought, feeling close to tears.
She knew that if she stepped back, the spell would break: she could feign ill and return to her chambers, and later she could claim no memory of today. It would be easy; it felt enough like a fever dream already, the kind that left her thrashing.
But instead, she stepped forward, and that was all it took. Somehow, she’d known that. She couldn’t have known, but she knew.
Rhaenyra’s lips crashed into hers like a sword, too forceful—it was as though she wanted her mouth to stick to Alicent’s permanently. Alicent must have appeared startled, because the princess pulled back slightly. With what seemed like great effort, she gentled her movements, her lips pressing softly to Alicent’s, over and over. It was like a dance Alicent had learned and somehow forgotten—it came so easily, as though they had been doing exactly this for their whole lives, or perhaps even longer. Perhaps the gods had meant to make them one being and changed their mind too late, leaving the best parts of Alicent for the half she left behind.
When Rhaenyra’s tongue pressed against Alicent’s lips, Alicent opened her mouth instinctively, flooded with the memory of that same tongue on her wrist. Once again, heat was pooling low in her stomach, exactly where the painting had most confused her.
Rhaenyra’s movements were messy now, less precise. Pulling away from Alicent’s lips, she began to suck gently at her neck; Alicent closed her eyes, wondering how she could stand knowing such a feeling existed, day in and day out, for the rest of her life. Rhaenyra’s hand reached for Alicent’s waist, and it was only the sudden touch, close to where heat had been building, that brought Alicent back to herself. Separating from Rhaenyra with great difficulty, feeling that she was untangling something she ought not to touch, she stepped back, staring down at the ground so as not to stare at the girl in front of her.
In that moment, it was difficult to say who her fear belonged to, for it always belonged to someone. Perhaps most obviously, there were the gods—Alicent knew that they had seen her with Rhaenyra, and she knew that such a sight was better suited to the seven hells than it was to a kingdom’s castle. The sickness in her stomach, the way its contents sloshed like lava: that must come from them.
Then there was her father. In letting Rhaenyra tempt her to sin, Alicent had been weak, and weakness was something Otto Hightower did not abide. The reminder left a ringing in her ears, and that discomfort was his gift.
And then there was Rhaenyra, and there, there was her answer: Rhaenyra was the reason for it all, for the way her limbs melted and shook, for the flush in her cheeks and the blackness creeping in on her eyes. Rhaenyra, who looked oddly calm, her face once again a stone mask.
“I need to go,” Alicent said. Then, hysterically: “I’m ill.” She turned to leave, to run—where? To her father? To the sept?—when Rhaenyra grabbed her wrist, tugging until Alicent looked at her. Her eyes were dark, but her expression didn’t crack.
“It is not a sin,” Rhaenyra said firmly, because of course she would be able cut to the core of Alicent’s fear and see its contents at a glance. “We will both be married soon, and so we’re practicing. I cannot take your virtue, so it is not a lustful act, and that means it is not a sin.” The words sounded almost rehearsed, as though the princess of Dragonstone had practiced them in a mirror. The septa would be pleased to know she was practicing anything at all, Alicent thought, lightheaded.
Rhaenyra tugged again, her expression still giving nothing away. “By the laws of your gods, Alicent, it is not a sin. You need not fear.”
And as if on cue, Alicent’s stomach began to settle, her mind quieting, her vision clearing. There was a backwards logic to Rhaenyra’s words, but it was logic nonetheless—a path to walk and stones to walk on. The world, so inverted only a moment before, felt almost dull again. Rhaenyra was calm, so Alicent could be calm. Her mind belonged to Rhaenyra; it was a gift the princess gave her, one of many.
“I must retire to my chambers before supper,” Alicent said, her voice even and cool to the touch. “I trust I will see you this evening, princess?”
Rhaenyra nodded, and Alicent turned to walk away, moving slowly this time, as though nothing of great import had just happened. If she’d glanced behind her for even a moment, she would have seen Rhaenyra frozen in front of the painting, so still that she seemed a part of it—so still that, at a glance, she took the place of the long-haired man.
Alicent counted the cracks in the stone beneath her. She watched blood pool at the edges of her thumb. She hummed her mother’s favorite lullaby, and she did not look back.