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I hate her, Alicent thought, as she finally, finally closed the door of her own chamber behind her. I hate her. She glanced to her mirror, ornate and still, and watched the practiced serenity slip off her face. The dress weighed on her, and her reflection seemed to shrink. She knew how minute gestures were picked up and in public she was rigid, poised. Here, she softened and sighed. She itched to break something. Her fingers scrabbled blindly, for something to fling.
Instead, they found the rich damask of her bedding, beautifully smoothed and plumped by the Red Keep’s chambermaids as she was beautifully smoothed and plumped by her dressers. The silk of her dress seemed to glow, even in the low light. It was a miraculous thing, emerald green and heavy with brocade. She wore it with pride. Yet it seemed heavy on her again, and she watched her fingers sweep over the sleeves, restless despite the long evening. It was always something. Now her hair seemed to weigh her head down, and she watched her hands move across her head, patting and seeking.
She took a long considered breath, and allowed a sliver of the old doubt to creep out as she watched her reflection slowly plucking the pins from her long dark hair. They fell on the dressing table with faint sounds.
Was it worth it?
She never really doubted it. It was right, her father had whispered, she would be in her rightful place, as their ancestors had been when they ruled Oldtown before the Landing. And more than that, to see Hightowers on the Iron Throne.
He was right. She knew that. And yet.
Her long dark hair unfurled and dropped her back, soft and heavy. Her head felt light with relief. She sighed, happily this time.
Now the dress tugged at her again. She longed to be out of it, and she frowned. Where were those maids?
Probably drawing a bath for Rhaenyra, a dark corner of her mind whispered wickedly.
Alicent didn’t like this corner. Every time she visited it, the collection of furtive wishes and desires that she considered beneath her shifted and whirled away. If it was a person, she would lock it away and never allow them to look her in the eyes again. But this could not be pushed aside, and she tried to deal with it the same way she dealt with Viserys's needs. Yet she knew that wasn't quite right either. It had been a part of her as long as she could remember, known only to her. She had never needed anyone, mother or septa, to tell her that this was something you did not speak about. But it tugged at her despite her best efforts, and sometimes she succumbed.
If she was honest, truly, she did not care to look too long. Some things are better left in the dark. Her reflection's eyes seemed to laugh at her, and she looked away from it hastily.
She sat back on the bed, shook her hair a bit looser round her head and pulled a bit at one of her sleeves, frowned. The brocade bodice seemed to press down on her chest.
Someone knocked at the door, firm but quiet. She looked up, saw the look of frustration written plainly across her face in the mirror, and composed her features again.
“Your Grace.”
Ser Criston. Her reflection frowned slightly. Did Viserys summon her so soon? She thought she'd have more time. Her hand rubbed against her collarbone, where there was a shiny pink mark. The maid worried over this, applying ointments, and the maester had been consulted. Alicent never said anything.
“Come in,” she replied. Ser Criston stepped inside with his usual grace, not a hair out of place despite waking at daybreak to attend his duties every day. He smiled, politely. She looked at him, waiting.
“You left this behind,” he said. In his hand was a small pearl bracelet, the clasp broken. It glowed against his hands in the dim light.
“Oh,” Alicent said, “thank you.” She hadn’t noticed. It must have happened on her way out. The passage had been blurred with the hot unshed tears she held in until she reached her chamber. She l\took the bracelet from his hands and looked at Criston’s handsome reflection in the mirror. He was so still he hardly seemed to draw breath.
She chose a good one to look at, she thought to herself. Something stirred in that dark corner of her mind, and laughed. She brushed it aside.
“Ser Criston,” she said, “would you mind unfastening the back of this dress? My maids, as you can see, are not here, and it will only take a minute.”
She saw the hesitation in his reflection’s eyes, but knew he would not refuse her if she pressed. He was made to serve.
“Please.”
He moved to her back, and she watched him examine the dress's back in the mirror. His strong hands at her back were deft and gentle. Alicent stood still, taking in his warmth, drawn by his reflection.
She remembered her mother, when she was very young, talking to her in her own chambers as her lady's maids had dressed her for a celebration in Oldtown, and she had been permitted to see how a lady prepared herself for such events. Her mother had been very still as the maids rushed back and forth around her.
She thought of times she’d helped Rhaenyra with her dress and Rhaenyra hers when they were just girls. They had laughed in their innocence as they danced and jumped on the bed in their undergarments together until a septa came in to shush them. How long ago that had been.
She thought of being dressed and then undressed for her wedding. The maids had moved around her in flurries beforehand, adding to her anxiety, but it was too quiet after the ceremony. Viserys’s hands had been cool and his skin was soft, but she’d bitten her tongue and stared at the ceiling.
She thought of Ser Criston with his careful hands on Rhaenyra, flushed and drunk from the Street of Silk, and her heart quickened.
Her reflection looked back at her serenely, but she saw something dance in her eyes again. Perhaps that dark part of herself wasn’t so unknown to her after all.
Ser Criston's hands fell away from her and she stepped back. He appeared relieved, as though he’d been composing explanations in his mind for someone coming in and witnessing the scene. Alicent smiled.
“Thank you. It gets so hot in this room at night, and the fabric is so heavy after a while.”
“My pleasure, Your Grace,” Ser Criston said, dark eyelashes fanned over his smooth cheeks as he bowed.
Alicent looked at him, and then back at her reflection in the mirror. For a moment, she wondered how those sensitive hands would feel stroking away the pink mark on her collarbone, how those lips would feel trailing down her neck. She imagined plunging her fingers into his dark hair, biting him, watching that composed expression dissolve like salt in water.
Her reflection looked almost exactly the same; still and smooth, but she saw a faint tint to her cheeks.
“Your Grace?” Ser Criston said, and she saw him stir slightly and look to the door. “I should leave.”
Alicent wondered what he’d say if she stood up properly and let the dress simply fall to the ground. Would he be shocked, would he be angry?
She pictured herself, again, plunging her hands into his dark hair, and this time she pictured his mouth on Rhaenyra, wondered about the things they’d done. How they would feel.
“Thank you, Ser Criston,” she said, as graciously as ever, “you may return to your duties.”
“Your Grace,” he said, with gratitude, and noiselessly closed the door behind him.
Alicent waited until he had gone, and this time she did let the dress fall from her shoulders. Her reflection stared back at her, solemn and cool, entirely naked. Her eyes danced.
She draped the dress over a warming rack and traced her fingers along the dress’s brocade. Soft, yet layered and complex. The perfect choice.
Alicent slept and dreamed of dark corners and the things that played in them.