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Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

Alicent leaned over the basin in her chambers an retched out the contents of her stomach, choking on her own bile. It would have felt terrible if she wasn’t so numb. 

She could still picture how Lord Beesbury’s blood had spread slowly across the table; how she could taste the metallic scent of it that had leaked into the mind of the council, driving them further into madness. She wondered how she could have been so naive as not to see their disloyalty earlier.

Viserys and Lord Beesbury had drank together often. They had been friends for decades. He wouldn’t have wanted that. He wouldn’t any of this. 

She bent over the basin again, dry heaving, unable to regurgitate food that didn’t exist. She hadn’t eaten since she and Rhaenyra had sat next to each other, separated only by Viserys’s decaying figure. The man who had driven them apart in the first place. 

He hadn’t wanted that either. He had longed for she and Rhaenyra to see each other fondly again, but was too foolish every truly understand the reasons they didn’t. 

He was a naive, idiotic, weak, old-man, and Alicent had loved him, dutifully; loyally; as the wife of a King should. She had given him heirs, and he had hoped for them to be good, kind children, but never gave them the love and the respect they needed to become such.

In all of her right mind, Alicent could not understand why he, as his dying wish, had desired for Aegon to succeed him. 

She loved Aegon, because he was her son, but even she could admit that his incompetence as a leader was just as obvious as the fatherhood of Rhaenyra’s bastard children. 

And how many people were going to die after Aegon was crowned, and the realm is plunged into a Targaryen civil war?     

Alicent had told Rhaenys that a true queen counts the cost to her people. 

And yet you toil still in service to men; your father, your husband, your son. You desire not to be free but to make a window in the wall of your prison. 

For all the hatred Alicent had felt towards Rhaenyra, she knew did not deserve this; Her father dead; her throne usurped while he still rot; her family exiled and killed; Alicent’s betrayal. 

They had only just started to make amends. It had been barley a day ago that she had held Rhaenyra’s hand for the first time in over a decade and asked her to come back. 

Viserys’s would have wanted that— that at least she knew for sure. 

Alicent could not help but feel that Lord Beesbury had been right. The King had not meant what he said. He had adored Rhaenyra, and had, on his dying day, sacrificed any of his remaining health to just to sit the iron throne one last time and defend her son’s claim. 

And what did it matter even if he had meant it? Alicent knew, deep in her heart, that crowing Aegon would be a mistake.

She needed to find an alternative. There had to be way where no else would need to die. There had to be a way to keep her family together. There had to be a way for her and Rhaenyra  to work everything out. There had to be a way that pleased everyone. 

_____________________

Otto Hightower’s office smelled like fear. That’s what Alicent had always thought. It was a gloomy, haunting space that echoed with guilt and anxiety. 

That was likely intentional, Alicent realized now. For decades she had stood here and let him exploit her juvenile loyalty, manipulating her ideas of ambition to match his own. 

She had stood in this same spot over 20 years ago when he first told her that she should go visit the King, and here she stood again, listening to him tell her she should kill the girl she had once—

“We’ve relied on one another these many years. And now it it the good of the family we both desire. Whatever our differences, our hearts remain as one,” Otto said. He had always loved that idea; Family. Or rather, the effect it had on her. It was a wonderful parallel to the pillars of faith and duty, central to the philosophy of which she had been raised on. 

But Otto had never truly cared about family. Not in a loving sense. If he had, he would have let her and her children grow old in obscurity, content with their quiet privilege.   

“Our hearts were never one,” Alicent said softly. “I see that now. Rather I’ve been a piece that you moved about the board.”

“If that is true, then I made you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Of course it was. Every action he had taken during their time in King’s landing was carefully crafted with the intention of securing further power for himself. Himself as Hand, his daughter as Queen, and finally his Grandson on the Iron Throne. “Or would you have desired it otherwise?”

Alicent scoffed. 

“How could I know? I wanted whatever you impressed upon me to want.” She swallowed. “An now the debt comes due. A debt you are happy enough to pay.”

“A sacrifice.”  He turned away from her, towards the fire. Maybe he knew what that word meant to her. She wondered often if he realized how much she had knowingly given up for him. “—A sacrifice made for the stability of the realm. No king has ever lived who hasn’t had to forfeit the lives of a few to protect the many. Though I understand your squeamishness.”

Alicent’s blood boiled.

“Reluctance to murder is not a weakness!” she snapped. Otto was stunned silent; she had never raised her voice to him in his office. Or ever, for that matter. Grim satisfaction twisted in her gut, her confidence growing. “I have Aegon. We’ll proceed now as I see fit.” 

Otto watched her, waiting for her to explain her plan. She didn’t, she needn’t bother. He would never agree to it. In fact, he would despise it so far as to act against her. She was about to ruin everything he had worked so hard for. 

Alicent took a shaky breath, and then said clearly and loudly, “Sir Criston.” 

He entered. She had not been able to look at him the same since he killed Lord Beesbury without hesitation.

But still, a loyal, dangerous dog was a better guard then none. 

Otto realized what was happening before it happened. Alicent saw the wrinkles in his face twist into shock and anger— more emotion then he had shown in years— as she swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “Arrest my father.”

And he did. Without hesitation he grabbed Otto by the arm, although not with the same force he would another. She spoke directly to Criston Cole now, not meeting her father’s eyes. 

“Take him to the dungeons, but see to it that he is well cared for. You, and only you will guard him. No maid, servant, prisoner, guard, or any other is to get anywhere near him. Food will be given to you to give to him.”

Otto was known for his spies. Everyone, from the baker’s youngest child to Aegon’s prostitutes, reported information to him. She could not have him stopping her.     

“You are not the girl I raised you to be,” he hissed, as Criston dragged him out the door. Alicent shook her head.

“No, but I suppose I am the woman you created.” 

Before the door closed she added, softer this time, “Don’t worry. You’ll be freed after this is all over.” 

The door shut behind him. Trembling, Alicent pressed her fingers hard against closed, tearful eyes.

At least arresting the rest of the council will not be this difficult. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO 

Alicent clutched onto Aemond for dear life, her face buried in his back as she prayed to The Seven. 

“Mother, you’re making it difficult to breath,” he wheezed. Even with little breath he managed a hint of amusement in his voice. Alicent loosened her grip. A bit. 

“I hate flying,” she groaned. She had only done it once before, when Aemond was younger and had begged her do so. Even with her eyes closed she could feel her son shake his head with affectionate exasperation. 

“It’s okay,” he said softly, “we’re almost there.” 

Alicent sometimes worried that Aemond was her only child who truly loved her. His cold exterior could be softened, but only for his family. She loved that dearly about him. 

Alicent did not know when they had approached the island, only that Vhagar’s pace had slowed. 

“Are we there?” She asked. She felt Aemond sit up a little straighter. 

“Something is wrong,” he said quietly. 

“What?”

“Something— Mother, just look.”

Brutally reluctant, Alicent opened her eyes and peered around Aemond, trying desperately to ignore the vertigo. When she finally overcame the urge to puke and could focus on the island, she realized Aemond was right. 

“It's too quiet,” she said. Aemond nodded. The entire half of the island they faced looked empty. No messengers or servants bustled along the stone staircases, no movement flickered in the castle windows, and the ports looked all but abandoned.    

“I would have expected a dragon rider to approach us by now, at the very least,” Aemond said, completing her thoughts. “Do you think they know?” He asked. Worry twisted in Alicent’s gut. Maybe it would be easier, if she wasn’t the one who had to tell Rhaenyra. 

“How would they know? I’ve had King’s Landing under complete lockdown.”  

They rounded the Castle and— there. Alicent’s heart skipped a beat, and she could have sworn she felt Aemond’s do the same. A giant dragon was parked on the beach. Meleys. The fastest dragon in the world.  

“Rhaenys,” Aemond hissed.

“She must escaped around the same time we left, and outpaced us on Meleys,” Alicent said, putting the pieces together. “She’ll have told them everything. Last I spoke to her we were planning to crown Aegon before the masses. They could already be calling their banners to war,” she said lowly. 

“Do you think she saw us?” Aemond asked. She would have warned them they were coming. 

“She must have been flying above the clouds, to stay out of sight. Maybe she didn’t see us either. Surely if they saw us they would have sent all their riders to intercept us by now if they knew.” 

“Or we’re flying right into a trap,” Aemond said. Alicent chewed her lip. 

“Get up higher,” she said, against her better wishes. “We need to see the whole island, without being seen.”

The only real antidote to fear, apparently, was a different, greater fear. A fear of war, for example, could replace a fear of flying. At least as long as she didn’t look straight down. 

Still, she clutched tighter onto Aemond. 

“Mother, look,” he said. This time she already was. 

A crowd of people where gathering on the other side of the island, where a plume of dark smoke rose as a pillar against the blue sky.  

“A warning?” Aemond offered. A dagger of grief and pain stabbed into her chest. Alicent hand found the sleeve of Aemond’s shirt, grasping onto him, grounding herself from a new dizziness.

“It’s a funeral procession,” she said softly. 

“For the King?”

“Who’s body would they be burning?” 

Aemond didn’t answer. Alicent didn’t know either. Corlys’s maybe? 

“Let’s land,” she said softly. “Away from them, while they’re distracted. Vhagar will scare them. We’ll reach them on foot.” 

______________

They reached the summit, miraculously, without being seen by a guard. Or perhaps, in dark cloaks, hiding their usual green, they just blended in. 

And as they turned a bend in the path, they reached a spot overlooking the funeral. 

When Alicent’s eyes fell upon it she felt violently ill. Aemond held onto her arm as she covered her mouth, trying not to choke. 

On top a large, stone table, a child’s bound body burned. It was to small to even be one of Rhaenyra’s young twins, who had been born a year earlier.

Rhaenyra clutched onto the table, beside Daemon. She looked exhausted, weak, and grieving. Faint marks of blood and sweat had not been cleaned properly from her face. Facing away from the crowd, she cried. 

The birthing bed is our battlefield, Aemma had said once. Rhaenyra was fighting on two fronts. 

“Mother, who—,” Aemond asked quietly. 

“She lost the child,” Alicent told him softly. It was a wonder something so small could produce so much smoke. 

“Oh.” Aemond’s expression didn’t change, but he let Alicent lean against him kindly, clutching her hand.

Alicent had lost her fifth child, less then a year after Daeron was born, and only a few weeks before Rhaenyra had her second bastard child. 

It had been a girl. Aemond, barley more then a toddler then, had cried so hard when she told him. He had wanted so badly for a younger sister. 

Thankfully, after that nightmare, Viserys had never wanted to try for a child again.

Although it was she who had comforted him as he wept in the days after. She had wanted to remind him that it was her, not him, who had almost died. But she had held her tongue. 

Rhaenyra had comforted her instead. With Luke only weeks away, she had been huge. Alicent had hardly been able to look at her. 

They hadn’t gotten along in years, had hardly spoken at times, but Rhaenyra had sat down next to her, not even blaming Alicent for looking away, and taken her hand. I’m sorry, Alicent, she had said. I’m sorry for what happened to you. I’m glad you’re alive.     

Alicent had clutched her hand and sobbed harder then she had in a decade of sorrow. If Lucerys hadn’t been born a few weeks later, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Harwin Strong, Alicent might have completely forgiven her then. 

Now, she was starting to wish she had. 

She wanted to go to Rhaenyra now, and do the same for her, never mind the current situation. Before she could even consider their options, someone else was approaching Rhaenyra. Her guards drew their swords, and and Alicent knew who it was even before he removed his helmet. She could recognize that beard anywhere.  

“Erryk,” Aemond hissed. Although truthfully, he quite liked the man. 

“I mean no harm, brothers,” Erryk said. Rhaenyra didn’t turn around, but Daemon approached. 

Erryk knelt, and Alicent suddenly had an idea of what was going on. This was all happening too fast. This wasn’t what she had planned.

She didn’t expect, however, for him to pull out Viserys’s crown. He had stolen it from the body of the dead King, Alicent realized. 

Aemond started to reach for his sword, and Alicent grabbed his arm. 

“No,” She whispered. “Not yet. We’re not gonna let a traitorous duplicate of a man fuck up our plan.” Aemond, too stunned by his mother’s language, took his hand from his sword. “Just watch,” she told him.  

Erryk held out the crown. Rhaenyra, although only ever subtly expressive in her mature age, looked more surprised then anyone else. Alicent could see it in the twitch of her eyebrows and the focus in her eyes, on a face she had studied so carefully as an adolescent that she knew its movements better then her own. 

“I swear to ward the Queen,” he began, like poetry, or music, or a prayer. “With all my strength, and give my blood for hers.” Alicent felt goosebumps rise on arms and neck, as a  violent chill washed over her. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.” 

Daemon took the crown, and turned towards his wife. A moment of understanding passed between them that Alicent was to far away to read. 

In her adolescence, before Rhaenyra had even been named heir, Alicent had imagined this. 

It had been different, of course. On the steps of the sept, where every lord and lady gathered below them. In her dreams, it had been she who had placed the crown on Rhaenyra’s head, however illogical the idea. 

And she had imagined it a thousands ways since then, but none of them had looked like this.

As Daemon fitted the crown to her head, Alicent felt a wave of mixed emotions, none of them logical. Jealousy, anger, grief, anxiety, sorrow, betrayal, entrancement, disgust, affection, even a twinge of pride. 

The crown, once it was there, looked liked it had always been there. It looked so natural, perfect even, on her. Every sin she had committed was washed away, gone, replaced with all the glory and holiness of a ruler. 

And they began to kneel. Hesitant maybe, but out of confusion rather the doubt, Alicent could tell. Daemon first, and the crowd followed, from the Maesters to her sons and then her step-daughters. All of them. Everyone. 

Except Rhaenys. 

Rhaenys, who’s eyes met Rhaenyra’s with no resentment, and yet, no adoration either. And her eyes passed beyond Rhaenyra’s, up, to a spot to her left, above them all, where Alicent and Aemond stood. 

And Rhaenys met Alicent’s eyes. 

The chaos didn’t last long.

She yelled something to Aemond about not fighting back, and moments laters, after being grabbed and dragged a by a dozen different pairs of hands, they were standing in front of the new queen.

This time, the surprise really was apparent on Rhaenyra’s face.

“Alicent?”

“We come in peace,” Alicent said, although the expression on Aemond’s face definitely did not scream peace. “Rhaenyra,” she said, with only a hint of a beg. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward.

“Let go of her,” she ordered. Her first command as Queen. They obeyed. 

Alicent reached out, to take Rhaenyra’s hand, but heard a dozen swords drawn at her back and thought better of it. 

“Rhaenyr—,” she was interrupted. 

“I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but it must have been long enough for you to realize that it’s Queen Rhaenyra, now,” she said. Alicent stared at her. She would not be able to bring herself to say ‘Your Grace,’ so she bit her tongue instead. Rhaenyra took a step closer to her, and Alicent could practically smell the anxiety pouring off of her guards. “My father is dead,” she said it like a knife sliding into Alicent’s throat, “my throne stolen, the body of my only daughter burning,” her voice shook a little at that, “and my former friend has come to watch her son kill me.” 

Half of Alicent wanted to scream at her and the other half wanted to beg for forgiveness. 

She settled for more practiced dialog instead.

“I told you, we’ve come in peace. At great risk to our own safety, I might add, so that I could speak to you myself. I hope you can excuse the lack of warning for our arrival, but I am trying, Rhaenyra, to find a peaceful way forward, and thought you would be wise enough to hear me out. I hope I was not mistaken.”

Alicent heard Daemon scoff loudly behind her, but they both ignored it, Rhaenyra’s piercing eyes focused only on hers. 

Rhaenyra still looked unconvinced. As a final, desperate measure, Alicent reached into her robes, ignoring the swords that pointed towards her, and pulled out a thick, torn piece of paper. 

Rhaenyra took the paper, almost hesitantly, realizing what it was. She unfolded it carefully, taking in the words, the drawing, the ripped edges, the worn out look of a scrap of a memory that had been kept in a drawer for two decades too long. 

A hot tear spilled down Rhaenyra’s cheek. Alicent wanted to be 14 again to so she could reach forward and wipe it away. Instead, she spoke, tearfully, and so quiet that only Rhaenyra would hear.

“You told me once that I should keep this, so that I shouldn’t forget,” she said shakily, “and I haven’t. I have not forgotten the love we once had for each other.”

Rhaenyra did not meet her eyes until the tear had fallen and splashed upon the page. She sighed softly.

“Why did you come here, Alicent?”

There was no more time for dithering. Alicent swallowed.

“To discuss the terms of your rule.” 

If Alicent didn’t already have her attention, she definitely had it now. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

We’ll speak immediately, apparently, didn’t actually mean immediately, although Alicent could understand why a newly crowned Queen didn’t want to scamper off from a group that had just declared their loyalty to her. She and Aemond were led to an empty bedroom by Daemon, who had hissed a few profanities at them and then left them in care of two guards. Alicent hated how enamored Aemond was with him. At least Harwin and Laenor had been kind men— Daemon was worse than a wild animal.

After the door shut behind Daemon, leaving them alone in the room, Aemond flopped down in a chair, staring silently out the window. Alicent watched him clench and unclench his fist around the hilt of his sword. 

“I’m proud of you Aemond,” she said softly. He looked up, a little surprised. “I know this is difficult for you.”

Aemond cleared his throat and looked away, uncharacteristically bashful. 

“It’s nothing, Mother.” 

A new wave of regret washed over Alicent. Perhaps she should have told her children how much she loved them more often. She had always just assumed they knew. 

She walked over to where Aemond sat and cupped his chin, gently guiding him to look her in eyes. Underneath the striking face of a young man, she could still see the soft, quiet boy he had once been. 

“I’m serious, Aemond. I know this is frustrating, after what Rhaenyra’s family has done to you. I haven’t forgotten either. And I know it’s frustrating to see your brother fall into a role he doesn’t even want when you have worked so hard for it. I wish I didn’t have to be this way, I truly do.”

Aemond nodded a little.

“But it’s for the duty of the realm. I understand, Mother. For you, I’ll do it,” he said, and Alicent felt her her heart a break a little farther. “But you can’t expect me to be nice,” he added, and Alicent chuckled softly. She kissed his forehead, and let took a step back.

“Let’s aim for amicable,” she said, and he snorted.

Rhaenyra and Daemon entered a few minutes later, followed by a posse of guards and looking a bit more put together. She studied Aemond before turning to Alicent.

“Follow me,” she told Alicent, sounding somewhat detached. “Your son will stay here,” she added, and Alicent froze. Rhaenyra noticed her hesitation and said, “Relax, I have no intention of harming my brother. This family has lost enough,” and Alicent couldn’t help but flinch. 

“It’s fine, Mother. I’ll behave,” Aemond promised, and Alicent shot him a thankful look before following Rhaenyra into the corridor. 

The walk was silent, except for the sounds of her, Rhaenyra’s, and unfortunately Daemon’s footsteps, who had followed behind them. The rest of the guards had stayed with Aemond. Alicent went over the points of her proposition in her head, committing them to memory. This had to go well. They had Aemond and her lives in their hands now. 

The reached another door. Rhaenyra held the door open for Alicent, and shot Daemon a look that Alicent understood as, ‘you stay out here.’

“Wait,” he said roughly. “Let me check her for weapons.”

Images of a scene with dagger so many years ago flickered through all their minds. Rhaenyra studied Alicent somewhat doubtfully, noticing how Alicent had stiffened at the the idea of Daemon touching her. 

“I’ll do it,” she sighed, mostly to satisfy Daemon’s concern. Alicent held her cloak back and let Rhaenyra run her hands along her arms, her torso, her waist. She held back a shiver, trying not to think about how distantly familiar it felt. “She’s fine, Daemon,” Rhaenyra said, not meeting Alicent’s eyes, and Alicent wondered if she remembered too. 

Daemon huffed a little and turned to stand guard outside the door. Rhaenyra shut it behind him.

There was a moment where they just stared at each other. It felt a little like it had after the dinner, except a thousand horrible things had happened in the hours since then. Rhaenyra eventually spoke. 

“I’ve had a rather traumatic day, Alicent, I hope you’re not here to play games.”

Alicent stepped towards her, resisting the urger to take her hand.

“Rhaenyra, I am so sorry about your child. I am so sorry,” she said, hoping desperately that she would believe her. Her voice shook a little. “Whatever differences we have had, I am very relived that you are—,” alright, wasn’t the right word but alive was to emotional. “—that you were not harmed,” she said. Rhaenyra’s eyes looked wet. She sighed deeply and sat down on a chair by the window, looking out of it instead of at Alicent when as she said:

“She was named Visenya. After Visenya the First, but also after her grandfather.”

Alicent pressed her hand to her mouth, suffocating a dry sob. She waited until the urge to be sick had passed before speaking. 

“He would have liked that.”

Rhaenyra was silent, twisting at the rings on her fingers.

“When Rhaenys came, she told me that my father was dead, and that you had declared for Aegon. In my distress, a premature labor was induced.”

This time, Alicent really did puke into her mouth, and had to swallow it back down, choking, her eyes stinging. 

She pressed her fingers hard enough into her eyes to hurt, taking heaving breaths. 

“I didn’t— This wasn’t suppose to— I- Rhaenys—” 

“—I don’t want to hear how sorry you are, Alicent,” she said coldly. “I didn’t tell you this for an apology. But I would like you to understand my reluctance to hear you out.” 

Alicent felt awful. 

“I understand,” she said quietly. She didn’t know what else to say. Rhaenyra stared up at her. 

“Right now, my entire council is advising me to plunge us into war.” Rhaenyra sighed, “But enough lives have been lost in this already, and I have no great interest in ruling over a kingdom of ash.” Alicent felt herself nodding. There, at least, they could agree. “You told me you came with terms. I would like to hear them.”

Finally, an inkling of relief washed over Alicent. She sat down in the chair facing Rhaenyra. She decided to begin at the begging. Or near the begging; she didn’t have the heart yet to tell Rhaenyra that Viserys had wished for Aegon. 

“Your father passed in his sleep,” Alicent said, her voice cracking. “When I was told, in the early morning, a council meeting was summoned, in which I learned that my father, and the majority of the council, had been planning to instal Aegon without my knowledge.”

Rhaenyra listened to her silently, carefully. 

“Those fucking traitors,” she muttered. Alicent sighed. 

“Although feeling betrayed, I did not initially, disagree with them.”

“Then you’re fucking traitor too,” Rhaenyra snapped. Alicent flinched. 

“Rhae—,”

“You were there, Alicent!” Rhaenyra stood up, yelling at her. “You were fucking there! You dressed me for my coronation as heir! You bowed to my father’s declaration along with every other High Lord in the realm! From them I would expect betrayal- but from you I believed better!”

“Please, Rhaenyra—”

“—Not even two days shave passed since you raised your glass and said you believed I would make great Queen!”

Alicent stood up.

“I meant what—”

“—Maybe I should have expected this after everything, but my father—”

“No! I—”

“—I never believed you capable of turning on him—”

“—HE CHANGED HIS MIND!” Alicent screamed. Rhaenyra went still, staring at her, processing what she had said. Fuck, I didn’t want to tell her this way. Or at all.

“What?”

“He—,” Alicent took a deep breath. “I went to check on him, after the dinner. He told me that he wished for Aegon to be king.”

Rhaenyra’s silence was suffocating. She looked numb. 

“No, bullshit- you’re lying- he wouldn’t—,”

“He did.” She swallowed. “It was the last thing he told me before he died.”

Rhaenyra stared at her. Shock, anger, resentment, betrayal, disbelief, sadness, flickered in her eyes, and then— realization. Hope. Alicent was missing something. 

“What exactly did Viserys tell you?” She asked. Alicent frowned, confused. 

“He said—,”

“—His words, Alicent.” 

Alicent, closed her eyes, painfully recalling the memory. 

“But you wanted to know, if I believe it to be true. Don’t you remember? Aegon. His dream. The song of ice and fire. It is true. What he saw in the North. The price that was promised. The prince to unite the realm against the cold and the dark. It is you. You are the one. You must do this.”

Rhaenyra stared at her blankly. Alicent had expected some emotion— shock, anger, grief, maybe just confusion— but not a empty gaze.

“Rhaenyra, he was not in his right mind, and perhaps he didn’t—,” she started to explain but Rhaenyra bent over herself, covering her face with her hands. Alicent thought she was going to cry— but she laughed, a little hysterically.  

Alicent was definitely missing something.

“Rhae- Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra collapsed back into her chair and stared up at her, wild relief shining in her eyes. Another slightly hysterical chuckle bubbled out of her. Alicent tried again.

“Rhaenyra, stop, please. I don’t understand.” 

Her eyebrows drew together, a look that was almost sympathetic, and shook her head softly.

“No, you don’t. Of course you don’t,” she reached out and gripped gently onto Alicent’s forearm. “And it’s not even your fault.”    

Alicent hated when Rhaenyra was like this; a person she didn’t know; a person she hadn’t known in years. Her eyes stung. She pulled her arm away from Rhaenyra and sat back down across from her. 

“I just wanted to respect his wishes. He seemed so— so adamant, and it was his last words to me, and I didn’t want to betray you, Rhaenyra, I’ve never did,” Alicent’s voice shaky and tearful, “I’ve always believed you should be queen, I really have, but he was my husband and—,” she swallowed back a sob, “—and I just, I’m just trying so hard to hold everything together—,”

“—Alicent,” Rhaenyra interrupted,“He thought he was talking to me.”

“What are talking about?”

“There’s a prophecy passed down through only from Targaryen ruler to heir. Never anyone else. Earlier that day, before the supper, I spoke to him about it. I asked him if it was real. He grew too ill to speak, so I gave him milk of the poppy and we didn’t finish our discussion.”

“What does that have to do with my son?”

“It doesn’t. He was speaking of Aegon the First, the Conqueror, who dreamt of the prophecy. Like your daughter, Helaena, he could dream visions of the future. Targaryen prophecies are often vague, but are always correct. Eventually, they always come true.” 

“He said Aegon was the prince who would reunite the realm.”

Rhaenyra rubbed her eyes, shaking her head.  

“You’re not supposed to know any of this. It’s never supposed to be spoken about by someone who is not heir,” she said. Alicent was growing frustrated. 

“We’ll it’s a little late for that Rhaenyra! I’ve heard it; now help me understand it.”

Rhaenyra hesitated, staring Alicent down for a very long time, before sighing gently in defeat.  

“My father said that Aegon dreamt of a prince that would reunite the realm through its darkest time. But the word for ‘prince,’ has no gender in High Valyrian, so Aegon’s real prophecy was that a Targaryen prince, or princess, would ascend Iron Throne to protect the the realm from a terrible winter that would end the world of men.” 

The pieces were falling into place. What she thought had been intoxicated rambling—

“And when I gave him milk of the poppy, to help with the pain, he thought he was speaking to you. He said ‘it is you. You are the one.” She looked up Rhaenyra. “He believed you were the princess who was promised. He wanted you to take the throne.”  

Rhaenyra nodded, a little wide eyed.

It was all so convenient, Alicent thought. There was a secret prophecy that only Rhaenyra knew of that said she should become queen.

But Alicent knew she was telling the truth. She knew it with every inch of her existence, from the girl of 14 who had been Rhaenyra’s best friend, to the wife of the King for over 20 years. It made too much sense because it was right. Because, of course, Viserys would never change his mind about his heir, of course his last words would really be to Rhaenyra and not her. She was not Aemma, and Aegon was not the son he had wanted so badly. That son had died years ago, the same day that Aemma did, the same day that Rhaenyra and Alicent’s relationship would begin to change tragically and irreversibly, although they hadn’t not know it yet.

Alicent dug her fingernail so deeply into her nail-bed she felt it tear right through and begin to bleed. She hadn’t done that in years. The blood was sticky and rolled down her finger and across her palm, before dripping onto the floor. 

She felt Rhaenyra’s eyes watching her; watching the blood.  

“You believe me,” Rhaenyra said. It wasn’t a question.

There was a basin of clear water on the dresser; Alicent stood up and rinsed her bleeding hand off in it. She dried her hands and wiped her eyes, ignoring the blood that was reforming on her finger.

“It doesn’t matter. No one else will, Rhaenyra.” She turned back around to face her. “The realm expects a male ruler. Every lord in the Kingdom believes Aegon will take over when they find out the King is dead. If you go to King’s Landing now and take what they believe is Aegon’s right they will go to war.”

“You don’t know that—”

“—I do, Rhaenyra!” She felt herself shouting, unable to control her frustration any longer. “I know it! Do you think the council let me come her and offer you terms because they wanted to give you chance? Because the King loved only you?” She jabbed a finger at Rhaenyra. “No! They wanted your entire family executed! You, your sons, your husband, even your stepdaughters! I had to arrest the entire council to save your life!”

Rhaenyra stared at her; shocked. 

“You arrested the council?”

“Yes. Along with my father.”

Rhaenyra knew what family meant to her. She knew how far Alicent had gone to please her father. Their entire lives Alicent had never spoken against her father, not once. She looked away from Alicent.

“I- I’ve misjudged you, Alicent. Perhaps I have grown so used to our discord that I was determine to see you as an enemy. I regret that. We- we loved each other once. You- you have reminded me of that.” 

Alicent felt herself soften. The girl she had loved was still there, under decades of division. 

“I am trying to help you Rhaenyra, I am,” she sighed, “but you’ll have to hear me out.” She back down across from Rhaenyra. “My terms are good. They are very good. But they are not without some sacrifices.” 

Rhaenyra nodded. 

“I want to avoid war, Alicent. If you can offer me a solution, it will be worth some costs.”

Alicent swallowed. She was about to regret saying that. 

“You will marry Prince Aegon.”

“No.”

She looked affronted at the very suggestion. Alicent stared her down.

“You said you would hear me out. I’m not done.”

“We are both already married.”

“Yes. But Targaryen tradition says men can take multiple wives. Aegon will be married to both you and Helena, like Aegon the Conqueror took his own two sisters as wives.”

“And Daemon?”

Alicent sighed. He was the main sticking point in her plan. 

“Your marriage will be annulled.” 

“On what grounds?”

“Does it matter? We will either find a reason or create our own. You got married too soon after the deaths of your previous spouses; You weren’t married in by a Septon; There was no public wedding; the grounds are not a concern, it will not be hard to convince the people that the annulment is valid.”

Alicent had expected more anger from Rhaenyra, but she looked more weary than anything. 

“Daemon- I, I don’t want to-,” she trailed off. Alicent reached out, squeezing her arm gently.

“I know it is hard Rhaenyra. But its the only large concession.”  

“If you think I’m going to sire a heir with your excuse of a son then you are poorly mistaken.”

Alicent ignored the jab at Aegon.

“You won’t have to. You’ll never have to lay together at all.” Rhaenyra stared at her, confused. Alicent continued. “You and Aegon will be wed immediately, in front of both the court and the masses. In the same event, you will both be coronated as King and Queen. Who is consort and who is regnant will not be specified. The people will assume Aegon is regnant, because he is the firstborn son of the King, and we will do nothing to convince the realm otherwise. Lawfully, you will still be the true ruler, but it will take months, maybe even years, for the realm to realize. By then you will have had time to prove yourself as a ruler. Additionally,  Aegon has already agreed to naming Jace full heir to the throne. He will have to change his title from Jacaerys Velaryon to Jacaerys Targaryen. He will marry Baela soon after your own marriage, and hopefully sire heirs not long after. Targaryen lineage and rule of the Iron throne will be secured. It won’t even matter that Jace is a bastard. The Velaryons, as well as Daemon, should be happy to know their grandson will one day sit the throne.”

“What about Daemon?”

“He will have to stay away from King’s Landing, just for a while, so that the annulment appears authentic. After, he may return and you may do what you like in private, as long as you do not have another male child. If you do, the realm will believe it’s yours and Aegon’s and may want it to replace Jace as heir.”

  That wouldn’t be a problem. Rhaenyra was not sure she would ever be ready to have another child. Or whether she was even able. 

“And what of the rest of my sons?”

“Lucerys will be next in the line to the throne after Jace, until Jace has heirs, and Joffrey after him. His marriage to Rhaena will continue. Perhaps when your youngest sons grow older they will be wed to Aegon and Helaena’s children, although it is far to early to decide upon anything.” She paused. “Those are all my terms.” 

Rhaenyra stared at Alicent, looking more surprised then anything. Alicent hadn’t been lying, her plan was good. It was very good. She would become Queen, and her children would be heirs. A Hightower would not sit the throne. Otto would be replaced as hand. A civil war would be avoided. 

And the price was a marriage to her imbecile of a half-brother, a annulment of her own marriage, and her son’s name.             

Rhaenyra sighed softly. 

“I- must admit my admiration with the generosity and aptness of your proposal. But I am too old to taste something sweet and not think of poison. What am I to suppose you gain from all of this?”

Alicent picked at the blood that had dried around her nails. What did she gain of all of this? What was it that she hopped for? Why had she gone through so much to get here?

“Two days ago we had dinner together, as a family. And although the children bickered, I could not help but—,” her voice caught in her throat, “—but hope that we could yet repair things.” When Alicent said we, Rhaenyra knew she meant just you, and I. “A day after that, and we were on the brink of war.” She looked up, and Rhaenyra was surprised to see familiar damp eyes. “I’m tired, Rhaenyra. I am very tired. I am tired of forcing my children into roles they do not want. I am tired of fighting for a power I never cared for. And I am exhausted, Rhaenyra, of hating you.”      

Rhaenyra felt hot tears form in her eyes. She stood up.

“Alicent, I—,”

“You want to know what I get out of this?” Alicent stood, to look her level in the eyes. “Peace, Rhaenyra. The realm lives to see another day. No cities are burned, no banners called to war. Peace of mind, knowing Viserys’s last wishes will be realized.”

Rhaenyra chewed her lip. 

“I still need to talk to my family. They deserve to have some input.”

Alicent nodded, but she knew if she did not convince her fully now that Daemon could have her swayed. 

She swallowed her pride, her jealously, her anger, all of it, a did something she hadn’t but dreamt of doing since they were children. 

Alicent knelt. 

She looked up at Rhaenyra. 

“When we were just girls, all I wanted was for you be Queen. Do this for me, Rhaenyra.” She took her hand. “Do this for me, and you will have my full support. We can fix everything.”

The tear that felt from Rhaenyra’s face hit the stone floor just inches in front of Alicent. She didn’t even blink, staring Alicent in the eyes until they felt like they were children again, sitting in the godswood. 

“Ok,” Rhaenyra said softly. “Ok. I’ll talk to Daemon and the children. I’ll do it.” She helped Alicent back to her feet, squeezing her hand tightly; desperately.

“Thank you, Rhaenyra.” 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR

“Daemon, please—,”

“You’re really going to take orders from that spineless bitch?”

Talking to Daemon was going… better then expected. He hadn’t set fire to anything yet at least.  

“My love,” she grasped his hand between hers, and he softened, just a bit. “Baela’s son, your grandson, will one day be King, and Luke and Rhaena’s will be heir to the Velaryon line. Our children and our children’s children will rule the world. We’ll be safe. I will be Queen.”

“And what of us?” 

Rhaenyra was surprised by the question; Daemon tended to ignore those sorts of emotions.  

“What of us?”

“We ruined lives to get married. It took years just to be together. You’re going to throw all that away?”

“We haven’t been truly together in a while, Daemon,” Rhaenyra sighed. “You know it, I know you do. We are not what we once were.”

“We have two sons. We just lost our daughter.” 

“Don’t pretend you’ve ever taken a strong interest in raising them. They will still be our children, whether we are married or not. You’ll still get to see them when you want.”

Daemon rubbed his eyes. There was glass cup sitting on the table. He grabbed it a hurled it at wall, watching it explode into a million pieces. 

“I love you.” The words were rough from his mouth, unnatural, but not untrue. Rhaenyra shook her head softly, taking his hand again. 

“And I love you. That much will never change.” She squeezed his hand tightly. “But this way, we could have more freedom. Our love was always better that way; unchained. You can explore whatever relations you want with the servants and the merchants and the sailors; fight on the battlefronts; lead men into battle, like you were born to. And when you wish, you will be able to visit me, and the children. Train them, even.” 

“And will you?”

“What?”

“Fuck the servants and the merchants and the sailors?” 

“I might.” 

Daemon sighed, deeply and unhappily, and Rhaenyra knew she had won.  

_____________

Convincing the children was easier. Sure, Jace had said he wanted to puke at the thought of his mother and Aegon marrying, and sure, Luke actually had puked, but once Rhaenyra explained the complexities of the plot they had agreed. Enthusiastic, at least, that their betrothals would not change.

Rhaenyra had a sneaking suspicion that Jace was especially delighted that Daemon and she would no longer married, although she was proud of him being man enough to keep that to himself. 

Hours later, Lucerys had watched his mother pack, fiddling nervously with the hem of his coat. 

“What if it’s a trap?” He asked quietly, “What if Alicent is lying? What if they’re just luring us home to kill us?” 

Rhaenyra stopped what she was doing to look at him. The thought had certainly crossed her mind—and Daemon’s— but she knew Alicent too well.  

She cupped Luke’s chin gently. 

“The Dowager Queen is horrible liar, my love. And she despises deception.” Luke didn’t look convinced. “And just in case, we’re keeping Aemond and his dragon here, as leverage. Daemon will be watching over him and your twin brothers here. Aemond will not be allowed to leave until after the wedding, when we are sure that we are safe in King’s Landing, in which a coded message will be sent to release him.”

“Aemond is not going to like that.”

“No, he wasn’t terribly fond of the idea” Rhaenyra sighed, “But he and Alicent already agreed to it.” 

Lucerys still looked scared. Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“You know I would never agree to anything if thought it would put you and your brothers in danger, right?”

“I know,” he said softly. Rhaenyra gently brushed his bangs out of his eyes with her fingers. 

“Good. Now go help Joffery and Jace pack. And get some sleep, love. We’re leaving at sunrise tomorrow.”

______________

They boarded the ship the next morning. The sky was just starting to turn from black to blue. Alicent had watched as Rhaenyra kissed Daemon, before hugging him tightly. She got a glimpse of a softer side of Daemon she had never seen before, and was pretty sure she would never see again. 

Rhaenyra, who like most Targaryens tended to be less outwardly emotional, looked ready to cry as she hugged her youngest twin boys. 

“The ship is leaving soon,” Alicent said gently. Rhaenyra held Viserys and Aegon closer to her chest. 

“I know,” she said tearfully, “just another moment. I don’t want to leave them.”  

Alicent swallowed the lump of guilt in her throat, thinking of Visenya, and nodded. After another few minutes, Daemon managed to gently pry them from her arms. 

“Go, we’ll be okay here, I promise,” he said. Rhaenyra wiped tears from her chin.

“Okay, okay,” she breathed. She pressed kisses to their little foreheads. “I’ll see you again soon, my loves, okay? I’ll be Queen of The Seven Kingdoms by then.” 

Alicent turned away from them. Aemond was staring blankly across the sea. 

“Don’t sulk, it won’t be long,” she told him. He grunted. 

“I’m not sulking, Mother. At least this way, I won’t have to see Aegon and my dear half-sister get crowned.” 

Alicent sighed apologetically.  

“I’m sorry, Aemond. I know this isn’t what you wanted.” 

“It’s fine.” He wrapped an arm around her in hug, although she suspected it more for her benefit then his. “Maybe Daemon will agree to duel me.”

“Oh for the love of The Seven do not let that man kill you and give me another reason to hate him,” she groaned. Aemond chuckled. 

He looked out across the sea again, softening as he asked, “Is Daeron coming home for the wedding?”

Alicent squeezed his shoulder. 

“He’s coming home,” she said, “permanently, Aemond. You’ll get to see your brother again after this all over.”

“I will look forward to that,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. Alicent stepped in front him. 

“I love you, Aemond. And I am very proud of you. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”  

He kissed her forehead.

“I suppose I can behave,” he joked, and Alicent rolled her eyes affectionately.

“That’s my son,” she patted his cheek gently. “I’ll see you in less then a fortnight.”      

_________________

Alicent gripped the railing of the boat with white knuckles, staring across the open sea. Any sight of land had disappeared hours ago. She didn’t hear Rhaenyra approach. 

“Clearly your susceptibility to sea-sickness has not changed,” she said. Alicent turned around to face her, ignoring the resulting wave of nausea. 

“It’s not as bad as dragon-riding,” she lamented. Rhaenyra smiled a little cheekily.

“If you had just let me take you riding when we were girls you would have gotten used to it.”

“I probably would have spent the entire time crying into your back and then thrown up on you,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra laughed. 

“I probably would have thought it was worth it,” she grinned. Alicent snorted. 

That’s how it had always felt between them. If we had; I would have; we could of; All the moments they never got to experience together.  

Rhaenyra must have noticed a change in her expression. Hesitantly, she put her hand on Alicent’s arm.

“Alicent I—,” Alicent looked up, caught off guard by the change in her voice, “-I'll admit that I’ve been so burdened with my grief and my position as a result of my father’s death, that I never told you that I’m sorry.” Rhaenyra swallowed. “You were his wife, and the mother of his children. You never did anything but love and care for him, and now you’re here, trying to respected his last wishes. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Alicent could feel her heart in her throat. Her eyes burned tearfully. She had not expected to hear that from her. 

“Thank you-,” she swallowed back a sob, “Those words mean a lot from you.”  

Rhaenyra squeezed her arm. Her eyes were wet. Alicent took her hand from her arm and gripped it. After a moment she added,

“I’m sorry for yours as well.”

“Thank you.”

_________________

A few more hours did nothing to help Alicent’s nausea. She had found a chair, at least, and set it out at the edge of the deck to watch the ocean. 

She had pressed her forehead to the bannister with closed eyes when Luke approached her. 

“My Queen? Are you alright?” 

Alicent sat up to look at him. She offered him a smile that was only half forced.  

“Just nauseous,” she said, “sailing is not my strength.” 

Lucerys pulled a small cotton sack from his coat. He held it open to her with a sympathetic smile.

“Would you like one?”

“What is it?”

“Biscuits. My brother came up with the recipe. It’s made from a spice that that helps with the sea-sickness.”

Alicent figured if he was wrong she couldn’t possibly feel worse. She took one.

“Thank you, Lucerys.” She bit into it, and was met with a comfortingly warm taste. “I did not know the Prince cooked,” she said. 

“Oh Jace loves it,” he grinned. “He gives the cooks time off several times every week so that he can make dinner for us. He’s amazing at it too.” He handed her another biscuit before stuffing the sack back into his pocket. “Don’t tell him I said that though,” he added, and Alicent couldn’t help but chuckle. 

Admittedly, she had hardly ever spoken to Luke. To her he had always been the cumulation of Rhaenyra’s sins, and eventually, the savage child who had taken her son’s eye.    

She didn’t know what to make of the sweet adolescent boy she spoke to now. 

Alicent wondered for a moment if Rhaenyra had put him up to it, but she was on the other side of the deck deep in conversion with Jace and Baela, and when Luke smiled and left, he retreated back to where Rhaena and Joffery were lying on the deck, staring up at the blue sky. 

Surprisingly, it only took a few minutes after eating the biscuits for Alicent to feel better, and she could not help but, for the first time, thank The Seven for Luke and Jace. 

________________

It was dark when the ship made port in King’s Landing, which was likely a good thing, Rhaenyra thought. The entire missing half of House Targaryen showing up only a few days after they had left would raise suspicions.

She and Alicent had agreed on the wedding and coronation taking place on the second day after their arrival. Rhaenyra was in no rush to get remarried, but if they waited any longer rumor of the King’s death would inevitably spread to every corner of the realm before they had time to control the narrative. Still, they needed some time to craft their story. 

The castle was haunting. 

The great corridors of stone seemed more looming now, in the wake of her father’s death. The great doors creaked open, and servants rushed back and forth to prepare their rooms. 

Even with the bustle the castle seemed emptier then usual. Rhaenyra had no doubt why, she didn’t need Alicent to tell her to know that they had locked up non-essential servants in the dungeons to slow down the spread of rumors. 

She didn’t like it. Angering the people that dressed her bed and made her food was not a good way to start her reign— but to be honest she didn’t have a better solution in mind. 

Still, she made it her first priority upon arriving to see them moved from the dungeons to proper chambers. She hoped they would be more forgiving if they had proper bed sleep in and were sent warm meals.

Besides, splitting all the workers into smaller groups gave them less of chance to rile each other up. Mob mentality was powerful weapon, and Rhaenyra would have to learn how to wield it well if her coronation was to work.      

When the servants had been moved and the children had been settled and plans had been made for the morrow Rhaenyra found herself suddenly very alone in the dark of her room. 

Her quarters had not been touched since she last lived here. If she closed her eyes she could pretend Harwin was sitting across from her, holding a newborn Lucerys. She could still hear Laenor sitting on her bed, reading a book to Jacaerys, who was hardly more than an infant. 

Or she could picture her father sitting in front of her instead, telling her that her mother and brother had died, in between broken sobs. 

Or it could be a teenage Alicent who sat on her bed, laughing, telling Rhaenyra about the theater performance she had missed while she had been sick. And Rhaenyra would giggle and bury her face in Alicent’s shoulder, groaning about problems that didn’t actually matter. 

Rhaenyra was startled from her ghosts when the real Alicent knocked on door. She became quickly aware that her face was wet with tears, and was thankful for the dark.

“Enter,” she said. Alicent stepped inside, frowning in the dark.

“For the Seven, Rhaenyra, you have never once lit a lamp, have you? Ever since we were girls you would just sit around in darkness.” 

She said it with some mixture of ancient affection and exasperation. Rhaenyra was caught between between feeling amused and feeling frustrated and just ended up with hopelessly sad. 

“Sorry—,” her voice was rough, she knew immediately that Alicent would hear that she had been crying, “I didn’t want to find a servant or a fire to…” she trailed off, giving up on a explantation. Sure enough, Alicent had stiffened awkwardly upon hearing her. 

With only the light peaking in from the corridor, she sat down in the seat across from her, where the ghost of Harwin had sat.

“Rhaenyra—,” she began softly. Rhaenyra pressed her fingers to her damp eyes.

“—I am fine. I just… need a moment.” 

“Okay,” Alicent said, and they sat together in the darkness, silent expect for the sound of Rhaenyra’s shaky breathing. 

It was a very long moment until Rhaenyra spoke again.

“I don’t want the King’s chambers, after the coronation. I’ll keep these ones.”

“That should not be a problem.”

Another moment passed. 

“What are you going to do about Otto?”

“Send him back to Oldtown. He doesn’t hold much power there. Daeron has been summoned home, so my father doesn’t have a chance to manipulate him.”

Another moment.

“What does Helaena think about all this?”

“She’s quite fine with it. Her and Aegon’s relationship is well, …not much of one. If anything she’s happy to be further from the public eye. It’s a good thing she never has been, if she was better known people may question why she isn’t being crowned consort beside you as Aegon’s first wife.”

Another moment. 

“Good. I don’t want to do anything to hurt her.”

“On that we can agree.”

Rhaenyra’s hand drifted to her stomach, which was an aching, empty space. A hollowness inside of her. She swallowed. 

“The King…”

“The Silent Sisters did their work,” Alicent’s voice cracked a little, “I came to see if you would like to see him tonight.” 

The hollowness inside of her reached past her stomach, to her heart, her lungs, her throat, and she felt as if she was choking on nothingness. 

“I would.”      

___________________

The hike down to the cold underground of the palace was the most terrifying thing Rhaenyra had ever experienced.

Every step was another towards that nothingness. The Stranger, Rhaenyra thought. But she was no stranger to death. She had been just a teenager when the smoke of her mother’s burial had burned her eyes. She had been barley more then a toddler when she first had first smelled the fires of death, when her grandfather had burned and her father had ascended the throne. 

Neither death nor grief was a stranger. Change, perhaps was the stranger. She knew that upon seeing her father’s body and staring into the abyss of nothingness her life would never return to once it was. Death, power, chaos, grief; they were synonymous for a Targaryen. The day she had stood before the lords of the realm and her father had declared her heir marked the day that he would one day die. 

Life was just terrifying collection of never ending precipices. Falling over a new edge, over, and over, and over again, until one day you fell and fell forever and never crashed.

She and Alicent didn’t speak.

Not a word passed between then until the reached the cold, dark room where the King’s body was being kept. 

Rhaenyra reached for the door handle, towards that nothingness. 

Alicent grabbed her hand. Everything, all the hatred and bitterness and frustration fell away, so that Alicent could pull Rhaenyra into tight embrace.  

It was so familiar. They just seemed to melt into each other, fitting perfectly in each other’s arms. The smell of Alicent’s copper hair was nothing like the smoke of death.   

The nothingness spilled out of Rhaenyra in a dry, heaving sob. Her entire body rocked and Alicent held her tighter. It was a horrible clash between feeling nothing and feeling everything. 

“Breath, Rhaenyra,” she told her softly, echoing the girl that Rhaenyra once knew, the one who had held her when her mother died. Her hand was running through Rhaenyra’s hair. “Breath.” 

Rhaenyra did. A deep, shaking breath. And then another, and few more, until she was more aware of the feeling of Alicent’s arms wrapped around her. 

Carefully, Alicent let go. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me, I can’t—,” her heart tighten in her chest. She could not look at the body of the King again, so small in death. Rhaenyra seemed to understand. Alicent squeezed her shoulders gently. “Remember to breath,” she said again, and opened the door for her, looking away. 

She closed the door behind her, and tried not to hear the aching sobs that echoed up the staircase behind her. 

____________

She was sitting the foyer, going over wedding plans on thick pieces of parchment when Rhaenyra found her.

It was very, very late night. Rhaenyra’s eyes were raw and red. Alicent hadn’t seen her since she left her with the King’s body a few hours before. Her expression told Alicent she had no interest in talking about it.  

“My Queen,” she said, and Alicent thought the words sounded so odd out of her mouth now. She supposed it would be impolite for Rhaenyra to call her Dowager. 

“It’ll be Queen Mother in two days time,” she sighed. “Are you off to bed?”

“Yes, after I check on the children. Might you walk with me?” 

They discussed wedding plans as they wound their way through the hallways of the palace. Most of the Lords of the realm would not be able to make it on such short notice, but it would likely be better if they heard about the event afterwards anyways, with no time to form their own options on what would be best. The court and the masses would attend, and would serve as eyewitness that were much easier to manipulate. 

They reached Lucerys’s quarters, and Rhaenyra peered into the dark room, listening for his soft snores. It was silent. 

“Luke, love?” There was no response. Rhaenyra took the candelabrum that Alicent was holding for some light, revealing— an empty room. She frowned. “He’s not here,” she said. 

They heard footsteps echo down the hallway, and Jace turned the corner, nearly running into them.

“Mother?”

“Jace, what are you doing awake?”

“I was in the latrine.”

“Where is your brother?” 

“Luke?” He asked, and Rhaenyra nodded. “We’re sharing my room. He said he was scared to sleep alone.”  

Rhaenyra turned on her heel and started towards Jace’s room. Jace followed behind her, and Alicent didn’t know what else to do beside follow as well.

“Mother- perhaps just leave him be, he’s only a little upset,” Jace protested. Rhaenyra ignored him, pushing open the door. Jacaerys sighed at her and accidentally made eye contact with Alicent. He nodded curtly to her and followed his mother inside. 

Luke sniffed when they came in, wiping his damp face and squinting at them in the dark.  

“Love, what is the matter?” Rhaenyra said. He looked away. 

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

She sat down next to him, grasping his hands. Alicent stood awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like she was intruding on something private but not quiet sure if she should leave. 

“Tell me the matter, Lucerys, please.”

Hot tears bubbled out of him and he buried his face in his knees. 

“I hate this! I hate this place! I hate how everyone stares at us! And I hate that you’re marrying Aegon! I hate it!” He cried. 

Alicent watched Rhaenyra wrap her arms around her son, resting her cheek on his back.  

“I am sorry, my love. I am sorry,” she told him softly. She ran her fingers softly through his hair. “It’s going to be alright. They’ll stop staring in time, I promise. And my marriage to Aegon isn’t going to change anything. It’s just for public appearances.”

“He treats women terribly,” Lucerys said, “He treats everyone terribly! He should not be King. You should not have to marry him! You were declared heir, you should take the Throne alone!” He pulled away from her a little. “I do not understand why you let them treat you like this.” 

There it was, Alicent thought. The sort of entitlement she would expect from the boy her stole her son’s eye; from Rhaenyra’s children. 

But she couldn’t manage the same amount of resentment she use to hold.

Rhaenyra cupped his chin.

“Lucerys. Aegon is hardly more then an adolescent. I can deal with him. You are my sweet boy, and I love you very much, but worrying about me is not your job.” 

Luke didn’t meet his mothers eyes. She continued on.

“We are leaders, Lucerys, you understand?” She guided his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “As Targaryens, we are born leaders, and we will die leaders. And in between, we must make sacrifices.” Alicent thought those were ironic words, coming from Rhaenyra. What did she know of sacrifice? “Sacrifices for the betterment of the realm. My title as Queen may be vague, but my power will not be. A small price to pay to avoid a war, yes?”

“I suppose,” Lucerys said softly. She pressed a kiss in his soft hair and let go. 

“It will get easier, my love. I promise.”

“I’m not so strong, like you,” he said. His voice was so quiet Alicent could hardly hear him. “I’m not so perfect.”

She sighed gently, and pressed her forehead to his. 

“And I am anything but.” She gripped his hand. “I am frightened too. I worry. I worry that I am weak, and that I am making a mistake. I’ve certainly made thousands before.” Alicent knew that such vulnerability from Rhaenyra was rare. “But those fears are only there to guide us, Luke, not control us. And you have so much more strength then you give yourself credit for.” She wiped his face gently and stood up. “No matter what happens, you have me, and you have your brothers. Let me do the worrying for the both of us.” 

He swallowed.

“Yes, mother.”

“Get some rest, love.”

She turned towards the door, meeting Alicent’s eyes with surprise enough that she must have forgotten she was standing there. Jace followed his mother into the hall, closing the door behind them. 

“You still treat him like a child,” he said, speaking softly so Luke wouldn’t overhear. 

Rhaenyra turned away from Alicent, frowning at her older son. 

“He is a child, Jace. And you are little more then one too.”

“If you keep comforting him, he is going to rely on you forever.”

“What would you have me do, then?” She hissed,“treat him like Daemon treated you? Did you like that?”

“No! But if you would just let me help him, as an older brother, it would be better. He’s never going to grow up.” 

“He already is growing, Jacaerys!” Rhaenyra whispered angrily. She softened a bit at his expression. “I appreciate what a good brother you are, Jace. I am very lucky to have sons who get along so well.” She gripped his arm gently. “But generation after generation I see my family raised into a cold, stony people. With age, we Targaryens become invulnerable. You and your younger brothers have so much passion and expression, and I have no intention of seeing it stamped out of you. So by all means, Jace, take care of your brother, but do not ask me to stop mothering him, when I never had the chance to be held by my mother past his age.” 

Jace stared at his feet, not meeting her eyes. 

“I am sorry, I did not think—,”

“Don’t be sorry, love. You are wonderful son and brother.” She pressed a kiss to the fringe of his hair. “And when you are King one day, I hope you will not forget these traits.”

“Of course not.”

“You are much like your fathers, Jace,” she said, so quietly not even Alicent could hear. “Both of them. I am very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Rhaenyra sent him off to bed, smiling a little sadly to herself. She met Alicent’s tired eyes, and seemed unsure what to say. 

“Perhaps we should see to some rest to,” Alicent said, breaking the silence. “We can continue in the morning.”

Rhaenyra nodded.  

“A wise idea,” she said. She started to reach out, towards Alicent’s arm, but stopped herself halfway. “Um- thank you, for your patience today, Alicent. It was a- welcome change of pace to have each other’s support.”

Alicent didn’t really know what to say in response. Her throat felt thick and her mind clouded, so she just nodded. 

“I will see you in the dawn, Rhaenyra,” she said, and followed the hallway the opposite direction, away from her former friend.  

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE

Baela found Jacaerys sitting on his wide windowsill the next morning, watching over his sleeping brother. He hushed her with his finger as she entered, pointing towards Lucerys, who snored softly. 

The rising sun peaked out from behind his shoulder, painting the edges of his dark hair gold. Baela offered him a small smile, approaching quietly.

“Is Luke alright?” She whispered. He looked peaceful now, but Rhaena had told her once that none of the Strong brothers slept past dawn. Jace shrugged a little.

“He’s just stressed. I don’t think he slept much last night.”

She noted the tension in his shoulders as he spoke, and the dark circles under his own eyes. His hair was swept back a little messily, as if he had been running his hand through it.  

“Are you alright?” She asked. He looked at her, a little surprised by the question, and then away. There was moment where he thought to lie—thought that it would be best to look calm and secure in front of his betrothed—but his mother’s voice rang in his ears. She hadn’t wanted her sons to become invulnerable. 

Besides, Baela was one of the smartest people he knew- she would not be easily fooled or satisfied by a falsehood.

“I am little nervous,” he admitted. “There’s a lot riding on the events of tomorrow. My mother’s wedding, her an Aegon’s coronation, and in a few days myself declared as heir, and our own wedding announced…” He trailed off suddenly, looking up at her, studying her. “How are you?” He asked. 

Baela fiddled with the rings that decorated her fingers. 

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous too,” she said, and Jace felt a wave of an emotion parallel to guilt. With a sudden decisiveness he got down from the windowsill and took each of her hands gently in his own.

He knelt on the ground in front of her, his knees digging into the marble floor, looking up at her, his hands still gripping hers. 

“Baela we don’t know each other so well,” he said softly. “You were raised apart from us on Driftmark, and were are far more akin to cousins than step-siblings or husband and wife.” His eyes stared focused on her. “But I am very glad you are my betrothed, and no on else. I would like to know you better.” He squeezed her hands, and his small smile shifted into a more serious expression. “But, this your choice too. If you don’t want to marry, if you would not like to have a heir with me, even if you just want to wait— this is your decision. I do not care about the expectations of our family; if you do not wish it, then I have absolutely not intention of forcing you into a position you do not want.”

If Baela had had any doubts about marry him before- she didn’t now. There were not many men in this world who show such respect and humility to their future wives. 

She carefully got down on the floor next to him. She reached forwarded and brushed his fringe out of his eyes. 

“I want to marry you, Jace.” Her voice want gentle, but firm, and he knew without a doubt her resolute was a product of her own decision and not out of place of duty. He nodded. 

“Then I very much would like to marry you too,” he said kindly. He rose to his feet and offered her a hand. 

____________

If Alicent had any thoughts the night before that she and Rhaenyra may yet be able to repair their relationships that notion was gone the next day. She sighed with exasperation for the fifth— and hopefully final— time that day.

“Rhaenyra, for the love of The Seven I know you do not care about aesthetics but your choice of dress will be important tomorrow.”

Rhaenyra threw her a frown over shoulder before going back to the heavy legal document she was studying.

“And I told you already that I would have some servants pick it out.”

“Some servants-,” Alicent took a deep breath, not understanding what Rhaenyra wasn’t getting about the situation. 

Rhaenyra put down the document and turned to face her. 

“Alicent if you are so concerned with my dress then by all means, you are welcome to make the decision yourself.” 

Alicent wanted to scream at her childishness but the idea was actually a tempting one. She gave Rhaenyra the most annoyed look she could before turning towards the door.

“Fine, if that is what it takes.” 

“If it is green, Alicent, I would rather wear nothing!” She hollered after her. Alicent shook her head with irritation and decidedly did not picture that idea in her mind.     

She went with a red dress that was strikingly similar to the one Rhaenyra had worn at her coronation when they were but ten-and-five. She supposed it would serve as a strong reminded of Viserys’s wish from those who saw through the facade of the marriage.

The heels of her boots clicked against the floor as she made her way back into Rhaenyra’s apartments. She held it up to her.

“Sufficient, Princess?” She asked. Rhaenyra’s eyes lit up. 

“Perhaps I should try it on,” she said, although it was obvious she already liked it. She started to undo the knot of the casual dress she had on. 

There were no servants around, Rhaenyra had sent them away earlier to concentrate. 

“Could you get the laces?” She asked. Alicent held back a sigh that would have come out sounding more apprehensive then annoyed, asking herself how she had gotten herself into this. 

“Sure.”

Alicent wondered if the tension was two-sided as she helped Rhaenyra out of her old dress and into the new one, careful not to make eye contact in the mirror. When her fingers brushed against Rhaenyra’s back she was hit with visceral memories of dressing her for her coronation, so many years ago. In her mind, she could still feel her fingers wrapping around her shoulders, squeezing them gently, comfortingly.        

She didn’t do that now. When she tied the last knot her hands fell down to her sides, and then in front of her as she began to pick at her nails. 

After a moment she found the bravery to look up, meeting Rhaenyra’s eyes in the mirror. She was shocked to see them brimming with tears. 

Rhaenyra blinked and a tear spilled over the edge and rolled down her cheek. Her empty stare drifted from Alicent’s eyes to her hands.

“Stop that,” she sighed, and turned around to face Alicent. “Stop,” she said again, and broke Alicent’s hands apart from each other. “We aren’t them,” she said, but two more tears rolled down her face as she looked back up at Alicent. “We aren’t,” she said again, “this isn’t then.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

“I know that,” Alicent said, struck by the use of them. She spoke about the girls they once were as if they were entirely separate people. Perhaps they were. 

Rhaenyra grasped Alicent’s shoulder, for a moment. 

“I like the dress, Alicent. Thank you,” she said, and then walked past her and towards the door. Alicent didn’t know where she was going but it was likely just away, away from Alicent and away from their past. 

______

Fortunately, Alicent had better things to do that afternoon then ponder where she and Rhaenyra stood. Besides from the drawing up plans, back-up plans, and downright lies— although she refused to think of them that way,— the Red Keep would also be receiving her youngest son, Daeron.

Alicent couldn’t help the excitement that turned nervously in her stomach. He had been sent to squire for Alicent’s Hightower uncles and cousins when he was hardly more then nine years of age. She had seen him most recently at Aegon and Helaena’s wedding, which had been years ago. 

Alicent supposed mothers weren’t supposed to have favorite children but Daeron had always been her most uncomplicated son, and for that she was appreciative. He was witty and kind, the very best of Viserys, and perhaps even herself. She had been furious at first, when Otto had demanded he was sent to to Oldtown, convinced that we he was trying to stamp out everything that made him such a sweet child. In time, however, she came to realize that it had been the right choice. Daeron would have suffocated here, in the stone cold palace, where everyone told nothing but lies.

Alicent wasn’t the only who had been sent to receive Daeron in The Keep. Jace, Luke, and Rhaena, who happened to not be busy at that exact moment, were sent downstairs to greet him as well.

“I wonder if he’s still nice,” Luke said quietly. Jace frowned at him.

“He was never nice.”

Jace had been very young when Daeron was born, and Viserys had demanded that they be breastfed by the same wet-nurse, hoping they would form a bond. As far as Jace had been told, they had only ever cried angrily at each other, and when Luke was born months later, Viserys gave up, hiring a second wet-nurse for Rhaenyra’s children. 

That’s how Jace’s fondest memories with Daeron were; someone would try to push them together, they would argue, cry, fight like children did, and the adult would give up, resolving that their families were just better apart. 

“Really? I remember him as funny and kind,” Luke said. Jace shook his head. 

“You were to young to remember. You didn’t spend as much time with him as I had to. I always found him insufferable.”

“The girls in Oldtown seem to think otherwise,” Rhaena cut in, “I heard he’s quite popular there.”

On Dragonstone, Rhaena had spent hours each day down at the docks. No one was ever quite sure what she was doing down there, only that she would come back each night with wild stories and knowledge on all the latest scandals, likely passed to her from the mouths of shipmen stopping through on their way in and out of Blackwater bay. It was peculiar, however, that her information would always turn out to be entirely accurate. 

Before Jace had chance to respond, the sound of carriage wheels approached, and someone shouted to open the gate. 

Daeron, who was less than a year older then himself, was a strikingly handsome young man, Lucerys had to admit. 

He had the same silver hair as his father, but everything else was his mother. His hair, cut a bit shorter then even Aegon’s, was thick and wavy, his jawline short and square. Not even his eyes were the usual Targaryen purple-grey, but instead a rather stunning shade of brown. 

His broad grin, however, was not an expression Luce had ever seen on the Queen’s face. 

“Mother!” He yelled cheerfully, and Luke immediately felt that Jace had been wrong. He all but ran to wrap her in a strong hug, and Luke could have sworn he saw a wave of relief pass over her. He kissed her on either cheek and then finally remembered to bow. “It’s wonderful to see you again, my Queen,” he said. She laughed a little, cupping his chin.

“My gods you’ve grown,” she said. He turned around to face his other welcomers. 

“They certainly have to.”

If they had been surprised by how he greeted his mother, they were far more surprised that he greeted them with almost the same amount of excitement, albeit, without the kisses on the cheek. 

He pulled Jace into a hug, who looked utterly shocked and disgruntled by this treatment. 

“Jacaerys!” He said, and then added respectfully, “Prince.”

“Prince Daeron,” Jace said gruffly in return. Daeron bowed toward Rhaena and kissed her knuckles humbly—he had only met her once before,— and then turned to Luke. 

“Prince Lucerys,” he said, grinning, and then hugged him too. Unlike Aemond and Helaena he was short, only a couple fingers taller then Lucerys.  

“It’s uh-  a welcome sight to see you home, Prince,” Luke offered, and Daeron seemed appreciative of his awkward attempt at a greeting.

“Have you ever been to Oldtown, Lucerys?” He asked suddenly. Luke frowned.

“Uh, briefly,” he said. He did not admit that his own dragon had grown exhausted and they had been forced to stop there. 

“Well, the Dornish street-carts are amazing, but they just don’t make seafood the same there.” He turned back toward the gate, as if with the full intent of making his way into the city to purchase food, and to drag Lucerys along on his adventure with him. 

Alicent grabbed him by the back of his traveling cloak. 

“Perhaps not, Daeron,” she said firmly. “We have business to take care of.” 

“Right!” He said, with no change in enthusiasm. “Another time then.” 

Daeron did grow quieter, however, as he followed his Mother through the dark halls of the palace. He fiddled with his necklace, a golden Seven-Pointed Star that was exactly like his mother’s, except smaller in size.  

“I am very sorry about Father,” he told her softly. Alicent stopped walking and turned to face him. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“As am I,” she told him. “May The Stranger give him peace.”

Daeron looked at the floor.

“Was it?” He asked. “Peaceful?”

Alicent swallowed. His death, she supposed he meant. Carefully, she took his hand and led into a small alcove, and sat him down beside her on a stone bench. She squeezed his hand. 

“He died in his sleep,” she said, although she did not know that for sure. “He had drunk milk of the poppy, so I suppose the pain would not have been so bad. We had just had dinner together, as a family, with Rhaenyra’s family as well. He was taken to bed before the fighting even started, so I suppose his last memories were of Jace and Helaena dancing, and Rhaenyra laughing.”
Daeron laid his head against his mother’s shoulder, and she felt like he was but nine years again.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” he said tearfully. “He would have liked that.”

“He did.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Alicent rubbed his back comfortingly. 

“I’m sorry too,” she said and her voice only shook a little. 

_____________________     

“Get up.”

Aemond jumped a little as the door to his room swung open. He had been confined to a bedroom since his mother had left Dragonstone. The conditions were by no means harsh—they were large apartments and he was fed three full meals a day— but Aemond had been itching with boredom.

Now, finally, Daemon stood in the doorway. Aemond suppressed an eager grin and sprung to his feet from the bed. He didn’t usually take demands, but an opportunity prove himself to his uncle was admittedly far more exciting than any other option. 

“Uncle?”

“Enough sulking,” Daemon said. “We’re going.”   

He did not specify where, but Aemond had every intention of finding out, so he followed closely on his uncle’s heel as they made their way through the castle. There were no guards following them, no weapons trained on him, hell, they hadn’t even taken his sword from him.

That’s what impressed Aemond about Daemon. He let a skilled fighter who had every motive to want to hurt him walk behind with a sword and didn’t blink an eye. He wasn’t stupid, he was brilliant. He was the most skilled swordsman in the realm, and the thought that Aemond could attempt to drive a weapon through his back didn’t scare him in the slightest. 

They ended up on an empty beach bellow the castle. Aemond couldn’t help but glance around, hoping to spot the looming head of Vhagar.

“Relax, this is Dragonstone, your dragon is being well-cared for.” 

Daemon spoke in High Valyrian. Aemond could not help a small smirk as the foreign syllables rolled fluently off his own tongue. 

“Why have you brought me here, Uncle?”

“You believe yourself a brilliant fighter, do you not?”

“I do.” 

“Than prove it.” Daemon drew his sword. “First to draw blood.”

Aemond had been waiting his entire life to hear him say those words. His sword was draw smoothly from its sheath, and moments later he was circling his uncle. Daemon’s first swing nearly took off his head. He managed, moments before what would have been a very gruesome death, to parry. The force of the attack still knocked him off his feet. Before Daemon could strike again he lunged underneath his arm, with every intent of sliding his sword between his ribs, but missed by mere inches and fell past him. Daemon swung his elbow right into his face, knocking him back several feet. Daemon was on top of him seconds later, and a clean cut was drawn along his collarbone.   

“I know Sir Crispin’s handiwork when I see it,” he growled. “You’ve been trained by a cunt.”

“Then train me,” Aemond hissed, spitting blood. Daemon looked momentarily surprised by his admission of defeat. “I am the second-strongest fighter in the Kingdom. I could be the best.”

Daemon climbed off of him, and dragged Aemond to his feet.

“I’ve seen drunk women who are more skilled swordsmen then you.” 

He was being tested, taunted. Aemond knew that. A smirk never left his own face.

“Uncle, you and I both know I could be great. It would be waste if Criston Cole was the only man to realize talent.” Aemond looked him level in the eyes. “I am your blood.”  

Daemon stared at him for a very long moment. 

“If you fight like cunt again tomorrow, I’ll send your head to Crispin and your remaining eye to your mother.”

Aemond grinned. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX

Rhaenyra sat beside Helena, watching her children play. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were only a bit older then Aegon and Viserys, and they babbled about playfully, ignorant of the significance of the day. 

Carefully, Rhaenyra placed her hand on Helaena’s arm, and was relieved when she didn’t immediately pull away. 

“I’m sorry, sister,” she told her softly. “It is not my wish to see you hurt.”

Helena just stared back at her, silently. Rhaenyra had grown accustom to Helena’s unusual tendencies when they were much both younger; she was no longer fazed by the distant look in her eyes. 

“He’s not a nice man to be married to,” she responded eventually. A deep mixture of guilt and sympathy turned in Rhaenyra’s gut. She rubbed Helaena’s arm very gently, in what she hopped was a comforting manner.  

“When we are married, I will make sure he never touches you again, if that is what you would like. I will assign you and the children your own complete apartments. We can raise our youngest children together.”

“I know.” 

“I am sorry you are not attending the wedding today. I suppose you understand why—”

“The tree that bleeds can only be fed with blood,” Helena said, rather suddenly. Rhaenyra frowned. 

“The weirwood?” She asked. Helaena watched the floor, and continued. 

“The storm's breath will kill corpses. Clovers rule between swords and sea. Only a sixth sun will see winter.”

There was no use in asking Helena to explain her prophecies. She had learned that long ago. Still, Rhaenyra carefully committed her sentences to memory. She had been keeping track of Helaena’s visions since she was child, although she could never understand them until the events had passed. Still, Targaryen prophecies were a legacy important to be preserved. 

“If you need anything, you’ll ask it of me, right?” Rhaenyra asked. Helaena frowned. 

“You and Mother are still angry at each other,” she responded instead. Rhaenyra gripped her arm again. 

“Love, that is not your concern. I care about your mother, I always have, even if it doesn’t always seem it. And I care about you too.”

Helaena sighed a pulled away. 

“I do not think she knows that.”

Rhaenyra felt an awful feeling climb further into her throat. Surely Alicent understood how deeply she still mattered to her, despite the ongoing strife between them?

“Helaena, it matters to me that you know that you will always have a place here, and in my family, no matter any conflicts that exist. You understand?”

“I suppose.”

____________

“Where is your brother?” Alicent asked. Lucerys looked up, offering the soon to be Queen Mother a small bow of the head.

“Still getting ready with Mother, my Queen.”

They were in the great hall, an entrance from the courtyard where their carriages would arrive. Luke was standing there alone, with Joffery sitting on the ground beside him, playing with a small wooden toy Luke had handed him. 

Alicent sighed.

“And Baela and Rhaena?”

“Also dressing, I believe.”

“Very well.” Alicent resigned to being patient, taking a place beside Lucerys to wait. She had never known Rhaenyra to take excessive time on dressing, but she supposed it was perfectly in character for her to be arrogant enough to take no rush. 

Joffery’s toy rolled and bounced against Alicent’s boots. 

“Sorry,” Luke said. He put his hand on Joffery’s shoulder. “Joff, apologize to the Queen,” he urged.     

“Sorry,” he said, retrieving his toy. Alicent shook her head.

“It is no matter,” she reassured. The young prince frowned up at his older brother. 

“I thought Mother was Queen,” he said. 

“She will be, later today,” he said, glancing a little nervously at Alicent. “She and her brother Aegon will be crowned.” 

“Oh.” He said softly. “When will Father visit?”

Alicent supposed he meant Daemon, although she still found it difficult to picture him as anything remotely paternal.

“I do not know,” Luke said. “Sometime after the wedding and coronation.”

“If Mother dies will Jace become King?”

Luce swallowed, playing anxiously with hands.

“Mother is young and strong, nothing will happen to her.”

“But what if something bad did happen to her and Jace?”

“Then I would be King, unless Jace and Baela already had a heir,” Luce said. Alicent caught how he dug his fingers under his nail beds, and a sense of dread and guilt formed in the pit of her stomach. Surely he had not picked that habit up from her? 

“What if something happened to you? Would I have to be King?” Joffery asked. 

“Yes, if there were no other heirs then the crown would pass to you,” Luke said. Joffery looked tearful.

“I don’t want something bad to happen to you or Jace or Mother.”

Luke knelt down in front of his brother, holding him gently by the shoulders.

“Mother is youthful and healthy. She will rule for many many years, like Grandsire did. One day, very very far from now, Jace will do the same, and then his son after him. Nothing bad will is going to happen to them.” He squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll protect us,” he reassured. 

Joffery sniffed and wiped his nose. 

“Okay,” he said softly. Luke pressed his wooden toy back into his hands and stood up. His gaze held on a point somewhere on the distant wall. His nails dug deeper into each other until one finally began to bleed. 

Before she could stop herself, Alicent’s hand reached over and pulled his hands apart.

“You mustn’t hurt yourself so,” she said. Lucerys’s looked up, surprised, blood rushing to his face in shame.

“S-sorry.”

Alicent sighed softly and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and handed it to him. 

“The realm will be watching you today, Lucerys. If you looked scared they will see it so,” she said. Immediately, guilt and self-loathing itched at her. How many times had her father told her something similar? It had never helped. 

“I am not scared,” he demanded, cleaning his nails carefully. “It’s just a poor habit. It won’t happen again.”

“Does your mother know?”

Luke looked up at her, a little more angrily the she had expected of him. 

“As I said, it is just a poor habit. I don’t know where I picked it up, but it will not continue,” he repeated. He handed the handkerchief back to her when he was done, a little less gently than he had taken it. “Thank you,” he said. Alicent nodded. 

“Of course.”

They spent the remainder of their wait mostly in silence, apart from Joffery’s occasional comments to his brother. Alicent stared at the far wall as Lucerys had, ignoring the burning desire to bite at her own nail-beds; to elicit that familiar satisfaction of a painful relief from her anxiousness. 

Eventually, they heard a door open upstairs, followed by Rhaena and Baela emerging from the stairs in beautiful black dresses adorned with gold details.    

Lucerys’s kissed both their knuckles respectfully, but then couldn’t help pull Rhaena into a hug.

“You look amazing!” He said excitedly. Rhaena laughed, squeezing his shoulders. 

“Of course we do,” she grinned. She shoved him gently. “You look far too fancy yourself, it’s unnatural,” she teased. She reached forward to ruffle his neatly combed hair and he ducked swiftly out of her way.

“No!” He protested, “I worked so hard to get it from sticking up everywhere!”

Rhaena rolled her eyes.

“You totally missed a spot,” she said. Lucerys patted the back of his hair, feeling for it.

“What, no I didn’t!” He turned to Baela, “I didn’t, right?”    

“Rhaena stop messing with him. Your hair looks good, Luke.”

“Thank you, Baela,” he said, grinning smugly at Rhaena, who just laughed. She turned and picked up Joffery from the floor, holding him in her arms. 

“You, on the other hand, look very handsome,” she told him. He grinned.

“Jace did my hair!” He told her happily. Rhaena combed her fingers through a section that really did stick out of place.

“Yeah, I can tell,” she said. Luke laughed and even Baela couldn’t help but snicker. 

“Where is Jace, anyways?” She asked. 

“Trying to fix his own hair, perhaps,” Rhaena said, and Baela whacked her arm. 

“Give him a break, Rhaena, he’s just nervous,” she scolded, “Besides, I think his hair looks nice.”

“Of course you do.”

If Baela had a retort, which she likely did, it was interrupted by the sound of the doors again. They turned to see Rhaenyra descend the staircase, Jacaerys a step behind her.     

Alicent’s breath hitched in her throat. Rhaenyra looked absolutely stunning. She had seen her yesterday in the same red dress, but that was a haze of nervousness and paled in comparison.

Unlike her first wedding, their was no mound of intricate braids on top her head; those would only get in the way of a crown. Instead, her long silver hair was almost entirely down, except for the sections pulled back at the front, which were braided back to keep out of her face. 

On top her red dress she wore a black cloak, darker then the color of abyss and emboldened when the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen. There was little point to a cloak for this wedding, if Aegon was to take it from her and replace it, as was tradition, he would only be cloaking her with a exact copy. Maybe that was the point.

Still, she looked breathtaking in it, and for a moment Alicent forgot every emotion she had held towards her except for the childish one that had adored her. For a moment, she wanted to kiss her knuckles and repent; beg for Rhaenyra to love her again. 

It was a merely a show, Alicent reminded herself. A show put on by generation after generation of Targaryens to look inhuman, holy, larger then life. Closer to gods than men.

And she supposed it was working.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent said softly, and bowed her head as she approached. “You look lovely.” 

Her voice was so utterly genuine Rhaenyra seemed to freeze for a moment, before returning a small smile.

“Thank you, your grace. Likewise to yourself.” 

Jace, alongside her, really did look a crown prince, albeit, not a typical Targaryen one. His dark hair had been very neatly parted down the middle slicked back from his eyes, and he wore a high-collared dress coat that was a mix of black and red in finer fabrics.

Apart from hair and eye color, he was practically a replica of his mother. He had the same long, sharp jawline, and bridged nose, the same dark eyebrows and square eyes, the same tall, royal poise. 

They were a stunning pair, really, but Alicent knew that it would be their obvious differences that public would fixate on. 

She tried to put that out of mind. 

_______________________________

Never had Luke experienced a carriage ride that felt so nerve-racking. Aegon and Alicent road in one, Rhaenys, Rhaenyra, Jace, and Baela in another, which left Rhaena, Lucerys, Daeron, and Joffery in their own. 

Joffery sat in Rhaena’s lap and she spoke softly to him, trying to distract him. Luke found himself staring awkwardly at Daeron, who peered out of the cracks in the windows to watch the city go by. 

“Is it odd to be home after all this time?” He asked, half curious, and half just trying to fill the silence. Daeron looked over at him thoughtfully. 

“Less peculiar, I suppose, then the environment with the Hightowers I am used to. There I would wake hours before dawn each day to study with the maesters and work the Starry Sept, and spend the rest of day squiring Lord Hightower and his sons.” He sat up at little. “There is much more freedom here.” 

Rhaena laughed. 

“If King’s Landing is liberal to you then you can’t image Dragonstone.” 

His eyes lit up at her light jest. 

“I would love to see Dragonstone,” he said excitedly, and turned to Luke. “You must show me your homeland one day. I’ve heard you sleep to the roar of waves.”    

Rhaena shot Luke an amused glance. 

“Oh we must,” she answered delightedly for him, and Daeron grinned.  

“I forget you have been away from King’s Landing yourself for years. You two are betrothed, are you not?” He asked. Luke nodded a little shyly. 

“We are,” he said, exchanging glances with Rhaena. “Are you yet betrothed?” 

“Er, no, despite every Hightowers’ plea,” he laughed a little sheepishly. “Several betrothals were proposed but I managed to stamp those ideas out before any letters could be sent to my Mother and Grandsire.”

“Running from the world-order, are we?” Rhaena teased. Daeron ran a hair through his wavy hair.

“Ha, I suppose. I just—,” he glanced back out the window wishfully, “—would like to see the world first, yeah?” 

His speech had all the formality of a maester of the citadel, but occasionally Rhaena heard in his voice the barley disguised accent of Oldtown slums and shipmen. There was no way he had picked that up from Hightowers, she thought. 

Carefully, Rhaena shelved that information in her brain to ponder further in the future. Perhaps not all of his time had been spent between squiring and prayer.

“Baela and Jacaerys do make a nice pair,” Daeron offered. Rhaena let Joffery off her lap so that he could sit beside his brother.

“Oh they’re equally hot-headed, stubborn, and incredibly boring,” she laughed, “They’ll be wonderful together.” 

______

They stood on the steps of the Sept as the entirety of King’s Landing watched. Flea Bottom crowded the streets and the few High lords that were summoned on short notice sat on temporary pews set up at the entrance to the Sept.   

Luke began to pick at his nails again. Rhaena gripped his arm for a moment. 

“Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint,” she whispered. He nudged her away. 

“I’m fine.”

“Jace looks pale,” she noted. He and Baela stood together a small length away, next to the pair of wooden Thrones where Aegon and Rhaenyra would sit. Hers was placed a palms length father back then Aegon’s; close enough to be credited as an accident, but far enough to give the subtle impression he was in charge. 

Next to Aegon’s throne stood Aegon himself, alongside his mother and brother. Alicent’s emotions appeared so perfectly controlled; only a perfectly crafted stoic pride appeared in her to the public eye. Luke found himself glad that the masses had not seen enough of Aegon to recognize his expression of boredom and nervousness.  

Daeron, however, looked radiant beside them. Aegon had at least done the decency of wearing Black instead of green, and Alicent a mixture, but Daeron was dressed in the finest Hightower greens, which were decorated with details of gold. A necklace of the Faith of the seven was placed proudly on his chest. 

He seemed simply built to be displayed. A subtle, charming smile rested on his lips. A practiced perception, perhaps, but an excellent one. It had none of the stiffness of his mother’s. He looked so natural it could have been his wedding.   

Luke glanced over at Rhaena and noticed that she, too, was focused Daeron. 

“You like him,” he said quietly. Rhaena tore her gaze away from him to raise an eyebrow at her brother. 

“I like teasing him,” she said. She poked Luke in the chest. “You like him.”

“I do not! I just- it would be nice to have a friend my age who wasn’t my brother,” he said. Rhaena wrinkled her nose. 

“You have me,” she said. 

“You’re my sister!”

“Yeah, and your cousin, your second-cousin, and your future wife. I’m still your best friend.”  

“Well, of course,” Luke sighed, “But he does seem kind.”

Rhaena turned again to watch Daeron.

“He certainly is different then the rest of them. Not at all what I would expect from a boy raised by a hoard of stuffy Hightowers.”

Before Luke could respond Alicent stepped forward, and hush seemed to fall over the masses.

“Citizens of King’s Landing!” She yelled. Rhaenyra, who listened from inside the Sept, could harshly recognize the shout of the girl she had only ever known to speak softly. It brought back painful memories of a knife. “It is with the deepest sadness I must announce the death of our beloved husband, father, grandsire, and King, Viserys the Peaceful!”

The words seem to echo through air, and shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd. Luke felt goosebumps rise on his arms, Jace’s eye’s stung, and at the hint of waiver in Alicent’s voice it took everything inside of Rhaenyra to stop herself from kneeling over on the sept floor. 

“But it is in his memory the realms stands united under Targaryen name! For this day we shall not grieve, but instead celebrate the union of his son and daughter in marriage, Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name, and Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of her Name, to be wed beneath the Star of the Seven!”

Slowly, the numb sickness that had taken over Rhaenyra faded, and calm acceptance took over. With an enormous noise and the effort of a half a dozen Kingsguard, the great doors of the Sept swung open, and Rhaenyra stepped out. Under the whispers of thousands, she walked between the two thrones and met Aegon in front of them. 

The High Septon stepped forward.          

“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” They wound their hands together. Alicent felt a burning sickness begin again in her stomach, her mind on fire, her throat tight with nausea. “Let it be known that Aegon and Rhaenyra, of House Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he should seek to tear them asunder.”

He began to warp the binding around their entwined hands. Alicent’s eyes burned. She had married her best friend’s father, over 20 years ago. Now he was dead, and Rhaenyra would marry her son.

It was supposed to have been them, only them, together forever. That was all Alicent had wanted as a girl. Where had it gone so wrong? 

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” the spoke in unison, “I am theirs, and they are mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Not for the first time in her life, Alicent could feel the moment her heart shattered. It was not the hollow aching grief of her husband, but raw, piercing pain, hotter then the breath of dragons, and quieter then drowning beneath the waves of the bay.       

They kissed. It was an passionless, empty thing, but preformed without even a moment’s expression of disgust.   

Rhaenyra tried not to feel dizzy. She tried not to feel horribly angry. She stared across the crowd blankly, numb to feeling of Aegon’s sweaty hand wrapped around her own.

A sounds of clapping and cheering, only hesitant at first, filled the sky. Alicent could hear her heartbeat ringing in her ears. 

She stepped out carefully in front of Rhaenyra and Aegon, and removed the binding from their wrists. 

She met Aegon’s eyes then, red and scared, looking half his age. She cupped his chin and pressed a kiss to forehead, which was slick with sweat. He closed eyes, barely for a moment, and then knelt. 

Alicent turned towards Rhaenyra, meeting her eyes for the first since the wedding began. There was look in them—violet and and full of storm,— that Alicent didn’t understand. Anger, regret, and a hallow sadness, maybe. She cupped Rhaenyra’s chin as well. 

She hoped the realm would see it as the same— giving her blessing to her son, and then her step-daughter. 

She hoped they would not notice how incredibly different it felt when Rhaenyra dipped her head down and Alicent pressed a kiss to her forehead as well. Her throat was tight. She felt Rhaenyra’s jaw tremble in her hand. 

And then she knelt, as Aegon had done, at Alicent’s feet.

Alicent felt impossibly far away as she stared down at her for a moment. Slowly, she stepped back, and the High Septon took her place.    

He dipped his finger in the blessed water and drew a line across Aegon’s forehead, speaking for The Warrior, The Smith, The Father, The Crone. 

He did this again, water sparking across Rhaenyra’s forehead, blessing her in the name of the The Warrior, The Maiden, The Mother, The Crone; and then stepped away.

He handed Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the crown. Ser Harrold held it up, above Aegon’s head.

“The Crown of the Conqueror!” He announced, “Passed down through generations!”

Slowly, carefully, deliberately, he placed crown on Aegon’s head.

“Rise, Aegon Targaryen. The second of his name. King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”       

When he stood, Alicent felt a wave relief was over her. Relief, that he was not King alone. Relief, that it wasn’t real. 

Only immense guilt followed that relief. 

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held above Rhaenyra a new crown, the one Alicent knew, the one the people of this generation and the generation before them knew.   

“The Crown of Viserys Targaryen, passed down to him by his grandfather, Jaehaerys Targaryen!”  

Alicent had seen it before on her head, just days before. Still, she was struck again by how beautifully weightless it seemed upon her. 

“Rise, Rhaenyra Targaryen. First of her name. Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and The First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” 

Aegon held out his hand, helping her to her feet. He didn’t let go fo her hand as he turned to the crowd, drew The Sword of the Conqueror, and shoved it into the air.

The crowed roared. Finally, the street of the Sept seemed to come fully alive. Gone from the minds of the people was confusion and doubt. Only the sight of power was left. Only the feeling that they were standing beneath two people united, closer to gods then men. 

Gone, was the idea house Targaryen was divided. There was no longer any need to worry— Aegon was King, and Rhaenyra was his sister-wife. 

If they believed Aegon, a man, was the true heir of Viserys, they saw him now under the crown of the conquer and found themselves relieved. The world-order would not change. 

And if they doubted Aegon, knew of his sins and flaws, they saw now Rhaenyra beside him, and found themselves relieved as well. His wife, the calm, well-spoken, first born child of the Viserys, would guide Aegon.  

At last, they could rest their misgivings about the succession of the throne. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN

There were some nights, Alicent thought, that all one could do was feel sorry for themselves. Some nights where the world seemed only a sorry place, the realm a sorry people, and life a sorry thing.

Alicent supposed this was one of those nights. Many were. 

She stared up at a crack in the ceiling. The same crack she had stared at after Viserys had first consummated their marriage, until her eyes had become too blurry with tears to see. She had closed her eyes then, wishing for the world to simply fade away, and she did the same now. It had no great affect, other then forcing the tears down her cheekbones and into the roots of her hair. 

A message had arrived from Dragonstone at dusk, after the coronation had ended, and Alicent had retreated to her quarters, feeling empty and not wanting to face Rhaenyra. Aemond had written, wishing to stay in Dragonstone and train under Daemon for a few more fortnights.

Alicent wanted her son back. She hated that he was away. She hated that Daemon, a man she despised perhaps more then any other, was training him. What would he create of her sweet boy?

Even now, Rhaenyra and her family could do nothing else but take from her.

Alicent breathed out a shaky sob, pressing her eyes tighter closed as she pictured Aegon and Rhaenyra beside each other on matching thrones. She felt sick remembering their passionless kiss. 

In a few days time, she would send her father home, to Oldtown. There, he could serve his brother and the family, as long as he did not return to King’s Landing. 

And then, she would be entirely alone again. Cleaving to Rhaenyra, he had once said.

Over-morrow, Aegon and Rhaenyra would declare Jacaerys heir and announce his wedding to Baela. They would practically be outright calling him a bastard when they named him Targaryen instead of Velaryon. 

She hoped the people would not think much of it. Laenor Velaryon was long dead. 

And Rhaenyra may have killed him. 

Alicent had once not believed Rhaenyra capable of cold-blooded murder. Did she now?

Harwin Strong had died because of herself, Alicent thought. It was Larys of course, but it was still her fault. If she was capable of it, then so was Rhaenyra. 

That didn’t do much to ease the guilt. 

Rhaenyra, whom she had once loved. She could still remember the feeling of Rhaenyra’s soft fingers wrapped around her own calloused ones. She remembered how Rhaenyra would happily kiss her on the cheek when she was excited, or would burst into her quarters without even knocking first, hollering about some idea of an adventure. 

She remembered how, when they studied with the maester alongside other daughters of the court, Rhaenyra would get bored and fiddle with Alicent’s hair. Or, if she was tired, she would simply rest her head against Alicent’s arm and close her eyes, until the maester scolded her awake. 

She remembered how they would climb the stairs late at night, after spending all evening under the tree in the godswood. Alicent would say she should head off to bed, and Rhaenyra would whine that she didn’t want to be alone. Alicent would then sigh softly, as if to pretend she was reluctant, and let Rhaenyra take her hand, leading her back to her own bedroom. There, they would curl up in Rhaenyra’s bed and she would fall asleep to the sound of her soft snores. 

It had never quiet felt like it was supposed to. Sometimes, her face would feel flushed, other times her stomach twisted in knots. It was a feeling she didn’t quite understand and wasn’t sure if she liked. 

And then, there was that one night—

Alicent rolled over, forcing tainted memories out of her mind. They were off limits. The Rhaenyra she knew now was hardly the same girl. 

_____________________

Alicent had been a nervous girl when Rhaenyra first met her. She was quiet, biting at her nails and staring at the goings on around her with wide eyes. The deep, sleepless circles under them made her look much older then her mere 10 name-days, and when Rhaenyra had asked her once if she wanted to play with her, Alicent had clenched her fists nervously and looked away. 

“My apologies, Princess, I mustn’t, my Father will likely want me home soon,” she had said softly. Her words made her sound much older as well. Rhaenyra had just shrugged, trying not to show how disheartened she was. There wasn’t many girls her age to play with her in the Red Keep. 

“Oh, alright,” she had said, and then added, “You can call me Rhaenyra, since you live here now,” she offered. 

“Thank you, Rhaenyra,” Alicent said. A hint of a smile, a real one where it shone in her eyes, slipped across Alicent’s face. Rhaenyra was instantly enchanted by it. She grinned brightly back at the quiet girl, wanting to make her smile.  

Later that evening, when Alicent had returned to her and her father’s quarters and told him what she had done, Otto had been furious. He had taken her small hands tightly in his and spoke in the rough, quite voice he only used when he was very angry. 

“Why would you do that?” He hissed. Alicent swallowed back hot tears. 

“I just- I just wanted to check with you that it was alright- I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to play with her.”

“Weren’t sure? Of course I want you to play with her!” He yelled. She flinched, and he must have remembered he was speaking to a child, because he loosed his grip on her hands a little and drew in closer, with a softer tone. “She is the King’s daughter. I have seen with my own eyes that she is a charming and brilliant young lady. I’m sure she could make a wonderful companion.”

Alicent must have looked scared or hesitant, because Otto continued on. 

“My daughter, your mother wanted the very best for you, didn’t she? Wouldn’t you suppose she would want you to have a friend like Rhaenyra here at your new home?”

Alicent would have much rather had her mother back. Otto had hardly ever spoken about her since her death mere months ago, and only ever did when he wanted something from her. 

But she supposed he was right. Her mother would have wanted that, and her mother had always gotten what she wanted. And Rhaenyra did seem nice. Why shouldn’t Alicent get what she wanted as well?

Otto must have sensed her resolution. Satisfied, he stood up, letting go of her hands. 

“Tomorrow, we shall have supper with the King and his family. Let us make sure to let The Princess know you would be happy to play with her.” He stroked his beard. “Perhaps you will start schooling with her as well.”

“Yes, Father.”  

___________________________________

Luke stared quietly at the wall of his room, enclosed by the silence that began when Jace departed to plan for the announcement of his succession. He hadn’t read a page of the book that was open in front of his since then. 

There had always been this pressure that sat in his chest, ever since he was young. A suffocating feeling that was similar but not entirely the same as nerves. It waxed and waned, but never fully went away, and he could find few reliefs. Picking and biting at his nails seem to ease the pressure a bit. When he laughed too, he would feel lighter. When his mother hugged him as well. 

He felt boyish thinking about it. He was nearly a man grown. In several years he would be married to Rhaena and take his place as Lord of the Tides when his grandfather passed away. A position he was truly unprepared for and far more unqualified. 

They should have given it to Rhaena, or Baela, or anyone else, really. The only person that might be less suited was his uncle Aegon. And Aegon was King of the Seven Kingdoms now, at least in name.

That infuriated him, the more he thought about it. Women like his mother and his grandmother and his step-sisters were cast aside for men far weaker and less talented then them. And he knew, from watching, that they were still the ones who ran things, and everyone just pretended it wasn’t true. 

Luke jumped when a knock on the door shook him from his thoughts. 

“Enter,” he said. His voice cracked a little. 

“The Prince Daeron, my Prince,” The Kingsguard announced, and Luke spun around in his chair. Daeron grinned at him from the doorway. 

“Prince Daeron,” Luke said. “I did not expect you.”

Daeron held up a stack of sweet jam biscuits in one hand and a small flask of tea in the other. 

“I come bearing gifts,” he offered cheerfully. Luke’s eyes lit up, remembering many, many years ago, when he and Daeron had discovered a secret passage way into the kitchens, and would sneak in to nab freshly backed sweets during the night. They had sworn an oath of silence about their find, and had kept it up despite the insistent badgering of Jace and Aegon, with whom they had shared their sweets, along with Helaena and Aemond. Only Aemond had ever discovered the passage, having followed them one night. 

Luke grinned broadly at Daeron and waved him over.

“Gods I had nearly forgotten about that,” he laughed. Ignoring the various furniture in the room, Daeron plopped down on the floor and laid the baked goods out on a clean handkerchief. Luke sat down on the floor across from him, and felt entirely like a child again. In a good way, he supposed.

“Guess who I ran into in the kitchens?” Daeron said excitedly, handing him a biscuit.  

“No clue.”

“Rhaena!” He said, and Luke snorted. 

“Oh of course, I bet she-,”

“-was talking up-,”

“-the kitchen staff,” Luke finished, nodding. “She does tend to do that.” 

“Why?” 

“She’s brilliant,” he took a swig of the tea and bit into another sweet. “Knows how to work a room. Knows how to work a palace. She had all the servants wrapped around her finger in Dragonstone. I’m certain there wasn’t a rumor in the realm that got past her.”

Daeron took this information thoughtfully, chewing quietly on a biscuit. 

“It won’t be long until she’s done the same here then, I assume,” he said eventually. “I would think your Mother would want to bring her into her court, she could be useful.”

“She is not just a tool,” Luke said, and was suppressed by the bite in his own tone. Daeron waved his hands about apologetically. 

“I did not mean to imply—,”

“It’s okay, I understood. I’m sure my mother will consider it.”

They fell quiet. Luke ignored the urge to pick at his nails and bit at his pastry instead. Daeron fiddled with the seven-pointed star hung around his neck.

“You seem like a very good brother Luke,” he said softly, “I admire that.”

He looked so awfully similar to Alicent. Luke wondered for a moment what it would have been like if Daeron was born with his mother’s copper hair; how hypocritical she would have sounded. It was difficult for Luke to compare the image of this soft-spoken young man with empty, angry woman he knew to be his mother.

“It must have been difficult to have been away from your family for so long,” Luke responded instead. Daeron clenched tighter to his necklace but offered him a small smile.

“I love my siblings, although I’ll admit I sometimes find it difficult to reconcile the things they’ve done with my own memories of them,” he said. Luke supposed he was speaking mostly of Aegon. “I do miss Aemond dearly though, I hope his little stint training with Uncle Daemon doesn’t last long.”

Luke remembered that, when they were young, Daeron and Aemond had been closest of the King’s children. They were separate by almost 2 years in age, but they had acted nearly as twins, making trouble in the castle and hogging all the books Jace had wanted to read. Luke supposed it had been when Daeron had left for Oldtown, when he was hardly 8 years in age, that Aemond had drawn in on himself. He had always seemed like a bit of outsider to the other children, and had only become angry and resentful between the influences of Aegon and his mother. 

Daeron must have caught something in his expression.

“It’s alright,” he chuckled, “I know you and my brother aren’t exactly friendly.”

“No, were aren’t,” recalling dinner less then a week ago. Maybe he shouldn’t have laughed when the servant placed the pig in front of Aegon, but it had been funny. 

“I wasn’t there for the whole eye incident, but to be honest it all sounded a little ridiculous to me. Aemond claimed a dragon that was meant for a girl who had just lost her mother, of course she was angry. And you were just defending her,” Daeron said. He shrugged. “You were just children and it was basically an accident. I don’t see why anyone blames you.”

Luke didn’t remember everything that happened that day, if he was entirely honest. He remembered the blood pouring out of Aemond’s eye and the long line a stitches that ran across his face later that night. He remembered clinging to his mother’s dress with hands still sticky with blood. The memory that really stood out, above even cutting Aemond, was when Alicent had taken the knife against his mother, crying about things he didn’t understand. There had been something else going on there, an entire scene playing out from a book he hadn’t lived, a history he didn’t know and was only a small part of. Alicent’s anger about the eye was part of something bigger that he couldn’t grasp, and now that he was older, he realized it was hardly about the eye at all. It was mostly just about Alicent and his mother. 

“You should tell Aemond that,” he said. He had no intention of insulting Daeron’s mother, whom he clearly adored, to his face. 

Daeron nodded. 

“I have half a mind to kick some sense into him the next time I see him.”

Luke had a hard time imagining anyone kicking sense into Aemond, but then again, Daeron seemed to be full of hidden talents. He supposed if anyone could, it was him. 

“Thank you, for the biscuits by the way,” Luke said, holding his last one up. “I had completely forgotten how we used to sneak around.”

Daeron smiled warmly. “Aegon’s told me there’s a whole labyrinth of tunnels everyone uses to sneak around that we had no idea about as children. I don’t suppose you’ve traveled them either?”

“No, we left for Dragonstone before I was old enough to find anymore,” Luke admitted. 

“We should explore them sometime.”

“We should.” He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. Daeron grinned back at him, and the pressure in his chest eased a bit. 

The moment didn’t last long. A hard knock sounded on the door, and it was shoved open before he could respond. 

Jacaerys strode in, Alicent on his heels. 

Luke and Daeron stumbled to their feet, with the same guilty looks on their faces they had when they were children, caught stealing from the kitchens. Jace and Alicent looked between them, seemingly just as surprised. 

“Queen Mother, Brother,” Luke said, recovering. Jace frowned at him; a private, brotherly frown that said they would speak later.

“Daeron, what—,” Alicent began. 

“How can we help you mother? Prince?” Daeron interrupted. It was his turn to get frowned at. 

“Apologies, we merely came for my brother. He is second in line for the The Throne, and must prepare for tomorrow,” Jace said. “We didn’t expect to be interrupting anything.”

“You’re not,” Daeron said quickly. “I’ll take my leave.” 

He reached down for the tea and handkerchief, and Luke grabbed his arm.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll have servants take them,” he said quietly. Daeron offered him a kind smile and dipped his head to Jace before leaving. His mother followed him into the hall.

Jace waited until the door closed behind them.

“What was he doing in here?” He asked suspiciously. Luke turned away, picking up the tea and the handkerchief and setting them on a nearby table. 

“Nothing, he merely brought snacks from the kitchen. Thought we might share them like we did as children.”

Jace grabbed his shoulder.

“You can’t just go along with their games, Luke. He’s definitely up to something—,”

“Jace, stop—,”

“I’m serious. The Greens, it’s always a plot with them—,”

Luke felt the pressure in his chest twist into something uglier, an anger pushing against his throat. He shoved Jace’s hand off. 

“Stop!” He hissed. “Do you hear yourself? Plots, games, the Greens?” He jabbed a finger at Jace, who looked taken aback. “A couple days in this place an you already sound like them! You sound just like Otto and Alicent and Daemon and Criston Cole! This is why I hate the Red Keep!”

“I was just—,”

“I know you what you were ‘just!’ Just trying to warn me against the horrible image you’ve conjured up in your mind of Daeron?”

“As children—,”

“Children, Jace! As children!” Luke felt his eyes prick angrily with tears. “We haven’t seen him in seven years! But you’ve already decided who he is without even giving him a chance!” 

Jace stared down at him, clenching his jaw guiltily. He fell backwards into the chair behind him, raising his hands apologetically.

“Alright,” he sighed, “I hear you, I hear you.”

Luke swiped angrily at his damp eyes and looked away. 

“This place is horrible. It turns everyone against each other,” he bit at his nails, “and eventually everyone just starts assuming the worst about each other, and it is just an endless cycle of mistrust and betrayal. I knew that even when I was a child.”

“You’re right- I’m sorry—,”

“Jace promise me.” He stared down at his older brother, whose eyebrows drew together softly. “Promise me, when you are heir, and one day King, you won’t be like them. You won’t be like Mother and Alicent and Daemon and all the rest of them. Please.”

Jace stood up. He grasped Luke’s shoulders firmly, but with a kind touch. 

“I was always so frustrated with how everyone treated each other here. The lying and the mistrust- you’re right it’s infectious. And I fell right into it.” He squeezed his shoulders. “I’ll be better. I promise. We’ll be better then them.”

_______________________

“What are you doing with him?” Alicent asked, after the door had closed behind them and they turned a corner down the hall. Daeron shrugged.

“Making a friend?” He turned to his mother, with more exasperation then usual. “Is that not allowed?”

She frowned at him. 

“I know it’s been a while, Daeron, but Rhaenyra’s sons—,” Daeron cut her off.

“Mother, please. Leave it be.”

Alicent stopped. 

“They are dangerous—,”

“They are merely boys! Like myself!”  

He pressed his hands against his eyes. Alicent stared down at him, taken slightly aback. He took a breath and looked back at her. 

“Father’s death has given us this second chance. Mother. Please. I do not intend to waste mine.”

He turned and left before she could answer. Alicent listened to his retreating footsteps, feeling a familiar pang of sadness.

She followed the hallway back to Rhaenyra’s quarters, knocking lightly on her doors.

“Enter.”

Rhaenyra was sitting in the same chair she had been a few nights ago, when Alicent had spoken to her in the dark. Now, in the daylight, she didn’t need to hear her voice to know the gentle grief in her eyes. 

“Rhaenyra,” she breathed, a little surprised by the softness of her own voice. Rhaenyra looked up at her, fiddling with a long lock of white hair and sighed. 

“I miss my husband,” she said quietly. Alicent frowned. 

“Prince Daemon? He—,”

“Not Daemon.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes. “Not Daemon.”

Alicent stared at her. This was new territory. While she could never bring herself to accept her father’s theory that Rhaenyra had had Laenor killed, she had never seen her express much grief over her late husband either. 

Unsure of how to respond, she sat down in the chair across from Rhaenyra.       

“He would have been so proud— to see his sons today.” Her voice caught on a half-sob. She pressed her hands harder against her eyes. “He would have been so proud.”

She shook with another sob. 

Alicent hardly ever saw her become so unwound. It made her heart ache sadly and childishly and her eyes sting. She got up made her way around the small table, kneeling gently beside Rhaenyra. Carefully, she pulled a hand away from Rhaenyra’s face so that she could hold it. 

“May The Seventh Heaven bless him with the Sight of The Stranger, so that he may witness his sons,” she said quietly. Rhaenyra looked down at her. Alicent had never once before called her sons Laenor’s. 

She wondered if Alicent knew she was talking about both of them. Harwin and Laenor both. She missed them, achingly. She found comfort only in knowing that Laenor was free.

She wiped her damp eyes with her thumb.

Alicent was still holding her hand, and the familiarity of it burned. Out of some childish and unconscious instinct, she began play gently with Alicent’s fingers in her hand.

Alicent stared up at her, and Rhaenyra didn’t meet her eyes. 

“I need you, Alicent.”

Her confession was so small, so quiet, in such a large space; so little in a world of great anger, great sadness, great guilt; in a chasm of such immensity between them. 

“Rhaenyra?” 

“I- I can’t do this by myself. I can’t. Without my husbands or my father—,”

Alicent squeezed her fingers.

“When we were young, you told me you would never marry. You said you didn’t ever need a man.” 

A small smile formed on her lips at the memory. Rhaenyra met her eyes.  

“When we were young— l had you.”

__________________

Jace rolled over that night, staring across the room and his brother, who was clearly feigning sleep. He got out of bed and made to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Luke whispered. 

“Laterine.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Go to sleep,” Jace said, and closed the door behind himself. 

He followed the dim hallway to the other side of the eastern wing, and knocked quietly on the wooden at the end of it. 

Baela opened it. 

“Jace?”

“Hey, can I come in?”

“Of course,” she said softly, and let him in. Their were two beds in the room and neither of them were occupied. 

“Where’s Rhaena?”

“Out doing gods know what,” Baela said, waving the question off. She turned to him. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” he shrugged and sat down one of the beds, crossing his legs in front of him. “I think I’m just nervous again. I feel sick.” 

She sat down beside him. 

“Nervous to marry me?”

“No, no—,” he caught her teasing smile and laughed a little. “No, becoming crown heir.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.” Jace was surprised by how fast he answered, and how true it felt. “I’ve always felt a certain duty, to the realm. I think we could do a lot of good. My grandsire was a wise man, but perhaps not a proactive one. I think we could learn from his mistakes.” 

Baela nodded. 

“Our Grandmother is the opposite— quick to react. Her actions were bold and immediate, and when given the opportunity to have power she was not afraid to wield it.” 

“Like you then,” Jace said, and Baela flicked him in the arm but laughed all the same. 

“I learned from the best,” she grinned, but then shrugged. “I think her flaw is surrounding herself with people far too similar to her. It’s easy to think your opinion is best when given no alternative.” 

Jace fiddled with his fingers, remembering what Luke had said to him. 

“That’s what I’m scared of. Repeating their mistakes.”

“Do you feel like you’re going to?”

“I already am.” He let his forehead rest in the hand. “Luke said so. He was so upset— I felt so bad.”

Baela raised an eyebrow at him.

“What does Luke know?”

“I came into his room and he was sharing food with Daeron. On the floor like two children.”

Baela shrugged. 

“Daeron is a sweetheart. I understand the charm. I’m guessing you got angry at him for fraternizing with Alicent’s children?”

“I just— he said I was acting paranoid, that this place makes everyone turn against each other. That I hadn’t even given him a chance.” Jace sighed. “He was right too. I was acting like them.” He looked away. “I love my mother— and I think she’ll make a good queen, but I don’t want to become her.”

Baela watched him for a moment. She stood up from the bed and took his hand, tugging him behind her.

“Let’s go,” she said. Jace frowned.

“Where? What are we doing?”

“Being proactive. Like you wanted.”

That did nothing to settles his doubts. Baela led him down the hallway and then up a hidden staircase Jace hadn’t even known existed. Cobwebs and dust gathered throughout it. 

“How did you find this?”

“Rhaena.”

“Of course.”

The staircase came out behind a large tapestry of the Northern sea. Across from it was a door. Baela knocked on it before Jace could stop her.

“Enter.”

They did. Daeron looked up from his desk, surprise and confusion in his features. 

“Oh.” He stood up quickly and dipped his head. “Prince. My lady,” he greeted. “What brings you here at this hour?”

Jace looked at Baela, not sure what to say. 

“Jace and I just wanted to give our share our appreciation, for the kindness you have shown our family since you arrived. It’s a bit a relief, to be honest, given the previous tension between our families.” 

“Oh!” Daeron’s eyes lit up. “Of course.” He sat back down in his chair and indicated for them to take the set of seats at a nearby table. “I may have been away too long, but in my mind, there was no ‘your family,’ and ‘mine.’ We share grandsires and cousins and uncles. We are family.”

Jace felt the tension in his chest and shoulders loosen. 

“If I’m honest, I may have been quick to judge you, Daeron. I’m not sure I share the fond memories my brother does of our youth, and I may have assumed your time with the Hightowers would have driven you farther apart.”

“Has your opinion changed?” Daeron asked, with innocent curiosity. Jace was struck by the question. He rubbed his brow thoughtfully, looking for the right words. 

“You’re a good lad, and I can only imagine a good son, who cares for his mother the same way I care for mine. But you can see that what they have— what has been going on— it’s not sustainable. We’ve been to the brink of a war, within our own family for heaven’s sake,” Jace sighed. Daeron nodded. “I don’t want to continue that legacy, when I- when I am King one day. We have the power to start mending what they’ve broken. And it could start with us; now.”

Daeron studied him. Jace’s face didn’t have the softness of Luke’s, but his eyes were kind in the same way. There came from him a strong sense of duty and honor that Daeron found he admired. 

He stuck out his hand.

“I want to help.”

Jace shook his hand, relief peaking through the small smile on his mouth. Daeron grinned back at him. 

__________________________

There was a banging on the door. Aemond jumped, startled, and recovered quickly before Daemon barged in. 

Daemon looked equally startled to find his young apprentice awake before dawn, working at a desk. He frowned at him. 

“What are you doing?”

“Writing my sister, but it can wait.” He pushed aside his parchment eagerly. “Are we to train?”

“Something like that,” Daemon grumbled. “Come.”

Aemond was suspecting the courtyard, or the beach— or maybe even the dragon caves. Instead they were in the nursery, with two wailing babes. 

“What is the meaning of this, Uncle?”

“The children— along with their nurses, have come down with an illness. My sons are fine, but unfortunately their nurses had to be sent to rest.” 

Aemond felt a snide amusement at his Uncle’s predicament, written all over his face.

“You find yourself unsure of how to care for children, Uncle?”

“A man such as myself has little time for doing such women’s work,” he sneered. Aemond could have run him through with his sword for those words, but he brushed past him instead and picked one of the young toddlers. The child’s face was red as he wailed and Aemond held him close to his chest, bouncing him softy.

“Which one is this?” He asked calmly. Daemon looked taken aback. 

“Err- Aegon. The other is Viserys.” 

“Another generation of terribly named children,” Aemond chided. He held up the small child. “But you’re not a brat like my brother, are you Aegon?” The child stopped crying, caught perhaps by the use of his name. “No, you’re a good little lad, aren’t you?”

There was coo in his voice that Daemon had not expected. He had only ever seen his nephew as snide, overconfident and cold. 

Aemond took the boy in one arm and picked up the other, who started to calm down. He raised an eyebrow at Daemon.

“This was too difficult for you, Uncle?”

“You’re just girlish,” Daemon huffed. Aemond rolled his eyes. He had heard that a lot as boy, it meant so little to him as a man. 

“Do they eat?” He asked. His uncle stared at him blankly. “Or are they still solely nursing?”

“Some. Soft foods, I suppose.”

Aemond looked at the children. 

“You want a snack, lads?” Aegon and Viserys watched him with wide, wet eyes. Aemond could not help a small smile. “I bet you do. Let us go see what these outlaws keep stock of in their kitchens. Come, Uncle.”

He started down the hallway and got a smug pleasure seeing his Uncle trail behind him, for once.

In the kitchens, he had tasked his uncle with cooking oats while he mashed together various soft fruits.

“You can manage such a simple task, can’t you Uncle?” He had sneered. “Or is such women’s work too difficult for you?”

He thought Daemon might draw his sword and cut him in half then, but he had merely growled and pulled out a pot. He understood that he need his nephew’s help. 

Aegon had played with the babies while he worked, letting them play with his fingers and various spoons. He even sung to them softly when Daemon had briefly excused himself.

‘The pirate mother-

was a brute and beast,

with eyes like a storm-

and songs from the east. 

But she spoke like heaven,

with not an ounce of the maiden,

and god, she was a woman, to me.’ 

They were tavern songs, Aemond knew, but the children liked them all the same. An innocent amusement took over him, watching them giggle with bright, lavender eyes. Daemon was back a few minutes later, begrudgingly helping to feed them.

He was feeding a soft mix of oatmeal and fruit to Viserys when a servant approached them. 

“Excuse me, Prince?”

“Yes?” Both Aemond and and Daemon had responded. She stared between them awkwardly. 

“Uh- apologies. I meant Prince Aemond.” She held out a small roll of parchment. “A letter came from Dragonstone for you.”

“Thank you, Anya,” Aemond said, taking it from her. 

“Has my wife written?” Daemon asked.

“The Queen? I do not believe so, my lord.”

Daemon frowned and she made to excuse herself. Aemond brushed her arm, stopping her gently.

“Anya, would you ask the wet-nurse to come up and nurse the children when she feels well enough?” He asked kindly, “They aren’t old enough yet to be completely weaned yet.”

“Certainly, Prince.”  

Aemond turned back to Viserys, and Daemon watched her go with suspicious confusion. When had his nephew become so friendly with the servants?     

“She’s no longer your wife,” Aemond said, interrupting his thoughts. Daemon spun around to face him. 

“I should have you killed.”

“I mean no insult, Uncle, but my dear sister is married to Aegon now. Your marriage has been disavowed by the laws of The Faith. You agreed to it,” he shrugged. 

Daemon grabbed him by the collar of his tunic. 

“In this castle—,” he growled, “she is my wife. Her sons are mine. I should be beside her on the throne.” 

Aemond stared back at him, cold and unflinching, pushing back any spark of nervousness that started in his stomach. The children started to whimper. 

“If you want to kill me, for speaking the truth,” Aemond hissed, “you will not do so in front of the babies.”

“You really are a woman,” Daemon spat. He let go of his collar, turned, and left. 

Aemond turned back to the children with a mix of disgust and frustration with his uncle. 

“Do not cry, little dragons. Your father is just an old fool. I had one once as well.”  

They babbled back at him, and Aemond softened. 

“You want to read a letter?” He waved the roll of parchment in front of them. “It appears it is from my dear brother. The competent one.”  

He unfurled it carefully. 

Aemond, 

I find myself delighted that I write to you now with view of the blackwater bay for the first time in many years. I do not miss Oldtown— most of it anyways, and despite the sad occasion it is wonderful to be home. (Aemond shook his head in amusement. What a poetic ass his brother was.) Of course you have decided to pick the weeks I finally return home to pursue your odd obsessions. You fool! You’ve had all the years I was gone but you choose now, to spite me no doubt. Have you no interest in welcoming your brother home? I jest, of course, but do please come home soon. 

To your likely displeasure, I am becoming companions with Rhaenyra’s older sons. I’ve heard about your childish feuds with them, and I frankly do not care. When you do come home, you better be ready to end your boyish grudges because I’ve just made some wild promises to Jace about helping mend the family and I have no intention of being made a liar and a fool. I’ll expect the same respect from them of course, but they really are nice lads. There’s no reason they should continue to be our enemies.

On a similar note, Mother is doing, well- about as well as expected. She is stressed, lonely, and suspicious. But she and Rhaenyra seem to be- getting along? I can never tell, to be honest. I don’t know what to make of Rhaenyra and I’ve barely spoken to her since I’ve been here. I think she is just very sad. I hardly recognize her as the woman I knew as a child, who had bright eyes and was full of fire. (Aemond did not quite share those memories of their sister- although he supposed there had a been a time when she a treated them with friendly familiar teasing, despite the ever growing divide between her and Alicent.) 

Aegon has retreated to his quarters it seems, except when forced to play his part as King in our elaborate shows. Speaking of which, Jacaerys will be named Targaryen heir to the throne on the morrow. I wonder how angry the Velaryons are about this name change. Baela and Rhaena are both kind and endlessly fascinating. I’ve never had a boring conversation with either, and I expect they will play a powerful role in shaping our Kingdom for years to come.

Jacaerys’s upcoming wedding to Baela is in a month, surely you’ll be home by then? I know you will tire of me repeating myself, but please come home soon. I need you here.     

Your dear brother,

Daeron

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT 

For the second time that week, Lucerys found himself alone with Alicent, waiting for the family to be dressed for royal proceedings. This time even Joffery wasn’t with him, having stayed with their mother to get ready. 

They were in a large sitting room, and Alicent was staring out a window from a stiff couch. Lucerys couldn’t read her blank expression. 

He wondered if she was similar to him in this way; anxious and timely, desperate not disappoint anyone, or even inconvenience them. Perhaps that is why they both found themselves early. 

He picked at his nails, trying to distract from the fear that gripped his stomach. He shouldn’t be nervous. The proceeding would be much smaller then the wedding had been. It would be held inside the castle, not for the common folk but for the lords of the realm to travel from distant castles to offer their loyalty to the throne and its heir. 

Alicent could see lords and ladies milling about in the square, making light conversation as they made their way into the castle. She should be down there, greeting them, she knew, but she could not bring herself to open up to questioning like that. What was she to say, if they were to ask her about the true fatherhood of the new heir? It was not as if they had not heard of she and Rhaenyra’s decades long dispute about it.    

She looked back at Lucerys, who was sitting nervously in a chair by the door. He likely hadn’t expected to find her in here, and had been too polite to leave once he realized she was. 

He was picking at his nails again, she noticed. They were raw and near bleeding. He was staring down at his lap,— likely not really seeing what he was doing. 

Alicent felt her heart catch in her throat, and was struck by a new thought. He almost looked as if he could have been her son. His brown eyes, brown hair, shy demeanor.

Alicent watched as he pressed the nail of his thumb too hard against the nail bed of his other, and it slid right through the skin. He hissed quietly as blood began pooling, dripping down his thumb. He looked up, and caught her staring.

“I-,” 

“Come here,” she said gently. She got up and led him to a small basin of water that was sitting on the windowsill. He sat, red faced, in the chair next to it. Alicent dipped her handkerchief into it and knelt down in front of him.

“I know, you told me to stop last time, I just— I know it makes me look weak—,”  

Quietly, she took his hand and began wiping away the blood, pressing against the cut and cleaning the other nails. 

The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“You remind me so much of myself when I was young.”

His eyes shot up, meeting hers. 

“I- I do?”

“There’s a constant nervousness, that sits inside your stomach, isn’t there?” Alicent said softly. He swallowed. “It goes away, momentarily and on occasion, when you’re around the right people, or relaxed, or laughing, but never for long. And some days, it seems to climb all the way up to your throat, and your lungs feel tight. It gets difficult to draw breath, or pay attention to what’s going on. And picking at your nails—,” she moved onto the other hand, cleaning away crusted blood, “—or biting them, it helps. The little sparks of pain move the pressure away from your chest, just for moment, like the nervousness is distracted.”

Lucerys could feel the hot tears forming in eyes. No one had ever… understood like that. He had always felt so childish and stupid. Nervousness, they understood, but not like this. Not the breathless kind. It came at momentous moments, like the wedding and crowing, but sometimes too at simple ones. At the breakfast table or studying or hearing Daemon and his mother argue or his baby brothers cry. Sometimes with seemingly no reason at all. 

“I- how did you know?” His voice was choked. Alicent softened. She was someone he had never seen before. She held up her hand, and he could see scaring around her nail beds.

“I was barley of 10 years when my mother died, but the nervousness had started a few years earlier, when she stated to get sick. For over a decade, I picked and chewed and bit at them. My father told me I would look weak, that it was sinful to tear at myself like this, but it only made it worse. I regret that I said something similar to you the other night, it was his voice it my mind, and I despise that I echoed it.”

“How did you stop?” Luke asked shakily. She was stilling wiping at his nails. They were clean by now, they must be, but the motion was calming. She had none of the coldness in her now that he knew so well. The sadness seemed familiar, though.         

“Your mother—,” Alicent sighed softly. “You’ve only ever known us as adults, but when we were your age, we were the closest of friends. We did everything together.” Luke had figured that they hadn’t always hated each other, but could hardly imagine them companions. “She used to clean my nails, like this, when she saw them bleed. And if she saw me picking at them she would peel my hands apart and hold them. And it helped. I still did it, but less and less. It became easier to manage, easier to stop.” 

She didn’t tell him about the next decade, where it got worse without Rhaenyra. Where it cost her everything to drive every emotion so deep within her she was numb. It took years to kick the habit, and she still found herself picking at them on occasion. 

“I hadn’t know you and my mother were so close,” Luke said quietly. Alicent met his eyes. They were the same shape as Rhaenyra’s. He had the same smattering of freckles she had had, the same soft round face and round nose. She’d spent so long seeing Harwin in him, she hadn’t noticed Rhaenyra until now. 

“You look just like her, you know?”

Luke’s eyebrows drew together. No one had ever said that, not once. 

“What?”

“Maybe not as much now, but when we were your age she looked so similar to you now. The hair may be different but the resemblance is still uncanny.” 

He had always be judged up against the appearances of his fathers. In whispers they called him a bastard, muttering about Harwin and Laenor. He’d always felt ashamed, like he’d done something wrong. 

The idea that he looked like his mother- that was new. A sense of pride bubbled in him. He smiled softly. 

“Thank you. No one’s ever told me that before.”

Alicent squeezed his fingers gently and let go, setting the handkerchief on the windowsill. 

“There are people, who won’t call you weak, Lucerys. The right people. Like Rhaenyra was to me. They may not understand, but they’ll still see you. They won’t demand that you stop because they’ll know that doesn’t help, but they’ll be there for you. They’ll help,” Alicent told him. Luke thought of Rhaena. Jace sometimes, too. Maybe even Daeron one day. 

A question bubbled in Lucerys’s mind. 

If not Rhaenyra, who was there for Alicent now? Who was her person?

He pushed back the urge to ask. 

“Thank you, your grace, for your help,” he said instead. He looked away from her, combing hair out his eyes. “I am grateful that the realm has had someone as clear-sighted as yourself protecting it these past few years, no matter the rift between our families.” 

Alicent swallowed. No one had acknowledged before how she had held the kingdom together while everything seemed to fall apart. Some didn’t know, others chose to ignore, and some few chose to blame her, for the measures she had had to take. 

She looked at the boy in front of her now and could not find the hatred she once felt towards him. He had been always symbol for Rhaenyra’s disloyalty and arrogance. Of what Rhaenyra had taken from her. Of what the world had taken from her. 

Now, he was just a boy. Scared, as she once was. 

Bitterness seemed so foolish in the face of such innocence. 

Alicent let go of a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. 

_____________________

There should be a word, Alicent thought, for moments like this. Where you stare forward at the present and it seems like you are peering back in time, at distant past that never ended. 

You are you, now, but you are also yourself at ten-and-four, watching your best friend become heir, tumbling irreversibly into the future alongside her.  

Fear had clashed then, with pride, watching the realm bow to Rhaenyra. That night Rhaenyra had fallen into her arms, crying into Alicent’s shoulder. 

Alicent hadn’t known what was wrong. Panic reached her throat. 

She felt her hand move instinctively, wrapping around the back of Rhaenyra’s head, pulling her closer. Her braids were coming undone, and loose hair fell between Alicent’s fingers. 

“Rhaenyra? What’s wrong?” Rhaenyra pressed further into her, making them both stumble back a step, holding each other tightly. “Nyra?”

Hadn’t Rhaenyra wanted this? To become heir?

“For this-!” Rhaenyra choked out, “My mother died. For this. For an heir! Because I could not be one. And yet here I am.”

Rhaenyra was shorter then her back then. Alicent pressed a kiss to the top of her head, to the damp roots of her silver hair. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Rhaenyra choked back a sob. 

“I would give it all up in an instant to have her back. All of it. I would spend everyday in the gardens with you while my brother ruled, or Daemon, or anyone, and she would be alive. I would be perfectly happy there with you.” She looked up at Alicent, her chin still resting against her chest, eyes red and wet. Alicent hardly ever saw her cry, not like this. “It was so pointless. Her life for nothing. Her life for a boy and a man who killed her. Her life for me.”

Alicent stepped back so she could cup her chin, look her in the eyes. 

“You’re not pointless. It—,”

“If you’re gonna say ‘it was destine by the faith,’ save it—,”

“—fuck The Faith. Your mother loved you, you were anything but pointless to her. You’ll be the greatest ruler this realm has seen one day and none of it will be pointless. Your mother gave us the future.”

She gently let go of Rhaenyra’s chin, who let her forehead fall back to Alicent’s shoulder.   She rubbed soft circles on her back. 

“I don’t want the future if you’re not there with me,” Rhaenyra said quietly. Alicent’s eyes stung. 

“I’ll be there. I promise.”

Alicent looked up, meeting Rhaenyra’s eyes on the dais in front of her. Rhaenyra stared back at her and Alicent knew, with an unexplainable lack of doubt, that they were seeing the same memory. 

Aegon was speaking. It was words written by herself and Rhaenyra, but it was his voice. Alicent felt a sudden rush of anger that didn’t belong to her. It was supposed to be Rhaenyra speaking. Rhaenyra was to be Queen, because her mother had died trying to create a male heir. Rhaenyra would be the future of realm, so that it could be worth something. So that it wouldn’t be pointless. 

But Aegon was speaking.

Because it would look better coming from him. The King. That the bastard son was named Targaryen heir not by the boy’s own mother but by the man everyone had considered his enemy. Because the Hightowers, the Velaryons, and the Targaryens would appear a united force. Who would dare defy them?

It was Corlys Velaryon, still sick and supported by Rhaenys, who bowed first, like all those years ago. 

“I, Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and master of Driftmark, promise to be faithful to King Aegon and Queen Rhaenyra, and their named heir, Jacaerys Targaryen. I pledge fealty to them, and shall defend them against all enemies, in good faith, and without deceit. I swear this, by the old gods and the new.”

It went on like this. Some swore to Aegon and Rhaenyra, like Corlys had, others just to Aegon. But it didn’t matter, Alicent reminded herself. Rhaenyra would rule for the years and years to come. 

The thought was strangely calming.

Jacaerys was dressed in red and black, refusing to give up the colors of both his houses. He looked just Rhaenyra. He had the same blank expression she had had, that Alicent had stared at as child, trying to read.   

When all was said and done, the last men had bowed, and Aegon had named him heir, a more relaxed atmosphere took over the throne room. Lords and ladies shared jokes and stories among themselves, saving any criticisms they may have until they were away from the royal family. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward, offering them all a calm smile, and the room fell silent. 

“It is our pleasure, on this momentous day, to also announce the wedding of Jacaerys Targaryen to the Lady Baela Targaryen in four weeks’ time. We hope you all may be able to attend to witness the union between our two great houses, in the name of our late King, Viserys the Peaceful.”

________________________

It was nearly dusk when Alicent could finally excuse herself, slipping away, falling back into a sofa in her quarters with a sigh. 

The days event still swam in her mind, and she wanted be rid of the old memories and feelings that came with them. 

She closed her eyes, thinking she might be able to rest. A knock sounded on her door. Oh For the Sake of the Seven.

She pondered, for a moment, ignoring it; pretending no one was home.  

“Enter,” she said with a deep exhaustion, sitting upright. 

“The Lord of Oldtown, your grace,” her guard said. Alicent felt her heart stop. 

“Alicent, my dear,” Hobert Hightower said, swooping into the room. Alicent stood quickly, offering him a peck on the cheek. 

“Uncle, what pleasure it is to have—,” 

But the door had fallen shut behind him, and Hobert turned on her with disgust. 

“You are the very worst of my kin!” He spat. Alicent flinched. He advanced on her. “Never has this family seen such destruction from one of their own! Such disrespect for the years of sacrifice your father has made for this family!”

Alicent’s jaw trembled. Hobert looked so much like her father with his face screwed in anger, and she wanted to shrink away until she was so small her existence would hardly matter.  

“You threw your own Father in the dungeons! Made your son a consort, yes, do not think I cannot see though this foolish pretend, and made the bastard son of the princess whore the heir! Never would I thought I would witness such a disgrace.”

Alicent could think of nothing to say. She could hardly think. She could hardly breath. A million emotions boiled in her chest. Fear. Anger. Shame. She felt hot tears sting her face. 

“You will go to the deepest hell for your sins, Alicent. For bringing shame to this family, to your duty to the realm, to your father and son and husband.”

“I was only taking the necessary steps to avoid war—,” Alicent began shakily. Hobert lunged forward, grabbing Alicent’s jaw in an iron grasp. 

“You are a scheming bitch, just like your mother! But with half her wits—”

Panic melted into anger and Alicent shoved him off her, violently, and he fell backwards, knocking a basin of water to the floor as he slammed against a table.   

Alicent watched, breathless, as Hobert straightened up, shock slowly becoming a murderous gleam in his eyes. She had done it. He was going to kill her. 

The doors to her quarters flew open, and Rhaenyra strode in.  

She stared between them. Alicent, panting, her face wet with tears. Hobert steading himself against the table. Water thrown across the floor. 

“What is the meaning of this?” She demanded. Hobert recovered first. 

“Excuse me, your grace, Alicent and I were discussing the death of your beloved father, and I tripped. I apologize for my clumsiness, I’m afraid I am and older man each day.” 

Alicent could see a muscle twitch in Rhaenyra’s jaw. She met her eyes and Alicent shook her head, begging her not to make it worse. 

“I’ll have servants clean it up, it is no matter,” Rhaenyra said, waving him off. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I have business with The Queen Mother to attend to.” 

He got the message. 

“Of course, your grace. Have a wonderful evening.”

Alicent watched the floor, so that she would not have to see the look he shot her as he left. When the doors has closed behind him, Rhaenyra spun to face her. 

“What happened? What did he do to you?” She demanded. Alicent swallowed, feeling her face burn in shame, meeting Rhaenyra’s furious eyes. 

“It’s nothing, ‘Nyra, it was just an argument—,”

But Rhaenyra was near to her now, and there were red marks starting to bruise where Hobert’s fingers and grabbed her face, and Alicent could see Rhaenyra’s own face going pink in anger. 

“He hurt you.” 

“Rhaenyra—,”

“He hurt you, Alicent!” She began to pace. “I’m going to murder him. I’ll have him executed- no, I’ll strangle him myself.” 

“Rhaenyra!” Alicent heard the crack in her own voice. Rhaenyra froze. “Please.”

Rhaenyra reached out, taking her arm gently, but the panic had reached her throat and Alicent couldn’t breath and everything was hitting her and her vision was blurry with tears. 

Her chest was heaving now, every breath becoming hysterical. Alicent was only vaguely aware of Rhaenyra wrapping her arms around her. She leaned into her, seeking something steady.

She was trembling. Rhaenyra carefully guided her to sit down on the bed, taking a place beside her beside her, letting Alicent grasp desperately at her sleeve. She rubbed soft circles on Alicent’s back. 

“Breath, Ali,” she said gently. “Deep breaths.” 

It took more then a moment for Alicent to regain control over herself. Hyperventilating slowly settled into rough breaths. Rhaenyra gripped her fingers. 

“What happened?” She finally asked. Alicent wiped her face the the back of her thumbs, shaking her head. 

“He merely came to scream about the—,” her voice hitched, “shame I have brought the family.” 

“You haven’t brought—,”

“I have, Rhaenyra!” Alicent looked away from her. “I have arrested my father and the entire council. I have taken the throne from Aegon’s son. I made everything the Hightowers have done in the past two decades appear a joke.”

“They were planning to usurp—,”

“I do not regret what I have done, Rhaenyra, if that is what you are getting at,” she looked up at Rhaenyra sharply, “But I chose one family over another, I cannot deny that.” 

Rhaenyra sighed, rubbing her eyes. 

She was calmer then the girl Alicent remembered from their childhood, but still so full of fury. 

“Okay,” Rhaenyra breathed. “Okay.” 

She watched Alicent closely. Carefully she reached up, pushing a lock hair out of Alicent’s face, gently taking her chin in her hand. 

Alicent’s heart hammered stupidly in her chest. 

“I tried to tell Hobert that we were avoiding war but—,” she shook her head. 

“—He grabbed you?”

Alicent swallowed. 

“Yes.” Her voice was constricted. “Started screaming about my mother and I shoved him off.” 

Rhaenyra took her hand again, holding it tightly. 

“I could have him arrested for what he has done.”

“Rhaenyra no—,”

“He acted violently against the Queen Mother! It js the law—,”

“I know the law, Rhaenyra!” She pulled her hand away. “I’ve spent the last half a decade enforcing it!” 

Rhaenyra flinched a little and Alicent sighed. 

“It does not matter what he’s done. He’s my uncle, and furthermore, the leader of Oldtown. That includes the Hightowers, the Citadel, a large majority of The Faith and all the business and trade that passes through, as well as the loyalty of the great houses of The Reach. If we arrest both my father and uncle it would appear very hostile, and I refuse to avoid one war just to start another.”  

Rhaenyra stared at her, storming eyes. 

As children Rhaenyra had been direct, decisive, and confident. Alicent was the thoughtful, logical one. She swallowed and sighed. 

“I dislike it.”  

“He has power to rival the Iron Throne,” Alicent said. “We cannot—,”

“—Act rashly, I know.”

Alicent fiddled with her fingers while Rhaenyra watched the floor, trying to find the right words. They didn’t come. 

“Are you alright?” She asked instead. Alicent nodded.

“I will be fine. I just need some rest.”

“Right,” Rhaenyra stood up, “I should let you get some.” She paused and added softly, “You can send for me, or come find me if you need anything.”

Alicent was a little touched by that. 

“Thank you.” She watched as Rhaenyra made to leave, feeling a new sentiment force its way onto her tongue. “Rhaenyra?”  

“Yes?”

“Your sons are very fine young men, and I have no doubt they’ll be excellent leaders. They are much like their mother, after all. You must be very proud.”  

Rhaenyra’s gaze was piercing, studying her, her eyebrows drawing together. She must have seen Alicent’s sincerity because a soft smile broke through the ice. It was a happier smile, the type that reached her eyes, the type that Alicent hardly ever saw anymore. 

“I am incredibly proud.” Her expression was so soft, so caring that Alicent felt like she was staring back in time and seeing someone entirely new. A certain longing for that softness ate at her. “Goodnight, Alicent,” Rhaenyra added. 

“Goodnight.”

___________________   

Aemond follow a dark staircase down to a cramped corridor he was fairly certain a Targaryen had never visit before. There was nearly a dozen wooden identical doorways. A older maid walked out of one chuckling to herself and froze upon seeing him. 

“Prince Aemond? Can I help you?”

He offered her a frown he hoped wasn’t too unfriendly. 

“Would you point me toward Anya’s quarters? I have an inquiry.”  

She squinted at him suspiciously but nodded to a door on his left. 

“You’ll find her in there, my Prince,” she said.

“Thank you very much.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “How might I call you?” 

“Leanna, my Prince.”

“Your help is appreciated, Leanna,” he said gently. She bowed and squeezed past him in the tight corridor. Aemond carefully knocked on the door. 

“Come in.”

Anya was seated on a bed inside, mending a tear in a dress. Across from her sat middle-aged maid that Aemond recognized from the kitchen staff. She looked familiar, in a distant sort of way. 

The two women stood immediately upon seeing him in surprise. 

“Pardon, for the interruption,” Aemond said lightly. 

“How can we help you, Prince?”

“Remind me of your name…?”

“Margret, my Prince.”

It struck Aemond suddenly why she felt so familiar. 

“You used to work at the Red Keep, did you not? You used to give me snacks when I snuck into the kitchens at night, before scolding me and sending me on my way.”

Margret chuckled, her tense expression melting into a warm smile.   

“You and your brother Daeron were such sweet young boys, how could I resist?” She reached out and patted his cheek lightly. “It was such a shame he was sent to Oldtown, you two were so close.”

Aemond offered her a reassuring smile. 

“We still write often,” he said. She regarded him softly. 

“My, you’ve grown, young prince. What brings you to the servants’ quarters?”

“I thought I may speak to Anya, briefly,” he told her, turning towards the younger woman. Margret shot a questioning look to her, speaking in language communicated through blinks and glances, seeking permission, perhaps. Anya gave her small, reassuring nod. 

“I’ll excuse myself then,” Margret said. She closed the door behind her, and Aemond sat down on the bed opposite of Anya. 

“How can I help you?” She asked. 

“I’ve noticed you visit the tavern by the docks on some of your days off,” he began, “do you have family who works there?” 

She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“You’re observant, Prince Aemond,” but she shook her head. “I have brother who is captain of a small cargo boat. He travels through here often on their way in and out of Blackwater Bay.” 

Aemond watched her, thinking carefully. 

“Might I ask a favor, Anya?”

“Depends on the favor, I suppose, my Prince,” she said. Aemond chuckled. 

“I would love to accompany you to the tavern, next time your brother visits.”

“If you’re planning on asking him for my hand, I would like to warn you I’m already married,” she said. There was teasing smile on her face. Aemond snorted, surprised by her attitude. It was not unwelcome. 

“Unfortunately, I merely wish to meet your brother. I need a shipmaster for a job.” 

“Oh!” she looked at him curiously. “I can make that happen.”

“He will be in town soon?”

“Two days from now. You can meet me on the southern staircase.”

“A plan then.” He stood up an gave her an appreciative nod. “Thank you, Anya.” 

“Of course, my Prince.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE

Alicent stared down the long, dark passage that led to her father’s cell. It stared back her. He was to be exiled to Oldtown in several days. She had to speak to him. She had too. 

She just really, really didn’t want to. 

But she closed her eyes and her feet carried her there anyways, because it was the right thing to do. Because she was his daughter. 

“Alicent.” His voice was rough, and dry. His bead had grown unkempt. Still, he had neatly combed back his hair.  He cell was small but not untidy. The bed was nicer then the others in the hall, with clean sheets and a decent mattress. 

Ser Criston stood from his chair beside Otto’s cell. 

“Your Grace,” he said. Alicent offered him a polite smile. 

“Thank you, Ser Criston. You may take a break, I’ll send for you soon.”

He bowed and left, leaving her alone. Alicent sat down in the chair. 

“I was growing worried, Alicent, that you may have been harmed,” Otto said. He regarded her gently through the bars of his cell. “It has been almost a week.”

“I’ve been rather busy.”

“Oh I suppose you have been. And how is Rhaenyra?”

Alicent’s head snapped up, meeting his eyes at the question. There was nothing in them to see. No hint of anger like Hobert’s, or soft shine like Daeron’s. She swallowed. 

“Your brother attacked me,” she said instead. She spoke the words casually, carefully removing expression from her tone. Otto raised an eyebrow. 

“Hobert? I understand his anger, given the gravity of your mistakes.” He tiled his head. “He does have a reputation to protect.” 

“A reputation you aimed to ruin,” Alicent said. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “By usurping a throne and replacing the rightful heir with Aegon.”

“You forget yourself, Alicent,” Otto hissed. “You forget where you came from. You could have lived your whole life under Hobert’s hand. He would have married you off to a northern lord and let you die in the cold. A yet here, instead, you sit.”

Alicent gripped her own fingers tightly, until in the dim light they turned pale. 

“You would see this world destroyed to have my son sit the throne?”

Otto scoffed. 

“Destroyed? Aegon may be a fool but what would it matter? Yes, he would sit the throne, but you and I, Alicent, we would rule. His brothers would guide him. It’s no different then what you’ve done now, except instead of our family, you’ve left the real governing to Rhaenyra, and her bastard children.” 

Even in his dark cell, guarded only by Criston Cole, Otto heard whispers. He knew what was going on above. Alicent shook her head. 

“Rhaenyra may be flawed but—,”

“Flawed?” Otto chuckled. It was dark sound that made her want to shiver. “Your naivety still astounds me after all these years. Rhaenyra is selfish, she sees nothing greater then herself and her own needs. You must know it. She upends centuries of tradition, skirts the law, defies The Faith, and insults all those with eyes to see her sins.”

Alicent bit at the inside of her cheek, closing her stinging eyes.  

“Perhaps she has made mistakes, but—,”

“No, Alicent, listen to me!” He reached through the bars and grabbed her wrist tightly. Her blood turned cold. “No Targaryen, in the history of man, has been fit to rule. They are all selfish, all insane, all tyrants with dreams too large for their own good.”

“Viserys was good man.”

“Because he had you! Because he had myself and courts of wise men to tell him what to do. Without us the Realm would have withered away into lawlessness because he was a weak man who could never distinguish reality from his own desperate fantasies. If you allow Rhaenyra to govern alone she will destroy all that we have built, and it will not stop there.” 

“What am I to do with that?” Alicent snapped. “All that we have built would have been destroyed in dragon fire had we gone to war!” 

“The lords of the realm have sworn an oath, to King Aegon, days ago. End this foolish ruse with Rhaenyra as Queen, she is a mere consort. Establish a Hand for Aegon. Your cousin Ormund has been training to rule Oldtown since he was a child. He could do great things here, in King’s Landing. When the time comes, Aegon will replace Jace with his true born heir, Jaehaerys. Wed Ormund’s children to yours, and your grandchildren.”

His brow had furrowed together. These were instructions, a clear plan to have Hightowers rule for centuries to come, to take over the Targaryen bloodline. Alicent’s own cold breath was choking her. 

“You will stop at nothing to see our family rule,” she said quietly. Otto shook his head. 

“You continue to evade your duty to The Faith. Justice, must prevail. Duty and tradition, these are these are the hands of the Seven that guide us, that hold together worlds. Your mother taught you of it, when you were just a girl. For the holy and true laws of man, wars can be worthy. But instead, you will see all things great shunned by Rhaenyra. Those who sin like she has do not know what it is to sacrifice. She will continue to take from you.” 

Alicent’s jaw trembled. Everywhere, she ached. 

“You will be exiled to Oldtown in several days,” her voice shook, “and you are not to return.” 

Anger and disappointment drew deep lines in his face. 

“Your love for Rhaenyra continues to blind you,” he said roughly. “I hoped you would grow out of that foolishness as a girl. But you continue to cleave. Consider my words, Alicent. Do not let her take from you all that you are.” 

Fear cast her eyes away from him, far away, somewhere distant and numb. 

Alicent stood sharply, turned, and left. 

_______________

Otto’s words sat heavily in her stomach. She tried to push them away, banish them back into the dark corridor where they came from. She almost succeeded when she walked into Rhaenyra’s quarters later that day, and Rhaenyra smiled brilliantly upon seeing her enter. 

“Alicent! Good morning,” she said sweetly. Alicent felt some of her confidence return. 

“Good morning,” she said softly in return. She sat down at the table where Rhaenyra worked. “Those look exciting,” she said, regarding the large stacks of dusty documents scattered across the table. Rhaenyra laughed. 

“Financial records,” she pointed to one stack, “and treaties with houses of The Reach,” she said, pointing to another. “Gods above they’re terribly dull.”

Alicent sighed affectionately. 

“Rhaenyra, studying? I never thought I would see the day,” she joked. A cheeky smile grew on Rhaenyra’s face, and she appeared, suddenly, 20 years younger. 

“We could sit beneath the weirwood tree and you could read them too me, if you would prefer,” she teased. Alicent felt a giggle bubble out of her. Rhaenyra’s eyes shone a little brighter at the sound. 

Otto just didn’t understand, she thought. He had never seen the girl she had once been. Alicent had.

“I don’t think that would be nearly as comfortable as we remember,” Alicent told her with a small smile. “We’ve grown old.” 

Rhaenyra chuckled and cast aside the document she had been reading to turn to the next one. Alicent picked it up curiously. 

‘…The last time Targaryen rulers established a military presence in Oldtown was under King Jaehaerys, in 59 AC, in an effort to end the separatist movement that grew from members of the Starry Sept, who believed rule should be centered again in Oldtown, and the Septon should hold a position alongside the King. The belief held by many, left over from the Faith Militant Uprising, was that Targaryens had strayed from the path of the Seven-Faced God and no longer respected the leadership of The Faith. They aimed for the Reach, The Westerlands, and the Iron Islands to form a united sovereign Kingdom, which would be ruled from Oldtown. The repression of the rebellion resulted in the execution of several Hightowers, which in turn resulted in a blockade by the Iron Islands Navy of all sea-faring trade. The armada was ended after only four months by the use of dragon warfare, and a peace treaty was drawn up that further removed the influence of Targaryen rule from the region, including military presence. The rebellion was short but cost The Crown millions in trading profits, as well as creating a tense relationship with Kingdoms in Essos that relied heavily on grain shipments, and the Iron Bank…’

Alicent stopped reading. An uneasy feeling grew in her gut. Her father’s words echoed in her head.

“Why are you reading these, anyways?” Alicent asked. Rhaenyra looked up at her, and Alicent thought she glimpsed a hint of guilt as she gently took the document from her and added it back into the stack. 

“It’s been far too many years since I had access to all this information. I need to understand where we stand if I am to rule,” she said. It was a decent enough explanation, but Alicent could not let go of her unease. 

“Have you given any thought to who you might replace my father with as Hand? They could certainly do this for you,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra shuffled crusty old scrolls and leather books, not meeting her eyes. 

“I do not mind this sort of work, I am, essentially, a glorified Hand for Aegon anyways—,”

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent cut in, her tone sharper, “you need to take this seriously, you cannot put it off.”

Rhaenyra frowned at her.

“Daemon has sent me a letter inquiring about the same thing. I suppose he wants the position for himself but is far too proud to ask—,”

Alicent felt a flush of anger rise up her neck, dancing along her cheeks. That damned man! She stood up abruptly. 

“Daemon, as Hand!” She scoffed. “You cannot possibly be that much a fool, Rhaenyra! To disregard tradition and make your former husband Hand—,”

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra said carefully, standing up. “You will be wise on how you speak of my Lord Husband—,”

“—Aegon is your Lord Husband!” Alicent shouted. Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched. 

“I do not want to fight, Alicent,” she said, sitting back down. Alicent bit at the inside of her cheek and sighed heavily. 

“No, of course you don’t.” She turned away, pacing, trying to regain some semblance of control over her anger. Rhaenyra watched her. 

“The thought may have crossed my mind briefly, but I have no intention of making Daemon Hand. He could never do this,” she waved her hand at the piles of papers. 

Her words should have calmed Alicent. They didn’t. She still felt like shouting or crying or storming away. Rhaenyra reached out, grabbing her arm gently. 

“This isn’t really about who I choose as Hand, is it?” She asked. Alicent stared down at her. “You’re pissed because your Father is being sent back to Oldtown in two days.”

Alicent pulled her arm away.     

So what if she was? She could be angry at more then one thing.

“I could hardly be mad about a decision I myself made,” Alicent snapped. Rhaenyra scoffed. 

“We both know that’s not true.”

“What is that to mean?”

Rhaenyra looked away, shaking her head with a sigh. 

“You always do this, Alicent. You agree to something you’re deeply unhappy about, and then you feel guilty, and you start to hate yourself for it, and you end up bitter and angry at the world.”  

Alicent stared at her. Her blood was pounding in her ears violently. Her eyes stung. What gave Rhaenyra the right to say that to her? What did she know? 

Trembling angrily, Alicent sat back down. She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not now. She pressed her fingers into her eyes, reaching for proper breaths that didn’t come. 

Rhaenyra watched her with some amount of concern and exhaustion. Alicent pressed her nails into her skin, focusing on the small bite of pain, stuffing her emotions back down her own throat. 

“What was your plan, for my father’s exile?” Alicent asked. Rhaenyra looked taken aback by the numbness of her voice. 

“He’ll- uh, be escorted to Oldtown by a Kingsguard, where he shall remain. He can serve his house, but shall not be allowed to travel outside of the Reach, or ever participate in treaty negotiations with any other house.” 

“That’s very restrictive.”

“He should be happy to leave with his head intact. Traitors who commit high treason would normally be afforded an execution.” 

Alicent could sense she would not budge on these terms. She gripped her own fingers tightly. 

“Perhaps Ser Criston can escort him,” Alicent sighed. “It’s only fair since I’ve had him sitting in that dark hallway for a week.”

Rhaenyra met her eyes. Alicent knew she would hate the words before Rhaenyra even opened her mouth. 

“Alicent, on the morrow I am dismissing Ser Criston from my Kingsguard, and relieving him of his vows.”        

Alicent stood up. She stared down Rhaenyra, her brow knitted, the sting of bile in her throat. Her mind was on fire. 

“Is there no limit to what you will attempt to take from me?”

“Ali—,”

“You won’t stop, until I’m completely alone. Until I have no one.” Her voice trembled. “Because there nothing in the realm Alicent Hightower can’t give.” 

Rhaenyra flinched. 

“Alone? I was run out of my own family, because gods forbid we did not live up to your standards, Alicent!” She stood, eyes steady; furious. “You are so deeply jealous you’d condemn us all as sinners to justify your self-hatred!”

“Jealous!” Alicent stepped towards her, hands shaking. “Of course I am jealous! What have I ever done, but what I’ve been expected to!” Her voice was rough, cutting through Rhaenyra’s skin, eyes red. “I have been taken for all that I am, and for what? For what?” She grabbed Rhaenyra’s wrists, her fingers trembling around them. 

“You chose to seduce my Father while my mother’s ashes still lay warm! Your choices, Alicent, have led you here.”

“Choice! Who ever asked for my choice?”

“You ha—,”

“I WAS FIFTEEN!” Alicent was shaking, hot tears forming in her eyes. “I married a man nearly 20 years my senior! He did not ask if I would marry him, he merely decided that I would! What did matter, what I wanted?” Sick anger turned in her chest. “Was I to say no to the King? To my father?” 

Rhaenyra pulled her hands away, face flush. 

“You could have—,”

“No, Rhaenyra! You could have!” Alicent stepped towards her again. “Over, and over again you have skirted your duty and humiliated The Crown, and who has ever lay a hand on you for it? No one could touch you. To disobey is a privilege I was never afforded.”

Rhaenyra eyes were wet.  

“Alicent—,”

“I was a child! Four heirs I had him but what did it matter? He did not want them. He did not love them. He could hardly love me. I was never her.” She shook her head. “Nothing I could give was enough and yet he took nevertheless.” 

It was Rhaenyra, this time, who tried to take her hand. Alicent pushed her away.

“You could have asked for my help.”

Alicent shook her head.

“Help? You hated me. Don’t deny it, you did! And when you did no longer, I hated you.

Sure I was jealous, I deserved to be. Because you got to choose your husband, but what to you what did it matter? Even that one sacrifice was too much? You took Ser Criston’s honor and then Ser Harwin’s too.” Alicent swallowed back vomit. It stung, violently. “I’ve gone to far?” Rhaenyra thought of the knife. “It still wasn’t enough for you. You killed Laenor for Daemon.” 

Rhaenyra flinched away from her, a moment of sympathy replaced with fury all over again. 

“How dare you? I loved Laenor! And to think I am capable—”

Alicent had heard enough.

She whirled around and left. The door slammed behind her.  

________

Rhaenyra thought, at first, to chase after her. To yell, to beg, to make her understand. She expected Rhaenys's suspicion about the supposed death of Laenor, but Alicent? To think her capable of his murder? 

But she knew Alicent would not listen, not now. So Rhaenyra paced back and forth and back again. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. Anger, again. Sadness. Guilt. Anger, again. Sadness. Guilt. Disgust. With whom? Herself? Alicent? Her father, Viserys?

She tried to sit down again, to continue reading, but it was pointless. So she stared blankly at the words, hearing entirely different ones in her mind. Alicent was yelling in her mind. About being a mere fifteen; about choice; about privileges she had not know; about her father—

“Otto,” she hissed. Her disgust found a focus. Otto Hightower. 

She treaded the dim hallways leading to his cell. Ser Criston was positioned outside of it. Otto stared curiously out at her. 

“Open it,” she told him. Ser Criston paused. 

“I’ve been ordered not to let him speak to anyone, by her grace the Queen Mother. Let alone enter his cell.”

“I’m aware, Ser Criston. But that was a preventative measure against further treachery. I’m am asking you now to open it. You may can continue to stand guard outside this corridor.”

He looked, very much, like he wanted to disobey. He glanced between her and Otto before roughly shoving the key into the door, and leaving. Heavy metal doors closed behind him. Rhaenyra stepped inside the cell. 

“How may I help you, Princess?”

Rhaenyra glared him. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She wanted his blood.

“I have always hated you, Otto.” She said. His eyebrows twitched; the only sign of his surprise at her bluntness. “You are a snake. Selfish, and manipulative.”

“Then perhaps we are more are similar then you’d care to admit.”

Alicent’s words echoed again her mind. Rhaenyra frowned as pieces fell into place. 

“You spoke with her, earlier today?”

He seemed to consider his answer.

“She is my daughter. I have that right.” 

Rhaenyra drew a dagger from her cloak. Otto’s surprise was less subtle this time.    

“You recognize it, don’t you?” He did. “Not the same dagger, of course. I think Alicent kept that one. But similar. Valyrian steel. Very few remain, especially of this particular design.” 

“Your father told me once—,” but Rhaenyra didn’t care. Her eyes flickered with something dangerous that quieted even him. 

“It was always you. Whispering in my father’s ear, and shouting in Alicent’s.” Her speech quickened, forced out by anger that was growing ever more difficult to control. “You planted the idea to Viserys, to take your daughter to wed. Slowly, but likely at the height of his grief. And then you began to find ways to turn us against each other. Sewing division. Forcing Viserys to choose between his daughter and his young wife.”

“I’m afraid you did that all on your own.”

“Bullshit!” She was closer to him now. “We may have differed in our values, even as children, but it never set us apart, not until you decided it should.”

“Perhaps I felt I must protect my daughter from you,” Otto said.

“Your love for your daughter has never extended beyond your personal greed.” She shook her head. “You would have gone to war, to see Aegon alone take power. You knew he was lost cause. That you could manipulate him into ruling however you wanted, the same way you have with Alicent. And young Jaehaerys, you could have started so young with him.”

“Family is the strongest pillar of order,” He said. Rhaenyra could have stabbed him right then. His damn ‘pillars.’ 

“Then you should have kept yours separate from mine,” she hissed. The blade was so close to him. His eyes flickered down to it, in spite of his steady composure. 

“Are you going to kill me?” He asked. She could smell his fear, but not see it. Only cold eyes.  

Rhaenyra thought about it. She played with the knife in her hands. 

“I’m not usually a violent person. I don’t like death, especially when so unnecessary. But you? You believe death, at times, a worthy sacrifice?” 

“I do.” 

“If our positions were swapped, you would kill me.” She shrugged a little. “Or have me killed. You’ve always liked to keep your own hands unbloodied.” 

“I would.” 

“You choose the most unusual moments to be honest.” 

He chuckled a little. It was jarring sound against her own heartbeat. 

Her fingers clenched around the knife. There was shouting in her mind. She spoke again. 

“I always thought Alicent an honest woman, and a terrible liar. But perhaps she is more like you then I previously thought. Her deception is just, more… subtle.” 

He chuckled again. She was growing to hate that sound. 

“Not me,” he said, “No, she gets that from her mother.” 

Her mother?

When he breathed in, the very most point of the blade would brush angst his abdomen. He was starting to sweat. 

“You’ll find no great emotions from me, in the face of death,” Otto said, “If that is indeed what what you are waiting for.” 

Was it? She titled her head, watching the dagger brush him. A minute the stood like this. It was quiet. Finally, quiet in her mind. 

“You won’t beg for your life?” She asked. He glanced up at her, then back down, to the blade. 

“Should I? I sense you’ve already made your decision. You’re stubborn. It’s a family trait, I’ve noticed.”

She could have laughed at that. She didn’t. 

Another moment, watching the knife. She would not bring in any closer. Any closer and it would hurt every time it poked him. Murder was one thing. Torture, another. 

Finally she looked up at him and sighed. 

“It didn’t work, Otto.”

“Your Grace?”

“Sewing division. It didn’t work. Not enough.”

In a swift movement, Rhaenyra sheathed the knife. His eyebrows climbed his forehead. 

“You don’t wish me to die?”

“Oh, I do. But your daughter loves you. And I still love her.”  

_______________________

Rhaenyra paced the palace, passing her quarters once, twice, and then three times, unable to find the nerve to go back in. She didn’t want to deal with the papers strewn about or the unlit fireplace, or the emptiness of it all. So she wound her way around the Red Keep, thinking and yet trying not to think. Seeing, and yet, not really seeing. 

Until, out of seemingly nowhere, Rhaena crashed into her. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” Rhaenyra scolded, steadying her step-daughter. Rhaena looked up at her with wide eyes. 

“Oh! Rhaenyra, I’m so sorry,” She said, but she was laughing. Rhaenyra chuckled. 

“Don’t worry about it. Walk with me?”

Rhaena followed her down the corridor. Rhaenyra thought she saw Rhaena’s eyes catch  on the dagger handle, peaking out from her cloak, or the tiredness in her features, but thankfully she didn’t say anything. 

“What were you doing, sneaking around the castle?” Rhaenyra asked, a little amused. Rhaena grinned. 

“Jace made supper!” She said happily. Was that the answer to her question, or a diversion from it? 

“Oh, I’m sorry I missed it.” She turned a corner and then had to ask, “Did Alicent attend?”

“Uh, no, it was invite-only. But Jace made sure some supper was sent up to her and Aegon’s quarters.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow.

“Not Helaena? Not young Daeron’s?”

Rhaena’s soft smile widened. 

“Oh, they were invited, ” she said. That was sweet, Rhaenyra thought. That they were getting along. Rhaena looked up at her. “I’ve noticed you haven’t spoken to Daeron much since he’s been here.”

Rhaenyra sighed softly. She hadn’t, had she. There was something stopping her. 

“He reminds me so much of his mother, when she was his age. Gods, they have the exact same eyes,” she said. Rhaena watched her thoughtfully. “How’s Luke?” Rhaenyra asked, changing the subject. It was not lost on her. 

“Oh, getting better, I think. He and Daeron seem to really get along. And they followed Helaena out into the gardens earlier for several hours to help her find some particular insects.”

Rhaenyra laughed, feeling her worry ease a little. That was a sight she would have liked to see. 

They were passing her quarters again. Rhaenyra stopped, feeling it would be strange to pass them up with Rhaena watching her. 

“Have you eaten at all?” Rhaena asked. Rhaenyra shrugged.

“I’m not particularly hungry tonight.” In fact, she had felt quite ill ever since leaving Otto’s cell. She cupped Rhaena chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Get some rest, Rhaena. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Rhaena offered her a small smile, but then stopped her, brushing her arm gently. She seemed to consider her words carefully. 

“Alicent is sitting alone in the courtyard, I passed her earlier.” 

Oh.  

Guilt rose back up her throat. She swallowed, and squeezed Rhaena’s hand. 

“Thank you. I’ll…” She trailed off. Rhaena seemed to understand. 

“Goodnight, Rhaenyra.” 

______________________

She found her there. Sitting with only the light of the stars, the dark shadow of the weirwood looming behind her. She had foregone a wooden bench for their old patch of grass beneath the tree. 

Rhaenyra swallowed back tears.

“Alicent,” she said softly. 

Her head shot up. She hadn’t heard Rhaenyra approach. Her face looked damp in the dim light. Rhaenyra felt the pounding in her ears return. Alicent stared up at her. 

“I don’t want to talk, Rhaenyra.” she said quietly. Rhaenyra felt her heart shatter a little farther. 

“Oh.” Her eyes stung. She didn’t want to walk away, not again. “Is it okay if just sit then?”

Alicent picked at her nails, considering. She looked away. 

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

She sat down gently on the grass beside her. Far enough that they didn’t touch. Close enough that they could. She crossed her legs like she might have as a girl, and closed her eyes. 

The warm breeze was so familiar. The rustle of the tree burned in her memory. She felt hot tears escape her. She lay back, letting her head rest against the cool ground. 

Maybe, when she opened her eyes, the sky would be bright blue and Alicent’s soft smile would be lingering over her. A book would be open across her lap. Rhaenyra would be listening intently, to her voice more then her words. She had the most gorgeous eyes. Something would flutter in Rhaenyra’s stomach and she would have to look away, picking at the grass, or fiddling with her jewelry.   

Gods if only she hadn’t been so rash, so full of fire. If she had stopped being so angry for one minute and listened, really listened, to Alicent. If she hadn’t let it all overcome her. 

If she could go back to that blue sky and bright-eyed girl she had been she would never let it all happen again. She would grip her own young hands tightly and tell her not to muck everything up this time.  

But when she opened her eyes the sky was still dark, and the stars were blurry against her tears. She covered her face with her arm, trying to steady her rough breathing.

She didn’t see when Alicent looked over, watching her try not to fall apart. It reminded her of the sept, and the candles, and Rhaenyra kneeling beside her, trying not cry. It hadn’t worked. She had pressed her fingers into her eyes choking on her own grief. Alicent’s heart had broken then. It did again now. 

This was… a different type of a grief. Still, something had been lost. Lives, never lived. 

What a perilous endeavor, allowing Rhaenyra to sit here but not talk to her. She didn’t know why she had allowed it, really. Maybe she just didn’t want to sit alone anymore. Maybe she wanted to talk, and just couldn’t bring herself to start. Maybe, she was waiting for Rhaenyra to say something. Anything.

But instead Rhaenyra just lay there, falling in on herself, trembling in the dark. Alicent reached out to take her hand once, and then stopped herself. She pulled away. 

Was she not still angry? No, she was. But anger seemed to tumble into sadness which tumbled into grief, which feel apart, back into anger. And the cycle never stopped. She ached for it to stop.  

“Rhaenyra,” She said, when she could no longer endure the ache. “Why are you here?” 

Rhaenyra moved her arm, wiping her face, staring up at the sky. Not meeting Alicent’s eyes. She played with her hands, thinking, considering her words. 

She was never supposed to tell anyone. Not ever. She had vowed to it. Not even her own sons would know. She couldn’t say it, she really couldn’t. 

But Alicent deserved to know. And suddenly she couldn’t stand the idea of her not knowing. And before she could stop herself, she was speaking quietly to the dark sky. 

“We tried, Alicent,” her voice was rougher, more raw then she was expecting. It strained against grief and regret. “Laenor and I— we tried. so. hard.”  The words caught on themselves. Alicent shifted beside her. “We waited, sure. A month, maybe two. Until nightmares of what happened our wedding night weren’t haunting us every night. But we knew what was expected of us. It just— didn’t work.” She had to press her fingers into her eyes again. “We, didn’t work. Every night, for months, we would lay in our bedroom and try. And he would get so frustrated with himself. With who he was. It was horrible, Alicent. He hated himself so much those months, and I despised how much it hurt him. It wasn’t his fault, Alicent, it wasn’t. I just wasn’t.. a man.” 

Rhaenyra sat up again, wiping at her eyes. Alicent felt something twist in her stomach. Shame. She knew that type of shame. She knew the way it ate at somebody. It wasn’t the same, she told herself. But it was. She knew it was. 

Rhaenyra finally looked over at her, meeting her gaze. And Alicent could picture her, so young, saying hollow vows to Laenor while blood crept across the floor. Rhaenyra had cried openly then. Laenor too. Alicent had watched in horror. That day had cast them so far apart.    

Rhaenyra shook her head gently, continuing. 

“He didn’t want to give up. Just once, we needed it to work—,” she swallowed. “And it did. With some help from one of his friends it worked. I was pregnant.”

Alicent felt her brow knit together, eyes widening. Rhaenyra hadn’t had a child until a few years later— and he certainly wasn’t Laenor’s. Rhaenyra continued softly. 

“I was scared. I probably should have been happy, after so long of trying, but I was fucking terrified. I didn’t tell anyone for a couple weeks after I realized, except Laenor and the maesters who confirmed it.” When Alicent thought about, now, she remembered a time when Rhaenyra had acted so oddly. She remembered Rhaenyra excusing herself very suddenly from a dinner one night, and Alicent had followed her into the hallway, out of curiosity more then anything, and found her puking in the courtyard. She refused help, saying that she was simply ill from a poor breakfast. She had insistent Alicent leave her alone, and Alicent had.

“What happened?” Alicent asked gently, but she could guess the answer. Rhaenyra looked away. 

“I woke up one night. It hurt— it hurt so bad. There was blood everywhere and Laenor saw and he was freaking out and—,” she closed her eyes. Alicent knew the rest. “My father found out. He was just as terrified, after what had happened to my mother. I told him not to tell anyone, not even you. Made him swear to me.” She looked back at Alicent. “I just wanted it to end. I didn’t want people to talk about it. And Laenor was upset again— thought it was his fault. That his seed was, somehow, inadequate.” She swallowed. “We never tried again after that. Never. We couldn’t go through that again.” 

Alicent didn’t miss that her hand drifted to her stomach when she spoke, resting on the curve of it. She looked away. 

She had known, on some level, about Laenor’s interest in men. Subtlety had not been his strength. But the idea that it might interfere with his procreation had never much crossed her mind, perhaps because, for her—, Alicent closed her eyes, ending that line thought. Rhaenyra was watching her. 

“I didn’t know about the child. I’m sorry,” Alicent said softly, and she meant it, because she knew that hollow feeling. Rhaenyra offered her a sad smile. 

“I should have spoken to you, I just—,” her voice caught and looked away again, playing with her hands nervously. She shook her head. “After Laenor and I gave up, we went our own ways. I had no intention of trying again for children, with anyone. But I craved the type of affection that Laenor couldn’t give me.” She looked up, staring over the edge of a precipice she could never come back from. Denying the obvious truth, and daring anyone to question her, had been her defense for a very, very long time. But they were here, now, and Rhaenyra had so little fight left in her. She spoke. “Harwin was there. He was kind, and gentle, and loving.” Her voice trembled a little. “I never meant to have,— to have his children, but then I did. And I loved them so, so much. More then anything in the fucking world. I had this little family, of Laenor, and Harwin, and our sons, and I had to protect them.”

“By lying to me.” Alicent dug her finger into her nail. “By treating me like I was crazy.” 

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said. “I had to protect them. No matter the cost.”

And the cost was me, Alicent thought. No one would have protected her, if she had slept around like Rhaenyra had. She was the price everyone was willing to pay.

Alicent thought they might decay here, stuck in the heavy silence between them, but Rhaenyra continued.

“Laenor and I knew, when we agreed to marry, that our relationship would be unconventional. We were fine with that. And he adored Jace and Luke and Joffery every bit I did. But it weighed on him. I had to fight for my position, my role as heir. He had his roles cast upon him. He was like you in that way,” Rhaenyra said, meeting her eyes softly. It was Alicent’s turn to look away. “It was hurting him, Alicent. He felt horrible, not being able to provide for us, the way he was expected to. And as heir to Driftmark— it was too much. I didn’t kill Laenor,” she said. Alicent was still staring into the distance. “Alicent, look at me,” Rhaenyra said desperately. She met damp brown eyes. “I did not kill Laenor. I loved him. And after Harwin and Laena died, he was so determine to be better. To be everything he was expected to be. I just wanted him to be free of what was hurting him. So Daemon and I, we came up with a solution. We— we helped him fake his death.”

“What?” Alicent stared blankly at her in shock. “What?” She asked again. 

“Laenor is alive, in Essos. He death was faked. Not even his own family know.”

“That is… cruel,” Alicent said, because it was all she could think to say. Rhaenyra nodded. A tear spilled over her cheek. 

“I had to free him Alicent, I had too. The less people who knew, the safer he was. He was hurting so much and I loved him and I had to protect him.” She reached out and took Alicent’s hands, both of them, in hers. She gripped them tightly, desperately, and Alicent was too surprised to pull away, caught in her pleading gaze. “I should have protected you too, Alicent. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry that I didn’t.” She lowered her head, letting her forehead press against Alicent’s hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.”

Alicent hands were trembling. Or maybe it was Rhaenyra’s that were trembling against hers, caught in her whirlwind of emotions as Alicent was. 

Hot tears spilled down her cheek. A very old, childish anger rose into her throat like stinging bile. It was an old pain, the root of her hurt, the root of her sadness.   

She pulled her hands away. 

“Why not me?” She cried bitterly. “Why did you have to love Daemon and Criston and Harwin and Laenor but not me? Why couldn’t anyone ever love me like they were supposed too?” She was crying now, and the words she was saying were coming from the mouth of someone much younger, a girl of only fifteen. Rhaenyra looked so hurt, trying to calm Alicent’s shaking hands, meeting her eyes with aching regret. 

“Alicent, I—,”

“I did everything I was supposed to! Everything! It never mattered, Rhaenyra! No one cared! No one cared to love me enough! Why them, Rhaenyra?” She grabbed Rhaenyra’s sleeves in desperation. “Why not love me?”   

Rhaenyra pulled her sleeves away so that she could wrap her arms around Alicent’s shaking shoulders, falling into her, pulling herself closer. 

“I did, I did, I did,” she said softly into Alicent’s shoulder. “I regret it, all of it, every bit. I was so, so angry, and I let it consume me. I thought—,” she pulled away enough to look Alicent in the eyes. “—when you married my father, I thought, maybe, that it all been fake. That you had never loved me like I loved you. That you were only doing it because your father said so, because you wanted to get close to my father. I felt to betrayed, so hurt. I thought, why not me?” Rhaenyra said, repeating Alicent’s words. “Why him, and not me? I could never move on from that.” 

“How could you think that! I adored you, Rhaenyra. I loved you more then anything! I never wanted to marry him. I could have spent my whole life with you.”

Rhaenyra shook from a soft sob.

“You were always talking about some handsome lord coming along one day. I wanted you, only you. Here, under the weirwood, I never wanted anything more then that.” She let her head rest on Alicent’s shoulder again, hugging her gently.

“I never wanted to marry him,” Alicent said again, softer. “I just wanted to do what was expected of me.” Her voice trembled. “I thought he would love me more if I did.”

“The King?”`

“My father.” 

Rhaenyra gripped her tighter, hating Otto more then she ever had in her life. Hating Viserys. Hating herself. 

Something Alicent had said to her in the sept once echoed in her mind. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “for what happened to you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” Alicent cried into her shoulder. Rhaenyra’s heart ached. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you, the way people have treated you, the way I treated you. I’m sorry.” she repeated. 

“I loved you,” Alicent choked. It was muffled in Rhaenyra’s shoulder. Rhaenyra ran her fingers through Alicent’s soft copper hair. 

“I know, I know,” she said gently. “And I, you. I should have told you then. I should have protected you. I’m sorry I lied to you.” Her voice caught, “And I’m sorry I hurt you.”

They sat like that, encompassed in the dark, until Alicent’s breathing calmed, and Rhaenyra could unravel herself to wipe at her own eyes. 

“I’m tired of being angry,” Alicent admitted quietly. She took Rhaenyra’s hand, playing with it in her own. “I don’t want to be angry anymore. I hate what has happened to us.”

Rhaenyra wanted to hold her tightly and say, ‘then don’t be. I still love you. We could start over,’ —but they couldn’t. They couldn’t start over. They had to live with the ways they had hurt and been hurt by each other. 

She swallowed, looking away, at the tree that loomed over them. 

“We’re here, aren’t we?” She shrugged a little. “We have time.”  

“We do,” Alicent sighed softly. Rhaenyra squeezed her hand.

A thought struck Rhaenyra. Something Helaena had said about a bleeding tree being fed with blood.

Of course it was here, in the looming shadow of their past, that they found each other again. The young girls they had been were still sitting under this tree, undisturbed, hidden in the dark. Someone had just needed to trust that they were still there.         

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN

Rhaenyra didn’t sleep well that night. Memories of her and Alicent kept her up late, and even when she fell asleep she couldn’t escape them. She felt it odd, last night, to wish Alicent a goodnight and go her own way. She would have liked to stay there, in the courtyard with her, until the sun had peaked over the horizon and the future wouldn’t seem so daunting.  

But she awoke now, well past dawn, alone in her rooms and facing the future nonetheless. She was dressing herself when a servant bustled into her room. 

“Good morning, your grace.” They began to make her bed. “Do you wish that a breakfast is sent up from the kitchens, or will you be joining them in the parlor?”

Rhaenyra paused. What? Who, in the parlor?

“Er… the parlor,” she said, admittedly a little lost, and and servant nodded and moved away, fiddling with the fireplace. 

Rhaenyra followed a staircase downstairs, and was greeted by the warm sounds of silverware clattering and laughter and soft discussion. It wasn’t exactly an unusual sound, but one unfamiliar to the Red Keep. At least, for a very long time. 

There was a parlor off of the kitchens that Rhaenyra hadn’t seen used since her girlhood. She found them there. All of them. 

Rhaena was entertaining Joffery, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera with some Velaryon legend of pirates and dragons, while Helena sat next to her, talking softly to Baela, their empty plates discarded on a nearby table. 

Jace was caught in a game of chess with Daeron, loosing by the looks of it, while Luke watched carefully. Even Aegon was there, albeit, tucked away in the corner and already deep in his cups.

Near him, Alicent sat, watching the room softly. She looked up when Rhaenyra entered, meeting her eyes, and Rhaenyra was struck by the gentle kindness in them. 

“Oh, good morning Mother,” Jace said, spotting her as well. Rhaenyra made her way over to them, squeezing his shoulders. 

“What’s all this?” She asked him, looking around. He grinned a little. 

“It was Luke’s idea really,” he said, “he and Daeron thought we should open up the parlor in the mornings for breakfast, rather then all eating alone like we have.”

Rhaenyra felt her eyes sting a little, a wave of affection hitting her. She pressed a kiss to the top of Jace’s head and then wrapped her arms around Luke, letting her head rest on top of his soft, curly hair. 

“Mother?” Luke asked, a little surprised. She squeezed him tighter. 

“I love you both so much,” she told her sons quietly. She met Daeron’s brown eyes and offered him a kind smile, which he returned. 

She peeled herself away from them and made herself a small plate, before approaching Alicent. 

“May I?” She asked softly.

“Of course,” Alicent said, scooting over on the couch to offer her room. She watched carefully as Rhaenyra sat down beside her. “Are you alright?”

There were layers to her question. Rhaenyra picked the easiest one. 

“Do you remember, when we were girls?” She looked up at Alicent, and then around the room. “We used to do this.” 

Alicent did remember. Before Rhaenyra’s mother, Aemma, had passed, she never let anyone eat alone. Breakfast had been held daily in this same parlor, and everyone was invited. Servants, family, members of the council and court alike were welcome, and it was always informal, allowing everyone time to talk and relax. 

Alicent reached out, squeezing her hand. 

“We spent so many mornings as girls, sitting on that rug and sharing food,” she said, speaking of where Rhaena sat now with the youngest. Rhaenyra felt herself laugh a little. 

“Remember that time the Septa accidentally stepped on me and I spilled my tea all over you?”

Alicent couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Yes, and she spent the next two hours lecturing us on proper etiquette and ‘lady-like’ behavior,” she said. Rhaenyra snorted. 

“As if it was our fault she couldn’t watch where she was walking.”

There was a playful smile on her lips, and Alicent felt it tug on the some childish fondness she hadn’t known she even still held. 

She rolled her eyes affectionately. 

“Well, it was my favorite dress.”

“Oh please, your dress was fine,” Rhaenyra chided, “I should know, I stood over the poor maid who was cleaning it the whole time she worked, to personally make sure the stain came out.”

Alicent paused. She hadn’t known that.

“Had you really been that worried? I wasn’t actually mad at you for it.”

Rhaenyra shrugged, taking a bite of some pastry so she wouldn’t have to look Alicent in the eyes. 

“Your mother had given you that dress. I didn’t want to upset you.”

Alicent could sense some amount of nervousness in Rhaenyra. She exactly wasn’t sure why; it was so long ago and so little an incident, and even then she had hardly been upset. If she had been it had quickly vanished when Rhaenyra had tearfully apologized to her after they finally escaped their lecture. 

She nudged Rhaenyra gently. 

“It wouldn’t’ve mattered. I grew out of that dress a few months later anyways.” 

That got a smile out of Rhaenyra. 

“You were so gangly at that age,” she teased. Alicent wrinkled her nose. 

“You were just short.” 

She was smiling at Rhaenyra when she said it, and it was so sweet a smile Rhaenyra couldn’t help the affection that bubbled out of her in a soft laugh. Alicent was caught, for a moment, in the sound. 

Rhaenyra squeezed Alicent’s hand, enraptured by her own sudden fondness for her. They were only interrupted when by Jace’s shout moments later. 

“Dammit!” He cursed. Rhaenyra looked up. He had lost the chess game against Daeron. 

“Come on, Jacaerys, that’s not very courteous,” she scolded. 

“That’s the third time I’ve lost to him this morning!” 

There was a bantering whine to his voice that made her chuckle. 

“You know, there is a certain wisdom in being able to recognize when your enemy is simply more adept then you,” she joked. Daeron threw a gleeful smirk over his shoulder at her and Jacaerys groaned.

“Well, perhaps if you hadn’t been my teacher…” he grumbled. Rhaenyra snorted. 

“I suppose I wasn’t the best person for that,” she said. Alicent was laughing. 

“She never once won a game against me, not once.”

Rhaenyra turned back towards her. 

“Yes I did!”

“When?” Alicent goaded. Rhaenyra poked her playfully. 

“There was that one time, on the boat, when we were ten-and-three.”

“I was sea-sick! I let you win because I felt bad for puking on you!”        

“What about that time at Winterfell?” Rhaenyra asked. Alicent shook her head.

“Lyron Stark was was watching us! I thought you might be trying to impress him, I didn’t want to embarrass you,” she said. Rhaenyra groaned.

“Lyron, really?” She looked back at Jace and Daeron. “Don’t believe her, please. Lyron was such a greasy adolescent. Really, he had no concept of combing his hair.” 

Alicent laughed, and Jace snorted. 

“You told me you thought him charming,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra crossed her arms. 

“I was probably just saying that cause I thought you would agree,” she said. Rhaenyra could remember who she found charming at that age, and it certainly hadn’t been Lyron. She felt a warm blush grace her face at that memory and looked away. “Perhaps we are due for a rematch, Alicent.”

Alicent smiled sweetly at her and patted her arm. 

“Another day. So you’ll have time to practice.” 

Rhaenyra snorted, and set aside her empty plate with a sigh. She stood up.

“Walk with me?” She asked Alicent. Her playful tone had shifted into something softer and more serious, and Alicent heard it. She squeezed Daeron’s shoulder affectionately and then followed Rhaenyra into the corridor. 

“How are you, really?” Rhaenyra asked, after they had turned a corner. The words ‘—after last night,’ weren’t said, but they both heard them. Alicent watched Rhaenyra closely.

After Rhaenyra had walked her back to her quarters late at night, and she had shut the door behind her, Alicent had fallen onto her bed and cried into her pillow like she had as girl, until tears felt empty and useless and the quiet darkness encompassed her.

They had been tears of relief. Of aching nostalgia. Of sadness. Of love and kindness and death and grief. Of years and years of regrets. Of self-hatred and disgust. Of hope.  

But not jealousy. Not anger. 

Had Rhaenyra expected everything to change, after their discussion last night? Had it? Was their gentle teasing moments ago something new, growing out of a very old fondness? 

She certainly had liked watching a playful smile tug at Rhaenyra lips. 

But she wasn’t sure now where they stood. 

“I am alright,” Alicent sighed. Rhaenyra watched her uncertainly.

“Your father is leaving on the morrow, will you speak to him before he goes?” 

She was careful to remove all emotion from her voice but light curiosity. Alicent was caught off guard by the question. 

“I…” —she wasn’t sure. Should she? “I have a feeling I won’t like what he has to say,” she answered instead. Rhaenyra brushed her arm. 

“Oh.” 

They were in Rhaenyra’s quarters now and Alicent sat down in the same chair she had yesterday, before they fought. The papers and scrolls had all been tucked away, in some drawer or chest or perhaps sent back to the library they came from. Rhaenyra sat down across from her. 

“I, uh, won’t be dismissing Sir Criston. Although I prefer if he stayed here as your kingsguard rather than accompany your father to Oldtown.”

Alicent stared at her. 

“You changed your mind.”

Rhaenyra met her eyes. 

“Yes, I did.” Alicent’s yesterday words had eaten at her until she had no longer been so convinced it was the right choice. She looked up at Alicent. “I— I didn’t realize you felt so alone.”

She left out the thought that Alicent had spent her adult life pushing everyone away. Old frustrations would do little good now. 

Alicent stared back at her, a little frown playing on her lips, and an expression Rhaenyra would have been able to read when she was much younger, but found that she couldn’t now. 

Alicent didn’t seem to know what to say. Instead, she fished into her pockets, looking for something, and handed it to Rhaenyra. 

It was the pin, for The Hand of the King.

“It was taken from my father, after his arrest,” Alicent explained. “You should have it. For when you make a decision.”  

Rhaenyra played with it her hand, feeling the cold metal. She ran her thumb along the small scratches, worn from use, and the little details along the edge, feeling an idea solidify in her mind. 

She took Alicent's hand pressed the badge firmly back into the her palm. Alicent’s eyebrows knit together, watching her. 

“Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra look up at her.

“You were right,” she said softly. “I certainly cannot say I agree with every decision made in my absence, but you were right. You have spent the last half a decade enforcing the law. Ruling the kingdom, and the court, and seeing over the small council. During my father’s illness it was you who preserved the peaceful era that has become his legacy. You should be Hand.” 

Words caught in Alicent’s throat. She would have accepted nearly anyone as Hand except Daemon. But herself? 

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered between her own, with some amount of desperation and worry at Alicent’s hesitation. 

Alicent swallowed. 

“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea. I am not sure we’re suited,” she said softly. Rhaenyra looked hurt. 

“Suited?”

Alicent chewed at her lip, looking away, staring down at the badge so she wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. 

“A ruler must trust their Hand, completely. And a Hand, their ruler.” 

Rhaenyra watched her, and sighed quietly. She got up from the table, and Alicent started to regret her words so suddenly she realized she had been lying to herself. 

“Nyra—,”

But Rhaenyra didn’t turn away like she thought she would. She walked around the table and tugged Alicent gently up from her seat. Carefully, she took the pin back from Alicent’s hand. 

“Rhaenyra?” Alicent asked again. She froze when Rhaenyra ran a hand along her shoulder to steady her. Mindful not to accidentally jab Alicent with the needle, she pinned the badge to the front of Alicent’s dress, just below her collar bone. 

Alicent was too aware of her own breath. Of Rhaenyra’s. Of her own hands, floating uselessly at her sides. Of Rhaenyra’s hands, gentle, warm, firm. 

When she was sure the badge was secure, she looked back up at Alicent. 

“I trust you,” she said. 

A day ago, Alicent wouldn’t have believed her. But now Rhaenyra was the soft, kind, sincere woman that Alicent had been so determine to believe didn’t exist anymore.     

“I’m touched,” Alicent said quietly. Rhaenyra fiddled with her hands. 

“I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to. If you don’t trust me, or don’t want the pressure, or, any reason really,— I’ll find someone else, I will. But I won’t trust them like I trust you.”

Alicent’s breath felt tight in her throat. She stared at Rhaenyra; at her sharp features; at her soft smile; at her nervous worry. 

“I—,” she picked at her nails subconsciously, “I’m not sure what people will think,- I’m the Queen Mother, and a woman, and—,”

Rhaenyra stopped her, her hands on Alicent’s shoulders again. 

“I don’t give a fuck what they think Alicent.”

“—But if people don’t want—.”

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra begged. “Stop. Please, please stop.” She want to shake her, to make her understand. Or better yet, cup her chin softly. Instead she just squeezed her shoulders affectionately; desperately. “Stop thinking about what anyone else wants from you. They don’t matter, not for this. What do you want?”  

Why now? Why did it matter what she wanted now? It never had before. 

But it did now, because Rhaenyra had listened, and actually heard. 

Her face was so close to Alicent’s now. Her eyes, a startling grey that appeared almost purple, like the shadows on clouds. They were familiar, to a very old want. 

“I want to be your Hand,” Alicent said. She meant every word, and Rhaenyra saw it. Her serious expression melted into warm fondness. Relief, maybe, as well.  

She wanted to be so close to her, Rhaenyra realized. She wanted to squeeze Alicent’s hands, and grip her shoulders, and wrap her arms around her, and rest against her, and hug her, and cup her face. 

But she couldn’t do those things. Instead she just smiled at her. 

“Thank you,” she said. Alicent smiled a little back at her. 

_____________________

Laenor followed a winding staircase back up to he and Rhaenyra’s quarters, not really watching what he was doing, still thinking about the letter from his sister he received earlier that day. She was warning him ahead of time, of her recent engagement to Daemon. News of their marriage would reach the rest of the family soon. 

Viserys was bound to be disapproving, Laenor thought. He thought guiltily of Rhaenyra as well. Sure, she would probably just shrug unhappily and sulk in distant corners of the castle, failing to pretend she did not care, but it was going to hurt Laenor to tell her, he knew. That little light in her eyes would flicker like it did so often these days. They had been through so much already. 

Their quarters were quiet when he entered. 

“Rhaenyra?” 

There was a maid making the sheets. She looked up at him. 

“She’s gone out, my lord,” the woman said. Laenor frowned. 

“Did she say where?”  

“Apologies my Lord, she did not. However there was a carriage taken to the dragon pit.”

Damn, Laenor thought. That would be Rhaenyra for sure.

“Thank you,” he said to the maid, and left again to find her. 

Syrax was gone from the Dragon Pit when he got there. When asked which way she had gone, the Keepers could only point North. 

Ignoring the anxiousness that had begun to settle in his chest, Laenor mounted Seasmoke, and began to follow the rocky coast. 

By noon he still had not found her. New worries sprung to mind. Maybe she flew to The Vale, tired of the suffocating heat blanketing King’s Landing. Or worse, maybe she had heard about Laena’s engagement and flew to The Stepstones to face Daemon herself. 

Laenor cursed himself. He should have never left Rhaenyra alone so long. His head was still pounding from a night spent drinking himself into stupor in dusty, rotting taverns. 

He was awful husband, he knew. Rhaenyra deserved so much better then him. He should have stayed with her, last night, when she had asked. He should have laid there beside her and held her hand and distracted her with stories from the war in the Stepstones.  

Seasmoke was still young. Laenor could feel him growing tired beneath him, his flight growing fatigued. He ran a hand over his ivory scales.

They found somewhere to rest, a barren cliff overlooking the crashing ocean. Laenor paced back and forth on damp grass, wringing his hands.

There was a small hill beside him that he climbed, to get a better view of the coast. He was about to sit down when his eyes caught on something in the sky over the ocean.

A blur of golden yellow. Syrax. 

She was plummeting straight down from the clouds, wings drawn in, falling towards the sea, faster than anything he’d ever seen.

Leanor’s heart jumped into his throat. There was nothing he could do. He was frozen in panic. She’d hit the water long before he could ever mount his own dragon. 

He could only scream out at her, watching her fall out the sky. 

His vision stung. In moments, she would crash into the ocean. 

And then, seconds before it would have been to late, Syrax unfurled his wings and swooped again upwards. 

Laenor clutched at his chest. Oh my gods, Rhaenyra. He could barley breath. He watched as Rhaenyra rose again on her dragon, straight up, into the clouds. 

His heart sank when she appeared again, nosediving heedlessly from the sky, catching herself just before a cold death. And then she did it again. And again. 

She was going to hurt herself, or her dragon. This needed to stop. 

He slid down back down the hill, clambering onto Seasmoke. 

“Sōvēs!” He yelled, commanding him into the sky. 

He knew when she saw him, when her rapid accent slowed suddenly.

“Laneor?” She yelled out at him. He could barley hear her above the roar of the wind. He motioned franticly for her to follow him, and was relived when she did. He guided back down to the cliff where he had rest. 

Rhaenyra landed roughly behind him in grass, Syrax clearly exhausted. She stumbled off of her dragon, barley catching herself when she jumped off, drenched in sweat, sea spray and cold water from the clouds. He ran towards her. 

“You lunatic! What were you thinking?” He yelled at her. She was hunching over, panting, breathless and red in face.

“Laenor, I—,” 

He reached her, grabbing her, pulling her into a tight hug. She was tense at first, and then relaxed into his arms, leaning into him, resting her weight against his. 

“You’re a reckless fool,” he said into her shoulder. “I thought you were going to die. Endangering yourself and your dragon, why would you do that?”

He’d seen dives like that before, but they where battle maneuvers, carefully controlled. Not pounding yourself against the forces of reality, waiting for The Gods to punish you for your stupidity. 

Rhaenyra was shaking against him, shuddering, cold and wet. 

He took a step back to look her in the face, still holding her arms. Hair stuck to her forehead. Her eyes were red. She didn’t meet his gaze. She looked young and hurt.  

Laenor sighed softly. He took off his thick traveling cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Come,” he said, pulling her over to soft place on the grass where they could rest and stare at the sea. When they sat down he said, “You scared me.”

Rhaenyra looked over at him. 

“Sorry. I was just messing around,” she said. Her eyes were dark. He frowned at her.     

“Messing around? Trying to get yourself thrown from Syrax and die, more like.”

She looked away guilty when he said that, and Laenor realized it was close to the truth. She was beating herself up. Throwing herself against the wind, over, and over, and over again.  

She pressed her fingers against her eyes. 

Laenor wasn’t quiet sure what to do. They had been married little more than a year now, and in that short time they had seen each other at their very worst. But he still felt so bad at this; at talking to her; at comforting her. He had avoided last night, not wanting to find out why she was upset.  

He reached out and took her hand. She squeezed it.

“What happened?” He asked. She shrugged a little, fidgeting, watching the horizon. 

“It was this day, years ago, that my mother died.”

Oh. Laenor forced himself not look away. To see her. He remembered how quiet she had been at the funeral, red-eyed and looking ill. She had hardly spoken, hardly even looked at anyone. The smoke had stung his own eyes. He much preferred a Velaryon sea-burial. 

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “I shouldn’t have left you last night—, I— if I had known— it was awful of me to leave—,”

Rhaenyra shook her had. 

“No, it’s fine. I knew you didn’t remember, I—,” she was grasping for words. Normally the came so naturally to her, carefully spoken with the right emotions. Now her voice was raw and rough. “Its been years, its hardly time to keep grieving. I just— I couldn’t sleep. So I went for a walk.” He watched her curiously as she spoke to the distant horizon. “And, I ran into Alicent in the courtyard.” 

“Oh,” Laenor said. He had never quite understood the dynamic between the two girls. He could still recall their closeness at the tourney, when Alicent was soft and sweet and friendly. Since then she had grown distant and the space between them bitter. “What did she have to say?” 

Rhaenyra fiddled with his hand in hers.

“She looked like she wanted to cry when I found her. I asked her why and she— well she looked like she wanted to tell me to fuck off but couldn’t bring herself to say it. Instead she admitted that she missed my mother.”

“Her own mother—, wasn’t Alicent very young when she passed?”

“Old enough to remember,” Rhaenyra said quietly. “I think— maybe I didn’t notice it enough when I was young, that she got a sort of parental love from my mother that her father never gave.” She chewed at her lip. “But it felt so disrespectful to my mother’s memory when she then tried to replace her.”

“She probably doesn’t think of it that way. As replacing Aemma. No one could.”

Rhaenyra let go of his hand to press her palms against her eyes. 

“Everyone has tried. It’s like they’re trying to erase every memory of her. A new Queen, new heirs,— they’ll replace me too.”

“They won’t dare. Viserys has made your claim clear,” Laenor said. Rhaenyra didn’t look like she was listening. 

“Alicent replaced me,” she said softly. 

“What happened last night?” He asked again. Rhaenyra shook her head. 

“Nothing! That’s the problem!” She waved her hands angrily. “Fucking nothing!” She looked over at him. “We used to be everything to each other! And we talked last night for a while and it all felt so wrong. Its was so stiff and we sat so far from each other and— uhg!” She wiped at her wet eyes. Laenor was starting to see something hadn’t been able to grasp before. 

“You miss her.”

“Of course I fucking miss her!” Rhaenyra choked. “I lov—” she stopped abruptly. 

“You loved her?”

Rhaenyra stared down at her lap. Her face was red. Her lip trembled. 

“You don’t understand,” she said softly. 

“I think I, of all people, do,” Laenor said. Her breath hitched a little. 

“We were friends for so long— and… I— sometimes she’d laugh or smile and I’d feel breathless. I wanted to be so close to her. She was so soft, Laenor. It ached. I thought when I was queen, she would be there with me. I never cared about marrying— I just wanted her there.” 

“I felt that way about Joffery.”

Rhaenyra looked over at him.

“It’s not the same,” she said. Laenor raised any eyebrow. 

“Isn’t it?”

“I— I’m not like you.”

“Did you ever kiss her?” Laenor asked. Rhaenyra’s face flushed deeper. She looked away.

“Is it possible to be both? To not have preference?”

“Your own uncle Daemon enjoyed the pleasures of both men and women during our campaign in the Stepstones. Of course it is possible. Common, even.” 

“I’ve heard wartime pleasures are different. It’s not the same as love.”

“It can be.”  

“Fuck,” Rhaenyra muttered. Laenor felt himself laugh a little, despite himself. She gripped his arm. 

“Did you ever tell her how you felt?” He asked. Admittedly, he was growing curious of who they had been together. 

“Of course not. I didn’t even know how I felt. Besides, you know Alicent, and her father, and their faith. They would think it perverted.”

Otto would, Laenor agreed. But Alicent? He remembered the way she had looked at Rhaenyra when they were young. 

Rhaenyra buried her face in her hands. 

“Are you ashamed?” He asked, feeling her frustration ache in his own chest. “To be a bit like me?”

“Why would I be ashamed to be like you?” She nudged him affectionally. “You’re the best man I know.” She looked out across the sea. “Who else would fly all morning to come find me?”

“Anyone, probably. The entire army if Viserys ordered it,” he said. That got a laugh out of her. 

“Oh, shut up. That’s different. It wouldn’t be the same. I wouldn’t care about them.”

Alicent was lucky, Laenor thought, to have grown up with Rhaenyra. He looked over at her. Love without desire was still affection. He did care truly care for her.

Gently he pulled her head closer to him to he could press a little kiss to the top of her damp silver hair. She giggled a little. 

“What was that?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” he said, repeating what she had said to him on the beach, when their marriage was first arranged. She squeezed his fingers. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For finding me.” 

“Next time you want a thrill come find me. There’s better ways to loose yourself. I know some great taverns. I even know some women there who you might—,”

“Laenor!”

__________________________ 

“Prince,” Anya greeted as Aemond approached. The hour was late, and the sun had set on the horizon, leaving the sky a dark shade of blue and the wind stinging cold. Aemond raised an eyebrow at her in response.

“Nice night.” 

She laughed a little at his stiffness.

“I suppose it is.”

He followed her down a long, winding staircases that protruded from the cliffside and made its way down to the docks.

“Do you like Dragonstone?” Anya asked curiously. Aemond frowned. 

“I’m a Targaryen. This is our homeland,” he said. Anya shrugged at him. 

“It’s barren rock. Old Valyria is your homeland. Dragonstone is mere stepping stone to power, and it belongs to your nephew. He is Crown Heir now, isn’t he?”

She was toeing a line, Aemond saw. She wasn’t scared of him, or his brother’s crown. He was caught between wanting to growl at her, for making a mockery of him, and the desire to laugh.

“My dear nephew would be more suited for Harrenhal,” Aegon said instead. Anya rolled her eyes. 

“Oh, how original a jest,” she said. She look over at him. “But he stands at the foot of The Iron Throne while you play Daemon’s ward.”

“Jacaerys can cling to his mother’s skirts if he likes.” Aemond thought of that night in the great hall, when he had lost an eye. “Others must go out and take what can be theirs.”

“How insightful.”

She was more correct then he wanted to admit, Aemond thought. Training under Daemon was not as productive as he would have liked. His ferocity in battle, sure, was highly admirable, but Daemon was weak in other ways. Insecure. Rash. Emotional. He loved his family every bit Aemond did but was not very good at doing it. He was frightened to be who he needed to be. Aemond was not. 

So why was he still here, letting himself sit in the shadow of his uncle? What good was Aemond to his family here, on Dragonstone? He had intended to learn from his Uncle, not follow in his footsteps. 

Hopefully this would make it all worth it, Aemond thought, as they approached the tavern. Daemon had been right in some aspects. There was power to be found in places like this, among the drunk and the whores and the servants.

Anya’s brother, Ivar, was every bit as amusing as his sister, although far more cautious in his joking remarks. Low-born, he had gained some status as the young captain of a very successful porting ship, although Aemond suspected not all that he had gained came from entirely innocent business. That was fine, Aemond thought. Good, even, for the job he had in mind. 

“You would not believe the riches that flow from Oldtown,” Ivar chuckled. “They spent so much effort wiping out the undesirable smallfolk from their streets they must have forgotten who makes their weapons and weaves their bedclothes and pours their candles. The demand for artisan goods from King’s Landing has us sailing into Blackwater Bay half a dozen times a month.”

Aemond sipped his wine to hide his satisfaction. 

“You spend much time in Oldtown then?” He asked. Ivar nodded. “Might you have met my younger brother?”

Ivar squinted a little in thought. 

“The one with the curly silver hair? Daeron?”

“Yes,” Aemond said. Ivar laughed. 

“Oh, he’s a delight. I’ve never seen a lad so small drink an ale so fast.” 

Aemond’s eyebrow shot up at that information. His brother had never mentioned chugging drinks with sailors. Anya laughed at his expression and Aemond leaned forward across the table. 

“I’ve never known my brother to drink. He’s a bit stiff collared.” 

Ivar snorted. He shook his head amusedly. 

“In the lad’s defense, anyone would want to be drunk on cheap ale before diving into the sea from the city wall. I’d hardly call him stiff collared.”

That news should have been entertaining, Aemond thought. Instead it left a bitter taste in his mouth and the uneasy feeling he didn’t know his brother like he thought he did. Ivar was too focused on his stories to notice Aemond's frown. He continued on with a grin. 

“It was your brother that introduced me to my lady, actually. Joanna Beesbury.”

The name was familiar. Daeron had mentioned her in his letters. A lower-born member of her house, likely a distant niece of the late Lord Beesbury. She was a cup-bearer and ward to Hobert and his wife Lynesse Hightower. How useful. 

“Daeron has spoken highly of her,” Aemond said, “he said she is a kind women with a good heart.”

“She’s brilliant,” Ivar beamed, “and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen many.” 

Anya rolled her eyes at her him

“You become such a sap when you’re drunk brother,” she said affectionately. She kissed his cheek lightly and stood up. “I’m afraid I must retire for the night. I’ll leave you boys to your business.” She shot Aemond a knowing look. “I trust you’ll be able to stumble back to the castle yourself.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Aemond deadpanned. Anya laughed. 

“Goodnight, brother. I’ll see you on the morrow, Prince.”

Aemond brushed her arm. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. She nodded appreciatively, before making her way out the door. Ivar watched her go. Aemond turned back to him. “It must be hard, living apart from your family. Your sister on Dragonstone, your lover a ward in Oldtown.”

Ivar looked back at him a little sadly. 

“It is. But it’s far worse for Anya. Her husband is a blacksmith in Flea Bottom. They have three children too, who live there with him. She traveled here with your sister, Her Grace, because they pay better here. She sends the money home to her children.”

“It is not right for a woman to be separate from her children,” Aemond said carefully. Ivar nodded. 

“I wish I could change something. I’d do anything to help. I can give her money, sure, but she cannot simply ask for her position back in the Red Keep.”

Aemond fought the urge to smile. He crafted a thoughtful look instead. 

“It could be possible, for me to make that happen,” he said. Ivar looked up at him. Aemond had the growing sense that he understood, just as well as Aemond, the purpose of their meeting. 

“I can get you anything,” Ivar said quietly. “I know merchants from Dorne, Pentos, Braavos, Yi-Ti, anywhere, you name it.”  

“I don’t need material things,” Aemond said. Realization dawned on Ivar’s face. 

“I have sources everywhere too. I know a man as far East as The Shadow Lands.”

Aemond smiled at him.

“I was thinking somewhere a little closer to home.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was a bit haunting, Alicent thought, to stand here, her past playing out all over again. It was raining, just like that day. She stood under the great stone gate to stay dry, waiting nervously for her father, watching servants prepare his carriage. 

That day she had been left truly alone, and Otto had stricken a fear so deep within her it still poisoned her rational mind. 

He saw her from the entrance an strode through the rain to meet her. Like that day. His guards saw her and took a step back, turning, allowing some privacy.

Otto stared down at her. 

“You came to see me off,” he said. There was en element of paternal softness to his voice. Alicent shifted uncomfortably. 

“I did,” she said quietly. She saw when his eyes caught on the brooch pinned to her chest. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

“Aegon made you Hand?”

“Rhaenyra did. Yesterday.” 

He squinted a little at her. Disappointment, she guessed, but his expression was always hard to read. 

“You chose to cleave,” he said darkly. Alicent flinched a little. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. 

“I chose to trust. I wish I had sooner. Maybe all of this could have been avoided.”

“She’ll continue to take from you.”

Alicent stepped back from him, a sudden anger making her tense and her jaw clench. 

“Like you have? Like Viserys did?” She snapped. The anger grew when she fed it. “Rhaenyra and I have long been products of your plots, and we have grown sick and tired of being the knives in your hand.”

Otto’s lip curled. 

“I have only ever done what I must to protect both my family and the duty of the crown. Sacrifices had to be made, for the betterment of the realm.”

“And now you see the price,” Alicent hissed. She drew closer to him, years of bitter frustration overcoming her fear. “Was my happiness worth it? My life?”  

Otto flinched away from her. Hurt. Surprise. These doubts were more potent coming from his daughter’s mouth.  

“Your well-being—,”

“My well-being?” Her voice grew louder, higher, strangled. She grabbed his hands. “What did you care for my well-being? I was miserable! I was alone! I was trapped, taken advantage of, disrespected and unheard, and by your hand no less!” Her eyes stung. “I could have been happy. I was just a girl!” Her voice cracked. “I did not deserve your motivations thrust upon me. I should have been worth more to you than that.”

She swallowed back a sob. Otto’s hands trembled in between her firm grasp. His eyes were red. For once in his life, he seemed unable to find the words. 

“I never wished any harm to come to you,” he finally said. Alicent’s heart shuddered a little at the sound of his voice. He had only sounded like that when her mother had died. 

“And yet you were complacent in it. Encouraged it even.” She looked up at him desperately. “Your image of greatness, of power and faith—of family? Was I your not your family too? Was the idea of family, the name of it, more important than your own daughter?”

Otto looked away from her, into the pouring rain and muddy ground. She looked too much like her mother, too much like the woman who had made him who he was.

Carefully, he pulled his hand away from Alicent’s to cup her face.

“I have failed you,” his voice was rough, “like I failed your mother.”

She hugged him. He did not deserve it but she could not help it. He was last thread she had to cling to in the image of her mother. She let herself fall into him and he gripped her tightly and she shook in his arms. Like she had that day, the last time he was exiled. 

Like she had the day her mother died. 

She felt so small in his embrace. He could have protected her. He was supposed to. 

When she could bare the grief no longer she pulled away. 

“Go,” she said softly. He stared down at her sadly. Was he miserable as she was? As her son was? Her daughter? How far the Hightower greed tainted their bloodline? How far had his grip stretched? How infinite the cycle? She looked up at him. “There are greater pursuits than power,” she begged of him. “Viserys knew it. He saw people as people to love, not people to use. He may not have been enough, for his children, for me, but at least he knew the worth of love.”

Otto visibly swallowed. He kissed her forehead. 

“You are the very best of her.” 

He did not say, ‘your mother,’ as he had before. Words that had been used to manipulate her time and time again. Her jaw trembled. 

“Go,” she said again. “Write me if you must. But go.” 

He did. He squeezed her shoulder and turned and left. She watched his carriage leave, had to step out from under the stone awning to let it by. She did not feel the rain hit her skin or dampen her hair. 

Eventually she turned away. She felt a little numb, a little shaky. She followed her own empty mind back into the palace. Her skin crawled. She dug a finger under her nail. 

Rhaenyra appeared from a doorway. 

“Alicent?” She approached her. “You’re soaking wet,” she said softly. 

“Hm?” Alicent looked up, and finally processed Rhaenyra standing there. She felt her hair. “Oh, yes.”  

There must have been something off in her voice, or a numb look in her eyes, because Rhaenyra’s eyebrows drew together in concern. She waved her guards away and took Alicent’s hand, pulling her into an empty room. Alicent let herself be tugged along. 

A door closed behind them and Rhaenyra leaned against the arm of a couch, holding both of Alicent’s hands in hers. She looked up at Alicent. 

“You seem like you’re somewhere else,” she said. Alicent shifted, trying to force herself to focus. 

“Sorry,” she said. Rhaenyra frowned a little. 

“You saw your father off?”

“I did,” she nodded. Rhaenyra squeezed her fingers. She seemed to be waiting for Alicent to say more. Alicent looked away. “Sorry, I- I am not thinking well right now,” she added quietly. She leaned a little into Rhaenyra’s touch. 

“What do you need?” Rhaenyra asked. 

Alicent met her eyes again. That was not question she had heard in a very long time. She tugged affectionately on Rhaenyra’s hands, not wanting to say it. 

Out of some ancient familiarity perhaps, Rhaenyra understood. She stood up and gently wrapped her arms around Alicent, pulling her into a hug. Alicent let herself be enveloped completely by Rhaenyra’s embrace. Her forehead rest against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. 

“You’re too tall now,” Alicent muttered. Rhaenyra laughed a little. It was small, breathless sound right next to Alicent’s ear. She pressed into Alicent, forcing them to sway a bit. 

Rhaenyra rubbed soft circles into her back. Alicent had nearly forgotten how much Rhaenyra spoke in a language of touch; how she liked to hold people’s hands and pull them closer and touch their hair and squeeze their shoulders,— she wrote whole poems in the way leaned against someone and gripped their arm. 

Maybe Alicent had chosen to forget. Maybe it had hurt too much to watch the way she let her hand rest in Daemon’s, or how she clung to her children. Maybe she had been haunted by the ghost of her affection.

She remembered now that she herself was fluent in this language, having learned it from Rhaenyra as a girl. She remember now that she craved it; that she lived in absence of it for so long. 

Her arms could still wrap around Rhaenyra’s back and grip her sides. She could feel her ribcage through her dress. Rhaenyra still would do that thing where she breathed a little more slowly when she hugged someone.     

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra asked softly. She pulled away a bit, not completely, but enough to look Alicent in face, studying her gently. A gentle smile tugged at her mouth.  

“What?”

“Nothing, you just—,” she tapped the brooch of The Hand pinned to Alicent’s chest, “—You look good in that. It suits you.”

“Does it? I worry I look like my father,” she said. Rhaenyra shook her head, squeezing her arms.

“Oh, not at all. You are much prettier than him.”

Alicent laughed, and Rhaenyra chuckled at having gotten a smile from her. Alicent’s face felt warm. Rhaenyra looked much prettier in Viserys’s crown than Viserys ever had, but Alicent didn’t say that.

Carefully, Rhaenyra’s hands drifted up to rest against her jaw, cupping her face softly. Alicent felt her heart stutter in chest—, was caught off guard by the feeling of it. It was so different from the way Otto had done the same thing. He didn’t speak the language of touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Rhaenyra said softly. “About your father. I know that wasn’t an easy thing to do.”   

“I’ll be alright,” she said. Rhaenyra studied her. 

“Just— talk to me, if you’re not? I don’t want a repeat of…” she trailed off. Two decades of bitterness and misunderstanding, Alicent knew.  

“Alright,” she said. Rhaenyra rubbed her thumb against Alicent’s cheek. The feeling made Alicent’s heartbeat stutter. Rhaenyra seemed caught in a mental debate, fighting back an urge that Alicent wasn’t aware of. Her eyes danced over Alicent’s face. After a prolonged moment, she let her hands fall back to sides. 

“Have you eaten?” She asked. Alicent shook her head. Rhaenyra smiled happily. “Good. You can eat with me then.” 

She tugged Alicent out of the room and back down the corridor. Alicent was just glad not to have to be away from Rhaenyra’s touch. She let Rhaenyra loop her arm through hers as they walked, like they had as girls. 

___________________________  

“Alicent!” Rhaenyra said, bursting into her room. Alicent jumped a little, nearly dropped the book she was holding. 

“Princess?” 

They were only eleven. They had hardly even known each other for a full year, but Rhaenyra had quickly grown attached to her, and Alicent didn’t mind her presence. Enjoyed it, even. She had found herself more fond of Rhaenyra with each passing day.   

Rhaenyra jumped onto her bed, pressing up against Alicent. 

“What are you reading?”

“Uh—,” Alicent flipped to the cover, “A History of Targaryen Rule.”

Rhaenyra laughed. She tugged on Alicent’s arm. 

“You don’t need to read that. I know all our history. You can just ask me.”

“You can’t possibly know all of it,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra grinned at her. 

“I do, I swear it. Ask me anything.”

“Which Targaryen settled Dragonstone?” Alicent asked. 

“Aenar, because his daughter dreamt of The Doom,” she said, unchallenged.  

“And who succeeded him?”

“Gaemon the Glorious.”

Alicent laughed a little and Rhaenyra’s cheery confidence. She thought for a moment.

“Who succeeded Gaemon?” Alicent asked. 

“Uh, his son. Aegon?” Rhaenyra said. Alicent raised an eyebrow. 

“Actually, he and his sister-wife, Elaena, co-ruled Dragonstone. It is said that while he sat the throne it was she who made most of the decisions.”

Rhaenyra huffed a little. 

“Well that’s stupid. If she was making the decisions she should have sat the throne.”

“They probably thought a woman shouldn’t sit it,” Alicent shrugged. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. 

“They? Who would dare question her? Elaena rode a dragon. I hardly think she’d struggle in a big stone chair.”  

Alicent giggled. She opened her book again. 

“Hm, alright, which Velaryon was Aegon the Conquer’s mother? And which house did her husband create with his bastard?” 

Rhaenyra sighed, and tugged the book from Alicent’s hands. She threw it aside.

“Enough of that,” she said. “Those won’t help you understand our history. You have to see  it for yourself.” 

“What?” Alicent frowned curiously at her. Rhaenyra gripped her hand, tugging her out of bed. 

“Come on. I can show you.”  

Alicent let herself be pulled along, curiosity overcoming hesitation. Rhaenyra’s bubbling excitement was infectious. 

“Where are we going?” Alicent asked. 

“You’ll see, come on.”

There was always more to see in the castle, Alicent had realized after some time. Hidden rooms and dusty cellars— she and Rhaenyra had once found a whole storage closet of half finished artworks. 

Maybe Rhaenyra was taking her to secret library, or a giant Targaryen tapestry, or a room of ancestral statues she hadn’t yet seen. 

But they found themselves in the courtyard. Rhaenyra waved over a carriage and Alicent felt her heart sink. 

“We’re not going to the Sept, are we Rhaenyra?”  

Rhaenyra looked over at her. There was only one other place they would be allowed to go by carriage. 

“Don’t look so disappointed,” she squeezed Alicent’s hand, “Just trust me.” 

Against her better will, Alicent followed her into the carriage. 

“You’re lucky I’m fond of you,” she said. Rhaenyra grinned brightly at her. 

“You’re fond of me?” She teased. Alicent felt herself flush a little. Rhaenyra poked her playfully. “Well I’m fond of you too.” 

Alicent didn’t like the way her heart beat faster when she looked at Rhaenyra's soft smile, so she looked away, through the window panels out at the passing streets.

Rhaenyra mistook her nervousness. Or maybe Alicent was nervous about more than one thing. She got up from her seat across from her and sat down instead beside her, so she could cling to Alicent’s arm.  

“They’re not that scary, I promise,” she said. Alicent looked at her doubtfully.

“You know how I feel about dragons, Rhaenyra.” 

“The closest you’ve been is watching me fly by from your balcony!” 

“That was plenty close,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra laughed a little. 

“Once you meet her it will be different. You’ll love her.” 

That was unlikely, but Rhaenyra seemed so excited. She looked away. Her fingers drifted towards her nails. 

Rhaenyra took her hand before she could start to pick at them. She held it tightly in her lap. Alicent looked over in surprise and her expression softened.

“Don’t be nervous,” she said gently, “I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t leave your side.” 

She offered Alicent a reassuring smile. It worked, briefly. 

Their carriage pulled up to the Dragon Pit. Rhaenyra peaked her head out the door. 

“Oh good, someone already told them we were coming. Syrax is out.”

Sure enough, when Alicent climbed out the carriage there was golden dragon being tended to by a pair of keepers in the dirt. 

She felt herself freeze. Even if had wanted to move she wouldn’t be able. It took Rhaenyra moment to realize Alicent wasn’t following behind her. 

“Alicent? Aren’t you coming?” She asked. Alicent swallowed. She shook her head. Rhaenyra walked back to her. “Don’t worry Ali, Syrax is young. She’s small.”

Size was a matter of context, Alicent thought.  

“Her head is the size of my entire torso,” she pointed out. Rhaenyra rubbed her back gently. 

“I trust Syrax with my life, Alicent.” She said. Alicent looked at her, a little wide eyed.

“Sure, but do you trust her with mine?”

Rhaenyra sighed softly. 

“Syrax would never hurt you. I care for you, so she will too.” 

Alicent watched the Keepers struggle to calm the young dragon, who paced back and forth noisily. 

“That’s an animal, Rhaenyra. A beast.” 

Rhaenyra turned to face her. She took both of Alicent’s hands in her own. 

“That is my kin, Alicent.” She glanced over her shoulder at Syrax. “She is as much my blood as my own mother. She is the closest thing I have to a sister.” She squeezed Alicent’s hands. “That is Targaryia, Alicent. You wanted to know our history? There it is. That—,” she pointed to Syrax, “is all that we are.”

Alicent looked back at the dragon. She was struck by it’s expression. It had stopped to stare at them, as if it was listening. Its eyes were a shade of grey that could have been mistaken as purple. They looked like Rhaenyra’s. 

It was a beautiful creature, Alicent had to admit. She sighed reluctantly at Rhaenyra. 

“Alright,” she said softly. Rhaenyra laced her fingers through Alicent’s and tugged her closer. She turned back to Syrax to call her forward. 

“Naejot, Syrax! Ynot!” 

High Valyrian was a stunning language, Alicent thought. The syllables were rough and raw, and when Rhaenyra spoke it Alicent could feel goosebumps on her arm. 

She suddenly found it much less attractive when she realized what Rhaenyra must have said. Syrax was approaching them. Alicent felt her heart try to shove its way into her throat. 

“Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, oh gods, Rhaenyra,” she whispered frantically. She clutched desperately at Rhaenyra’s arm. Syrax was so close now. Rhaenyra reached out and touched Syrax’s snout. 

“Geví,” [good] she said. Syrax made a low murmur. It took Alicent a moment to realize it wasn’t an aggressive sound. It leaned into Rhaenyra’s palm.  

“I- is she purring? Like a cat?”

Rhaenyra laughed.

“Keli, Syrax? Issi ao ia keli?” Rhaenyra asked. Syrax tilted her head curiously. It was kind of cute, Alicent thought. She tugged on Rhaenyra’s arm.

“What did you ask her?”

“I asked her if she is a cat.”

Alicent giggled. It got Syrax’s attention. The dragon stepped closer to her, sniffing her. It’s face was mere inches from her own. Cold fear washed over Alicent again. She clung to Rhaenyra’s fingers tightly. 

“Rhaenyra? Rhaenyra, what do I do?”

“Just breath, Alicent. She’s just curious, she won’t hurt you.” 

Alicent didn’t breath at all. She held her breath the entire time Syrax’s nose hovered over her. Her breath had the warmth of the entire sun. 

After seconds that stretched on far too long, Syrax sat back a little, letting out a deep sound. Alicent sighed in relief. 

“She likes you,” Rhaenyra grinned. Alicent couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. 

“Does she?” 

“Dragons are incredibly empathetic creatures. They often will share the same feelings as their rider.”

“Oh.”

Alicent felt herself flush a little. Rhaenyra was watching her. 

“Do you want to try touching her?”

Alicent looked at her incredulously.

“What? No! Isn’t it considered sacrilegious for a common folk to to touch a dragon?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, rolling her eyes a little.

“That’s just a rule someone made up to keep fools from getting their arms bitten off.”

“I don’t want to get my arm bitten off, Rhaenyra!” Alicent hissed. Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. 

“Well you aren’t a fool, are you?”

“What if I am? How could I know—,”

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra said, stopping her anxious rambling. “I’ll be with you the whole time. It’ll be okay, I promise.” 

Alicent might have kept arguing but she was distracted from that when Rhaenyra stepped behind her, close, so close they were pressed against each other. She wrapped an arm Alicent’s waist. With her other hand, she laced her fingers through Alicent’s. 

“Ynot, Syrax! Demas! Lykiri!” [Come to me, Syrax. Sit. Be calm]. “Be calm,” she said again, this time for Alicent, who let out a shaky breath.

Carefully, Rhaenyra guided Alicent’s hand to touch Syrax’s forehead. Alicent squeezed her eyes shut. Her breath hitched. 

Her scales were smoother than she thought they would be. Like polished stone, but with the warmth of skin. She opened an eye. Big grey eyes stared back at her, watching her curiously. Then Syrax pressed her head firmly back against their hands with purr. Alicent felt an unexpected rush of affection. She rubbed her fingers against the scales, attracted to their warmth. She felt Rhaenyra’s fingers do the same from between hers. 

“Gods,” Alicent whispered. It wasn’t from fear this time. “She’s magnificent.” She stepped a little closer, reaching out her other hand. She paused. “Can I—?”

“Go ahead.”

She did. She ran her palm up and down Syrax’s snout. There was deep rumble that Alicent could feel through her finger tips. She felt like she was holding thunder beneath her hand. 

She looked back at Rhaenyra, who had let go of Alicent and was staring at her in wonder. There was look so soft in her eyes that made Alicent’s stomach twist nervously. 

“Teach me something,” Alicent whispered, “In High Valyrian. To speak to her.”

Rhaenyra looked surprised by the request.

“Geví riña' would be ‘good girl,” she offered. Alicent muttered the words silently to herself. She turned to Sryax. 

“Gevi rina, Syrax,” Alicent said. Syrax made a sound like cat might after praise. The words had felt awkward from her tongue but when she looked over her shoulder she was surprised to see that Rhaenyra looked a little flushed.

“What?” Alicent asked. Rhaenyra looked away, unusually flustered.

“Nothing,” she said quietly. She stepped closer to Syrax to pet her as well, so she wouldn’t have to look Alicent in the eyes.  

Eventually, Syrax seemed to grow tired and laid down with a groan that could have been mistaken as a human sigh. It made Alicent giggle. 

“We should probably let her be,” she said. Rhaenyra nodded. 

“I suppose.” 

Alicent reached down to pet Syrax one last time. 

“Thank you, goodbye” she said softly to the dragon. 

“Kirimvose,” Rhaenyra provided, “Geros ilas.”                 
“Kirimvose, geros ilas,” Alicent repeated quietly. She felt Rhaenyra slip her hand back into hers.

The dragon keepers resumed their work with Syrax, and Rhaenyra led Alicent back to their carriage. 

“That was incredible, Rhaenyra,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra grinned at her.

“I told you she would like you,” she squeezed Alicent’s hand tightly, “you were rather incredible too,” she said. Alicent fought back a pleased grin. 

Ser Harrold Westerling was waiting for them by the carriage, not entirely managing to hide his own amused smile. Rhaenyra’s eyes lit up. 

“Ser Harrold! Did you see? Alicent pet Syrax! Did you see? She even spoke High Valyrian! Did you hear it?” 

“I did, young princess,” he said fondly. “It was very impressive.”

She shot a delighted grin at Alicent, who flushed a little. 

“It’s okay, Ser Harrold, you can admit you were terrified,” Rhaenyra said, as she and Alicent climbed into the carriage. He chuckled. 

“That I was.” He looked between them. “But you girls did very well. I had nothing to worry about. I get to keep my head another day.”

They laughed and he closed the carriage door for them.

Rhaenyra pressed against Alicent’s side on the bench. Alicent explained, breathlessly excited, how it had felt to be that close to a dragon for the first time. 

Rhaenyra was listening, but mostly she was watching. She liked the way Alicent’s eyes would dance when she spoke, and her ears would turn pink, and she would glance at Rhaenyra in between sentences. She had a thousand different types of smiles, Rhaenyra thought. A kindness so potent it would encompass you completely, consuming you. 

When Alicent had spoke Valyrian Rhaenyra swore her heart had stopped for a moment. She hadn’t been able to think a coherent thought.

Unable to overcome the incredible affection she felt watching Alicent speak now, Rhaenyra pressed a sudden small kiss to Alicent’s cheek, and felt a resulting flip in her stomach. Alicent froze mid-sentence. 

“Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra felt her entire face turn pink, and looked down at her lap before she could see Alicent’s do the same. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” she said quietly.

“It’s not a difficult thing to do,” Alicent said kindly, “You possess an rather persuasive charm, paired with a ceaseless patience.”

Rhaenyra summoned the courage to glance up at her, and was met with smile warmer then dragon fire. She played with Alicent’s hand.  

“Perhaps when Syrax is larger, you will fly on her with me,” she said. Alicent’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Oh, oh no. Definitely not. No, no no no no no. I prefer my feet on the ground. I love you but no, I do not believe flying is for me. Actually I am quiet certain of it.”

Rhaenyra snickered, nudging Alicent playfully with her elbow, ignoring the way her stomach had twisted when Alicent had thrown the words ‘I love you,’ as if they did not carry a weight that could create and destroy worlds. 

“You’ll at least watch then?” She asked. Alicent nodded. 

“Of course I will. Strictly from the ground.” 

_____________________________________________

A/N: Aside from writing, I also really enjoy drawing. So I did a silly little doodle of Alicent meeting Syrax :)

Let me know if ya'll enjoy stuff like this! Maybe I'll start doing more little doodles on occasion for this fic. Also let me know If the picture looks weirdly stretched on mobile or desktop, I'm new to uploading images on Ao3. Thanks! 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWELVE

Luke sat quietly on the edge his bed, wiping crusted dirt from the sides of his boots, his mind somewhere distant.

He had moved back into his own quarters. Jace was crown heir now, soon to be married, and Luke had felt foolish still resting there. He would lay there at night, listening to the snores of his older brother, feeling safer because of them and hating himself for it.

So he forced himself back into the smaller room with the wide window that stared out east towards the sea. It reminded him a bit of Dragonstone, except he could still see the courtyards below and slums that danced along the edges of the shore. He had found a tapestry of Old Valyria and hung it next to his bed, so he could stare at the details to try to distract himself from the nerves that whittled holes in his chest. It didn’t much work, but he still liked the tapestry. 

A knock sounded on his door. 

“Come in.”

“The Prince Daeron, my Prince,” a guard said. Daeron entered, fiddling a little with the buttons on his sleeve. 

“Lucerys,” he greeted kindly. Luke set down his boots. 

“What brings you here?”

Daeron fixed his sleeve and looked up at him, smiling a little. 

“I found that book you were speaking off,” he said. He dug into the pocket of his tunic, pulling out a book that was small in size but thick, with a fraying cover and wrinkled pages. He held it to out to Luke. The Ruble of Old Westeros, was stamped across the cover. Luke felt himself grin excitedly, taking the book happily from him.  

“It’s still got the stain where my father spilled wine across it,” Luke said, laughing a little, forgetting his nerves for a moment. “He had been trying help me learn my letters, I was still awful at it, even at seven.” He ran his fingers along the binding. “In the end we both decided it was too difficult and he just ended up reading it to me. But we loved the stories in it so much we didn’t stop reading until Mother found us in the early dawn and forced us to bed.”

Daeron watched him speak curiously, trying to imagine Luke as he had been as child, tucked beside Laenor on the bed, trying desperately to stay awake through another chapter. He found it was Laenor he couldn’t remember well, and felt a little guilty for it. 

Luke looked up from his book. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Where did you find it?”

“The Sept, buried beneath a pile of terribly boring financial records.”

Luke laughed a little. 

“When were you at the Sept?”

Daeron looked away, staring out the window where bright colors that had painted the sky were begging to fade to a dark blue. He was trying to think of a change of topic when something caught his eye.   

“What’s she doing?”

He asked it out-loud. Luke got up from the bed to stare out the window beside him. 

Far below, Rhaena was slipping through shadows in the courtyard, wrapping a headscarf over her hair. They watched, transfixed, as she avoided guards carefully, eventually reaching the far side and disappearing suddenly.  

“That was quick,” Luke said. Daeron looked back at him. 

“What?”

“We’ve only been here less then a fortnight, and she’s figured out how to get out. It took her months in Dragonstone.”

Daeron stared out curiously. 

“She does this a lot?”

Luke shrugged a little, sitting back down on his bed. 

“Rhaena never got a dragon. She’s always has been treated like a second-born, and she’s not so headstrong like Baela and Daemon. But she’s incredibly cunning. She’s always been good at talking to people, figuring out what they want.”

“Clever,” Daeron said. “Reminds me a bit of Aemond.”

That comparison made Luke’s skin crawl. He had hardly thought of Aemond as anything but hot-headed, nothing like Rhaena, who was kind and funny.  

“Don’t you worry about her?” Daeron asked.

“Not particularly. She can handle herself.”

He stared out at the courtyard where she had been. 

“Have you ever gone with her?” He asked. Luke wrung his hands. 

“Once. On my ten-and-third name-day. We got drunk in the tavern by the ports on Dragonstone. When we made it back up to the castle we were convinced we could fly Arrax all the way to Pentos.” 

“Isn’t Arrax still small?” Daeron asked. Luke nodded solemnly.  

“Far too small to seat two while flying that far, especially back then. We ended up crashing into the sail of a ship on the docks.” He felt himself flush a little, remembering the embarrassment. “I’ve never seen my mother that furious with me.”

He could have shivered, remembering the sobering anger that had lit up her eyes as soon as she realized they were all safe. Daemon, too, had been all fury. He had gripped both their arms tightly and told them if they thought of dragons as a toy then he might as well feed Arrax to Vhagar. No wonder you never got a dragon, he had said to Rhaena. She had been so upset by that she had spent the whole night crying into his shoulder about how much hated Daemon. But the next morning, Daemon had greeted them with a tonic to help with hangover, chuckling that he and Viserys had done something similar as children, and she had forgiven him all over again.

Daeron must have seen a haunted look in his eyes, because he offered Luke an apologetic smile. 

“Well, we’ve all done something of the sort,” he said. “I’ve certainly made a similar mistake.” 

Luke chuckled half-heartedly. It was hard to picture Daeron, with his perfect curls and his stiff collar always buttoned to the top, doing anything so stupid.

They fell quiet for a moment. The silence made Luke want to squirm. He picked anxiously at his fingers. Daeron moved away from the window, sitting down in a nearby chair. 

“Are you happy to marry Rhaena?” Daeron asked suddenly. “You seem very close with her.”

Luke swallowed. He loved Rhaena, truly, deeply. They had been close ever since the night he cut Aemond’s eye out defending her and Baela. He hadn’t really understood everything going on at the time, with Laena, and Harwin, and suddenly Laenor dying and their parents marrying. But Rhaena had latched onto him, taken him under her wing, and they gotten each other through the worst of their grief. 

Baela and Jace had the sort of fire in them that had matched each other perfectly. They had spent their time riding dragons and jumping into the sea and exploring caves in the mountain for nearly a year, until Baela had been sent as a ward to her grandmother. Rhaena and Luke had found quieter activities in the castle. 

“There’s no one in the realm I would rather marry,” Luke said honestly. He looked away. “But I’m not sure I’m fond of her in the way men are supposed to be fond of their wives,” he admitted. 

Daeron reached forward, squeezed his arm reassuringly before looking away awkwardly. Against his better judgment, Luke’s curiosity drove him ask Daeron the same. 

“Is there anyone you would marry? Someone from Oldtown?”

Daeron felt himself flush. Stop, stop, stop, he told his own mind. Stop it, stop that. 

“Not particularly,” he lied, running a hand through his hair. Then he felt awful for lying. “There was a— a girl, once, but it didn’t work out,” he added. That was also lie, albeit, with some truth. 

“Why not?” Luke asked. Daeron chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

“She was, uh, common-born. Low-born, actually.”

“Oh,” Luke said softly. He could sense Daeron’s discomfort, felt bad for asking. He looked away. “Thank you again for finding the book,” he said, changing the topic. Daeron smiled sweetly. 

“You’ll have to lend it to me when you finish. It sounds interesting.”

“Of course,” Luke said. Daeron stood up. It was late. He glanced out the window one last time. 

“I should go to bed, but uh—,” he met Luke’s gentle gaze, “—we should go flying together sometime soon.” He offered. “You haven’t seen Tessarion since we were boys, have you?” Luke shook his head. “Then we should fly somewhere. Sober, of course,” he joked. Luke laughed. 

“Sounds like a plan.”

_______________________________  

Rhaena found the noise of the tavern comforting. She liked the hum of conversation. No one paid her a second glance. Well, maybe some did, but it was mostly men who must of thought her pretty. They didn’t recognize her. It was a wonder how well simply covering her hair worked as disguise. 

She bought a drink with coin, then poured a glass of water into it. She needed to be able to sit and drink to avoid suspicion, but she needed to be sound of mind as well. Watery wine would just have to make do. 

She perched herself at a table in the back, watching customers come and go. She liked to listen to their conversations. Anyone who though peasant lives must be simple and boring were horribly mistaken, she thought. There was fantastic drama in drunken tales.

Eventually, the man she was waiting for spotted her, and stumbled over to her table, drink in hand. 

“Were you drunk before you even made port, Ivar?” Rhaena asked. He chuckled. 

“An unfortunate lord may have lost a barrel of wine overboard while sailing,” he joked. “But I’ll make it up to him with some fine cloth, you see.” 

She laughed a his boyish smile, nudging him playfully. 

“How was Dragonstone?” She asked. “How’s your sister?”

Ivar stopped for a moment, trying to think clearly through the buzz in his head. He was only slightly successful. 

They talked for a while. He told her about what was going on in Dragonstone, about Daemon’s foul mood and the servants’ sickness, although oddly he had little to say on the topic Aemond. He told her other stuff as well. He told her about the disapproval of the lower-born members of the Velaryon house, unhappy with the murder of Vaemond and Luke’s place as Lord of the Tides becoming solidified. He told her about Essos as well, about the nervousness of the Iron Bank at that change in leadership. 

She told him stuff as well. It was a deal then went both ways, after all. But she careful about what she said. She spoke of Jace being made heir in front of the court and Aegon making his mother Hand. She spun together half-lies into something resembling truth.

It grew late. She was laughing at something Ivar had said when he stopped suddenly, squinting at her. 

“What?”

“You don’t happen to have an much older brother, do you?” He asked. “Maybe a cousin? Or a long-lost uncle?”

Rhaena shook her head, a little confused. 

“Why?”

“I know a man in Pentos who looks just like you. An exact image, I swear. He’s got your eyes. You sure you don’t have an uncle?”

Rhaena was about to shake her head, and then paused. She did have an uncle. One that looked strikingly similar to her. He was just long dead. She had seen his body. 

Had she? She had seen something scorched, that they had told her was his body. The smell had been so horrible she hand’t been sure if was that or the grief that had made her cry. Her grandmother’s screams had haunted her for weeks.  

Rhaena’s mind whirled. Suddenly the noise of the tavern wasn’t comforting, it was just loud. Maybe she had drunk too much of her watery wine; she wasn’t thinking straight. 

She plastered a careless grin back onto her face.

“Well, my Grandsire has probably fathered enough bastards to populate a city,” she joked. “I’m sure half of Pentos has my eyes.”  

He laughed, and she found herself very glad he was drunk. 

“If you see him again you’ll have to tell me,” she said. “I want to know what sort bastards are running around claiming Velaryon inheritance.” 

He laughed and they went on chatting until his cup grew empty. Her mind was somewhere else as she bid him goodnight and made her way back up hidden alleyways to the Red Keep. 

There was tunnel that led conveniently to some loose floorboards in her and Baela quarters. She was carefully cataloging all of Ivar’s information when she climbed back into their room. 

Baela was changing into nightclothes. She glanced up when Rhaena entered, walked over to her. 

“You reek of drunk, sweaty men,” she told her. Rhaena groaned at her. 

“Leave me be, sister,” she sighed. Baela look suspiciously at her. 

“Your not fucking them, are you? Moon Tea doesn’t always take, you know, and it is not a good look to ask for.” 

“No, I’m not fucking them, Baela. I have more sense then that. Help me out of my dress.” 

Baela obliged, pulling apart the simple string binding at the back. Rhaena was thankful the dresses of low-born women, which she wore sneaking out, were so much easier. 

Baela sighed a little at her sister. 

“I’m not gonna try and stop you, Rhaena, from your nature of scheming and spying, but for the love of the old gods, you need to be careful. We aren’t just little girls messing around anymore. Your going to be Lady of the Tides. I’m going to be Queen.”

It was the first time, Rhaena realized, that she had heard her sister say that out loud. She was going to be queen one day, wasn’t she? It sounded so odd suddenly. Of course, Baela wouldn’t be Queen until Rhaenyra was dead, and Rhaena didn’t wish to think much on that. She would stick to thinking about Princess Baela, she decided.   

“I am being careful,” she said. “I always am.” 

“Right.” Baela squeezed Rhaena’s shoulders kindly and moved away, returning to a pile of scrolls she had been sorting earlier. 

Rhaena went on, getting ready for bed. She found herself unusually exhausted. She climbed into her bed and stared up at the ceiling. She had finished sorting through Ivar’s information. All that was left to ponder was that man in Pentos. The one that looked like her. 

What she said about there being Velaryon bastards everywhere was hardly an exaggeration. They were a large family of shipmen and soldiers. Of course there could be some unknown cousin running around Pentos. 

She sat up, looked at her sister across the room. They weren’t identical but they were close enough. She had their mother’s eyes too. A Laena had gotten them from Rhaenys, not Corlys. How was there a man in Pentos running around looking like their grandmother and their grandfather?

There were several answers, and most of them meant nothing. For all she knew it was complete coincidence. Ivar was drunk and thought two, completely unrelated people looked similar. That was most likely answer, really. 

But she had always been drawn to the least likely answers. They were the ones that haunted her, that ate at her mind. Usually, they were like fun puzzles. This one wasn’t fun. 

Baela blew out candles and climbed into her own bed. The room fell silent and dark. 

“Baela?”

“Yes?”

“What if Laenor is alive?”

_____________________________  

It had been a horrible week for Rhaenyra. Truly wretched. Sure, it had started with the anniversary of her mother’s death, and Laenor finding her trying her best to brush hands with the cold sea, and that conversation about Alicent. That had been bad enough. But then she had found out Laena was engaged to Daemon. She couldn’t eat for a full day after that. Jealousy was pathetic emotion, she knew. But she felt sick and angry. And that anger had nowhere to go but herself, because she couldn’t bring herself to be mad at Laena or Daemon, both of whom she loved. She was happy for them, really, she told herself. It was only sometimes a lie.

And just when she had begun to regain her appetite, her father had made a ‘most joyous announcement’ which Rhaenyra had realized long ago were alway just life-ruining events. Alicent was pregnant again, with a third child. 

She hadn’t even bothered to fake a smile. She simply got up from the table and left. She had wanted to scream, or puke, or cry, and she did all of those things. She didn’t want to talk to Laenor about it this time. She didn’t want to try an explain herself. She just wanted to be anywhere else. 

So she mounted Syrax and left, leaving only a small note to Laenor, so that he wouldn’t follow her. 

She flew east. It took her through the entire night and another half-day to cross the narrow sea. Not narrow enough, she thought. They had to make stops on whatever rocking outcropping they saw, to allow Syrax to rest. Her mind fluctuated between numbness and overwhelming thought as they flew.

When she reached Pentos, it was not difficult to find what she was looking for. She simply flew along the coast until she saw a castle with the largest dragon in the realm resting beside  it.

Syrax was small, and she could land inside the walls of the castle. Rhaenyra stumbled into a courtyard, waving away a few stunned guards, and shoved her way inside. 

“Daemon!” She yelled. Her voice echoed through vast hallways. “Daemon!” 

“Rhaenyra?”

Rhaenyra spun around. Laena was peaking out from a doorway, looking radiant. If she had been angry at her, it was gone immediately at the sight of her kind eyes.

“Laena,” Rhaenyra greeted softly. Sharp emotions melted away, and she walked over to her cousin. “Where’s Daemon?”

“North, In Braavos. He’s gone to try and figure out payment for this place,” Laena explained. She reach forwards and took Rhaenyra’s hands in her own. “You look a mess, ‘Nyra. Did you fly here straight from Dragonstone? On little Syrax?”

Rhaenyra nodded, although she supposed Laena has a skewed idea of what was considered ‘little.’ 

“Come,” she said, and tugged Rhaenyra down the hall, into her quarters. There, she pulled out a soft cotton dress and held it out to Rhaenyra. “This should fit,” She said.

“Oh, I’m alright—,” 

“You smell of dragon. Please, indulge me.”

She let Laena help her out of her riding clothes. Her touch was comforting. But when Laena’a hands ran down across the skin of her back it didn’t make her heart race like it once had with Alicent. 

She shivered a little at the thought. Laena gently turned her around. 

“What happened, cousin?” She spoke to her in High Valyrian. 

Rhaenyra tried to speak, and felt the words catch unexpectedly in her throat. She threw herself into a nearby couch, pressing her arm against her eyes. Laena sat down gently beside her.

She swore quietly to herself, trying to keep angry tears at bay. Laena ran her fingers through Rhaenyra’s hair. 

She was two years younger then Rhaenyra, but she didn’t look it. She was tall, taller then even Rhaenyra who had grown steadily over the past couple years, and they called her the most beautiful woman in the realm. She was, really. She was brilliant and witty and flew the largest dragon in existence. Rhaenyra understood why Daemon had married her.

“Are you mad at me?” Laena asked. Rhaenyra let out a shaky breath. 

“No, no, I could never be. I love you, and I love him. I am glad it’s you.” 

She peered hesitantly over her arm and saw Laena smiling kindly down at her. Rhaenyra held her gaze quietly, for a long moment until the words seemed to spill out of her.

“Alicent is pregnant again.”

“Oh, Nyra,” Laena said sympathetically, like suddenly she understood it all. She pressed closer to her. “I’m sorry.” 

The anger found a place again in her chest. Rhaenyra sat up suddenly, waving her hands in frustration. 

“It’s unfair! It’s so- fucking- unfair!” She felt her skin flush at the neck. “My mother tortured herself for two decades trying to give him a son! Every time she lost one she lost some of herself as well! And then she dies and suddenly he’s fucking Alicent and she gives him children like it’s nothing! Like its easy!”

She stared at Laena, a little breathless in her frustration. Laena reached out, steading her shaking hands, pressing little circles into the skin of her arm. Rhaenyra felt her eyes brim with tears. 

“I hate her, Laena,” she said. “I hate her so much.” 

She thought that Laena might accept that. Might nod and squeeze her hand and tell her she understood. Or maybe raise her eyebrows doubtfully. 

“Why?” Laena asked instead.  

Rhaenyra tried to swallow back the lump in her throat. 

“I— because— she fucking, she does it all, so fucking perfect. She marries him. And she gives him sons. My mother died trying to give him sons! And Laenor and I— did he tell you, about the baby? We tried so fucking hard, and it still— died.”

“I’m sorry,” Laena said softly. Rhaenyra trembled. 

“She’s miserable, Laena. That’s the worst part. I’m not sure if I would hate her more if she was happy, but she’s not. I can see it her eyes.” Rhaenyra pressed her own eyes shut and the tears burned her cheeks, like fire against her skin. “She so miserable, and she won’t even admit it to herself! She’ll just keep doing anything her father tells her for the rest of her life! I hate her! Doesn’t she realize they’re gonna kill her? They’ll keep wanting sons from her until it fucking kills her!” She choked on her own voice. “Why doesn’t she see that?”    

The trembling reached her lungs and she had to curl in on herself, trying to steady herself against Laena’s grasp. Laena ran her fingers through Rhaenyra’s hair. 

After a long moment, Rhaenyra wiped at her eyes. She glanced up at Laena, feeling guilty suddenly. 

“I think I came here to yell at Daemon to leave you, and take me back. Or at least fuck me until I couldn’t remember why I was angry. I don’t know,” she admitted. Laena stared critically at her.

“Well you could wait here until he returns and fuck him all you want. But it won’t fix you,” she said. Rhaenyra’s laugh was half a sob. 

“Sorry,” she said. Laena shrugged. 

“What is mine is yours, cousin." 

It was an old Valyrian saying. Rhaenyra was struck by a sudden closeness. She reached out, ran her fingers across Laena’s jaw. And she thought of when Alicent had once done the same to her. Laena’s eyes flickered with some mixed affection. Carefully, she slipped her fingers between Rhaenyra’s, gripping them. 

“Lae—,”

“We aren’t like that,” Laena said softly. She shook her head. “I’m not Daemon.” 

Rhaenyra felt her eyes well suddenly of tears. A deep shame burned in her, starting in her stomach and spreading to a flush across her face. 

“I wasn’t thinking of Daemon,” she admitted quietly. 

She thought of that one night, several years ago. Of Alicent’s hands. Of her soft skin. Of love whispered so quietly it could only be heard on the warmth of her breath.

Realization dawned on Laena. 

“You were with her once,” she said. Rhaenyra hated the gentleness she said it with so much she had to close her eyes. The act forced hot tears across her cheekbones into the roots of her hair. 

“She was supposed to love me.” Her entire body shook. “Fuck. Gods, I’m so stupid. She just, she left me behind! She became someone! Who I am to be, now, without her?” Rhaenyra dug her fingernails into her own palm, and the pain felt so small in comparison to the grief in her chest. “It would be so much easier if she had married some foreign lord! Then she would be gone from my house and I wouldn’t have to watch the ghost of the girl I loved roam the halls and stare at me like I’m the one who killed her!” 

Laena gripped her hand tightly. It was the only feeling Rhaenyra could hold on to, numbed by her anger. 

“You get it,” she told Laena. “You just take what you want! You wanted Daemon and now you are here, with him! You claimed Vhagar at 10 years old. You get it.”

Laena smiled a little proudly, but then she shrugged. 

“Maybe Alicent wanted to be queen. Maybe this is her, taking what she wanted.”

If only Rhaenyra could believe that. Then her anger would feel righteous. Then she could call her vile and her sons usurpers and forget every beautiful smile Alicent had ever offered her, dismiss it as a scheme. 

And if only she could deny it. If only she could say that Alicent had never looked at her with jealousy. That Alicent would never want this. That Alicent had only ever wanted her, and not a husband. That it was all her father’s fault. 

But she knew that wasn’t true. And she new that the awful truth fell somewhere between those two delicate lines. It was that in-between that hurt most.

Maybe the idea that Alicent hadn’t loved Rhaenyra as much as Rhaenyra had loved her, was far more terrifying then the idea that Alicent had never loved her at all. 

They fell silent for a long time. Rhaenyra let her breathing slow to the steady feeling of Laena’s hands through her hair. She often wished that Laena had grown up with her in King’s Landing. She would have been something far more similar to a sister then Alicent was.

She had always admired Laena. There was defiant streak in her that had been there for as long as Rhaenyra could remember. It was the same defiant streak had drawn her to Daemon. It was nothing like Viserys, or Aemma, or even Alicent, and something far more similar to Rhaenys. But Rhaenyra had never much gotten along with Rhaenys.   

Rhaenyra stared up at Laena. 

“Do you think we’re destine to be our mothers?” She asked. Laena frowned at her. 

“I’m only my mother in part.”

Rhaenyra wrung her hands in thought. 

“But don’t you feel, as you grow older, you become more of her? That you make the same mistakes you once hated watching her make?” 

“My mother is a great woman,” Laena said. Rhaenyra shifted. 

“But she is also petty, and bitter. She settled for something less then she thinks she deserves, but she’ll forever think it everyone’s fault then her own. She hates the rules and yet she plays by them anyways.” 

Laena looked a little insulted, for a moment, on behalf of her mother. But she saw the some truth in Rhaenyra’s words. 

“Do you think me petty and bitter? Do you think I settled? Here, on Pentos, running from my own family to marry Daemon?”

“Daemon has fiery quality that you share. But he’ll never be a brilliant husband, we both know it. And he certainly doesn’t have the patience for fatherhood,” Rhaenyra said. 

“You could say the same of my own father, but yet he and my mother share a powerful bond.”  

“That’s what I’m saying!” Rhaenyra sat up in frustration, waving her hands. “Are we not simply another iteration of our mothers?” 

Laena stared carefully at her, taken a bit aback by Rhaenyra’s outburst.  

“You always act angry when you’re actually scared,” Laena accused. Rhaenyra frowned at her unhappily.

“I’m not scared—, I just—,” but there was sadness that glinted in her eyes. 

“Yes you are.” Laena saw it now. “You’re scared because you remind yourself of Aemma. You married your cousin, as she did. He’s a good man, but I know my brother. He shares Viserys’s inaction, and displeasure for leadership. You settled. You tried for a heir, because it is what is expected of you. And then you lost him, as your mother lost her first, and so many after that. But you’ll probably keep trying, eventually, as she did. And you’re terrified of dying as she did. You’re terrified of becoming Aemma, as Alicent has.” 

Rhaenyra wanted to be furious with Laena but she was so painfully correct Rhaenyra had to look away, down at her hands where they trembled in her lap. 

“I loved my mother,” she said softly. Laena nodded. 

“As I love mine. Which makes hating their choices so much easier.” She offered Rhaenyra an apologetic smile. “I get it, Nyra, I do. You’re right. I do wonder, often, if am far too similar to my mother. I suppose I am scared as well.”

Rhaenyra glanced up at her. She reached out, looped her pinky finger through Laena’s, gripping it tightly. 

“I’m going to be nothing like her,” she said. “I’m done. I’m so done trying. Why should I? Why should I play by their rules? I’ll fuck who I please and ride Syrax where I would like and I’ll refuse to die giving birth to an heir. The expectations of the Throne, of the Faith, of every damn man in that court; they killed my mother. I’m not going to be her.”            

And yet, Laena thought, someone would. Someone had to be Aemma. If it wasn’t Rhaenyra, it would be Alicent.

Perhaps that was why Rhaenyra was so angry at Alicent. It wasn’t anger at all, Laena saw that now. It was fear, for what would become of Alicent.   

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Rhaenyra woke that morning with a hole in her chest. It was unusually cold in her room, and the bed felt large and empty beside her. 

She missed her husband. She missed how Daemon would pull her against him when she woke up, wrapping his arms around her torso. And she missed her sons’ small hands, their soft white hair and chubby faces. She missed seeing Luke pour over a map with little Viserys in his lap, or Jace trying to get Aegon to speak Valyrian. She missed finding Rhaena giggling with Joffery as they danced around the dining hall. 

A knock sounded on her door. Rhaenyra sat up. 

“Come in.”

Baela walked in, dressed in a white gown that glided across the floor. Gold and black embroidery spread outward from the neckline, dancing down her shoulders in the shapes of waves. Towards the sleeves, the wave pattern transitioned to flames. 

Rhaena entered behind her. 

“What do we think?” She asked. She grabbed her sister’s shoulders and made her spin around so Rhaenyra could see the full dress. 

“I feel underdressed,” Rhaenyra joked, sitting in her cotton nightgown. Baela and Rhaena laughed, and Rhaenyra felt her heart melt. She got up from her bed, and tugged a little on the collar of Baela’s dress, adjusting it so it sat evenly across her shoulders.

“Rhaena and I thought this was the best choice for the wedding,” she said. There was a hint of nervousness in her voice that Rhaenyra had never heard before. “Do you like it?”

“You look lovely, Baela,” Rhaenyra said softly. “I think it is perfect.”

Baela and Rhaena exchanged pleased smiles with each other. Rhaenyra was struck, suddenly, by the depth of her love for them. Her heart ached. She cupped Baela’s face and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then to Rhaena’s. 

“Rhaenyra?”

She felt her eyes prick at Baela's soft expression of concern. She had Daemon’s smile. She had Laena’s eyes. 

“Your mother would be so proud of the young women you’ve grown into,” she said quietly. “I am as well.” She looked between them, and ran a hand over Rhaena’s arm. “Your father, your mother, your uncle Laenor, I loved each of them dearly. You’re the very best of them.” 

Baela’s lip quivered. She held Rhaenyra’s gaze. Rhaena couldn’t. She had to look away. Rhaenyra reached out and tucked a lock of Rhaena’s hair behind her ear, and it made Rhaena want to cry cause it was the same thing her mother would once do.

Rhaenyra swallowed. 

“Girls like us, we- we live in the memory of our mothers. And we hold that grief in our chest and we never let it go. It lives with us, it drives us, and holds us back, all at once. We grow into our grief. Our anger becomes a part of who we are. I see my mother in myself and then I see in myself everything she was not. And I find myself trying to choose between becoming my mother and becoming anything but her.” She reached out, cupped Rhaena’s chin, begging her and Baela to understand. “You don’t have to choose. There is no right answer- nothing will condemn you to her fate and nothing will spare you from it. Just be as you are— that is the only option.” 

Baela bit her cheek to stop her eyes from stinging and nodded softly. Rhaena just stared achingly at her.

And what a mother I’ve been, Rhaenyra thought guiltily. She had hardly seen her children in the time they had been back at the Red Keep. When was the last time she had hugged Luke? Who was making sure Joffery was sleeping? Was Jace stressed? The last time she had spoken alone with him was the morning he was crowned heir. His hands had trembled nervously and she had held them until they were steady, until he had let his head fall against her shoulder and admitted he was scared. 

She looked at Laena’s girls in front of her now and everything she had ever done came back to haunt her. How much had they lost, because of her? Did they think she and Daemon had killed Laenor as well? How could they possibly look at her like that if they did? 

Rhaena reached out, taking Rhaenyra’s hand gently and Rhaenyra melted completely. She wrapped her arms around Rhaena, engulfing her in a hug. 

“I love you girls so much,” she said. She looked at Baela, over Rhaena’s shoulder. “If, even for a moment, you realize you do not want this, you would tell me, yes? I would call off the wedding in an instant. I’d send you girls back to your father or grandmother if you wanted.”

Baela shook her head. 

“I want this, Rhaenyra,” she said carefully, and she was the very image of Laena when she said it. “I want to marry Jace. I want to be Queen someday.”

Rhaenyra wished she could be as sure as Baela sounded. Surely, she had sounded the same when she was just ten-and-six. But then, what had she known then?  

Rhaena looked up at her, nodding softly in agreement with her sister. Rhaenyra sighed softly. She let go of Rhaena but looped her arm through hers like she had with Laena so many times. 

“Let us find Jace, then,” She told them, “and show him the dress. I wish to see him fawn over his future bride.”

___________________________

Aemond watched his youngest nephews crawl around the room, stumbling over their own tiny limbs. He grabbed Aegon moments before the toddler tried to climb into the fireplace. 

“Careful little dragon,” he said, scooping him up. “It is a myth that Targaryens do not burn.” 

He always spoke in High Valyrian to them. Aegon babbled back at him. Aemond felt a small smile grace his lips and was glad no one was there to see it. Aegon’s small fingers played at his long hair. 

“They’ll call you Aegon the Endearing,” he joked. Across the room, Viserys was trying to rip apart the seams of a rug. “And clearly they will not call you Viserys the Peaceful.”

The child looked up at him with wide, wet eyes. Aemond sighed affectionately and scooped him up as well. Viserys began to rip at his hair instead. 

“There is no need for that,” he grunted, shifting the children awkwardly in his arms.

“I’ve never seen a man so taken by babes that weren’t his own,” a voice said. Aemond spun around to see Anya standing in the doorway, watching him with a smirk. “In fact, I’ve hardly ever seen a man so fond of children at all.” 

Aegon sighed at her and handed her Viserys, if only so he wouldn’t lose any more hair. She took him carefully, resting Viserys on her hip.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” he said. Anya laughed, leading him to a couch. She settled into it with Viserys. 

“I don’t remember needing your permission to give it,” she responded. Aemond enjoyed her sardonic attitude too much to remind her that as a servant she did, in fact, need his permission. He sat down beside her, letting Aegon play with his hands. Anya watched him. 

“Why do you?” She asked. Aemond frowned. 

“Do I what? Care for a pair of lonely children?”

“They have half a dozen maids paid to raise them.” 

“And not a single one of them are Targaryen. They deserve to be raised by their own. Someone who can teach them what means to be the blood of the dragon.” 

Anya watched him curiously.

“Every Targaryen of centuries past was raised by their maids,” she said. Aemond’s lip curled. 

“Then I shall rectify that,” he hissed. He was surprised by the truth in his own words; surprised as well by the anger behind them. Where had his father been, to show him what it meant to be a Targaryen? To show Aegon that power was more than just an excuse to drink and fuck? To show Helaena what it meant to be a Dreamer? 

When he returned home, he promised himself, he would make sure Helaena’s children got a proper education.  

Was that what Aemond was doing here, with Daemon? Trying to find someone to be to him what Viserys never was? He had once thought Daemon the epitome of a Targaryen. But he had found Daemon was a sullen man who would not father his children, who could not provide enough for his wife, who studied only the blade and not who forged it. 

Anya must have realized she hit a nerve. She changed topics. 

“My brother made port last night. He had some information to pass along.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow at her. He listened as she told him that Otto had arrived in Oldtown and taken a place in his brother’s court, that Alicent had been made Hand by Aegon, that Joanna Beesbury, Ivar’s lover, had grown resentful towards the Hightowers since Lord Beesbury's murder. That as Hobert’s ward, she was pleased to spy against him. 

He was surprised, as well, to hear that Criston Cole was still working for the Queen. He had suspected that Rhaenyra would dismiss him as soon as possible. And that lower-born Velaryons had been visiting Oldtown. That Velaryons fleets were being restructured, but no apparent order by The Sea-Snake or Rhaenys had been issued to do so. 

It all screamed of something terribly suspicious, Aemond thought. He took in the information carefully, figuring he would wait to see how it played out. 

He was curious, as well, as to who was Ivar’s inside man to the Red Keep. And who among the Velaryon shipmen was passing information to Ivar.

Aemond had stumbled, he realized, across a web of intelligence gathering far greater than he had known. 

___________________________   

Luke stared up at the ceiling of his bed-chamber. He was feeling short of breath. Like there was a hole somewhere in his lung, and no breath could properly get him the air he needed to think straight. 

He felt awful. He hated how stupid he felt. What was wrong with him? It was happening more and more often. It had started, today, during supper. He watched Aegon throwback drinks and his mother cast unreadable glances at Alicent, and Helaena pick at her food. Daeron had offered him a sympathetic smile from across the table, which had made him weirdly nervous, and Jace and Baela had gone on and on about wedding plans. He might have thought to talk to Rhaena about it but she seemed unusually drawn in on herself lately. And he meant to ask her what was wrong but the words had caught in his throat. She would tell him, right, if she wanted him to know? So he had sat there, watching the world seemingly spin around him, slow enough for him to notice everything but too fast for him to understand any of it. And his palms had begun to sweat, and his throat felt tight. And the feeling hadn’t faded, even after he had slipped away to his quarters after supper.  

He felt frustrated tears prick his eyes. He got up from his bed, paced the length of his room, over, and over, and over again. He dug his fingers underneath the bed of his nails until they stung, until he got that inkling of relief from the pain and thought shamefully of Alicent cleaning his fingers. He looked down and saw blood pooling around his nail bed. Hot tears stung his cheeks. It was getting harder to breathe. What if his mother saw his scarred fingers? Jace? What if Corlys Velaryon saw it and realized how weak he was? That he wasn’t fit to be heir to anything? And why had his mother’s eyes looked red at dinner? Had she been crying? Was something going on that he didn’t know about? Why wasn’t she sitting next to Alicent like she normally was? Rhaenyra had sandwiched herself between Rhaena and Jace. Had Alicent seemed anxious?

Luke tried to sit down on his bed again, tried to let his mind go blank, but there was an awful, crushing feeling in his chest that wouldn’t go away. He felt a sob rise in his throat. This was so stupid! He could go to Rhaena now but what if she wasn’t there? What if it was just Baela there, and then he would have to try to explain to her? And if he went to his mother? Then should would worry about him, which would make him more worried. But didn’t Alicent say his mother helped her? Maybe she could help him? 

He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t breathe. He shoved his way out of his bedroom and down the corridor, but found himself passing his mother’s quarters and following a staircase upstairs. 

He stood outside Alicent’s door, not really sure what he was doing. Would she be angry at him? What if she was already asleep? 

There was Kingsguard there, watching him. Luke thanked the gods it was Ser Westerling and not Criston Cole. 

“Can I help you, Young Prince?” he asked eventually. Luke looked up at him nervously, wiping at his damp eyes. 

“I- Is she in there? Can I knock? I need to speak to her.”

He could hear the shake in his own voice, and found himself thankful when Ser Westerling seemed to understand his distress, knocking gently on the door for him. 

“Come in,” they heard from inside. Luke froze. 

“Go on, lad,” Westerling urged. 

“Sorry,” Luke said, slipping in the door. 

Alicent was sitting at a table by the light of a fire, reading a thick letter. She looked up, stopping in confusion at Luke in her doorway.

“Lucerys?” 

He shifted nervously, playing with his hands, letting out a trembling breath.

“I uh- did not know who else to go to—,” he felt his face flush and eyes well up with tears. Alicent’s confusion softened into concern. She got up from the table, held him gently by the shoulders. “Sorry,” he breathed, wiping at his eyes, trying to pull himself together. 

Alicent took his hand and guided him over to the stone steps separating her bedroom from the entryway. 

“Sit, here, on the ground,” she told him. Luke sat, and Alicent sat down beside him. It reminded her of when Helaena was young, and she would listen to explain some peculiar bug on these same steps. 

It was oddly calming, Luke found, to sit on the ground. His breathing steadied as he pressed his palms flat against the stone floor. It was cold and solid, and he felt less shaky as Alicent reach over, rubbing soft circles on his back. 

“What happened, Lucerys?” Alicent asked. Luke stared at his feet.

“I—,” his voice cracked, “I can’t breathe again. I- something is wrong with me. I can never breathe,” he said quietly. Hot tears formed in his eyes again. 

Alicent felt her heart break. His face was flushed with shame and it struck a sympathy so deep in her it was unraveling. This was Rhaenyra’s little boy. Their similarities were so potent now, she could see Rhaenyra’s tearful expressions in his. She wanted, suddenly, to protect him as if he were her own son.  

She took his hand, squeezed it tightly.

“Nothing is wrong with you Lucerys, nothing. Look at me,” he did, red-eyed, “Nothing is wrong with you.” She cupped his chin, saw young eyes that could have been her own staring desperately back at her. “You and I, we are just extra sensitive to nerves. We’re very susceptible to the emotions of the people around us, and they weigh on us, building our lungs until there’s no space for air. It’s not your fault.”

Luke let out a trembling breath. Alicent could feel every moment of shame,— over her bloody nails and quickened heartbeat and breathless nerves,— rise back into her throat. Decades of hating herself something for she couldn’t control. Of feeling frozen and powerless against the world around her. 

“It’s not your fault,” she said again. It was Luke, this time, that squeezed her hand. He was watching the way her damp eyes flickered. He swallowed. 

“I’m so scared, all of the time,” he admitted.

“I am scared as well.” 

Alicent rubbed his back softly. She could feel the shake in his breathing, the stiffness in his posture; that the panic in him hadn’t faded.  

“When did it start, sweet boy?” She asked. He wiped sweaty palms against his trousers. 

“Today?” She nodded. “Supper, I suppose,” he said. “Everyone was talking but— I couldn’t concentrate on it, I couldn’t even hear it.” He closed his eyes. “I feel like I’m dying,” he said quietly. Alicent felt him tremble, could picture with perfect clarity that feeling; that awful, illogical, woundless dying. What had ever calmed her? 

Rhaenyra’s hands, she thought. The ground. Her son securely in her arms. The deep snores of her husband, asleep. Her father’s laughter, unaggressive. The 7-pointed star hanging around her neck. 

“You are not dying,” Alicent reassured him softly, “it’s just your mind trying to trick you. Think about the last time this happened,” she squeezed his shoulder, “the feeling will fade. Take a deep breath, hold it. It’s like an illness. It will pass.”

He took a deep, shaking breath. Let it go slowly. Let his fingers rest around his own throat and found the feeling of his own breathing grounding.   

Alicent watched him and felt the nervousness in her own chest settle. He would be okay, she told herself. Tonight, he would be okay. 

Carefully, Alicent got up. Luke looked up at her in worry. 

“Where are you going?” He asked. He hated the childish fear that spilled out of his voice. 

“Nowhere, sweet boy. Keep breathing. I’m here.”

He did as Alicent said, watching as she poured a cup of water from a pitcher left on the windowsill. She sat back down next to him and handed it to him. 

“Thank you,” Luke said softly. Alicent offered him a small smile. 

“Drink,” she told him. “Slowly.”

He visibly calmed, sipping his drink slowly, breathing in between. She had never had to do this when any of her children. Maybe she should have. Maybe if she had sat with Aegon more often, or let Aemond cry without stopping him, something wouldn’t feel so broken. 

Or was a certain amount of distance between Mothers and their sons inevitable? Why was Lucerys here, instead of sitting on Rhaenyra’s floor?  

“I don’t suppose you’ve talked to your mother about this? Your nervousness?” She asked. Luke glanced up at her. 

“No,” he said. “I— I cannot. She wouldn’t understand.” He looked away again. “She’s— The Queen. Even before she actually was. I don’t think she ever is scared.”

Alicent felt a pang of understanding. She nudged Luke by the chin. 

“Everyone gets scared. Your mother as well.” She played with her hands, looking for the right words. “I know, as well as anyone, how easy it is to believe Rhaenyra is someone- larger than life. ‘Closer to Gods than Men’ is the Targaryen saying, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never felt like a god,” Lucerys said. Alicent chuckled softly. 

“Rhaenyra hasn’t either, I promise. She just wears confidence well. Don’t let it intimidate you, Lucerys— I know Rhaenyra, she would want to help you.”   

“What if she can’t?”

Alicent sighed kindly. 

“Your mother has helped me.”

Luke looked up at her. 

“Did you tell her? About the nervousness?”

“Eventually. We were close, as girls, you know?” He nodded. “When I had first moved here, Rhaenyra and I were only of ten years. The week I arrived, my father and I had supper with Rhaenyra’s family. My father had spoken very- sternly, with me before we dined, and the entire supper I couldn’t breathe. I could feel myself talk but it felt out of my control. I must have looked ready to cry, and at some point, Rhaenyra asked if we could be excused from supper to play. She dragged me upstairs by the hand and asked—,” Alicent smiled fondly—, “why I looked like I needed a hug. I was scared at the time, so I told her I didn’t, that I was fine. Rhaenyra told me to sit down on the rug and tell her about Oldtown. Describe every detail I could remember from living there. So I told her about limestone walls, and the creak in the floorboards, and the window that would whistle when the wind passed through it. I told her of the smell of the bakery and the path to the Starry Sept and which cousins I hated. By the time I was done, I wasn’t breathless anymore, and Rhaenyra had listened carefully through the whole thing. I don’t know how she knew it would help, only that she was intuitive like that.” 

Luke smiled a little, trying to picture his mother and Alicent as children, and not the world they encompassed now grown. Alicent continued. 

“She caught on quickly, but I never spoke much about it for a while. When we were younger than you are now, ten-and-two perhaps, we had schooling with a few other children from the King’s court. One morning, the Septa had yelled at one of the other children, and afterward, I couldn’t breathe or think, and it was so bad I thought I was dying. Rhaenyra saw my bleeding nails and told the Septa I was ill and got us excused. She took me out to Weirwood tree in the Godswood and we lay down in the grass, and she held my hand for hours until my I stopped shaking. She told me to explain the feeling, and I told her it felt like bricks had been set across my chest,  I was breathing through a thick cloth. That almost always, the nervousness would sit inside me, but sometimes, it would overcome me completely. After that, we started sitting beneath the Weirwood regularly. Rhaenyra must have made it her duty to find what calmed me. Letting me read out loud to her helped. Sitting on the ground, drinking water, physical contact. Anything that made me laugh.” Alicent squeezed Lucerys’s arm. “I’ve never met someone capable of so much compassion as your mother. You should consider telling her.”

Luke stared at Alicent. Over, and over again he found her to be different than he had thought. She had wanted to carve out his eye once. Now she was sitting on the floor, comforting him with stories from his mother’s childhood. 

The question spilled out of him before he could stop it. 

“What happened?” Luke asked. He looked nervously at Alicent. “Between you and my mother? When did you stop caring for each other?”

Alicent felt her heart stutter in her chest. How could she possibly begin to tell him? About the grief and the bitterness and the guilt? 

And had they stopped? Had there ever, in her whole life, been a moment Alicent had stopped loving Rhaenyra? Even when she had taken a dagger against her, all Alicent had really wanted was for Rhaenyra to admit she was right. She had wanted to hear, from Rhaenyra’s own voice, that everything she had done meant something. That she was still someone beyond the King’s wife. That Rhaenyra could still see her. 

And a couple of days ago, Rhaenyra had hugged her tightly; gripped her hands until she felt in control again after her father’s departure. After all these years, Rhaenyra was still an anchor. 

“I don’t believe we ever stopped caring,” Alicent told Lucerys, “But our situation grew complicated when I married the King, and our feelings with it." She smiled kindly "Still, we are not beyond love.”

Love. Luke had grown anxious watching the glances Rhaenyra had thrown Alicent over supper. But he could picture them now, and the softness in them that he had missed before. Rhaenyra had been staring at Alicent fondly, he realized. With affection. With love.     

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Rhaenyra was reading a thick letter when Alicent entered the parlor the next morning. She was sitting on the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, pouring over the parchment with a deep frown, too focused to notice when Alicent walked in. It was a childish position, utterly un-queenlike, and Alicent wanted to scoff at the sight but found that she could only summon affection. The way Rhaenyra’s hair fell forward into her face and a crease grew between her eyebrows while she read was quite endearing, Alicent had to admit. As girls, Rhaenyra had never been as dedicated to her studies as Alicent, but when something had caught her interest, she would be so absorbed in it she would forget all else. 

Alicent sighed a little in defeat and turned instead to the display of breakfast foods. She piled two plates with breads, cheeses, and fruit before approaching Rhaenyra. 

“Good Morning, my Queen,” she greeted gently. Rhaenyra looked up, her frown melting into a soft smile. 

“Morning, Alicent,” she said, staring up at her kindly. Alicent held out a plate for her. 

“Have you eaten?”

“Oh, no I forgot,” she said, taking the plate, “thank you.” 

“I figured you might have,” Alicent said, grinning a little. She sat down beside Rhaenyra, so close their arms brushed. She pointed to the letter Rhaenyra had discarded on the table beside them. “What is that?”

Rhaenyra sighed unhappily, taking a large bite of bread, chewing slowly before she answered. 

“Several letters. One is intel, from one of Rhaena’s sources.” She took another bite, ignoring Alicent’s questioning look at the prospect of Rhaena’s spying. “The other is a letter her source intercepted between Storm’s End and Oldtown.” 

“And they write of what?” Alicent asked. Rhaenyra, mid-chew, offered her a worried frown. She set down her plate. 

“Both give the impression that House Baratheon is losing faith in The Iron Throne, and placing their loyalty in the hands of Oldtown and Highgarden. The Hightower’s influence is expanding well beyond The Reach, into the Stormlands. One of Lord Borros’s daughters is even being married off, to a Tyrell boy,” Rhaenyra explained. Alicent’s eyebrows drew together. 

“That’s troubling,” she said. Rhaenyra nodded unhappily. 

“It gets worse. Rhaena’s informant writes that iron, timber, and salt exports from the Stormlands are being redirected towards Oldtown instead of Kingslanding. Highgarden is essentially buying them out. And most troubling, perhaps, is that these resources are being used to make more armor, ships, and army rations.”

Alicent stared at her. 

“Those are all wartime materials,” she said. “They’re expanding their military capability, and weakening ours. We get half our iron from the Stormlands.”

Rhaenyra grimaced, nodding.  

“If Oldtown fleets ever set up a blockade on trade between here and the Iron Islands, we would have nearly nothing. If the Houses of The Reach and The Stormlands decided, one day, to stop allowing grain shipments into Kingslanding, our citizens and armies would starve. We might have the Westerlands, the Lannisters would take our side, but for how long? If we are poor and desolate they will quickly realize that by joining forces with House Tyrell, Hightower, and Baratheon, they could annex King’s Landing and take the Iron Throne for themselves.” She sighed heavily. “We have dragons, of course, but…”

“The damage would be immeasurable,” Alicent finished. Rhaenyra looked up at her, playing with her hands in her lap. Alicent felt frustration bite at her. It must have shown on her face because Rhaenyra looked at her questioningly. 

“What is the matter?”

Alicent glanced away. 

“Nothing,— I just… I shouldn’t be the last to learn about this. I am your Hand. If you have a Master of Whispers they should be passing this information to me, so that I might then inform you.”

“Rhaena is not a Master of Whispers. She’s my daughter, so she brought the information straight to me,” Rhaenyra snapped. 

“Then make her part of your court! Make her Master of Whispers. If you are going to be Queen you cannot do everything informally, under the table, and only within your own family. I am tired of being undermined,” Alicent said angrily. Their children, scattered around the parlor, were turning to stare. Alicent lowered her voice. “You still don’t trust me,” she accused. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes flickered with irritation. For a moment, she looked ready to get up and leave, but her gaze caught on the plate Alicent had given her, and her anger stuttered in her throat. She took a deep breath, and reached out, grasping Alicent’s forearm gently in hands. 

“I am sorry. It wasn’t my intention to undermine you, I swear it,” she said. She held Alicent’s gaze, watching the anger drain from her eyes. “I am far too used to doing everything that way, on Dragonstone and even here. I could never trust my Father’s court. But I trust you, Alicent, I do. You have my complete faith.”

Alicent felt her heart ache. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly. Rhaenyra squeezed her arm affectionately.

“We haven’t exactly rebuilt the Small Council. I’ll ask Rhaena about serving on it. We need a new Master of Coin and Law as well. When you have candidates whom you see fit, I will elect them,” Rhaenyra said. Alicent took Rhaenyra’s hand and held it tightly, eyes flickering between her purple-grey eyes.

“We do need to do something about that, as well,” she said, glancing at the letters. “Borros’s disloyalty cannot be allowed to fester.”

“That man never liked me,” Rhaenyra sighed, rolling her eyes. “His father, Lord Boremund, hated my guts. He would have loved to see the day my throne was usurped.”

Alicent remembered how Rhaenyra had stared down Boremund in the Great Hall, young and ethereal, until he had taken the knee. It had been her first small victory. Alicent had enjoyed the smug glint in her eyes; had wanted to grin back at her. 

“You put a Baratheon in his place once before,” she said, offering Rhaenyra a cheeky smile. Rhaenyra laughed, leaning a little into her, bumping shoulders with affection. But her smile faded after a moment. 

“I am afraid marching into Storm’s End myself and demanding his respect would only seem desperate and weak,” she said. Alicent nodded in agreement. “I thought about sending Aegon, but…” she trailed off, glancing across the room to where Aegon sat, looking miserable and slightly drunk already. Alicent shifted. 

“No, that is probably not the best idea,” she admitted. 

“I could send Jace as envoy, it would be a very quick trip on Vermax, but I worry about his safety. He’s my heir, they might kill him. If I could send someone with him, maybe one of your children,— he might like Daeron, but,” Rhaenyra waved her hand around hopelessly, feeling unsure. Alicent stared across the room, where Daeron was sitting on a rug, playing with Helaena’s children. She had a horrible idea. 

“What if I went?”

“What?” Rhaenyra stared at her blankly. Alicent picked at her fingers. 

“Borros and I always got along, in the times we met at the King’s banquets. Boremund liked me as well, always saw me as the ideal wife for Viserys. If he’s sympathetic towards the Hightowers, I might as well remind him that I am one. I could negotiate with him.” 

Rhaenyra chewed her lip. 

“I hate that that’s a decent idea,” she said. “And if I sent you and Jace both, my Hand my Heir, and Targaryen and Hightower, it might actually work. If you are not riding Vermax then I could send you with some Kingsguard as well…” she trailed off in thought. Unconsciously, she took Alicent’s hand between her own, playing with her fingers gently. Alicent felt her stomach twist, drawn in Rhaenyra’s casual affection. She felt a flush creep up her neck. 

“It’s barely more than a day’s ride on the Kingsroad,” she said, if only to have something to say. “If we left on the morrow we could be back in less than a week.”  

Rhaenyra studied her softly. She squeezed Alicent’s fingers. 

“Do you think it’ll work?” She asked. Alicent shrugged a little. 

“We’ll need to have something to offer him. Borros is dumb as rocks, but he’s not naive. A reminder of his father’s oath alone will not sway him. We’re competing with the riches of the Tyrells.”

Rhaenyra frowned, nodding a little. If only she could send a dragon rider to torch half of Storm’s End instead. Gold suddenly wouldn’t seem that important in comparison to the privilege of being left alive. She could send forces to occupy the Stormlands, but that would leave their defenses stretched thin. She could kill Borros and let Daemon seat his throne. Or let Corlys Velaryon’s fleets take it; her son would inherit it eventually anyway. It was hard to picture Lucerys sitting Corlys’s throne one day. He was such a sweet boy.  

Rhaenyra closed her eyes tightly. Her father would hate to see her like this. Dreaming up the most violet answers to problems that, with work, could be solved peacefully. She felt her face burn a bit in shame. 

“‘Nyra,” Alicent said gently, noticing the change in her demeanor. Her hand was on Rhaenyra’s thigh. Rhaenyra wanted to move closer to her. Or father away. She wanted to be encompassed fully by Alicent’s forgiving touch. “We’ll figure something out,” she reassured.

Rhaenyra opened her eyes; stared back at Alicent. 

Before she could stop herself, she reached out and cupped her hand around Alicent’s jaw for a moment far too brief. 

“This would be impossible if it weren’t for you,” she said, “Thank you.” 

By this, she meant: everything. Everything would be awful if it wasn’t for Alicent, here, supporting her. The look in Alicent’s eyes was so achingly soft that Rhaenyra had to stand up from the couch before she might puke. 

“I- uh, I have to take care of some things,” Rhaenyra said, flushing a little. “Can we meet later, to talk about the plan for the morrow? I’ll summon Jace as well.”

“Of course,” Alicent said. She reached out, grasped Rhaenyra’s hand for a moment. “I’ll talk to the Kingsguard and the servants and get them to prepare for travel.”  

Rhaenyra offered her a thankful smile and left, only stopping to tousle Joffery and Luke’s hair on her way out. 

She couldn’t look at Alicent any longer. Some aching emotions were resurfacing and she didn’t have time to ponder them, Rhaenyra decided. She had to get out of there. Had to think about their next steps. 

She understood her own father so well now. He had never liked politicking. All he had ever wanted was to live in a small castle with wide hunting grounds and open sky, where he could be content to spend his days studying history and raising his children with Aemma. What Rhaenyra wouldn’t give to have that now. 

——————————————

“Fuck! This is impossible!”

Rhaenyra slammed the book she working from closed and threw her quill down, watching ink splatter across the floor where it landed. 

Alicent looked up at her. They were barely ten-and-four, and Rhaenyra hated the way Alicent’s beautiful face drew together into an expression of concern— the type of concern one gives a child after watching them get frustrated with a simple task. Rhaenyra felt her face flush. 

“It’s not impossible, you’ve just made a mistake,” Alicent chided gently. She reached for Rhaenyra’s leaf of parchment. “Here, let me see your work.”

Rhaenyra lunged forward, snatching it back from under her fingertips.   

“No, it’s fine, I’ll figure it out,” she snapped. “It doesn’t even matter.”

Alicent tilted her head a little, raising her eyebrows skeptically at Rhaenyra. She held out her hand expectedly.

“Nyra, just let me see. I can help you. You’ve probably just skipped a step.” 

Reluctantly, Rhaenyra handed over her paper. Her face was warm, and her eyes damp in frustration. Or shame. She looked away so that she wouldn’t have to watch the way Alicent’s eyes danced along the page, studying her work. Alicent looked gorgeous in the evening light streaming in through the windows, which turned her copper hair gold. She chewed lower her lip while she read in a way that made Rhaenyra’s heart ache, although she couldn’t fully explain why.

Rhaenyra stared at the floorboards. 

“I am not stupid I swear it,” she said, in a voice that came out far more small than she had meant it. “I just don’t understand Maths. There’s no point anyways,” she waved her around, “I’ll never have to use them. I’m The Princess. Somebody will always be there to do it for me.” She braved a glance up at Alicent and felt her heart break at the disappointment in her eyes.

“I’m good at other things!” She felt a need to defend herself now. “You’ve seen it! I’m fluent in several languages! And I only need to hear a history once to know it like the back of my own hand! I could probably name every town in Westeros, along with their ruling Lord, their most significant trade, and their past conflicts!”

Alicent’s eyebrows drew together. 

“‘Nyra, I never—,”

She was cut off when the library doors swung open with a loud bang. A Kingsguard and several palace soldiers were standing in the doorway, swords drawn. Rhaenyra stood. 

“Princess, Thank Heavens!” Ser Westerling called out upon seeing her. He rushed inside, taking both girls quickly by the arms. Rhaenyra squirmed a little in his grasp. 

“Ser? What is the meaning of this?”

“Apologies my Grace,” he said, tugging them along, “but there’s been a breach of palace security by an unknown amount of attackers. In here, now,” he said. He pressed open a small panel in the bottom of a shelf, which clicked open, revealing a small space behind the wall, about the size of a broom closet. “Inside, now!” He said again. Rhaenyra glanced at Alicent and then gave her a gentle push towards it, before crawling inside behind her. Ser Westerling leaned down to look inside the opening. “I’m sorry my ladies, but you’ll have to remain here until it’s safe. I’ll be close,” he told them, before closing the panel and leaving them alone in complete darkness.  

It was quiet suddenly, except for Alicent’s shaky breathing. Rhaenyra found her hand in the dark. She gripped it tightly. 

“Alicent?” She asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said, the tremble in her voice betraying her. She was squeezing Rhaenyra’s hand so tightly Rhaenyra thought she might lose a few fingers— but she didn’t pull away. She let her other hand float around in the dark until she found Alicent’s chin. She cupped her palm to her cheek, which was warm and a little damp with tears. She rubbed her thumb gently against her cheekbone. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” she reassured, ignoring her own worry. Was her father alright? Her mother? At least she knew where Alicent was. “The Kingsguard will find them quickly— it’s pretty stupid to break into a castle.” 

“Right, of course,” Alicent said, clearly very not convinced, but trying— for Rhaenyra’s sake. 

It wasn’t a large space. There was enough room for both of them to stand, turn, or sit, but not much else. Even with both their backs to a wall, they were well inside of each other’s arm’s reach. 

Rhaenyra slid down the wall, resting on the floor and tugging her knees to her chest so that Alicent could sit across from her. Their knees still bumped. Alicent still held Rhaenyra’s hand.

“I just hate the dark,” Alicent said, to the darkness. Rhaenyra knew this. There was always a candle lit in Alicent's bedroom, even in the middle of the sleeping hours. Rhaenyra played with her fingers gently. 

“I don’t,” she said. “It’s peaceful. It’s safe— in it’s own way.”

“But you can’t see anything. You have no idea what’s near you.”

“That’s not true, you can still follow your other sense. I can feel the wall, and the stone floor, and some cobwebs. I can hear your breath. I can feel your hand in mine. I know exactly what’s near me.” She pressed Alicent’s hand to her own chest. “You know I’m here. And it’s safe because no one else does.”

Alicent’s breath hitched. She could feel Rhaenyra’s heartbeat. 

Rhaenyra let their hands fall back into the space between them. The dark was safe because Alicent couldn’t see her flush. It was safe because she couldn’t see the way Alicent’s eyebrows had drawn together.   

They fell quiet. 

It was a while till either of them spoke. Alicent broke the silence. 

“For the record, I don’t think that you are stupid.”

“What?”

“You said before, when we were doing Maths.” She shrugged in the dark. “I get it. Numbers are sometimes nonsensical. And if you don’t feel you need to know them, it doesn’t make it any easier.” 

Rhaenyra let out a shaky sigh, letting her forehead fall to rest against her knees. 

“But you always look at me like that. And I just—,” she trailed off. 

“Look at you like what?”

“Like— like that! I don’t know-,” her voice cracked. She felt hot tears burn her eyes. “It makes me feel useless,” she said. Alicent heard the rawness in her voice. 

“Are you crying?” She asked. Rhaenyra hardly ever cried. Alicent thought she could probably count the number of times she had seen Rhaenyra cry on her fingers. She supposed she couldn’t add this one— she couldn’t see anything.    

“No,” Rhaenyra said, but it was a pointless lie. Alicent squeezed her hand.

“Sorry. I just— I don’t understand why it frustrates you so much. A lot of your arithmetic mistakes are simple to fix once I help you, but you refuse to listen.” 

Her voice was not unkind. Rhaenyra wiped tears from her face with the back of her hand. 

“But you always look so—,” she swallowed, “—disappointed in me.”

There was a small moment of quiet. Rhaenyra sniffled. It was easier to admit in the dark.  

“I’m not disappointed Rhaenyra,” Alicent said, “Certainly not in your mistakes, those are understandable. It’s just…” she trailed off. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me,” Rhaenyra said. She felt Alicent shift, hesitating.  

“Your refusal to try to understand is frustrating,” she confessed. “The entitlement to say that just because you’re The Princess and you can always demand knowledge from the people around you, you don’t have to have it yourself. And— I get it. You’re probably right. You’ll never need to use it yourself. But it’s not about that.”        

Rhaenyra swallowed guiltily, feeling fresh tears grace her cheeks. 

“What, then?”

“Sometimes you talk about how you should be heir, if your father never has a son.”

“I just talk,” Rhaenyra lied, “Of course I support my Uncle’s position.” 

Alicent nodded in the dark, realized she couldn’t see, and squeezed her hand instead. She wouldn’t say this anywhere else for fear of treason, but here, it felt safe.

“No, I agree. I think you should be Queen.” 

Rhaenyra froze. 

“Alicent?” she asked softly. Alicent chewed her lip. 

“I mean it. You’d make a much better ruler than Daemon, or even some son.” Her voice was hushed but sincere. Rhaenyra felt pride bubble in her chest. “But,” oh. Of course it came with a ‘but.’ 

“What?”

“I think if you want to be a good ruler, you have to be willing to explore all knowledge. It’s like you were saying, about the dark. You can’t rely on one sense, or on other people. If you can’t seek information through sight, you can listen, and feel. Maths is the same. It’s not just lines of numbers, it’s another way of gaining information about the world around you. Why limit yourself? Why give that power to someone else?” 

Oh. 

Rhaenyra was starting to understand. Alicent had been disappointed by her attitude, not her work. That made her feel so much worse. She had been letting down Alicent’s hopes in her as queen. She let go of Alicent’s hand so she could press her fingers into her eyes. 

She regretted the act immediately. Alicent had shifted guiltily, thinking Rhaenyra had let go to pull away from her. 

“Sorry, I overstepped,” Alicent said.

“No, no,” Rhaenyra reached out, trying to find her hand again. She couldn’t. She shifted closer, letting her hands rest on Alicent’s shins. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to let go.” 

They needed to touch. It was a lifeline, here, in the dark. A way to communicate what couldn’t be said. A language of touch. Oh. 

“I understand, I think,” Rhaenyra said. “I just never thought of it that way. To me, maths have always been a chore designed to make me feel dumb. But you think of it like a language? A way to communicate knowledge without words. The same way that here, in the dark, we were  speaking a language of touch, communicating what would normally be seen through each other's expressions.”

Alicent found her hand and grasped it. Rhaenyra didn’t have to see her to feel her grin. 

“Yes, exactly. That’s a brilliant way of putting it.” She shifted closer as well and now their legs were entwined in the dark. Rhaenyra let out a breathy laugh. 

“I—,”

They heard a loud bang from outside. Then several more. Rhaenyra felt Alicent go rigid next to her. Rhaenyra could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. Or was it Alicent’s? It didn’t matter. She reached into her cloak, drew from it a dagger and held it tightly to her chest. She turned so that her body would block Alicent’s if someone were to open the small door. 

“Nyra? What are you—,”

“Hush!” Rhaenyra hissed desperately. Alicent fell silent.

They sat like that for a very long time. Muffled noises from outside died down after a while. Rhaenyra could feel Alicent’s knees pressed against her rib cage; her legs hugging Rhaenyra’s sides. Her breath in Rhaenyra’s ear. One of them was trembling. Her fingers were on Rhaenyra’s arms, and then her shoulders, then around her neck, and then her arms again. 

“It’s stopped,” Rhaenyra said eventually, listening intently. “Maybe the guards killed them,” she whispered. She didn’t want to suggest the worst. That maybe the assailants had killed Ser Westerling and the others. She felt Alicent grasp onto her. 

“Don’t leave, we don’t know if it’s safe,” she said shakily. Rhaenyra set the knife down carefully. She let her hands drift until they found Alicent’s; tugged them around her torso. She let her back press against Alicent’s front completely. 

“I won’t.”

Their breathing slowed to rhythm. Rhaenyra let her hands rest on top of Alicent’s. She rubbed gentle circles on the back of Alicent’s hands with her thumbs. Minutes stretched into hours, nearly silent. 

How horrible, Rhaenyra thought guilty, that she liked the feeling. It was easier to do horrible things in the dark. It was easier to hold a knife. It was easier to hold Alicent’s hand. It was easier to say things she shouldn’t.

“I love you.”

The words fell from her, sitting with them in the dark. She heard Alicent’s breath hitch in her ear. Her heart was racing— or was it Alicent’s, pressed against her back? She didn’t know anything anymore. She didn’t know where her body stopped and Alicent’s started. She didn’t know if she was feeling fear towards what was going outside— or what was happening here. In the dark. Where it was safe and yet anything but safe. Of course she loved Alicent, she was her closest companion. But she wasn’t sure anymore where that line fell— was love like that supposed to ache like this?

Hesitantly, Alicent squeezed her arms tighter around Rhaenyra’s stomach. She let her head fall forward, resting her forehead against the back of Rhaenyra’s neck. She pressed a single small kiss to its nape. It was the only word she could find in a world of touch. 

Alicent had kissed her before— on the cheek as a greeting or in a moment of laughter— but never like this. And they had told each other they loved her before— but it wasn’t like this either. Rhaenyra wanted to be consumed by the ache in her chest. She wanted to press further into Alicent. She wanted Alicent to do it again. Not brief pecks like when they were younger. Deliberately. Slowly. Her hair brushing Rhaenyra’s back and her breath on her skin. 

No, no, this was all wrong. Rhaenyra felt shame bubble up inside her. Alicent was her friend, right? Her only friend, really. What was she doing? 

She let go of Alicent’s hand and picked up the dagger again. Alicent kept her fingers against Rhaenyra’s abdomen, letting out a quiet, shaky sigh.

“Surely the Septa will understand if our Maths isn’t finished for tomorrow?” She joked. The tremble in her voice betrayed her nerves. If Alicent heard it she was kind enough to play along. She snorted gently in amusement. 

“Even the Septa would agree ‘hiding from killers’ is a valid excuse, I think,” she said quietly. Rhaenyra laughed softly. 

“You should tell me more, about numbers as a language,” Rhaenyra offered, still trying to change the topic. Alicent tapped her finger against her, raising her eyebrows in the dark.  

“Really?”

“You wanted me to ‘explore all knowledge,’ didn’t you?” 

“Well…yes. But you’ve never taken my advice so fast. Usually it takes a few tries on my part,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra sighed with affectionate exasperation.  

“You were right. You always are. It’ll make me a better leader. Besides, for you, I’d do anything.” 

It was a shame, that neither girl could see how the other’s face flushed at that last remark. Alicent chewed her lip to hold back a small smile that no one would have seen. 

“Are you sure? I am afraid I might… trail on,” she said, laughing guiltily. Rhaenyra flicked her arm teasingly. Truly, she just liked listening to Alicent talk. It didn’t matter about what, but she could try to be interested— for Alicent’s sake. 

“Oh, go on Ali,” she said. “You know I love it.”

Alicent squeezed Rhaenyra in a hug again. 

“Alright, so, recently I read a mathematic philosophy text from a Maester who writes about infinity? Actually, first—how much do you know about infinity?” Alicent asked. Rhaenyra groaned.

They spent a while like that. Outside of time, in the darkness, facing only their own mind and each other’s voice. In the dark it was safe. So safe, that it wasn’t. So safe, that Rhaenyra was pondering ideas that weren’t. 

There was something all too intimate about her drifting asleep, curled up in Alicent’s arms, listening to her talk about profound theories that were far too confusing for Rhaenyra to understand— for it to be safe at all.   

That was how Ser Westerling found them, hours later. Asleep in the dark, facing dangers of their own. He let them sleep a little longer. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was hours that they had spent, holed up in Alicent’s quarters, sitting around a table piled high with parchment. Maps, territory agreements, taxes, marriage records, history texts,— everything Daeron and Luke could dig up from the library regarding the Stormlands had been scattered across the table to be studied in depth. Rhaenyra seemed to have enlisted her entire family for help. 

It was another one of the times which Alicent found she wished Aemond was present. As a young boy, he had often been found in between the stacks of the library. He would have been brilliant at this. 

That damn bastard, Alicent thought, remembering why her son wasn’t here with them. Often, she was consumed by the guilt of Harwin’s blood on her hands. She supposed she wouldn’t feel quite as guilty if it had been Daemon’s. There was perhaps no man she despised more. 

Alicent held back a sigh.  

She glanced up from the text she was staring at, although not really reading. It had been useless anyway. Across from her, Rhaenyra was chewing her lip as she scribbled down numbers on a page. Her hair was down, falling around her shoulders, framing her face softly. Alicent had always liked seeing her like this; in a simple, worn dress, free from the burden of hanging jewelry, letting her knuckles press into her cheek to hold her head up. There would be small red marks on her pale face later, Alicent knew. Her hair had gentle waves in it, remnants of braids abandoned in favor of a comfort more causal; all pretentiousness left disregarded. When a lock of silver hair fell in her face Rhaenyra’s fingers would drift unconsciously to tuck it behind her ear. There was a kindness to the sight that Alicent was drawn to. Free from their positions, free from power and games and crowns and structure— Rhaenyra’s foot bumped hers accidentally beneath the table and she muttered a distracted, sorry- still focused on her work.  

The familiarity of it all made Alicent’s heart ache.

“Want me to check your work?”

Rhaenyra glanced up, caught off guard by Alicent’s playful smile breaking through the quiet of the room.  

“Worried I skipped a step?” She asked. There was a teasing glint in her eyes; a knowing grin. Alicent returned it. 

“Why should I worry? I taught you myself.” 

Rhaenyra laughed. From stone steps and couch cushions, their children watched. A scene from an entirely different time seemed to play out before them. Who were these two women? They seemed not resentful mothers but suddenly innocent girls with juvenile quips and a history that stretched far beyond marriage and children and care-taking and sacrifice. 

“And to think, what sort of queen I would have been if not the one who let a girl of ten-and-four make her cry over maths in a broom closet.” 

“Oh the same, except it would be I at this table, scribbling down tax figures, and you, across from me, admiring me with my hair undone.”

Alicent felt herself flush. She hadn’t meant to admit that but the words had been too tempting.

And Rhaenyra wanted to pause, wanted to soak in the affection of Alicent’s words. She wanted to raise an eyebrow and let herself blush and let the moment be a bit awkward so that Alicent would understand how much she liked hearing it. 

But instead, she just laughed lightheartedly so that the moment would pass quickly and the children would not think much of it. Alicent glanced up at her gratefully. 

“Perhaps you should double check, so that I might have a turn,” Rhaenyra added, quieter this time. She let her fingers brush Alicent’s as she passed her the parchment. 

A million languages, women spoke. Only one of them involved speaking.

Their numbers dwindled as night fell. Rhaenyra sent Luke to bed when she looked over and saw his eyes closing of their own will, a book drooping in his hands. Daeron had grown bored and tired quickly without his company and soon followed suit. Rhaena had seemed entirely distracted— she had been out of sorts for a little over a week now, Rhaenyra had noticed. Was it her business to ask? She supposed not. Rhaena was nearly a woman grown and could come to her if she wanted. Still, she had sent Rhaena to bed as well, first pressing a kiss to her forehead and then thanking her for her help. Rhaena had offered her a small smile in return and left, tucking a piece of parchment into her pocket. Again, Rhaenyra trusted her enough not to ask. 

Helaena was on the couch with Jace and Baela. One of her twins slept in her lap. She had been the one to dig up a record of suspicious withdrawals from the Iron Bank by the House Baratheon, which Alicent had spent the next hour comparing to shipping documentation. Any dirt they could find on Borros would be helpful. Anything they could exploit. 

How lovely it was to have the whole family scattered around the same room all evening, utilizing their various skills to maintain the power of the crown. Alicent couldn’t help but laugh a little at the irony of it all. It was one of those occasions both Otto and Viserys would have laughed with her. 

When Jace had gotten up to sit beside his mother and Alicent to discuss further details of their travel, Baela had abandoned her own search to listen. She had shifted closer to Helaena and carefully undone her braids for her so that Helaena would not have to move and wake the child in her lap. 

“He’ll return with more than he takes,” Helaena said quietly, watching Jace. “What is a man, unbloodied?” 

“A boy, unfit for a woman,” Baela said, finishing the familiar proverb instinctively. Her fingers paused in Helaena’s hair. 

What is a man unbloodied? A boy, unfit for a woman. For a woman reaped blood for boy, he shall reap in return; what is a man who has not taken? A man unbloodied is a man bled. A man dead. Two swords living men wield, both bloodied, one to give life and the other to take. What is The Father without The Smith? The Smith without The Warrior? The Stranger, alone? 

Baela had never liked the full poem, written under the pretense of gospel. But then again, she had never considered herself a woman of scripture. Those who believed had not flown on the backs of Dragons, she thought. 

Then again, Helaena had flown. 

She ran her fingers through from the base of Helaena’s hair to the tips, undoing all the small tangles in their path. What did she mean? 

“He’ll be okay, though, right?” She asked instead. Helaena tipped her head all the way back to look up at her. The sight would have made her laugh fondly in a different moment. Death accompanies Life. That had been the lesson she took away from that poem, the first time she had heard it. That a man’s duty was both in the creation of life and the taking of it. It wasn’t that she disagreed, but that she disliked the portrayal of sex as a means of taking power in the same way killing did. If the sword created life as it took it, was the woman to be the corpse? Or the corpse, the woman? Was the man killed expected to take the same indifference to his fate as the woman was to becoming a mother? Or was the woman to become a mother with the same passion a man held when fighting for his life? Both ideas made her scoff. 

Perhaps she was overthinking it. But then again, poems were meant to be overthought. But what about poems as a reflection of scripture? Gospel was to be obeyed, not debated. That was the Faith told them, anyway. At that too, Baela scoffed. Her grandmother had taught her better.

She was losing track of things. The poem mattered not. What mattered was the small piece Helaena had quoted at her. Dreamers did not speak anything insignificantly. That was what Rhaenyra had told her. 

But Helaena never explained her prophecies, Baela had learned. She simply would not elaborate on herself. It was a trait as frustrating as it was admirable. 

She sighed heavily, squeezing Helaena’s shoulder kindly before settling back down into the couch. She closed her eyes. Rhaenyra looked over at her. 

“Baela, go to bed, my love.”

“But—,”

“Jace, accompany her back and then go pack for the morrow. You’ll be leaving before the sun rises, you ought to get some rest.”

“Yes, your grace.” 

Helaena left not much later, when a maid came to retrieve the sleeping twin. She had bid her mother a goodnight, before following the maid back to her quarters. Alicent had smiled softly watching her leave.              

There was sentiment sitting in her stomach. A sudden gaping love for their family. 

Their family? Alicent wasn’t sure when she had started thinking that way. Maybe it had been watching Baela and Helaena on the couch. Or having Lucerys come to her for advice. Or eating breakfast on the couch beside Rhaenyra in the mornings. 

Rhaenyra was watching her think from across the table. 

“Alicent?” She asked softly. Alicent looked up. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she drained the last of her tea from a cup. “Only tired.”

Rhaenyra knew she should offer to leave. She knew she should say, ‘I’ll let you rest, then’ and bid her goodnight as well.

But she wanted to stay. 

Gently, she took the parchments Alicent was holding from her. 

“We’re not going to get any farther with this tonight,” she sighed. “I have no doubt an opportunity will emerge when you can speak to Borros directly.”

Alicent heard the weariness in her voice; a growing reluctance. She got up from her seat, shuffling the papers into stacks that could be dealt with in the dawn by servants. 

“You sound concerned,” Alicent said. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts on this?” 

 Rhaenyra shifted. 

“Do you blame me? I am sending my son, and my- you- into the house of man disloyal to my authority, with very little of plan.” She sighed shakily. “Perhaps I should just go myself on Syrax. It would be quicker.” 

Alicent looked up at her. 

“The danger is far greater for you. You would be alone with no security, with a man who hates you. He could end the Targaryen dynasty by taking your head, you realize that? In the ensuing chaos, they could take King’s Landing. On the other hand, if he hurt myself or Jace, he knows he would face the wrath of your entire house.” 

“Wrath does not encapsulate what I would do to him,” Rhaenyra said. Alicent chuckled a little. 

“Then why worry? Lord Borros may not be a good man but he knows the value of honor. No harm will come to an envoy, that has always been the Baratheon way.” 

Rhaenyra nodded a little, rubbing at her eyes. She hated this. What was the point of dragons if she could not use them as a show of force? But Alicent was right. 

“Sometimes I regret making you Hand,” Rhaenyra said. “You’re too good at your job.”

Alicent snorted softly in amusement, and Rhaenyra got up to pace. She tread the long carpet back and forth while Alicent seemed to dance around her with more purpose. She was moving around the room, gathering a few dresses and personal items into a trunk. 

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent paused in passing to grip Rhaenyra’s arm. “We are going to be alright. You have more important things to worry about than Borros, anyway. Your son is going to be married.” 

Gods, he was, wasn’t he? Rhaenyra found that she had not properly prepared herself for the thought. What if she was making a mistake, forcing her children to marry? Was she passing all her troubles onto her sons? What other choice did she have? 

She offered Alicent a weak smile and sat down on her bed. Alicent went back to work. A servant could have done all this for her, Rhaenyra thought, but she imagined Alicent had a hard time letting go of those little aspects of control in her life. She felt a sense of guilt grow again her stomach. 

Alicent closed the trunk, sighing heavily. The moon had disappeared from the east windows. It was late, and she would have to rise early on the morrow. She looked over to where Rhaenyra sat on her bed, an expression on her face that Alicent didn’t quite understand. She thought of that morning, of her hand on Rhaenyra’s thigh; of their argument about Rhaena; of their teasing remarks over Rhaenyra’s maths. How often did Rhaenyra think of that day, spent in the dark closet? Did they both long to find that same closeness again? 

Alicent approached her. 

“Can you undo the lace?” She asked.

“Of course.” 

Rhaenyra stood, turning Alicent gently around by the shoulders. Alicent closed her eyes when Rhaenyra’s knuckles brushed her skin. A very old image surfaced in her mind. It was a shameful desire, she reminded herself. A girlish confusion. Nothing good would come of thoughts like those. 

She let her mind go blank, like she had so many times before. She focused on the gentle tug of Rhaenyra's fingers on the laces of her dress, the push and pull, loosening them from their weave. She focused on the action of it, not the feeling.

Rhaenyra’s hands lingered against her waist for a moment when she was done. Alicent felt a hitch in her breath and swallowed it back. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. She stepped carefully out of her dress. 

Rhaenyra adverted her eyes. She wasn’t sure why; Alicent was wearing a simple white chemise beneath it. But she had taught herself to look away as a girl. Nobody could see her watching, she had decided. She sat back down on the bed.    

Alicent watched her, a little surprised by her reluctance to leave. By this hour, Rhaenyra was usually asleep. 

She had determined, when they were young, that Rhaenyra was never very good at asking for comfort. She loved giving it, but only begged for it through her actions, never her words. The Rhaenyra who now sat lightly on the edge of her bed, playing with hands in her lap reminded Alicent of that young girl. 

Alicent sat down beside Rhaenyra, taking her hand, lacing her fingers through Rhaenyra’s. She squeezed her hand tightly. 

“What is the matter, Nyra?” Alicent asked gently. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, and leaned her head against Alicent’s shoulder. To be honest, she wasn’t quite sure. There was simply an ache in her that made her feel a bit empty. 

“It will be quiet here without you,” she said. “What am I to do, without you to keep me sane?”

Alicent laughed a little. 

“Nyra, it will only be several days. You’ll survive, I’m sure.” 

Rhaenyra opened her eyes, stared down at where she and Alicent’s hands fit perfectly together. 

“I suppose I am not very good at being alone,” Rhaenyra admitted. When she voiced the words she realized suddenly the truth in them. Alicent, Laenor, Harwin, Daemon—, even Ser Criston when she was young and angry at the rest of them. She had needed them. Flint needed steel to light a fire. She felt her eyes burn. She really wasn’t very good at being alone, was she? She pressed her fingers into her eyes. 

“I know,” Alicent said. Rhaenyra looked sideways at her. “You have always been that way.”

“Overly attached?” 

“I would not speak of it like that—, like a bad thing. You simply,” she tugged a little on Rhaenyra’s fingers, “have such a willingness to love, and to love completely when you do.”

Rhaenyra swallowed. She thought maybe she could feel Alicent’s pulse in her hand. How much she would have liked to have Alicent’s love, all those years. 

But Alicent had always been too careful with such feelings. She kept her love clutched tightly to her chest. She had learned early on how delicate a thing love was; how careless others were with it. That was not to say she was not warm— Rhaenyra had known no one else with such a capacity for kindness,— but that she was far too skilled at separating her compassion from her true affection. 

For every memory Rhaenyra had of sitting with her her head in Alicent’s lap beneath the Weirwood, there was another lonelier memory, of pacing her room wondering how much of it was real. Surely Alicent loved her? Surely not all her kindness emerged from duty? 

Rhaenyra looked at her. At her tired red eyes and soft hands and patient lips. She could picture on this same bed Viserys, instead of herself. 

Rhaenyra had heard of a type of performance— a street theater that was popular in North Essos—, in which actors would improvise the entire story on the spot. Ideas would be yelled out by the crowd and a lead actor could do anything. The other performers had to go along with it, whatever the situation. They had to build off the world given to them, act inside of its confines and yet expand it as well. They could not say ‘no.’ That was the rule.

A vessel for expectation, without their own want, their own refusal, their own desire. They had to find power only with the powers given to them. 

It had been so much easier, as a girl, to assume Alicent seduced him. To picture her pretty lips and soft words and her mother’s dresses sitting across from Viserys at the table, offering him a drink, offering him a future; offering him a son. 

It was easier to picture because the alternative was far more reprehensible. 

She probably hadn’t needed to say a word, had she? Viserys would have done all the talking. All the doing. And Alicent would have gone along with it, because what else could she do? Dressed by her father in her mother’s gown, ever the vessel for others’ ambitions. What did it matter, what she wanted? Her story didn’t belong to her. She was a woman. Every situation begged sacrifice, and ever the faithful, Alicent would have given it. Maybe if she went along with it, she could have some power, at least. Kindness was a precious currency for a girl. It could buy her a tired safety. A place at court. A decent man. It didn’t have to be real— just good acting. 

She could not say ‘no.’ That was the rule.

Rhaenyra thought she might puke.

“Perhaps I should go, and leave you to rest,” Rhaenyra said shakily. She started to get up. “In the dawn, I’ll—,”

“—No.” Alicent grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Stay.”

“Alicent?”

“Sorry,” she let her fingers drift down Rhaenyra’s arm, back into her hand. “I- uh, I would like you to stay. If you would like.”

“Like when we were girls?” Rhaenyra asked. Alicent smiled softly. 

“Yes, I thought maybe so. I could use the company.”  

In Alicent’s voice was a desire that felt familiar. It was not unlike the shake of her breath on Rhaenyra’s skin when she had kissed her neck, that time hidden in the dark closet. Or beneath the Weirwood, less than a turn of the moon ago, when Alicent had cried “Why them? Why not love me?” Or when, soaking wet from the rain, she had tugged on Rhaenyra’s hands wordlessly for a hug. Or…

“I’ll stay then,” Rhaenyra said. She sat back down, carefully pulling off her leather boots. Alicent blew out a few candles, scattered around the room. She climbed back into bed. Rhaenyra was already wearing a simple shift, having abandoned her own gown early after supper. She lay down beside Alicent, staring up at the canopy. 

How many times had they done this, as girls? It had been nearly ritual. Rhaenyra had set her boots in the same spot she always had. Alicent had blown out the candles going from the ones farthest from the bed to the ones closest. 

The awkwardness, the tension,— it all fell away in the face of familiarity. A history of nights spent sharing the same space, if only to hear each other’s breathing. Sometimes they had gossiped, as girls, late into the night. Other times they had laid in near silence. 

They didn’t need to talk. There was nothing to perform. 

Rhaenyra felt Alicent shift beside her. She rolled onto her side so Alicent could press her forehead gently to her back. Her arm fell gently over Rhaenyra’s waist. 

Rhaenyra closed her eyes and fell asleep.       

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIXTEEN       

Alicent woke to a knock on her chamber doors. 

“Your Grace, The Prince bids you a good morning. He wishes you to know that a wheelhouse can be ready to leave before daylight, if the Queen Mother would like.”

The familiar voice came from the other side of the door. Alicent found herself grateful he had not burst into her quarters. 

“Thank you, Ser Harrold,” she called back, trying to erase the exhaustion from her voice. “Tell him I will not be long.” 

She closed her eyes again, falling back into the warmth beside her. Ser Harrold? He was typically assigned to Rhaenyra. 

Oh, right. 

She peered open, staring at Rhaenyra, who was pressed against her, sleeping quietly. It was only starting to grow light outside. In the bluish morning, her silver hair glowed softly. 

Gods, she really was beautiful, wasn’t she? 

“You’ll be displeased to know that Jace did not inherit my tardiness. He’s unfortunately quite punctual,” Rhaenyra said. Her voice, still raw with sleep, was amused. Alicent felt herself laugh. 

“Sorry, I did not intend to wake you,” she said softly. Rhaenyra rolled over to face her. 

“I can think of worse ways to wake up.”  

Her eyes were so gentle, studying Alicent fondly. Alicent flushed a little. She pressed her forehead into the mattress so that she wouldn’t have to look Rhaenyra in the eyes. 

“Seven save me, I should never have agreed to leave at dawn,” she groaned. Rhaenyra snorted. 

“Oh come now, Alicent. You have always been an early riser.”

“Not anymore. I am old.” 

“Nonsense. You have such youthful beauty,” Rhaenyra teased.

“I am a grandmother, Rhaenyra. Youthful is not the word.”

“Ancient beauty, then.”

“Gods, that is worse,” Alicent sighed. Rhaenyra laughed. Her fingers were in Alicent’s hair, playing with her curls.

“Apologies, I jest,” she grinned. Alicent rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, you think yourself quite witty.” She raised an eyebrow at Rhaenyra. “No wonder we have never needed to appoint a court fool.” 

Rhaenyra burst out laughing. She tugged Alicent closer, burying her face in her shoulder. Alicent felt light. When was the last time she had woken up to anything but cold resentment and worry? 

She wanted, eternally, this. This very moment and nothing else. 

Was there a world where she could have it?  

“I ought to get up,” she sighed, ending that dream before she could truly think on it.

“I will be cold.”

“It is summer, 'Nyra.”

“Oh, it is always summer!” 

Alicent shook her head with fond exasperation and pulled herself out of bed. In all honesty, she still was an early riser, it was only that proximity to Rhaenyra made that habit far less appealing. 

She remembered such problems as a girl; always trying to drag Rhaenyra down to breakfast with her. ‘No, Ali,’ Rhaenyra used to groan. ‘Until the sun is four fingers in the sky, I will not wake.’ And Alicent would sit there on the bed for an hour, her stomach growling, measuring her fingers against the horizon; Rhaenyra tugging her back under the covers. What Alicent wouldn’t give to have such problems now. 

———————————

The sky was beginning to turn pink when they stood at last in the courtyard. 

“Are you worried?” Rhaenyra asked. Alicent thought perhaps she saw the restless tension in her shoulders. 

“Oh, I suppose not,” Alicent sighed, “It is just that…” she trailed off.  

“What?”

“I- er- I’ve never spent much time with Jacaerys. I suspect travel with him may be… uncomfortable.”  

Rhaenyra laughed, squeezing her arm, looking entirely unconcerned. 

“It probably will be uncomfortable, Ali,” she shrugged, amused. “It will be good preparation for him. I worry sometimes I have not prepared him for the reality of being king. Or being married, at that. Life is uncomfortable.” 

They watched him on the other side of the courtyard, directing servants and speaking to the small party of guards that would be traveling with them. He certainly seemed a Prince. She thought sadly of Aegon, probably hungover in his quarters. Aemond, on Dragonstone, studying under Daemon. Helaena, taking care of her twins. And Daeron…

She took Rhaenyra’s hand. 

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” she said, and Alicent suspected she meant it completely.

“Could you watch over my children, while I am gone? I know, they are nearly grown, but I—,”

“—Of course.” Rhaenyra squeezed her hand. She smiled softly. “But in return, might you watch over mine as well? He is a man, sure, but he is still just a boy. He needs guidance.”

Alicent nodded. 

How odd this was. Not long ago, she feared Rhaenyra would put her children to the sword. She thought perhaps Rhaenyra had feared the same.  

Now she found that there was no one she would trust more with their safety.

“Your Grace,” Jace said, approaching them. “Queen Mother. Everything is ready to go.”   

Rhaenyra smiled softly at him. 

“Jacaerys, my love. I have a gift for you, before you go.” 

She pressed a beautiful wooden box into his hands. It was about the size of a large book and was held closed by a gold clasp. Jace stared down at it curiously, his eyebrows drawing together. He looked up at her. 

“What is the occasion?” 

“I had it made as a wedding gift, but I think this may be a better occasion for its use.”

“May I open it?”

Rhaenyra cupped his chin; nodded towards the wheelhouse.  

“Perhaps wait until you are traveling.” She glanced playfully at Alicent. “It might give you two something to discuss.”

Jace ran his fingers over the smooth, polished sides. 

“Of course. Thank you, Mother.”  

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“I love you. Write me at any sign of trouble. Hesitate in discussion, but never in battle. Let Alicent help you. Don’t shove your foot up Borros’s ass unless you absolutely have to. And most importantly—”

“—Do not do anything stupid,” Jace finished for her. “I know this, Mother.” 

“Then you would be the first,” Rhaenyra grinned. She combed her fingers through his fringe. “Perhaps brush your hair on occasion as well.”  

“Oh, alright,” Jace sighed, gently batting her hand away. She laughed a little, kissed his forehead again, straightened his collar, and spoke in High Valyrian.

“I know it’s easier to be bitter but you can learn a lot from Alicent. I made her Hand for a reason. But I expect you will protect her as well, yes?”

“Of course, mother.”

“I love you, little dragon.”

Jace smiled softly at the old epithet.

“I love you too, Muña.”  

He kissed her cheek and made his way to the carriage. Rhaenyra watched him go, swallowing back a sigh. She looked at Alicent. There was a serious look in her eyes that Alicent wasn’t expecting. 

“Nyra?”

“Promise me this one thing,” Rhaenyra said. She took Alicent’s hand in her own. “Promise me you will not give anything to Borros which you do not wish to give. I know you are a widow but swear to me that you will not offer yourself to him. You have given far too much already for this godforsaken throne; I would rather watch kingdoms burn.” 

“Rhaenyra, I would never—,”

“—Ali. Swear it to me.”

Alicent slipped her pinky around Rhaenyra’s, like they had a thousand times as girls. 

“I swear it.”

“Thank you.”

She wrapped her arms around Alicent, enveloping her in a hug. There were words in her mouth that she could not bring herself to say. The sun was rising. It would have been an easier thing to say in the dark. 

“Be safe,” she told Alicent instead. Alicent’s fingers floated up her arm. She leaned forward and kissed her cheek. The world fell away where her lips touched Rhaenyra’s skin. Her nose brushed Rhaenyra’s cheekbone and for a moment it was the only thing she had ever felt. 

“I will not be long. I will see you then.”

She offered Rhaenyra a small smile. Rhaenyra could only nod, squeeze her hand, and watch as she left. 

—————————————————

They spent a while in relative silence. Alicent watched Jace peer out the window panels at the city they never got to see and could not resist her childish urge to do the same. She glimpsed life—hundreds of lives, maybe— between those decorative panels. She wondered vaguely whether they could see her eyes peering out at them; how ominous that was. 

They passed a woman dragging her son by the arm, yelling at him for having gotten in a fight with another boy. But when their wheelhouse approached them, and the armored guards with it, the woman had pulled her son close to her; placing herself in front of him. 

Two girls were playing with dice in the street. An old woman set up a market stand next to them, pilling fruits onto worn wooden boards. A man— her husband, maybe?— carefully counted coins. Men stumbled out of whore houses, blinking drunkenly at the bright pink sky. Women traipsed with baskets and cloth, chatting lively. Boys shoved each other but laughed kindly. The stench of waste was mixed with the smell of fresh bread. A girl in sandals lead a group of bouncing children down towards the ocean. A preacher was giving a sermon from the steps of a dilapidated butcher’s shop. Carts of wheat and rice stumbled over cobblestone. Alicent sighed softly. 

Life was just life, she thought. In whatever world, life never failed to be horribly loving and stunningly cruel.

She settled back in her seat as they left the city behind. Buildings became more sparse and farmland stretched between them. She watched in amusement as Jace slowly lost interest in the outside world and his attention turned towards the polished wooden box on the bench beside him. When he glanced impatiently at it for the fifth time Alicent could not help a small laugh. 

“Go on, open it,” she told him. He looked up at her. 

“Do you know what’s inside?”

“I have an idea,” Alicent said. Jace’s eyes sparkled curiously. He reminded Alicent of Rhaenyra on her Name-days as a young girl. “Open it,” she urged again. 

Carefully, Jace undid the clasp, opening the box like a wide book. 

“Whoa,” he said, staring down in astonishment at the contents. He pulled from it beautifully sculpted dragon figures. There were two sets; one carved from white marble and another from a greenish stone— emerald, or jade maybe. They were chess pieces.

Jace picked up two white ones, studying them carefully. 

“Gods, this is Vhagar!” He said excitedly, holding up the bigger one. He leaned forward, showing it to Alicent. “Look, you can tell from the way her wings curve like that—,” he ran his fingers over the slant of her wings, “—and her face is pointier.” He passed the Vhagar figure to Alicent, squinting at the other. “I think this one is either Meleys or Syrax. Meleys, probably, the neck seems too long to be Syrax.”

Alicent could not help a small fondness, watching his boyish grin as he swept his fringe from his eyes to get a closer look. 

“I think that’s Syrax,” Alicent said. “She has soft eyes.”

Jace looked up at her curiously. 

“You think?” He pressed his thumb delicately to the chin of the small dragon. “You might be right. The legs are too thin to be Meleys too. But I cannot be sure.”

“There’s a note,” Alicent pointed out, noticing the folded parchment tucked against the side of the box. 

“Oh!” Jace plucked it excitedly from its rest. “Ah, this explains their positions, and says the pieces are marked with numerals on the bottom in case we cannot tell them apart.” He turned over the figure in his hand and glanced back at the note. “You were right, this is Syrax,” he grinned. Alicent could not help but smile softly. 

“I would never mistake her,” she teased gently. It was only half a joke. She remembered being ten-and-one with her fingers pressed to Syrax’s snout and Rhaenyra’s arm wrapped reassuringly around her waist. 

She passed Vhagar back to Jace and he began to carefully line them up on the wooden table between them, using the note as his guide. 

He pointed to the biggest one, which he placed in the middle.  

“This is Balerion, Aegon the Conquerer’s steed.” He chuckled a little. “Balerion plays King position, of course.”

“He was your grandsire’s steed as well,” Alicent said, remembering the massive skull that loomed in the catacomb beneath the Red Keep. “Viserys never rode another dragon after him.”

Jace nodded thoughtfully. She was stuck suddenly with an image of Viserys and his limestone dragons, and his massive reconstruction of Old Valyria. Jace looked a little like him, leaning over his figurines with concentration.  

He placed Vhagar beside Balerion. 

“Vhagar plays Queen position. Long before Aemond and Laena and even Baelon rode her, she was the steed of Queen Visenya Targaryen, one of Aegon’s two sister-wives.” 

Alicent was stunned by the level of detail each small dragon had. Even Vhagar’s scars carved their way across her chest and wings. 

“It says here Syrax plays a Bishop, and Vermax the other.” Jace smiled in delight at the figure of his own dragon. He ran his fingers over her curved scales, before placing his and his mother’s steeds on either side of Balerion and Vhagar. Alicent could picture fondly Rhaenyra biting her lip, grinning to herself as she named their dragons that position. 

Jace set out another Dragon, which was as large as Vhagar. 

“This is Meraxes. She was ridden by Rhaenys the Conquer, the other sister-wife of Aegon. She and her dragon died in battle during the Dornish War. She plays Knight.” 

She was beautiful, Alicent thought. She had only seen her before in a picture from a history book, drawn with a giant spear through her eye, blood pooling around her face as Dorne burned behind her. 

“Your mother used to tell me stories of Aegon’s Conquest,” Alicent said. “As girls I always favored Rhaenys, and your mother favored Visenya.”

Jace offered her a knowing smile.  

“She told me that as well.” 

He set out another dragon on the other side. It looked unfamiliar.

“The other Knight is Vermithor,” he read, “The steed of King Jaehaerys. Since the King’s death, he has resided deep inside the mountains of Dragonstone.” 

 That was terrifying, Alicent thought. An enormous, unbonded dragon living in caverns beneath their home. She wondered vaguely if Rhaenyra and Daemon had found him.

“The two rooks are represented by Meleys, my Grandmother’s steed, and the fastest Dragon in the realm, and Caraxes, Daemon’s dragon.”

Alicent watched him set the two dragons beside the knights. She could not help but note how he called Rhaenys his Grandmother. He was far too old, far too smart to believe the lie about his paternity. She used to hate him for it, hate that he helped his mother sustain such a ridiculous notion. Now, her heart ached. Did he know that Laenor was alive? 

She remembered distantly walking into Rhaenyra’s quarters and finding Laenor helping Jacaerys, barely two name-days old, pull on his boots. Laenor had only one free hand, the other occupied by a newborn Lucerys. She had watched him struggle for a moment, gently trying to guide his young son. After a moment she had taken pity on him, and offered to hold Lucerys.

“Oh, Alicent! Apologies, I did not see you enter. Yes, please, I could use a hand,” he had said, a tired sort of amusement in his eyes. Alicent had gently taken Lucerys, who was bundled in soft cloth. She stared down at the child’s wide, wet eyes, and the tuft of dark hair growing on his head. Alicent had wanted to yell at Laenor. How was he not angry? How was he so unbothered to be cuckolded by his wife?

Alicent sighed. The thought made her less angry now. Laenor was gone. Harwin was gone as well; that was her fault. And Daemon? Jacaerys did not even refer to him as a father. 

She watched him carefully line up the remaining eight dragons. 

“The rest play pawns,” he said. He tapped the head of a few. “I recognize Baela’s dragon Moondancer, and Luke’s Arrax, my father’s Seasmoke, and Joff’s Tyraxes.” 

“That is Sunfyre and Dreamfyre,” Alicent added, pointing to two on the end. “Aegon and Haelena’s steeds. Oh, and that’s Tessarion, Daeron’s.” 

Jace held up the final Dragon. It had a wiry frame, with long wings and a thin face. 

“Do you know this one?”

Alicent carefully took it from him, studying the dragon carefully in her hand. A female, by the looks of it. There was a prominent arch in her neck that seemed familiar and horns that stretched straight back from her head. 

“Oh,” Alicent said softly, “This is Silverwing. The Good Queen Alysanne’s steed.” 

Jacerys checked the note. He grinned. 

“I must admit I am impressed by your ability to identify them,” he said, “A bit humbled as well. I was under the impression you weren’t much a fan of dragons.”

Alicent shrugged lightheartedly. 

“Between your mother and your grandsire and my children I’ve learned,” she said.

Jacerys carefully pulled out the other set of dragons, the matching ones carved in green, and offered them to Alicent. 

“Would you like to play a round?”

—————————————————————

Luke watched his brother leave from the window. Jace had woken him hours ago to wish him a goodbye. Below in the courtyard, he watched them, tiny, delicate figurines, performing in a world he felt disconnected from. He watched as his mother gripped Alicent’s hand and seemed to beg her of something. He watched Jace, having walked away from them, stare down at the box in his hand with impossible curiosity. There was a moment when he looked lost as well, standing alone in the courtyard while everyone bustled around him. Finally, he looked up, caught sight of Luke in the doorway, and offered him a little wave. 

He watched when the wheelhouse left, and the courtyard emptied. His mother was left, standing there alone, watching the gate. He kept waiting for her to turn away, to drift back into the castle,— but she kept standing there. It was so odd to watch her like this. How well did a son really know his mother?  

He couldn’t stand the sight. Luke followed the dark hallways, quiet in the early morning, down to the courtyard. She was still standing there in the dirt, watching servants move unused carts, and didn’t see him approach. 

“Muña?” He wasn’t very good at High Valyrian but some words easily slipped off the tongue. Rhaenyra turned around. Her expression melted at the sight of him. 

“Morning, my love,” she gripped his hands in hers, speaking back to him in words that sounded native from her mouth. “Did you get a chance to speak to your brother before he left?”

“I did.”

“Good.” She reached out, and cupped his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Luke always felt so small, so protected when she did that. Laenor had done it as well, he could remember that much. Or had it been Harwin? Surely not. 

Rhaenyra was studying him gently. “Is all alright, in your world, Lucerys? You seem down.”

Luke was caught off caught by the question. His fingers started to drift towards each other and he resisted the urge to tear at his nails. Guilty, he thought of going to Alicent, crying in the night. What would his mother make of that?

“Oh, I am alright,” he said, swallowing back the truth. “Just tired.”   

There was a doubtful wrinkle in her brow but Rhaenyra nodded, accepting his half-hearted lie. “Walk with me, love?”

“Of course.”

He followed her back into the castle, through the massive corridors, and out another doorway, into the garden. She snatched a loaf of bread from the dining hall they passed, and sat down on the lawn outside with it. Luke couldn’t help but laugh. 

“There’s a bench right there,” he said, pointing to it. Rhaenyra grinned up at him, shrugging. 

“And what fun would that be? What sort of adolescent boy doesn’t want to sit in the grass?” She patted the ground beside her. Feeling a little silly, Luke sat down on the ground across from her. She tore the loaf of bread in half and handed him the larger one. 

“Thank you,” Luke said, taking it from her.

“Your Valyrian has much improved since only a few weeks ago,” she said. She spoke finally in common tongue, and Luke could not help a secret sigh of relief— he had been struggling to keep up. “You do not hesitate between words like you, and your pronunciation is much smoother. Have you been practicing?” 

Luke could not help a small grin at his mother’s praise. 

“A bit. Daeron wanted to train, so we often speak to each other in Valyrian.”

“Is he any good?” There was a teasing smile on her face. 

“Mother!”

“Oh, I cannot help but be curious, Luke. He seems bookish, much like his mother in her adolescence.”

Luke bit back an amused grin.

“I would not wish to be rude—,”

“Come on, Luke, I am your mother.”

“—He is bad. Worse than I. Far worse,” Luke admitted. Rhaenyra laughed, and Luke couldn’t help his own snort of amusement. “It is not his fault,” Luke felt a need to defend his companion, “he’s brilliant at everything else. The most well-read person I know. He just hasn’t had anyone to speak with since he was like, eight!” 

Rhaenyra nodded, and squeezed his hand. 

“I know, love, I am impressed he speaks any at all, having been surrounded by Hightowers his entire life. I think it is very charming that you two practice together.” 

“He told me he used to spy on the dragon keepers in Oldtown, just hear someone speak in Valyrian. Apparently, they go on and on about their personal lives since no one else can understand them.”

Rhaenyra laughed. 

“Oh, I used to listen to them as well. They aren’t as subtle as they think, although their Valyrian is a bit different from ours, so it is more difficult to understand.”

“Oh, no wonder Daeron has an unusual accent in Valyrian.”

His mother laughed. 

“Laenor and Laena spoke a sort of sea-version of it. It was High Valyrian mixed with the modern version from Essos shipmen. I always found it incredibly endearing.”

“I remember.” 

Rhaenyra felt her heart break a little. It was so unfair, to him, what they had done. How could she possibly provide Luke with all the guidance he needed? He had no second parent to make up for her in the areas where she lacked wisdom. 

“Lucerys—,” she felt her voice break a little. He interrupted her. 

“—Are you happier here?”

Rhaenyra was caught off guard by the question. 

“What do you mean, my love?’

“You—,” Luke played with the hem of his tunic, not looking her in the eyes. “Recently, you seem happier here, with Alicent. More than you seemed with Daemon.”

Rhaenyra felt a lump form in her throat. How much had he noticed? She thought of the great affection she felt that morning, waking to the sound of Alicent’s voice.

“Lucerys, I love Daemon. This situation could not change such things.”

She told him this because it seemed like the right thing to say; because it had to be true, didn’t it? Why did it feel like a lie? 

“I know but— you often fought. And he always prioritized his own wants over anyone else’s. And—,” his voice wavered a little, “he always made me feel so…weak.”

He glanced up at her and saw her gentle eyes carefully studying his own. There was a deep line of concern between her brows. 

“Are you happier here?” she asked him. Luke felt his stomach turn. What an impossible question. He woke up, every day, with worry in his stomach. Although that had not been unusual on Dragonstone, he found it was worse here. He missed his and Rhaena’s small adventures, their games, flying Arrax over the vast sea, quiet family suppers. But here he had not just Rhaena and his brothers, but Daeron too. Helaena and Baela at times. And Alicent, who he found,- although he was not exactly sure when-, he had come to look up to. 

“I am unsure,” he admitted quietly. Rhaenyra squeezed his hand. 

“I am as well,” she told him. He saw, for the first time, a hesitant look in her eyes, consumed with the same internal conflict and apprehension he felt so often. It struck him that they were sitting where Alicent had told him she had first told Rhaenyra about her anxiousness. 

Should he tell her? 

They were interrupted. Daeron spotted him from the stone arches of the palace and waved. Luke let go of his mother’s hand.  

“Lucerys! I have been looking for—,” he cut off suddenly, seeing Rhaenyra as he came around the Weirwood. “Apologies, My Grace.” His face was bright red. “I did not see you.” 

He offered her a small bow and Rhaenyra laughed a little. She shot a teasing smile at her son and pulled herself to her feet. 

“There is no need to apologize, Prince. I’ll take my leave,” she said. 

“Oh, there’s no need, I can return later—,”

“It’s alright, Daeron,” Rhaenyra said kindly. “I do have business to attend to.” She tousled Lucerys’s hair—, a silent way of telling him ‘I love you,’ and followed the stone path back into the castle. Both boys watched her leave. 

“She isn’t like what I expected,” Daeron admitted quietly. Luke squinted up at him, until Daeron squatted down beside him. 

“What did you expect?”

“I mean no disrespect, of course,” Daeron tugged at the grass, avoiding eye contact, “but there is certain- uh, … rhetoric, about your family in Oldtown. At least among the Hightowers. The Queen, before she was Queen, of course, did come up in discussion often.” 

“What did they say?” Luke was surprised by the bite in his own tone. Daeron shifted. 

“Nothing worth repeating,” Daeron said, and Luke could imagine what they had called his mother. Bitch. Royal whore. Mother of bastards. Usurper. He could think of worse, but he didn’t want to. “But I must admit,” Daeron went on, “I was a bit surprised to find her to be kind and genuine.” He glanced up at Luke, worried he had crossed a line. “I apologize again for interrupting your discussion with her. I just saw you in the grass and—,”

“It is alright,” Luke reassured him again. “What did you want?” 

Daeron stood up and offered him a hand. He grinned a little.  

“I thought we might go flying.” 

__________________________________________________________________

(A/N: A little doodle I did of Rhaenyra and Alicent in the morning)  

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

It was nearly dusk and they had been a day tumbling south on the Kingsroad. Jace and Alicent had spent the morning playing rounds of chess, one after another, and Alicent had won every match. Still, Jace was a gentleman even in loosing. Alicent appreciated that; he did not whine or complain or get angry, merely offering a thoughtful sigh and asking, “Would you like to play another round?”

Alicent enjoyed the challenge, even if it wasn’t much of one. She seemed here separate from her role; her usual life. She was not a Queen, not a mother, not a wife, not a daughter. She felt no great obligation to appease Jacaerys, but neither did she hold any great resentment towards him. She simply enjoyed the game. 

When she had won for the 7th time, Jacaerys had asked her to explain what he was doing wrong. She had walked him backwards through his own steps, nudging the small dragons about the board, and he had watched with a hint of admiration. 

He got better. After her instruction he did not repeat his past mistakes, and his early genre of mistakes, ones made from pure stupidity, were replaced with the opposite, those made from overthinking. Focusing so much one piece, one goal, one play, he lost sight of the whole board. 

“You’re missing the forest for the trees,” Alicent had told him. Jace looked up at her curiously.

“I have not heard that expression before,” he said. 

“To loose sight of the bigger issue,” Alicent explained, “because you are so focused on an individual problem.” 

“Ah,” Jace nodded, “the Valyrian version is ‘to burn bread while the home is on fire.”  

Alicent could not help a small laugh. 

“Queen Aemma told me that once,” she said, recalling a distant memory with fondness. “Rhaenyra and I had been tasked with reorganizing a section of the sept library, and I spent so long debating over the meaning of a particular text, of what genre it fell under, that I forgot about our original duty.”   

Alicent could still picture Rhaenyra dancing swiftly around her with stacks of scrolls and books, as Alicent had poured over one, dusty old narrative about historical poisonings.

She began to set up her pieces for another round. Jace poked at his own pieces, watching Alicent instead, but seeing more than just the woman in front of him. He was seeing a glimpse of the forest, he realized. He was seeing her as she might had been, as a thoughtful young girl, as the complimenting force to his mother’s decisive nature.   

He pushed a pawn into the center. 

“I did not realize you and my grandmother Aemma were close,” he said carefully, seeking more information but not wanting to sound nosy. Alicent’s eyes flicked up, meeting his gaze. 

“I lost my mother when I was young. She was very ill, and when she passed, I moved here from Oldtown to live with my father. Queen Aemma was the woman in my adolescent life. She guided Rhaenyra and I. For a while, in our youth, I spent nearly every night sharing a room with your mother,” Alicent pushed her Bishop, Syrax, forward, “and it was Aemma who wished us a goodnight, who pressed kisses to our foreheads.” 

Jace had always assumed, because Alicent had taken Aemma’s place as Viserys’s wife so soon after her death, that there had been some great resentment between them. That Aemma had been jealous of the young girl who caught the King’s attention, or that Alicent had been secretly pleased when she died. Now he could not rid himself of the image of Alicent aching over her death, having lost another maternal figure so young; Of having to contend with her own grief, with Rhaenyra’s, and with Viserys’s. How old had she been? Four-and-Ten?

He was struck by his own naivety; at how little he understood of Alicent and his mother. 

He lost that game of chess as well. 

By afternoon, despite his patience, Jace had grown frustrated. He hid it well, or tried at least, but Alicent had the upper hand— she had been reading that face long before he had been born. The way he chewed his lip and wrinkled his brow and folded his fingers was a perfect reflection of Rhaenyra.

“We should rest,” she offered, carefully placing her small green dragons into the box, “we still have a long road ahead of us.”

Jace didn’t protest. He packed the box up and tucked it away, leaning back in his seat on the wooden bench. He watched as Alicent looked out the window panels, out at the forest that surrounded them. He wanted to know more. He wanted to understand her. 

But where did a boy begin, untangling the messes of his mother? There seemed to be no beginning to their conflict and no end to it either; affection and hatred wrapped around each other so tightly they had become one thing.

He fiddled with his hands in his lap. 

“I—,” Alicent looked up at him. Was this a terrible idea? He forced himself to look her in the eyes, like a king would. “I must admit, I arrived in King’s Landing with every intention to hate you.” He squeezed his fingers tightly. “But I have found that difficult, and— unnecessary. The past seems to have fallen behind us.”

Alicent shifted, letting out an anxious sigh. He wanted an explanation she did not have. She did not understand, either, how she had come to forgive Rhaenyra so quickly, to grow so fond of her family as well. She swallowed. 

“Rhaenyra and I have a long history. Some of it very kind, and some of it very ugly. You have only known the ugly parts,” Alicent said softly. “But Rhaenyra and I have not forgotten the  kindness.”

Jace met her eyes, her brown eyes that looked like his. In another world, perhaps, he had been born to Alicent and the King.

“It wasn’t all unkind,” he said quietly. He brushed fringe from his eyes. “Sure, there were many of times in Dragonstone that my mother complained about, well— you. But she would never permit anyone else her anger. If Daemon ever insulted your name she was always quick to defend it. I overheard them fighting once about it.” He looked away. “Daemon had said something vulgar and my mother seemed nearly in tears over it, yelling at him. She said he didn’t understand, he never would. She said he didn’t get to hate you, because—, because he had never loved you.”  

His words sat in the silence with them. Jace didn’t understand the grief in her expression, or the conflict. He did not know the extent of her affection or the depth of her resentment. 

“I hope I did not offed you,” he added softly. Alicent shook her head, swallowing back a lump in her throat. 

There were times when Criston Cole had spoken about Rhaenyra, calling her an arrogant whore, a bitch, a cunt. It may have always been Alicent who began the name-calling but it seemed always she want the one to end it as well. Because how dare— How dare he speak of her that way? What did he know? What right did he have to be angry? Had he loved Rhaenyra, truly? What was his one-night deflowering in comparison to half a decade of nights spent in each other’s arms? One could only be as angry with Rhaenyra as she was if they had known her as Alicent had. It was the very same reasons she had been so painfully isolated in the extent of her anger. What a stupid thing to call her: a bitch. How shallow their resentment was, how deep it should have been. They didn’t understand. Not even Cole had seen what Alicent had. 

She closed her eyes; opened them again to see Jacaerys, the very image of his mother, of his father, the embodiment everything that haunted her, of all her shame, all her anger. She should hate him. 

She didn’t.  

“I may not look it but I feel I am an old woman, Jacaerys,” she said. Despite himself, Jace laughed a little.

“Don’t be foolish, you’re hardly five-and-thirty.”

She offered him a small smile, but shook her head.

“Sure, I am only five-and-thirty, but I have known enough grief to be far older. Rhaenyra has as well. We do not wish to know more.” 

Jace sobered. He looked way from her, out the window panels at the world passing by him, a world he could not reach from inside the carriage. 

He seemed, at last, to understand. He may not know the trees, but he saw the forest. 

Grief did not have to be death, but the aching absence of something, someone, important to you. Someone you loved. Alicent’s resentment had always been something far closer to grief than anger.

——————————————— 

They flew north. Cold winds pushed over the crashing sea and Daeron grinned at him from the back of Tessarion, swooping through the sky. Luke felt everything fall away, his nervous fears replaced with the thrill of the flight. He grinned back, laughing into the stiff wind, urging Arrax to go faster. They danced across the sky. 

We should rest, Daeron signaled to him after a while, pointing at a rocky outcropping near the shore. They landed roughly on the wet grass, breathing heavily between happy laughter. Luke didn’t think too hard about how Daeron’s silver curls fell into his eyes, or the dimples that formed in his cheeks like Alicent’s when he smiled. He didn’t think about how Daeron had offered him a hand as he climbed off Arrax, or how he had pulled him into a hug when his feet hit the ground. He didn’t think about it at all. 

Instead he flopped down on the grass, offering Daeron fruit and bread from his satchel. 

“Thank you,” Daeron said simply, sitting down beside him. They shared a quiet meal, watching the horizon where the sky met the sea. 

“I should be thanking you,” Luke said after a moment. “I—, I needed this. A break.” 

Daeron watched him carefully. 

“From something in particular?”

Luke didn’t meet his eyes. 

“I get,” he swallowed, “—easily overwhelmed by it all. Nothing in particular, just…everything. It’s rather foolish, I know—,”

“It’s not,” Daeron objected. “There’s a lot to be concerned about,” he elbowed Luke in the side fondly. “I get it.”

Luke let out a shaky sigh of relief, nodding softly. He felt Daeron watching him and let his head fall into his hands. 

“I am worried for Rhaena as well,” he admitted quietly. “She’s been rather distant recently, and seems unhappy when we do speak. I am not sure if it is something I did, or something else, or perhaps that she’s watching her sister marry Jace and decided she doesn’t want the same. I just don’t know.” 

Daeron gripped his shoulder comfortingly.

“You’re scared she might ask to call off your engagement?” He asked. Luke shook his head. 

“No. I’m worried about her, not the wedding. Rhaena is the best person I know, and it will be my privilege to be her husband. But if we were not engaged it would not change a thing. She is my family and I love her. I just want her to be well.” 

Daeron swallowed, looking away. There was something pained in his expression that Luke didn’t understand. 

“Anyone would be lucky to have a person who cares about them they way you care for each other. Most marriages are not that. Perhaps you should speak to her when we return. If she hasn’t told you why she is upset perhaps it it because she is waiting for you to ask.” 

Luke sighed softly. He was right. Of course he was. He could not expect Rhaena to share everything without him asking. 

It was begging to rain. A fine mist dampened their faces. Luke wanted to ask Daeron about the girl in Oldtown that he mentioned once—the one it didn’t work out with— but he had seemed uncomfortable the last time they discuss it. He settled on something easier. 

“Do you miss Oldtown?”

Daeron looked up at him for a long moment.

“No.” He spoke softly, but there was something bitter in his tone. “Not at all.” 

The rain grew harder. Dark rainclouds moved southward over them. 

“We should start heading back,” Luke suggested, “before this gets too difficult to fly in.”

They were too late. Within half an hour of taking flight the storm had caught up to them, and they were quickly drenched. Conditions grew worse as they flew south and Luke’s throat was raw from shouting to Arrax. He could barley see Tessarion as they pushed their way through the storm, desperately following flickers of blue and silver and while trying not to be thrown out of the sky. He was freezing and it was quickly getting hard to breath.

“Go lower!” He shouted to Daeron. Wind roared in his ears. “Go low!”

Daeron must of heard him. He appeared beside Luke as they swooped down towards the rough ocean, free at least from the blinding clouds. On the horizon in front of them, lighting struck the sea. He could feel Arrax’s pace slowing, his small wings quivering. 

They were flying so low, and the waters had become so rough, that a massive wave clipped Arrax on the wing as it crashed. Luke felt himself scream as he was thrown forward, one leg stuck its buckle and the other yanked out, sending him flying over the side of the saddle. 

In an instant his body slammed into the side of Arrax’s, hanging upside-down by one leg strap. The breath was knocked of him, his lungs seizing, unable to gasp for air as Arrax fell further, knocked off course from his fall, sending them both through another wave. 

He could not see, he could not breath, he could hear nothing but muffled water, pressing in around him— until suddenly they emerged on the other side of the wave. 

Luke gasped for air, too weak to scream. He thought he heard Daeron shouting, but his eye were squeezed shut as he bumped forcefully into Arrax’s side again. 

“Arrax, up! Bē! Sovegon bē, Arrax!” Luke shouted desperately. He tried to grab hold of the strap he was caught in, to pull himself back up, but was knocked forwards and backward again by the front of Arrax’s wing. Arrax was struggling to fly upward with Luke hanging off the side of him. The were headed towards another wave. Luke braced himself, wrapping his arms around his head. “Daeron!” was the last thing he cried out before going under. 

Then everything was dark and cold and he barley managed to keep water from flooding his lungs. His heart was racing, he could hear his blood pounding in his ears. 

And then he was gasping for air again, salty ocean mist spraying him as he struggled, unable to reach above his own foot. I am going to die, he realized. I am going to die.

He closed his eyes, bracing himself again as Arrax swayed. He might of screamed; he didn’t know anymore. 

Something hit Arrax from the top. The small dragon swooped from the force of it, dipping Luke into the sea again. I am going to die. 

When he emerged from the water again something was gripping his foot. Something other than the strap tangled around it. 

“Luke! Luke!” Daeron was shouting at him from the back of Arrax. Clinging desperately to the side of the saddle, he was using his other hand to pull Luke up by the leg. Pain Luke hadn’t felt before shot through his entire body. He pushed past it, leaning up to try and grab hold of Daeron’s hand. He managed to swing forward and their hands connected. Daeron’s firm grasped yanked him upward, and Luke managed to grab hold of a section of the saddle.

There were hands all over him as he clambered up the side of Arrax back onto his back, adrenaline overriding the pain and weakness. 

For a moment everything was dark. All of it gone, all of it silent. And then he came to again, and he was heaving against Daeron’s steadying grip, his arm wrapped entirely around Luke’s stomach. Daeron was barking commands at Arrax, and it mattered little that Daeron was not in command of him— Arrax obeyed, if only in attempt to save himself as well. They rose steadily into the sky, the dragon’s wing pattern no longer interrupted by Luke hanging in the way. 

Luke closed his eyes. Everything hurt. His lungs felt like they might collapse inward, and his heart might force itself out his throat. He couldn’t hear what Daeron was saying. His fists gripped tightly to something— anything. 

The landed— crash landed, really,— on top the cliffs of a rocky island. Luke was only vaguely aware of Arrax crawling weakly across the rocks into cave to shield them from the storm. Tessarion followed them in. 

The next few moments, Luke could only remember in flashes. He was pulled, as gently as possible, from Arrax by Daeron, who was no bigger then himself. Daeron was using a dagger to cut the leg strap of the saddle that had been tangled around him. He was saying something, but Luke wasn’t sure of what. 

What he could remember was way Daeron’s hands shook, his wet, silver hair plastered to his face, water dripping off his face. He could remember Daeron’s hand pressed gently against his chest as he heaved, his entire body shaking violently. 

He could remember the sudden half-sob Daeron had choked back before he fell unconscious again, and everything was dark. 

——————————————————

“We will reach the tavern by dark, my Prince.”

“Alright. Thank you, Ser Erryk.” 

Jace closed the door of the wheelhouse, settling back into his seat inside. He wished he could have been on dragon-back, or even horse-back like his Kingsguard; he would take the ache of a saddle over the dull soreness of the stiff wooden bench they were on any day, and at least then he would have the thrill of wind in his hair. 

They had decided to stop for the night at a respected Tavern by side of the Kings-Road to rest. Traveling in the dark was dangerous, and, in Jace’s opinion, boring. There was little to see outside, and he had instead spent the past hour watching Alicent doze off. 

She looked gentle in her sleep. She was leaned back in her seat with her head rested against a cushion and her arms crossed lightly across her stomach. It was hard to imagine this was the woman who had once wanted to carve out his brother’s eyes.

It was easier to imagine this was the woman his mother had forgiven. 

He thought of their conversation, the thing Rhaenyra had said to her before they left, thinking he was out of earshot: “You have given far too much already for this godforsaken throne; I would rather watch kingdoms burn.”

Rhaenyra had lost a mother, a father, and daughter all to The Throne. She had lost a husband, her lover, a marriage, and nearly the throne itself. She had married Aegon, a pathetic and vile boy shaped vaguely like a man. 

What had Alicent lost, that could possibly compare? What would make Rhaenyra ready to go to war for her? 

What Alicent had gained was power. She had gained a place as Hand, a King for a son, a small army of Dragons. What right did she have, to be bitter all those years? 

Jace closed his eyes. Why was getting angry? He was tired, and cold, and hungry, and sore— that was why. Only an hour ago he had understood Alicent to have been shaped by the grief of Rhaenyra’s absence. 

But many people grew out of childhood friendships. Many women married a nobleman and were a changed person. Many daughters had to see their fathers remarry, and many new wives had to deal with angry stepchildren. It happened all the time, across the Seven Kingdoms, nearly everyday. 

But most people didn’t bring their Kingdoms to the brink of war over lost friendships. Love, occasionally, power, often, and money, always. But an old, aching friendship?      

What made Rhaenyra and Alicent so different?

This is why he disliked the wheelhouse. He was overthinking. He almost wished Alicent would wake up and continue to beat him at chess— at least the game provide a real, tangible problem to occupy his mind. The dragons just moved as he asked them too. People where much harder to understand. 

The carriage began to slow to halt. Jace peered out the window panel, but saw no light from a Tavern; only the dark of the woods. The Kingsguard flanking them were staring out into the woods. 

“Ser Erryk? Ser Arryk? Why have we stopped?” Neither man responded. Jace tried again. “Ser?”

“Quiet, my Prince,” one guard said softly. “We suspect we being follow—,”

The man did not finish. 

From the trees a herd of bandits appeared, a dozen Jace thought, at least half of them on horses. There was screaming and shouting, and, quickly, the clang of metal at their swords met his Kingsguard. 

Jace drew he sword in an instant, holding it out in front of him, standing in the center of the cabin.

The horses were panicking, starting to shift and run and whine, and Jace felt the wheelhouse wobble and more forward unevenly as Alicent’s eyes shot open and she stared up at Jace in confusion.  

“Jacaerys?” Her voice was panicked. “What is it?”

He realized, for a brief moment, it was him that she was scared of. She had woken to him standing over her with a sword. 

“Assailants,” Jace answered, his head swiveling towards the sound of fighting around them. 

Outside a guard was yelling.

“Go! GO! There’s too many!”

The wheelhouse didn’t move. Jace was torn between wanting to fight alongside his Kingsguard, and the need to to protect himself and Alicent by abandoning them.

His mother’s words rang in his ear: 

I expect you will protect her as well, yes?

Jace turned and banged on the front of cabin. 

“Go!” He shouted. “Go!” 

The wheelhouse started suddenly again, and Jace nearly fell into Alicent, grabbing the wall to steady himself. The horses where panicked, disorderly in their fear, and the cabin wobbled as swords hit the sides of of it. Alicent flinched, moving away from the window, and just in time as an thick axe tore through the the wood the next instant, inches from where her head had been. 

Whether to comfort or from fear, Jacaerys grabbed her wrist for moment. He swore he could feel her pulse beneath his fingers. Something hit the door again and he let go. 

The wheelhouse sped up, tossing them forward unsteadily on the road, picking up speed rapidly in attempt to outrun their attackers. 

It was pointless, Jace realized after a moment. He could hear their horses alongside them, chasing them down. 

Next to him Alicent had a blade. He wasn’t sure where she had gotten it but in the moment he was relived to see her hold that long dagger, the same one that had once torn through his mother’s arm. She held it tightly in a fist, ducking her head, and Jace prayed that cabin would not jolt and he would not fall into her knife. 

And then it did. It shook as someone grabbed onto the side, throwing open the latch and tearing the door open. A man, a huge, sweaty, heaving man threw himself into the cabin, and Jace flinched away as a heavy axe swung at his head.

His heart was pounding in his ears. Jace ducked away again as the man swung at him a second time, bumping into Alicent in the close quarters, both of them letting out a pained grunt. 

“You fucking bastard!” The man yelled, tearing his axe out of the wall just as Jace launched at him, driving the point of his sword through the man’s stomach.

The man dropped the axe. 

He thought it might end there but in an instant meaty hands grabbed him by the collar, grunting and spitting, slamming him into the wall as Jace yelled, his ears ringing as his head hit the wood of the window panel, nearly going right through it. He lost his grip on his sword, gasping for air as fingers wrapped around his throat. 

And then the man roared. From anger, Jace thought at first, but then he realized it was from pain. Blood spurted as Alicent slashed the dagger through his arm, and he let go of Jace, his face screwed in rage. 

Jace gasped for breath as the man turned away from him, his axe forgotten, using just his massive fist to strike Alicent across the face. She screamed as she hit the wall, throwing an arm in front of her face, curling away from him. 

Jace lept forward, grabbing the dagger from her other hand. 

From behind he swung the knife around the neck of the man, and slit his throat. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There was blood everywhere. 

It was on Jace’s hands, his face, the floor, the wall, pooling around his knees. He looked up at Alicent and saw she was covered in it too, everything was, it was all he could smell and taste and he realized it was in his mouth and some of it was his own and most of it wasn’t. 

There was a sudden horrible silence surrounding them. He was on the floor, on top of the dying man, who had stopped moving. Alicent was staring down at him, at the blood, at the dagger still clutched tightly in his hand. The wheelhouse was still pulling itself along the bumpy road.

Jace tried to say something and found that he couldn’t. His throat felt tight and sore where the man had wrapped his hand around his neck, and his words came out strangled and he felt nauseous.

He got up slowly, untangling himself from the man who was now dead, pulling the dagger from the man’s back because he could remember now that he had not just slit his throat, but stabbed him as well, not once but many times, until the man had stopped moving.  

Alicent thought he looked a little like Rhaenyra, like she had on that hunting trip on Aegon’s second name day, when she had come back covered in blood. It had been crusted across her neck and her chin and for a one terrifying moment Alicent had thought it was her blood.

Her own head pounded violently. Her cheekbone throbbed where the man had punch her, and her eyes were still watery from the pain. 

She watched Jace drag himself back to his feet, standing at the open wheelhouse door, clutching the dagger, shaking a little, waiting to fight. Waiting for more attackers. It was completely dark outside now and Alicent could hardly see the blur of trees outside as they flew down the Kingsroad. She could hear horses behind them, but no yelling or fighting, so it must have been their Kingsguard, catching up with them. 

For over an hour they traveled like this. Alicent tried to count the number of horses they heard beside them, praying they had not lost a man. Jace was still standing in the doorway, his expression blank, his knuckles white around the handle of her knife. Blood was no longer dripping from it, but red blotches painted the floor around him where he stood.  

“Jacaerys,” Alicent said softly, finally, no long able to watch him like this. He glanced at her, his jaw tense, his eyes bloodshot, and she could see bruises starting to form on his neck and wondered if her own face looked similar. “Jacaerys, sit down,” she said, and there was a plea to her voice.

He swallowed with some difficulty, and shook his head. 

“They might be back,” he said, and his voice was so raw and hoarse he sounded like an entirely different boy. Alicent got up carefully. 

“The danger has passed,” she told him, taking his arm. She guided him gently to turn away from the open door. She picked up his sword from the floor, the one that had been nearly forgotten about since his hands had not loosened from Alicent’s dagger since he had first grabbed it. “Sheath this,” she told him, handing the sword to him and he did as he was told. He sat when Alicent pushed him too, and she sat back down across from him, like they had been sitting before. Before there was a dead man lying at their feet.

________________________

When Lucerys woke up and realized he wasn’t dead, he began to wish he was. 

Everything hurt, like his body was rejecting his soul, trying to tear away from him, and he couldn’t move, but he had too, cause he was coughing and his coughing tasted like salt, and it burned and his eyes burned as well. And he wanted to scream or yell or sit up but could not muster the energy, so he just lay there, choking a little, his eyes leaking hot tears. 

It didn’t help that the ground was painfully uncomfortable. Rocks dug into his back, and it was then that he realized he had been stripped of some of his wet clothing, and that it was his bare back that rocks where digging into.  

He could hardly recognize his own torso, which, along with dirt and sand, was covered in a tapestry of red and purple and nearly black bruises, which were most present were he hurt the most. 

He realized he could see the bruises because there was a fire burning next to him, lighting the cave by a warm glow that might have been cozy in less miserable circumstances, and by the light of that fire he realized he was alone. Or not alone, entirely, because Arrax was curled up beside him and Tessarion was in his peripheral vision, but Daeron was not there, not that he could see.

Which made Luke panic. 

He tried to sit up and let out a small cry of pain instead, and staring at the cave roof he yelled for Daeron, his voice weak, his heart pounding. He took a breath and cried out again. 

And then heard footsteps and Daeron was standing over him. 

“Oh thank The Mother, you’re awake,” Daeron said softly. He dropped down beside him, kneeling in the dirt, his hands cold on Luke’s skin, which burned like it was on fire. 

“What happened?” Luke asked, his voice gravely and small. Daeron grimaced a little at the sound. He found Luke’s hand and clutched it between his own. 

“I flew Tessarion over Syrax and jumped. It was a miracle I landed on his back and managed to pull you up. I think you fainted after that.” He let go of Luke’s hand briefly to brush damp hair from his eyes. “We found this cave to stay in till the storm passes.”

“How long have we been here?”

“A few hours, I believe. It must be the middle of the night. Can you sit up?”

Luke tried. He pushed himself up carefully, his arms sore but his side screaming in pain. He hissed and felt hot tears spring up in eyes. 

“Sorry,” he said weakly, his voice small and strangled. Daeron look at him, shaking his head, remorsefully guiding Luke to lay back down. 

“What hurts?” Daeron asked. “Besides from everything,” he added. 

“My ribs.”

“Here?” He touched the wide bruise that spread across the side of Luke’s pale chest. Luke sucked in, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“It hurts to breath. I think I broke it when it hit the side of Syrax,” he said. Daeron nodded. “What else?”

“My leg. The muscle, I think, not the bone.” 

“Are you cold?” Daeron asked. Luke shook his head a little. Daeron looked away a little guiltily. “Sorry, I had to pull most of your clothing off. You were shivering like crazy when you were asleep, and you were soaked.”

Luke turned his head a little and could see his clothes strewn out next to the fire. Daeron’s robes were beside his. Daeron himself was half-undressed, his lean torso pale and exposed. 

There was a vulnerability to the scene that struck Luke suddenly. They were red-eyed and exhausted, unclothed, their skin bruised and raw and dirty, their hair wet, kept warm by a small fire made from driftwood. Daeron was gripping his forearm firmly. 

“I am going to help you sit up,” he said softly. Carefully, he sat at Luke’s head and helped him up, whispering something softly that might have been a prayer while Luke swore in pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Daeron breathed, while he dragged Luke to sit up against Arrax, letting the warm dragon support his weight. He handed Luke a small metal flask of water and helped him to drink it. 

It hurt to swallow but Luke did, greedily choking down what he could, the cold water relieving the salty stinging in his throat. 

Daeron watched him miserably. 

“I am sorry,” he said again, and Luke looked up in surprise because he sounded tearful. Daeron pressed fingers into his eyes. “I should have never— the second I saw that storm in the distance I should have been smart enough not to—,” his voice cracked, “I should have know Arrax was too small to fly in that. I—,”

Luke felt shame bubble inside of him. He was a terrible Targaryen, wasn’t he? A terrible Velaryon as well. He wasn’t suited for the sky or the sea. He couldn’t keep up. Not with Tessarion, not with Vermax, not with Caraxes or Syrax. He didn’t want Daeron’s pity, it only made his own failure sting more. 

Daeron paused in his tearful apology, sensing he’d said something wrong. 

“Lucerys?” 

“Fuck,” Luke swore, wiping at his eyes, trying to keep his breath steady. Breathing normally was already painful enough. Daeron swallowed. He had never heard Luke swear. “Stop,” he cried, gripping Daeron’s arm tightly, “fuck, it hurts,” he closed his eyes, guilt matching shame as Daeron watched him with confusion and regret. 

The pain made him want to cry, and the crying made the pain worse, which made the crying worse, and his breath shook violently, and so his body shook violently, and he was caught in an awful loop, emotionally unable to pull himself together and physically unable to let himself fall apart. He wanted it to end. Prayers and swears he had never uttered in his life stumbled breathlessly out of him as Daeron watched in panic.

It felt awful. Genuinely awful. Shame, guilt, and pain merged into fear as he gulped painfully for air in-between broken sobs. He wanted to bring his knees up to his chest and hide his face in their darkness but he couldn’t. He was just trembling, bruised and dirty and sobbing in front of Daeron, exposed in front of a boy who he thought maybe he barley knew. 

The pain was choking him. It felt like he was dying. 

He wanted Alicent. 

That was awful thought. Not his mother, or his brother, or some father— he wanted Alicent. She would know how to help him.

“Luke.” Daeron’s voice was firm. He wrapped his hands, not tightly but strongly, against the sides of Luke’s neck, and could feel his blood pounding. Luke realized after a moment the feeling was grounding. 

Carefully, Daeron moved them so that Luke was leaning was leaning his back against him instead of Arrax. He let Luke’s back press against his chest. Luke’s shaky heaving slowly calmed into small, broken breaths. Daeron wrapped his arms around Luke’s stomach. 

The skin to skin contact was steadying. Luke felt more in control. He wiped his face, and spoke softly.                

“At times,” he began shakily, “I cannot breath.”

“Like an injury?”

“No,” Luke spoke in a small voice. “I’ll be doing a normal thing, like eating supper or playing with my brothers or trying to sleep, and a senseless panic will overcome me. And I cannot breath or think and it feels like I’m dying. It’s like an awful whole in my chest, eating away at me. And it comes and goes, but when it comes, it feels like it will never end.”

Daeron let his forehead rest gently on Luke’s shoulder. 

“Have you spoken to anyone about it? A maester? Jace or Rhaena?”

Luke closed his eyes. Alicent, seemed like too confusing an answer. If Daeron did not know about his mother’s nervousness than he did not want to be the one to tell him. 

“No,” he lied quietly. 

“Does this help?” Daeron asked. Luke nodded. “How?”

“It just does. Alic-, I- I’ve learned ways to calm myself. Contact helps. With the floor, with someone else. Distracting myself with facts and detail.” 

There was a soft moment of quiet where all Luke could hear was the crack of the fire and Daeron’s breath in his ear. 

“Have you ever flow North?”

“What?” Luke was caught of guard by the change in topic. 

“Have you ever been far North?”

“Not particularly. The farthest I’ve been is The Fingers. Have you been farther?”

“Not much. I went once, to the Iron Islands, on a diplomatic trip.” 

Luke had a hard time imaging diplomacy with the Iron Islands. They were a ruthless and blunt people. 

“Why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard that in the far North, even below the Wall, the night sky glows colorfully. Waves of bright green and pink dance across the sky some nights,” Daeron explained. 

“I thought that was a myth. I read in a history of Aegon’s Conquering, that he saw the lights and told townsfolk it was the fire-breath of a Dragon God.” 

“Well, its true. The lights at least, not the Dragon God. I had a- a friend from the North, in Oldtown. He swore he had seen it himself,” Daeron said. 

“Maybe he was lying?” Luke offered. Daeron shook his head. 

“He was a terrible liar. There were Maesters too, and travelers who said the same thing.” 

Luke smiled a little. He liked the idea. Beams of color agains the night sky—

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Is it working?”

Luke felt himself laugh a little. The suffocating pressure in his chest, which had lessened already, disappeared further when he laughed, but the pain in his ribs reemerged sharply. He hissed, still biting back a grin.

“Yes, it is working,” he said. He could not see Daeron’s face but could sense that he was grinning. He poked at Daeron’s arm around his stomach, suddenly aware of how closely they were pressed together, and that it was getting a little too warm for comfort. 

“May I sit against Syrax again?” He asked hesitantly. 

“I thought you said contact was comforting!” Daeron said lightly, but he was already shifting carefully to give Lucerys space. 

“It is until it gets sweaty,” Lucerys joked. Daeron laughed a little, moving to sit across from him again.  

Luke looked at him, properly, for the first time since he had woken up. Daeron’s hair had mostly dried into frizzy curls, and he was leaner than Luke, with the same nose bridge as Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, but with Alicent’s brown eyes and square jaw. His eyes caught on a few small dark lines just below one side of his chest.  

“You have a marking,” Luke said, surprised. Daeron glanced down at the small inkwork drawing in his skin.

“Oh. Yes, I got it done earlier this year.”

“Isn’t it outlawed by The Faith?”

Daeron flushed a little, playing with his hands. 

“I got done in secret. With that friend from the North. We flew to Dorne.”

Luke felt his eyebrows raise. Daeron, who was wearing the Seven-pointed star around his neck even now, disobeying the Faith so permanently? 

“Did it hurt?” Luke asked. Daeron nodded. “How do they do it?” 

“Essentially, they poke small holes in your skin with a needle and then tap in charcoal ink. It hurts like hell and takes forever.”

“Why did you do it?” 

Daeron looked away, studying the small gravel rocks beneath them. 

“I suppose I was frustrated, being so deeply indoctrinated into The Faith in Oldtown. I hadn’t been home in so long and,” his voice shook a little, “I wanted to prove I was still Targaryen, deep down. I was sorting through old books that had been taken off the shelves at the Starry Sept and found one describing how in Ancient Valyria, boys would be tattooed when they came of age at ten-and-five.”

“Can I feel it?” Luke asked. 

“Sure, but it does not feel like much.”

Luke reached out and ran his thumb over the artwork, which, sure enough, felt almost smooth. 

“What is it of?” Luke asked. Daeron grinned a little.

“You do not recognize it? Not even from that history about Aegon going North?” He said. Luke stared at him blankly. “What guided him North, even from a new continent?” 

Realization dawned.

“The Norther Star! Which also serves as the tip of the snout of the dragon constellation,” Luke said. Daeron nodded. 

“Which is likely what inspired the belief of the night sky lights being the fire-breath of a Dragon God, or, the dragon in the night’s sky.” 

Luke saw it now. The artwork was a small work of connecting lines, which vaguely resembled an angular dragon in flight. Zali’jedarson, The Northern Dragon. The constellation that had guided Aegon and his sisters North. 

Luke smiled a little. 

“In several months, I will be ten-and-five as well,” he said. Daeron eyes widened.  

“Will your mother allow it?”

Luke started to shrug, and then stopped because it was painful. He remembered his mother’s wedding to Daemon, which had disregarded the rules of The Faith and had been steeped in Varlyian tradition. Surely she would be on board? 

“Either way, we can fly to Dorne together and I can get it done. How did you choose to yours?”

“I let my companion, the one from the North, decide,” Daeron said, laughing a little. Luke grinned. 

“Than I suppose I will let you decide mine.” 

———————————

They did not stop at the tavern where they had planned to spend the night. Instead they road throughout the night and into the early morning, and rain began to pour down outside the wheelhouse, making the small cabin fill with noise. 

Alicent’s head pounded. She closed her eyes, wishing to drift off to sleep. She could still remember how she had drifted off the night before, with her arm strewn around Rhaenyra’s stomach. 

And to wake, with Rhaenyra pressed against her? 

It had been so long since she had felt something so gentle. When she had laid with Viserys, it always felt as if he would crush her. The pressure was suffocating, the feeling of his sweaty stomach against hers repulsive. He had once been a thick man, before he had grown so ill, but even then he was bony and uncomfortable beside her. It was a blessing when Alicent had discovered that she could leave in the night when he was asleep and done with her, and he would not mind. 

There was a particular spot on the ceiling of her chambers that Alicent used to stare at those nights. It would have been discourteous to call a servant to draw her a bath in those dark hours, so she would wipe herself down with a dampened cloth, change into a clean shift, and throw open a window. When she was young she would watch that spot on the ceiling, and picture softer memories with Rhaenyra. She would watch herself in the Godswood with Rhaenyra’s head in her lap, or will herself to feel again Rhaenyra holding her hand gently in the library when the Septa looked away. 

One night, still in those early years of her marriage, Alicent had allowed herself to see the untouchable memory, the one less innocent that made her face burn in shame just picturing it. There was not much to see, it had been so dark, but she could remember vaguely how she had felt. Something had writhed inside her than and she had choked those thoughts back down, deciding they were better left untouched.   

When she grew older, she stopped picturing such things. And as time grew on, she was summoned to King’s Chambers less and less. His slow death had provided her a relief that was made hallow by the guilt she felt for experiencing it. 

She had done her duty as his wife. That was what mattered. Whether or not she liked the nights she spent with him did not matter, not to her role as the Queen, not to anyone, really, and very little to him. 

Romance was no longer something Alicent believed in. In her girlhood she had clung to it like an escape. Sure, she had never met a man who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, but that was because she hadn’t met the right one. One day a young lord would fall for her, and then, and only then, she feel would those butterflies that women spoke about. And when she gave him children, it would be a product of their love, not a mere chore. 

There had been a day, when Aegon was mere six years old, that Alicent had looked across the dining table at him a realized that he was just as much an object as she. Her marriage was no product of love, and neither was her son. Viserys loved the idea of them. But he had not loved them. 

She herself loved Aegon, she knew that when she had brushed his soft white bangs from his face, and she knew then that she hated him too. He was perfect; absolute perfection. A thick, healthy baby boy with hair whiter then snow and bright purple eyes, and already a golden dragon pup that would trail behind him as he waddled down the halls. His perfection was her success, and yet somehow as well, her success was her failure. How had she done, so easily, what Aemma could not? Not just one healthy child, but four, in a mere five years? Rhaenyra had hated her for it, and Viserys too. 

And if she were Aemma, then she would have held Aegon in her arms as boy and it would have filled her with that great, warm affection that was supposed to accompany love. That was how Aemma had always regarded Rhaenyra. Instead, Alicent had felt cold and sick. 

She felt sometimes that it was her fault that something had rotted inside Aegon. She loved her son but she was not blind to his cruelty, his irresponsibility, his repulsive actions. Perhaps the gods had sensed the weakness inside her; her reluctance, her guilt, her anger, her disgust with her own husband— and allowed those feelings to be birthed into the shape of a young boy. Her hollowness, her years of silence, of quiet reluctance and lost childhood innocence into a baby girl, Helaena, two years later. Her resentment and paranoia into Aemond, hardly two more years after that. 

And where did that leave Daeron? She had allowed him to be sent away before he could be corrupted by her. Her most stable child was the one she had hardly raised at all.

She opened her eyes. Jacaerys was crying. 

He did not move or shake, in fact she could not see tears at all, but there were lines on his cheeks where tears must have cut through the blood crusted to his face as they crawled desperately to the edge of his chin, before dripping into his lap. She thought of his brother, coming to her in the night, his nails bloody and his eyes wet, heaving for breath. The boy had sat on her floor and allowed her to comfort him. It had been an experience completely foreign to Alicent, a piece of parenting that somehow she had lacked. 

Carefully, Alicent pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and a flask of water from beside her. She damped the cloth. She got up from her bench and stepped gingerly across the bloody floor. They had stopped, a little over an hour ago, and allowed the Kingsguard to drag the body of their attacker out of the wheelhouse. 

Jace looked down when she sat down beside him. She tipped his head up by the chin and delicately, wordlessly, began to clean his face. 

“Close your eyes,” she told him quietly, so that she could drag the damp cloth over his eyelids and across his brow and underneath his eyes as well. When she did this he spoke. 

“I’ve never killed a man before.” 

His voice was broken and rough, it had been since he had been strangled. 

Jace continued, eyes closed. “I’ve run my sword through a thousand straw dummies before. They didn’t move or scream or bleed and my blade ran them through like paper. They died stiff and neat.”

Alicent remembered, with some grim horror, watching the man collapse after Jace had slit his throat. The man had continued to writhe and grab at them and Jace had fallen atop him plunged the danger into his back over and over again, until the man was still. 

“We would have died had you not killed him,” Alicent said. Jace peered open. 

“I killed him like a starved dog,” he said, and there was touch of disgust to his voice. “If I were my father, I would have run him through with my sword and pushed his body out the door.” 

Alicent had no clue which father he was speaking of but it mattered little. She took his hands and began to clean them as well. They were large and firm, like Rhaenyra’s. 

“When your mother was hardly ten-and-seven, and Aegon only two, she stole a horse and rode off from our hunting party. Ser Criston followed her.” Jacaerys watched her speak with curious eyes. “He told me, years later, how a boar had found her by their fire. With a knife, she tore at it. She had screamed and plunged the knife in, over, and over again, until she was covered in blood and it was still. Then she had told Ser Criston to drag it home.” She looked up a Jacaerys. “On their way back, on the hillside, the White-Hart which the hunting party was after appeared before them. Rhaenyra command Criston to let it live. She must have known that had she dragged in back to the lords and ladies at the camp, she would have earned their respect. It would have been a sign to them that she was Viserys’s heir, chosen by the gods.” Alicent squeezed his fingers and let go. “Instead she returned bloody with only the boar and her head held high, and let them stare.”

Jace had never head that story, she could see it by the flicker in his eyes and the way his eyebrows drew together. 

“What is your point?” He asked softly. 

“Death is hardly ever a pretty thing,” Alicent said. “Executions can be preformed swiftly and neatly,” she thought of Daemon lobbing off the head of Vaemond, “but killing for survival is never clean. There is no romance in it. Death is and ugly, ugly thing.”

“I know this,” Jace said, but there was a childlike tone to his voice that admitted to her that it was not until now that he fully realized it. Alicent nodded, wiped away a smear of blood from his neck. 

“Then you cannot watch your actions and judge them like a dance. You acted on instinct. Yes, it was ugly and vicious and dirty and repulsive. There was nothing honorable about it. The sooner you learn that feeling, you understand that, the better a King you will one day be.” His face was clean and damp now. Alicent looked him in the eyes. “War is not fought by men with swords on horseback. Mostly, it is men on the ground in the dirt and the mud, groping at each other’s throats.”

Jace swallowed painfully. He could see now why Rhaenyra had sent Alicent along with him; why she had chosen her as her Hand. He regarded her gently.

“I suppose you suspected that I planned to storm into Baratheon’s great hall and demand he admit to having paid bandits to attack us on the Kingsroad, and then take his head for it.”

“Do you believe that true?”

“I was angry,” Jace shrugged. “It is possible, but I have no evidence.”

“Yet, had you stormed into there hot, it could have begun a war.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Your White-Hart is Lord Borros, and your boar is your dead man. Your worth as a heir will be determine by how you deal with Borros. Your mother saw this, which is why she sent you with me, instead of Vermax. The common lord does not want a war. He wants his land to prosper and his people full. He does not care who is King, or what their title is. You got a taste of death, of killing. And now you must spare Borros. We must approach him with tact.”

Jacaerys nodded, and Alicent saw, with some satisfaction, that she had gotten through to him. Alicent brushed his fringe from his eyes. His hair had grown out a little over the past few weeks. 

It struck her that she was invested in his actions, in his understanding, not purely because she was worried about the sanctity of the Throne, and of its rule, but because there was something soft and not entirely unmotherly about her desire to guide him. 

That maternal affection, the one she had always thought she lacked, seemed to blossom when Luke and Jace trusted her, and listen to her like a parent. 

Perhaps, with Rhaenyra, she had a chance at it; the romanticized life she had once dreamed of as girl. Because she had had butterflies in stomach as a girl, hadn’t she? They just had just been different from the stories she read. And these boys could be her sons as well, in a way. Sons of choice, children shared between her and Rhaenyra not because of any role or expectation, but simply because of the bond between them.

Alicent squeezed Jace’s shoulder fondly, got up from beside him, and sat back down on the bench across from him. He had placed the dagger, her dagger, on seat next to him. Alicent folded the bloody handkerchief and set it carefully on the bench beside her.  

Rhaenyra was both her violent past, and her hopeful future, she thought.  

Rhaenyra was both her boar, and her white-hart. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINETEEN 

“Where are you going?”

Aemond froze at the sound of Lucerys’s voice. He and Daeron turned around. Daeron started to speak and Aemond pressed his hand over his brother’s mouth. 

“We’re not telling you,” he huffed. “Go away.” 

Luke’s round face flushed angrily.  

“Why?”

“Because we don’t want you!” Aemond hissed. He turned away, yanking at his brother’s arm. “Come, Daeron.”

Daeron didn’t move. He was watching Luke guiltily. 

“What is the harm in brining him, Ames? He can come.”

Aemond pointed angrily at Luke.

“We’re not bringing a baby!”

“He’s not even a full year younger than me!” Daeron whined. He took Lucerys’s small hand in his own. Aemond was ten years old now, and he seemed to think that made him a man. Daeron had just turned eight, but in Aemond’s eyes they were practically twins. They did everything together. 

“I don’t care, we’re not bringing him,” Aegon said. He tried to pull Daeron away from Luke. Daeron stood his ground.

“I want to come!” Luke said. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

Aemond eyed him unhappily.   

“Yes you will. You’ll tell Jace and he’ll tell your mother and she’ll tell The King.”

“No I won’t!”   

“Luke’s the one that showed me the passages into the kitchens,” Daeron backed him up, “he hasn’t told anyone about those, not even Jace. He’s one of us, let him come.”

Aemond snorted. 

“One of us! Look at him!” He pointed angrily. “Does he look like one of us?” 

“I am!”

“Don’t be mean,” Daeron told him. Aemond rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not mean. It’s unfair. He’s not even a real Targaryen, and he gets a dragon and I don’t.” 

“What do you mean?” Daeron stared at him in confusion. “He’s the Princess’s son.” 

“You’re too young to understand,” Aegon said. He grabbed his brother’s hand again. “We’re not taking him, because I said so. Let’s go.”

Daeron might not have cared as much before but now he did. Aemond was too self-righteous.

“I’m not going unless you let him come,” Daeron said. 

“Fine! I’ll go by myself then!” Aemond yelled.

“Fine!” 

No one moved. There was a moment where it looked like Aemond might storm off, but instead he just sighed. 

“Whatever. He can come. But you’re responsible for him.”

Daeron and Luke cheered, and Aemond shushed them. They started down the dark passage.   

It took what felt like hours to reach the Dragon Pit. When they did, they emerged from a hatch in the floor, dusty and squinting in the light of the torches. Aegon held his arm out in front of them. 

“Stay behind me,” he said. Daeron was struck with a sudden fear. Wasn’t this dangerous? He gripped Luke’s wrist. 

“Where is she?” Luke whispered. Aemond had told him as they walked how they planned to ride Dreamfyre, Helaena’s dragon. Tessarion was too small, and Sunfyre too unruly, but Helena’s dragon was calm and already large for her age. 

The crept through the hallway, which was cave-like and seemed endless, their shadows stalking closely behind them. They passed holes in the wall, giant ones, and when Daeron stopped too peer into one he glimpsed the shimmer of golden scales and heard the faint breathing of a sleeping dragon. 

“Look,” he said softly Luke. Luke pushed curly bangs out of his eyes and peered in between the bars. “I think that’s Seasmoke,” Daeron whispered. 

“Seasmoke is silver,” Luke said. “That’s Syrax.” 

Aemond realized they weren’t following him. He tugged at his brother’s arm. 

“Come on, you fools,” he said.  

When they reached the spot Aemond had gotten Helaena to describe to him, Aemond stopped. He pointed in, and the boys stared in through the bars.  

“There she is.” 

Inside was a dragon a bit larger than a stallion, with pale blue scales that reminded Daeron of the color of the summer sky. She was sleeping peacefully, and when they approached the cell her eyes opened slowly but she made no move.

“Can we go in?” Daeron asked. The bars that sectioned off her part of the cave were meant to keep in an adolescent dragon, not keep out scrawny little boys. It would not be difficult to slip in between them.

Aemond could sense Luke and Daeron’s fear. Their was something gentler in his voice when he said, “She’s very friendly, Helaena told me so. She won’t hurt us.”  

Daeron could feel his heart pounding in his ears. In one hand, he gripped Lucerys’s, and in the other, he found Aemond’s wrist and held that as well. Carefully, and one at a time, they pulled themselves through the iron bars. Dreamfyre watched them with large, gentle eyes. 

“Rytsas, Dreamfyre,” Aemond greeted softly as they approached. She lifted her large head and Daeron barley kept himself from flinching. He was not scared, he told himself. “Lykiri,” [Be calm] Aemond added. 

For Aemond’s credit, or perhaps Helena’s, they were right. Dreamfyre moved, slowly and gently, with no aggression. As she unfurled herself from her sleep, Daeron though it looked little different from the way an old dog pulled himself to his feet.

Aemond reached out, and touched her snout. She let out a low, soft rumble. 

“Come on, try petting her,” Aemond told them. Luke and Daeron looked at each other hesitantly. Aemond sighed, stepped between them, took both their hands, and pressed them gently to the side of her face. 

She was warmer than Daeron expected. Much warmed then Tessarion, who had hatched when he was born but was still hardly larger than a dog. Daeron grinned, and Luke giggled. 

“See, I told you she would like us,” Aemond said. “Should we try riding her?”

“She has no saddle on,” Daeron pointed out. Aemond shrugged. 

“It’s not like she can fly much in here anyway. We don’t need a saddle. Remember when The King let us ride horses bareback? 

Daeron did remember. He remembered distinctly how uncomfortable it had been and how achingly sore he had been the next day. But Aemond seemed to know what he was doing, so Daeron nodded. 

Carefully, whispering soft commands in Varlyian, they climbed onto her back, helping each other up. While she was not very responsive to their commands, she seemed little to care that the were on top her. When she got up and stalked around the room, they whooped in delight, hearing their voices echo around the cave. 

It was bigger than Daeron had first thought. There were pillars for her to climb and trenches to fly over, and far above them a metal grate let in a beam of natural light. When they approached the side of a trench, Aemond commanded her to fly. 

Dreamfyre unfurled her wings, and pushed off the rocky ground, soaring briefly to the other side. Her flight was more like an extended hop, but the boys cheered in excitement, clutching tightly to her spikes. 

“I bet Helaena would let me share her,” Aemond said, as she crawled around. Luke shook his head. 

“You can’t share a dragon, their bonded to one person until that person dies.”

“But she listens to me!” Aemond said. 

“Barely, and only because she is friendly, and probably bored in here,” Daeron argued, “not because you’re connected.” 

Aemond huffed, and said something in Varlyian neither Luke and Daeron understood. 

There was a great rumble above them. The boys froze. 

“What was that?” Luke asked. Daeron didn’t have an answer. 

“Aemond?” He asked. But Aemond had somehow gone paler than he already was. He was staring up at a ledge above them. They heard the sound again, and this time, unmistakably, it was the roar of another dragon.  

“Fuck!” Aemond swore. “Go! Go Back!” He told Dreamfyre, “Jikagon Arli!” He begged in Varlyian. Dreamfyre didn’t move. 

They heard the shift of wings, and Sunfyre’s large golden head peaked over the edge of the ledge above them. 

“You said this was Dreamfyre’s cave!” Luke cried to Aemond. 

“It is! How was I supposed to know they keep them together!”

“Be quiet!” Daeron hissed. But he knew it was too late. They had caught the attention of Sunfyre, who let out another growl, unfurled his wings, and soared. 

“Run!” Aemond said. He leapt off the side of Dreamfyre, landing roughly on his feet, and Luke and Daeron followed suit. 

They ran back towards the gate, Sunfyre gliding over them, but were stopped suddenly by the trench Dreamfyre had leapt over before. It too wide for any of them to jump across themselves. 

Sunfyre landed behind them. Aemond spun around to face him, shoving his way in front of Luke and Daeron.

“Lykiri,” [Be calm] Aemond tried, but Sunfyre let out a furious bellow, and Aemond felt heat press against his face. Sunfyre paced closer to him. He tried a more commanding approach. “Dohaeras! Dohaeras, Sunfyre!”

It was pointless. Sunfyre began to gather breath and Aemond spun back around.

“Climb!” He yelled. Luke and Daeron did as told, dropping down into the trench as quickly as they could, gripping to whatever they could grasp. Aemond dropped in beside them, and not a moment too soon, as a jet of fire blew over their head. Luke screamed. Daeron thought he smelled something burning. They scaled their way down into the trench, which was twice depth of a room. As they got deeper, the walls go closer together, until eventually they could scoot down between them onto the steep floor of the ravine. Above them, Sunfyre was climbing down as well, but had to squeeze to fit. 

They had reached the bottom of the trench and run out of place to go. Sunfyre’s snapping jaws moved closer. Aemond crouched over the two younger boys and pulled his leather cloak over them as Sunfyre let out another stream of fire, which just barley didn’t reach them. The next time it would.

Daeron’s mother had told him cursing was sinful, be he decided now that it was an appropriate time. Then again, had he and Aemond listened to their mother they wouldn’t be in this danger in first place. 

“Fuck!” He swore anyway. “Aemond!” A childish feeling he thought he had grown out of bubbled up inside him. “Aemond, do something!” He cried. Aemond didn’t know what to do. Luke was clutching onto him. 

Sunfyre was shoving himself down deeper into the trench. Aemond closed his eyes, pulled his cloak back over them, and Daeron prayed. 

A sound bellowed from above them. Not a dragon’s roar but men, yelling in Varlyian that not even Aemond understood. Daeron looked up and saw Dragon Keepers peering over the edge, barking orders and shoving at Sunfyre with their sticks. The dragon twisted to face them, distracted suddenly from the boys. Daeron though he smelled meat; a roasted pig, being used to lure Sunfyre up. 

He didn’t dare scream for help, that might remind Sunfyre they were there. Instead the boys huddled in silence, breathing heavily and listening to the yelling above. After some time,— Daeron thought it felt like hours but knew it must have been minutes,— Sunfyre was gone from the trench and a man was dropping down a rope for them, yelling to climb up. 

If they had spoken on the miserable ride to back to the Red Keep, Daeron didn’t remember. He remembered Luke crying, and Aemond not meeting his eyes. For a while a Dragon Keeper who was accompanying them in the carriage had yelled at them, but Daeron hadn’t really heard him either.

They were dragged in front of the King by the scruffs of their tunics, not unlike misbehaving pups. When Viserys had seen them he had sent for Rhaenyra and Alicent. 

Daeron’s father had lectured, and scolded, and sometimes yelled until even Aemond wept and Daeron’s knees grew numb as they knelt on the stone floor. Aegon had watched with some amusement, for once not involved in the trouble making, and Jace has stared sullenly at his younger brother. 

Afterwards, Daeron remembered words like “irresponsibility” and “childishness,” and “reckless, pointless danger,” but he remembered little of the way these words had been strung together. What he did remember was his mother’s expression when Rhaenyra had asked “why was my son involved in this?” And Daeron had lifted his head, ashamed, and said, “I told Aemond we should let him come.” 

They were sent to bed without supper, and told a harsher punishment would be dreamed up for them. Guards were posted outside their rooms. Luke was dragged away by his mother,—Daeron had looked at him apologetically,— but Aemond and Daeron shared quarters. 

They lay in bed that night, hungry and tired, too ashamed to speak. When the moon was peaking through the window, someone knocked on the door. It was Otto Hightower. 

“Grandsire,” both boys had greeted, the voices small and hoarse. He had looked between them critically. 

“Daeron, come with me,” he said quietly. Daeron felt his heart race. He over looked at Aemond, and then back at Otto. 

“Only me?”

“Yes. Your mother and I would like to have a word.” 

Daeron hesitated. Aemond spoke up. 

“Grandsire, it was me who came up with the idea, and told Daeron to come. I should serve the punishment,” he said. Otto’s eyebrows rose. 

“You shall both serve punishment in time.” He looked back to Daeron. “Come,” he ordered again, and this time Daeron did not hesitate, following him nervously into the hall.

When he returned, nearly an hour later, his eyes were red and his voice small. Aemond was still awake when he entered their bed chambers, and he sat up when Daeron entered, staring at him through the dark. 

“What did they do?” He asked, when Daeron did not speak. Daeron could hardly meet his eyes. “Dae?” 

“They’re sending me away,” he said. Aemond froze. 

“What?”

“To Oldtown. They’re sending me to ward to the Hightowers.”

There was a heavy pause.  

“You?” Aemond said. Somehow, Daeron knew it was not a question but an accusation. Aemond’s face was flushed. Daeron looked away; he didn’t like how Aemond was looking at him. 

He pulled a nightgown from the wardrobe and changed silently out his clothing, which was still smeared with ash and dirt and some small patches of blood where he had scrapped himself against the rocks. 

They would be given baths in the morning, Otto had said. Even in his clean white nightgown, Daeron felt dirty and ashamed. He tossed one to Aemond as well, but Aemond neither said anything, nor bothered to change into it. 

“I am sorry,” Daeron said softly, as he blew out candles and climbed into bed, although he wasn’t exactly sure to what he was apologizing for. He thought he heard his brother sniff. 

Silently, in dark, staring at his ceiling, Aemond let hot tears dampen his hair. He wasn’t sure what he was more angry about: that they were separating him from his brother, his only real friend; or that they had chosen Daeron and not him. 

Otto had been right. Even if Daeron was the serving the sentence it was Aemond who was being punished. Now he had nothing. No dragon, no throne to inherit, no friend to play with. Daeron got a dragon. Daeron got to go to Old Town, to see the rest of the world, to squire for important men and study at the library of the Starry Sept. Daeron might have friends there, friends who weren’t him. Daeron! A third son! 

Aemond knew his brother— soft, thoughtful, Daeron— did not deserve his bitter jealousy. But he couldn’t help it. It was unfair!  

He bit back a sob.

Aemond was different. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was that made him so separate from the rest of the children in The Keep, but he knew it wasn’t just that didn’t have a dragon. 

He was better then them, he told himself. More deserving. He was a true Targaryen. He spoke Valyrian better then any of them. He fought better in sword training. He studied their histories more throughly. That was why they didn’t like him, he decided. Because he was better then them.

All except for Daeron, who had always adored him. Who had followed him around the hallways since the age he could walk and let Aemond read histories to him and teach him his Valyrian letters.     

That was why they were separating them, Aemond decided. They were scared of him, even the adults. They were scared he might show Daeron how to be a true Targaryen. They were scared Aemond would infect him with whatever it was that made him different. So they were sending him to Oldtown, to be a Hightower instead.

In the morning, he would beg and plead and yell to his mother to let him go with Daeron to Oldtown, but even then he knew it would be no use. His father and grandsire would not permit it. They were sending Daeron away from him. 

——————————

It was difficult work, getting Luke onto the back of Tessarion. The storm had broke at dawn that morning, and neither boy had much sleep. When Daeron offered Luke a weary smile, Luke could see the exhaustion in his eyes and the soreness in his movement. 

Carefully, Daeron had helped Luke back into his thick trousers and cotton doublet, which were damp but no longer soaking. Luke tried not to shiver as the cold reached bone-deep. He couldn’t not, however, prevent the tears that sprung to his eyes as Daeron helped him onto Tessarion.

“Sorry,” Daeron repeated, over and over, as Luke hissed in pain, “sorry.” 

Daeron had taken the binding straps of the harness and wrapped it around both of them, so that Luke was supported against him in the saddle. When they flew, Daeron had to reach around him to hold the reigns, peering over his shoulder to see the way. 

It was a bit suffocating, Luke thought at first, but it was warm against Daeron even when the cold wind stung, and when Luke remembered dangling over the side of Arrax Daeron’s arms around him were comforting.

After an hour of flight, their pace grew steady and the wind calmer. Daeron loosed his grip on the reins, and his forehead dipped to rest against Luke’s shoulder.

“Does this hurt?” Daeron asked softly. Everything hurt; his ribs, his calf, his head— but not that. Not Daeron leaning gently against him.  It was comfortable, Luke thought.

“No,” he said softly, and so they stayed like that.

“Will you keep an eye out for me, for a bit?” Daeron asked. 

“Of course.”

He would not let Luke take the reins completely, but he let him grip them as well as they flew so he could close his eyes and let his breath fall on Luke’s back. 

He was achingly tired. Exhaustion permeated every muscle, and his head pounded as wind whistled in their ears. He had told Luke he slept some but it was lie; he had spent the night tending to the fire and nervously watching Luke breath, scared that did he not, he may stop. Luke had let out small cries of pain in his sleep that had made Daeron’s heart ache.It was not the first time he had flown like this. He remembered his arms wrapped around someone else, on the back of Tessarion, letting them hold the reins. But those nights had been fervent and thrilling, and there had been a fire in his stomach then that had long since been put out. 

This was far different, Daeron thought. 

But perhaps, not entirely.

“Daeron?” They were close enough that he could hear Luke easily through the wind. 
“Yes?”

“Do you remember riding Dreamfyre?”

Riding was a strong word for what they had been doing, but Daeron did, vividly, remember their foolishness. More than that, he remembered his mother holding his small hands between his that night and telling him quietly, “You are special, Daeron. You- you are a Hightower. I cannot let you stay here in their shadows, making their mistakes.”

“I remember,” he told Luke. 

What Luke remembered about that night was not his own mother’s long lecture or his grandsire’s, but watching Alicent Hightower while on his knees beneath them. When Viserys yelled, or Otto, or Rhaenyra especially, Alicent would dig the nails of her fingers underneath the soft skin of her nail beds. 

Curiously, when he could not sleep that night, he had tried it himself. It had hurt. He could not understand why she did it, and he quickly forgot about it. 

It was not until about a year later, when he had fought with Aemond and taken his eye, that Luke had tried again, almost by accident, or perhaps instinct. As he had lay in his dark room, alone on Dragonstone, nearly choking on the ugliness he felt inside him, he had made his fingers bleed. It had felt strangely good.     

“Was the incident with Dreamfyre why they sent you to Oldtown? As punishment?” Luke asked Daeron. The were a quiet pause, filled with the sound of the wind beneath Tessarion’s wings. 

“I once thought so,” he said softly, “I am less sure now.”     

He let himself rest a while longer with his forehead against Luke’s back. The comfort of it brought him mostly guilt. 

Why had the gods given him such inherit sin? Unnatural, his feelings were considered, and yet the came so naturally to him. Perhaps it was all punishment, all of it, for everything.  

He swallowed back the lump in his throat.

The sun had passed from the east to the west by the time they came into sight of Kings Landing. Daeron could not help but grin a little at the beauty of it, at the rolling hills of red clay roofs and the steeples that rose in between them, a sight he had yet to grown bored of. 

His smile faded as they approached Rhaenys’s Hill and Daeron could see a crowd of guards, dragon keepers, and even the King and Queen themselves standing in the yard. Sunfyre was out as well, his saddle being adjusted. He could feel his stomach turn at the thought of Rhaenyra’s face, when he landed with her son broken in his arms. 

Luke must have felt how tense he was. Daeron’s knuckles were white, gripping the reins, but Luke wrapped an arm around his forearm and squeezed firmly. He hoped desperately that the Queen would see Luke on Tessarion, before she saw Arrax beside them with an empty saddle. 

Men skirted aside as they made a rough landing in the dirt, Luke letting small sounds of pain as they jolted in their seat. 

“Paerī! Lykiri!” Daeron called to Tessarion. The dragon was on edge, her blue head swinging back and forth, stopping approaching men in their tracks.

“Make room!” He called down to them, just as Luke commanded Arrax to land, yelling “Ninkiot!” With the greatest voice he could muster. 

The small dragon landed beside them, and Daeron forced himself to watch the Queen’s head swivel between Arrax and Luke, concern etched into her features. 

His attention was torn away from her as Dragon Keepers began to approach them and Tessarion growled anxiously, flinching away from them. Daeron felt his stress twist into frustration. Couldn’t they back off?! The few Keepers that had existed in Oldtown had always left Daeron to handle her mostly himself, their responsibilities falling on making sure she was fed and cared for on the days he did not ride her. 

He wanted now to snap at them to leave.  

“Give us room!” He called out instead, mustering his courtesies. “Do not approach!” 

They listened to him, Daeron saw with some satisfaction. He reached down and ran his fingers against Tessarion’s scales, commanding her to calm and giving her gentle praise. When she had settled down he let go of the reins gently. 

It was Aegon, of course, who ignored Daeron’s orders and approached them first. He was in his riding gear, his hair a mess, and managed to come nearer to Tessarion with the tact of Targaryen rider.

“I’ve been in the saddle half the day looking for you two!” He called up to them. “Where have you been?” 

Daeron ignored his question. He could feel his own exhaustion deep on his bones. 

“Help me, brother,” he said.  Aegon was close enough now to see the leather straps that bound Luke to him. His eyebrows rose, the grin falling from his face.

He climbed carefully up the side of Tessarion.

“He’s hurt,” Daeron told Aegon. 

“I’m fine,” Luke said, trying to help undo the binding himself. Daeron swatted his hands away. 

Aegon looked between them, at the dirt crusted to their face and their disheveled hair.  

“Seven Hells, what did you do?” He asked under his breath, as he began to help Daeron undo the straps.

“We were caught in the storm,” Daeron said quietly. His fingers fumbled. He glanced over Aegon’s shoulder and saw Rhaenyra approaching hesitantly.   

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Aegon said, trying for a joking tone, but Daeron felt his stomach turn. 

“Just help me,” he said weakly. Aegon flung off the last strap and they helped Luke down, supporting his weight between them. Luke bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. 

Rhaenyra swept towards them. 

“Lucerys,” she reached out, her fingers tugging gently on the collar of his doublet, “you’re hurt.”

“It is not serious,” Luke said, and Rhaenyra looked over to Daeron. He forced himself to meet her gaze. 

“A few broken ribs,” he said, “and his leg.”

She bit at her lip, watching them with soft purplish eyes. Daeron could see deep hollows beneath them and a tired flush to her face. 

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” he added softly, the words stumbling from his lips like a plea. He felt younger than his ten-and-five years, out of place suddenly in this family. She was his half-sister, and he hardly recognized her, Daeron realized. What could she possibly think of him? That he had not matured a day since he was only eight and had dragged Luke along to ride Sunfyre? 

His words seem to touch something in her. She blinked and her expression fell away, worry receding back into impassive authority. It was the Queen, looking back at him suddenly, not Luke’s mother, not Daeron’s sister. 

I am sorry, he wanted to beg again, but he swallowed the words back. He was not a child. 

“Help Luke to a wheelhouse,” she told him and Aegon. “You and Aegon may ride in the other one.” 

Daeron did as he was told. If Aegon wasn’t there he might have spoken softly with Luke, but Aegon was, and so the words he might have said sounded strangely out of place. When Luke sat down in the carriage, letting out a pained grunt, and Aegon back hopped out, Daeron paused. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. Luke looked up at him. Daeron was not just asking about the pain, he knew. 

“I am.” His voice was soft. He reached out and grasped Daeron’s wrist for instant. “Are you?”

He reached for the word yes, but could not find it, and nodded instead. Carefully, he climbed back out of the wheelhouse, and stepped aside for the Queen. 

Aegon threw and arm around his shoulder, clapping a hand against his chest, and Daeron barely managed not to flinch.

“You want to go to a tavern?” Aegon grinned happily at him. “I have not yet taken you out, I realize,” he said. Daeron pulled away a little, blinking back the wetness in his eyes. 

“No Aegon, I want to go home.” 

Perhaps that was his brother’s way of showing his love. Perhaps sharing cups of wine was the only way he knew how, Daeron thought. But how would he know? Did he even know Aegon? Or Helaena? Or any of them? Even Aemond he knew only through what he chose to tell Daeron in his letters. 

He had been wrong, Daeron realized. When he had arrived in Kings Landing, he thought that were a large family with a few hurt feelings and some confusion over their own succession. He had thought their divisions petty family arguments. And he had thought that he might slip back into this dynamic as if he had never left, as if he was still that little boy, and it might make up for the years he had lost. 

What he had not realized was that they were hardly a family at all, not anymore. None of them even knew what to do with each other! They were a mess, fractured beyond repair! He was no more Rhaenyra’s brother than he was Aegon’s, no more Luke’s uncle than he was than Viserys's son!   

  He wanted bitterly to be a part of family, to be a Targaryen, and had returned home to find a collection of individuals. And if they knew only a fraction of each other, they knew him little at all. 

Luke had shown him real, honest vulnerability in that cave, as raw and broken as it was, and Daeron had not even managed to summon the courage to offer some real understanding about himself in return. 

Daeron was alone in the wheelhouse with Aegon as they rode back to the castle. There was no strength left in him. He could not blink like Rhaenyra had and transform into a prince. He put his head in his hands and cried. He cried the entire journey back to the Red Keep, and he thought bitterly the whole way about how Aegon was watching him, and yet could not find a word to offer or touch to comfort him. 

___________________________

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY- Alicent, alone.

When their carriage came to a halt in the courtyard of Storm’s End, Alicent wanted no more than to drag herself to whatever bed they first offered her and fall upon it. Across from her, Jace looked as weary as she felt. 

“Jacaerys,” she began, “we should mind ourselves. It would not be tactful to try to negotiate with Borros tonight, while we are drained.” 

He glanced up at her, nodding softly. His mind looked elsewhere. He picked up the bloodied dagger beside him, which he had not touched since he had set down hours ago, and held out the handle to her. 

“You should take this,” he said, “It is yours.”

Alicent swallowed.

“That knife has been passed through the Targaryen line for generations. It was never meant for me.” 

It pained her a little to let it go. She had held the knife since Viserys’s death, kept it at her bedside when she slept and tucked into her coats when she could. It was a man’s weapon, and she had guiltily liked how it felt in her hands. Once, she had held it over a fire and noticed writing on it she had not seen before. It was Valyrian, and she had wanted to ask Rhaenyra about it, but could not bring herself to present Rhaenyra with the same knife she had once cut her with.

Jacaerys had not moved. 

“I do not care to who it belongs,” he said, I want you to have it. It would reassure me.”

“I musn’t—,”

“You shall, or I will give you my sword to carry in its stead.” 

Alicent snorted a little at the thought of traipsing into Storm’s End in her gown, dragging The Conquerer’s sword with her. She took the knife and tucked it away. 

He had promised Rhaenyra to protect her, Alicent realized as she did so. The thought made her gut twist a little. Was it awful that she did not hate the idea of Rhaenyra lying awake at night, worrying for her?    

Alicent could hear the roar and crash of colossal waves beneath the castle as they were led inside by anxious servants, who had not expected them that night. They were brought to the Great Hall, where Alicent was pleased to see that Borros as looked sleep ridden and hastily put together as they did, even atop his throne.  

“Jacaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne,” Ser Arryk announced, “and the Dowager Queen, and Lady Hand, Alicent Hightower.” 

There was an anxious pause where Borros simply stared down at them, as if expecting them to bow to him. When his wits came about him, he stood from his throne, lumbered down its stone steps, and bent a knee. 

“My Prince,” he offered. He did not linger on his knee for long. He kissed Alicent’s knuckles and a lifetime of practice willed her not pull away from the rough scratch of his beard. She found herself thankful Viserys had never grown one. 

When she had married him, Rhaenyra had been forced to kiss her hand at the ceremony, Alicent remembered. She had let her lips linger on the soft skin of Alicent’s knuckles, her fingers held delicately between her own, and Alicent could not figure from Rhaenyra’s gaze whether the action was vengeful or remorseful. 

You were mine first, is what her eyes had said. 

Alicent shook the memory from her mind.   

“Your Grace,” Borros spoke to her, more than to Jace, “We had not expected you this night.”

Alicent could feel his dull gaze on the swollen parts of her face. 

“Neither had we expected to be here. Our entourage fell under attack,” she said. His eyebrows rose. Was Borros feigning his surprise?

“Attack? Who would dare?”

“They displayed no banners. My Kingsguard suspect they did not know it were their Prince and Queen who rode inside, and merely meant to rob us,” Alicent told him. Borros shook his large head.  

“To think there are fools in these woods dumb enough to besiege a royal caravan,” he said. Jace bristled. 

“Your woods, Lord Borros, may I remind you” he said. Borros eyed him unhappily. Alicent could see what he was thinking, it was written plainly on his face. 

“Had it not been for Prince Jacaerys, I would be dead,” she said. “It was he who killed the attacker who made it inside our wheelhouse. Had he not, the Throne may have had to question how such a horrible act could have transpired within your lands.”

It was a very weakly veiled threat. Alicent knew she should not have spoken with such spite, but she also could not help the flicker of pleasure she found at the annoyance in his eyes. Borros was only few years older than herself, and he had been just as proud and dumb a boy as he now was as a man.  

Perhaps he had thought he was dealing with the kind girl he had known many years ago, when he was a mere tourney knight and she not yet the queen. He at least had the decency then to pretend to look guilty.   

“I should beg your forgiveness, then, your Grace. And my gratitude that you have not come to any significant harm. I trust all your Kingsguard survived?”

“They did,” Jace said stiffly. Borros nodded. He pointed to the long sword sheathed around Jace’s hip.  

“Is the sword that took a man’s life?”

Jace glanced at Alicent, thinking of the dagger hidden beneath her velvet green traveling cloak. Alicent gave him the tiniest hint of a nod. 

“It is,” he drew the blade, which was crusted with blood from when he had first driven it through the man’s stomach. Still, it seemed to glow red and black by the light of the great torches mounted on the wall. Borros looked upon the blade with what Alicent suspect to be genuine admiration.

“Is this Blackfyre?” He asked. Jacaerys nodded.

“It is. True Varlyian steel, once wielded by Aegon the Conquerer,” he said. 

As well as Maegor the Cruel, and Jaehaerys the Wise, Alicent thought. If she were honest, she gave little preoccupation to the histories of swords and their names. A weapon was an extension of who wielded it. It held no curse, no inherit evil or good. But men liked to name their swords like they likes to name their ships. And they gave their ships women’s names, she had noticed, because they did not presume to own and control a man like they did a woman.  

“Is this the first man you have killed with it?” Borros asked. 

“It is,” Jacaerys nodded, and Borros clapped him on the back with a grin. Alicent was pleased to see Jace force a laugh rather than stiffen, letting the tension in his shoulders fall away. 

“Than we shall celebrate!” he said. The way his moods swung made Alicent uneasy. “A boy becomes a man when he has first bathed in blood, don’t you think?” He looked to Alicent, and she offered him a gracious smile. 

“Not entirely unlike the way a girl becomes a woman,” she said, and it was crude joke that she did not like but she knew Borros would appreciate. He did, his beard bouncing when he chuckled. 

“On the morrow we shall feast. I suspect tonight you are tired from your long travels. I will have you shown to your quarters,” Borros said. Alicent held back a sigh of relief. She was starving, but to eat now would not be worth making further conversation with him. 

“That would make us most pleased,” Alicent said softly. He kissed her knuckles again, gripped Jace’s forearm in a handshake, and sent them off with one of his daughters, the oldest, who told them her name was Cassandra. She had her father’s wide face, but it was not unpretty, and Alicent found her far more likable than he. She worried for the poor mother who had given him four daughters and not yet a single son. 

Her quarters were right next to Jacaerys’s, which reassured her some amount, and Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk were posted outside their doors for the first watch. 

The bed was not her own but it was not uncomfortable, and the massive hearth kept her pleasantly warm. Alicent was too tired to worry. She let her eyes close. 

When Alicent slept that night, she dreamt that she woke up next to Rhaenyra, except that there were wrinkles around Rhaenyra’s soft eyes and her face had grown thicker with age. When she had looked in the mirror she was old as well, her hair a mess of grey curls that did not quite match the silver of Rhaenyra’s. There were two dressers in the bedroom, and scuff marks on the floor next to the bed where Rhaenyra alway set her boots. The curtains where only half-drawn the way Alicent liked them. 

When Rhaenyra smiled at her, the lines in her old face grew and stretched, and Alicent thought that she looked beautiful.

And she leaned forward and kissed her cheek. 

It had been her cheek, right?

—————————— 

Jace awoke to the sound steel clattering against stone. He flinched, his eyes snapping open in an instant, his hand groping for the handle of a sword that wasn’t there. When he looked over the side of the bed, his heart racing, he saw that it was lying across the stone floor, and that his room was empty, cast in blue by the early morning light. 

He had merely knocked over his sword in his sleep, Jace reassured himself. His heart was racing. He picked up Blackfyre and set it across his lap, lying back down. He tried to steady his breathing.

He had dreamt all night of that man. Of his blood and the way it had stuck to him. Of the way the smell had stung his nose and his eyes as well. The sword now in his hand made him feel safer and yet he was half-tempted to carry it over to the large open window and throw it into the sea below. 

I should feel no guilt, he told himself. What I did was justifiable. Good, even. Honorable. Alicent is safe, like my mother asked of me. It was the type of fight men train for.  

Except when he had slit the man’s throat, he had not thought of Alicent, or his mother, or even himself. There had been only the knife, and the throat, and then the blood. 

Death is an ugly thing, Alicent had told him. She had wanted him to remember that ugly feeling. He did. How did Daemon ever lob off men’s heads and laugh? 

Jace had never really liked Daemon, it had been well-known among them on Dragonstone, and yet, with a child-like desperation, he had once wanted for Daemon to love him. To be proud of him. To see him as man; or at least as a son.  

Daemon would not have taken a damp cloth to Jace’s face. 

It might have looked powerful, Jace thought, to enter Borros’s Hall covered in blood; had there not been tear tracks carved through it. Yet, there had been such a kindness in the way Alicent had taken him by the chin and pressed the handkerchief gently under eyes. There was a familiarity in her gentleness, as if it had been there long within her, freed finally from the suffocation of her spite. 

He knew nothing of leading a kingdom. Neither had Daemon. Even Rhaenyra herself had little experience in such things. It had been Alicent, those many years, ruling in Viserys’s stead.   He should be begging her advice. 

Despite not having slept long, Jace could not fall back asleep. He waited for the sky to grow from blue to pink as the sun rose, and then dressed himself carefully. He chose a clean, black doublet with the three-headed dragon emblem embroidered onto the the chest. He fastened his crimson cloak around his shoulders, and wore the seal of Dragonstone on a silver ring. He sheathed Blackfyre to his hip. There was a knock on his doors. 

“Enter.”

Alicent stepped inside. 

“Good, you are up,” she said. She strode past him to window, drawing the curtains open wider and staring out at the dark cliffs and the sea beneath them. Jace was struck by her crimson gown, which rose neatly into a high collar, around which was strung a gold chain with the Star of The Seven.

He had never seen her in red. She looked older, somehow, when she turned back to face him. 

“What is it?” She asked. There must have a been a hint of surprise in his expression.

“That color suits you,” he said. Alicent tugged a little at her sleeve. 

“We are a united house now, we should present ourselves that way,” she said. “Truthfully, I prefer blue and silver. Those are my house colors.” 

Jace paused. Hadn’t it been green? He had always assumed. Green was the color of the fire on top The Hightower, when they called their banners to war. Oh. 

“Sorry, I did not intend to bore you with the discussion of dresses,” Alicent added after a soft moment of silence. Jace shook his head. 

“It does not bore me. I much like to hear your thoughts. I find that every time we speak, I understand you better than I did before.”

Alicent watched him softly. She remembered Luke telling her how Jace liked to cook, and how he danced with Helaena when they had dined before Viserys’s death. She should have wed them when Rhaenyra had first offered. Another aching regret. 

“I find much the same,” Alicent told him. Jace sat down on his bed to tug on his leather boots. 

“When we return to Kings Landing, you should commission a blue gown. It would be my wish that you wore your house colors to my wedding.” 

Alicent stared down at him, wondering if he knew that it was his mother’s first wedding where she had first worn green. She played with image of the blue gown her head, liking the shape of it; could simply shedding the symbol of her spite from her shoulders allow her to return to the girl she once was?  

“I would like that,” Alicent told him. She did not like red on herself, it reminded her of those early days of her marriage, when Rhaenyra was deeply angry and Alicent mostly just sad. She had worn red then because it Viserys’s color. When she wore it now, it was because it was Rhaenyra’s. She did not much mind that thought.

“How is your eye?” Jace asked. Alicent pressed a finger to the swollen skin beneath it, which was warm to the touch. It had left a nasty bruise that she had seen that morning in the looking-glass. 

“It will heal,” she sighed. “The pain has mostly waned.”

There was dark bruising around his neck as well, Alicent saw, although it was mostly obscured by his collar. She reached out, tugging on it gently, adjusting it to better cover a dark thumb print left beneath his jaw. 

“Borros has invited us to break our fast with him,” Alicent told him. “We should not be late.”

It was Cassandra, again, who they ran into in the hall, although Alicent had little doubt that she had been lingering there, waiting for them. She greeted them kindly and led them to a dining pavilion outside in the large, bluegrass courtyard. Alicent liked the touch of the morning mist on her face, and the softness of the lawn beneath her feet.  

“Good Morrow,” Alicent greeted Borros, as a seat was pulled out for her to sit beside him. She disliked that he had taken a seat at the head of the table, with should have been reserved for Jacaerys as his liege lord. Instead, he was given a position across from her, on the other side Borros. That should have been the seat of his wife, who was strangely absent. 

“Might I ask where the Lady Elenda is?” Alicent asked, as she sat down. “I must admit I had hoped to see her. I still remember her beautiful voice from when she sung for the court when I just a girl.”

What she truly remembered was Rhaenyra’s flushed expression as they had listened to her sing, and how she had clasped Alicent’s fingers between her own. She remembered, with some mortification, how she asked her father for singing lessons afterwards.   

Still, her words seemed to touch Borros. He cast a side-long gaze at Jace, in her seat. 

“She has been quiet ill of late and taken abed. She prefers to sleep most mornings,” he said. Alicent offered him a sympathetic frown. 

“That is most unfortunate to hear,” she said. She remembered that Elenda Caron had worn a silver Star of The Seven around her own neck, many years ago. “We will pray to The Mother for her recovery.”   

“She will pleased to hear it,” Borros said. “In her absence, I hope you will enjoy hearing instead from her apprentice, Orthia Snow.” 

He waved a hand towards a woman who must have been hardly younger than herself, and who straddled a harp in the corner of the pavilion. Alicent caught the woman’s gaze, and could not, for a moment, look away. She did not need to hear the bastard denotation Snow to know that she was a northern girl. Her thick black hair fell in long curls down her back and around her face, with no cue or braid to pull it back, and her green eyes were fierce in a way that Alicent found appealing. She offered Alicent a smile that felt all to direct, and Alicent found that the cold morning air suddenly did not seem all that cold anymore. 

“Play us something, Snow,” Borros said with a grin. Orthia cast her eyes away from Alicent and began to play, her fingers dancing over the cords and her voice emerging from her in song. Her melody was strong and no one attempted to speak over it, which Alicent was thankful for because she felt unusually flustered. Why? It was not such a sin to notice a woman’s beauty, Alicent told herself. They were all made in the image of The Maiden. Or something like that.  

Alicent quietly swallowed bites of roast ham and sweet bread, only briefly aware of and pleased to see that Jace and herself were offered the choice portion of every platter. Mostly, she was watching Orthia play, the way her entire body swayed as her fingers frolicked across the body of the instrument, the way her voice seemed to embody the movement completely. The lyrics were lost on her, yet she liked their sound. It was the strong wine they drank in the Stormlands, she decided, that was making her face feel flush and her stomach warm. Yet she could not help but feel bitter when the song slowed to a ending. 

They applauded politely, and Alicent looked away before the woman could meet her eyes again. 

“That was lovely,” she told Borros. “It is quite clear she has had a talented mentor.” 

“She is a gem, isn’t she?” He said. He squinted at Alicent, which might have been his version of a kind smile. “I did not know you were such an enthusiast of song,” he said. 

Yes, Alicent decided. It had been the music which she liked. 

Orthia returned to her harp after a mere moment, but this time it was softer and she did not sing, which unfortunately meant that Borros turned towards discussion.      

“You have played along kindly, My Lady,” Borros said to her, “but I am not a fool enough to think that The Dowager Queen travels south on the Kingsroad for only good music and good wine.”

“If only,” Alicent said over her the top of her cup, attempting amusement, but when Borros did not even smile on response she set it down with a sigh. Perhaps it would be best to blunt with him. “Your daughter has recently been betrothed to Osric Tyrell, has she not?”  

“She has. What of it?”

“In exchange for all your exports? Your timber? Your Iron?” His look gave Alicent her answer. “So you are letting them bleed you dry so they can amass army,” she said. Borros’s eyes narrowed. 

“We have no lack of iron here in the Stormlands. It is you, I reckon, who is being bled dry without our support,” Borros said. “But what betrothal have you offered me?”

“You swore an oath,” Jacaerys cut in angrily, “to the Queen. She does not need to buy your loyalty when you should be at her feet begging for her forgiveness.” 

Borros rounded on him. 

“What would you know of oaths, boy?” He leered. “You weren’t even a babe in the womb when my lord father gave that vow to a little girl. You’re greener than the hills of the Eyrie!” 

“And what combat is it that you have seen, Lord Borros?” Jace hissed. “Was it when you fell from your horse as tourney knight? Or did you trip and fall on your sword while stumbling drunk in a brothel?” 

“More likely I’d’ve fallen upon your mother there,” Borros said, his lip curling. Jace jumped to his feet. 

“I should have you fed to my dragon,” he snapped. Orthia had stopped playing. Borros glanced around the empty courtyard mockingly. 

“What dragon? I seen none here.” 

Jace was fuming. He glanced desperately at Alicent for support. She could feel a headache emerging. She wanted them all to shut up. 

“Should we get you both little wooden swords so you can have a duel to see who is greener?” Alicent asked dryly, “Perhaps then it would be clear who the more childish is.” 

Borros’s daughters stifled laughs from the other end of the table. Jace flushed and Borros at least had the decency to look sheepish. He cleared his throat.  

“I have always respected you, Lady Alicent,” Borros grumbled, “but if Kings Landing is lacking for iron than they should consider melting down the thousand swords that make the Realm’s Throne. That iron would have more honor as the silverware of peasants than as the future seat of that boy,” he said, casting a glare at Jace. Alicent sighed. 

“I did not travel here to trade impudent japes,” she said. “And may I remind you, Lord Borros, that I am The Hand of that Throne. One whisper in the right ear and you’ll have your pick between which of our dozen dragons you wish to be fed to.” Alicent stood up abruptly from her seat. “When are ready to have a real conversation about the future of your house, come find me.”

She shot Jace a withering look, turned from the table, and strode off, leaving Borros agape. She was thankful to hear Jace follow her quietly. 

Alicent wound her way quickly through the long, dark halls of Storm’s End, until she found the archway that opened up to another courtyard, where the Godswood lay peacefully. She followed a dirt pathway out to the Weirwood tree. Jace trailed behind her.  

“Have you been here before? You seem familiar with the castle,” he said. Alicent ignored his question, turning on him crossly. 

“Did you really have to open your mouth?” She asked. “I was doing perfectly fine with Borros before you cut in.”

Jace looked taken aback. 

“I- I was defending our position. Would you have him going around thinking my mother should have to buy his loyalty?”

“Are you so naive to think any politician rules from what— divine right? Image, alone? Surely you do not actually believe Targaryens are gods,” she snapped. Jace flushed. “You think Jaehaerys kept decades of peace by threatening anyone who showed impudence? He bought and sold loyalty like any other ruler. You’ll find that many men don’t believe in gods, Jacaerys, but they all worship gold.”

Jace fiddled in frustration with the hilt of his sword. 

“I simply thought to show strength. It was a mistake, to come here without a dragon. My mother should have sent me on Vermax. We should have summoned Rhaenys, as well, back from Driftmark. She is Baratheon in part.” 

As you should have been as well, Alicent thought, but she did not voice it.        

“The Queen did not simply forget to send you with a dragon. She chose not to. Borros is as brave as he is dumb. A mere dragon will not change his mind.” She sighed at him. “Did you hear nothing of what I said to you, last night? About the white-hart? About approaching with some tact?” 

Jace looked flustered. He groped for words. 

“I- yes— what would you have had me done?” He asked finally. 

“Sit there and look pretty!” Alicent snapped. “Borros’s daughters were doing a perfectly good job of it. You could take a lesson from them.”

“I am The Queen’s heir, not some girl,” Jace said. Alicent snorted. 

“Your mother was once just a girl who was told the same thing, long before she was to be heir. Borros’s eldest daughter herself, Lady Cassandra, is his heir. She seemed to have no trouble knowing when to speak and when not to,” Alicent said. 

“And you think Borros would respect me more if I acted the part of a daughter?” Jace said. Alicent sighed.  

“You are missing my point again. Women are called the gentler sex and yet we emerge screaming and kicking from womb like any male babe. We would not be so gentle if not trained our whole girlhoods how to control out anger.” She sat down on a stone bench with a soft sigh. “There was a reason Rhaenyra was named heir instead of Daemon.” She looked up at Jace. “‘The Heir for a Day,’ have you hard that?” Jace shook his head. “It is the jest Daemon made the day Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon died. I am sure when he said it he thought to show strength, to his men. Had he learned how to keep his mouth shut and control himself, it might be him sitting the Throne.” 

Jace swallowed. He clearly did not like the comparison made between him and Daemon. He sat down beside her on the bench. 

“I am sorry,” he told her. “I have no desire to take after Daemon.” 

Alicent regarded him, her anger having faded. She reached out a squeezed his shoulder gently. She realized how odd it was, that she could to speak to him in this way, like he was her son, not her prince.  

“It is not my intention to be demeaning, Jacaerys. I just do not wish to see you repeat mistakes I myself have once made. When I lost my temper, it cast a rift in our family that perhaps can never be repaired.” 

Jace looked over at her. 

“I would not be sure of that,” Jace said. “Once, you would have said ‘between our families’.” 

He stood up from the bench after a quiet moment and made his way back into the castle, leaving Alicent to ponder his words. 

Where had such a gentleness emerged from her? Even her anger at Jace had originated in disappointment rather than bitterness. Had she ever spoken this way to her own sons? Who would they be now, if she had? 

She closed her eyes. She liked it here, away from King’s Landing. Sure, it was cold and wet, but the smell that arose from the rain was one of soil and sea, not shit and sweat. 

Who would she be, if she had once uttered the simple word she was never allowed? A simple “No?”. 

Perhaps that was not the problem; a no would have not stopped her father, nor anyone else. 

But what about a ‘yes’?

I want to fly with you on Dragonback, see the great wonders across the narrow sea, and eat only cake. 

“Yes,” she liked to imagine herself saying. Yes, yes yes. In her dreams she said the word she had never allowed herself, until it was the only sound that could emerge from her lips. 

“A hymn for your sorrows, my Queen?”

Alicent jumped at the sound of Orthia’s voice, whom she had not heard approach. She caught her breath with a small sigh. 

“Apologies, you surprised me, Lady Orthia,” Alicent said. The woman laughed a little. 

“Then it is my apologies to give, and I am no Lady. It is just Orthia.” 

She was carrying a small wooden lyre. Alicent pointed to it.  

“Is it much different from the harp?” She asked. Orthia smiled. 

“Would you like to hear?” 

“Yes.”

She sat down carefully on the bench across from Alicent and began to play. Alicent’s stomach clenched when Orthia began to sing in a tongue she recognized as Essos Valyrian, the daughter-tongue of the Targaryen High Valyrian. She sounded a bit like Rhaenyra, when the raw syllables emerged from her lips with a rough softness. 

Orthia swayed rhythmically when she played. Her fingers drew melody from its small strings, not so complex as those of the harp but gentler and with more repetition. Alicent watched, her eyes trailing up from her fingers, across her sun-kissed arms, to the gentle curves of her face, to her thick hair which trailed down her shoulders and onto her chest.  

It was not so cold outside anymore. 

Alicent unfastened the red cloak she had been wearing over her dress, setting it beside her on the stone bench. She wished suddenly that they were not seated far away; that she might feel the brush of the woman’s arm against hers as she leaned forward and back again. 

Alicent closed her eyes. Yet when did that, it was Rhaenyra who she saw in her mind, Rhaenyra’s voice, Rhaenyra’s face with all its hard edges and light eyes—

Alicent opened her eyes, meeting Orthia’s, who was watching her. The song ended on a pining note that made Alicent’s mouth run dry. Yet she could not help but hold the women’s gaze. 

“What is your judgement, My Queen?” Orthia asked finally, “do you prefer it to the harp?”

“I think perhaps I prefer the company,” she told her. Orthia laughed kindly. 

“And I, the audience.” She set the lyre down beside her. “You are better a listener then most.” 

“Where did you learn Varlyian?” Alicent asked, “I thought you hailed from the North.” 

“I traveled to Essos as a girl, and played among courts in the Free Cities. In truth, I cannot much speak the tongue outside of song,” she said. 

“What a shame,” Alicent teased, and Orthia laughed. Alicent liked the sound almost as much as her singing. “If you have played so long, how did you end up the student to Lady Elenda? You seem the master.” 

Orthia gave her a wiry smile. 

“It would perhaps not be so proper for a base-born girl from Mole’s Town to be a mentor to a High Lady,” she said. So she was the master. Alicent played with her hands in her lap. 

“Should you find yourself in need of a change of scenery, you should come to the Queen’s court,” she told her, “it has been too quiet in the halls for too long.” She thought of Daeron, and the polished wooden lute he had returned home with. “Perhaps you could instruct my youngest son. He is quite interested in instruments, I think. He would likely love to know some Varlyian songs.”   

Orthia’s eyes danced over Alicent. The presence of her stare made Alicent all too conscious of herself suddenly, of the sweat on her palms and the feeling of her fingers against the fabric of her dress.  

“When I come, I will tell the guards of The Keep that you sent me.”

“Thank you,” Alicent said, the words uttered more softly than she had meant them. She wanted to linger on the bench, beneath Orthia’s gaze, and yet she also wanted to be far away from her, away from that familiar desire which she thought she had left behind long ago in her girlhood. At least then she had the freedom to hold a friend’s hand, which had not seemed such a freedom at the time. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alicent said, rising from her seat, “I must repair some of the damage done during our repast.”   

She left Orthia behind in the Godswood—which was as oddly painful as it was equally relieving—and wound her way back to her quiet chambers. A part of her had wanted to take the woman by the hand and lead her back to her room, where— she let go of the thought there, not wanting to see where it might lead.

She found Jace, instead, when she stepped into her chambers. He was sitting quietly at the table, pouting, by the looks of it. 

“What is the matter, Jacaerys?” Alicent asked. He looked up at her guiltily. 

“What are we to do now?” He asked. “Should I seek out Lord Borros?”

“No,” Alicent shook her head. She sat down on the edge of her bed. “I will not have you apologize to a man who called The Queen a whore.” 

Jace looked up at her in surprise. Had he expected her to tell him he should beg forgiveness to Borros? Him, a prince?

“Then are we to leave?” 

Alicent snorted softly. 

“Have we been asked to? Clearly Borros still wants to hear us out. If he did not want us here any longer we would know it. He most definitely would not be sending singers to serenade me in Godswood.” She pulled off her leather boots, setting them by the foot of the bed, flexing her feet to drive out the soreness. “It is a waiting game now, Jacaerys. I suspect it will not be long until he invites us to discuss with him again.” 

Jace sighed. He was still learning patience, she could see. 

“In that case, may I have some of this?” He asked. There was pitcher of wine set out on the table a pair of tumblers to drink from.

“Only if you pour me some as well,” Alicent said. 

He handed her a glass, watching her carefully as she took it from him and drank. She had not realized how accustom she had grown to the watered-down wines they drank in Kingslanding. Jace’s brow was furrowed over his brown eyes. 

“What is it?” She asked gently. Jace shifted in his seat.

“I must admit I am surprised by how relaxed you are here. I thought perhaps you would be as stressed as I am.” 

He was too polite to say he thought she should be more worried, Alicent supposed. It was hard to be, here. She set down her glass on the nightstand, and pressed a finger to her lips. 

“Listen carefully, Jacaerys. What do you hear?”       

He did as she bid, sitting quietly, listening to the sounds that drifted through the open window. 

“The sea and the wind. That is it.”

Alicent could not help a small sad smile. 

“Precisely. That may not be so unusual to you, but to myself? I have spent nearly my lifetime listening to the bells of the city and the chatter of the streets and their people and their horses. I have been chased endlessly by servants and guards, woken to the clang of metal in the courtyard and slept to…” she trailed off, thinking of Viserys and his broken, sickly snoring. “I have hardly left Kings Landing in five-and-twenty years, and it is not even my home.”  

“You miss Oldtown?” He asked. Did she? She missed that life, she supposed. Did she? She lived there ten years, and two of those years had been spent mostly at her mother’s bedside. She could not remember how her mother had looked. Her hair had been copper and thick with curls like her own, but it had thinned as she grew sick. Had her eyes looked like her own? She remembered her mouth; the lines around it when she laughed, and how they would twist when she suddenly grew angry. She remembered praying at the Starry Sept for hours, until she felt hungry and and her small knees weak. Had she normally taken supper with her mother? Or had it been with her brother and father? Why couldn’t she remember? Had her mother loved her? 

Had she been happy in Oldtown? 

Had she ever truly been happy in her life? 

And image emerged in her mind, soft and distant, of a younger Rhaenyra in the Godswood, trying to climb the Weirwood as Alicent begged for her to get down, caught between laughter and horror. 

“You’ll anger the Gods!” She had cried. 

“I thought you believed in different Gods,” Rhaenyra had said. Alicent had shaken her head desperately. 

“I— I believe any god would agree this is foolish!” It had been dusk and their fathers had mercifully relinquished them from the stiff seats and dull adult conversation of the supper table. 

“I do not think gods punish us for having fun, Alicent.”  

Why she had given in to Rhaenyra’s impious play, she didn’t remember, but she next remembered Rhaenyra reaching a hand down to help her climb the tree as well. They had sat among the thick branches, giggling, hands intertwined, pulling leaves and small twigs from each other’s hair. 

That must have been happiness, Alicent thought. It could be nothing else. 

Did she miss Oldtown?

“I think rather that I like it here,” she told Jace. They were practically hostages to Borros and yet she found she could step more freely than she had in years. “I would have liked to live in the countryside, I think.” 

Jace swallowed back some wine. He got up from his stiff seat and settled on a nearby couch. 

“You would have liked Dragonstone,” he told her. “The sea and the wind were the only things there.” 

“I think perhaps you are right.” 

She thought of Aemond, who had chosen to stay there longer. She had been frustrated him those weeks ago, when he had written of his decision, but now she thought maybe it was good idea. Perhaps some time outside the city would give him some perspective and a more mellow edge. 

Dragons are not meant to be kept in cages, Rhaenyra had told her once. It could drive them mad.  

Alicent fished a book out of the trunk she had traveled with. It was a thick epic, an embellished saga of Queen Nymeria’s life and conquests, which had been copied carefully by hand many decades ago so that it pages were now thin and faded. The maester had looked tempted to cry when she asked to borrow it from The Red Keep’s libraries. 

She thought of the torn page from another book, which she had given Rhaenyra at Dragonstone as an olive branch. Had Rhaenyra kept it? Or had she tossed it in a hearth when her anger was still fresh? She was too scared to ask Rhaenyra of it. 

When she looked up, Jace’s head was resting his head in his hands. 

“Did you sleep poorly?” Alicent asked. Jace looked up at her, trying to shake the sleep from his eyes. 

“I am fine,” he said, but his lie was half-hearted and when she looked up from her pages a while later his eyes were closed and his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. 

He could have retired to his own chambers, but he had chosen her company, Alicent thought. She remembered how, when Aegon was young, he would creep into her room at night and crawl into her bed, and try to curl up beside her. His hair had been so soft and his little hands so chubby as he pulled the covers up all the way to his chin. She remembered how hard she had tried to love him. She did love him, she did. She just hadn’t know how to. She had still been a child herself. 

Her mother’s eyes had been brown, she remembered suddenly. Brown and a little gold. And she had crept into her mother’s bed too, as a little girl. 

She felt hot tears form in her own eyes and was thankful Jacaerys was asleep. She wanted to be a mother in the way Rhaenyra was a mother, Alicent thought. She did not know how else to put it. Her jealousy was self-loathing rather than the bitter. She wanted to love someone without having to hate them a little too. 

The pages beneath her fingers were left unturned. 

When she got home, she decided, she was going to drag Aegon from his drunken stupor, take Jaehaerys and Jaehaera out to the Kingswood, and help him teach them to ride horseback. 

There was a knock on the door a while later. Jace jerked from his sleep, his hand darting to the hilt of his sword, as Ser Erryk stepped inside. Alicent gave him a curious look. 

“Lord Borros hopes you will join him for supper this evening, at sunset,” he said. Alicent felt a lick of satisfaction. 

“Thank you Ser Erryk,” she said, “have him told that we will be there.” 

Jacaerys was still griping Blackfyre when set turned back around. 

“What is the matter?” She asked. He looked pale and shaken. 

“Nothing.” He let go of the sword’s handle, and settled back into his seat. “Just a rather potent dream.”

She told Jacaerys, that night on their way down to the dining hall, that he should let her do most of the talking. He agreed, still sheepish from his outburst that morning, but Alicent couldn’t allow that either. 

She stopped him gently, before they entered. 

“Look proud, Jacaerys,” she tilted his chin up gently with her finger, “You are the crown. You are the dragon. You are your mother’s son, most of all.” 

It was his mother’s smile that flickered back at her. 

Borros was not seated when they entered. He was by the open window, staring out at the thick grey clouds that were rolling in from the north. The air smelled of storm, Alicent thought.

She strode over to Borros, Jace beside her. 

“My Prince,” he greet, dipping his head reluctantly, “My Lady Hand.”

That pleased Alicent; she liked the sound of it. He turned and took the seat adjacent to the head of the table, which pleased Alicent as well. She looked pointedly at Jacaerys, and he took the head of table, while she took the seat across from Borros. 

His wife was still absent, as well as his daughters this time. Orthia was with her wood harp in the corner, playing a soft tune. Alicent forced herself to look away; to focus on the matter at hand. 

“My attitude this morning was unbecoming of a Lord,” Borros began, “you have my apology.”

Did he mean it? Alicent doubted so, but it did not matter much. This was the game they had to play, to keep peace in The Realm. 

“Although his tone was… harsh, The Prince was right this morning. Your actions as of late, are not reflective of a man who swore an oath to The Iron Throne,” Alicent said. 

“The business of my trade and to whom I marry my daughters is not under the Queen’s authority,” Borros said, “it is under mine.” 

He held out his chalice to servant for more wine. Alicent sighed softly. 

“By all means, that is true. But you must see that we cannot sit idly while you sell the goods King’s Landing needs to survive to the Lords of Oldtown and Highgarden, who have proven time and time again their lackluster loyalty.”

Borros raised an eyebrow.

“I recall a time not so long ago where the Queen was in exile, and it was your Lord Father who controlled Kings Landing. For a long time, it looked to be the Prince Aegon who would one day sit the Throne. Can you blame me for aligning myself with the clearly stronger house?” He leaned heavily on the table. “And can you imagine my surprise when I hear, in one mere letter, That the King has passed, the Prince Aegon has taken The Princess as a second wife, and that it is she, who sits the head of council meetings?” 

“It was necessary, in such a time of uncertainty, to make clear that the Targaryens are are a united house, and that while false rumors have spread for many years, The Prince Aegon had no intention of usurping his elder sister for her rightful inheritance.” Alicent looked Borros clearly in his dark eyes. “Yes, it is the Queen who sits the Throne and he who rules beside her. What dragon-power you may have thought to gain, Lord Borros, by aligning yourself with The Reach, I can tell you does not exist. My son Daeron is no longer being fostered with Lord Hobert Hightower, my father is in exile, and The King Aegon is quite content as his sister’s consort. Whatever war you thought was brewing, Lord Borros, you regretfully picked the loosing side.” 

She was right, and he knew it. There were deep lines in his grim frown. Before Viserys had died, when his death was imminent, Borros had likely first proposed the marriage of his daughter to a Tyrell. Osric Tyrell’s mother was a distant Hightower cousin of Alicent’s, and his Father a second son of the Tyrell name. It was desperate attempt to win the favor of the Reach; to be on the winning side of a war not yet begun. 

To what extent The Reach planned to continue their scheming, Alicent did not know. She remembered her uncle Hobert’s iron grip on her jaw, and had to suppressed a shiver.

The truth that Borros had to face now, however, was that there was going to be no war, and he would gain far less favor from that alliance as he once could have. 

She poked at the food in front of her with a fork, and began again. 

“I know you are a good man, Lord Borros,” Alicent lied. “It is easy to see how, a few weeks ago, it was a genuine belief that Aegon would sit the Throne and that his claim would have to be defended that drove you to supply the Reach with the resources needed for a war. But you are wise enough to see that should Highgarden and Oldtown continue to pursue conflict, it is not one they will win, not even with the help of the Stormlands.” She took a sip of wine. “Aegon the Conquerer took Westeros with only three dragons. Can you imagine what we could do with a dozen?” 

Borros looked more tired and frustrated than angry. He sighed heavily. 

“I have no wish for war, I never have.” He shook his large head. "I mean no disrespect, My Lady, but what has the crown offered me? Oaths and empty promises are not enough when I have a kingdom feed. We are rich in salt and ore, but not food. It is not fertile here, you know this. Highgarden has fed us. Can Kings Landing feed us, when they are busy feeding a dozen dragons?” 

Alicent offered him a sympathetic frown. 

“I will not ask you to cut off all trade with Highgarden, but I urge you not to rely so heavily on them. Trade with Dorne by sea will reach you much faster, and the Vale and Crownlands have food to offer as well.”

Borros squinted at her suspiciously. 

“If it some trade you will allow, than it must be my daughter’s betrothal which you wish ask me to call of,” he said. Alicent bit her lip. 

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose it is.” 

Borros set down his silverware. 

“I will not. That is not up for debate.”

“Why not? They have have offered you a boy who stands to inherit very little. Osric Tyrell is a son of a second son. They are taking advantage of your resources and giving you nothing in return.”

Borros grunted angrily. He waved to the empty seats beside them. 

“Look! Look! What do you see?” He asked. Alicent did not know how to respond. “Do you see my wife? Do you see my son?” He pushed his plate of venison away from himself and stared heavily at Alicent, ignoring Jace completely. “My wife is very ill, and I have no son. I am not a young man, anymore, and I need an heir. I would not care if Osric was the poorest, ugliest young man the realm has ever seen. He has the Tyrell name, and he has a cock, and he and Cassandra will sire me a grandson.” 

His wife was dying, then, Alicent realized. Her illness was not a passing flu, as she had suspected, but a slow death. She thought of her mother, and could not help a growing sympathy for Borros. 

“I am very sorry, about the Lady Elenda,” she spoke softly, “and I understand the precariousness of your situation.”

“Your kind words are appreciated, by they are not what I need. Are you prepared to offer me a marriage proposal, for my daughters? If not, then we will be done here.” 

Alicent felt her stomach clench. Jacaerys looked at her wearily. It would be far too long before Rhaenyra’s younger sons were of age. Beneath the table she pressed a nail into the soft skin of her nailed bed, taking some relief from its sting. 

It would have to be hers. 

“My son Daeron is unbetrothed.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Call off the betrothal to Osric, and wed Cassandra to Prince Daeron instead.” 

Borros raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. 

“Daeron is a third son. What of the Prince Aemond?”

Alicent shifted hesitantly. She wanted, suddenly, to be done with all this. She wanted to be home in her own bed, home where her sons were, home where Rhaenyra might hold her hand and tell her she was making the right choice. 

“I love my sons, but Aemond is far less… reliable, than his younger brother. You will be better off with Daeron, I promise you this. His dragon may be a bit smaller but she is younger too. She will have offspring someday. Not only will he and Cassandra sire you an heir, but your grandchildren may be dragon-riders.” She smiled kindly. "Our houses have be united over and over again through marriages and children, including your own cousin Lady Rhaenys. Let us be united once again.” 

“Highgarden will not be happy about this,” Borros said, frowning. Jace, who had been mostly silent the whole dinner, took the opportunity to cut in. 

“It will not matter, will it? You will have the support of House Targaryen. They would not dare face us outright,” he told Borros. “And when Daeron and Cassandra have an heir, he will be permitted the name Baratheon, to continue your legacy, the same way I have taken my mother’s name.” 

Borros eyed him, this time pleased by his words. He nodded to himself. 

“You can wed your younger daughters however you please,” Alicent added, “but it must be your eldest daughter and heir, Cassandra, whom Daeron is betrothed to.” 

Borros turned to cup-bearer hovering behind him with a pitcher. 

“Pour the Lady Alicent and The Price Jacaerys more wine,” he demanded, “and then fetch my daughter.”  

When they had spoken to Cassandra, and the deal was officially drawn up, and the letters were written, and more pitchers of wine passed around, and the sky had long grown dark, Alicent was at long last free to haul herself back up a winding staircase to her guest chambers.

She let a handmaid fumble at the laces of her dress and could not help but wish they were more familiar hands, her own handmaid’s, or better yet, Rhaenyra’s hands, helping her pull her gown off. Afterwards she excused them and changed into a sleeping shift, climbing into bed. 

She should be satisfied, she thought. Pleased, even. Borros had been dealt with. Whatever Hobert planned to do now, it would be without the help of the Stormlands. 

And Cassandra seemed like a kind girl. She carried herself a bit like a man, which Alicent could not help but find a bit endearing, because it reminded her of Rhaenyra when she was young. There was intelligence there as well, behind her dark eyes, and she was less than a year older then Daeron, who would be of age to marry in a year. 

So why did she feel awful? Daeron had not been consulted, perhaps that was why, and she had heard from her brother in Oldtown that her son had skirted away from every betrothal proposed while he had lived there. But he would have to be married eventually, she told herself, and this was the perfect match.

She rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up to her chin. It had begun to storm outside a hour ago, and now the rain was coming down sideway on her window. They would stay here another day, to finalize the agreement and make niceties, and then would began their journey back. 

Alicent closed her eyes, thinking of what a long day it had been, thinking how she should thank Jace on the morrow for his support during supper, thinking about Borros and his wife, and when at last she had run out of political thoughts, she thought of Orthia, and her harp, and the way watching her had made Alicent’s stomach clench in a way entirely different from her usual nervousness. She pictured herself pressing closer to the other woman, of how it might feel to let her hands drift across a woman’s hips, of how much better their bodies would fit together than hers had with Viserys’s. 

Then she decided that she had perhaps drunk too much wine, and it was giving her absurd thoughts which she did not of course want to actually happen but was too tired to think clearly about. 

When she closed her eyes and feel asleep, she dreamt again. And in her dream Rhaenyra was old once more, close to sixty, and they were at a lake. Rhaenyra’s long silver hair was wet from swimming, and the wrinkle between her brows which had once only been there when she frowned in thought was now a permanent feature of her face. And in her dream, Alicent told Rhaenyra this, who said softly in response:

“Isn’t it lovely that you know that it wasn’t always there? We’ve grown old together.”

When Alicent woke that morning, the dream was already foggy, but it were those words she which stayed with her and which she would not allow herself to forget. 

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was so dark when Luke woke up that he was not sure he had woken at all. He heaved for breath, the panic coming quickly. He had been dreaming of water; of the ocean and being engulfed by it. When he had screamed no sound had left his mouth. Now it was dark still, and the pain shot through his chest with every breath, and he felt scared tears form in his eyes. He let out a small cry of pain. 

“Daeron?” It was the first name he could think to speak. “Daeron?”

“Luke?”

It was his mother’s voice, hoarse from sleep. From beside him he could feel her shift, her hand finding his in the dark; grasping on to it. 

“Muña?” It was the only Valyrian word which came naturally to his mouth. He tried to slow his breathing. 

“I am going to open a curtain,” she told him softly. She let go of his hand and he could hear her move across the room. Soft moonlight emerged from the window, and he could see her sit back down in a chair beside his bed. There were tears in her eyes. 

He had been positioned mostly upright in bed, although he did not remember when or how he had gotten to his chambers. 

“You passed out,” she told him, “on the carriage ride back. Ser Harrold carried you up, and the Maester gave you proper bandages. You woke for some of it. Do you remember?”

“No,” Luke admitted, feeling tears spill onto his cheek. “It hurts,” he added, hearing how painfully young he sounded. His mother combed her fingers through his hair.

“It will for a while, my sweet boy,” she told him quietly. 

“Where is Daeron?” He asked. 

“Asleep, presumably,” she told him, “the hour is very late.” She start to adjust the pillows behind him, making him sit up a little while she did so. He bit his cheek in a poor attempt to not cry out. 

“The pillows are fine, mother,” he complained weakly. She shook her head. 

“You could get bed sores,” she said. She was fretting, he realized. It was Rhaenyra, so of course her even fretting seemed calm, but her voice was small and cracked when she added, “I was so worried, when you had not returned.” 

Worst of all, although she did not wish to admit this to Luke, it had been Aegon who realized before her that something was amiss. Aegon! Her drunken brother had passed her in the hall the night before and asked why Daeron hadn’t returned yet. She had not even known they had gone flying. Her Kingsguard would not let her leave that night to fly out and find her son, and she had threaten to send them all to The Wall in her anger. 

I should apologize to them, she thought now. She pressed a kiss to Luke’s forehead and settled back into her chair beside them, where she had slept badly the past couple hours with her head on his mattress and her hand on his stomach, so that she could feel his ragged breathing. 

“Rhaena was here earlier,” she told him. “She sat here a while, but I sent her to bed.”

“Where’s Jace?” Luke asked. Rhaenyra looked at him in confusion. 

“In the Stormlands with Alicent, remember?” It was a two-day journey by carriage, one-day if you road into the night, so they must have long arrived at Storm’s End. Luke nodded, rubbing his eyes.

“I- I remember now. I just- it’s hard—,” he felt frustrated tears form again. Rhaenyra gripped his hand tightly. 

“It is alright, Luke, you’ve had some milk of the poppy. It is just clouding your mind a little.” 

That made sense, he decided. That was why his mind felt muddy. He closed his eyes, aware suddenly of the exhaustion that permeated him. 

He should tell his mother that he was fine, Luke thought. He should tell her to go to her own chambers, to get proper sleep, that he didn’t need her to cling to him, that he would be alright. He should be a braver son, a better one. He should be like Jace, or Daeron, who had they been in his place surely would not be crying, but rather reassuring their mothers of their vigor. 

Instead he said, “Don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone.” 

“I would not think to do so,” Rhaenyra said, holding his hand tightly. He fell back asleep, and when he awoke in the dawn, several hours later, she was still there, her fingers tangled between his.  

News reached Rhaenyra later that day. She had forced Luke to accompany her to the parlor to break their fast. 

“The Maester said that sitting still all day is not good for you,” she had told him, “You must walk a bit.”

“But I cannot walk!” Luke had protested. It was true. Although his broken ribs did not prevent him, his leg— which the Maester had confirmed he had torn the flesh within— did. Still, with some support from Ser Harrold again, they had made the journey down the long corridors.

While they had eaten olives with cheese and bread, the Maester had approached Rhaenyra. 

“A letter has arrived by raven, from the Lady Hand,” he told Rhaenyra. Alicent. Rhaenyra took it eagerly, wiping her hands on a cloth napkin and unfurling the small piece of parchment.  

Queen Rhaenyra,

There were some complications in our journey, so we arrived early to Storm’s End. Borros has proved difficult, but a deal has been made. Daeron will wed his daughter, Lady Cassandra, when he comes of age. Her betrothal to Osric Tyrell has been called off. I will explain further when we return to Kings Landing in several days, but I am confident Borros had been dealt with. 

Alicent Hightower

It was a frustratingly short letter. Rhaenyra read the few lines several times over, following the elaborate curves of Alicent’s handwriting which Rhaenyra had teased her about as a child. She had called it “flowery,” back then, and Alicent had remarked that hers was “boyishly-clumsy,” in return. Now, Rhaenyra thought it was quite pretty. 

Her mind returned to the more pressing matter. Daeron, wed to Borros’s eldest? It was a smart move, and likely the only proposal that would have convinced him to give up an alliance with The Reach. She did not love the possibility of Borros having a dragon rider one day, but perhaps by that then it would be Daeron and Cassandra who ruled Storm’s End. The more immediate danger had been dealt with. 

Thank the gods for Alicent, she thought, and then she thought it once again, realizing how much Alicent was sacrificing. Osric Tyrell was a distant cousin of Alicent, and the Tyrells and Hightowers would be deeply resentful when they found out what had happened. Would Alicent return home tired and sad and bitter? Rhaenyra did not think she could take her bitterness again, after two decades of it. It would break her heart, to have Alicent look at her like that again. 

She read the letter again, the emotionless tone, the “Queen Rhaenyra” it was addressed to and the simple signature at the bottom, trying to find some sign of sentiment; picturing Alicent writing it, maybe at a desk, maybe in the red dress Rhaenyra had watched her pack, maybe—

“Mother?” Luke had been watching her read it from across the table. “Is- is everything alright?”

She looked up at him, guilty immediately upon seeing the nervous look in his eyes.  

“Oh— yes, quite so. An agreement has been made so that Prince Daeron will wed Borros’s daughter and heir, the Lady Cassandra.”

Luke took that news quietly, his fork hovering in front his mouth. Rhaenyra couldn’t read his expression, she realized, the thought unsettling. 

“Luke?”

“Yes?” He pushed the fork into his mouth. 

“Is that news bad?”

“No,” Luke said, chewing thoughtfully, “I suppose not.”  

Then why did it seem so? Rhaenyra wondered. Luke continued to eat quietly. After a moment he spoke again.  

“When will they be wed?”  

“When he comes of age. A year from now, perhaps,” Rhaenyra told him. Luke nodded slowly. 

“Rhaena and I will probably be wed around that time, won’t we?”

“Likely so, or a little after. I suppose Borros will want us to make a bigger deal of the ceremony than you and Rhaena will have to,” Rhaenyra said, and then added, “unless of course you want to.”

“Rhaena would probably prefer something smaller,” Luke said. He started to shrug and then winced a little in pain instead. “My preference would be a typical Targaryen ceremony,” he added. Rhaenyra could not help a small smile, picturing her son wearing the same robe Daemon had once worn and Rhaena in her headdress. 

“I would like that.” She laughed a little. “Gods above know that our coffers will be emptied by the time we have gotten through your brother’s wedding,” she joked. Luke cracked a smile and Rhaenyra felt a little more at ease.

Sometimes, a fear struck her that she did not know her sons like she thought did. They had spent so long together, just their little family on Dragonstone, and yet the past few weeks here had seemed to transform them. Was it her fault, for not paying close enough attention? She felt as if she had lost some element of control, or safety, which she did had not known she had had before. Jace and Luke were not boys anymore, they were young men, and they were bound to grow apart from her as they grew up. She would have to accept that, she supposed, but she did not have to like it. Gone were they days that she could send away their sorrows with a soft kiss to the forehead, and soon perhaps the days they would share their sorrows with her at all.

Joff was sitting on the nearby rug, playing with a toy. At least he would be young for a while longer. She missed her little ones as well, achingly, their soft little blonde heads and chubby smiles. Daemon would return with them by the time of Jace and Baela’s wedding. She wondered if they too had grown in the short time apart. 

“Mother?” Luke had set down his fork. “Can I return to my chambers?”

“Of course, sweet boy.” 

With some help, he was moved back to his bed. It was hot and damp outside, at the height of a long summer, but Luke shivered as he pulled the covers back over himself. He took whatever tonics the Maester handed him with little protest, and closed his eyes.

Rhaenyra pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“Do you wish me to stay?” She asked, already settling into the chair next to him, but Luke shook his head.

“No, no, I am alright. You should attend to what you need to,” he told her. It was not dark anymore, and he wanted to be left alone to think. His mother eyed him softly. 

“If you are sure,” she sighed.

“Can I stay?” Joffery was beside her, having followed them, his small hands tugging on the blankets of Luke’s bed. Luke felt his heart melt a little. He had not wanted his younger brother to see him like this, yet he could not find it in himself to send him away.

“Sure,” he said. Joffery smiled happily and began to pull himself onto the bed. Luke flinched when he started to lay against him, and Rhaenyra snatched the small boy off his brother. 

“Careful, Joff,” she said. “Your brother is hurt. You cannot lay on him,” she said. Joffery looked at Luke with wide, wet eyes. 

“I’m sorry Lu’,” he said quietly. Luke smiled.

“It is alright,” he reassured. He pat the bed beside him, on the opposite side of his injured chest. “You can sit here, where it doesn’t hurt.”

Rhaenyra carefully set Joffery back down on the bed, watching him curl into Luke’s side. Luke grabbed her hand before she left. 

“If you see Daeron will you ask him to come by?” He asked. Rhaenyra nodded. She need to speak the Prince as well. 

“I will.”

Joffery tugged on his brother’s sleeve and asked him to tell the story again, about flying through the storm and how Daeron had lept from Tessarion to Arrax to save him. Rhaenyra left them alone like that, following winding staircases to the floor above, where she found herself in front of Alicent’s quarters. 

She was feeling uneasy. She wanted Alicent and Jace home, the sooner the better. She wanted all her boys beneath her safe grasp again. She was sad, and scared, and if Alicent were here then at least she would have someone who might hold her hand and make it all seem possible to endure. But she wasn’t, and Rhaenyra felt entirely alone. 

Harrold Westerling, her Kingsguard, was watching her. Watching over her, perhaps, but that involved watching her. He had been at her side since she was just a girl, his presence a comfort. Not at all in the same way Ser Harwin’s had been a comfort; much more like a father. She supposed he knew her well, by now. Sometimes she hated this realm and all its customs. In a different one, perhaps, he could give her the hug she needed so badly. 

Instead she turned and stalked into Alicent’s quarters, leaving him outside the door. It was not very Queenly to cry in the corridor. She sat down on the end of the bed where she and Alicent had lay a few days ago, wiping tears from her chin with the back of her hand.

Was there not a day since her father died that had she had not felt on the verge of falling apart? She pressed fingers to her eyes. She wanted desperately to fall asleep and wake up and find that her brother Baelon had been born to Queen Aemma, and that she was just a girl of ten-and-four who could lay with her head in her friend’s lap and watch the way Alicent’s eyes moved across a page. She wanted it all back. 

When left without task, her mind always seemed to return to Alicent. She knew not all her thoughts of Alicent when they were young had been entirely innocent, but it had been confusing, as a girl, when the only intimacy you were allowed was that of a friend’s. Now she was much older, and she thought she had long out grown those obscure feelings. She was less sure now. 

She needed to gather herself. Alicent had managed to sue for peace without her company in The Reach, and surely had gone about her several days there without sitting around thinking about Rhaenyra and crying over her past. 

Will you look after my children, while I am gone? 

That was the one thing Alicent had asked of her, before she left, and Rhaenyra hadn’t done a very good job. At least Daeron had not been harmed.   

She rinsed her face in a basin of water, gently closed a cupboard door which Alicent had left open while packing, and set off again down the corridor looking for the young Prince. He was not in his quarters, not in the parlor, not in the gardens, or at the dragon pit, nor anywhere else she could find. 

Finally, she gave up, and settled on a different idea. 

They would have dinner together as a family. Aegon and Helaena, and their children, and Rhaena, and Baela, and Luke and Joffery and Daeron, and she would tell them then, about Daeron’s betrothal. It would be better if Alicent and Jace were there too (she could not convince herself it would be better if Aemond was, given past experiences) but at least she would have a chance to eat, like a real household, with her family. 

So she sent squires and servants out to find them and tell them, and then retreated back to her study to read letters from foreign lords and decidedly not think about much else.

———————————————

That evening, Rhaenyra could not help a small amount of excitement as she made her way down to the dinning hall she had told servants to prepare. Perhaps she was more like her father then she had realized, Rhaenyra mused. She delighted a bit in prospect of it, of her family around a table, as if nothing too horrible had between now and the last time they had done this. 

She wondered vaguely if Alicent would like this. She usually took her supper alone, in her quarters, or with Helaena and her grandchildren on occasion. 

She let the thought go as she rounded the corner into the dining hall. 

They weren’t there. 

Luke, Daeron, Baela, and Rhaena were all absent, their seats sitting bare. 

Only Aegon and Helaena, and their children, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, were present. As well as Joffery, who had taken a chair beside Jaehaera. Their little bodies were all so small that their chins barely sat above the edge of the table. 

Rhaenyra stared blankly at Aegon.

He look different. His hair had been washed and combed, and he had dressed himself in a high-collared black tunic embroidered with dragons. He wore a gold chain around his neck. He almost looked…kingly. 

“Where is everyone?” She asked. Aegon shrugged.

“How should I know? They are yours.”

“What of your brother?”

Aegon picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. 

“I have not seen Daeron all day.”

Rhaenyra sighed wearily. She turned to Joffery. 

“What about Luke? Did someone tell him?”

Joffery nodded eagerly.

“I told him. He said he did not want to come, he said he was too tired.” 

Rhaenyra felt a little bit of despair set in. Not even Rhaena—not even Baela had bothered to come! She was their Queen, and their mother, and yet even then they stood her up. And somehow the only person who had bothered to come was…Aegon. And his family. 

Rhaenyra fiddled with her fingers unhappily. Luke she could understand, he was injured, but all of them? Maybe servants hadn’t been able to find them. 

Aegon was watching her with an irritated stare. 

“I am going to go find my family,” she muttered, turning back to the door. Aegon stood up stiffly. He crossed the room to stand before her and spoke in a low voice. 

“Your family is right here.” He pointed at them; at Helaena and the kids. “Or did you forget I am your husband?”

Rhaenyra stared at him, dumb founded. When had Aegon ever cared about something like this? When had Aegon ever cared about much at all?

“We both know our marriage is a political sham,” Rhaenyra said impatiently, trying to wave him off. Aegon shook his head. 

“I do not care how much I disgust you, sister, but my children deserve better. Your family is here, they came, and you do not even care,” he hissed.   

Rhaenyra looked at them, Helaena in her blue gown, who was folding her cloth napkin into the shape of a flower absentmindedly, and the twins, who she just now realized had inherited Alicent’s wide brown eyes.

Shame settled somewhere in her stomach. Aegon was looking at her with disappointment.

“You are just like him,” he told her. “Our father remarried and spread his seed, and yet he could never stomach his own actions long enough to actually treat us as his family.” He waved a hand at the table. “He loved the idea of us all gathered for supper, but never actually cared about the reality of being our father.” 

And if she turned and left now, Rhaenyra thought, that would make her no different than Viserys. She would be making another rung in the ladder of Aegon’s despair, another turn of the terrible wheel that had begun when Aemma died and nearly driven them into a civil war. 

“I have not asked for anything, in this marriage,” Aegon said quietly. “I am asking for this now.” 

Rhaenyra chewed her lip, her face warm, her frustration replaced with guilt. She turned to a handmaid standing nearby. 

“Could you find something for the children to sit atop? Their chairs are too short.” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” 

The maid scurried off to find something and Rhaenyra took the seat across from Helena’s, leaving the one at the end of the table for Aegon so he could sit between them.

Rhaenyra had never spoken to Aegon’s children, she realized. She searched for something to speak about. 

“Do you like music, Jaehaera?” Rhaenyra asked the young princess kindly. She nodded eagerly. 

“I like the lute! And my grandmother says I am good singer,” she grinned. Rhaenyra felt a smile tug on her own lips. 

“When the Queen Alicent returns from Storm’s End, you’ll have to sing a song for the both of us.”  

“What came of that?” Aegon cut in. “Has my mother written?”

“She did. I had hoped Daeron would be here. She had written that he is to be wed to Lord Borros’s daughter.”

Aegon eyebrows rose. He snorted into his drink. 

“Aemond has been passed up?” He asked. Rhaenyra shrugged. 

“She did not write much. I suppose we’ll know more in a couple days time.”

“Grandmother told us that you were the youngest dragon-rider ever,” Jaehaerys cut in, having only understood the part of their conversation that had mentioned her. “Is it true?”  

Rhaenyra felt a grin tug on her lips.  

“It is true. I was only seven when I first flew Syrax. Although I suppose in Old Valaryia, centuries ago when many families had dragons, there were likely younger riders.”

“I’ll be the youngest rider ever!” Jaehaerys grinned. “Even younger than you! I’ll ride when I am six!” He boasted. His sister elbowed him. 

“No you won’t. Your dragon is too small. I’ll ride when we are six.” She turned to Rhaenyra. “My dragon hatched when I was born, but his didn’t hatch for another year,” she explained. Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows. 

“Oh? And what are your dragon’s names?” 

“Mine is Morghul, and his is Shrykos,” Jaehaera told her. 

“Morghul means death, in High Valyrian,” Rhaenyra pointed out, “have you already begun lessons?” 

“No, but my uncle Aemond taught me that,” she said. Were Aegon and Helaena’s children close with their uncle? She might be a menace if so, Rhaenyra thought, with more amusement than concern. The little girl in front of her was strong-willed, but not at all wicked. 

“How did you choose Shrykos?” She asked Jaehaerys. 

“I named them after the green lizard men, from a story mother told us.” He looked to her for support. 

“The Shrykes, a race of said to live beyond the Five Forts and South of the Bleeding sea,” Helena provided, “but Shrykos is also Valyarian god of beginnings.”  

Rhaenyra had heard the stories of Shrykes herself, although she found them difficult to believe. As a little girl, she had told Alicent that they would fly together to the farthest ruins of Old Valyria. The Septa had told them the story in an effort to scare her away from the idea, she assumed, although it had not worked.  

That reminded her of a different idea. 

“They are old enough to start their schooling with Maesters and Septas,” she pointed out, “Joffery could join them, and my younger sons when they are older.”

They had schooled Aegon, Jace, Luke and Aemond together once, Daeron too, before he was sent to Oldtown. It had been in an effort to encourage fraternity, between the boys, but it had not worked well. Perhaps they had a second chance, with their own children.

“They should be,” Helaena said, before her brother could answer. Aegon looked between his sisters, then shrugged. It was decided then. Rhaenyra felt a lick of triumph. 

“My dragon’s name is Tyraxes,” Joffery interrupted. “I named her after the goddess Tyraxes,” he told the twins proudly, “and after my step-father’s dragon Caraxes.”  

  The handmaid had returned with a few thick tombs for the children to sit on top of. Food was being brought out, and someone had found a musician to play the lute softly. The twins were curious and playful children, who asked questions about Dragonstone that Joffery delighted in trying to answer for them. 

Rhaenyra forgot about the empty seats beside them after a while. She liked watching how Joffery tugged gently on Jaehaera’s sleeve when he wanted to tell her something, or how Jaehaerys would look to his sister when he struggled to voice an idea. Rhaenyra told stories for them, and laughed even at some of the stories Aegon had from his own youth, some stories which even she had not heard before that painted a less sour image of the early days, before any of her or Alicent’s kids had been old enough to understand what a bastard was and when they all stilled played together. She liked Helaena’s soft, thoughtful comments; how her children listened to her and looked up to her; and she was surprised as well by the love Aegon seemed to bear for his children, which she had not seen before.

“Mother?” Joffery asked, when they had finished their meal. Three pairs of little eyes were watching her. Joffery was the only one of her sons with Harwin who had been born with her purple-grey eyes. 

“Yes, Joff?”

“May we be excused? Jaehaera said she would show me the Godswood,” he said. Rhaenyra snorted softly in amusement. 

“Yes, go play,” she said, and waved for a Kingsguard to follow them. Joffery had not grown up here, like Luke and Jace had; the twins would have plenty to show him.

She watched Jaehaera grab her brother’s hand and drag him along beside her as they followed Joff our the doors into the corridor. 

“You were right,” she said quietly to Aegon, when they left. “I was ignoring the other half of my own family.” She sighed softly, looking between him and Helaena. “I have no desire to repeat the mistakes of my father, much as I loved him,” she said, “Jaehaerys and Jaehaera will be raised with the same love and respect as any other prince in this Keep, I swear this to you now,” she told him. Aegon looked a little surprised. He cleared his throat and pulled at his collar. 

“Good. I will hold you to that,” he said, a little stiffly. He was trying so hard to be Kingly. “If you want them schooled, start right away. Bring them in as cupbearers to your council too, so that they might learn,” he added. Rhaenyra laughed a little. 

“Cup-bearing might have to wait a few years, until they are tall enough to actually reach over a table, and old enough to listen through a whole conversation,” she pointed out, “but yes, I will see to it that they are in time.” 

“Good,” Aegon said again. He pushed his finished plate away from him. He had hardly touched his wine. What had changed? A mere two days ago he had been wandering the halls drunk when she had ran into him. Why today?

She realized suddenly, that something had changed. 

“What is it, brother?” She asked. 

“What?” 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing.” 

“He saw himself drowning,” Helaena said in light voice. Aegon shot her a weird look. 

“No, stop Helaena, I did not see myself drowning. Don’t say creepy things.” He looked at Rhaenyra with tired eyes. “I just—,” he shrugged, poking at his wine cup, “I do not know,” he sighed at last.  

Rhaenyra turned to the servants milling around them. 

“Leave us,” she said, and they did so quickly. The room was quieter. Aegon did not seem to like her sudden attention. 

“I’ll be excused,” he said, making to get up. She grabbed his wrist. 

“No, you will not. Sit.”

“Why should I?”

“I am your sister and I’m asking you to?” She offered. He rolled his eyes and stood up anyway. “I am your Queen and I am ordering it of you,” she said, her voice stern this time. Aegon flopped back down into his seat petulantly. 

“Tell me what happened,” Rhaenyra said again. 

“Nothing!” He drank a gulp of wine. “The thing with Daeron scared me, I suppose. Half the day I had time to think, while I flew up and down the coast, wondering if I might find his body. Gods, what if I had? It would have destroyed my mother.” He went for another sip of his wine but Rhaenyra took the cup from his hands, setting it away from him. He seemed too distracted to care. “I hardly know the boy! He is my brother, and I could barely remember what he looked like before he came back to the Red Keep. I tried! I asked him to go with me, into town, after he and Lucerys returned. But he just got angry. And then he cried like a child the whole carriage ride! What was I suppose to do?”

Daeron was upset? Rhaenyra did not know what to make of that. She did know what to make of Prince Daeron at all, except what little she had learned from Luke.