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Alicent has been in King’s Landing for three months and it has been nothing but an unending storm.
The endless courtship for the prince’s hand in marriage has been nothing more than an exercise in futility. Alicent does not need to see the look of judgment in Queen Rhaenys’ eyes nor the disinterest in Prince Laenor’s to know that she would have no chance to be queen. The Velaryons are unlikely to marry into a house that was late in supporting theirs during the War after all.
But tenacity is Father’s virtue and vying for power is priority. He easily would have been Hand of the King had Prince Viserys been crowned and Alicent would just as easily would have been wed to a prince had there been one. But the War happened and the Velaryons prevailed. Otto Hightower is once more as insignificant as every other courtier in King’s Landing, clawing for as much opportunity he can, even at the cost of her daughter’s freedom.
There is only so much an honest soul can pretend to endure. And there is only so much blood she can draw from her own fingers. In the Godswood, Alicent finds solace amidst the eerie faces of the weirwood trees. In the Godswood, she becomes one with the shadows, away from all the politicking. In the Godswood, she hides from her father for yet another failed attempt to woo the Prince.
(You are the most comely girl in court – why do you destroy yourself?)
(You are the best match for Prince Laenor – why does he not look at you?)
The river by the Godswood lay as calm and welcoming as it did during the daylight. Alicent thinks of hiding in its cool embrace forever, of leaving the world by the bank and claiming the weeds and fish as her own, like the mermaids in the Manderly tales. Perhaps then, she would finally be free from the burden of being the only chance to restore her father’s honor.
(Not that the Prince is even looking at her, as much he loves looking at the knight, Ser Joffrey)
Alicent is a coward. Nothing more than a coward. Queen Rhaenys can see that. Prince Laenor cannot even look at her. How can her Father think she would be a good queen?
(Yes, Father.)
(I shall, Father)
She merely reaches her feet towards the water and never lets them sink. Defiance, after all, is merely a wishful fantasy for her, never a decisive action. She is a Lady Hightower after all, nothing but a pawn to further their Houses’s prestige like all the Lady Hightowers before her. Below her foot, the water trembles with each point of her toe, swirls with each arc of her knee, dances like silk in her hands.
(Below her father’s gaze, she trembles, curtsies and dances too. But the cold water is much more welcome company than her lord Father could ever be.)
Plop.
Alicent halts, feeling the water fall from her hands. The shadows in the woods suddenly becomes more pronounced, more sinister. She clutches on her skirt, prepared to run.
Another plop. Right across the river, and over the wooden bridge that separated the two banks, and on the side where Maegor’s Holdfast loomed, Princess Rhaenyra leaned against a willow tree, silently skipping rocks across the water.
(Princess Rhaenyra, who lost more than Father did during the war)
(Princess Rhaenyra who was locked in a Keep, a hostage to the crown in all but name)
(Princess Rhaenyra who had it much, much worse than Alicent.)
The world returns to her then and Alicent feels her face redden with uncertainty. The disgraced princess’ gaze remains fixed on the depths beyond the river. Slowly Alicent straightens from her crouch, realizing the princess does not intend to acknowledge her and continues to submerge her feet. Alicent imagines a line of ripples and moonlight that divided her waters from Rhaenyra’s.
Moon fades into the sun. Neither says hi.
…
…
Rhaenyra is there first the next night, having brought her dragonling this time. Alicent knows a few things about it – that it has hatched far later than expected from an egg bonded with a rider, that its late birth caused any doubting lords to finally accept that Viserys’ line was not chosen by the gods and that Princess Rhaenyra refused to house it in the Dragonpit. At least, for now. The beast is significantly smaller than Meleys the Red Queen or even Prince Laenor’s own Seasmoke. But nothing prepared Alicent for a majestic, golden dragon breathing fire on the other side of her waters.
(Alicent like the color gold. It reminds her of home, of Oldtown)
(There is too much red in the Red Keep)
(Too much blood in its walls)
The dragon breathes fire and smoke above the water’s depths. The fish scatters and the currents give way, in a way that she imagines the fields burned when Aegon and his sister-wives did it. Alicent sits by the bank and cools her feet on her side of the river, watching warmth and light die and flicker to life in Rhaenyra’s side. Alicent wonders if Targaryens smell like fire.
Like last time, they do not speak but Alicent finds the waters calm and clear for her the next night, even though Rhaenyra had come earlier. Her dragon dozes on the bank as Alicent swims and Rhaenyra watches.
…
…
Rhaenyra spends most of her afternoons in the godswood, Alicent learns. People are the most hostile to the usurper’s blood in the broad glare of daylight. The woods and the water are a quiet refuge, the safest place to read and rest with her golden dragonling. Alicent understands this more than anyone.
The time in which Prince Laenor would choose his bride looms close. Mere glances begin to suffocate. Prince Laenor now spends more time with her, though clearly not on his own volition. Alicent wonders what strings her father managed to pull this time when even he could now whisper to the Queen Rhaenys’ ear. With the Lannisters not having a daughter to wed, a Hightower is the next best choice.
In one of her walks with Laenor, she murmurs “studies” for prying eyes and slips into the woods as soon as the skies darken. Rhaenyra looks at her in surprise, clearly not expecting Alicent to come as early as she just did. The Princess raises an eyebrow above what looks like a luncheon box, a chunk of cake between her lips. The glow of sunset softened her face.
(She heard tales of Visenya’s austere beauty, of Rhaenys’ disarming charm.)
(She never imagined she would see both on Rhaenyra.)
Grooooowwwwwllll
Red and sheepish, Alicent hides behind a tree. She thinks of running back towards the palace, cursing herself for not getting supper first. She laments that she never joined Gwayne in his fishing excursions as she would have like to catch some fish while Rhaenyra is not looking. She would not have minded living in forest like this forever, skirting by in a hovel and just fishing for food.
A pause, a rustle of grass and some footfalls on rickety wood later, a piece of lemon cake is suddenly thrust on her face.
“Eat it,” says Rhaenyra. Her voice is much lighter than Alicent expected, almost girlish. Her purple eyes are fixed on the tree instead of Alicent.
(Three months of seeing her at court and this is the first time they ever speak.)
Alicent blinks and opens her mouth to say no, you do not have to Princess but Rhaenyra has waited long enough. She looks at Alicent’s hand clenched and tight (and scarred). Rhaenyra looks at Alicent’s head, a wide, open plane of auburn locks and places the lemon cake right there.
“A crown for the future Queen.” Rhaenyra says, smirking as she returns to her side of the river. Alicent plucks the lemon cake and stares at it, finding it is the same as what they serve in the palace’s dinner table. Something like a laugh form in her throat but she bites it down and murmurs a thank you.
(Later that night, she would laugh to herself when she is alone, realizing that she hasn’t laughed for a long time.)
…
Out of the corner of her eye, Alicent spies a gash on Rhaenyra’s cheek and thinks of the fresh jar of ointment she had brought from the Citadel.
(A good queen tends to her King, daughter.)
(A good queen knows how to keep her King in the best of health.)
For the first time, Alicent crosses to the other side.
…
…
A few steps away, Prince Laenor leads their walk around the gardens as Alicent falls into stride woodenly. The fragrance of the flowers dampens the raging storm in her abdomen. Their walks have always been a quiet affair. The Prince is kind, considerate and known for his good wit but even he could not keep Alicent from succumbing back into her shell. The art of conversation is lost on her during these walks.
Only several minutes into their excursion, Ser Joffrey Lonmouth walks over to them and smiles at her. Then he playfully punches the Prince, yelling something significant only to the two of them. Ser Laenor murmurs something about training in arms and he lets the young knight drag him away by arm. Their walks always end like this. She would leave and escape to the river. Laenor would bow to her and run away with the knight.
Behind her, she hears the KIngsguard charged to follow them mutter in exasperation. “Those two are at it again.” He nods sympathetically at Alicent before running off to catch up with his prince.
Prodding the lone pebble stuck between the cobbled pathways, Alicent loses herself in thoughts of another life, where it is easier for her to love silver-haired, dragon-riding princes. A life where the prince prefers her company over another boy’s.
(Or even better, a life where they could both do whatever they wish.)
(To love whoever they wish to love.)
“Us Valyrians certainly do have queer customs, hm?”
Alicent raises her head from the ground. Rhaenyra falls into step beside her, a lemon cake halfway to her lips.
Alicent flushes and blinks. The daylight and the palace grounds is not normally their element and she feels strange. Amidst the garden and sunlight, Rhaenyra looks less like the phantom of the rivers and more like the dragon princess she really is, burning with life and playfulness.
“U… um… good morrow, Princess.”
Rhaenyra nods and proffers another lemon cake from her other arm. Without another word, they start walking together. Removed from the shadows of the godswood and away from the isolation of Maegor’s holdfast, Alicent feels the strain of silence between them for the first time. It would be incredibly rude to leave now, Alicent reasons, even though she does not know why.
“Are you hungry?” says Rhaenyra, eyeing Alicent as she offers her another piece of lemoncake.
Alicent bites her lips and nods, bashfully accepting the proffered food. She must have looked in askance though because Rhaenyra continues. “… it’s thanks for the ointment.” She says, rubbing her cheek. Alicent looks at the scratch, which had already scabbed and faded into a thin line.
“It was not a problem, princess.” She says, as she takes a bite off the lemon cake.
Alicent has the feeling, as they walk together some more, forgetting about Prince Laenor and his knight friend and only thinking about how much the princess glowed under the glare of the sun– that Rhaenyra is not only referring to the lemoncakes as a token of her gratitude.
…
…
The Valyrians do have queer customs. It seems like it does not stop with preferring a man’s company over any women at court.
Rhaenyra finds Alicent crouched over the bank, mere hours after her cousin, Laenor announced his bethrothal to his sister, Laena – tears seeping through the cracks between her fingers. Rhaenyra knows Alicent enough by now to realize she was not crying over a prince who spurned her marriage proposal but for a father who would be sorely disappointed that she was not chosen.
(Rhaenyra wonders how anyone could not have seen this coming.)
(Laenor’s not-secrets would be safer if it is sister who he weds.)
A part of Rhaenyra wants to tell her that this, this is exactly what happens when you love. Rhaenyra loved once and look what happened to her. But Alicent is broken in a different way, broken because of a father who never saw her for who she is. Time would fill the cracks in her soul the way it never filled Rhaenyra’s.
“They’re both idiots. Laenor and your Lord Father.” She says instead. Rhaenyra kneels over Alicent, lifts her head by the chin and blows air over her watery face, a trick her mother once taught her all those years ago. The tears do not evaporate in wisps of steam as it did when Syrax did it for her but it is enough to catch Alicent off guard, stopping the tears on its tracks.
“…Thank you…” Alicent sniffles, surprise and words and broken dreams lodged in her throat. Her weeping is now silent and still under the calm of the evening moon. There they stay, side by side, backs to the world that has long forsaken them. Alicent for her gender. Rhaenyra for her usurper’s blood.
Rhaenyra takes Alicent back to her quarters that night, careful not to be seen by the Lord Hightower’s guards. Then she returns to Maegor’s Holdfast (her home, her prison) and drops onto her bed, purple eyes tracing the bloodstains and firebreaths that ghosted her memories.
…
…
Alicent shows up at Maegor’s Holdfast the next morning, fruits and jars of ointment and flustered thank-you’s in arm. Syrax is too big now to not be kept in the Dragonpit but Rhaenyra knows that had her dragon been there, she would have raised a nonexistent eyebrow.
(Dragons are always more perceptive than the realm gives them credit.)
Rhaenyra lets her in.
…
…
The Holdfast’s gardens were last tended by her lady mother and Aemma Arryn had been dead (murdered) for years. The garden is now nothing more than a tangle of weeds and withered leaves.
(And scorched earth)
Sometimes, when Rhaenyra looks out of the window, she thinks she could still see the long, silver hair and hear her mother's gentle chime of a laugh, as she dances around the flowers. Rhaenyra could close her eyes and Daemon would be hovering over her, ready to haul her up and carry her over his shoulders to ride on Caraxes. From his solar, Father would call them over to marvel at his little reproduction of the Old Valyria as he feigns outrage whenever Daemon scoffs.
(But they are long gone now. Burned to death by those who sit on what should be Father’s throne)
Rhaenyra opens her eyes to the reality. Perched by the windowsill, she watches the overrun gardens once more. Right there, Alicent is a flutter of long, auburn hair and a gentle chime of a laugh. She beams at Rhaenyra from the gardens and then goes back to staring at the unruly mess of a grass outside, as if it is some kind of a lost treasure.
With a start, Rhaenyra realizes she wants Alicent to find it.
…
…
Maegor’s Holdfast begins to smell like lavender and herbs. Late at night, it smells like tea and old books and laughter.
(It smells of Alicent)
To Rhaenyra, it smells like home.
…
...
Whenever Alicent leaves, she takes the scents of tea and books and laughter with her. The hall of Rhaenyra’s prison feels empty without them.
(Her heart feels empty without Alicent)
This is what love smells like, she thinks. Fear grips her heart. Alicent’s quiet presence grips it tighter. The next night, Rhaenyra catches Alicent by the hair as she prepares to leave and grasps for the right words.
“You have nice hair, my lady.” She mumbles, flushing. The dark, auburn strands seep through her fingers like the water flowing in their river.
“Thank you, princess.” Alicent says, face a pretty glow of pink in the candlelight shining from the entryway. She is the most beautiful girl Rhaenyra has ever seen.
Rhaenyra does not know it but that night, Alicent brushes the tangles out of her hair more carefully than she ever has.
(More carefully than she ever did for the prince)
…
...
That same night, her father sends a letter to Oldtown. If Alicent could not have the king, he would find some other great lord to wed her to.
(You have been spending so much time with the usurper’s blood.)
The storm is nigh.
…
…
“Betrothed? Already?”
Rhaenyra stares at Alicent. Stares beyond her. The ghost of fire and blood appears before her eyes once more. She can hear her mother’s screams, Caraxes roars and her father's anguished begging.
This is what happens when you love.
She leaves Alicent right there and then, their lavender, their tea, their laughter and their home. At some point, she should not have dared to hope. She should have known. She should have remembered that love hurts the most when it was for a moment, yours. She ignores Alicent’s calls, snuffs the pain in her heart as she runs and runs and runs.
There is a dark corner at the edge of a tavern in Flea Bottom. She has been there several times before, when the prison becomes so much of one. She drops into a stool and lets the steady stream of bitter beer and pisswater wine drown the world. No one recognizes her. No one tries to approach her.
Except for one person.
“Cousin? Rhaenyra? Hey! What are you doing out here?”
Prince Laenor.
He would be here with his boys, of course.
She never held as much ill will against him as much as she does for his parents. He is a great young man, a great knight and he and Laena have always been kind to her. But at present, the world is a strange blur of darkness and flickering candle light. A deep, burning, painful anger crawls behind her eyes. Because Rhaenyra could have been crown princess. Because Laenor could have had Alicent. Because Rhaenyra could have had Alicent—
“You… fucking… usurper.” She slurs, draws back her fist and punches.
…
…
The limp back to Maegor’s Holdfast, unseen by the City Watch, is an slow ache. Rhaenyra stumbles past the entryway to what had been her prison since after the war and into the embrace of her bed. It still smells like home. It still smells like Alicent. She tilts her head back and squints past her throbbing bruised eye at the patter of feet. She should have known better than attempt to take Laenor and his knight-friend at once.
(She trusts Laenor not to tell on her.)
(She does not trust the Knight of Kisses.)
“By the gods, what happened to you?” Alicent whispers, a hand over her mouth. Her voice is coated with worry, with heartbreak.
This. This is what love sounds like.
Alicent is still here, she marvels. Rhaenyra realizes she wants nothing but to keep her forever. But Rhaenyra does not know what to do with her and Alicent does not know what to do with her either. She lets Alicent sit her up as she feels her hands fuss worriedly over her injuries. Against her hot, throbbing forehead, Alicent’s hands feels like the cold, embrace of the river.
“Stay…” she murmurs. When Alicent tries to get up to help, Rhaenyra pulls her down and tucks her in her sore arms, where she is warm and soft and smells nice. She hears Alicent breathe as she takes Rhaenyra’s hands to hers, weeping quietly.
Rhaenyra is drunk, beaten, bruised and probably would be exiled from the Seven Kingdoms come morning for what she did to the prince.
But once again, she is home.
…
…
Staring at her battered, peaceful face, Alicent thinks that she will never leave Rhaenyra ever again. Alicent trembles at the other girl’s strong hold, feeling like a match struck afire.
(She will defy everyone to be with Rhaenyra)
(Even her lord Father)
…
…
“I will not disown you.” says Otto Hightower. He made peace with his daughter’s destiny when Prince Laenor Velaryon chose to wed his older sister. The Velaryon crown is not her future. Judging from the prince’s inclination, there would not be much of a future for it. His daughter, he now understands, is destined for a greater one. A Targaryen Princess, who would take what is rightfully hers with fire and blood someday.
(Otto Hightower always chooses the winning side)
“Has the princess been informed that you intend to join her in her exile?” he says, as he regards his daughter. Gone is the timid, bashful, young girl that destroyed herself. In her place, is a headstrong, grown woman, ready to harness the storm and bear the weight of fire and blood.
“I do not intend to have her go anywhere without me.” is all Alicent says. She bows to her father, for one last time, assures him she will be okay in dragon back and leaves for her future.
…
..
Rhaenyra is by the river, with Syrax—now big enough to saddle two, thankfully -- skipping rocks across the rippling waters. Rhaenyra’s banishment will not fully take effect until the morrow. The river seems to be the place she would miss the most. Placing a lemon cake on the top of Rhaenyra’s head, Alicent kneels by her and smiles.
“A crown for my queen.” She greets.
Rhaenyra takes the lemon cake in one hand, Alicent’s face in the other and kisses her like a woman bereft of any joy until she found hers. Alicent burns everywhere she touches and draws Rhaenyra closer and closer, as though letting go would take her away.
(Alicent will never let that happen)
“I love you.” Rhaenyra breathes into auburn hair. Alicent sighs into Rhaenyra’s scent and chuckles. She does smell like fire after all.
“Let’s go home.” She whispers and so, they fly into where the sun rises.
….
…
(END)