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Her wedding day dawns with little dread.
The sunrise that marks the beginning of her reign is like any other. Glorious and quotidian, in the way of all divine phenomena.
Of course, Alicent has not the luxury of rising with the sun. In the early hours, she is cleansed with rosemilk, purified in seasalt, trussed in fine silks and pearls till her very bones shine.
“You are radiant, m’lady.”
The queen-to-be smiles but gives no reply. She merely turns to watch the sun swallow the dusky heavens - deaf to fretting attendants, tolling bells, trumpeting horns.
For once, the sky is empty of bird and beast alike.
On the eve before her wedding, Alicent’s dreams were not of imprisoned princesses saved by comely knights or star-crossed lovers united in death.
On the dawn of her wedding, Alicent remembers the fable of the swan-mother.
Otherwise a woman of few words, the Lady Hightower never disappointed her daughter’s pleas for just one more story.
Beloved, all mothers must fly away. That is why lords have daughters. To keep life going in the meantime, until it is your time to grow wings.
But not you, Mama. You wouldn’t fly away.
Would you?
Last night, she dreamed of wings splintering from her bloody back, pinions piercing their way out of her limbs, her jaw-beak open in a shriek, then a sigh, then a sounding that rang as she flew into the boundless sky.
Yet daybreak reveals no feathers bristling beneath her milky skin.
She could do so much worse than a kind man who would never raise a hand to her or her children. Hers will be the lips to soothe his aches, the womb to bear his fruits, the hands to thumb shut his sorrows at day’s end.
Soon her traitorous heart would remember its duty and forget those laughing violet eyes.
Soon her body would learn to go without that maddening caress.
But for now, Alicent looks to the sky and yearns for wings of her own.
Ask me to fly with you again.
Craven I remain but ask once more and I will grow wings.