Chapter Text
Prologue, Alicent’s POV
The wedding celebration of Prince Daemon to Princess Rhaenyra is the first time Alicent dons the green of the Hightower.
Alicent watches the awful procession unfold beside her Lord Husband, her fingers digging into the skin around her thumbnail until it stings with sharp pain and blood bubbles to the surface. Daemon cloaks his bride to be in the blacks and reds of her house, his leering eyes never leave Rhaenyra, glowing triumphant in her gown of white.
It’s inappropriate, she thinks bitterly. The Rogue Prince should be mourning his first wife, who had so recently passed. The Vale is outraged but attended nonetheless. The Velaryons, however, are another matter entirely.
The Seasnake and his family have spurned the ceremony, the insult of being denied a royal match yet again too much for Corlys Velaryon’s pride to bear.
Political fires blazed everywhere, and Daemon and Rhaenyra seemed content to fan the flames together. All the while the sores on Viserys’ back festered and the stench of rot clung to his skin.
The wedding dance begins. They circle each other in a dance like two dragons in flight and Alicent’s mind echoes with Rhaenyra’s words from what felt like another life: I want to fly with you on dragon back…
She grips the skirts of her gown, the fabric wrinkling under her white-knuckled grasp, and wills away the memory. Rhaenyra is a liar. She lied on the memory of her mother. The image of Queen Aemma swims before Alicent’s eyes like a phantom, waxy-faced and worn the day before her death on the birthing bed. It was her that Alicent had thought of as she began her labors alone. She sobbed when she birthed the son the former queen had died in pursuit of.
Alicent had held Rhaenyra that first night as she cried herself to sleep, stood with her as the news settled like a shroud around them, and kept vigil as Syrax bathed the pyre in dragon fire.
And yet when Alicent had needed her, after a day and a half of laboring, when the pain of birth had been so great she was sure it would kill her , Rhaenyra was with her dragon.
Soon her mind pictures not just Syrax, but also Caraxes. Aegon is a challenge, not just to Rhaenyra but also to Daemon. Her son will be at the mercy of two selfish dragons.
Twin truths sink like stones in her stomach. Rhaenyra is a liar. And she played Alicent for a fool.
She imagines her own children, Aegon and Helaena, standing before Queen Rhaenyra and her King Consort. The scene shifts and Caraxes and Syrax’s mouths open wide, fire glowing like coals in their throats. The thought is enough to chill her heart. The wine sears her throat as she takes a desperate sip.
Her father is right. She knows now that she must prepare Aegon to rule. She cannot cleave to Rhaenyra’s mercy – the promises of a liar – and certainly not while Daemon stands beside her.
Now, Rhaenyra’s POV
The bedding is only just better than in the brothel, though also worse without the thrill of the illicit atmosphere. In the brothel, it had been quick and not altogether painless and the bedding had been much the same.
Rhaenyra is sure that in the years after their wedding, she will learn how to take her pleasure as Daemon did his. Daemon had promised her, after all. They are dragons and dragons are selfish creatures. It would come with time.
Much like after the Street of Silk, Daemon left her to do as she pleased. He hunted Dragonstone in search of new clutches of dragon eggs. “Our future son will have his choice of eggs,” he had said before departing, a smirk curling his lips. That had been a moon ago.
Two moons after Rhaenyra’s wedding, the queen’s stomach swelled with signs of a new babe. The sight of Alicent heavy with her father’s child was sickening. It always would be, Rhaenyra imagined, as horrible as the first two times. Her own stomach remained flat, but she heard the whispers around the Keep. The queen had provided a male heir, and soon a potential spare. Even without Otto Hightower, the Red Keep remained a pit of vipers.
The whispering workings of the Keep were interrupted by Laena in flowing sea-green silks. Laena walked with her through the gardens, her wavy silver hair and confidence a testament to Old Valyria. Her cousin had been a welcome surprise, atop the newly claimed Vhagar, who blotted out the sun when she took to the sky. With the largest dragon at her command, even the Seasnake couldn’t stop her from visiting any longer.
“Laenor has run away to the Free Cities with Ser Joffrey. Father is furious,” Laena said, her voice tinged with both amusement and something harder. Laenor was her constant companion since the womb. Surely it was strange to be without her twin. Perhaps as strange as it had been for Rhaenyra, in the days after her father’s betrothal, where it felt like she had lost a limb and not just a childhood companion.
Rhaenyra had once wanted to fly away on dragonback to see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea. The one person she ever wanted to run away with had betrayed her and wed her father. Laenor had managed to do what she could not. Good for him.
“Will your father bring him back?”
Laena shrugged. “Laenor is without Seasmoke and father is without a way to track him. I don’t think he will be able to find Laenor. Mother is pressing for me to be named the heir of Driftmark.”
“It’s fair. The Crown has a female heir, so why not Driftmark? How do you feel about this?”
They stopped walking. Laena falls silent until the only sound comes from the nearby fountain and the whispering breeze through the flowers. Her head is slightly bowed in thought, before meeting Rhaenyra’s eyes again.
“Laenor never wanted to be the heir. It would have killed him. At least now he’s happy. Though my father insists I need a husband soon.” Laena smiled. “And what of you? How is the Realm’s Delight faring in her marriage?”
“The Dragon must have three heads, if you wish to join us,” Rhaenyra teases lightly. Laena laughs, and Rhaenyra catches a fleeting glimpse of green through the windows.
Alicent hasn’t looked at her since the betrothal to Daemon. Whatever tentative reconciliation they had was dead, and Alicent now wore gowns of green as a declaration of war between them. It couldn’t be taken as anything else.
She looks away, her eyes falling on Ser Harwin.
Breakbones fills the archway of the corridor, his gold cloak fastened around his neck, the new captain as her father remained cross with Daemon. Even with his brown hair and eyes, he can’t be called plain-featured.
“Perhaps I can help find a prospective match? Ser Harwin is available, and an honorable man,” she suggests. There were far worse matches than Ser Harwin Strong. And as captain of the Goldcloaks her cousin would be here, close and at hand where Rhaenyra has so few allies.
Laena’s face turns thoughtful.
“He is fine,” Laena agrees. “But father wants a Valyrian match.”
“Will he marry you off to Lys, then? We are dragons. Take what you want,” Rhaenyra says firmly, grasping Laena’s hand.
Laena smiles knowingly. “As you did Daemon?”
Rhaenyra smirks. She isn’t trapped in a castle and meant to push out heirs to exhaustion. She is the blood of the dragon, as is Laena. They are meant to burn freely.
Daemon returns with a clutch of dragon eggs in hand, his eyes gleaming with triumph. The eggs are warm to the touch, cradled carefully in his arms as if they were precious jewels.
“Once our child is born, we can be rid of this place,” Daemon says, grasping hard at her hip. His touch is bruising.
“I’m not even with child yet,” Rhaenyra answers. The birthing bed looms ever larger by the day and soon there will be no escaping it. At least she will have Daemon by her side. Daemon would not cut her open for a boy like her father had her mother. Daemon would protect her.
“Soon, my niece,” he says confidently.
The moons continue to pass, and Alicent continues to swell, more stomach than woman. Rhaenyra hears the maids speak of her pregnancy, of how she’s carrying low, and the maester predicts another boy.
They are breaking their fast with her father when a messenger appears.
“The Queen has entered her labors, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra’s legs shake with the need to saddle Syrax and fly away, far from the suffocating walls of the Red Keep. The news of the queen’s labors is still as terrifying as it was the first time. She couldn’t fly away fast enough then, the sound of Alicent’s screams echoing in her ears. But she had her father, her Lord Husband, who she had betrayed Rhaenyra for. And so she left. Alicent chose someone else, and she is no longer Rhaenyra’s to comfort.
She pushes away her plate. Her food tastes like ashes in her mouth.
Her father waves away the messenger and continues his meal, unconcerned.
“Surely you have enough spares by now, brother,” Daemon says lazily, picking at his food.
“All are needed until I become a proud grandsire,” Viserys replies, his tone light and unconcerned.
Rhaenyra can’t remember the last time she saw her father with Alicent’s children. Helaena’s first nameday, perhaps? Otto’s departure had signaled the end of his interest in them, it seemed, though he was content to press another upon Alicent.
“Where are the children?” Rhaenyra asks, in spite of herself. It wasn’t common for them to eat with the King, but with Alicent in her labors…
“The nursemaids will tend to them,” her father says, unconcerned. As if Aegon didn’t make a game of running and hiding from the maids.
Just the other day, Aegon had stayed elusive for a candle length before they found him at the Dragon Pit. “What a shame if something had happened to him,” Daemon had jested that night with a sharp smile. “Dragons are so fond of sheep.”
The room feels colder, despite the warmth of the day and the smell of food. A chill passes through Rhaenyra before she collects herself.
Rhaenyra excuses herself without eating another bite. Atop Syrax she will not have to imagine the smell of blood and the screams of the birthing bed.
Alicent’s POV
Aemond is born quicker and easier than Helaena and Aegon. Despite what she had told Rhaenyra so long ago in the wheelhouse, neither child’s birth had come easily. Aegon’s birth had torn her apart from the inside, as though he were a dragon trying to rend free from an egg. She had been five and ten.
Now at nine and ten she knows what to expect and is familiar with this pain. Aemond’s arrival is swift, the pain sharp and intense but mercifully brief. A final push, a rush of relief, and then the sound of his first cry fills the room. Alicent exhales, her body trembling with exhaustion. She feels the weight of him being placed in her arms, his tiny body warm and squirming against her.
He is the first child that feels like hers. He’s the first child that she holds and doesn’t feel a crushing weight in her chest. He’s the first child she wishes to look upon.
“Congratulations, your grace,” Maester Mellos offers. “Another son. The king will be pleased.”
Alicent’s chest tightens at the mention of Viserys. She wonders if he will come to see their new son or if he will send his congratulations through a messenger.
“Has his Grace decided upon a name?”
“Aemond,” she answers. She had been too tired to hold onto Aegon, slipping into that strange place between dreams and wakefulness. When she had awoken, her father was beside her and her son named for the conqueror. She is alone now. It’s the first son she has named herself.
The room is dim, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. The scent of sweat and blood hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the oil burning in a corner. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her body aching but her heart swelling with an unfamiliar feeling as she gazes at her newborn son.
She has been wary to always have a king's guard close at hand when near the Rogue Prince. Her father’s warnings echo in her head and she can see with her own eyes what the King and Princess do not. Daemon is temperamental, selfish, and she hears the stories about his exploits in Flea Bottom and the Streets of Silk. It isn’t enough that he sullied the virtue of the Princess. As a prince of the realm he’s free to do whatever he wishes, and Alicent keeps her distance. It is as she returns from the nursery three moons later that she has her first run-in with Prince Daemon alone.
Daemon looms over her, looking more like his twisted dragon than a man. His eyes are dark and piercing, and he stands too close, his breath stinking of wine.
“Your time as my brother’s whore is almost at an end,” he whispers, his voice low and dripping with malice. He leans in even closer, his smile widening to reveal a row of teeth that look almost draconic. “Upon the birth of a son we will have a prince of pure Valyrian blood instead of your halfbreeds.”
Alicent’s heart pounds angrily in her chest. She forces herself to remain still, though every instinct screams at her to step back. The memory of Lady Rhea Royce’s mysterious death—a skilled rider, unhorsed—flashes through her mind. Murdered, her father’s voice whispers. Her fingers twitch, yearning for the comforting presence of a sworn shield, but she is alone.
Daemon could slay her where she stands, and who would stop him? Not Viserys, who would forgive his brother for sullying his daughter before marriage. Not Rhaenyra, who had married him with exuberance. Her father was gone. Ser Harrold would, were he here, surely. But she is alone. She has always stood alone.
She squares her shoulders, lifting her chin in defiance. “My children are the blood of old Valyria. My son is the firstborn son of the King and blood of the dragon.” Her voice is steady, though inside she quakes. Oldtown would not stand for her death. The Hightower would blaze green were she to be struck down. Her green dress feels like a shield now.
Daemon’s eyes narrow, and his hand drifts lazily to the hilt of his sword. He chuckles, a dark, humorless sound. “You claim them as dragons and yet their eggs did not hatch. A dragon alone in the world is a dangerous thing.”
The threat hangs heavy in the air as he steps back, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Remember that, your Grace.”
It is only when Daemon turns and stalks away, his boots echoing ominously against the stone floor, that she allows herself to breathe again.
“Husband, I wish for a sworn shield, as is customary for my position.”
Viserys fiddles with the stone miniature in his hands, hardly sparing her a glance. His model of Old Valyria has only continued to grow and spread like the rot now infesting his arm. A more attentive husband would have asked why his wife needed a sworn shield, or would have assigned her one upon their marriage. Such an oversight would never have befallen Queen Aemma. She bid the Mother to forgive her uncharitable thoughts.
“Ser Arryk will serve you,” he said with a wave. “The arrangements will be made.” She longs to dig into her cuticles until she feels blood. Instead she digs her nails into her arms.
“Thank you, husband.” She places a kiss to his brow and is waved away a final time.
She is accompanied out the door by the Kingsguard.
The shadows feel less menacing as she makes her way to the nursery.
Already Helaena’s cries meet her ears a full floor away. Exhaustion as deep as the Narrow Sea sink into her bones. There is always a babe or a husband calling for her attention. As is her duty. This is the way of things, this is the place of women, she reminds herself. In the nursery the wet nurse tends to Aemond, quiet and solemn, while a nursemaid tries to soothe Helaena. She looks around the room.
“Where is Aegon?” The question reverberates around the room like a shot. She repeats herself, feeling panic rising in her chest. His nursemaid gives her a wide eyed stare, sweat sticking to her face, and her bonnet half askew.
”Milady, the young prince,” the nursemaid begins and fury is roaring in her stomach. She clutches her throat and wills away the scream building.
The door behind her opens and Ser Criston holds the door open. “Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Aegon, your Grace.” He tilts his head deferentially to her and she swallows around the rock sitting in her throat.
The desire to rush to him, to make sure he is unharmed and whole is almost overwhelming. Aegon is, she notes, smiling. In that moment, next to Rhaenyra with their matching silver-gold hair, she can almost imagine he is Rhaenyra’s son instead. Her own features stare back at her in miniature and the illusion shatters.
“What were you doing?” Her voice sounds shrill and accusing but she cannot help it. Rhaenyra’s face turns cold and flat.
“I found your son outside the dragonpit. Aegon wished to see Syrax’s hatchling.”
She says it carelessly, as if by some happenstance they had run into each other. Rhaenyra stands in her riding leathers, and how easy would it have been to take Aegon onto Syrax? To fly out over sea? He could have vanished without a trace.
Rhaenyra stands there with her upturned mouth and her eyes glint with amusement, once again having found Alicent lacking and her foolish, foolish son had been at her mercy. Gods be good.
“I saw the gold dragon,” Aegon says with his ear splitting grin, and she’s filled with a need to slap the foolishness from his face, the instinct that feels so much like her father that she flinches. She needs Aegon from her sight.
“Ready the children for supper,” she commands. The nursemaids bow and scrape on their way out, and Aegon yells as he’s picked up like a sack of potatoes. The door closes behind them.
She clenches her fists, nails biting into her palms, and forces a calm she does not feel. “Aegon has responsibilities. Lessons that he has avoided,” she lies.
“He is a boy of four namedays,” Rhaenyra scoffs and flares to life a latent fire in her chest. How dare she? How dare she when she has not so much as spoken to Aegon in his life.
“Not all can afford to play whim to their wants and desires, Princess.”
“What accusation are you making, your Grace?” Rhaenyra’s tone is icy, her eyes narrowing.
Alicent’s voice trembles and her fists shake. “I speak of duty, Princess. Duty to the realm, to our families. The sacrifices made for the Crown. While you shirk your responsibilities, gallivanting on dragonback and doing whatever you please!”
Rhaenyra’s laugh is devoid of humor. “Stop hiding behind the cloak of your own righteousness, your Grace. You sit and you play the pious wife, but I see you as you are. You and your father, both. You both undermine my position as heir.”
Alicent steps closer, and she believes flames will soon shoot from her eyes. “Undermine? You undermine yourself, Rhaenyra. You spurned your marriage prospects. You defiled yourself in a pleasure house. Even now, you feel entitled. You think riding dragons will prepare you to rule? The people need stability, not reckless whims. They need a ruler who understands the burdens of the Crown.”
“And you think you understand those burdens better than I?” Rhaenyra’s voice rises. “You, who pretended to be my friend, who whored yourself out in exchange for a crown when my mother’s ashes were still smoldering?”
Alicent’s hands shake from the effort of holding back from strangling the Princess.
“Do you believe I wished for this? That I wished for any of this?” she shrieks and she knows she sounds like a madwoman. It is like a dam has cracked open, and each thought that rested within her head is released in a torrent. “I have only ever done what is expected of me. I have only ever sought to serve my house and the realm, and none of that matters. Not to you, not while you only serve yourself. Woe to anyone who stands between you and your wants.”
There is a long silence, with tension simmering in the air like smoke between them.
Finally, Rhaenyra breaks the silence, her voice low and dangerous. “I know my duty. But I will not be a prisoner to it.”
With that, Rhaenyra turns on her heel and slams the nursery door behind her.
Rhaenyra’s POV
A year passes before Rhaenyra misses her moon’s blood. It's another bloodless month before Grand Maester Mellos confirms her suspicions, his dry hands prodding her stomach. “You are with child, princess.”
Mellos leaves her chambers with a bow and Rhaenyra sits heavily on the sofa. A babe. In her body, she carries the future heir to the Iron Throne. And all she feels is terror.
Her mother described the birthing bed as a battlefield, and royal wombs their duties. Her mother had carried several babies, yet only Rhaenyra survived past a year. Queen Aemma could never give her father the son he so desperately craved.
Daemon is overjoyed. He places a hand on her still flat stomach, his eyes gleaming with pride.
The announcement is made over dinner and her father’s face brightens like the dawn.
"We must arrange a feast,” he says, looking more aware than he has in moons. “To the future prince or princess.”
“It will be a boy,” Daemon promises, his voice ringing with certainty. “A future Targaryen prince to sit the Iron Throne.”
The queen cannot force a smile. “Congratulations, step-daughter,” she bites out.
Daemon shifts his attention to Alicent. “This is also a boon for you, your Grace. Now you can rest in your duty to the throne,” Daemon says with a sneer. He leans back in his chair and smiles.
Alicent’s mouth pulls into a bland smile. “The queen’s duties never truly end, my prince. It’s a blessing to do my duty to the crown.”
Daemon’s eyes gleam. “Indeed. Though some blessings are more…valuable than others.”
The queen shifts in her seat, but her father only smiles a half drunken smile.
“The House of the Dragon will stand strong for generations to come,” her father says, raising his goblet.
Alicent raises her goblet as well, her eyes locking with Rhaenyra’s for a fleeting moment. There’s something in her gaze that Rhaenyra can’t read. She feels a pang of something she can’t quite name. “To the future of our house,” the queen echoes, her voice steady but lacking warmth.
Rhaenyra’s pregnancy has advanced, and her belly is now visible. Each day she feels more and more like a sea monster from one of the Velaryon tapestries. Her body no longer feels like her own. Gone are the hours riding Syrax, as Daemon grew wroth when it was suggested and her father had agreed. Far too dangerous for a woman in her condition. Her back aches constantly, a dull throb that never truly goes away, her ankles swell, and the walk from her chambers to the gardens feels like an increasingly difficult journey by the day.
She sits in the garden most days, trying to absorb the life and energy from the garden into herself. She would not wither away in her chambers, waiting for the birth. The sun is warm, and the scent of blooming flowers fills the air, but she can’t feel settled. Daemon comes and goes, while Rhaenyra is confined to the Keep.
“The babe will be a strong prince,” Daemon says, placing a possessive hand on Rhaenyra’s swollen belly. “He will be our Aegon. A true Targaryen to secure our line.”
“Or she could be princess,” Rhaenyra adds.
Daemon's eyes flicker darkly. “All the more reason we must ensure their path to the throne is clear. No obstacles.”
Rhaenyra swallows back the question in her throat. She isn’t sure what Daemon means, but it sits uneasily in her belly, mingling with the persistent fear and uncertainty that have become her constant companions.
Later that evening, Rhaenyra sits by the fire. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, and Daemon stands before the hearth, his silhouette sharp and imposing. The firelight catches his hair, making it gleam white gold, but his eyes remain in shadow.
“We will take our rightful seat of Dragonstone once our son is born,” Daemon says. Once again, it feels more like a command than something they have decided together. Dragonstone is her seat, and not his, and yet…
The idea of leaving the Keep behind, of escaping the Queen’s icy stares, is enticing. But duty, heavier than any dragon, binds her here. She cannot abandon her father’s legacy, or the realm that depends on her.
The queen’s words from the nursery resound in her head: Woe to anyone who stands between you and your wants. She is wrong. Rhaenyra is her father’s heir and will be queen. They can’t leave. She can’t let Alicent be right.
Daemon will stand beside her.
“We cannot leave, uncle,” she says, her voice steady but firm.
Daemon’s eyes narrow. “And why not? We are not prisoners here. The throne is our birthright, but we need not stay in this pit to claim it.”
“My oath as heir reaches beyond my personal ambitions.” Daemon’s gaze sharpens, his confusion evident but his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. She reminds him, “A song of ice and fire.”
“What?”
And it hits her as suddenly as a bolt of lightning. He doesn’t know.
“The coming war against the darkness in the north. The conqueror’s dream. Father shared it with me when he named me heir.”
Daemon strikes out as suddenly and swiftly as a snake from the grass. His hand closes around her throat with a vice-like grip, rocking her onto the balls of her feet. She feels her eyes bulge and the breath forced from her lungs.
Daemon’s eyes are colder than north of the wall and more lifeless. “My brother...is a slave to his omens and portents. Anything to make his feckless reign appear to have purpose.”
For the first time, she sees the true ice in her uncle’s eyes and feels fear for herself. The man she trusted above all others is a stranger, and the realization is as cold as the northern winds. His face is close to hers, and his voice is low, “Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did.”
His hand leaves her throat, and the air rushes back into her lungs. She gasps and wheezes, staring at the man she thought was her savior, her protector, and sees only a tyrant.
She takes a step backwards, still gulping air.
“He never told you,” she pants, her throat burning. “Did he?”
Daemon’s expression hardens, and he steps closer, his shadow engulfing her. Rhaenyra cannot help it, she flinches back.
Rhaenyra’s hand flies to her throat as Daemon storms out of the room, leaving her trembling by the fire. The flames crackle, but their warmth feels distant and cold compared to the chill of fear that now grips her heart.
She wears high necked gowns for a week until the marks fade around her throat. All the while she keeps a sharp eye on her husband. It’s as though a veil has lifted, and she can suddenly see where she could not before. She notices the subtle signs of his temper, the way his hand grips his sword hilt a moment too long, the flash of anger in his eyes over trivial matters.
A moon later, Laena returns to the Red Keep, bearing news of a betrothal.
“Congratulations, cousin,” Rhaenyra offers. Her smiles feel tight on her face now, and as easily shatterable as spun glass. “Ser Harwin is a good man.”
“Father wasn’t pleased,” Laena confides, her voice dropping to an undertone, “but mother made him see reason.”
“I’m glad. I did not wish to see you shipped off to the Free Cities and Ser Harwin is a good match.”
“I agree, though father is stubborn.” And ambitious, Rhaenyra thinks, with his ambitions set on the throne. Laena smiles a steely smile. “But I am equally as stubborn.”
Laena’s eyes dart around the hallway before leaning in closer. “How are you, truly?”
Rhaenyra will not show weakness. She averts her eyes from her cousin and adopts her strongest voice. Rhaenyra hesitates, her fingers brushing against her neck. “I am well,” she says with a smile. “The maester says the babe is strong. A true dragon. The worst of the morning sickness has passed. Though the men of the small council are just as nauseating. I would rather ride my dragon than deal with this endless politicking.”
Laena nods, understandingly. “My betrothal comes with conditions that might interest you. It’s a strategic arrangement. The firstborn son is meant to inherit Harrenhal and will take the name Strong. The second-born son, or the first-born daughter, is meant to sit the Driftmark throne and will take the name Velaryon.”
Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. “That is quite the arrangement.”
“Yes. It ensures the continuity of both houses and keeps our bloodlines strong,” Laena explains. “It was my mother’s idea, really. She has always been good at these political games.”
The Queen-Who-Never-Was is a formidable woman. The arrangement showed more shrewd maneuvering than her father had ever demonstrated, and not for the first time Rhaenyra thinks the realm would have been served well by having a queen.
“And you will stay here in the Red Keep?” she asks, trying not to sound needy.
Laena loops their arms together. “Once the wedding occurs, and after the babe is born. I will be here by your side,” she assures. “You will not need to face the Hightowers alone.”
Rhaenyra isn’t sure the Hightowers are her only threat, not while Daemon’s eyes flicker with a dangerous light.
Alicent’s POV
Seven moons after Rhaenyra's joyous announcement, Alicent's pregnancy is revealed. While Rhaenyra glows in gowns of gold and red, basking in sunlight like the image of the Mother, Alicent feels a creeping darkness within her. While the castle buzzes with excitement for Rhaenyra's forthcoming child, Alicent is enveloped in her growing darkness, a stark contrast to the light that seems to follow Rhaenyra.
How many more times must she do her duty to the realm and her husband? How many more sons and daughters must she carry within her, only for them to be discarded upon birth?
At just one and twenty, she faces countless years of childbearing ahead. The familiar blanket of despair weighs heavily on her shoulders, a shroud she cannot escape. Each morning, rising from bed feels like an insurmountable task, her limbs burdened by a sorrow that consumes her. She knows she should be grateful for her position, for her children, but gratitude eludes her. All that’s left inside her is this darkness, this horrible pit of rot that devours everything inside her.
Ser Arryk trails after her, the clang of his armor serving as her only companion. Without thinking her feet lead her to the weirwood tree and its blood red leaves. She hasn’t been here in years. Rhaenyra was all too content to read without her underneath the branches, but Alicent could not, even when Rhaenyra wasn’t occupying the space. She did not have the time, between her duties, her husband, and her children. The familiar bone white carved faces stare at her, the same eyes blank and unseeing from her youth, and it’s good that they remain blind to what has become of the two girls.
That familiar feeling begins to wriggle inside her. Perhaps it is a sickness, as real as the kind that inhabits Viserys. She will not weep anymore tears over it.
She turns at the crunch of footsteps and the resulting movement of armor from Ser Arryk. At the path stands Daemon.
“A word with the Queen, if you will,” he asks Ser Arryk, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt.
Her sworn shield gives Alicent a questioning look and she jerks her head in a nod. Her sworn shield moves to stand further down the path, his back to them in the guise of privacy.
Daemon stalks over to her and his eyes roam lazily over her body, leaving behind a feeling like slimy fingers, before settling on the soft swell of her stomach. A look of pure disgust crosses his face.
She rests her hands in front of her stomach. “Prince Daemon, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
The prince steps further into her space until her back is almost upon the weirwood.
“Merely offering my condolences. You’ve played your part well,” he murmurs in a low whisper. “Lying back and spreading your legs for my brother time and time again. But like your cunt of a father, your services are at an end.”
Daemon smiles and his hand lifts from his sword hilt toward her face. She tries not to flinch as he moves an errant curl from her face.
“The House of the Dragon has no need of whores or bed warmers. Pregnancy is such a fragile state. For mother and child. It’s tragic how swiftly things can turn on the birthing bed.”
The words linger in the air between them. Alicent’s throat bobs and a chill passes through her.
“Daemon!” Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the air. She clutches her stomach with one hand and a pale sheen to her face. Alicent had not heard her approach and neither it seemed had Daemon.
“My darling wife,” he says, his tone just slightly mocking, but he takes a step away from her. “Why are you not resting?”
Rhaenyra waddles over to them with as much speed as an eight moons pregnant woman can. Her eyes are darting from Daemon to Alicent.
Rhaenyra says something in High Valyrian, looking proud and haughty even as her voice sounds angry. Alicent has never understood the language, no matter how many times Rhaenyra spoke words around her. Daemon answers back, gripping Rhaenyra’s bicep in a grip that looks bruising, and whatever he says hasn’t taken that look from Rhaenyra’s face. She looks expectantly at her. There’s a question in Rhaenyra’s eyes that Alicent hasn’t seen since her wedding day, a look of raw concern that begs the question: are you well?
Alicent lowers her eyes to her hands and wants to tear the flesh from her fingers.
“Leave us, uncle,” Rhaenyra dismisses him. Alicent doesn’t miss the dangerous flash in Daemon’s eyes, or the way his hand tightens further on Rhaenyra’s bicep. He answers her back in high Valyrian and lets go of her. He smiles what must pass as his version of a charming smile and leaves without another word.
Rhaenyra inclines her head and Alicent begins to walk with her, away from the weirwood tree and further along the path. Their Kingsguard trail behind them.
“My husband has become restless as the moons pass,” Rhaenyra says. Her eyes dart towards Alicent briefly. Her voice becomes apologetic then. “I apologize for him. I hope he wasn’t too unpleasant.”
Alicent bites back a bitter laugh. When has Daemon been anything other than unpleasant? “It is nothing that I am not accustomed to, princess.”
What is Rhaenyra’s game? There’s no audience but them. There is no king to pretend for, or courtiers to play the game with. And yet, Rhaenyra walks alongside her. Her forearm burns with the phantom feeling of her touch and she grips it with a claw-like grip.
They pause where the courtyard ends and the corridors branch. Rhaenyra spins her rings around her fingers, one ring small and gold with a single emerald flanked by two smaller rubies, and Alicent’s stomach drops at the sight, and memory of the matching ruby ring sitting in her jewelry box. Bile rises in her throat and her hand comes up to grip it desperately.
“How are you?” Rhaenyra asks from underneath her lashes. It’s a familiar look, soft and sweet as the first day of spring after the long winter. Pregnancy has softened the harsh edges in her eyes, and she looks down at Alicent’s stomach without the revulsion of her previous three pregnancies. It’s a small glimpse of the Rhaenyra she once knew and part of Alicent yearns to bask in it, like a cat in the sun.
She shakes her head and stares away from her eyes. They stand in silence and Alicent can almost feel the ghosts of two younger girls alongside them.
She clutches her throat that much tighter to strangle down her foolish feelings. A swell of longing rises in her chest, a desperate yearning to reclaim the girl she once was, to bask in Rhaenyra's warmth. But that girl had withered and died a little upon her marital bed each night.
“You should rest, princess,” she offers. It feels like pulling loose an arrow from a wound and she’s left bleeding. She then turns and flees from Rhaenyra as fast as dignity will allow her.
Alicent hears the pained cries from inside her husband’s chambers as they begin their luncheon. “The princess has entered her labors,” a maid announces. Viserys turns pale as death at the news.
For hours there is no news, the wails of the princess echoing through the halls like some haunting specter. It follows her no matter where she goes, even after she is long out of earshot. From the dragon pit comes a shriek, carrying upon the wind.
It is as she is walking the halls to her chambers that she hears it. “Daemon!”
The howls of pain do not cease, instead a horrible scream of pain. There is another call for Daemon, and it is without thought that her feet find the princess’s chambers and Ser Criston and Ser Harrold dutifully stationed before the doors.
“Your grace,” he greets her. Another pained cry for Daemon echoes out from the chambers.
“Where is Prince Daemon?” Alicent demands.
It is Ser Harrold who answers her, grim faced and surly looking. “Flea Bottom, your Grace. Celebrating the coming of his heir.”
“She is alone?” Alicent wonders aloud. The Kingsguard nods.
Alicent has labored alone three times. Soon to be four times. She should walk back to the nursery, back to the children that this new child would endanger, but her feet are stuck to the floor.
“Get it out!” Rhaenyra shouts.
Rhaenyra’s pain calls to her like a siren’s song. It’s without conscious thought that she orders them aside and enters the room.
The familiar smell of blood meets her nose, coppery and so thick it almost hovers in the air. Serving girls are rushing to and from the antechamber. Within, Rhaenyra is upon the birthing bed, her head tilted back in pain, and the resemblance to the late Queen takes her breath away.
Around her scurry women in the familiar red of the servant’s garb, but where is Mellos? The shock of only seeing women in the room urges her to speak, “Where is the maester?”
Rhaenyra’s head snaps up, eyes wide and disbelieving. “Alicent?”
Her face shudders and her head is falling back with a yell. Alicent’s feet take her to Rhaenyra’s side and the woman at her feet.
“Where is the grand maester? Where is Mellos?” She asks the woman in charge, an older woman with a heavy face.
“That cunt will not touch me,” Rhaenyra gasps out. Her hand grasps Alicent’s, sweaty and hot and demanding. It’s the first time since their estrangement, since that day when Rhaenyra lied to her in the godswood, that their skin has touched. It’s like a surge passes through her skin and something dormant awakens within her chest.
“Prepare yourself, Princess,” the midwife encourages from between her legs, “push!”
Night passes and the babe hasn’t yet come. The grip on Alicent’s hand has grown steadily weaker, even as her voice warbles and waivers from contraction pain. After the last contraction it is hardly a squeeze upon her hand bones.
“I cannot. No more,” Rhaenyra groans. Her blonde hair is soaked to her face and blood covers the entirety of the bottom of her shift. A veritable ocean of blood has been lost, with maids coming throughout the night to change the sheets, but the bloodletting will not end. Not until the babe is born.
“You must,” Alicent snaps. The image of Rhaenyra, incapable of continuing and having her belly split wide for the royal heir fills her mind. Rhaenyra, in a pool of blood savaged open for a babe. “Please, Rhaenyra,” she begs, horrifying vulnerability seeping into her words.
Rhaenyra lets out a roar like her dragon. After what feels like an eternity, a wail fills the room along with the light of the rising sun.
“A boy, princess!”
The babe has a shock of white hair and the pale eyes of a Targaryen. Rhaenyra extends both her arms, letting go of Alicent’s arm. The babe swaddled in a cleaning cloth and pressed to Rhaenyra’s chest.
The newborn’s skin is flushed and wrinkled from the hardships of birth. As she gazes at the babe’s face, she sees Rhaenyra’s unmistakable features in the child—the curve of his nose, the familiar eyes. It jars something loose inside her chest.
“Have you decided on a name?” she whispers.
“Daemon wished to name him Aegon,” Rhaenyra says. Of course. It’s a slight to her and her firstborn son. Already she can feel that familiar feeling of betrayal washing over her. Rhaenyra shakes her head. “But Daemon is not here.” She rocks the prince in her arms with a contemplative look in her expression. “He will be called Rhaegar.”
“After yourself?” She asks incredulously. She doesn’t recognize the sound out of her own mouth as laughter.
Rhaenyra’s grin is tired and delirious, but so very happy. “I can’t imagine a better person to name him for,” she says. They laugh and it’s the first time in what feels like an age. It’s been so long that Alicent forgot what it was like.
The glow of the new birth begins to fade, and Alicent is reminded once again of their estrangement. She will have to leave and Daemon will undoubtedly return to meet his new son and heir. This moment of fleeting understanding means nothing. Not while Daemon remains loose like a rabid dog. She forces herself to rise to her feet, trying to place the broken pieces of her mask as queen back over her face again.
“Congratulations, princess,” she says. “I’m sure my husband will visit shortly.” Her words are halting, stilted, and she lingers when Rhaenyra’s fingertips lightly catch her wrist.
“You have my gratitude. Thank you, for being here,” Rhaenyra says, tears from birthing her son still in her eyes.
And in spite of herself, Alicent feels the rift within her heart begin to knit itself back together.
The castle bustles with the news of the new prince, and Alicent’s own burdens seem to multiply, despite her own pregnancy. The bells toll and the servants gossip in the halls as the Realm’s Delight has brought forth a son of her own. Despite her duties, which have only grown as the King’s health continues to decline, Alicent cannot stay away from Rhaenyra.
Alicent visits Rhaenyra in her solar, where the princess sits by the windows, the sunlight casting a golden halo around her. Rhaegar, wrapped in a soft blanket, is held tenderly to her chest when not in the company of the wet nurse.
“He’s such a good baby,” Rhaenyra says, her voice filled with warmth as she gazes at her son with a soft look on her face. The light filters through the panes, bathing mother and child in a warm glow.
Alicent watches Rhaenyra cradle her son with a tenderness she cannot remember feeling herself. Each of Alicent’s pregnancies took from her, draining her bit by bit. She needed to hide away in her chambers for months afterward, her strength sapped. But for Rhaenyra, motherhood seems to bring out a new warmth, an easy love that Alicent wants to envy but cannot muster the strength to do so. Rhaenyra presses small kisses to the babe’s cheeks and is always holding him close. It was all Alicent could do to pass Aegon and Helaena off to nursemaids.
She does not see Daemon, save at the nameday feast Viserys holds in Rhaegar’s honor. The great hall is adorned with garlands of flowers, and the air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and sweet wine. The festivities stretch over seven days, filled with feasting and revelry, surpassing even the celebrations for Aegon’s birth.
Alicent expects that cold feeling to once again take residence in her heart, but it doesn’t come. The anger she held for Rhaenyra is still there, but it’s no longer a weeping wound, and she cannot keep herself away from Rhaenyra. Not after holding her hand and feeling that warm skin beneath her fingertips for the first time in ages.
And so they sit together, Rhaenyra with her son and Alicent with Helaena and Aemond, and it’s the closest thing to contentment she’s felt since she was four and ten. The solar is a cozy haven, filled with the scent of burning candles and the distant hum of court life.
Aegon disregards Rhaegar the same way he did his younger siblings, too content to run and climb as much as he can, his laughter echoing down the corridors as he darts away from the maids. Aemond, only a year old, sits quietly in Alicent’s lap, while Helaena stares at Rhaegar with an almost unnatural focus for a child of three.
Rhaenyra, of course, notices. “This is your nephew,” she says softly. Helaena fixes her eyes on Rhaenyra, looking so much like her that it takes away Alicent’s breath. “This is Rhaegar.”
Helaena doesn’t say his name, as she hardly says any words, though the maesters insist she isn’t simple. Instead, she scoots closer to Rhaenyra, close but careful not to touch, as is her way. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Laena Velaryon is wed to Harwin Strong on Driftmark, a moon after Rhaegar’s birth. The bride and groom arrive by dragonback, the low roar of Vhagar shaking the foundations of the Red Keep and announcing her presence. The sky darkens with the silhouette of the great dragon, and the ground trembles as they land.
She joins them in the solar, despite lacking any children of her own, and she’s kind and gracious to Alicent and her children. Alicent hates it, though she doesn’t understand why. She hates how Laena wraps an arm around Rhaenyra to help her to her feet, hates how entitled she feels to carry Rhaegar in Rhaenyra’s stead. It eats at her, but she will not endanger the happiness she has just started to feel once more.
They continue in this manner, finding a fragile peace, until one morning, Alicent wakes up to a bed of blood and a stabbing pain in her womb.
“It’s too soon,” she whispers. The maids work around her, preparing the birthing bed in a flurry of skirts and hushed whispers. Maester Mellos’s old face is wrinkled in concentration. “Maester, it is too soon,” she repeats, the thin edge of panic entering her voice.
“Peace, my queen,” he murmurs. “We would not wish to further distress the babe.”
Panic grips her, cold and unflinching. Something is wrong. She feels it in her body. Her chamber is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and the quiet murmurs of the maesters.
She bleeds, the pain worsening in her womb, and she’s reminded of Aegon’s birth. She was so small then, almost too small for birthing, but she is a woman grown. She has borne this duty three times, and yet something is different.
The door to her chambers bursts open.
“Rhaenyra,” she gasps. It’s like a dream, one she had held onto in the deepest, darkest parts of her heart, for Rhaenyra to come to her. For Rhaenyra to save her.
Sweat beads on Rhaenyra’s forehead, and her chest heaves. “Rhaenyra, is that—” the pain cripples her. She cries out, and Rhaenyra is at her side.
“I just heard,” Rhaenyra announces, her pale eyes roving over Alicent with unabashed fear. “Has she been given milk of the poppy?” she demands from Mellos.
“The Queen is not far enough along in her labors, princess,” the maester answers.
“What of your son? What of the children?”
“Laena is with them and the maids.” She winces as another contraction passes, her grip turning to steel. The princess is a comforting presence, her hand cool and steady as she holds Alicent’s in hers.
The birthing continues, long and arduous with each second an agony. The memories of Aegon’s birth flood back to her, the fear and the pain intertwined. She clenches Rhaenyra’s hand, drawing strength from the woman she once considered closer than a sister. The room is filled with the sounds of her labored breathing, the whispers of the maesters, and the occasional cry of pain that escapes her lips.
“Breathe, Alicent,” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice calm despite the tension in the room. “You’re strong. You can do this.”
Hours pass in a haze of pain and exhaustion. The maesters work tirelessly, their expressions growing grimmer. Alicent’s vision blurs, her strength ebbing away with each passing moment, her body slick with sweat and trembling with effort.
“Princess,” Mellos says, trying to draw Rhaenyra away. She refuses to move, barking at him to speak. “The child is not coming.”
“Then make him come!” Rhaenyra snaps, her voice edged with desperation. She squeezes her hand, and she feels the fierce determination in her grip.
“You should fetch the king, princess,” Mellos says, and Rhaenyra’s face turns thunderous.
“You are to keep the queen alive, is that understood? You will not consider otherwise, or I will burn the Citadel to the ground.” It’s like staring at a dragon. For once, Alicent is not without a defender.
With a final, excruciating push, the room is filled with the thin wail of a newborn. Alicent’s head falls back against the pillows, her body trembling with the effort. The maesters move quickly, their hands gentle but efficient as they tend to the babe.
“It’s a boy,” one of them announces, holding the tiny, squirming bundle up for her to see.
“Daeron,” Alicent whispers, her voice barely more than a breath. “His name is Daeron.”
But the relief is short-lived. The pain doesn’t stop. The maesters exchange worried glances, their hands stained with blood as they work to stem the bleeding. Alicent feels herself slipping, the world around her growing distant and faint.
“Rhaenyra,” she whispers.
Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on her hand. “Stay with me, Alicent,” she urges, her eyes fierce with determination. “Stay with me.”
My sons, she thinks. My daughter. Clarity hits her. She does not want to die. Not with Rhaenyra beside her, looking all too much like a girl of four and ten once more.
Time becomes a blur, marked only by the ebb and flow of pain and the murmur of voices. Rhaenyra remains by her side, never letting go, her presence a lifeline in the storm of agony. She is the last thing Alicent sees before the darkness consumes her.
She wakes later, her throat as dry as the Dornish sands. The sun casts a soft light over the chamber, settling onto Rhaenyra who sits asleep in the chair beside her, one hand on the bed as though she fell asleep holding hers. The room is quiet now, the only sound is the soft rustling of curtains in the morning breeze.
“Rhae—” she croaks out, trying to speak.
Rhaenyra’s eyes snap open and fly to her face. Her face is drawn with worry. She calls for the maesters, her face harsh before turning soft eyes onto her.
“Alicent,” she whispers. She leans over her, so her silver-gold hair falls over them like a veil. Her hand brushes Alicent’s cheek, the touch burning like fire. She’s given a cup of water, and Rhaenyra helps lift it to her lips, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat.
Once she can speak, she asks, “What happened? Where is Daeron?”
“He’s with the wet nurse. He’s healthy,” she assures. “You did it,” Rhaenyra says softly, brushing a strand of hair from Alicent’s forehead. “You’re going to be alright.”
Tears well in Alicent’s eyes. “I thought I was going to die. Thank you,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. “Thank you for staying with me.”
Rhaenyra smiles, a faint but genuine expression. “I will never leave you again,” she promises. And Alicent, for the first time since their argument beneath the weirwood tree, since before the brothel and the wedding, believes her.