Chapter Text
Her father had warned her not to name the little beasts, lest she get too attached to them. Of course, under his watchful eye, she had nodded and agreed, ever the dutiful daughter. In private, however, she had decided to name one or two. A small treat, only for herself to enjoy - like the battered apple rings one of the flea bottom boy’s would give her in exchange for a few eggs in passing; before returning to shouting to the passing crowds for at least four copper coins for five rings. (Of course this soon spiralled out of control, and although they’ve lost some to the cook’s table, they all went to their boiling graves with a name and love in their feathery little hearts.)
If her father knew about it; she would never be allowed to leave the grounds of the Keep again; squandering their livelihood and talking to a boy. But she has no fancy for Johan; only the baked goods he hawks.
She tramps through the Hook, having been at the fishmonger’s square all morning since after sept - her least favourite venture, on account of the stink of fish that she never seemed to be rid of after visiting. She always made sure her trips to the square coincided with bath days. The road is muddy and caking her boots from the heavy summer rain the night before. She has managed to secure a decent amount of kippers for supper tonight. She’d fry them for Gwayne and father in the staff kitchen with spare eggs and it would be enough for tonight.
The courtyard of the Keep is bustling as always; but she knows better than to enter by the steps. She crosses the open space; parcel clutched to her chest in her hurry. Her brother would still be squiring away - for young Prince Baelon, no less. The boy prince was younger, much younger, than her own kin but the king insisted that his heir start learning as soon as he could wield a blade. Or, a wooden one, anyway.
Not that it’s the boy prince that really takes her fancy in the training yard. It’s his sister - Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra was a year her junior, but carried herself like a princess should. They occasionally took lessons together, and had done so frequently in their youth; when her father was still well enough to keep his duties at hand of the king. But now as he kept himself tucked away at their end of the keep, Alicent found herself less interested in the lessons beyond showing face to Septa Mordane on occasion. Not that Septa Mordane really seemed to care - once she had praised Alicent’s recitations of the histories, but now she only grumbled in something of relief that she was present. Septa Mordant was more concerned about Rhaenyra and the other high-born ladies that didn’t spend their days up to their ankles in chicken feed, and Alicent supposed that suited her just fine. She preferred it. Preferred rising early and tending to her duties, and assisting her father in his letter writing and his ablutions when needed. She had most of her days to herself; and she was always welcome, and free, to peruse the library. The king had told her that himself, when they had come across each other.
“The council feels the loss of your father’s wit quite heavily.” He had admitted to her. “Though I am sure you could help sharpen it once more - be sure to read to him, won’t you?”
“Of course your grace.”
Of course, less time in lessons, spent less time with Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra seemed more focused on the training yard, but unlike her brother, the princess had a natural gait for the art of swordplay. Her brother was still learning, fumbling with a wooden sword. But she’d seen Rhaenyra; the arc, the song of the metal as it careered towards her opponent. Exhilarating, she was sure. She found herself unable to look - blamed the sun bouncing off of the breastplate of Rhaenyra’s specially made armour. Would say nothing more on the subject as she stole away to the sept; shaking hands lighting candles and her knees bruising against the stone flooring as she prayed long and hard for her health, her family, and for her troubles to disappear.
(Her troubles surround her; blonde and grinning, close and across a chasm, Rhaenyra bursting through the clouds, Alicent with her feet firmly on the ground. It could never be the same again.)
She leaves the courtyard under an archway; past a clearing of trees - the little stone cottage the royal family had so kindly bestowed on them stands proud in front of her. It had belonged to a gardener years ago - once the old an had died, the keep had hired some green boys from outside the city to take over, and they preferred to have their lodgings inside the keep. The building had lain empty for so long, but Alicent and Gwayne rebuilt it - favours pulled in from those in the city that had better hands for heavy work. All her father could do was watch, as bit by bit, they rebuilt.
Alicent hadn’t intended on keeping chickens. Some eggs she had purchased ended up hatching and her brood only grew from there; taking in sickly little runts and nursing them back to health. Sybil. Florian. Jonquil. Aeggy. There had been so many before, and she knew there would be many in the future. Of course, she wasn’t the only person within the keep to handle animals, but she was sure the farrier’s boys gelding didn’t follow him around like her chicks did. She needn’t even lay feed down; they just followed. She lets the door shut behind her - not violent, just loud enough.
“Father?” She calls, pausing. “Are you awake?” The cottage is small, and Alicent knows her father will be in his chair, where she left him that morning. It pains her, to know he’s cooped up here, with only the faint clucking and sounds of the busy keep to keep him company. But he refuses to use the wheelchair the master of coin had kindly set aside some gold for. Degrading, he had rasped, hands shaking as she held them. She cannot force him - if he prefers to go one step at a time, his children holding him; that is what will be done. Gwayne could - he’s strong enough, but neither of them want to. They sit, uncomfortable, with the man who used to dominate every conversation, every choice. Now they make the choices, the conversation, leaving him space to breathe, to pitch in a word here or there, should he have the energy.
She never knew him as a young man, or what made him Ser Otto, but he’s older than he’s ever been; these past two summers especially. She hears winter may yet still come, and she dreads it. Will they cope? It had been frightening enough that day, when she had returned to the Tower of the Hand and found him on the floor, unable to speak. Even the Maesters could not put their well educated fingers on it.
“The body does decide to humour us so,” Mellos had lamented, trying to treat her kindly after her father had been dosed up on poppy milk. “He will be right with some rest and some help keeping his mind active. It will take time, but he is sure to walk again.” Alicent is not so sure. “You be a good girl, take care of him.” She won’t let go of his hand, even as he sleeps.
“Fa-” She finds him as she should, in his chair, facing the window, the sun. In front of him, she finds spilled ink and the remnants of a letter he’s obviously tried to write. “Oh, did Gwayne leave this for you?”
“Yes.”
She squints at the scratchings. “Were you writing to Uncle Hobert?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“Yes.”
There conversations do not stretch much more than this these days - whether she finds it difficult, or he finds it too much, the house is normally quiet. Better when Gwayne comes in; he’s better at carrying conversations. She makes the tea, carves up some bread for them both and reads to him after she’s fed him and adjusted his cup. She reads until her voice is hoarse and she needs more tea to soothe it; reads about history and stories, listening to his little grunts to whether he’s enjoying this story or not. She knows to avoid to overly romantic ones, as he does tend to close his eyes and feign sleep.
It’s dusk by the time Gwayne returns to them, sweaty and beat from his day squiring, though there is no time to rest - Alicent takes over the fire, plating up their kippers and eggs, while Gwayne entertains; regaling them with tales of his work day, how he dodged a blow from Ser Criston Cole and was praised for it - perhaps, perhaps he might be offered a role in the Kingsguard one day, maybe under Baleon, should that day come. Certainly not under Viserys. Their father nods in agreement. Ser Gwayne, he would like it, they are sure.
The sun does not set early in the summer and it warms her, as she heads to her chickens after their supper. She disappears in to the coop - well, it’s an old stone hut that Gwayne had helped her to repurpose when she had gotten the idea to keep the chickens.
“Hello girls.” She smiles, the light filtering in behind her. She gets some quiet clucks in response and she checks for eggs; just in case, but nothing. She’s been saving some coin; hoping to get a rooster next time there’s a farmer in the main square. Hoping they haven’t raised their prices since the last time she asked. Florian and Jonquil ignore her (but she knows they are desperately in love and she is happy for them), but Sybil runs between her legs, spying some feed she had missed earlier in the day.
“Aeggy?” She asks, squinting into the corners of the hut, and finding her favourite… To be not there. Her heart rattles into her throat. She knew chickens would roam, but her girls were all homebodies - once or twice she would perhaps find them in the thicket of trees surrounding the cottage, but she hadn’t seen - or heard - anything all afternoon or evening. “Aeggy?!” She repeats, voice pitching up, as if the chicken will hear her and suddenly appear out from under some hay. Of course she doesn’t. She picks at her nails absentmindedly as she rushes out of the hut and then back in. “Aeggy?!” Aeggy, next to being her favourite, is her best - and she does not even want to consider the loss of income losing her would bring.
“Alicent?” Comes a smooth voice from behind her and she spins on the spot and finds the princess taking up the entrance, a squirming chicken in her arms.
“Aeggy!” She stumbles forwards, grasping for the white hen and when she has her, forces herself into a curtsey. “T-thank you, Princess - I…”
“You don’t need to do that.” Rhaenyra tells her. “I thought we were friends, Alicent.” Alicent doesn’t miss the tinge of hurt in Rhaenyra’s voice. “You don’t need to address me as such or - or curtsey or…”
“I know, but - I - thank you, for finding her? I hope she wasn’t any bother, she’s a good girl, I swear it.”
Rhaenyra laughs and it’s only now that Alicent relishes in it - she’s missed it. Missed nudging Rhaenyra during their lessons and giggling over something or another, or gossiping about the other noble girls - girls that Alicent is sure, Rhaenyra is more endeared to than her. Surely. “No, I found her strolling across the training yard when I was putting my sword away and I couldn’t see you or Gwayne so I… I chased her until I caught her. I’m sure the stablehands got a good belly laugh out of that.” The princess gestures down to her muddy training clothes. “She put up a very good fight.”
“Aeggy, you’re so naughty!” Alicent scolds, before letting the hen go back to her sisters after another tight cuddle; leaving the two of them to just talk.
“Is your father well?” Rhaenyra asks finally, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Alicent nods.
“As well as he can be.”
“Father misses his presence at the Small Council.” Rhaenyra continues, and Alicent goes to say that she will pass on the sentiment, but Rhaenyra carries on. “Much like I miss your presence in the keep.”
“I am still in the keep.”
“On the grounds.”
Alicent knows what it means - they barely spend time together anymore. And she does miss it, terribly. But she has other duties now, must keep her father hale. Gwayne is already toying with the idea of marriage - to who, though, she has no idea. Gwayne has not the sway father did, and Alicent is no longer in Rhaenyra’s service, ever since her father needed her. She wishes she could go back.
“I miss you too.”
Rhaenyra does seem to smile at that, a breath of relief. “I wish I could welcome you back into my service - but I know - you have other duties, and bigger things to worry about now - is, the monthly coin enough?”
“Oh, more than, but I do run our modest household, and with father’s… Health, I’m not sure I could perform my duties for you as adequately as I could.”
“There is a tourney next month. My mother’s nameday.” Rhaenyra tells her, as if she does not know. “I know you are less fond of the tilts, and your father could not make it to the stands, but Gwayne will be squiring and I wondered - well, we could get your father into the hall for the feast - if you - would be willing to join.”
“I will surely- Yes, of course. Though perhaps - you could send some men to assist me with getting father in the hall, if you please?”
“Of course. I understand he is stubborn in his methods of movement.”
“Quite.”
They stare at each other, before bursting into giggles - Alicent’s intonation quite matching that of Septa Mordane.
“Please, please come back to lessons, if you can - a touch more regularly.” Rhaenyra begs, sliding her arm through Alicent’s; a girl so privileged, the princess is begging for her company to return to her. As if nothing had ever changed.
“I shall try my hardest. I will endeavour to complete all my duties as early as possible, and then I shall join you.” Alicent offers, and this seems to satisfy Rhaenyra.
“You could come for some tea, tell my father how much your father misses him.” Alicent asks, and Rhaenyra, although loathe too, shakes her head. “Unfortunately I have some guests to entertain, though it is much more peaceful out here.”
They lull into silence, before Alicent notices a little ball of fluff darting out of the hut and she squeals, taking off after Aeggy, Rhaenyra hot on her heels.
“Catch her!” She pants, as the princess overtakes her, arms outstretched. “This is much more fun than entertaining Harwin’s sister!” She laughs, as Aeggy heads back towards the training yard, the girls in close pursuit and clucking her little head off.