Work Text:
In the evening, Alicent writes to Father:
Ever since you left Jaehaerys’s murder, I have been unable to sleep. When I manage to, my dreams are filled with horror. I wish you had not left me. I still cling to the hope of swaying Aegon to your return. Your counsel is ever needed in these times. I hope you are well have arrived in Oldtown safely and kissed Daeron from me. Family should always
When an unfamiliar, leery-eyed handmaiden disturbs her, having come to prepare the Queen for bed, she hastily crumples the parchment and shoves it into a key-locked drawer among many others. Perhaps irrationally, she has begun to be wary of the Lord Confessor intercepting her correspondence. In times of war, one cannot let the warhounds sniff out weakness.
A host from Oldtown arrives at the hour of the eel, flying banners of green and silver. She runs out into the night in nothing but her dressing gown and an overcoat, holding her breath. At first she believes the Gods to have answered her fervent prayers for Father’s return. Instead, they bring her a different, equally dear, long-unseen face.
“We’ve been months on the road,” Gwayne says, hair tousled and face begrimed, mirthful. “An audience with the Queen could’ve waited another day.”
She wraps her arms around his neck, heedless of the uncomfortable cold of his breastplate, and chokes down a sob of relief. “It pleases me greatly to see you,” she tries.
“Me, even more so,” he says, enveloping her closer in an embrace that smells of horse and leather and the wind. It is kindness: to be held so.
She wastes no time arranging chambers for the men. Having spent most of her time in Father’s chambers before the new Hand nestled in his place, she places her brother at the base of the Tower, where the staff is still deserving of her trust. An abruptly awoken maid runs a bath, yawning; Alicent soon dismisses her, much to the girl’s gratitude. The chamber grows humid with steam.
“Thank you. I shall bathe and rest and speak to Father on the morrow.” He picks at the laces of his jacket. “We may talk in peace afterward, if it pleases you.”
She moves towards him, making to work the laces in a gesture that is almost motherly, gentle as if tending to a wound, as she had tended to his wounds after the tournament all those years ago. “Father is Hand no longer,” she tells him. “He has left for Oldtown. Only I remain.”
She tells him of everything that’s happened and everything that is planned. Before she is done, he is disrobed of everything but his breeches. After she is done, he sets his mind on departing for Harrenhal with Criston’s host.
“You cannot leave me so soon,” she complains, hating the strain in her voice, so familiar from her conversations with Father.
“I can’t stay idle,” he insists. Then, gently: “I shall be back before long.”
She stares off into the fireplace and the silence stretches into eternity. “The water will have gone cold soon,” she musters after a moment. “Come. It is late.”
She guides him into the bathtub as she’s done with Viserys many times in his ailing days. It is a comfort to have someone to take care of. No-one requires her care any longer these days.
On the morrow, she writes to Father:
I hope this letter finds you safe in Oldtown. Gwayne arrived in King’s Landing last night — he was much agitated to hear of your demotion. It is a strange fate the Gods bestow upon us, to deny you this meeting. But my heart is glad of his arrival, even though our time together has been brief. Today he took off with Ser Criston on their march toward Harrenhal. May the Warrior give them strength and return them back to us whole. I shall pray for your homecoming as well.
As she sets off the quill, she goes over the words and sets the parchment to candleflame. She writes another one soon after: the usual things.
They bring Aegon back in a litter and the head of a dragon on a silver platter; her lover in her father’s chambers and her brother in her own. He has let himself in on his own accord, seated with his legs on the table, insolent.
“Apologies for not coming sooner,” he says. “I thought it sensible to give you time to grieve.”
She pours wine in rehearsed motions. “Maester Orwyle says Aegon may yet live,” she replies, mindlessly tracing the rim of the goblet with a finger. “No point grieving yet.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He says nothing for a while, seemingly deep in thought. “I had not thought it possible to slay a dragon. I knew they’d been slain before, but I could not possibly imagine what it’s like. A terrible affair.”
“Man should have never trifled with beast.” She sticks her nail into the tender spot under another.
“Their beasts will be the death of all, Gods help us.” He reaches out to grab her wrist. “Stop that.”
She stares him in the eye. “Did Aegon fight valiantly?”
“He was very brave.”
“And you? Were you very brave?”
“Oh, very.” He smiles and presses her hand to his lips. “Ser Criston could never match my courage.”
She tries to wring her hand out of his grasp to no avail. Instead, he covers it gently with his own.
“We’ll be leaving again shortly and I don’t expect to be back so soon this time,” he says. “We have been given so little time together. I should like to remedy that.”
She swallows the lump in her throat. “What would you have us do?”
“Whatever Her Grace pleases.”
Her hand itches to slap the grin off of his face. Her heart quivers like a string of silver bells on the wind.
“Very well.” She rises from her seat and steps over to his. “You may earn my favor,” she says, leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead.
Somewhat reluctantly, he cups her face in his hands and brings it to his level, enveloping her lips with his own. Of all the kisses she has tasted, Gwayne’s are the most pleasing — gentle, like he’s afraid she might break, and so are his hands, firm but yet unhoned by battle. Rhaenyra’s hands were the softest of them all, and it was she who showed her the tender places one could touch. She guides Gwayne’s hands down her torso to the small of her back and lifts her skirts to her waist. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend to be anyone at all. She can pretend this still bothers her.
In the evening, Alicent writes to Father — but the usual words avoid her. She leaves the parchment blank for the morrow. That night for once her sleep is dreamless and restful.