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As though she had been struggling underwater for a moment too long, Alicent woke up with a silent scream, her lungs desperately pulling in some air. Her whole skin felt like fire, hair all around her face, a burning in her scalp. Her heart hammered in her chest as though death was but a moment away, like those moments during baths when she was not sure she would ever want to come up again.

Her chest heaved, one hand covering her heart now while the back of the other ran over her burning forehead, sweat gathering to the beginning of her scalp. Alicent blinked once, twice, tried to take back the reins of her racing heart. Since she first gained conscience she found herself in a constant battle with her body. Whether it was loathing, desire or terror, everything flung out of her control, ran from her much like-

The dream came back to her then, and with a gasp both of her hands covered her womb, felt over the soft skin of her belly for something, for that horrible ungodly thing that was just threatening to rip her apart. Nothing, no protuberance, no fire or scales, no tiny little dragon ripping her apart this time.

Her eyes shut tight, short nails closing over her nightgown, over her skin. How horrible it had been, she would never forge the image. Her belly bulged with something, a creature inhuman, a dragon born to destroy, certainly born to rip skin apart and gorge on blood. She could have seen it too, as though she had been inside of her own belly, as though she knew her body as such, and how it responded to the abuse.

A gigantic baby dragon inside her, flame-coloured scales and that horrible disgusting reptilic tongue swishing out to lick at her, to lick at her from the inside as its claws found purchase on the soft pink of her loins and it-

It was nothing. Just a dream, just a bad dream. There had been far too much wine at the table and in her nervousness Alicent had indulged. Perhaps a bit more than she should have. But it had been so real, she thought then, pressing and probing at her own belly just to make sure that there was nothing there, nothing inside of her.

The King has been ill for so long, turning to rotten flesh right in front of her eyes, it was not as though he could have bedded her. Mercifully, Viserys had not even tried, not in a long time, had not requested Alicent’s time for anything else other than nursery, which she was used to and much preferred to anything more carnal, for lack of a proper word.

He could not have done it, she tried convincing herself, her vain and impractical body that heeded to her command so rarely. And her mind was just the same, even on better days.

Just the same lately, Alicent could still see it with the utmost clarity, the half dragonic creature. It had human eyes, reddish skin. One foot, the other a paw. Irises purple like bruises, not violet, not the appropriate Targaryen shade.

There was nothing appropriate about that thing, she argued with herself then. Nothing proper about that horrifying nightmare she had just woken up from. Father used to say that such dreams were the fruit of impure thoughts, that they were not punishment made by the Gods as much as a consequence of each of their own failures in thinking decorous thoughts.

From a filthy mind were born filthy thoughts. Some of which, Alicent supposed, must include being bred by a dragon.

She groaned, kicking her feet out of bed. She could not possibly go back to sleep, not now. The moon was still high in the sky, dawn not even close to breaking, Rhaenyra long gone, probably having put her children to bed and moved to her own, with her husband, so much more tempting a prospection than anything Alicent could have hoped to offer her had she returned as promised.

It was not a promise, Alicent told herself. She was just being polite for once: the Princess too had been taught some manners with time. With the cut of a Valyrian blade against her forearm-

Enough. Alicent shook her head, grabbing the mast of the bed to steady herself. She was still sweating, but now the wind felt cold on her skin, goosebumps raising on the back of her neck. She put on her slippers, her nearest robe, threw a shawl over her shoulders. It was all the same shade of green, always. Green, green, green.

Even on her children, even on dear Helaena. Daeron escaped it, for now. For now he was allowed to be but a boy running up and down the endless Tower stairs, getting beat up by fake wooden swords and spending cloudy afternoons in the huge libraries of the main building, so big and rounded that it was said that its ceiling reflected the Heavens.

“My Queen?”

No more children, Alicent thought. Absolutely no more children.

She looked up at Ser Criston.

“My mind is restless. I shall look for peace in the Mother’s small altar.” This was not unusual, Alicent often went to the small sectioned prayer rooms inside the Keep after night had fallen. It was simply not proper for her to walk out the streets alone on a whim, dragging behind her half of the Kingsguard just because she wished for some time alone.

It was not fair on them. But nothing was, Alicent remembered. Nothing fair on her too.

They had built the altars at her request, a few years weeks after Aemond was born when Alicent thought no amount of Maester’s dressings would make her ankles less swollen. So helpless a feat it had seemed then that Alicent had not hesitated on demanding it, watching closely as the sculptors and helping boys carried the images inside, eyes bedazzled by being inside the Keep for the first time.

“Yes, My Queen.” Criston nodded with that almost charming tilt of his head, brows furrowed in concentration, in duty. His hand found the pommel of his sword, feet moving, experienced on following her.

The hungry hound at her feet, Alicent thought, and raised her chin ever so slightly.

“I should like to be alone, Ser. I require only the presence of the Mother tonight.”

Criston wet his lips, eyes falling to his boots and then raising to hers again. In theory, the Kingsguard was supposed to only look past them, always at shoulder-level, distant, horizon-like if they could. As one does not look the Father in the eye, nor the Smith. Much less the Stranger.

As though they were all of them, too, holy.

“My duty is to secure that my Queen is safe.” He argued meekly, always so meek when it came to her. Attacking if she only said a word. Always a step behind and unfalteringly so. Even when she made for the King’s belt, for his blade, even if Alicent had gone for his throat, she knew Criston would have been just a step behind.

“I assure you she is, Ser.” Alicent nodded once, some hair slipping back over her eyes. She shook it away, turned on her heels and tried not to seem too terrified as she walked away from him. Alone.

There was something inauspicious in the air, Alicent could feel it in the pitch of her stomach and over her arms, on her shoulder blades, pressing, pressing. Viserys is dying, she told herself again. He would not try to bed her, probably never again. She was safe, she was pure. Her moon had just stained red the bottom of an emerald dress, no longer than two weeks past.

When she reached the small altar, Alicent found that she had little concentration. She tried to persuade her mind to focus, promised herself she would come back to her quarters with a book from the library, that she would make the trip all the way there just for that, tried to come to peace with her own heart.

Each section dedicated to each God had its own window, all the glasses which were previously there had been changed to better represent the figure. They were lined up in proper order too: Father, Mother, Warrior, Crone, Maiden, Smith, Stranger. Alicent would have been ashamed to admit she barely visited the other six, her eyes had lately been for none other than the Mother.

Do not make me go through it again, not again. I could not bear it. Please, the last one was bad enough.

And taken away, far away from her, Alicent thought. What use was a child if she could not watch it grow? What use was a child if she was going to destroy it just like the last? Always worse, always worse than the last. She should have learned with Helaena, should have learned with Aemond. At least Daeron was safe from her.

Perhaps she deserved a creature, something to snap her in half.

Alicent shook her head, she was already too compromised for her own good. Father had been unkind, very much so, left her with the sourest of words as he would when she was young and did not know better and her days were spent differently, very much differently than now and there always seemed to be more sunlight.

A shiver ran through her again, all the way up her spine. The stone was cold and never less than cold, hard against her knees. The flicker of the candles burned unbothered, and Alicent waited for something, for prayer to come. She remained quiet, eyes half closed, staring at the flames. Mother used to say that sometimes truth could be revealed in the way candles shone, in how wax melted, that the Gods spoke to them in a myriad of ways.

Father was always a tad more sceptical.

A flash of white coming from the corridors, then. Alicent’s heart raced, raced and raced like a horse’s. It must have been the wind, just the wind. Perhaps the moonlight, a White Cloak passing by. But no, the men always made far too much noise, armours clanking loudly as they went. Alicent dared not look.

She dared not look.

She closed her eyes tight, pressed the side of her thumbs to the space between her brows. She fought the urge of the bite, the skin was so close, it would be so easy. Just a small one, just one of her fingers. One for Rhaenyra, who wouldn’t come back. One for Father, who would never forgive her. One for Viserys, who was dying. One for Mother, who was gone. One for each of her children.

That was deranged. She was out of it. Plus, the blood went straight to her head, making her dizzy, and colder. Everything felt so cold, all around her, her hair no more a protection than the shawl, than the candle flickers.

White again, as soon as she blinked open her eyes. White, white, white and bare feet. Two feet on the floor and a long, large white nightgown. Alicent was terrified, terrified this was some creature come for her, an intruder perhaps, or a herald of the Gods. Now she would pay for all her sins. The ones committed and the ones which were yet to happen.

That was insane, she thought. She was terrified.

Alicent dared her eyes to dart up, dared herself to face whatever challenged her. The Mother would stand by her. The Mother would protect her. Someone would. Someone had to. It was just a shadow, likely just the wind. Just a shadow.

And then, at once, it was Queen Aemma come back from the dead to haunt her, the golden speckle of hair, falling all over the figure’s face, all over shoulders and back. Arms hanging limply by her sides. Alicent imagined her, pregnant Queen Aemma, dying on the birth bed. Alicent should have followed the same fate. Perhaps the spirit had come seeking vengeance, wrathful of all she had lost and for nothing, spiteful of someone who did what she could not come to accomplish.

Or perhaps to take Alicent, to take her and bring her to death with the kindest of touches, for she too understood what it was like to be under the King’s weight. For she, the beautiful Queen who had been loved, had also been forced to die for a thing, a creature to steal her life’s breath.

Alicent shook her head violently, slapped the tips of her fingers over the centre of her forehead. What was she thinking? Was she truly, finally going insane? Could the wine still be running in her blood, staining her thoughts?

A ghost, Alicent now rolled her eyes at herself, forced her knees to work up from the ground so she could reach the woman standing under the light of the moon which invaded the Keep through the Maiden’s glass. She rushed to it, quietly as not to awake her daughter.

Helaena had been sleepwalking since childhood, since before she claimed her beast, small feet tapping over the cold stone as a clueless White Cloak carefully hissed a careful call behind her.

It was the first time she came this far, however, from what Alicent could remember and from what she had been told. Helaena’s rooms were on the complete opposite side of the castle, facing the sea and the edge of the Dragonpit, and from her window she claimed she could sometimes hear Dreamfyre rumbling while she dreamed. She had more than once found her daughter there, eyes locked on one thing or another, whispering to her dragon.

Alicent would not pretend she understood what sort of relationship Targaryens had with their beasts, nor could she claim she knew half as much as she would like about her children, specially not Helaena.

“Let us get you back to bed, sweetling, you must be freezing.” Alicent muttered, not intended on waking Helaena up but guiding her. Her daughter often talked when sleepwalking. Senseless things, much as she did when she was awake. Surprisingly, Alicent had found she was more prone to listening while in that state, and would often rebook or agree to what her mother was saying.

Alicent wondered if anything ever registered, if she even knew who was speaking to her. If the words ever made any sense at all.

True to her blood, Helaena was anything but cold. She was scalding, skin hot to the touch as Alicent’s had been when she woke up some time ago in that feverish state. It was only when her palm made contact with the space between the woman’s shoulders that Alicent finally realized that this was in fact not her daughter.

She pulled her hand back, frightened. Took a step back and another. Gathered courage to slowly circle the figure, long hair falling over her face. She was frozen like the very statue of the Maiden, one hand on her hip like it was preparing to pull out a weapon, like it was looking for a sword. And in the middle of that mane of hair was-

“Rhaenyra!” Alicent gasped, both hands to her mouth as she tried for the life of her not to startle the sleeping woman, for she had seen Helaena when something woke her from her electrified slumber. “You never…” She trailed off, analysing the woman’s face, looking her straight in the eye to make sure it was true.

To make sure Rhaenyra was not jesting, and worse even: that she was there! She had come back, come back under cover of night, and the White Cloaks so incredibly useless that not a single soul had noticed a damned dragon landing near their shore.

Alicent could not remember a single time she had caught Rhaenyra out of bed, at least not unawake. Not like this. When she sneaked out it was always on purpose, yes, surely. Always very much purposeful.

“Bat.” Rhaenyra muttered.

Alicent raised her eyebrows in surprise, mouth softly falling open. Had this started recently, she wondered, perhaps after the woman had given birth? Had she simply not been paying the Princess enough attention, not anymore, not like before? Perhaps, the bitter part of her brain supported, perhaps it was the consequence of her infidelities, of her lies and scheming, perhaps she too was being punished.

But that would mean that Helaena-

“Bat.” Rhaenyra repeated, and her eyes were glassy, not there. Like the one’s of a corpse, just like Helaena’s, and it always sent Alicent on edge, always made her skin crawl, the way eyes could be open but soulless, there and not there, lightless. Like they would look when they were dead. She dreaded imagining her daughter anything but alive and flushed. She dreaded, dared not even do it, felt pain in her chest to even think of Rhaenyra in that same way.

No. They were past that. Rhaenyra had been honest, during dinner. Alicent knew it, she knew it and it choked her, remained on her throat like unswallowed meat, like everything else they had never talked about so long ago and which she could no longer dream of saying. Rhaenyra had come back, Seven Hells! She returned to Alicent on dragonback. To them.

To Alicent, she hoped. She could not bring herself to feel that slow-built anger, all that hatred and loathing from years in the making. Rhaenyra, her face so soft, so tender now that she was asleep. Just like when they were young again. Hair unbraided, fallen over her face. Shameless, shawless, shoeless Rhaenyra. Just for her.

“Bat.” Rhaenyra theorized.

“Yes.” Alicent agreed, a stupid little smile pulling up the edges of her mouth. All fear was washed away from her in a second, she could barely remember the dragon creature in her womb, she could barely remember the ghost of Queen Aemma, or her own shame, or the cold that cut her down to the bone. “Bat.” She agreed.

Rhaenyra’s eyes moved, moved from one side of the hallway to the other. They fixated on the image of the Maiden, and Alicent wondered what she was seeing.

“Are you not cold?” Alicent asked, leaning against the pillar that braced the Maiden’s shrine, all covered with carved spring blossoms. She crossed her arms, tried to wipe that silly smile out of her face.

Rhaenyra looked eighteen, and she looked sixteen, and she looked like a young Princess who had never been told no in her life. She looked peaceful, even as her eyebrows pulled together, and she pointed at the statue accusatorily, with a look of the most absolute puzzlement and cried out:

“Syrax!”

Alicent did not laugh. She was not of the habit of laughing, and it had been so for the longest time. She did sometimes let out the occasional fake chuckle during dinner with relevant Lords, only when strictly necessary. She smiled, at times. She did not laugh. But something, some sort of sound left her lips then, which in another life could have been called a snort.

Alicent shook her head.

“Not Syrax.” She replied with the patience of a Septa.

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed even deeper, and she took a step forward and then another, still pointing her index. She reached the statue, the beautiful figure of the Maiden, virginal and innocent, ever looking up with a graceful smile, one leg crossed in front of the other. Rhaenyra opened her closed fingers, offered her palm up to the statue. Her eyes were widened slightly, still glassy.

Hair fell over her eyes. It always seemed to be so. Alicent wondered if no one ever put it behind her ear.

Rhaenyra palmed the statue, caressing it softly like Alicent had seen her do a dozen times with her beast, like she had seen her children do too, with smaller pairs of hands. She braved her face closer, inching her nose almost on the stone.

“Syrax.” She spoke slowly then, with her low voice. Valyrian cadence, Alicent immediately recognized. It always left her a bit breathless, the godlessness of it, the bruteness of the language. She wet her lips and watched. “Daor!”

Rhaenyra pulled back with a start, eying the statue reprovingly. Then, pointing her finger again, but this time as a mother teaching a child they should not eat dirt, she repeated:

“Daor.” More sternly. Her voice was even, but even still it seemed to take up the entire place, the entire Keep if that was possible. Deep like the very rocks that built the place were deep.

Alicent no longer had the chance to observe without being observed back, specially not with Rhaenyra. With Rhaenyra, she was not sure she had ever been capable of that. Whenever Alicent looked, even when they were just children, Rhaenyra was never not looking back.

So she found that she was taking her time, then, and felt no guilt. No guilt for that was the same she did for her daughter and would have done for anyone else who interrupted her prayer in such a manner. It was simply to guarantee that Rhaenyra did not-

The woman bolted with a feeble scream, suddenly, leaving Alicent to try and keep up with her. She tried to follow Rhaenyra’s steps, tried to keep herself from shouting at her for fear of ruining the sleep. She tried to run behind her and found that she had not run in years, for longer than she could remember.

Alicent’s body immediately seemed to believe she was soon to be deceased, perhaps about to be captured by a huge bear or a dragon, such was the panic that released over her chest. She could barely breathe and Rhaenyra was so fast, Gods, what business did she have running like that?

Finally, the other woman stopped, after what seemed like the longest run of Alicent’s wretched life.

“Rhaenyra, you aren’t wearing any shoes!” She admonished in a low voice, looking around to certify herself that no Kingsguard was near. That would possibly have been more shame than she was willing to deal with for her entire life. Alicent felt like a girl again, shy and quiet, running after an unruly blonde who kept speaking nonsense and pointedly refused to make sense.

“The fish have been scarce in the region this year.” Rhaenyra argued back, in such a tone as to imply answer, as though that had been exactly what Alicent had asked.

Alicent rolled her eyes, still heaving for breath.

“Indeed.”

“The Vale.” Rhaenyra all but whined, backs of her hands slapping her legs in a posture of childish indignation.

“Yes, yes.” Alicent was still trying to regain her breath. She approached, a slow step and then another. Rhaenyra was looking right at her and seeing nothing. Her eyes seemed almost whitish like this, as though she were blind. She made no other movement but let her shoulders slump slightly.

Alicent swiftly kicked off her slippers, another shiver running through her spine at the contact with the cold floor. She didn’t know what she was doing or why. As always, Rhaenyra made her clueless. The position was too vulnerable, she thought. Like that, Alicent could do anything to her, if she wanted. Anyone could do anything to her.

The thought sent another shiver through her body which was struggling to keep up with that sudden change from sweat to cold.

“Come, come here.” She cooed, gently touching Rhaenyra’s elbow and kicking one of her feet to help her find the slipper. It was too small for her, but it would have to hold. Gods knew how long she had been wandering like that around the castle. Imagine the scandal if the Princess of Dragonstone died of a cold.

Alicent shook her head. Imagine the scandal.

“The other now.” She urged when Rhaenyra’s right foot had finally slipped in.

“He’s been training with his left hand.” Rhaenyra stated, breath moving a strand of Alicent’s hair away from her face. Rhaenyra was so warm, so warm that even as they were Alicent could feel her body heat.

No, Alicent thought. She shouldn’t-

They just had not been close, not in a long time. Not without a knife between them.

“He’s been training with his left hand.” Rhaenyra insisted.

Always too spoiled to be ignored.

“Yes, Rhaenyra. I’m sure.”

“Alicent.”

Alicent stopped midway into trying not to fumble down on the ground as she struggled to fit the cursed slipper under the woman’s foot. Her head snapped back up, eyes wide. If she awoke like this, she would be bothered. It was not good, not good for the mind, the Maesters said. They said so, and Alicent had seen it, she had seen it with Helaena.

But no, her eyes were glassed, empty. Her gaze was lost to no particular point, not in her usual clever manner. Still, Alicent backed away minutely, pulled her head from the angle of Rhaenyra’s chin, from the safe position she had tried to find to finish her task without being too close.

Once again, she had failed.

She waited for Rhaenyra to speak again.

“These are Alicent’s rooms.” And she touched a finger to her cheek, contemplative. She looked five years old, and Alicent held back another smile. Then, bending her head. “Those are Daemon’s rooms.”

The smile fell from her face instantly, and Alicent grunted to herself, the thought of the man immediately souring her mood again.

“And now we will find your own rooms, Princess.” She stated, quickly pulling her shawl from her shoulders to cover Rhaenyra’s.

How meaningless, how silly. Such a childish thing, with how hot the woman always ran. Alicent was the cold one, always shivering for nothing. She was the one who would catch every cold, whose eyes would tear up at every wind. Feeble, incapable, limited in her body as she was. So limited.

Alicent dared not argue with herself. What was done was done, she need not explain it. No one would know, and therefore they would not ask. Rhaenyra would wake and would not even notice the suspicious shade of green in her quarters, and soon her handmaidens would take it all away with nothing more than a second glance.

A gift from the Queen, they would tell each other.

Yes, let them think they had somehow rekindled their friendship, that things were looking brighter than they were in fact. Alicent knew not how things were looking, nothing had ever been as blurry for her as Rhaenyra. She could never be sure, could never be sure about herself either.

And had they not said that they would wear each other’s colours during that dinner? Had Alicent not picked a dress so dark that it was almost, almost black?

She gently took Rhaenyra by the elbow and started guiding her to the other side of the corridor, trying her best to recognize where they were. Alicent had never been one for wandering the Keep, had probably not ever seen the entire place.

Certainly not the Black Cells, she conversed with herself.

“Father with Luke.” Rhaenyra was saying, walking slowly as Alicent pulled her, obediently letting herself be led. Her mouth was closed in a tiny pout when she quieted, features soft.

Alicent remembered how round her eyes looked when she was speaking during dinner, how they would keep seeking her, and how she wanted them never to stop. She would bare, she thought, she would bare being observed. If Rhaenyra forgave her, if she promised never to lie again.

If she- And then there were the children.

“Gods.” Alicent murmured under her breath, huffing at herself as they turned around a corner.

No White Cloaks, she saw. Strangely, they all seemed to be gone. Again she had the feeling that something was wrong, out of place. She had thought it might be just Rhaenyra, sneaking into the castle just as she used to sneak out. But there was more, was there not? There was more.

“Helaena with Jace.”

Alicent eyed Rhaenyra again, pursing her lips. Even unawake she managed to be irritating, to speak of impossible things. To pair Helaena with that boy she barely knew, her only daughter, her precious girl.

Rhaenyra grumbled something else, too slurred for her to understand.

Then, with a sense of urgency Rhaenyra paused, grabbing at her own wrist as though it was someone else’s.

“Are we in the fire?” She asked quite loudly with an exasperated voice, and refused to go another step further when Alicent urged her on.

Alicent looked around again to make sure they were not being spied on. That there weren’t any men around to catch them in their nightclothes. To catch Rhaenyra. She could not help it.

“Are we in the fire?” Rhaenyra asked again, louder even.

“Shh!” Alicent quieted her, hand over hers minutely. “No, we are not in the fire.” She hissed under her breath, and when she nudged again Rhaenyra came with her. “Far from it.” She spoke to herself, feeling the night’s chill all the way up to her neck, stiffing her shoulders.

At some point during their journey, their arms enlaced. Alicent enlaced them, that was. Rhaenyra was sleeping. It was just to make it easier to guide her, of course. That was what Alicent thought. Every now and then Rhaenyra would stop abruptly, eyes wide as the stared at a particular point in front of her where there was, in reality, just air, just the corridor, just another familiar tapestry.

She would say something and Alicent would answer simply, echoing her words to calm her down, since Rhaenyra seemed not to like it when Alicent was quiet. And the Queen would then click her tongue, urging the Princess to movement as one would with a horse. The Keep was large and Rhaenyra’s rooms on the far end, much farther than they used to seem when Alicent was younger.

“Is my mother here?” The woman beside her gasped suddenly as they took another turn, eyes glued on a non-moving spot on one of the pillars. Alicent wondered what she was seeing, and felt a tightness in her chest.

“No, Rhaenyra.” She answered, feeling deeply sad for some unknown reason. Perhaps the innocence of the question, the childish way she asked it as when they were one and ten and the Princess would stumble and run through the castle seeking the Queen. Only to tell her about her day, only for a silly jape, only in search of warmth. The Queen was warm, it was what everyone reminded her for. Alicent was cold, cold, cold. They could not have been more different. “She is not here.”

Rhaenyra pulled on Alicent’s arm then, leading them further into the corridor, pace growing faster, just short of running. She did not let go of Alicent’s arm, even as she fell slightly behind, slightly slower than the other woman.

“Luke is a good boy, that’s what I told him.” Rhaenyra nodded hard, just once, the way she did when she was telling the truth, when she was supporting a point, when she picked a side on the Small Council which, whatever it was, opposed Alicent’s. Regardless of how little sense it could have made or of what they had been discussing.

How many times had they argued over fishermen, or Highgarden, or that damnable road that never seemed to be quite finished, that even now, long after the Old King’s death still loomed over them as a constant burden, something seemingly unsolvable that no amount of hard rock could seem to fix?

Alicent and Rhaenyra had argued over everything, every tax and merchant and even the brothels of the Street of Silk, when once when they were too young Daemon had taken her, where she made the decision, or perhaps it had been later, to lie to Alicent for the first time. They would argue about everything, every insufferable day as Viserys grew weaker and weaker, his breath stinking and heavy in the room.

Outside of that room, they simply did not speak.

“Luke is a good-”

“-boy, yes. Yes, he is.” Alicent tried to keep her voice even, tried not to let any poison drip onto it. Rhaenyra was leading them on the right direction, she realized then. Perhaps it was not the first time she sleepwalked after all. Perhaps Alicent had simply slept better those days, had never been awake during the moments where the Princess would get up when they were sharing her chambers. Those long, long nights that Rhaenyra refused to let end.

Or perhaps she simply knew her castle too well. The Princess’ Keep. Rhaenyra’s namesake.

Alicent looked up at her for the hundredth, thousandth time that night. Rhaenyra’s face was so relaxed that it almost looked like a different person. No wonder she thought of Aemma first, who had the sweetest features and always seemed to be smiling. Always, Alicent thought, except perhaps for the times she was drowning in white sheets stained deep, crimson red.

Targaryen colors, Alicent thought bitterly. Rhaenyra’s colours. She had truly always looked lovely in deep red, in velvet black. With her hair loose falling over her back, impeccable even after dragonback.

Alicent noticed she was pressing slightly over the skin of Rhaenyra’s forearm, and softened her grip. It was out of habit that her fingers sought purchase. Now she had abandoned maiming them, they intended on getting their revenge by punishing her skin. She noted that she was cold, and had been pressing herself closer to the woman so she could be offered some warmth.

Inside her body, Alicent’s bones hurt.

“Horse.” Rhaenyra breathed out, voice shallow, like the word hurt her somehow.

“Horse.” Alicent echoed with a sigh, finding herself repeating what she would do when her children were small, when Aegon was three and good, and chubby. He would then sit with his dragon toys and name them as objects.

Mummy, this is Fork. This is Barrel. This is Boot.

And Alicent would simply echo the words, allow him the dream. Aegon, at that age, would beam at her whenever she spoke to him. He must have been like that until he was five, six at most.

Alicent moved them to the left, careful not to get lost. Even after all those years, almost her whole life, she still felt like she knew nothing of that place.

“Owl.” Rhaenyra noted, head fallen back as she gazed at the high ceiling.

“Owl.”

“Boar.”

“Boar.”

“Bat.”

“We’re here.” Alicent announced, to herself more than to the other woman, who was surely not there at all but very far, in some nameless dream land where she could name the animals herself, point at them and make them be so, just with the power of her imagination.

How like Rhaenyra it would have been, to create the world to her whim.

Alicent pushed the door open with her free hand, still perplexed by the lack of Knights around the Keep. They were nowhere to be seen, it seemed. She wondered if every night was so, if Criston was the only one who followed duty, while the others floundered their newly found free will and disappeared somewhere dark where they could simply nap.

Rhaenyra grumbled by her side as they entered the room.

It was deadly cold inside it, colder even than the corridors had been. Alicent now found herself trembling slightly, goosebumps all over the skin of her arms and her entire back. She pressed her robe tighter to her and walked Rhaenyra to the edge of the bed.

She considered leaving, knew the woman would probably be warm the moment her body was under the covers once more. Knowing that Rhaenyra was likely not even cold now, still boiling hot in Targaryen fancy while Alicent froze to death.

Why did she offer her shawl then, and her slippers? Why were her feet now cold as the very ice that paved the streets of the North just so that Rhaenyra could walk safely when it did not even make a difference?

Alicent clicked her tongue at herself, gently touching Rhaenyra’s shoulder to indicate for her to sit. Like a dog, the woman obeyed, eyes now only half open. Alicent wondered if she tired from sleepwalking, if her body was now telling itself that it was time to stop, that it was time to rest, that it was cold, too cold to play now.

“Go lay down.” Alicent ordered weakly, finding that she was the one who was exhausted, that under all the fear and the fright and the giddiness in her stomach in realizing that Rhaenyra had come back at her request, she still needed to sleep.

But first, the fire.

She turned her back on Rhaenyra and walked to the fireplace. The handmaidens were, of course, the ones to do everything in her chambers. Alicent wasn’t allowed so much as to put a pair of stockings right where it belonged. She was not allowed even to do her own hair, most days, for it was not considered proper, not consider Queenly.

Talia would never talk were Alicent to ask her to let her do something by herself. At least she liked to believe that the woman who had been with her for all those years would not be the one to start petty gossip around the Keep. Just as Criston would never let anything harmful come her way.

Alicent believed that, she tried. She had to, there was no one else to believe. There was Father, but Father too grew older and weaker and sometimes she could tell with the utmost clarity that he did not love her, that he never had, and that he never understood what it meant for her to be in that position.

Of Queen. Of the Hand’s daughter. Of the wife to and old man, surrounded always by other old men, without even one friend.

The flames caught her eyes like an owl conquering a bird, like dragon eying prey. It licked up and wild once it came, and Alicent stoked it, reached her hand closer, eyes drooping down as the heat burned onto her cheeks.

“Come here.” Rhaenyra called from behind her, with a voice so sultry that Alicent was at once sure it was the one she used with Daemon.

Her spirits soured once more, her insides hardened, became stone. She hated him, she hated thinking of him. On her best days, Alicent liked to believe that everything wrong in her life happened because of Daemon Targaryen. That if he wasn’t like that, if he wasn’t so bold, and shameless, and brutish and violent, and if Rhaenyra didn’t for some Gods forsaken reason find him charming, and didn’t lend him her ear, and if they did not share that insufferable language that even Viserys had all but lost, that if and if and if.

Alicent hated that he got what he wanted, after all. That he thought he was going to be King, and certainly not consort too. He thought he would rule in Rhaenyra’s place, he thought that they would come together, a family made, each with their dragons, and burn Alicent’s children to ashes.

“Come here.” And again her voice was so sweet that it turned Alicent’s stomach. Turned it to flames, as though the tiny dragon baby was still inside there breathing fire.

Alicent closed her eyes tight, took a deep breath. The fire calmed, even then, flames burning slightly lower as she moved back onto her haunches. Looking behind her, spine and legs still freezing, she saw Rhaenyra was in the same position as before, the same as Alicent left her, hands fallen over her knees with her palms up.

“Go to sleep, Rhaenyra.”

“Come here.” She almost whined then, and her brows tightened, just minutely, mouth falling half open.

“Go to sleep.” Alicent repeated more firmly, getting up and idly slapping her knees to get rid of dust.

“Come here.” Rhaenyra repeated, one more time and then another yet.

Alicent huffed. She intended, of course, to go back to her own quarters, where she would tell Ser Criston she got lost in prayer and took too long and then spend the next few hours staring at the wall while lying on her side, as the handmaidens swore that sleeping one one’s belly caused nightmares. Alicent had heard them talk to one another once and had never forgotten. This had been long ago, and since then many nightmares painted her dreams weekly, yet she could not let go of the habit.

She knew there was no sleep to come for her that night, but the cold made her weary. She thought she could not remember being so tired.

“Come here.” Rhaenyra echoed again. Again and again. Alicent could not have counted how many times she asked, and asked, and asked, and did not move no matter how much Alicent told her to, no matter her soft hand on the other woman’s shoulder trying to urge her down onto the bed.

Come here, come here, come here, come here, come here, come here.

Rhaenyra whined and she pleaded and she cried out. She shouted and she whispered, and Alicent really could not phantom what she could be seeing that sent her in such a fit, what it could mean, only that she was too exhausted and it was too late, that she was too cold now there was distance between her and the fire.

She was too tired, and this had been the rooms where she slept the best her entire life, better even than Oldtown, so at some point she clicked her tongue, as weary mothers do, and she rolled her eyes, and she groaned to herself in annoyance of this woman who could get on her nerves within any given context, and she circled the bed, on the opposite side to where Rhaenyra was sitting, pulled off the covers and climbed onto the mattress.

Alicent sat, back supported by the headboard. The pillows were cold as death itself.

“Now you come here.” Alicent poked the covers on Rhaenyra’s side with her index, indicating the space like she was a dog. “Come to bed, Rhaenyra.”

Slowly, like she was learning how to do it, Rhaenyra did. Alicent had to pull the covers for her, and adjust the woman so her head laid on the pillow and not on the gap between their heads. After covering them both and pulling the wools up to her own chin, still feeling a bit shaky from the cold, Alicent ordered:

“Sleep.”

It took a moment, Alicent could not have said how long, but eventually Rhaenyra’s eyes closed, her mouth remaining half open, and she stayed on her belly, hands over her chest like she was about to say something heartfelt. Her breathing slowed down. Slowly, slowly.

Alicent watched her, mesmerized. Moved into a state of almost unreality, like she too was dreaming, like her nightmare had simply taken a different twist and she had never truly been awake all that time. When in so long did Alicent imagine she would be in this position again, watching her childhood friend sleep?

Watching Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra who she loathed so much, Rhaenyra and her smell of wet wood and muddy earth and dragon and jasmine, her smell of sweat and skin and kindled fire, for she was a dragon, was she not?

Alicent leaned in without noticing, briefly touching her nose to one of Rhaenyra’s blonde locks on the pillow and closing her eyes. She could smell the wind and sun, the salt of the sea and the smoke from the dragon. She could smell-

She pulled back sharply, then, realizing what she was doing. A sense of desperation bubbled down inside her stomach and snaked itself up her lungs until her throat. Her heart hammered in her chest. Alicent was scared, scared of herself, horrified at what she had just done. And at the scare Rhaenyra gave her then as a low sound left the hollow of her face through her nose.

And Alicent fell back onto her own pillow, terrified and amused, feeling a thousand things she could not identify and covering her eyes, covering her face with both hands as her tummy vibrated – surely not laughing – for she had forgotten how awfully Rhaenyra snored.

It was an animal-like sound, different from Viserys who sounded like he was trying to be part of a singing troupe, like a rumble that rolled from her chest and vibrated on her face. Rhaenyra’s voice had changed, that was for sure, but her snoring remained the same.

Alicent was so busy convincing herself that she was not laughing, since that was something that she simply did not do, that when sleep finally took her it was with the swiftness of the Stranger, with an ease that only comes for those who exhaust themselves, whose bones are so cold that if they cracked they would sound like-

Ice.

--

In the end, it was Syrax who woke her.

Rhaenyra was used to the pull of her beast, the thunder of her dragon no matter where she was. Everything was quieter in Dragonstone, and closer, and she woke up in the mornings to the sound of the creatures either playing or fighting each other. Like morning birds, they never failed to rouse her.

The first thing Rhaenyra noticed upon waking up was that she was still wearing her slippers, for some reason. And that they seemed tight, much tighter than usual. She yawned and pulled off the covers, wondering if riding was making her ankles swollen again.

It hadn’t happened since the last time she was pregnant, and she was not looking forward to repeating the experience. She frowned at the sight of her feet, not recognizing those slippers at all.

“Are these Baela’s?” She muttered to herself, turning around in hopes her husband would be able to offer her some explanation. She lazily slapped his forearm. “Daemon?”

No grumble in the place of an answer, no rolling around and muttering: “leave me alone”, no nothing. Rhaenyra kicked the strange shoes off and turned around properly. Daemon was a light-sleeper, easily bothered by noise or light or anything at all, always complaining that Rhaenyra sounded like an old dragon when she slept, and that she would not wake up even if someone hit her head with a stone.

He would compare her to Vhaegar, and they would get into a fight. A fight that would more often than not end with them back on the bed.

“Daemon?” She called again, a bit louder. But when she turned, the figure sleeping beside her was definitely not Daemon, unless he had gone through some brutal changes in the spasm of eight hours. It was slender, small, barely taking up half the bed and so shoved into the corner that it was almost falling off. They were also completely covered, head to toe, and Daemon was never one for feeling cold, much like her.

Blood of the dragon, as they said.

“Luke?” She tried again, caressing the figure’s shoulder more gently.

Then, before she could really gather her wits, there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Princess!”

Rhaenyra frowned, not recognizing the voice. Then she realized – how had she not noticed? – that she was not in Dragonstone, her eyes looking around wildly, taking in her own bedroom in the pale light of the early morning. The sun had barely risen yet, and in the shadows the two places looked the same. Nearly.

No, who was she trying to fool? They looked nothing alike. She had merely not paid attention.

“Princess, please! You are needed.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned the room suspiciously. She had a bad feeling deep in her stomach, like the one she got after drinking too much wine and having no dinner. Like the one she got whenever one of the boys did something a tad too daring for her tastes, or when Alicent-

Her eyes widened, and Rhaenyra jumped on the bed. She went on all fours, leaning closer to the figure. Her heart beat fast, tight in her chest. It could not be. It could not possibly be. She reached out a hand, a trembling hand. The wools were warm under her fingers, and Rhaenyra pulled on them with the utmost care in the world, scared of the sight that would be revealed to her eyes.

“Alicent!” She cried out, dropping the fabric to bring a hand to her mouth. She was stunned, stunned into silence.

She had come back to King’s Landing. She had gone to bed. She had told no one. It was late, very late. She went to bed alone. Alicent did not know she was there. Alicent could not possibly have known. Rhaenyra looked around once more. This was her bedroom, of course. Hers and no one else’s. Alicent’s quarters were on the other side of the Keep.

How did they-

What had they done?

She scratched her forehead in confusion, in a near desperation. She needed to understand how this happened. Her breathing was heavy, and only then did Rhaenyra also notice that she was wearing something over her nightclothes. A shawl.

Dark emerald green.

Her eyes filled with tears before she took notice of what was happening, of what could be happening. It was only this, Alicent on her bed, her shawl over her shoulders. Rhaenyra couldn’t take it, she simply could not take it. She raised a shoulder, shoved her nose into the fabric and let out a pained sound, a broken little whine at the smell, the smell that was all Alicent.

All Alicent, all over. Her pillow, her pillow beneath her hair.

Rhaenyra stared at her for a moment, frozen in place. There were more knocks on her door, more and more. Strange voices, old ones that she did not recognize. She came alone, without Daemon or the boys.

Rhaenyra reached a hand, let it drop softly, so softly over Alicent’s curls. She was so beautiful like this, her face relaxed, the tiny hairs on her eyebrows that went right down to her lids, hair all over her face, cheek resting on her open palm.

Her hair felt silky, just like the last time Rhaenyra braided it, a lifetime ago. Gods, her heart ached then, she choked on herself, feeling strange at the sudden burst of emotion, at the sight in front of her eyes.

Far into the distance, Syrax roared in painful yearning.

Perhaps they could manage. Perhaps everything could be fixed, and they could go back-

“Rhaenyra!” Another knock, this time so forceful and violent that the wood thundered, it sounded like it could have brought down the door. This voice, of course, she knew. “Where is the Queen?”

Rhaenyra furrowed her brows, more and more confused as the moments passed. Criston knocked once more - in fact he would not stop fucking knocking - and Alicent was sleeping for fuck’s sake.

She shoved the rest of the covers aside so they wouldn’t catch on her ankles, threw the shawl on the bed so no assumptions would be made – since Alicent would not like that - and audibly marched down to the door, pulling it open with the fiercest look she could manage, as though she had not just been shedding tears over the girl she once loved and the woman she now hated.

Had hated. Hated.

“What is the meaning of this?” She crossed her arms tightly in front of her chest. “Might I not sleep in peace without my door threatening to be pulled of its hinges?” Her chin snapped up to Criston, hatred burning in her chest.

She detested that man, she detested having bedded him. She detested that he so wished to bed Alicent, so much so that everyone could tell except for her.

“We looked for her everywhere. What have you done, Rhaenyra?”

She stepped forward, nose almost connected to his. Though he was the one shadowing her doorstep, a handful of other White Cloaks circled around closely. Ser Harrold kept a steady hand over his pommel and offered her a sorry look.

“I will have you address me properly or never again, Ser. Let us see how much of that tongue you keep if you are not quick to remember my title.”

“My Princess-” Ser Harrold started.

She silenced him with a raised hand.

“And what makes you think I know anything of the Queens whereabouts? Last I heard you were the one charged with looking after her. I do not remember taking any vows, winning any tournaments or asking for her favour.” She raised an eyebrow then. “Or killing other Knights so my name would be known.”

Criston edged closer, just a centimetre. She could see the same hatred mirrored in his expression, his heavy brows, dark eyes. If only he was as charming as he had been when Rhaenyra was merely eight and ten.

“She left for prayer in the Keep’s sept, sometime after retiring for the night. She never came back. She requested to be left alone. And during that same time you were sneaking in, believing you would not be seen.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to speak again, but Ser Harrold interrupted the exchange.

“That is enough, Criston. The Princess speaks true, it is your duty to ensure that Her Grace is safe, and no other but you is to be put at fault for that.” He cleaned his throat, his tone contained. Criston took a step back, eyes still locked on hers. By the grace of the Gods, Rhaenyra had closed the door behind her, or he would be able to gawk at the object of his desire from over there.

Ser Harrold’s eyes moved over to Rhaenyra, head bending.

“My Princess, I’m afraid we come to you with quite urgent matters.” His voice was dense, it hit Rhaenyra then.

Her rage subdued and she nodded quietly, suddenly feeling again that horrible feeling deep inside her stomach.

“The Lord Hand has gathered all the members of the Small Council with the utmost urgency, which is why we are looking for the Queen-”

“Which is why this is the perfect moment for you to act upon your long wishes.” Criston spat.

“Why do you seem to think I would benefit from, what, sequestering the Queen?”

“To secure your claim.” Criston answered immediately.

Rhaenyra looked from him to Ser Harrold, arms still crossed.

“Especially now.” Criston added as Rhaenyra tried to make sense of quite literally everything that was happening that morning.

She felt like she was in a dream where nothing made sense and everything kept happening. Only that Rhaenyra never dreamed like that, never had experienced the blessed gift of the Targaryens, the one they said Helaena had from a very young age.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“My Princess-” Ser Harrold tried again, hands joined in front of him, brows furrowed in concerned. Rhaenyra could not help but notice how old he looked then.

“The King is dead.” Criston cut him, voice sharp and edgeless, motionless like a blind blade.

Like a nightmare.

Rhaenyra’s chest heaved. She stood there silently, unmoved.

Dead. The word echoed in her head. She knew, of course. She knew it was coming. Even last night, it was imminent. Even then she had known, his rotten flesh, his breath so loud it filled the entire room, the smell. The look in Alicent’s eyes.

They knew, they knew. She had been grieving her father forever, since her mother died, since she realized this was something that could happen and did. That it could happen at any time, with anyone. Even her boys, even with her boys it could have happened.

Damn it, she was not Alicent, she was not like her, she was not born to do this sort of thing. She would not stand here like a cold statue in front of all those men and not cry.

Rhaenyra would not, so she swiftly turned on her heels and went inside her chambers once more, shouting no command to the Kingsguard, no demand of Otto Hightower’s[2] head.

No. She closed the door, closed it tight behind her. And then because she did not trust them, did not trust Criston, she picked up a chair and shoved it beneath the doorknob as they pleaded for her to come back.

“Princess, please! The Council!”

“Princess, you need to be at the Council!”

“Princess, you must open the door!”

They would crown Aegon, she feared. If she stood there another second, they would crown Aegon. Otto would. He must already be taking the measurements for his cape, telling some poor handmaiden to wash his hair with chamomile to make it glow even shinier.

It did not matter, anyhow. Rhaenyra would kill him. She would kill him if she must, and Aemond too, and that was how she knew that Alicent would never truly love her again, for she could not. They were destined to kill each other, to kill the beautiful little devils produced by each other, to tear each other’s skin apart, layer by layer, to expose the blood and lick it dry.

Rhaenyra let out a dry, loud sob. No water seemed to come from her eyes, such was the weight on her chest. She could not cry properly, she could not breathe. She heaved, she heaved. She begged Syrax to help her, begged her to take some of it, to take just some of it-

The dragon howled outside and Rhaenyra copied her, let her creature teach her how to grieve, teach her how to die.

They would crown Aegon. Would she have to kill him? Yes, she knew she must. There would be no other way, she would have no choice. Otto would not let her see the light of day, not now. And Alicent-

Rhaenyra bolted, ran to the bed on shaky legs, swaying from one side to the other as the tears began to fall from her eyes. Outside, the men argued about what to do, Criston shouted, shouted, always so much louder than anyone else.

She was hiccupping by the time she made it to the bed, the mattress bulging. It was a miracle that Alicent did not wake with all that noise, she never slept so deeply, just like Daemon. And Rhaenyra could see by the state of her that it had not gotten any better during the time they were apart.

Did Alicent know about her father, was that why she went there? Did she come to tell her, to tell Rhaenyra, did she find she had no strength to do it?

“Alicent.” She shook her by the shoulders, hundreds of curls bouncing on her wake. She blinked away the tears, let a sob take her. Gods, she loved that woman, loved her still, even older. Even now, all in green. Mean, cruel, dry Alicent. Backstabbing Alicent. The one who hurt her the most. “Alicent.” Again, a bit firmer.

Nothing, like Alicent too had died.

Rhaenyra sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, hand to her mouth. What if Alicent was dead, was she dead? Had Rhaenyra done something to her? Had she done something and forgotten? What had happened to them, what had happened last night-

She was panicking, her vision blurred, her whole body shaking. She couldn’t breathe, nose constricted with the tears and tears and tears that now came freely.

“Ali!” She all but shouted, doing her best not to, for Criston must have his ear glued to the door.

Rhaenyra let out a hollow, hollow sob as Alicent turned around, a scared look in her face as her eyes snapped open. She pushed the hair away from her eyes and tried to sit up. Rhaenyra was too close into her space, so she couldn’t.

“Rhaenyra.” She acknowledged with a tremble in her voice, and Rhaenyra knew then that Alicent was clueless, that she did not know that the King was dead and that her father and son were now commuting over his corpse to try to find the best course of action to kick Rhaenyra down from the throne. “What happened?”

She sounded scared, her voice low.

“Why are you here?” Rhaenyra asked, voice broken by more sobs, more tears, she could not stop now. She hated how weak she sounded, how small. Like with her mother. Tiny, tiny Rhaenyra, once more incapable.

Alicent took a deep breath, wet her lips. Her eyes wandered in that way they did when she was thinking something through.

“You were sleepwalking.” She divulged simply, looking Rhaenyra in the eyes again.

Rhaenyra frowned, sniffing lightly.

“I do not sleepwalk.” She answered, shaking her head too fast.

Alicent shrugged, seemed somehow embarrassed to be there.

“Well, you did last night. I was praying in the small Keep-”

“Can you hold me?” She looked over at Alicent, a bit desperate. She did not know what came over her, only that last time this had been her request and her only hope at comfort. With her mother, it had been Alicent too, Alicent there. So it was a miracle, a blessing that she was here too, now. “Can you hold me, Alicent? Just for a moment?”

Alicent blinked away, a hand going to her throat. She squeezed, looking for her pendant, which was not there for she had prepared for bed before finding Rhaenyra who apparently had been wandering like all dragon dreamers did. She found none of her Gods there, and so she nodded.

Awkwardly, Alicent leaned back slightly against the headboard, half sat up and half laid down. Did she remember, Rhaenyra wondered, the way they held each other before? Just like before, Alicent did not ask the reason for anything, did not argue.

It was strange, to have this grown Alicent not argue, not bicker or scoff or look sourly at her. Rhaenyra stared at her in bewilderment, not even being able to feel grief although the tears kept running down her face.

The last time Rhaenyra had felt it pointedly, it had been impossible to ignore her mother being gone. This was quieter, much quieter, and Rhaenyra could not truly understand it. She bowed her head, and let her body slump, she rested her torso solidly against Alicent, who was warm and smelled of sleep, and her ear rested against her breast.

Without having to be asked, a hand found Rhaenyra’s loosened strands and caressed them, short nails running over her scalp, in that way she still liked better than anything else.

“You came back.” Alicent whispered, voice just as small as before, as though she was afraid Rhaenyra would say she was wrong.

“I said I would.” She rasped out, voice weak with emotion. With an emotion she could not name, with Alicent’s smell, and the warmth she only displayed after being under covers for the longest time.

“Yes.”

“What did I do? When I was sleepwalking?”

Alicent took a moment to think, kept moving her hand. Rhaenyra could hear her rasp against her scalp, clean her throat. The sound it created in her chest. Her Alicent. The fingers caressing Rhaenyra’s hair scratched behind her ear, like she was but a puppy. In the distance, Syrax was quiet, attentive.

“You spoke nonsense.”

“What sort of nonsense?”

Alicent cleaned her throat again, one of her repeating habits.

“Names of animals, and your children.” Then a pause, and when Alicent spoke again her voice was different. “You thought the Maiden was Syrax.”

Rhaenyra looked up and caught Alicent’s eyes on her, a small smile on her lips, that little spot on her cheek where skin bulged, that only appeared when she was happy in truth.

“I did not!” Rhaenyra protested, now too caught up with Alicent to even cry. She could hear her heart, if she was very, very quiet.

“You did.” She raised an eyebrow, and shook her head, trying and failing to hold back a chuckle.

And Rhaenyra loved her, loved her still. Just like before.

“I wish I could just-” She sighed, unable to say it. She could not, for it was too cruel, for she knew what she would have to do and the only way not to betray Alicent or for Alicent not to betray her was for them to remain like that, unmoved, hating each other forever.

It was easier, easier than anything else that Rhaenyra wished she could just do.

“What?” Alicent asked, still in that quiet voice, fingers still intertwined with Rhaenyra’s hair. Her mouth hung open slightly, the tiniest bit wet with spit.

And Rhaenyra’s chest tightened with want then, at her wet eyes and hollowed cheeks, her long forehead and endless mane of hair, the weight of her breast, right under Rhaenyra’s face, and all the times she wished she could just take that woman and do whatever-

Do whatever she must to wipe the bitch look from her face.

Her heart beat fast, tight, and Rhaenyra had nothing to lose, not anymore, and her children were safe far from there, where no bitter boys could try to snatch their eyes, and so she urged forward, as Syrax did just when she was about to fly, and she pretty much bumped into Alicent’s face, nose against nose, breath against breath, and she kissed that pretty pout out of her face.

Alicent gasped, just gasped, a little ah! just before the touch, and just after it. Her hands tightened on Rhaenyra’s hair, the other cupping her face, and Rhaenyra was bold enough to simply push their chests together, since she was there, since they were both there, since there was no Hightower mother to tell them it was wrong and sinful and in such a way that would make Alicent bleed and bleed and bleed long after it.

Rhaenyra kissed her, and the tears came back, and Alicent perhaps cried a bit too, and she knew, did she not? They both did.

They both knew what would happen once they pulled away, once Rhaenyra’s mouth left hers to form the words, to say them quite slowly, for she was allowed nothing else, to whisper bad and broken, with the voice of someone who was about to do the worst thing they could so someone they loved. And then Rhaenyra would say, the words dropping like rotten fruit from her lips:

“The King is dead.”