Chapter Text
“Rather dour name, don’t you think? Widow’s Watch. One wonders what they’re even watching.”
Alicent turns from the slit in the carriage to regard her brother. “Perhaps the sea. It must be nice to watch the waves without a crowd of ships.”
He scoffs. “The sea is no more beautiful here than in King’s Landing or Oldtown. Besides, it’s all the worse for how terribly cold it is. Can you imagine taking a tumble off a ship into these waters? I’d sooner cut off my right hand than swim a good league.”
She hums a reply. It would be a nightmare, she thinks to herself. This far north, the familiar chop of the ocean has sluiced into something foreign and unruly. A frigid mystery. The sunset would rather hide behind a bank of gray clouds than glitter across its many crests.
“Do you think it will rain?” she muses aloud, squinting at the approaching stormfront.
Gwayne shakes his head. “It’d better not. If we’re forced to stop at an inn before we reach the manor house, Father will have my head for it.”
Alicent longs to bite back that their father has absolutely no problem with his sons spending the night in an inn as long as she isn’t tagging along, but she holds her tongue.
After all, she should be grateful. Making it this far from court had been a painstaking game of argumentation, escalation, and manipulation. She had verbally volleyed with her father for weeks in order to get this glimmer of freedom. It’s the first and last one she will have before- well, before the rest of her life comes down upon her.
By the time they reach the manor, the stars are out and bitter nighttime wind slices up and down the coastline. Candlelight is blocked by thick shutters at the windows, hushing the entire hill in darkness except for two lanterns hung on either side of the door. They flicker once, twice, threatening to extinguish.
“Let’s speed it up lads, shall we?” Gwayne shouts to the household staff with impatience. Alicent shivers as the first raindrops dot her forehead, each one carrying the memory of snow even in the height of a summer year.
“Hurry inside,” he calls after her, though she’s already moving as fast as she can in her dress. “I’m sure it’s your face she wishes to see first.”
The outside air clings to her exposed skin as she crosses the threshold. She eagerly waves to the guard to shut the door behind her. It does less to help than she thought it would. For a second, she wishes for the heat of dragonfire to blast across her face. Then she blinks away the absurd thought. It wouldn’t be worth being toasty if she was reduced to ashes.
A split staircase dominates the entrance room. Coming from the left is a tall woman half-cloaked in shadow. When she steps nearer to the light, Alicent recognizes the graceful slope of her shoulders, the long line of her nose, her eyes silver as river water in the dead of early morning.
“Dear,” she says airily, and wraps her spindly arms around her. “You look so much like your mother these days.”
“My father often says the same,” she replies politely as she extricates herself and takes a step back. It’s not as if she isn’t happy to see her aunt. She is. But Ellena looks so much like her mother did- more than Alicent ever will- and the resemblance lands somewhere between comforting and disconcerting.
“I trust the trip was pleasant enough.”
“It was.” Alicent’s eager to spill. “I’ve never seen so much of the countryside. Harrenhal from a distance, and the beginning of the High Road to the Eyrie, and White Harbor. The further we traveled, the more different everything became. Oftentimes I wondered if we were still in Westeros at all.”
“Yes, well, you’ll find most of the people here are as chilly as their weather. They say the winters burn out the brightest and warmest amongst them and leave behind hardened coals.” Ellena sniffs in distaste at the space around them. Dark oak and stone press in from every angle. “Why my mother maintained this place, I will never understand. It was either her father’s, or her great uncle’s, or her father’s father’s. She must have had some misplaced sense of duty with which I can at least sympathize.
“But to die here, so far from the Keep?” She purses her lips thin. Alicent notes the gray streaking through her hair. Her mother would have started going gray. “A shame, Alicent. Truly a shame.”
Alicent nods but doesn’t know whether she actually agrees. There must be something special about this house or the land which drew her grandmother here for decades, even when she must have suspected life was coming to an end. And though her mother never spoke about this place to her knowledge, there’s a chance it mattered to her too.
A door beside them flings open to reveal Gwayne. “Aunt Ellena,” he declares with a chattering grin. He is soaked to the bone and dripping noisily onto the floor. “I’m afraid I’m in desperate need of a hearth and a change of attire. I have lost a mighty battle against a storm from the Shivering Sea herself, although I am still of the opinion we were fairly evenly matched.” He winks at Alicent, who just rolls her eyes.
“Of course,” Ellena reassures him, completely ignoring his quip. She leads him hastily around the backside of the staircase to a seating area.
Now alone, Alicent assumes the pleasantries are over and done with and moves to locate her room. She finds it off a branching hallway on the second floor. It’s modest but comfortable, with down feather pillows and wool blankets hugging the bed. After scrawling a message to her father about her safe arrival, she strips down to her chemise and crawls under the covers like a bear bedding down in winter.
When she wakes from hibernation it’s all at once.
Unfortunately it’s closer to the blackest of night than the morning. A few minutes later the culprit makes itself known; a boom of thunder echoing in the near distance. Alicent waits, hoping the balm of exhaustion will sweep her up in its arms again, but it’s no use.
Resigned, wearing woolen socks, she slips over to the rattling shutters. The fastening bar interlocking the two halves strains against the force of the gales. It’s curious metalwork and definitely not something she’s seen before. She reaches out to fiddle with it.
The shutters fly open, one nearly smacking her in the face. She dodges with a yelp and flinches at the subsequent crack of wood against stone. In an instant she’s receiving the full might of the storm. Rain digs icy needles down to her bones with a pain which makes her cry out. The roar of the wind is deafening. She clamps her hands over her ears before remembering how to stop this madness.
With a bravery and focus she did not think she was capable of, she leaps for the window and slams it shut with all her might.
“Quickly, quickly,” she mutters to herself in an odd sing-song tone as she struggles for the latch. With adrenaline doing the majority of the work, she soon engages the mechanism and seals the shutters back together.
She forces out a laugh which bounces around her room like a groan. Of course these windows don’t have glass. Why would a manor in the middle of nowhere install glass windows of all things. Some of the richest houses in King’s Landing lack them. How could she be so shortsighted?
She laughs again, this time more freely. Gods willing this will be the most vital thing she discovers on her little adventure. That it is a bad idea to open a window in the middle of a rainstorm. She will tell her fellow ladies. She will tell the king! Alicent will kneel before the throne of swords and relate solemnly, “I have learned something of great import, your Grace. When you mess with the lock on shutters, sometimes they open.” Then King Viserys in his astuteness will recognize her wisdom and make her the next Hand.
And so when Alicent falls asleep with a smile- this time in the hour of the nightingale- it is the symbol of the Hand appearing in her dreams. Golden fingers grasping golden ring. Spinning underneath an abstract sun so bright the gold begins to melt. But impossibly the liquefied material maintains its shape. Never once does it stop its perpetual motion, even as it gleams so gloriously it’s painful to look at.
Always, always, always spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
“M’lady Alicent,” chirps a voice.
Alicent blinks the crust from her eyes. A lady’s maid is standing off to one side, wringing her hands together.
“It’s alright,” she croaks. “I can get myself ready for today.” She might as well have said nothing for how little this does for the girl’s anxiety. “Would you please tie the message on my desk to a raven? It’s bound for King’s Landing.”
She leaves Alicent blissfully by herself. The last thing she needs today is anyone else’s upset feelings rubbing off on her.
After dressing in her finest black, she makes her way downstairs to break her fast. Gwayne is already there with a heaping pile of eggs and smoked ham. “Sister,” he says between big bites. “You’ve finally deigned to join us.”
She retorts, “I’m early. The question is why are you.” She slathers a hearty roll with goat’s butter and takes a generous bite. Delicious.
“Couldn’t sleep. Not with a bear about.”
The bread’s all the sudden too dry. She swallows hard. “Bear? Where?”
“You couldn’t hear it bellowing through the night as loud as the thunder?”
“You jest.” She shakes her head dismissively.
“On the contrary. Ellena wants me to take Lorry and Rylan into the woods to scout and lay traps. We could be supping on bear by evening if we play our cards right.”
She recalls the sound of the wind from the night before. Had there been more to it? She’d been so focused on saving herself from the elements she hadn’t paid attention. She shrugs. “If you wish to become a snack for a wild animal, you have my permission. I promise I will tell Father you fought as valiantly as John the Oak.”
“I appreciate it,” he says with a grimace. “Please inter my chewed remains in the family crypt as per custom.”
Alicent wrinkles her nose. “I’m still eating.”
“As am I,” her brother mumbles back between another mouthful.
A different, older lady’s maid opens the door to reveal Ellena, who glides through with an enviable grace. She’s donned an inky cloak clasped with a cast iron fox.
“The men required an early start given the quality of the soil. They have instructions to wait until we arrive for the lowering and assorted blessings. Our local maester unfortunately cannot attend.” She screws up her face like she’s tasted a bitter lemon. Alicent pictures a frustrating stack of letters in both of their possessions. “In his stead, I will be reading the Stranger’s Lament and some of the maester’s written words.
“It’s three hills, then across the plain, then four more hills,” she continues. “The largest in the area with a path to the top. Alicent, you will be riding with me. Gwayne-”
“I can ride by myself, if that’s alright,” Alicent pipes up. “I haven’t had much of a chance lately.”
If Ellena’s surprised at being interrupted, she hides it well. “Fine. You take Starling. Gwayne will ride with your two guards. I want you boys back before dark.”
Gwayne nods resolutely. They make their way out to the stables where Starling, a small brown thing speckled with white spots, nickers beside Gwayne’s favorite sorrel, Firetail.
“Want to race?” he offers jokingly.
“I think our aunt is pulling ahead.” She tips her head to the road where Ellena is already cantering a larger black mare.
“No time like the present then.” He steps up into the saddle and Alicent does the same. She can tell her horse isn’t used to being ridden, but after a few minutes they fall into easy companionship.
The ride is cold but uneventful. Alicent trails behind, listening to laughter from a distance. She wants to join in but doesn’t know what she would say. The three men became thick as thieves in Oldtown, which is becoming more of a distant memory to her than a tangible place.
They leave Rylan and Lorry at the massive hill’s base with the horses and begin their ascent on foot. Ellena, who pulled out far ahead early in the journey, has disappeared behind its rounded top.
“I wanted to-” Gwayne pauses, unusually at a loss for words.
Alicent quirks an eyebrow.
“I wanted to say I understand now.”
“Understand what?” she asks.
“Why you came here. At first I was surprised my baby sister wanted to go on a rough carriage ride to the middle of nowhere and attend a funeral for a woman neither of us really knew. You were always more of an . . . indoors type. No offense. That Father even let you was infinitely more confusing.” His face becomes more serious. “Rylan was just telling us his brother came home from the Stepstones.”
So it’s out in the open then. Alicent had wondered if their father had warned Gwayne. Make sure she doesn’t make for the woods and never return. Apparently not. There’s a sense of pride which comes with knowing her father trusts her to fulfill the promises he made.
“Married life will not be so bad,” he reassures her.
“You speak as if you’re familiar,” she says. “Is there a lowborn mistress of an inn claiming the inheritance of a second son’s son?”
“I’m not trying to be humorous,” he rebuffs.
“I am,” Alicent states. “It is simply marriage, as everyone loves to impress upon me. It’s not as if I am going to war. My future husband has done plenty for the both of us.”
“I have heard good things,” Gwayne continues. “He is a good man. As brave and daring and loyal as his father.”
These glowing testimonies. Where do men meet to speak with other men and form their opinions of still other men? She has overheard plenty of gossip of her own. And it did not concern prowess in battle.
She sighs. “I am not despondent over it, Gwayne. I am in my nineteenth year. The war in the Stepstones has granted me a reprieve from the so-called trials of marriage, yes, but at a cost. Father constantly worries the match will falter. My fellow ladies at court already have husbands of their own. Perpetually waiting on the return of my betrothed is not the freedom you might think it is.”
Gwayne thinks for a long time. Never has she known him to be so ponderous. Time apart really has changed them.
“I didn’t realize you were in such a bind,” he admits. “I hope your coming years bring their own sort of freedom.”
Alicent nudges him in the shoulder with a smile. “Don’t concern yourself with my domestic plight. Our father is too well versed in the art for you to try your hand. Besides, this is more of a beginning than an end.”
Gwayne nods, seemingly satisfied with where the conversation has ended. They’ve crested the top of the hill to where the diggers and Ellena await.
As the funeral commences, Alicent gives herself time to take in the view. The path circling the base of the funerary hill slips down to uniform spruce and pine. Their pointed green tops stretch all the way to the distant horizon, an expanse of nature which leaves her breathless.
A less defined path branches off to the coastline. Grass gives way to crags of rock battered by the ice-blue waves. The sea scrambles for purchase with foamy hands like powdered snow, relentless against steep unrelenting stone. At places in the distance this stone rises to become true cliffs.
Alicent wonders if she will ever be brave enough to stand at the edge, so close to a perilous embrace. The Velaryons send their dead to the sea, she thinks to herself. That will be my children’s fate. That will be my children’s children’s fate.
Maybe that is what her grandmother truly wanted. Not to be droned about over the sound of the wind, but to be cast aside and set free at the same time.
To be listless, floating forever.