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“I hate this.” Tears hung in Alicent’s eyes as she looked at Rhaenyra. “I hate how many good memories I have of you.”
Memories under the weirwood trees, memories of watching Rhaenyra and Syrax soar through the air, memories of walking through the castle with their arms linked together. All of that hurt now, when Rhaenyra looked at her like that, with that hurt in her eyes that hadn’t faded a moment since she found out Alicent was to marry her father.
“I hate that I have to be the one to do this.”
She didn’t want to marry Viserys. It wasn’t her idea. It was his—his and her father’s. She wanted nothing less than to marry her best friend’s decrepit father. She had no interest in marriage or men or being queen. All she wanted was Rhaenyra and the life they had right now.
“But most of all, I hate you for being my friend.”
Anger was building in Alicent’s chest now. It wasn’t at Rhaenyra, not really. She didn’t have any more say in it than she. They were, after all, just girls. They had no more say over their lives than the dogs did. At least the dogs could bite. But the anger was there, and so was Rhaenyra.
“I hate you for being a part of this weird, messed-up family.”
There was no family Alicent hated more than the Targaryens. She’d witnessed what they’d done to Rhaenyra, to her mother, to the smallfolk—what they were doing to her now. All in the name of power and heirs and dragons. It was all pointless, and it made the anger build to a crest.
And then it crashed down onto her. “And I hate you for making me love you, Rhaenyra Targaryen.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes widened. Her lips parted.
But Alicent kept going. “Because no matter how badly I want to fly with you on dragon-back, see the great wonders across the Narrow Sea, and eat only cake, I can’t be the one to do that with you.”