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It was quite strange, how strong a baby's grip could be.
Alicent had only trailed a hand into the prince's cradle to rest her fingertips against his little chest, but no sooner had she touched the child than his tiny hand had flailed across to grab hold. She'd only meant it to be a moment, a chance to see that his heart was still beating, and now she was...trapped seemed too heavy a word, enthralled too dark. Involved. (That sounded like one of her father's words, but it fit.)
It seemed cruel to take her finger away from him, now that he had it - and who could deny him that, when he'd already lost his mother?
She wasn't sure what the responsibilities here were, exactly. She knew there was a maid to change his nappies and a maid to turn his sheets, a maid to feed him and another to dress him. But who's here to love you, little one? To hold you and sing to you? Who's here to remind you how wanted you are?
Alicent didn't think she'd ever forget that first terrible day after the queen's death, the quiet that stalked the halls of the Red Keep. For a while it had seemed like they might loose the prince, too. But he held on, the little mite, clinging to life just as surely as he was now clinging to her finger.
The castle was still quiet, save for the comings and goings of the nursery staff. Most of the court had gone to the cliffs, to witness the queen's funeral. Her father had to be there, of course, as the Hand of the King, but there was no requirement for the best friends of crown princesses, and try as she might, dragons still made Alicent uneasy. Queen Aemma had been a woman of the Vale, too, as well as a Targaryen - why could they not have followed the customs of her father? But a woman gave up many things when she became a bride, and the long practice of her family was only one. Her husband was a Targaryen, and that meant that his queen would burn like one.
The general mood of the last few days had been hard to define - the antic frenzy of the joust trying to blanket over the nervous waiting while the queen labored, the deep sorrow of the queen's loss strangling the joy of the long-awaited son. When the news had come up that the queen was dead, Viserys became insensate with grief, and went to his bed without ever asking if the child was alive, let alone whether it was a boy or a girl. They said the maesters had dosed him with poppy, fearing that he would cause himself some injury if he were left alone. He knew now, of course, but that had not changed how he felt about Aemma's death.
Alicent still wasn't sure if the King had even been to see his son yet. All that waiting and wanting, and he won't come to the nursery to see the boy?
"Let him bury his wife," her father had said knowledgeably, when the matter came up at dinner. "He'll have time enough when he's had a chance to grieve."
Because you'd know something about that, wouldn't you, Father - about losing wives and forgetting your children? Alicent could still remember Gwayne's arms around her shoulders while she cried, wishing that it were her father's larger chest she could cry into and feel safe. Her mother had always been the one to embrace her when she cried - her father did not care for such things. And the thought had occurred, as she was weeping into her brother's tunic, that she wasn't at all sure who would hold her now. Too old for nursemaids, too grown up to cry to a governess. Tears were for children, and at twelve she was not a child any more.
She was seventeen now, and she still didn't know who would hold her, for crying or anything else.
"By rights your mother ought to be here with this hand of yours," Alicent said quietly to the baby, "but rights matter little to the Stranger. By rights my mother ought to be here, too - you and I have that in common. She would have said something - spoken up for the queen sooner in her labor. She had difficult births, too." Alicent paused. "She would have known what to say, what to do."
Lady Alyrie had been one of the Queen's ladies, while she lived - Alicent remembered that. It had probably been what was expected, as the wife of the Hand, but Alicent could remember softer, sweeter moments - spiced cakes and quiet laughter, two women in conversation that they did not want their daughters to hear. She remembered asking her mother once why the queen was sad, and her mother patting her hand. "When you're older, Alicent. It's not something to burden little girls with."
But older never came, did it? Lady Alyrie was dead of a fever these five years, and Alicent was seventeen now and thought too often about things that little girls didn't need to worry about but young ladies did. And all the while, that terrible question, lurking in the dark - What would my mother have told me, if she were still here to speak?
"Everyone says she was quiet and meek and a good wife," Alicent said aloud. "But she was not always so with me." She remembered a crying chambermaid, her mother shouting at the house steward. "People say that she was different when she was younger and first wed to my father - but no one seems to be able to tell me how."
The prince moved his head in sleep like he was listening to her, and Alicent couldn't help but smile. "And who will tell you about your mother, Prince? You will not know what questions to ask when you are older. Will not know her face, or her voice. She will be only a name... and other people's memories." She paused. It felt like her own memories of Aemma were already slipping away. "She had light hair, like your sister and father, and blue eyes. I hope you will have her eyes. And a kind smile," she added. "She was gentle, and patient - a perfect queen. And she was always kind to me." She nodded. Not many queens in the stories were like that - were kind. The Maesters wrote about cruel queens more often than they did nice ones, unless they were writing about Good Queen Alysanne. Would anyone think to write about Aemma like that, or would she only be a tragedy, the queen who died before she could see her son?
"She wanted you so much, my Prince." She spent so much time in wanting. Alicent didn't think she could remember a time when she had not seen the queen without a thickening waist, or a sad eye. And she lost so many of them. No one spoke of it, but everyone knew - especially her own mother, who kept the queen's linen. Alicent had learned that much as she got older and bled herself and her aunts here in King's Landing helped her learn how to manage all of it, and so many quiet asides from her mother about Queen Aemma finally began to make sense.
"The king wants you, too," Alicent said, realizing she was short-changing her sovereign a little. "I hope you don't think that he doesn't, even though he isn't here. He's waited so long for you." Seventeen years, she could have said, and that would be the truth - seventeen years since Rhaenyra was born, anyway, and maybe there had been more before that. How long was enough to realize the gods only gave you what they would, and took it all away before you could really see the blessings you'd already got? A wife who adored you, a daughter you loved?
He didn't realize what he had while he had it, she thought bitterly. That's why he's not here. All that time wasted wanting, and he couldn't see that what he really wanted to keep was her.
"And you have a sister," Alicent said, trying hard to smile and turn her thoughts to happier things. "Rhaenyra. She is my best friend in all the world, and she has waited a long time for you, too." She swallowed, realizing that that might now be a lie. "I hope she will come to love you. I think right now she just...misses her mother."
She'd made the mistake of asking Rhaenyra if she'd been to see the babe. The princess had turned on her with a blazing eye and spat that of course she hadn't, and Alicent thought suddenly of Visenya, who had been cruel and merciless and had sacked entire cities and commanded armies just like a man would. She'd never understood how a woman could do that until she saw Rhaenyra then. She didn't really want a brother - she just wanted her mother back.
Alicent knew what that was like - being a disappointing second prize. Gwayne had said as much, once - that he'd wanted a younger brother and instead he'd gotten her. (Her father had clouted him about the ear for it, and made him apologize, but you couldn't take back words once someone had heard them, and he'd said them clearly enough over the dinner table.)
Perhaps that was why she'd given the Prince her favor after he'd knocked Gwayne off his horse. Daemon Targaryen knew something about being a disappointing second prize, too, and she was sure he'd proclaim it loudly if he could. Or she was simply afraid of saying no - that was true also. Daemon frightened her, no matter how many times Rhaenyra said that he was sweet and lovely once you got to know him and his jokes. Her father said that the Prince had no rules, and she believed that - and saw it in the way he'd asked for her favor after clouting her brother to the ground, daring her father behind her to do something about it. See, Lord Otto - I've had your son, and I'll have your daughter, too, if I've a mind to.
"An uncle you have, also - a great warrior. He was to have the throne, my father says, and now that you are here he will not. I... do not know if he will love you like the others. He won the tourney in your name, though I...I do not know what he meant by that, either." I do not know if he knows how to love at all - and if he does, I've never seen it.
"I think he hoped your father would name you after him, if he won," Alicent ventured, staking what little she knew of Daemon on the words. "We do not actually know what your name is yet, my prince! There has been betting, about it - whether you'll be named for a great hero, or a great peacemaker. But your father hasn't yet announced it. He's been too busy mourning your mother." She stroked his cheek, marveling at the warmth of his skin, the softness of it. "All this love and responsibility for such a little boy, and not even a name to help carry it."
"Baelon." Another voice spoke from the depth of the chamber, and Alicent jerked upright, pulling her hand away like she'd been burned, recognizing the voice all too well. "His name is to be Baelon, after my father. We had decided that together."
Alicent's mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse racing, chest tight. She needed to flee, but the King was standing between her and the door. "Your highness, I am so sorry, I did not mean to distu -"
"When I was watching the pyre, I heard the sound of Aemma's voice, saying that no one was watching the babe," the king said, his eyes distant as he looked at his son. It was the face of a man who still didn't seem to know what he was looking at. He's just burned his wife's body, she reminded herself, the smell of smoke subtly creeping into the room from his clothes, and now he's looking at the son she died to give him, a baby he waited seventeen years for. "I see now she should not have worried, " Viserys said. "He has a very faithful watcher."
Alicent suddenly felt very unequal to the task, her instinct still telling her to flee and her manners to stay still. She clenched a fist into her dress, trying to remain motionless when her head was still spinning and her knees felt like failing her. "I know there are others, your highness, I just -"
"No one should apologize for caring for their prince," Viserys said, his voice almost strong. "Or the cares of their king." He smiled at her. "My heart was lighter, watching you with him. You have a good way with him," The King said, fondly, and Alicent wondered just how long he'd been standing there, how much he had heard. What she'd said about Rhaenyra - about Daemon! "He trusts you."
"He is but a few days old, your highness, his judgement may not yet be sound."
In a different room, at a different time, that would have passed for a jest, and people would have laughed - but the king was not laughing. "The queen trusted you, too," Viserys said, quietly thoughtful. "She told me once what a good friend you were to Rhaenyra. A steady influence, she said. That you would grow up to make a fine woman - and a fine wife." He was still studying her, and she swallowed, trying to master her breathing, her racing heart. "She was a good judge of these things."
She didn't know what to say. "I will try to deserve her praise, your highness."
"There is so much to do, now," the king went on, musing. "I am not sure what I will do without her counsel."
"S-s-should I go for my father, your highness?" Alicent offered, still wondering how she could get away. Would someone else not come? "He will want to help."
"Yes," Viserys said, sitting down next to the cradle. "Do that - send him here. I must spend some time with my son." He turned back to her with a smile. "You have been very helpful today, Lady Alicent - thank you."
Alicent dipped a curtsy and finally allowed her feet to move in the direction of the hallway as mannerly as she could muster, breaking into a run once she'd cleared the door and the king's line of sight. All she wanted was to be away, to flee.
You'd run from your king, girl? She heard her father's voice ringing like a judge's. Yes, I would! She'd felt the King's eye following her and could not help but shiver. It felt too much like being under the eye of a real dragon, and she did not like how it made it seem she was about to be consumed.