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The sun cast a warm, golden light over the gardens of the Red Keep, illuminating the vibrant flowers and the lush green grass that stretched out like a carpet under the clear blue sky. Queen Alicent Hightower sat on a stone bench, her gaze drifting over the peaceful scene before her. It was a good day to be out in the gardens, a day to breathe in the fresh air and escape the heavy walls of the castle, especially after the birth of her youngest son, Daeron. The fatigue of childbirth still lingered in her bones, but today, the warmth of the sun felt like a balm to her weary spirit.
Helaena, her daughter, was by her side, a quiet presence as always. The little princess was absorbed in her world of insects, her delicate hands carefully cradling a beetle as she whispered to it, her words a oft murmur that only she could understand. Alicent watched her daughter with a mix of fondness and concern. Helaena was different, more attuned to the small, unnoticed things of the world, and Alicent sometimes wondered what thoughts ran through her mind. But Helaena was content, and that was all that mattered.
Alicent’s gaze shifted to her sons, who were a short distance away, engrossed in their play. Aegon, now six, wielded his wooden sword with the carefree abandon of a child who knew he was the darling of the court. His laughter rang out, pure and unburdened, as he swung his makeshift weapon with all the seriousness of a seasoned warrior. Beside him, Aemond, of just three namedays, tried his best to mimic his older brother’s movements. His small frame and fierce determination to keep up with Aegon brought a smile to Alicent’s lips.
She loved her children dearly, though the weight of her duties often left her feeling distant from them. She tried to be the mother they needed, but there were moments when the demands of her station made that seem impossible. It was in those moments that she found herself envying the ease with which Ser Criston Cole interacted with them.
Alicent’s eyes found Ser Criston standing a few feet away, his eyes trained on her boys with a protective gaze that was almost paternal. There was a fondness in his expression that she sometimes found lacking in herself. Criston had been a constant in their lives, more so than even the king. He had been the one to train Aegon when he first took up a sword, guiding him with a patient hand and a gentle word. He had been the one to gift Aemond his first play sword, a small, wooden replica of a knight’s weapon, and to tell the boy how he would make a fine knight one day.
And then there was Helaena. Criston had a way of listening to her when she spoke of her insects, her murmurations about things that no one else seemed to care about. He never dismissed her, never treated her words as the ramblings of a child. Alicent admired that about him, admired the way he had seamlessly become a part of their lives, not just as her sworn shield but as something more—a guardian, a protector, and perhaps, even a friend.
But with that admiration came a pang of guilt.
Here was a knight of great renown, a man whose prowess had earned him fame and respect, now reduced to a role that often felt more akin to a nursemaid than a warrior. It was not the life he had been born to, not the path he had likely envisioned for himself.
And yet, he served her with a loyalty that made her feel both grateful and undeserving. She knew how much she relied on him, how safe she felt with him always near, but she also knew that it was unfair to him to be relegated to the role of a glorified caretaker. It was a role he bore with quiet grace, but one that she could not help but feel was a poor reflection of his true worth.
Her thoughts drifted back to the last days of her pregnancy with Daeron. She had noticed the anxiety that had gripped Criston during those final weeks, the way he had been more attentive than ever, always close by, always watchful. He had been the first man to see Daeron, aside from the maesters. When the time had come, and she had cried out in the agony of childbirth, he had barged into the room, his face pale with fear for her. The maesters had quickly ushered him out, reminding him of his station, but Alicent had seen the worry etched into his features before the door closed behind him.
It should have been her husband at her side during those moments, she thought bitterly. It should have been Viserys pacing outside the chamber, waiting with bated breath for the birth of their child. But after Aegon, the king had never come to her side during her pregnancies. He had wanted a spare, and she had given him three, yet the king seemed to care little for them, or for her.
Alicent remembered the news of her latest pregnancy, how it had been overshadowed by the announcement of Princess’s own condition. The realm had celebrated Rhaenyra’s pregnancy as the coming of the true heir, the child who would secure the Targaryen line. She had tried to be happy for her, to put aside her own feelings of jealousy and resentment. She had tried to rekindle the cordiality that had once existed between them, thinking that perhaps, with time, they could become friends again.
But how foolish she had been.
When the day came, and she held her son for the first time, she had felt a fleeting moment of pure joy. Daeron was a true Targaryen prince, with lilac eyes and silver hair that bore no trace of her. A third son—he would make a fine knight or a maester, she thought, relieved that he would not be burdened with the weight of succession. She had been content, happy even, to know that her child would be free to choose his own path.
The next morning, after a peaceful night’s rest, she had gone to present Daeron to the king. There had been no summons, but she hadn’t expected one. After all, the princess’s child was the heir, and it was only natural that all attention would be on Rhaenyra and her newborn. But still, she had hoped.
As she entered the chamber, she saw Rhaenyra already there and the king was cradling his grandson with a tenderness that made Alicent’s heart ache. Viserys had been so absorbed in the moment that he hadn’t even noticed her approach until she was close enough to be impossible to ignore.
When he finally looked up, there was joy in his eyes, a joy that had nothing to do with her or their son. “it’s a boy, Alicent” he had said, his voice filled with wonder. Alicent had taken the boy from his arms then, trying to swallow the bitterness that rose in her throat. In the corner of her eye, she saw the princess inhale sharply, an anxious breath held in tense anticipation.
The moment stretched and Alicent’s eyes narrowed as she watched, noting how Viserys looked at her uneasily, his smile faltering.
Then he turned to his own son, who cooed contentedly in her maid Talya’s arms. The king began to ramble, his voice soft, almost tender, as he spoke to the boy.
She had looked down at the child in her arms—the princess’s son, her grandson— when the boy looked up, there was no gleam of lilac in his eyes, no trace of the Valyrian blood that should have marked him as Targaryen. Instead, his eyes were a deep brown, the same shade as her own.
As the boy began to fuss, and Alicent cradled him close, trying to soothe him. But as she did, the cloth wrapping his head had slipped, revealing a mop of brown hair—hair that matched his eyes. Not a single silver strand, no hint of his lineage in his hair. Alicent’s heart clenched as she realized what she was holding. This was no prince. This was a bastard.
She had looked up then, meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze. The realization was clear on the princess’s face, as it was on Alicent’s. She tried to steady her breathing as her suspicions began to solidify into certainty. How could she have done this? Did she have no sense of duty? But then Alicent remembered—this was the same Rhaenyra who had lied on her mother’s grave, who had seen her father sent away from court, who had flaunted her privilege at every turn.
She looked back at the child in her arms, noticing now the other features that marked him as an abomination. The nose, the set of his jaw—he was the spitting image of Ser Harwin Strong, the man who had been ever-present at Rhaenyra’s side since her fallout with Ser Criston. Alicent’s heart hardened. In essence, Rhaenyra was nothing more than a whore who believed she could do as she pleased, that the rules did not apply to her.
When Alicent looked at Viserys, she saw the unease in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking, she realized, but he would never admit it. He would never allow himself to see the truth.
The silence had stretched unbearably, until Viserys finally spoke, asking if she had chosen a name for their son. She had answered without hesitation, “Daeron. A name fit for a true Targaryen prince.”
“Indeed, you’ve chosen well, my love” the king had said, though his eyes remained on Rhaenyra as he handed Daeron back to Talya. He had taken his grandson from Alicent without another word, turning his full attention to Rhaenyra and the boy in his arms.
“And What will you name him, my dear ?” Viserys had asked, his voice filled with a father’s pride.
“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra had replied, her voice steady despite the tension that hung heavy in the air.
Alicent's heart pounded in her chest, anger and betrayal swirling within her. She could see the resolve in Rhaenyra's gaze, a defiant tilt to her chin as if daring anyone to question her son's legitimacy.
"Jacaerys," Rhaenyra had named him, a traditional name for a Velaryon. But as Alicent looked at the boy with his brown hair and eyes, she knew the name was a farce. This child was no Velaryon, not even a prince. He was the product of Rhaenyra's recklessness, a stain on the royal lineage that could not be ignored.
Yet, she forced a smile, her face betraying none of the turmoil raging within her. She had learned long ago to hide her true feelings, to wear the mask of the dutiful queen, no matter how much it pained her.
Viserys continued to fawn over his grandson, oblivious or perhaps willfully blind to the truth that stood before him. Alicent felt a wave of disgust rise within her. How could he be so blind? How could he ignore the blatant evidence that his beloved daughter had shamed the family, tainted the bloodline?
But she said nothing. What could she say? The king would never believe her, would never see Rhaenyra for who she truly was. He was too lost in his love for his daughter, too enamored with the idea of her as his heir, to see the rot festering at the core of his family.
As Alicent stood there, watching the scene unfold, she felt a cold resolve settle in her heart. She could not afford to let her emotions rule her. She had to be strong, for her sons, for the realm. They were the true Targaryen princes, the ones who carried the blood of Old Valyria in their veins, the ones who would ensure the continuation of the Targaryen line.
Alicent's eyes followed the babe as Viserys handed Jacaerys back to Rhaenyra, who clutched him to her chest, her grip protective, almost possessive. While Viserys turned his attention once more to his own son, Daeron, there was a brief moment where their eyes met—Alicent's cold, calculating; Rhaenyra's guarded, wary.
" He favors his father, doesn’t he?" Alicent remarked, her tone deceptively light, yet her words carried the weight of an accusation wrapped in a velvet glove.
Rhaenyra’s response came swiftly, perhaps too swiftly. "Yes, he is a Velaryon through and through," she said, her tone defensive, as though she were trying to convince not just Alicent, but herself.
"Velaryon, you say?" Alicent mused, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. She glanced around the chamber as if searching for someone. "And where, pray tell, is his Velaryon father? He must have been filled with joy at the sight of his son."
"Indeed, he is overjoyed, Your Grace, Laenor was by my side all night waiting for the babe. But exerted himself so now he rests in his chambers.”
"Ah, Still the Prince Consort did not needed to exert himself " Alicent’s smile deepened, her expression one of feigned concern. "He must not have been the only one at your bedside, after all" she said softly, her gaze locking with Rhaenyra’s, her meaning clear despite the veil of politeness.
Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a tight line, her gaze sharpening. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"
Alicent felt Viserys’s gaze shift between them, a flicker of awareness crossing his face at last. She let the tension hang in the air for a moment before speaking. " Why, your ladies, of course Princess. And the maesters. They must have been there too, attending to you and the babe."
Viserys, sensing the growing tension between his wife and daughter, finally interjected, his voice filled with forced cheer. "What a blessing, two princelings in a single day! The gods truly favor us."
Turning to Alicent, he framed his next words more as a command than a suggestion. "They should share a wet nurse, my dear. It would foster a close bond between them, like true brothers."
Alicent’s smile remained, though her mind seethed with silent protest. She knew better than to counter the king’s wishes so she held her silence, even as her mind rebelled against the notion. But I would not have my son, a royal prince, in the vicinity of this bastard born out of lust.
As She now gazed upon her son Aegon, her resolve hardened into steel. She would not let that bastard child, nor his vile, shameless whore of a mother, to lay claim to what rightfully belonged to Aegon. Her heart swelled with fierce protectiveness as Aegon approached Ser Criston, eagerly demonstrating his new sword swings.
“Ser Criston! Look—look how I do it now!” Aegon cried, his small legs pumping with all the prominence of a conquering king. The wooden blade whistled through the air in clumsy but passionate arcs.
Ser Criston dropped to one knee so their eyes met, his white cloak pooling on the grass like fresh snow. A rare, genuine smile softened the sharp lines of his face. “Steady your wrist, my prince,” he said, voice low and warm, the way a father might speak to his own blood. “A true knight does not flail. He strikes with purpose.” He closed his gloved hand gently over Aegon’s, guiding the next swing—clean, controlled, deadly. “There.”
Aegon’s laughter rang out again, bright as bells, and for a moment the gardens seemed to hold their breath at the sound. Even Helaena lifted her head from her beetle, tilting it like a curious bird.
Alicent’s throat tightened. How easily Ser Criston gave them what Viserys never would: time, pride, presence. The king doled out affection like a miser counting coins—most of it spent on his precious daughter and her brown-haired shame. But here was Ser Criston, the realm’s finest knight, kneeling in the dirt for her children as if it were the highest honor of his life.
She should not allow herself to feel this… this ache. It was unseemly. Dangerous. Yet she could not look away as Ser Criston ruffled Aegon’s silver curls and murmured something that made the boy beam with pure contentment. Aemond toddled closer, clutching his own little sword, eyes wide with longing to be noticed too. Criston opened his other arm without hesitation, drawing the younger boy in until both princes were tucked against his armored chest.
“Two dragons in the making,” Ser Criston said softly, loud enough for Alicent to hear. “The realm will tremble when you are grown.”
Alicent’s fingers curled into the stone bench, nails biting into lichen. Gods, how she envied the ease of it. How she hated herself for envying it. This man had given up tourney glory, the cheers of crowds, the promise of his own house and sons, all to stand in her shadow and guard her secrets. And in return she had given him… what? The endless duty of nursemaid to a queen who could never truly have him?
Yet when his dark eyes lifted and found hers across the garden, something wordless passed between them—gratitude, understanding, and the shadow of everything they could never speak aloud. For one heartbeat the weight on her chest lightened.
She rose slowly, the silk of her gown whispering against the stone. “Come, my loves,” she called, voice steady and sweet, the perfect queen’s voice. “The sun grows too warm. It is time we returned inside.”
Aegon groaned but ran to her at once, sword trailing behind him like a battle standard. Aemond followed, clutching Criston’s hand until the last possible moment. Helaena placed her beetle carefully on a leaf, whispering a farewell, then slipped her small fingers into Alicent’s.
Criston fell into step behind them, ever the shadow, ever the shield —ready, as he always was, to burn the world at her command. As they walked the winding garden path, Alicent glanced back once. The golden light still bathed the flowers, but the warmth no longer reached her bones.
In the quiet of her mind she made a vow, sharper than Valyrian steel:
“They will have nothing while I still draw breath. Not the throne. Not the crown. Not one breath of what belongs to my children”.
fin~