Chapter Text
Aemond stood in the war room, his single eye gleaming with satisfaction as he addressed Alicent. “It is done, mother. The Pretender is no more.”
He stepped closer. “Syrax fell from the sky after our encounter, and Rhaenyra with her. The Black Queen is dead.”
Alicent’s blood ran cold. She had spoken in frustration during their last conversation, words about wishing the war would end, about Rhaenyra’s stubbornness costing lives.
She never meant for Aemond to interpret that as a command to kill. “You did what?”
“I thought it was what you wanted.” He replied, pride evident in his posture. “No more divided loyalties. The realm can unite under Aegon now.”
Alicent’s hands trembled. Beneath the shock burned something deeper, an old, complicated connection to Rhaenyra that had never fully died, tangled with guilt she no longer could ignore.
“You had no right, I never asked for her death.”
Aemond’s expression shifted from pride to confusion, but Alicent was already turning away, her mind racing with regret.
Guilt drove Alicent into the wilderness beyond the battlefield. She sought closure, perhaps Rhaenyra’s remains to give the fallen Queen a proper burial.
In truth, she searched for proof that this was not entirely her fault, that she had not indirectly condemned her oldest friend.
The terrain was rugged. Days passed with no sign of Rhaenyra’s body.
Then she heard it.
A low, pained rumble echoing through the rocks. Syrax lay wounded among the stones, one wing torn, scales scorched.
The dragon’s golden eyes fixed on Alicent with unmistakable hostility.
Alicent froze, she was no dragon rider, never meant to stand before a beast like this.
Syrax rose slightly, chest expanding as if preparing to unleash fire. Instead of fleeing, Alicent dropped to her knees.
She braced herself for the heat, eyes shut tight.
The blast never came. Syrax lowered his head, a soft huff escaping instead.
Wounded and exhausted, the dragon allowed Alicent closer. She stayed there for a while, cleaning his wounds with torn strips of her green cloak and bringing him water.
After two days of tending to Syrax, Alicent finally accepted that her search had failed. She had found nothing, no trace of Rhaenyra, only scattered remnants of battle.
One evening, while walking the perimeter of the rocks, she spotted something glinting in the dirt.
small Targaryen clip, the kind Rhaenyra had always worn on her cloak before battle. The metal was dented and stained with dried blood.
She clutched the clip softly to her chest, tears filling her eyes.
The war had taken everything. Rhaenyra was gone, eaten by some beast or burned beyond recognition.
There was nothing left to find.
She had lost her way into these woods days ago, and now grief settled like stone in her chest. She needed to return to King’s Landing before the court grew suspicious.
Syrax watched her from nearby, wings shifting relentlessly.
Alicent approached the dragon slowly, she climbed into the saddle with shaking hands, expecting rejection.
Instead, Syrax accepted her weight. The take off was violent, the ground dropped away from beneath them as wind tore at her cloak.
Alicent clung to the reigns, heart hammering with every lurch. She had no right to ride him. She is no dragon rider as Aemond likes to remind her at times.
Yet, Syrax carried her through the darkening sky.
For two tense days they flew, Alicent constantly fearing the next move would unseat her.
On the second night, while circling low over the forest, she spotted a faint orange glow flickering between the trees, smoke curling upward from a small fire.
She guided Syrax down, landing some distance away and approached on foot, every step careful.
Through the trees she saw a figure moving near the flames, silver hair catching the light, a familiar silhouette that made her breath catch.
Rhaenyra was alive.