Chapter Text
When the ceremonies conclude, and honors upon honors are bestowed, and all is at last said and done, Alicent gives a great, shuddering sigh.
To the ear of the new Queen of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar, that sigh sounds as it always does—utterly exhausted.
"Will you excuse me, Your Grace?"
In the stretch of time delineating a world with her father from one without him, Rhaenyra startles to realize how quickly things can change. Gone are the days of 'Princess Rhaenyra' or 'the Realm's Delight'. She will never be a princess again. The mantle of queen has marked her forevermore.
The hall is still emptying, though the few who remain snap to attention as she rises from the Iron Throne. Her new normal has already begun.
"If you have no further need of me," Alicent says softly, "I should like to retire."
"Rest, Alicent." Awkward and unpolished, Rhaenyra does her best to appear dignified yet welcoming. "Will I see you for supper?"
They haven't shared a meal in a decade and stood at odds far longer, but it's a new day. A new world. Impossible things are now closer than ever.
"Perhaps." To her dismay, her smile isn't returned. Alicent won't so much as meet her eyes. "Good day to you, my queen."
With a nod and a white-knuckled grip on her pendant, Alicent makes her way for the doors, Ser Gwayne Hightower at her heels.
Trying to ignore the swooping disappointment in her belly, Rhaenyra focuses all of her attention on her boys, who are now free to clamber up the steps to the throne to meet her without the scrutiny of a thousand prying eyes. They chatter and jape, content in a way few children with royal blood are until Laenor hastens both into the training yard for a lesson. It feels, impossibly and inexplicably, like any other day in the Red Keep.
Before she left it in such a hurry, at least.
Alone if not for Ser Erryk and Rhaenys, who have lingered to either guard or speak to her, Rhaenyra gives herself a moment to breathe, to dwell.
"How does it feel?" Her cousin murmurs after a while, sounding more curious than wistful.
"It hasn't settled yet, not truly." Rhaenyra is half convinced the past fortnight was but a terrifying dream. She lifts her chin. "But it will."
"Always so determined." Rhaenys is amused. Side-by-side and standing at the same level, the Queen Who Never Was is effortlessly more regal, more composed, more everything than Rhaenyra could ever be. "Chew your food before you swallow it, my dear. Your helping could fill a giant."
"I'm inclined to share." Rhaenyra curls her fingers around her cousin's wrist. "Join my small council. Help me change the world."
Two heartbeats pass before Rhaenys can speak. Temptation had flashed in her eyes, nearly naked. Rhaenyra was pleased to disrobe it.
"Allow me to consider the offer."
"That is all I ask."
Satisfied, Rhaenyra moves to part ways. Unlike the boys, she is eager to get to work.
"Will you ask the same of Queen Alicent?"
She turns back. Rhaenys still lingers at the foot of the Iron Throne, again above her cousin in every way and smiling like she knows it. (Of course she knows it.) No longer in possession of the upper hand, Rhaenyra doesn't see a need to voice her answer. It is, all truths told, rather obvious.
"Do you advise against it?"
"No. There is no one better. Alicent Hightower has served the realm longer than many of us cared to admit."
Shame curls cat-like around Rhaenyra's shoulders, darkening the day significantly. She is—was—one of the many.
"That is why I wish to keep her close." Among other reasons. "There is much to learn from her."
"Humility doesn't become you," Rhaenys says, a faint smirk on her lips. "My words of caution do not concern her skill for governance."
There's an odd protectiveness in the princess, she sees, a leftover look from a fortnight ago when the city still shivered under the threat of a coup. It was Alicent who warned Rhaenys to flee, Alicent who sent ravens to Dragonstone, Alicent who risked everything to prevent harm from befalling her children. The new dowager found Rhaenys first, Rhaenyra was told later, and begged her to alert only the right people of the king's passing.
Go. Fetch Rhaenyra before it is too late. Let him die as Viserys the Peaceful, Alicent had pleaded with Rhaenys, not Viserys the Insensible.
Still buckling under the weight of mingled gratitude and confusion, Rhaenyra has yet to discover the means to thank Alicent for her service.
"I do not believe," says Rhaenys, "Queen Alicent is quite so willing to serve the Seven Kingdoms any longer, Your Grace."
"Why not?" Not even dragonfire could've deterred Alicent from small council meetings. "She'll want to keep an eye on things. That is her way."
"Is it?" Rhaenys descends the last step, beguilingly self-assured again. "Perhaps you no longer know her as well as you think you do."
Alicent never does join her for supper.
Loath to disturb the delicate peace between them, nor rub the state of the crown in her face, Rhaenyra does not issue a summons.
Unfortunately, Laenor is of the same mind as his mother on the matter.
"I imagine she does want to rest," Laenor says, busying himself with the flagon of wine. He pours his wife a dram, somehow aware he has a long evening ahead of him. "She's the Queen Dowager, is she not? Mayhaps she is ready to relinquish her duties at court and attend to her children."
If you have no further need of me, I should like to retire.
A miscommunication, Rhaenyra dismisses, and nothing more.
"That's not Alicent."
"Rhaenyra—"
"No!" She won't consider the idea for longer than a second. "I know her. I know her better than anyone. Alicent wouldn't abandon her place here."
"That's just it," Laenor insists, braver than most men would dare in the face of her indignation, "does she have a place here?"
"Of course!"
"Have you told her that?"
"I..." In the bedlam surrounding her ascension, Rhaenyra assumed Alicent would know—their differences aside—that she was welcome to stay.
"And while we chart this course, why should she have a place here?" Laenor grumbles. "Oldtown would suit her better, I think, with her kin."
"Alicent did me a great service," Rhaenyra says defensively, albeit unsure who she is defending now, Alicent or herself. "I will not send her away."
"She only wanted to save her neck, so it seems to me."
"She did her duty, husband," Rhaenyra protests. "Alicent could've crowned Aegon at any point, but she didn't! Instead she opened the gates to us."
She was so grateful at the time, so relieved the city was not prepared for a siege that she had not stopped to think long on Alicent's motives. Loyalty? Fear? Guilt? The wound on Rhaenyra's wrist had only just begun to scab over when Viserys died. She hates not knowing, not understanding.
"Better to be a beggar than usurper, I suppose..."
"Would you rather we fought a war of succession?" Growing snappish, Rhaenyra doesn't let up. "Do you still yearn so badly for the Stepstones?"
A decade of marriage has sharpened japes into jabs, drolleries into dressing-downs. Almost all strike true. "What I miss is being useful," he admits, duly cowed. His promise to support their family moved her enough to set Daemon alongside other unfulfilled desires, never to be explored, but it has not bore any fruit until now. "My place at your side offers nothing of value. I do not care for politics and less for the people of King's Landing."
Then what good is my king consort? He's the only man in all of Westeros to deny every bit of influence he has ever been given. It drives her mad.
"What would you have me do?" Rhaenyra asks, impatient. His promise appears to have its limits—and in turn so does she.
"Give me a job," he decides, rather too quickly. "Something I can sink my teeth into, lest I always be defanged and no help to you whatsoever."
Any request of you is self-serving, Viserys once warned, forever preserved in the resin of her memory. Even her husband is at the mercy of that reasoning. "A command from your queen is political," she points out, wondering how just long he has been turning this idea over in his mind.
"Make me an envoy," Laenor urges. "Or an errand boy, if you like. I want to do something that doesn't involve wandering the halls like a ghost."
"I need a master of whisperers," Rhaenyra says after a quick consideration of her small council. She wonders if that will be enough of an adventure for him. To her chagrin, Laenor has never made his reluctance to rule a secret. "I wish to know what the Seven Kingdoms have to say about me."
Laenor studies her over his cup, all too familiar with her insecurities.
"Afraid someone is calling you the usurper?"
Toddling into the room and pursued by a nurse, Joff offers a kiss. Rhaenyra is pleased to oblige. She smooths down his hair, dark and curling.
"More than you will ever know."
As eager as she is to work, Rhaenyra's unhappy—despite any determination—to remember it is all still as irksome, taxing, and tedious as she feared. Stress is the frontrunner to her plate, however, and with it comes a hearty helping of anxiety. She's never understood her father better.
Her elder cousin's words linger with Rhaenyra into first weeks of her reign, catching like a spark after the absence of her siblings comes to light. None were present at her coronation, prompting inquiries and (in her opinion) an unjust amount of suspicion from the nobles still left in the city.
"Prince Aegon has not been seen on the Street of Silk, Your Grace," Ser Harrold says, passing on Laenor's report. "A few wonder if he fled—or died."
By her hand, more said in their cups. The majority insisted on poison and quick disposal of the body; others claimed she doused Aegon in dragonfire. Her father was perfectly content to ignore gossip whenever he could; once bitten and twice shy, Rhaenyra forces herself to hear it all.
"And what of Helaena? Aemond?" Daeron still serves as a page of Lord Hobert's in Oldtown, she knows, safe from intrigues and petty mistrust.
The small council looks just as troubled as she, in part due to their reduced ranks. Ser Otto, Ser Tyland, Lord Jasper, and Maester Orwyle sit in the black cells, awaiting trials; only Lord Beesbury, Ser Harrold, and Maester Gerardys remain, with a seat open for Lord Corlys, who returned to Driftmark with Rhaenys to care for their granddaughters. Laenor's place is empty too; keen to complete his mission, her husband left to scour the realm for signs of dissent. This isn't the first time Rhaenyra has adjusted to an uncertain footing; with resignation, she doubts it will be the last.
"Nothing," Ser Harrold answers, features growing stormy. The Queensguard's ranks are also depleted. "Ser Erryk believes Cole joined them."
That theory fed into the developing scandal, much to Rhaenyra's dismay. If the then Kingsguard swore to protect the royal family with his life—and his beloved patron above all—the people began to whisper, why did the infamous Criston Cole vanish into thin air? Where did he disappear to?
"Queen Alicent must be concerned," Beesbury says, frowning.
"Concerned and consulted, posthaste." Gerardys is graver than Beesbury. "We should fear another plot, Your Grace, if she is hiding her children."
"Why, pray? It was Alicent who made all of this"—Rhaenyra gestures to the room, the realm writ small—"possible."
Gifted in healing but a poor statesman, Gerardys seems unconvinced of Alicent's character though he does not protest, to Rhaenyra's relief.
"Allow me to assuage your fears, my lords," she decides, standing up. "I will speak with Alicent myself and ensure her loyalty is beyond reproach."
There's just the matter of finding Alicent, who is increasingly difficult to track down in recent days.
This is the order of things, closer than the phases of the moon or the red wanderer in the sky. Rhaenyra witnessed the same changing of the guard once before...when Viserys at last chose his new bride. All vestiges of Queen Aemma were quietly packed away as the keep itself seemed to bend to Alicent's will. Her servants ousted the longtime favorites of Rhaenyra's mother; cousins like Lady Amanda and Lady Elys kissed Rhaenyra farewell and left to grieve in the Eyrie, with Appletons, Fossoways, and Osgreys quick to fill their places; furnishings honoring the Vale in the Queen's Ballroom were supplanted by decor exalting Oldtown. Even the kitchens sought to please Alicent, offering entrées easier found near the Honeywine.
It was a difficult transition. Rhaenyra had terrorized the servants responsible for the changes until Ser Criston urged her to see reason. But she couldn't. Rhaenyra would not accept the tears in the tapestry of her life, much less the sprightly green threads so determined to bridge the gap. And now it is happening again, unspooling green from black and returning the splendor of House Targaryen to the keep, the castle, and the city themselves. She pauses to watch a painting of the seven-pointed star make its way into storage in exchange for a depiction of the Field of Fire. If Alicent's inattendance at court is her own way of conforming to this custom, well, Rhaenyra will simply tell her that it is not necessary, nor wanted.
Trailed at a distance by Ser Erryk, Rhaenyra questions the guards, scullions, maids, and men-at-arms of Alicent's whereabouts, although the best lead comes from Alicent's longest serving handmaiden, Talya, who looks like she'll bolt at first opportunity after Rhaenyra happens to spot her.
"Her Grace is entertaining the visiting prince, my queen," says Talya, nervously addressing Rhaenyra's feet. "Forgive me, she said you knew..."
"It slipped my mind, I'm afraid," Rhaenyra lies, wondering what else Alicent has sworn in her name. "Tell me, where did I arrange their meeting?"
The visitor, as it turns out, is none other than Prince Qoren Martell of Dorne. Incensed by—by some vexing feeling she cannot parse out now—it is only by the grace of her quickest thinking that she can dart behind the weirwood and not be spotted. Holding her breath and hiding within the roots like she is a girl again, she stills to listen. The couple strolls closer to the tree, presumbly to examine the solemn sleeping face at its center.
"To think, the old gods being close enough to touch," the prince opines, his accent jarring. "Northerners are a strange folk, are they not?"
"Some say our gods are nearer still," Alicent murmurs, "and gazing upon us always."
The Prince of Dorne gives a hum of acknowledgment, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"Shall we at last speak of practical matters, Your Grace? While I enjoyed the air around Blackwater Rush, your city smells and I long for home."
"I never intended to waste your time here, my prince..." Rhaenyra envisions Alicent's ducked head, ever modest.
"Twas not a waste," says the prince. "I feel as if I have gotten to know you, in some way, starting with your invitation."
Invitation? Heart pounding, Rhaenyra inches closer, trying to hear better.
"And—and what have you learned, if I may ask?"
"Devotion consumes you," Prince Qoren observes. "I wonder if you knew you were drowning in your duty before you no longer cared."
Alicent is silent.
"I respect your affection, but I do not return it." Rhaenyra's jaw drops. "I do not care as you do, nor will I. My concern is and will always be Dorne."
"So my offer is..."
"Refused, but regretfully so." Standing on her tiptoes, Rhaenyra chances a look through a gap in the blood-red leaves and bone-white branches. The prince has extended his hand. Head hanging low and cautious as a bird, Alicent places her hand in his. "Dorne danced with dragons before—and I would sooner sleep with scorpions." He seems to tighten his grip, only for emphasis, but Alicent's gasp of surprise is audible. "Do not mistake my words for a rejection of you, Your Grace. Had you not married Viserys, you would've been a difficult bride for even a Dornishman to deny."
Bride?
Alicent pries her hand free; the prince does not snatch it back.
"And yet I did."
"Bravely, some say." The prince's words are kind. "It is no easy thing to wed a king."
Alicent's laugh is hollow, striking Rhaenyra like a drum.
"I do not recommend it, my prince."
"Would anyone?" Qoren tuts. "The Targaryens leave no room for outsiders. The blood of the dragon drives the lot to realms beyond reason."
"I cannot speak for the entirety of House Targaryen," Alicent warns, a frost gathering in her face, "but my children are not unreasonable."
"Your boy claimed the largest living dragon in the world before he was eleven years old. Would you call that reasonable?"
"I would call it brave," Alicent says, albeit grudgingly. A sore subject all around, Rhaenyra muses, glancing down at the scar Alicent gifted her.
"You are his mother," Qoren points out. "To defend your own is natural and honorable."
"It is not honor that drives me, but desperation." Now it is Alicent who reaches for the prince. He lets the queen's fingers curl beseechingly around his arm. "I would do anything for them, Prince Qoren. Die by dragonfire, if I must, so that they could live. I await that fate every day, all truths told."
"Queen Rhaenyra frightens you so?"
Say no.
Oblivious to Rhaenyra's plea, Alicent bows her head again, the very image of supplication.
"Everything frightens me. Shadows on the wall, the whispers in the halls, mine own father." Her frankness is shocking. "The end is always nigh."
"You have not lived much at all," Qoren says, "if your days are filled with nothing but dread."
"My days are of no consequence. It is the future that concerns me, Prince Qoren, if my children are not here to live it."
"They will not be accepted in Sunspear, Your Grace." The prince seems sorry to say so. "They would be better off elsewhere."
"Will you not consider Helaena, at least?" Alicent asks, begging now. It's the same uncontrollable anguish that overcame her at Driftmark, a torment so raw to the ear that a shiver ripples through Rhaenyra. "She is a lovely girl, and biddable. You will not find a dearer one in all Seven Kingdoms."
The prince draws closer, ignoring propriety. From a distance, they could be lovers. "Your girl has her own dragon, Your Grace. Is the beast as biddable as she is? Queen Rhaena and Dreamfyre flew over the Red Mountains and the Torentine long ago—uninvited. Dorne does not forget."
Left at an impasse and summarily rejected, Alicent is quiet, save for the slowing of her breathing. Prince Qoren smiles sympathetically.
"Your love does you credit. I pray you are someday able to find a measure of peace."
After a silence, Alicent releases him and moves to a respectful distance. "You must be weary after your travels," she says, so rapidly recovering her courtesies Rhaenyra feels a touch of whiplash. Qoren Martell, however, is unperturbed. "Allow me to accompany you to your quarters, my prince."
None the wiser, the pair vanishes as mysteriously as they arrived, prompting Rhaenyra to slump back against the weirwood, her thoughts racing.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in a flying fog, digesting all she has heard.
Nothing sits well, and by the end, Rhaenyra is plagued with unease, even in the joy of the skies. Sensing it, Syrax pushes herself to stay aloft longer than usual, letting Rhaenyra shuffle from one thought to the next until the first streaks of sunset. Every thought, though, bounces back to Alicent.
The Prince of Dorne mentioned an invitation (Alicent's doing), alluded to a fondness (Alicent's), and a proposal of marriage (...also Alicent's).
It could not be plainer Alicent's avoidance of Rhaenyra was not a time spent idly if she was writing to Dorne all along and cajoling its impertinent prince to journey thousands of leagues for a conversation and a brief walk by the river. A negotiation, Rhaenyra corrects herself, stewing over Alicent's other bids that were also—rather disgracefully—refused. Qoren Martell denied Alicent as a potential bride, accepted none of Rhaenyra's missing siblings as wards of his court, a high honor, and perhaps not so surprisingly, denounced all of House Targaryen every chance he got.
Each offer alone is not treasonous, only unusual; every revelation together pushes Alicent below a pall of foreboding that Rhaenyra has regretfully developed since a crown was placed on her head and her new normal began. Trying to get to the heart of the matter, Rhaenyra awaits Alicent in her own chambers, poised at the table with courses spread in every direction. Adorned in a widow's gown so black she seems like a part of the shadows, Alicent enters the room and stops in her tracks. They are alone; wanting some privacy, Rhaenyra dismissed the staff for the evening.
"Your Grace."
"Alicent. I thought I would join you for supper, if your schedule allows."
"I do not appear to have any choice, do I?" Alicent seats herself opposite Rhaenyra and reaches irritably for the pease.
"You do." Rhaenyra drapes her hand over Alicent's, stilling the motion. "I mean you no harm, I swear it."
Any aspirations of controlling the conversation fade after Alicent pulls her hand away.
"Swear all you like, your word is worthless."
She should've prepared herself for such a sting, but the words hit and hit hard. "Alicent—"
"Tell me why you are here. Let us speak plainly."
Knowing another plea will get her nowhere, Rhaenyra braces for impact and dives back in. "I wish to know where your children are."
"I don't know," says Alicent, preoccupying herself with distribution of the food. "Are you asking or commanding?"
"Asking. And what of Ser Criston?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Your children and your sworn shield are missing and haven't been seen for weeks," Rhaenyra feels as though she must say aloud, to both inject reason back into the proceedings and nudge Alicent out of whatever mood she has fallen prey to, "and you have nothing to say on the matter?"
"They are safe." Alicent slaps a helping of pease onto Rhaenyra's plate like it has personally offended her. "That is all you need know."
Rallying herself for another round of battle, Rhaenyra sighs. "Talks of plots surround you of late. Help me clear your name."
Plots and a suspicion, albeit a regretful one. Rhaenyra doesn't want it, but come it does, worming between her ribs and settling in like a resentment. It wasn't so long ago that Alicent made the choice to support one heir and not another; as grateful as Rhaenyra was before, it is not the truth that will matter but perception. Is Alicent only playing at loyalty? Was the backing of Rhaenyra's claim a small part of a much greater game?
She hates not having all the answers and still more the ceaseless pursuit of knowing—of anticipation—by which she must now abide.
Alicent is unmoved.
"Haven't I helped you enough, Rhaenyra?"
"I am not so certain. Your absence on the small council has been noted."
"Noted but not needed, Your Grace. You will manage without me."
This isn't going as she'd hoped. Alicent is rarely caught on the back foot, least of all by Rhaenyra...
"I don't understand you," she admits, dropping the pretenses, the posturing. Her worries spiral out of her in a deluge, baring weakness to an Alicent who is hard of heart and cruel of tongue. "After the funeral, I thought not to see you on good terms. I thought your Aegon would ascend the Iron Throne and that a war was coming. But then you sent for me. You bade Rhaenys to flee. I still don't understand why you changed your mind."
There is a pause, long and billowing, until Alicent breaks it.
"Duty demands sacrifice." Her old friend is glassy-eyed, yet unwavering. "I realized I could not sacrifice my children to fulfill my duty."
"Only yourself," says Rhaenyra, going for the easy kill. Knowing Alicent put her judgments of duty and sacrifice before any belief in Rhaenyra feels like a slap. Perception may rule over truth, but the truth is a torment. "To a marriage bed in Dorne or death by dragonfire, whichever comes first."
Alicent's head snaps up.
"How did you—"
"No matter. Now I will command you to answer. Why did you offer yourself to Prince Qoren?" Instead of, well...
Best not to dwell there, she scolds herself, watching Alicent's jaw clench so hard it is a wonder her teeth haven't cracked. Rhaenyra hated to see Alicent's gaze grow colder and colder in the years following their weddings. Tonight is no exception; perhaps she'll finally freeze under that stare.
"He would've made a fine match for me, and I for him. I...I could've given him another son."
Stricken by the same vexing feeling as before, Rhaenyra likes the sound of that not at all.
(The feeling itself is vexing, but not the knowledge of its true name—jealousy.)
"Is such a duty not done," she tries, at last able to discuss Viserys without suffering the sensation of being strangled, "now that my father is gone?"
"A mother's obligations are never done." Face glowing green, the first green she's worn in over a month and a half, Rhaenyra watches Alicent swallow and bestir herself, mustering the will to don her queenly mask again. "I must remarry and provide a safe place for my children to grow up."
An act of desperation to one is an act of treason to another. In the end, she realizes, it is the eye of the beholder who judges true or false.
"Alicent..." Rhaenyra cannot go on. Perhaps this truly is what drowning in duty looks like.
"It is the only way," Alicent insists, voicing the words bound to satisfy the small council, but not her queen, "to stop a challenge to your reign." She shakes her head. "Seeking out the Prince of Dorne was an error. We ought to find a match that will strengthen ties to the crown, not weaken them."
"Alicent," Rhaenyra says again, bewildered.
This is not the Alicent of half a year ago, who trembled in Rhaenyra's grip and wielded Aenar Targaryen's dagger like some vengeful demon.
You've gone too far...
I? What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law, while you flout it all to do as you please?!
By hook or crook, suddenly and unexpectedly, Alicent is loyal, yet Rhaenyra's misgivings linger. There is something off about it.
To go from one extreme to another, to go from raising a blade at her to making a queen of her...she cannot fathom it. Something is afoot here, there has to be, because in spite of Rhaenyra's efforts, the pieces to the puzzle won't come together. Why would Alicent claim no knowledge of her children's whereabouts? Why would she look for aid from a prince without any fealty to the Iron Throne? And stranger still, why would she push so hard for Rhaenyra to wear the crown some said belonged to Aegon after more than a decade of bad blood and bitterness festering between them?
"You need not wed to prove anything to me."
Her words are in vain, the counterattack feeble. With no sign she's heard a word Rhaenyra said, Alicent's fingers close around her wrist like a snare.
"I want your blessing."
"My..."
"Your blessing," Alicent repeats, the words infusing ice into Rhaenyra's veins, "to remarry."
"Must I? Must you?" The stranger in Alicent's skin has her cornered, sickened. This battle is nearly lost. "Aren't you owed rest—after all this time?"
"I am owed," says Alicent, tightening her grip, "whatever I desire, Your Grace."
In the end, everything burns down to the same embers. Here is another demand set before the queen and stripped to its bare essentials, though it isn't a self-serving one. Nonetheless, Rhaenyra hesitates to grant it. This cannot be the whole story. There are still more questions than answers.
The pause is fraught. She feels the coolness of Alicent's touch, the pounding of her own heart, and in the confines of her throat, an overwhelming sense of doom. Yes, Alicent is owed, Rhaenyra knows that better than anyone. But letting Alicent to collect the debt in such a way feels...it's...
This discomfort, Queen Aemma whispers in her memory, connecting the puzzle pieces ever so slightly, is how we serve the realm.
Images flicker unbidden into her mind like a shadow play, conjured with ease from the past and mixed with a dawning horror of the future. Alicent, struggling to walk through a faraway castle, another child growing in her belly; Alicent, bound once more by seven gods to a lordling who will not know of her fears, her hopes; Alicent, out of Rhaenyra's reach in a more permanent way than the last time—and going, going, gone, all over again.
"Well?" The shadows yield to their subject who now bristles with impatience. "Do I have your leave?"
"You have it. With conditions." And my doubts, Rhaenyra doesn't say. "Let me help you."
Alicent lets go of her, looking wary.
"In what way?"
"All prospective brides need a benefactor. Someone to look after them. This would fulfill my duty, as Protector of the Realm—"
Alicent's bark of mirthless laughter fills the room, flushing her face to a healthier apple-red. "You are not serious."
"Oh, but I am. Do you want my blessing or not?"
Alicent stops laughing.
Taking the now indignant silence for a yes, Rhaenyra continues, glad she didn't give in entirely. She may yet win it all, if she's careful...
"Secondly, you will open your heart to me again."
"What?"
"We were friends, long ago," says Rhaenyra. Like anyone else, she wishes she knew she lived in a golden age before it was to end. The bubble of nonresponsibility and laughter and love popped so quickly, so brutally, that Rhaenyra mourned it longer than she did Baelon. "I miss it. I miss you."
They stare at each other.
A beat passes, then two, then three. Seconds slip away like years—wasted years. Tempers cool, the fire crackles, and the supper sits uneaten.
"Alicent," Rhaenyra says softly.
At the sound, Alicent gives another exhausted sigh and closes her eyes, apparently mulling over their new and hardest-won armistice. Hardly one to pray, Rhaenyra nevertheless has faith this agreement will be but one of many, much like the impossible things that this crown has given her...
Then—
"Are you asking or commanding?"
Desperate to pluck at the seams of the shadow-subject until she is Alicent again and familiar as the face in the mirror, Rhaenyra doesn't budge.
"Asking. No, begging. Please. Don't you ever wish we could be friends again, just as we used to be?" For all her power and influence, Rhaenyra instead longs for the ability to strip away the years and reunite Alicent with her girlhood—the girlhood so unjustly stolen from her. From them.
"None of my wishes ever come true, Rhaenyra."
"This one will," she promises, hopeful, entreating, and lying only a little—for Alicent's own good! "Whoever you desire, you will have, I swear it."
Hesitation clear, Alicent accepts, any accusations of a worthless word seemingly forgotten.
It is, by far, one of Rhaenyra's better schemes.
Later, though, she cannot force the conversation from her mind. Over and over does Alicent's face appear as Rhaenyra gazes at the ceiling above her bed. The dagger kills her in one reverie and Alicent kisses her in another; on and on it goes until morning. There's more to the story and much more to Alicent's obedience...wasn't there always, like when they were girls and the Hand's daughter emerged as the only one worth her interest?
There is something here, a secret to uncover, and Rhaenyra makes a promise to herself to find it.