Chapter Text
Alicent Hightower had only ever known The Order of Things in her life — or the life that his father had given to her — and had never before dare to stir it, lest that this established practice his father had worked so hard to build and serve to her in a plate is actually something that will explode into her if she dares to ghost her fingertips into it. The order of things— it's what she's born out to, after all. She's merely taking up space. A place. The place is always important, Alicent . Her father always reminded her. Your place is always important. The place you are currently partaking tells you how to behave. You do not act like a graceless girl who picks at her nails in front of important people. Who you were is an infant at your mother's womb. Who you were is a wailing girl whose only connection to her mother was an umbilical cord and was trimmed as soon as you were out of her uterus. Who you were is a crying mess in my arms. Who she is now—is someone who waits to be summoned by her father for the set of things he had planned for her in the upcoming days of her school. She doesn't want to find out what those plans could be, but whenever she's struggling with her confidence to her father, she reminds herself of an important thing: you are your father's daughter and even the truth could not make a rupture of itself from that . It's what she is. It's what she's always been.
This is what she tells herself as she walks into the grim of her father's ill-lighted office. The emerald shade of curtains were tightly shut, and the splendor from the daylight washed the workspace of dark green, along with the lights nearby his desk. The illumination is assisted by the flames that danced in the body of a candle holder. She followed the burning's motion, her sensory organs seemingly glamored by an unexceptional moment. She didn't see her father's stare that fixed on her, and had to clear his throat to get her attention. She turned to him. Gone was the spectacle she amused herself with, and is now replaced by the face of her father who seemed to be studying her as she did with the candles, and there was no shred of entertainment in him. She doesn't think that anything could possibly entertain her father. Accomplishment. Success. Power. That's what entertains him. For a moment of insensibility, Alicent was flickered with temptation to look back at the dancing fires again. She didn't. Her father, sensing that her daughter might be demonstrating her foolish whims that he made sure for her to know he wasn't particularly fond of, finally spoke.
“How are you, daughter?” his eyes scanned her face.
The place, Alicent thought. You are in his office. He expects you to behave. She wasn't an idiot to take that inquiry as a father who's genuinely curious about the welfare of her daughter, of course, she knows he refers to the progress of a task she ought to be doing currently: studying in advance. However, she also knows an agreeable response for him. “Very well, father. I just received an email from the school department's approval, they expect me to be at their premises by Friday... with my things.” Her voice trailed off when she mentioned her possessions.
Her father nodded, but displayed no sentiment that he was pleased by the news.
“Good. I will have the help pack your necessary possessions so that you will no longer have to tire yourself into doing it.”
Alicent merely stared at him, then blinked owlishly. Surely, she could do the packing herself? Her father, apparently, saw this reaction, and added: ”I have something else I need you to prepare and equip yourself with. It's far more important than something a help can do. Do not give me that look, child, and listen to me carefully.”
Alicent was quick to nod and bow her head. The floorboards were a better view anyway. “Yes, father.”
Her father wasted no time to chide her antics, and proceeded with what he intended to tell her. This must be something important for him to neglect reprimanding me, she noted.
'As you are aware, I have been working in the school's council for three years. It's an experience I could account for as well-enough for me to learn the affair of politics within and outside the academia that you are about to enter.'
Alicent prepared herself. This is just a brief start for what her father is actually about to say. Her father likes to talk, especially about himself. He had been offering his services and loyalty to the Targaryens for three years, and had managed to get a position as the president's trustee - almost close to the position of Daemon Targaryen - who's assuming the position currently. Her eyes roamed around the trail of lines within the polished floor. Maybe the dark could be accounted for, but there wasn't any dirt visible in it. The help's hands must be terribly calloused to keep it this way. She doesn't want to think about her father's stern command to maintain it spotless.
'A council is equal to a classroom. There are people seated there whom you're going to have to work with, in spite of differences. Man, woman. A difference is something you must both regard and disregard for two reasons. To regard it is to ponder the question: if what separates you from them benefits you or them, and to disregard it is to think that you must push yourself forward to drive a wedge between what separates them from what could possibly benefit them.
Her father's face was serious all at once. His eyes were linear. Alicent found herself staring at him, realizing the analogy enough to know that this was not going to be pleasant for her. Then again, she had no right to be at the bench of what's good for her or not. Her father is on the bench. If he's investing time to explain something such as this, then he is a good judge that what he's about to tell her is not a waste of both of their time.
‘I have worked with the president of the school myself, along with the people whom I'm certain are persecuting me with their mouths as soon as I turn my back on them. They call me names because they envy that I managed to get a seat next to the president in a span of a year. This is how things work at the council, Alicent. You speak your thoughts carefully, and you make sure that this is to your advantage, not making a way for the others to pass through it. You do not let them get through to you, and you do not look back to see which limbs of their social or political standing you wounded them. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘Last week, the president Viserys announced his concern to the function that he is to select a student in your year to cohort with her daughter, the sole Targaryen. The person that he's going to select is someone who should be reasonable enough to engage him or herself with her daughter. Make her a worthy descendant of their name, an upright woman that she should be. That Targaryen girl is so ferocious and unconventional that even the important members of the council are wary of taking the president up on his offer. She has driven off instructors and bludgeoned men who attempted to bring her into the covenants of her womanhood. Her uncle encouraged her, did you know? There were even words that she is unbridled to men and women. I'm certain that you've heard the... unorthodox practices of this girl. It's extremely unbecoming.” Her father's expression shifted more into a repulse as he narrated the endeavors.
Alicent can only nod. She had heard of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the lone daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Aemma Arryn. Despite having only seen her in the school magazine, she could make out the beauty and the prominent natural silver hair that distinguishes her as the aristocrat's daughter; the girl exuded a remarkable poise in the cover. If she didn't know any better, she would have easily fallen for the appeal of the smirk in her face printed at the paper's gloss. Her hair, unlike the waist length in the prior years she had seen from the school's female football team posters, is trimmed down to a shorter one and it's slicked back with gel. She looked rather boyish. If Alicent wasn't aware, she would've been baffled. She really was an odd one . Many have compared her to her uncle, Daemon Targaryen, for their eccentricities. Her uncle—The Rogue Prince—as they named him—being the notorious host of taking men and women into bed with him that there were alarmingly several people willing to account for witnessing the sexual mischiefs, it was like seeing God's miracle, they say. Alicent shuddered. Rhaenyra Targaryen, they said, seemed to have followed her uncle's footsteps. She had already disregarded her supposed role in the family, and the patriarchs of her suitor were not left unscathed with faints and chest puffing with anger at the girl's unconventional behavior. Alicent thought that somehow the rest were just an exaggeration.
It was at that moment of her musing that her father chose to stand up from his seat and rounded on her.
“You, my child, are to make yourself an ally with this Targaryen girl. You are to be in her good graces. Where she goes, you follow. You shall do everything within your power to make her trust you, and when she does, make her confide in you. The girl's relationship with her father is in shambles, this is your moment to strike. You are a woman, Alicent, you are not completely powerless. You can drive men to your feet. A woman's skill should not be made light of, especially in her ability to provide an heir to the family and make people like her.”
Alicent deferred her breath in fright, willing her hands not to pick her nails apart. Her father would get her involved with his politics, she realized. This is what he had always intended for her when he said that she is meant for serious things. Serious, not great.
‘You shall obtain her trust until she will tell you even the unnecessary trivialities in her life and will welcome you into her home. That girl may be a piece of work at the start, but working with the president for years had made me quite adept at hearing how this girl had often jeopardized her family’s reputation by being too indulging and careless. That girl will be the end of Viserys,” her father let out a smile that made her more uncomfortable. ‘And that's where your real task starts. You will influence her father with everything you could at your disposal ...”
She's going to be sick. Her right hand had made its way to cover the quake of both hands.
”...to make him have complete faith in you to extinguish any brotherly sentiment that the president has with Daemon Targaryen—until he makes him his estranged kin.”
The remaining reservations she's been holding was loose by a daunted gasp. She struggles to hold her tears and all she thinks about is that her father is going to be dismayed by this display of weakness and fear. She hardly even thought about the last statement. Her father is really serious about making her a harlot of a man of his age she hardly even knew, and she's worried about disappointing him by what she's feeling right now. She really is sick.
Alicent is not an idiot. She was not raised to be. She understood the first tim her father said to do everything at her disposal, and that includes her body in exchange for accomplishment. Three people, she thought. And it's a family. I'm going to fool two people, make them play into my hands. One whom I will remove from his rightful family. Why is father doing this? Her tears may have started to fall, as it was too late to pull herself together when she saw her father approaching her. His father wiped the tears in her cheek. He always knows when to do that after hurting her. His left arm gripping her shoulder too tight.
‘Alicent.’ He snapped. One word, and Alicent felt like a little girl again being reprimanded for being distracted from her lessons. He does not intend to be gentle. She knows that. He never was with her. Her wide eyes were at him at once.
‘You are not to be a weeping mayhem in front of me, and never in the arena of social survival. You will toughen up. You will not disappoint me. You should never put me to the seat of shame. I have obliterated men who dared to exhibit lapses such as this and I will not have you be the one to do that now. You are a grown woman and I trust you comprehend the gravity of this matter, do you understand?” She could feel her father's nails sinking into her shoulder's skin.
She felt numb, like a device by default that answers to her father on a whim. It took everything for her voice not to crack.
‘I understand, father. I will carry this out. I will not disappoint you. I swear it .'
Her father was too damn pleased. He stroked her hair. “I know you would, as your mother would be happy to see her daughter had grown into a humble child.”
A humble child.
What does it even mean?
Nonetheless, Alicent, the good child that she is , regarded him with a smile. This is my father. What he gives, I take and be grateful. What he tells me I am, I live up to it.
‘Thank you, father. I have understood what you told me and I'll see to it that it will be carried out.’ She forced a smile.
Her father went back to his chair. Like nothing happened. His back turned from her.
The nails departed from her shoulder's skin, and it made another region of her father's severity. Her father assured her that he is in flesh and she must believe him. It was an act of power, however mild the gesture was, and Alicent felt eerie how she longed for it to last more.