Chapter Text
Rhaenyra is at the port, overseeing her trunks being boarded on a ship to Westeros the morning the raven arrives. She is wiping her brow as the messenger hands her the letter, it is so very hot in Braavos. Rhaenyra might be a dragon but she is a dragon who prefers the heat of home. She expects the letter to be from her father, and wonders if this is a summons home coming so soon after the one that has her preparing to leave. The last letter merely hinted again at a plea to return, but it had been enough to persuade her. It was written in Alicent’s hand even if the words were all her father and that in itself had seemed like a message. A beacon that now was the time to come home.
This letter is in neither Alicent’s hand nor her father’s however, but that of a maester. And its words are ill indeed.
She is too late. Her father is dead and Daemon has taken her throne, the letter speaking of precedent and Viserys talking of her uncle’s son Aegon on his deathbed. Caraxes has already burned her father and she knows in her soul the sending of this letter was delayed until Daemon had been crowned, until her birthright had been fully taken.
Grief, regret, anger, these are her companions as she packs a bag she knows she can saddle to Syrax and prepares to leave. They are her companions too as she flies over the Narrow Sea, stopping in Pentos and then Dragonstone, cursing with each mile how close it really is on dragonback, how easy it would have been to visit her father.
Syrax has been quiet, aware of Rhaenyra’s mood no doubt, but as they arrive at the Dragonpit she can sense her excitement at rejoining her kin. With Viserys gone, Rhaenyra cannot claim to feel the same. Especially not when she sees her uncle waiting for her after she speaks with the Dragonkeepers.
“Am I to address you as king now?” she asks, the words bitter in her mouth.
He smirks, walking over and wiping some dust from her shoulder. Rhaenyra does not react. “That is generally the way one greets one’s sovereign, yes.”
“My father named me his heir. I am the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.” She looks him straight in the eye and does not falter. “Are you to be another Maegor the Cruel?”
“Yet I have been crowned. And your father spoke of my son on his deathbed, when you were in a far-off land, as you had been for many years as his health deteriorated.”
She wants to protest, her father was weakening, yes, but it had been gradual. There should have been more time. Her relationship with Alicent may have fallen away, but she trusted that the queen would send for her if her father was ever ill enough that his survival was in question. But he is dead and no word came until too late.
“And who is there to support your claim?” The echo of his words in the Dragonpit only serves to emphasise them. Rhaenyra has no husband, no army. The allies she thought she had, those who swore allegiance to her as heir, seem to have fallen in behind her uncle.
Daemon gestures to the wheelhouse and Rhaenyra has little choice but to join him. Dark Sister is at his hip and Rhaenyra only has a small Braavosi dagger under her skirts. There is no peace to be had as his questions continue, “And who would your heirs be?”
“My sisters. To continue my father’s line.” She will not give Daemon the satisfaction of naming him and his children, and she knows how he would hate the idea of Hightower blood upon the Iron Throne.
“Your sisters?” he sneers. “Could you even name them all?” She could. She’s sure she could. He snorts. “Could your father even name them? And none of them are fit to rule. The oldest is simple, the second sickly, and the younger ones look just like their mother.” Daemon is perhaps the only person who would make a girl having the look of the lady regarded as the most comely woman in Westeros sound like an insult.
His mouth thins and he leans forward. “That is one thing I will say for the Hightower whore though, she may have delivered only girls, and poor stock at that, but she did bear fruit.”
Rhaenyra clenches her fist behind her back, years of disappointment, of pain, swallowed silently as her uncle stares at her.
He leans back again, laying an arm over the back of the seat beside him. “I used to think if you had just married me, kept the bloodline pure, then maybe you might have produced an heir. After all, I’m not sure how much help your late husband was.” Laenor had tried. They had both tried. “But I hear you tried with others too, and to no avail.”
She will not be shamed by a man who spent his first marriage ignoring his wife in favour of the Street of Silk. She will not be shamed for wanting companionship, for wanting an heir, wanting a child. “And what of it? Did you not teach me that Targaryens do what they want?”
“As long as it keeps us in power, in our rightful place.” This is a more pragmatic point of view than she has heard from him in the past. “I thought of mayhaps giving you a little piece of ruling, of taking two wives as Aegon did, but I think not.” It was an idea that Rhaenyra had considered on her dragon ride in her darker moments, but the idea of begging for scraps repulsed her and when she had seen her uncle she knew that she would not lower herself to ask. “I have another match in mind for you.”
“I do not desire another marriage at this time, and when I do I can make my own.” If she is not to be queen she should at least be able to choose without a thought for duty.
“You will do as your king commands,” Daemon says slowly as the wheelhouse comes to a stop. He steps out, then looks over his shoulder. “I hope you have something more fitting to wear, I will announce your betrothal tonight.” He nods to a member of the Kingsguard standing outside the Red Keep. “Take the princess to her chambers.”
She feels almost in a daze as she walks through her old home, her mind racing with names of who Daemon could be planning to marry her to as courtiers press their condolences on her, none able to meet her eyes.
“Your father was a good man, Your Grace,” the knight says gruffly as they make a turn for the wing used to house guests.
Rhaenyra is discombobulated, had expected to be taken to her childhood room, but realises one of Alicent’s girls must sleep there now, or maybe even one of Daemon and Laena’s sons if they have already moved Alicent’s family out of the royal bedchambers. “He was, thank you Ser…”
“Erryk, Erryk Cargyll. My twin serves in the Kingsguard too, his name is Arryk.” Gods, how confusing. “This is to be your chamber, Princess.”
It’s a good, spacious room, not quite a royal chamber but not quite a slight either. She is relieved to see a bath has been prepared and a meal is waiting for her. “Thank you, Ser Erryk.”
He takes a look over his shoulder before handing her a catspaw dagger. Rhaenyra knows what it is before she grasps it. “Your father’s dagger, Your Grace. I thought you should have it.”
Aegon’s dagger, the dagger that speaks of a song of ice and fire. Could this have been the Aegon her father spoke of on his deathbed?
“Thank you, Ser. You do me a great kindness, I will not forget this.”
The knight bows deeply. “I am at your service, Princess.”
After he leaves, Rhaenyra clutches the dagger to her chest and finally cries.
The sun has set before a maid comes to help her dress and it is later still when a man she believes to be Ser Erryk comes to fetch her, only for him to reveal he is Ser Arryk. When they reach the throne room it feels as though much of the court is gathered, crowds on either side of the chamber with an empty aisle in the middle leading to where her uncle sits the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra’s stomach roils at the sight but she manages the barest of curtsies, waiting for Daemon to make some clever comment.
None comes, perhaps because Laena approaches her with an embrace. “I am so sorry for your loss, Rhaenyra. He was such a kind man.”
As Corlys looms in the background, Rhaenyra shoves away her thought that Laena’s father has seen his wish to see her as queen one way or another. It is unfair to think of this when greeting her goodsister, who has always been a friend. “Thank you, Laena. I see congratulations are in order.”
Laena cradles her belly, smiling down at it while Rhaenyra tries to summon a smile of her own. “I do hope this one is a girl. Three boys seems quite enough.”
“All children are a blessing,” Corlys intones and the smile falls right off Rhaenyra’s face. “Welcome home, Princess, I am sorry it is at such a sad time.”
“Thank you, Lord Velaryon, is Princess Rhaenys here with you?” She cannot see her anywhere and wonders if it is because of her presence. Her goodmother has never forgiven her for having Syrax burn Laenor’s body in Pentos, has never seemed willing to admit that Rhaenyra had no choice due to the fever that took him.
“She is with her grandsons,” Corlys says, and before he can add anything else the herald introduces the other person Rhaenyra has been both dreading and needing to see.
“The Dowager Queen Alicent of House Targaryen and her daughter, Princess Helaena of House Targaryen.” They come in accompanied by Ser Criston Cole who has served as Alicent’s sworn shield since the ill-fated night of Rhaenyra’s wedding.
Alicent is in green as she was then, as she almost always is according to the reports Rhaenrya hears, this dress almost martial in look, with a chain at her waist and an obnoxiously large seven-pointed star hanging on a necklace. Her hair is pulled back severely but even still she is beautiful. Her daughter is tall, a pretty child. A true Targaryen and ethereal with it.
She is shocked when Alicent hugs her, then begins to understand when she whispers in her ear. “I am so sorry, I tried to get a letter to you but…”
It is a balm to hear it. “Thank you.” She squeezes Alicent’s arm.
Her daughter is hovering behind her, a shy looking girl, and Alicent beckons her closer. “You must meet my Helaena, again.”
Helaena was just a babe when Rhaenyra last saw her, whose squalling she has yet to forget. Before she can introduce herself Daemon’s voice calls out.
“Such a heartwarming reunion. So good to see old disagreements buried. Tell me, where are your other children, Your Grace?”
Alicent stiffens. “The hour is late, my king. The younger princesses are abed in the Maidenvault.” That seems an interesting location to have placed Alicent and her children. She surveys the throne room. “The princes are as well I presume.”
“Yes, but the announcement tonight does not concern my sons the way it does your daughters.” He springs up from the throne.
Rhaenyra grows more worried, has he plans to make betrothals for the girls too? They are all children still, the youngest surely just a babe in arms.
“I have invited you all so that you may hear glad tidings of a wedding. I would like to announce the betrothal of the dowager queen to Princess Rhaenyra, the joining of the Mother of Princesses to the Mother of None.”
Gasps are heard around the room and Rhaenyra is sure she is going mad, that she cannot have heard what she did.
“But we are both women,” Alicent says, her own confusion apparent.
Daemon has arrived in front of them now and he smiles at Alicent, a smug, condescending thing. “I knew my brother did not marry you for what was in your head, Lady Hightower.” Oddly enough, her father had always maintained that he had married Alicent for her mind, shown in the interest she had given his model of Valyria and the support and counsel she had delivered. “But such marriages have been known to happen.”
Alicent’s mouth is a flat line, her eyebrows in a deep frown, but she maintains her composure. “I am well aware of that from my reading of the histories.” Rhaenyra had never heard of such a practice, not a true marriage, but Alicent was always the better student. “But those marriages were always meant as insults.”
Daemon frowns. “Do you think it an insult to be married to my niece?”
“No,” Alicent says with a quickness that rather surprises Rhaenyra, “but I do consider it highly unusual to be betrothed to my own… stepdaughter. All of this goes against all the teachings of the Seven.” Her hand searches for the seven-pointed star and it is only then Rhaenyra notices that her other hand is on Helaena’s elbow. The girl looks distressed, a slight tremor to be seen in her legs.
“The wedding shall bind Viserys’ line together as one. And the High Septon has agreed to wed you two days hence.” He gestures over to a nondescript man other than his rich septon’s garments, who looks vaguely ill but makes no protest.
This is apparently what it takes to let Rhaenyra call on her own voice to protest. “Two days?!” He wants this done as quickly as possible to prevent opposition.
“This is preposterous.” Lord Vaemond Velaryon pushes past his brother, who also looks uncomfortable. “The dowager queen is barely widowed, it would be unseemly to marry her to anyone so quickly, let alone the princess.” Perhaps Daemon truly is another Maegor, giving a widow seven days to mourn before forcing her to wed again.
“Do you mean to question your king, Vaemond?” Daemon demands, stalking closer to him.
“I would question any man who would propose such a plan.” He stands tall, giving up no ground.
Daemon unsheathes Dark Sister, raising it towards the older man, and Helaena screams. Her hands are over her ears and she is fully quaking now, pushing against Alicent who holds her tight, trying to soothe her.
Ser Criston steps in front of them, his face furious, his posture menacing, and for a moment Rhaenyra wonders if he will kill his new king.
“It will be done,” Alicent says as she holds a now still Helaena’s face in her hands, her eyes only on her daughter. She presses a kiss to her forehead before putting an arm around her back, turning to leave. “I will take the princess home.” Alicent looks back towards Rhaenyra, her face impassive now. “Please call in on us tomorrow, we have much to discuss, Princess Rhaenyra.”
Ser Criston follows them, his hand on the hilt of his sword, casting glares as he goes. The hall is deathly quiet now and Rhaenyra can feel all the eyes on her.
“I shall retire as well. It has been a very long day.” She curtsies to Laena rather than Daemon, the new queen unable to meet her eyes.
Arryk, or mayhaps Erryk, joins her and she is glad of it so that she can be sure to return to the right chamber. A flagon of wine has been left for her and she pours herself a glass in the hope that it may send her to sleep.
But sleep is so very hard to come by when her thoughts are all of this bizarre marriage plot, of what it might mean, and what Daemon might do to ensure it happens. Is it to insult Otto Hightower? To make a jest of herself and Alicent? She cannot make sense of any of it. All she can be certain of is that she does not know how to stop it.
Sleep does not provide her with any answers, nor the light of morning either.
Ser Criston is the Kingsguard member chosen to accompany her to meet Alicent in the Maidenvault and she does not know if this is on the request of the dowager or at her uncle’s behest, another jape or insult. He maintains a blissful, blessed silence as they make their way through the Red Keep, the only accompaniment to Rhaenyra’s thoughts the noises and smells of the courtyard.
She could not be so fortunate as to enter without a lecture from her once and erstwhile lover however, the knight coming to a stop outside the door of the foreboding structure, standing with his back to the door, his hand once again on the hilt of his sword. The gold cloaks guarding the building are watching, but he seems to pay them no heed, his eyes trained on Rhaenyra’s.
“I know you believe yourself to be above rules, Your Grace, but you are not to insult the queen. I am certain this… announcement,” his lips curl in disgust, “has added another great difficulty to what has been a most trying time.” He shakes his head. “To even conceive of such a marriage involving Her Grace who is the very image of the Mother.”
Rhaenyra looks around, keeps her voice low. “Ser Criston, whatever personal opinions you or I or anyone else may hold about this marriage, it has been decreed by the king who you are sworn to protect. Commenting negatively on it could cause further discomfort to the queen who you profess to respect.”
The knight grimaces, the left side of his mouth quirking upwards and then downwards, before nodding. “Well said, Your Grace.”
He pounds on the door without a thought to ask Rhaenyra if she is prepared for this extended reunion with her former girlhood companion, her future wife. The door is opened swiftly, more gold cloaks waiting inside which adds to Rhaenyra’s suspicion the Maidenvault may be returning to its original purpose as a prison. A serving girl leads them up a flight of stairs and opens a door leading to an expansive room which looks out to a balcony.
Alicent stands at the door to the balcony, sunshine streaming in behind her, and with her youngest babe in her arms she does indeed look the very image of the Mother. No rendering this lovely has ever featured in a sept Rhaenyra has visited, however. Age has only added to Alicent’s beauty, her features more defined, her hair curlier, her curves more pronounced. She is in another green dress, this gown more highnecked, black lace on her chest and at her throat.
Her greeting is warmer than Rhaenyra might have expected, given the news of last night, though her eyes are rather cold, or maybe empty. “Princess Rhaenyra, welcome.” Her curtsey dips only as low as to not be disrespectful, Rhaenyra matching hers. “Girls, this is your half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra.” She looks out towards the balcony, “Helaena, would you like to show Princess Rhaenyra your new specimen?”
It’s embarrassing that in her attention being so drawn to Alicent and the babe she hadn’t even noticed the older girls.
“I heard she is to be our second mother,” the frail, very fair child lying on the sofa, her legs under a blanket, her back propped up with cushions, says. She appears more interested in her needlework than greeting Rhaenyra.
“I think you hear altogether too much.” It’s not a chastisement from Alicent, more of a tease as her fingers tickle the girl’s cheek, causing her to giggle.
“Ser Criston!” The little girl who has been playing with her dolls on the floor, the one most like Alicent with her red curls, abandons them to rush past Rhaenyra towards the knight.
Ser Criston kneels and produces a flower from somewhere, “For you, Princess Rhaella,” he rises and hands another to the princess on the couch, “And for you, Princess Visenya.” He then kneels before Alicent, head bowed as if awaiting benediction, “My Queen.”
“I’m not quite sure that’s the term of address King Daemon would prefer you to use,” Alicent says lightly, waiting for Criston to rise before adding, “It is good to see you well.” It’s a pointed statement, but Rhaenyra cannot divine why.
Ser Criston hands another flower to Helaena when she walks in from the balcony. She looks much less impressed than her younger sisters had and Rhaenyra thinks she might be her favourite on this alone. “Mother, it’s a whirligig beetle.” She holds out her cupped hand to Alicent, letting the flower fall to the ground.
Alicent looks at the beetle much as she had looked at Rhaenyra’s dragon riding equipment when they were girls. “This one is rare in King’s Landing, is it not?” Helaena smiles, evidently pleased, and Alicent says, “A good find. Show it to Rhaenyra, I know you did not get a chance to speak last night but you first met when you were just a babe.”
Rhaella, Ser Criston’s most enthusiastic fan, pauses her perusal of her flower. “When Helaena was a babe? Was she younger than Alysanne?”
Alicent considers this question while Helaena makes rather slow progress over to Rhaenyra so she moves to meet her in the middle of the room. “Yes, she was younger than Alysanne is now.”
“It is good to see you again, Princess Helaena,” Rhaenyra tries to keep her voice gentle, like Alicent had. “You are almost a woman grown now.”
“Not yet. Blood must come first,” Helaena states, sounding quite unperturbed. “Do you like beetles?” she asks, holding out her hand.
Rhaenyra stares at the silverish-grey insect in her half-sister’s hand and sees nothing special about it. “This one is very fine. Do you collect them?” She thinks she was correct in thinking Daemon cruel for labelling the girl as simple, but there is something a touch odd about her.
“I had a great many but there is not enough room for them in my new chambers. There are many still in the keep and Prince Aegon means to destroy them.” There is a sudden intensity to her words, the feyness gone.
“Queen Laena will not let that happen, my love,” Alicent coaxes, in the manner of one who has talked oft upon the subject. “And Prince Aemond has shown an interest in your creatures before, he will take care of them. Why don’t you take your new beetle to your chamber and settle him with the others?”
Helaena nods and goes to leave, no words of goodbye to Rhaenyra. Alicent watches her go before smiling brightly down at Rhaella, “Will you show the princess how you have been practising your courtesies?”
Rhaella marches up to Rhaenyra and dips into what is a most impressive curtsey for one so small. “I am Princess Rhaella of House Targaryen,” she announces primly, before adding with a grin, “I’m five.”
Rhaenyra dips into a curtsey of her own. “I am Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen. I am a bit older than five.”
“Are you even older than Mother?” Rhaella asks, scrunching her nose up.
“Not quite that old,” Rhaenyra whispers, “but only by a few moons.”
She hears Alicent make some sort of noise, but when she looks over in her direction it’s Visenya standing up who catches her eyes. She’s slight but steady on her feet as she curtsies, introducing herself with a clear voice.
Rhaella tugs at Rhaenyra’s sleeve. “Visenya is eight.”
“Thank you, Princess.” Rhaenyra approaches the couch Visenya has sat back down on, Rhaella still holding onto her. “You have an illustrious name, after the warrior queen.”
“Mother named me that for strength.” Visenya rearranges the blankets around her legs and picks her needlework back up. “I think it suits me.” There’s a tilt to her chin that is all Alicent and it’s almost mesmerising to see such a Hightower mannerism on such a Targaryen girl.
“I’m sure it does.” Rhaenyra turns to Alicent who is standing ramrod straight though her face is soft as she smiles at the babbling babe in her arms.
“And this is Alysanne.” Alicent turns so that Rhaenyra can see the babe properly. She has a similar hair colour to Alicent and Rhaella, mayhaps a touch darker, but her eyes are violet. “Will you wave to Rhaenyra, Alysanne?” Alysanne bounces for a moment but chooses to knock her head forward and kiss Alicent rather than attempt to greet Rhaenyra.
“You have four beautiful children, Your Grace.” Rhaenyra means it truly. Four doted on children too, she had not expected to find Alicent so ensconced with her clatter of girls.
“Thank you.” Alicent is so stiff with her and yet so warm with her children. “Rhaella, can you tell Princess Rhaenyra how old Alysanne is?”
Rhaella frowns, not as sure on this one. “Fourteen moons. We didn’t have many cakes on her nameday because Alysanne can’t eat any yet.”
“That is disappointing,” Rhaenyra agrees. “I do love cake.”
“We shall have Helaena’s nameday next, she shall be ten. You can come for cake then.” Rhaella gives her a sunny smile.
“There shall be cake at the wedding,” Visenya says.
Alicent sighs but before she can say anything Rhaella asks, “What wedding?”
“When Mother marries Princess Rhaenyra,” Visenya states, in a way that suggests Rhaella is rather stupid.
Rhaella frowns. “But all mothers are married, why would Mother marry again?”
“Father is dead,” Visenya states with a cold formality that cuts Rhaenyra.
“Girls,” Alicent interjects, only to be interrupted herself by a voice from behind them.
“Threads of green and threads of black, intertwining in beginning and end.” Helaena speaks her words almost in a sing-song, then sits by Visenya and picks up some needlework of her own like nothing has been said at all.
The younger girls immediately break into squabbling again, the babe starting to fuss and Rhaenyra feels completely at sea for what to do. Alicent glances up to the sky and then says, “There shall be no more talk of weddings or marriage. Princess Rhaenyra and I shall discuss matters amongst ourselves and afterwards I shall let you know what you need to know when you need to know it.” She takes Rhaella’s hand. “Sweetling, will you and Jeyne go and check in the kitchen to see when lunch might be ready? We must provide refreshment for our guest.”
After Rhaella leaves with the serving girl, Alicent tucks a strand of Visenya’s hair behind her ear, her other hand rubbing Alysanne’s back. “Try not to taunt her with knowing more, it is part of being younger that she knows less.”
“I don’t like not knowing things,” Visenya says, face a little mulish.
“Exactly, and the same is true of Rhaella.”
Visenya closes her eyes. “She vexes me.”
Alicent’s eyes catch Rhaenyra’s and the gleam in them makes Rhaenyra feel like they are conspirators again. “I think that is the way of younger sisters. I am sure you all vex Helaena at times.”
“You both talk too much,” Helaena says, eyes focused on the spider she is embroidering.
Rhaenyra bites her lip so as not to laugh at Visenya’s offended expression, surprised to find that she can want to laugh with all that has happened, all that is yet to happen.
“The princess and I shall be on the balcony, call if you need me,” Alicent instructs, gliding towards the door like she expects Rhaenyra to follow.
“Your Grace,” a maid approaches, “shall I take Princess Alysanne?”
“Oh.” Alicent frowns, pressing a kiss to the babe’s forehead before handing her to the nursemaid. “Thank you. She might like some time practising her walking.” As Alicent rubs her arms it comes to Rhaenyra that such a placid babe was perhaps being held for her mother’s comfort rather than her own.
“Would you like wine, water?” the dowager queen asks, going over to a side table and pouring wine from a jug for herself.
“Wine please.” Rhaenyra thinks she might have need of it.
“My Q-, Your Grace, would you like me to accompany you?” Ser Criston had gone awfully quiet whenever the princesses had grown loud.
“Thank you, ser, but the princess and I were old friends, I think we shall manage quite well by ourselves.” It’s a clear dismissal and Ser Criston treats it as one, bowing before retreating to the door.
Rhaenyra follows Alicent out onto the balcony, taking the glass of Dornish red offered to as she sits.
“I am sorry about your father. I did not get to truly express that when I saw you last night,” Alicent says, her eyes not meeting Rhaenyra’s but her voice sounding sincere. “I am not sure what our new king told you of his passing, but he spoke of you at the end.”
Rhaenyra clenches her dress in her hand. “Did he ask why I was not there?”
“No,” Alicent’s tone is softer than any she has directed to Rhaenyra in a great number of years. “I believe that he thought you were with him. The pain, the milk of the poppy… he was confused.” Her lips thin. “He spoke of you as his only child.” She takes a sip of wine.
“I am sorry for your loss too.” All these years and she still cannot truly bear to think of Alicent as her father’s wife, of those girls as her sisters. “Were you there when he spoke of Aegon?”
Alicent nods, casts her eyes around before whispering. “I could not make sense of it. It was not even clear whether he was speaking of Daemon’s Aegon in truth.”
It is as Rhaenyra had thought. “Could he have meant the Conqueror?”
“I suppose. He did speak of dreams?” Alicent fiddles with the rings on her fingers.
A song of ice and fire. There is no question. Her father spoke only of her and Aegon’s dream on his deathbed. He had not wavered in his decision to have her as his heir. But Daemon has claimed the throne and there is little Rhaenyra can think to do. She has no army at her disposal, no city watch of her own. She doesn't even know to whom she can turn for allies.
“Did you attend Daemon’s coronation?” He had moved swiftly, Rhaenyra doubts the silent sisters had even finished preparing her father.
“That was the only other time I have left the Maidenvault other than the announcement last night since we were placed here. I do not know how long he plans to keep us here.” Alicent purses her lips, one of those remarkably expressive gestures so at odds with her usual serene control. “Your uncle is very fond of japes, I may have borne no sons but no one could mistake me for a maiden.”
“Do you think this wedding may be just a jape? That he may not go through with it?” Daemon has always been capricious.
“Rhaenyra, he threatened his wife’s uncle last night when he spoke against it.” Alicent shakes her head. “No, I think the wedding is a very clever ploy. It extinguishes your line and may stop people supporting your claim. Moreover, if there is any chance I might somehow produce a living son at the last, surely me being married to a woman would cast his birth in enough shame and scandal to stop men moving to his cause.”
“Could you be with child?” The wine tastes sour in her mouth, sourer than it should. Her father had been an old man before his time.
“My husband was assiduous until the end.” Alicent takes a gulp of wine. “I wonder now if he knew Daemon might be planning something.” She sniffs. “Of course he did not tell me that.” She glances towards Rhaenyra, “My apologies. He was a good man.”
A good man, perhaps a good king, but Rhaenyra does not know if he can be classed as a great one if this is the chaos that follows in the wake of his death.
“What should we do with this marriage proposal?” she attempts to keep her voice light.
“Proposal?” Alicent looks at her fully now, her eyes pitying. “Rhaenyra, it is an order.” Her fingers pick at her nails. “I believe there is naught we can do.”
“Surely your family will not let this happen?”
A cough comes from the solar and Alicent looks over her shoulder before answering. “My father will be wroth but I do not know how far he will go to protect me.” She clicks her tongue. “I have proved rather a poor investment. Mayhaps the wedding could stir the swords of Oldtown but I think my uncle too sensible a man to go up against the combined might of the Targaryens and Velaryons. Against dragons.”
Rhaenyra cannot imagine that Otto Hightower will let his greatest rival marry his only daughter to another woman, but it will be at least a moon’s turn before any army could reach King’s Landing. “And what of the Faith? Surely they will not all fall into line with this.”
“The High Septon will wed us,” Alicent says, though there is disbelief in her voice. “The Faith have let Targaryen kings do as they see fit. Perhaps the Doctrine of Exceptionalism can stretch to women wedding women.”
“Dragons,” she surmises. “And I only have one.” One dragon and no other supporters making themselves known.
“And Helaena’s Dreamfyre.” Rhaenyra cannot tell if Alicent means in a stand against their marriage or a full-on rebellion against Daemon’s rule and thinks it best not to ask. She does find it heartening though. Surprising too. But it is nowhere near enough.
“Then we shall be married on the morrow.” It might have been a dream of hers once, now a nightmare come to life.
“I am sorry.” Alicent is looking straight at her again and Rhaenyra is not used to this at all. “I fear this is a much worse outcome for you than for me.”
“How so? You have always been the more pious of us, the more careful of your reputation.” She wonders if Alicent too is thinking of that day in the godswood, of how that lie changed things between them yet again.
“You have no plans to harm my daughters, do you?” Rhaenyra is almost too dumbfounded to make her dissent clear. “And no plans to kill me?”
“Alicent, I know things have been strained between us but I have never…”
Alicent continues, almost as if Rhaenyra had not spoken. “And you cannot get a child on me and have me die in the childbed. It is better than I could hope for being married off to any number of men who would no doubt be foolhardy enough to believe they could succeed in getting a son on me.” She smoothes out her skirts. “My girls need me alive. I will do what Daemon wants as long as it keeps them safe.” The flash in her eyes reminds Rhaenyra that Alicent is a Targaryen now, perhaps not only in name. “I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”
“I know. You are a good mother.” She has seen that today. And it has made her ache for all that has never been and will never be hers.
“Not always.” Alicent takes a breath. “But I try.” She frowns. “Do you think Daemon will have us remain here or will we be permitted to leave King’s Landing?”
“I imagine he will have us here for a few moons, mayhaps until it is sure you are not with child?” The thought of what Daemon might do if Alicent is with child is one she is not ready to entertain. He is cold now in a way she is not familiar with.
Alicent nods. “Will you return east?”
“I do not know.” Dragonstone is still her seat, but if Aegon is now heir perhaps it shall become his. “I would not make you accompany me. You could return to Oldtown?”
“I scarcely know where would feel like home now. I was last there after Rhaella was born.” It had coincided with Rhaenyra’s last visit to the court. “I do not know if I would receive a great welcome.”
“Wherever you choose to go, I will make sure you are taken care of. It is what my father would have wanted.” As much as it pains Rhaenyra to think on, Alicent was a loyal and devoted wife.
“And your duty as my… lady wife.” Alicent laughs, a sound Rhaenyra hasn’t heard in years, the first that makes her feel at home since her return. She cannot help but join in, even as both their laughter turns towards the hysterical.
A sound of armour moving puts Rhaenrya on alert, but it is only Ser Cole. “Are you well, Your Grace?” His concern is clearly all for Alicent and Rhaenyra wonders that she did not mention him in people who could rescue her from this marriage.
“Quite well, thank you.” Alicent looks over her shoulder. “And the girls? They do not have need of me?”
“All well, Your Grace. I believe lunch will be served soon.” He bows and leaves them, not without sending what appears to be a warning glance Rhaenyra’s way.
“I know Ser Criston does not approve of this marriage, would he not help you stay free of it?”
“Ser Criston is a great warrior, but he is but one man. And he has made vows, I would not have him break them.” There she is. Righteous, saintly Alicent. “Not without a chance of success. I cannot fathom how he could manage to spirit me and four children out of the keep.”
It would be easier for Rhaenyra to escape. All she needs is to get to the Dragonpit, to get to Syrax. But running feels like abandoning her birthright once and for all and she does not know where that would leave Alicent and her children.
There is a commotion behind them and they look to see serving girls carrying in a wide variety of dishes, Rhaella leading them.
“Wash your hands before eating, girls,” Alicent calls. “And remember that we have a guest.”
She makes her way over to a jug and bowl, dipping her own hands in while her daughters begin to crowd around her.
“We have been perfect ladies,” Rhaella says.
Visenya elbows her out of the way. “There was no fighting.”
Alicent fixes them with a look. “Fighting with words is still fighting.”
“That was a mere disagreement,” Visenya says airily, apparently oblivious to the daggered eyes Rhaella is sending her way.
They dry their hands and make their way to the table, squabbling still, while Helaena approaches her mother, Alysanne at her hip. Alicent takes the babe from her and washes her little hands while Helaena washes her own.
Rhaenyra joins them, thinking it would be a bad example not to. Alicent smiles in what Rhaenyra thinks might be thanks. “You will need to get used to this I fear, Princess. Not quite warfare like you saw in the Stepstones but not always far off.”
“I would not relish being on the opposing side to Visenya and Rhaella on dragonback.” They seem quite frightening enough as they are.
“Rhaella and I don’t have dragons. Mine hasn’t hatched and Rhaella and Alysanne weren’t given eggs,” Visenya informs her.
Rhaenyra frowns, taking the seat at the end of the table opposite Alicent. She cannot imagine a prince not receiving an egg on his birth. “My egg did not hatch either, Princess. I claimed Syrax. But if you and your sisters would like eggs, the Dragonkeepers have told me that Syrax will lay a clutch soon. You may all pick one.”
Rhaella grabs Alysanne’s pudgy hand and shakes it. “We are to have dragons, Alys!” The babe looks more interested in the food the serving girl has placed in front of her. She is in Alicent’s arms and when Rhaenyra looks up at the dowager queen’s face she sees it quite transformed into an openness that almost hurts her throat, like the air does when Syrax soars especially high.
“That is very generous, thank you.” Alicent blinks and smiles encouragingly towards her daughters, “Girls, you must thank your… Princess Rhaenyra.” The girls chorus their appreciation and then bow their heads for prayer. “We thank the Seven for the food we shall eat, for the friends at our table, and for our health to enjoy it. We ask for their protection in the days to come.” Rhaenyra doesn’t bow her head, looks around the table from Alicent’s closed eyes to Rhaella beside her so like her mother, Helaena tracing a pattern on the table to Visenya who is looking right at her.
The children start to eat as soon as the prayer is complete, a serving girl helping Rhaella cut her food while Alicent feeds Alysanne. No one appears to think this is anything out of the ordinary even as serving girls and nursemaids flit around and Alicent’s food surely grows cold.
“Have you discussed the wedding, Mother?” Helaena asks and it appears that Alicent is surprised by the daughter the question came from rather than the question itself from the way she looks between her two eldest.
“Yes, sweetling.” Alicent clears her throat. “Your uncle Daemon, our new king, has decided that I should marry Princess Rhaenyra to keep our family bonds tied. This is… unusual, but Targaryens have made matches unlike other families in Westeros since their arrival on these shores. We shall be wed on the morrow.”
“Will there be cake?” Rhaella asks.
Alicent pats her hand. “I do not know. A feast might not be in the best taste so soon after your father’s death.”
“I think we can persuade the kitchens to give us some cake, even if it is just amongst ourselves.” Rhaenyra does not want the spectacle of a feast, but she isn’t going to let the absence of cake affect Rhaella’s view of her.
“And what do we call Princess Rhaenyra?” Visenya asks. “Is she our sister-mother?”
Alicent grimaces, her lips opening to reveal her teeth clamped together.
“Rhaenyra is fine,” she interjects, hoping that this is of help rather than a hindrance. “Your mother is your mother.”
“Princess Rhaenyra when with others,” Alicent adds, which Rhaenyra will allow is a sensible condition.
“Are we to have new dresses for the wedding?” Rhaella demands, the piece of meat she is wielding in the air looking dangerously close to landing on the gown she is wearing.
Visenya sighs. “They are to be married tomorrow. How would we have new dresses by then?”
“Green and black,” Helaena says with a decisiveness that feels a little surprising even though Rhaenyra has barely met her. “You should wear green and black.”
Alicent smiles at her eldest daughter, a cautious, gentle smile that Rhaenyra is not sure she’s ever seen before. “Perhaps red and black? It is a Targaryen wedding.”
“Do you have any red or black dresses, Mother?” Visenya asks. “I do not recall you wearing one.”
Alicent raises her eyebrows and stares at Visenya, who simply does exactly the same until the line of Alicent’s mouth curves into a smile. She looks towards Rhaenyra, “You see, Your Grace, I cannot get away with any falsehoods.”
“Evidently not.” Alicent had never been one for falsehoods, omissions maybe but not outright lies. “Perhaps we should wear green and black, you were a Hightower first and green has always suited you.” The intention behind it was not the only breathtaking thing about that green dress at Rhaenyra’s first wedding. “I will wear black and the girls can choose what they like.” They are in an array of colours today - Helaena in gold, Visenya in blue, Rhaella in spring green and Alysanne in white.
“It is decided then,” Alicent says with a nod, and Rhaenyra supposes that it is.
She will wed Alicent Hightower tomorrow, for better or for worse.