Chapter Text
Criston remembered the smell of his mother’s hair, a thick black curtain, the ends tickling his face when she bent down to brush a kiss to his forehead as she bid him goodnight. It was lilies, his father’s favorite, soft and sweet, bringing to mind visions of Spring. His mother preferred orange blossoms, the clean, honey-citrus scent that drifted on the breeze of her homeland, those delicate white flowers that littered the sunswept pathways of her family’s villa.
His father refused to buy her any scent but lily, so his mother would keep the small vial of orange blossoms tucked away. Letting Criston smell it on the nights he was plagued by nightmares, or when she was particularly homesick.
The wind swept by him as he removed his helmet, and for a fleeting moment the scent of orange blossoms hit him once more. He approached the balcony, intent on asking the Princess Rhaenyra for her favor, a subtle dig at the Rouge Prince he had previously unseated. As he did, he saw the Lady Alicent. She was in a powder blue gown, her hands clasped together. She stood beside Rhaenyra as she always did, with a look of cautious interest on her face.
When Rhaenyra disappeared from sight, Alicent watched him with that same careful interest, her eyes on his face, his bloodied armor, then darting to the ground beneath his feet. Rhaenyra tossed him her favor and Alicent’s eyes were still on him, a slight smile toying at her lips. He must admit that his eyes did not return her gaze, not when the princess was watching him so closely.
Later on, he is chosen as the Princess’ swornshield, a position his father would be proud of, one that hurled him up the social ladder and gave him a purpose besides fighting. Now he was the protector of the heir, of Princess Rhaenyra. But with the Princess comes her companion, Lady Alicent.
The Lady Alicent is soft-spoken, devout, and navigates the realm of politics with far more grace than Rhaenyra. Neither of them would voice this shared knowledge, nor would they ever speak ill of Rhaenyra, but Criston sees the way Alicent guides Rhaenyra through the swells and rapids of the court. He finds the more he physically sees Alicent, the deeper his gaze seems to go. No longer is she merely Rhaenyra’s companion, but Alicent, a sweet and intelligent woman who enjoys reading and prayer. She remains on the ground with him when Rhaenyra takes to the skies with Syrax and they talk. About everything and nothing, hours and hours of conversation had led them to become quite close, and it is to him, she lets slip her visits with the king.
“I am awfully tired; dinner ran quite long.” She said, hiding her yawn behind the sleeve of her gown.
“With your father?” He asked offhandedly, spreading out the blanket they both would sit on as they waited for Rhaenyra to return.
“No, with the king.” She answered without thinking, her face a mirror of the shock on his.
“The king?” He repeated, confused, and slightly concerned when Alicent’s eyes began to well with tears.
“Please Criston you cannot tell Rhaenyra, I—my father will be so angry, and I do not know what to do any longer.” She choked out, picking at her nails, as she was prone to do in her anxieties.
Criston nodded and bid her to sit. “Am I correct in assuming that your father does not wish for you to merely learn from our king?”
She nods and lets out a shaky breath. “I am doing what has been asked of me, I am not a son, my choices in life are limited.”
“Nor are you, Rhaenyra.” He said softly, risking a hand upon her hand to cease her picking.
“Nor am I Rhaenyra.” She echoed, eyes drifting to the sky.
He realized Alicent smelt of orange blossoms on his nameday. Rhaenyra had given him leave for the day; one he begrudgingly took. He spent it in the gardens, among the flowers. He sketched each blossom, each branch of the surrounding trees, and is only stirred from his solitude by soft footsteps.
“Ser Criston?” Alicent called to him quietly, a small parcel in her hands. The sun is setting behind her, the reds and oranges meshing with her hair as if futility attempting to imitate the radiance that is her very being.
“Lady Alicent, good evening.” He closed his sketch book and stood bowing his head slightly towards her.
“Please, do not stand on account of me. I merely wished to give this to you.” She held the parcel out to him.
He took it carefully and unwrapped it.
“The shopkeeper called it A Collection of Dorne, though I do not know if he has ever been there.” She explained, waiting for any reaction, good or bad, from him.
He isn’t sure what to say. The parcel contained a small box, which held a minute vial of perfume, a bundle of spices, a small tome on the history of Dorne, and an amber bracelet.
“The tome is supposed to have the genealogy of the major houses, and their bannermen, I thought perhaps you might find your mother’s family within the pages.” Alicent continued, words tumbling from her lips faster than he could gather his thoughts.
“This is…wonderful, thank you, Ali—Lady Alicent.” He took her hand and pressed it to his lips in gratitude, and the scent of orange blossoms rose from her skin.
“Of course, you have dedicated your life to Rhaenyra, and in a small way, to me as well, it is only right that I offer some show of gratitude for your service, especially on your nameday.”
He held the perfume up to the dying sunlight. Orange blossom. “My mother was quite fond of this scent.”
Alicent smiled softly. “I am fond of it as well, it has been my choice since I was young, it calms me.”
It was the day Viserys announced his intentions to marry Alicent that Criston realized the depths of his affections. The way he could barely keep the shock off his face, how he followed Rhaenyra out of the room though his heart longed to stay by Alicent, to speak with her, and—
But he is a White-Cloak, sworn to the crown, and she is no longer Lady Alicent, a woman with no betrothed and his heart in her hands. So, he followed Rhaenyra, and did not meet Alicent in the sept that night, or the next one. His visits to the sept do not cross with hers until she was swelled with her first child, and she cried against his breastplate in a shadowed alcove, terrified and in pain.
Then Aegon is born, and he found moments to send Alicent strength through a glance, or through catching the toddler as he runs for the gardens and returning him to her, always lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Then Helaena is conceived. Alicent is constantly ill, and plagued with nightmares. He bribed a servant to bring Alicent the vial of orange blossom perfume. It wouldn’t look out of place in her chambers, it’s known that the queen preferred the Dornish perfume, but he knew Alicent would understand its significance.
Then it happened, that singular moment in which he realized Rhaenyra was still a Targaryen. Still a member of the royal family, a family who worked for nothing, who inbreeded and squabbled among themselves for power while the realm watched on in disgust and rapt awe. Much like watching a particularly vicious duel, all in the stands know the loser will be mourned by his family, but in the heat of the moment all one can do is call for his blood. He rebuffed her advances, shaken to his core by the idea of bedding Rhaenyra. Though as he fled the room he realized it was not merely a matter of vows or cloaks, but of the vow he made to himself. How he willingly placed his heart in Alicent’s hand and would not forsake her, even now.
He’s desperate, heart pounding in his chest, helmet abandoned to the stone floor outside Rhaenyra’s room. He ordered another guard to watch her, to stand outside her room, and prayed to The Seven they would not be propositioned as he was. His footsteps echoed in the dead of the night, and he isn’t quite sure where he’s headed. Soon enough he found himself standing before Alicent’s door, knocking before he can remind himself that she is Rhaenyra’s former friend, not his, and this very well may be the final sharpening of the executioner’s axe.
He has been acting upon his own feelings, with no true idea of the queen’s own.
Alicent slowly opened the door, her chestnut hair loose about her shoulders, a white dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. Her eyes, honeyed in the sunlight, but now an evening dusk, the merging of the fading rays of the sun bent and folded into a shadowed umber glow, widened at the sight of him.
“Ser Criston? Is Rhaenyra well?” Her tone is hushed, cautious but tinged with fear. She and Rhaenyra are no longer friends, Rhaenyra citing betrayal as the reason, with Alicent giving only sadden silence as her answer, but he knew Alicent worried about her still, she has told him as much.
“May I come in? It is of the utmost importance.” He said quietly, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone had caught sight of his frantic flight.
She stared at him for a moment, eyes searching his face, then opened the door wider, allowing him to slip in. “What has happened to Rhaenyra?” She asked once more, following as he strode further into her room and grabbed the edge of a nearby chair, steeling himself.
“She is unharmed, physically.” He managed to say, forcing himself to turn and face her.
Both women were beautiful, but Alicent’s beauty held a softness to it. There is something within her features that drives his need to protect. From the moment in the sept, when she spoke of her mother to him and Rhaenyra, he knew he must protect her, that it was his purpose given to him by the gods themselves.
“Physically? Has she been harmed in another way? We must tell the King.” Alicent wrung her hands, unable to stand still.
“She emerged wearing the clothes of a peasant boy, bid me enter into her chambers and attempted to seduce me, I rebuffed her advances, I assure you, My Queen, but I…”
“It must have been Daemon, wishing to prey upon her weakness for him, and their family’s queer customs.” She said, her voice trembling as she gathered herself and sat on the nearby settee.
He knelt before her, removing his gloves, and setting them aside. “My Queen, I rejected the Princess, I fear that she will—I do not wish to stay here any longer.”
She wouldn’t look at him, not even when he took her hands in his, his thumbs caressing her smooth skin. “I cannot say I do not understand your fears, or your desire to flee.”
Criston released one of her hands to wipe away the tears slipping down her cheeks. “Alicent, I love you. And I am aware that you are burdened by duties and that your children are precious to you, I would never ask you to sacrifice such things, but I cannot deny my true feelings any longer. Not when I have been offered to warm the bed of The Realm’s Delight, and all that plagued my mind was how desperately I wished she was you.”
Her eyes flitted to his, a pink dusting across her cheeks at his words. “Criston I—what would you have me do? I have loved you for moons upon moons, but I am married.”
“You did not mean your vows, you have said it yourself, that the vows are not binding if said unwillingly. You were forced to marry him.” He silently pleaded with her to hold his gaze. To see how desperately he wished to love her, not merely in private or from afar, but freely and in the eyes of all.
Alicent’s shoulders slumped, and she curled in on herself as a quiet sob escaped her lips. “I cannot bear this pain any longer, I cannot be a pawn and watch as my father turns my children into game pieces as well…but I am scared, Criston.”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her against his chest, his large hand cradling the back of her head. “I will protect you, and the children, I swear to you.”
“How?” She sniffled, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping The Stranger from coming to collect her soul.
“We will flee, sail to Dorne, and start anew. I will pledge my sword to the highest bidder, and you may study history, and religion, or whatever else catches your eye. The children will be free from the pressures of the throne, and they will be happy.” He promised, pulling back so that she might see how fervently he believed in the idea.
Alicent said nothing for a moment, simply staring at an empty space behind his shoulder and crying silently, then she spoke. “Let us go, now, Rhaenyra will be nursing her pride, and Viserys will not call for me tonight, this is our only chance.”