Chapter Text
Alicent Hightower stands above the courtyard, her hands against stone, rough and grating on her palms as she curls them round the balcony railing. Her face remains passive, stony to an onlooker, as she watches the princess Rhaenyra with her ladies in waiting. Her grip tightens, only releasing ever so slightly at the fear she might draw blood, prove herself more unworthy to her husband. Her gaze follows the gaggle of girls, because that is what they are, as they chatter incessantly about whichever royal lady is with child, and who is betrothed to who. The girl in the centre, commanding them all with nothing more than her presence, remains her focus. The heir, the queen who has taken her place, a girl still, even at eight and ten.
There had been a time when she had thought perhaps she might be a mother to the girl, a companion to confide in should she need. But she had quickly realised the order that they stood in. Viserys saw Aemma in his daughter, he saw the fire of the dragon in her, and she would always come first. Any child she provided would be second only to his golden child, and for Rhaenyra’s part she was a threat, providing sons that had the opportunity to overwrite her status as heir. Any hope she may have had for friendship had been lost the day she had announced her pregnancy with Aegon. Rhaenyra only fourteen, but her words held the fire of a girl twice her age. He will never be my brother, and you will die a Hightower. And that had been that.
She turns on her heels, back into the Red Keep, walking to her chambers. Her palms hurt, as does the incessant ache behind her eyes. Aegon screeches for her attention but she ignores him, sinks into a chair in the corner of the room. Her insides churn with an empty kind of sickness, ready to burn its way out of her. All of this and for what. She has given him three children, given him her maidenhead, only to be ousted as queen before he is even dead. To be relegated to dowager queen, powerless and unwanted, haunting the halls of the Red Keep as men whisper of her corrupt father, of her manipulative ways. If only they knew how desperately she had tried to claw her way into her father’s heart, maybe they would see she has nothing at all to bargain with.
“Your grace,” comes the voice of her handmaiden at the door.
“Come,” she commands,
“The king requests your presence in his chambers,”
Alicent resists the urge to roll her eyes. Since his illness has persisted, spread, she has been summoned at whim almost daily. He has all but disappeared from his seat on the council and instead spends his days poring over the histories, playing at war with his stone sculptures. Although, whatever tedious discussion she has to engage in each morning is arguably triumphed by the afternoons, where she sits upon the highest seat in the realm, even if it is in Viserys’ name. Though after the coronation that is to be held at the end of the week, she’ll no longer have that seat. Her only seat will be in Viserys’ chambers, or God forbid the birthing bed again. She barely restrains a shudder and nods in the direction of her handmaiden.
Her footsteps echo along the passages of the Red Keep. Once, the history books tell, there was a time when court had been a lively place. In the days of Queen Alysanne the court had thrived, filled with singers and jesters and nobles from all across the realm. With Viserys practically bedridden those days are mere murmurs from long past, whistling in the empty stone corridors. She had hoped, as a girl of five and ten, that someday she might have been the king’s Alysanne. The good queen of the small folk. But it was as Rhaenyra so eloquently put it, she would die a Hightower, and her father’s legacy, even if he was gone from court, prevailed in the daughter he had manoeuvred so expertly.
“Alicent!” Viserys calls for her as she is announced into the room, “perfect, I had wished to seek your counsel.”
She looks at him. Her old, sickly husband, and all she can see is his hands. Hands that have danced along every inch of her skin, taking and taking until she is sure she’s all stone and no softness, like a victim of greyscale turned inside out. She takes a seat beside him, folding her hands over her lap on instinct. What is learned cannot be unlearned, she knows that more than most.
“What did you seek to ask, husband?” She half sighs, knowing he won’t take any interest in her tone. Not with those stone pieces in his hands. “And might we make it quick? I do have the small council to attend to.”
“Those vultures can wait,” he jokes. Although they both know it is a joke formed in truth these last years.
She smiles back, knows exactly how to twist her face into just the right shape for him.
“I had hoped, in truth, to ease some fears with you,” Viserys continues, “about Rhaenyra.”
As practiced as she is, she can’t wholly control her face at the mention of the girl’s name. Her eyebrows twitch, and her smile wavers just slightly.
“Rhaenyra?”
“I worry for her,” he frowns, “she is young, and her youth betrays her. She will make a great queen, a better ruler than I can be at present, but I worry for her nonetheless. She is my daughter, after all.”
Alicent hears the half stutter before daughter. Hears the unspoken only, even though Helaena is two rooms away with the wet nurse. Two sons and a daughter, and still Rhaenyra is the only one he sees.
“Of course, she has the arrogance of youth,” Alicent dismisses with a wave of her hand, “and she has not learnt all that young rulers learn, she was only named heir six years ago, after all.”
Viserys nods sagely, mulling over her words.
“Perhaps,” she begins, feeling out every word against her tongue. Her advice must come across as selfless, as genuine, but as correct nonetheless. “Perhaps my king might delay this coronation, until she is of an older age. Has had time to learn all that you can teach.”
Viserys pulls a face and she knows then that there is no hope. The fickle king has for once made a decision, it fits that it would be one that she disliked.
“Her wedding to Laenor is in two days time, her coronation paid for and planned.” He argues, “to delay now would be unwise. Lords and ladies from across the realm will already be on their journeys.”
“I see,” she nods. “A wise argument.”
“But I worry, still,” he says, “which is why I had wanted to request your services.”
“My services?”
“You have sat by my side for seven years, ruled in my stead when I have not had the strength, and you were raised by an able Hand, even speaking with hindsight.” Viserys says. “I would, if I could, take the seat beside my daughter, but alas my body will not carry me there. So, it would fall on me to name a new Hand. And I feel that you, my wife, would rise to this task.”
The words permeate Alicent’s mind like a fog. Hand. It is much better than dowager Queen, she reasons, and like Viserys said, she is in many ways her father’s daughter. She had seen the power he wielded in that seat. Her place in the council would remain, her words would be heard, in truth it seems a stroke of fortune from the Gods. But, like a knife cut through the fog, she quickly remembers who’s service she would be in. Rhaenyra’s. Stubborn, arrogant, listless. Perhaps this is just a new punishment the Gods have derived to test her.
“You would name me Hand?”
Viserys nods, “you have proven yourself able,” he says, “and with the mutterings surrounding my daughter, surrounding me, I fear naming anyone who is not family.”
“The lords of the realm will murmur on this too,” she says, “a woman hand? they may not take to it.”
“Let them talk,” he says. “Any man who speaks against it, you give the order to have his tongue. They will soon cease.”
Alicent dare not argue. She wants this, she wants to have a say in her own realm, her own life.
“Thank you for this honour, my king.” She folds into herself, makes herself small so he will not see the ambition sparkling in her eyes. “I will do as you would.”
He grasps her hand and she doesn’t flinch. It’s taken years to get here.
“I trust that you will.” He says.
—
Two days later she sits beside Viserys at the high table, eyes sweeping over the scenes in front of her, fingers curled around a cup full of dark red liquid she’s had too much of already. She can see Rhaenyra. Everyone can see Rhaenyra. She’s a Targaryen, a jewel that women envy and men covet spinning circles around her dance partners. But it’s that everyone can see her that Alicent sneers at with disdain, because yet again she is making a mockery of everything that has been built with her in mind. She’s dancing with her uncle, faces close, whispers passing in breaths across the inches of distance between them. It isn’t a stretch to see their… affection for one another, and she knows the lords of the realm watch on with eager eyes. They gather rumours and whispers like magpies hoarding stones, spreading across the realm like a sickness as they return to their seats. A queen cannot be acting this way, she must learn that there are eyes in every corner.
Viserys watches on, unaware. He’s jovial, head fuzzy with wine and memories of a time long gone. With a wife he loved and a family at the height of their power. He speaks across the table to Laena, tales of dragons and wars and things he’s never felt himself, only read in the histories. Laena, for her part, is watching her brother. Alicent watches Laenor too. The court feeds on rumours, and every man in this room knows of the future king consort’s preferences. But he is too open with it, too secure in his last name. His hand brushes against his paramour’s with open affection, his eyes roaming over the man sworn to protect him, rather than the woman he is due to marry. A part of Alicent wants to sit back and watch as Rhaenyra and Laenor weave their own undoing, twisting and snaring themselves into a trap that they can’t get out of. But the other part knows that what they do will be her mess to clean up, and if Rhaenyra is overthrown it won’t be her sat in the Hand’s seat. She is tied to the girl, like or not, unless she proves herself valuable she will be forced to remain in the castle, powerless and restless. And that is at best. At worst, come the death of Viserys, she will be moved like a pawn and married off again, to a lesser Lord in a place she doesn’t know, forced to squeeze our heirs.
Daemon, finally, moves on to another dance partner, and some of the tension in Alicent’s chest releases. She sits back and sips at her wine, the smooth Arbor Gold worming through her and filling her ears with the soft rush of white noise. She surveys the feast in silence, body melting away, and at least this way it’s bearable.
The ceremony takes place without issue, and with that Rhaenyra is married. The bedding ceremony is foregone, and all present pretend they don’t know why.
—
The coronation is as big an affair as Alicent has ever seen in her time in King’s Landing, the lack of resplendence in the wedding being made up for tenfold in the celebration that follows it. Tourneys and feasts are held in celebration for a full week in honour of Rhaenyra, knights from all across the realm coming to seek her approval and prove themselves in combat. Alicent, for her part, sits beside the king and watches. She finds that she does little else but watch these past few days, but it gives her leave to observe without disturbance, and she gathers information freely, clutching it to her chest and saving it for when she will need it later. Two of her children join her in the royal box, at Viserys’ request. Aegon sits beside her, wide eyes fixed on the violence, drinking it all in and clapping his tiny hands at every turn. Aemond is with the nursemaid, not yet a year old. But it’s Helaena she had wanted to leave in the castle, the girl of two sat at her feet with her hands over her ears, watching ants crawl along the floor of the stands. Viserys knows nothing about his second daughter, had found no likeness with the girl. He had insisted she come, and that had been that.
Rhaenyra sits in front of them. She has two of her favourites next to her, both daughters of Lords in the Reach. Laenor sits by her other side, his own favourite just behind. They dote on her and giggle at every knight who bows his head to Rhaenyra, an image of children playing at royalty. By her age Alicent had been a woman grown, betrothed in all but name to Viserys. She’d had no time for trivialities such as court gossip and paramours. Her ladies in waiting had been frightened of her, put out by her silence towards them, and she had never gotten along with the women at court. Women who saw her as the queen, as a tool to gain station rather than a friend.
A lance strikes the final knight straight through the chest and the joust is won. Alicent doesn’t flinch at the violence. She knows pain well enough by now.
—
Once Rhaenyra is crowned she feels the bated breath of all those in the room deflate. She is queen, the first the seven kingdoms has ever seen, and nothing has happened. The Gods have not struck her down, the realm has not descended into chaos. A woman sits upon the Iron Throne, and that seems to be that.
Of course it isn’t, it never is. The small folk mutter in the streets, the lords of the land whisper behind castle walls, but it is done nonetheless. Nobody has stopped it, and in Viserys’ eyes that means that nobody wants to.
Had he been dead already, had he not taken the sage advice of Lord Lyonel and abdicated early, Alicent suspects Rhaenyra would never sit that throne. But there she is, a picture of regality with the crown of her ancestors heavy on her head. Alicent, stood at Viserys’s side and closer than most, can see the elaborate hairstyle that keeps the crown from slipping down her face. It’s too big, and Alicent can’t help but wonder if it always will be.
—
She is summoned to Rhaenyra’s chambers within hours of the coronation. The girl stands in front of the mirror when she is beckoned in, a handmaiden undressing her, unlacing the myriad of complex details on her coronation dress. Alicent doesn’t look away, even though instinct tells her to, she won’t be seen as weak. Not now that she very easily could be.
“My father has informed me that he has chosen you to be my hand.” She says. Direct to the point.
Alicent says nothing. Holds her tongue until Rhaenyra has shown her true thoughts on the matter. It doesn’t take long.
“I had already chosen a hand, one who would have my interests at heart,” she sneers, “but no matter.”
Alicent frowns. If Rhaenyra wanted to choose a hand for herself then surely she would. She was Queen, after all, the Seven Kingdoms were under her thumb. In name, at least.
“I have your father’s interests at heart,” Alicent says, “and therefore yours, in turn.”
“My father will not live much longer,” Rhaenyra says. She speaks with a conviction that Alicent supposes is supposed to cover any emotion in her voice. It doesn’t, really. “I will yield to his wishes while he still sits among this court.”
Alicent hears the threat. She is Hand as long as Viserys lives. So not long. And then, well then she supposes she will be at Rhaenyra’s mercy.
“You’re dismissed, Elinda.” Rhaenyra says, the dress pooling around her feet.
The handmaiden collects the material in her arms and nods, moving out of the room with haste. They stand alone, then. Rhaenyra stands in nothing but her underclothes, hair loose around her shoulders, but somehow it is Alicent that feels naked under her gaze.
Words have swirled around the court about Rhaenyra since her birth. The Realm’s Delight, she was dubbed at a young age. A favourite of the court, doted on by friends and noble ladies, always seen with a pack of girls that she called her own small council. But there was a sharper side to Rhaenyra that earned her to be known among the knights of the court as a second Visenya. She was often spotted in the training yard with a sword in hand, an unseemly thing for a future queen but allowed by her father, who had always been soft on her. Her tongue was sharp, her words cut cruel if she desired them to, and though not bookish by nature she had an able mind and knew how to use it. Alicent had been made aware of this side of her from the moment she stepped foot in the court, even if she had only found it used against her after Aegon’s birth. So when Rhaenyra steps forward to be at eye level with her, she doesn’t flinch. Just narrows her eyes and stares.
“I am queen,” Rhaenyra says, “the first the seven kingdoms has ever seen, and therefore my reign and my ascension must be airtight.”
There’s a harsh bite to her voice, but it does little to cover the worried edge that shines through. Perhaps she is less arrogant than Alicent had first thought, if she knows just how vulnerable her seat is.
“I would agree.” Alicent says.
Rhaenyra steps ever closer. Her eyes glimmer sharply without restraint, and her finger carves a hole into Alicent’s chest as she presses against the emerald stone beset into the centre of her dress. Alicent doesn’t move, but she knows her intake of breath must be audible.
“You yield to me.” She says, “I will not hesitate to remove you and your Hightower children from this court if I hear so much as a whisper against you.”
Alicent nods, she knows the words Rhaenyra speaks are truthful, but to her ears they sound like the words of a petulant child. A ruler should not feel the need to threaten a hand in this way unless they feel threatened themselves. They should not feel the need to defend their power unless they worry about their lack of it. Alicent has been married to Viserys long enough to pick up on at least this.
“I am yours to command.” Alicent says, can’t help the slight mocking lilt that her voice takes on. Rhaenyra doesn’t comment.
“Good.” She says. “Call the small council, there is work to be done.”
“The hour is late, Rhaenyra.” Alicent reminds her, “and much of the council will have been indulging in their cups all weekend.”
Rhaenyra seems to consider this for a moment, battling against an urge to fight back, before she nods.
“Very well,” she says, “I suppose the realm won’t descend into anarchy overnight.”
“I doubt that, no.”
“You’re dismissed, then.” Rhaenyra says with a wave of her hand.
Alicent makes her way out of the room slowly, because she can. Outside her chambers she lets out a shuddering exhale, rolls her eyes twice over to make up for her complacency. Back in her own chambers she undresses alone. As her dress crumples to her feet she stares at herself in the mirror, at the reddened mark where the emerald on her dress had sunk into her skin. She doesn’t make a move to rub it away.
—
Alicent is seated at the small council before all, except for Lord Beesbury who often requires longer to move to and from the room. She sits with her back straight, a dress of the finest Pentoshi cloth draping across the chair and onto the floor. She had chosen a deep night blue colour for it, deciding to stick to neutrality. And just above her chest the hand’s broach glints, the same one that had belonged to her father once, that had gotten him removed from King’s Landing entirely. She had pricked herself on it this morning, lighting a candle in prayer moments after.
Rhaenyra’s entrance to the room is unannounced, Ser Cole trails behind her and makes to announce her properly but she silences him with a gesture. Alicent and Lord Beesbury stand, but she quickly gestures for them to sit too. She sits back into the chair that had once been her father’s, and his grandfather’s before him, and surveys the room.
“They will be here any moment.” Alicent speaks, noticing the way the girls eyes glance between the empty chairs.
She expects backlash for the words but receives nothing. “Good then,” the queen says.
True to her word, the men of the council are all seated there within minutes, waiting upon their new queen’s command. To see if she will be able, if she has the strength to rule. Alicent is just as eager, though she hides it better.
“Well,” Rhaenyra begins, “I suppose we should start.”
Alicent glances at her, the way she sits in her seat with her back straight, hands gripping the armrests. Her face is a picture of confidence, but her posture tells a different story. She is afraid of doing the wrong thing, and she doesn’t know where to start. Alicent narrows her eyes, maps the discomfort on her face, and only then does she speak.
“Perhaps we should start with the accounts.” Alicent gestures to Lord Beesbury.
“Yes,” Rhaenyra nods, “what of the realm’s finances?”
In all cases there is very little to note, only a day into Rhaenyra’s rule and so many years into Viserys’ reign of peace. There are always complaints from the small folk that can be dealt with in small compensations, or small skirmishes that require a knight’s title stripped, or a marriage arranged. Rhaenyra answers with ease, she has sat in on her father’s councils for nearly six years now, and she is far from clueless in the matters of the realm. It is only when her attention turns to the final man to speak, Lord Lyonel, that her youth begins to show.
“There are whisperings,” he says, avoiding eye contact as he is wont to do. “From the smallfolk.”
“Well,” Rhaenyra replies stonily, “what is it that they whisper?”
She already knows. It’s why the air feels icy and her face has clouded over. She can feel eyes on her, and just like Rhaenyra, she also knows why.
“They proclaim that young Aegon is the only hope for the realm. That he is… the true king, your grace.”
Rhaenyra nods. “And whom did you hear these… whisperings from?”
“There are always informants among the small folk,” Alicent replies, “we would be remiss without ears in our own city.”
“I know that.” She snaps, “but who specifically. I should like to question them.”
“That would be… unwise, my queen.” Lord Lyonel says.
“Informants require anonymity.” Alicent agrees, “If one is hauled before the queen, the rest will be like to believe they are next.”
“Then we remove the subject of the mutterings,” she says.
Alicent feels her heart stutter against her rib cage. The light flooding into the room is suddenly overwhelming, burning against the backs of her eyes as the words rattle against the back of her skull. The rest of the council has also darkened, not one daring to ask just what exactly she means.
“Aegon is my son.”
“I mean to say, perhaps we can lessen his claim.” Rhaenyra finally says.
“The only way to do such a thing would be reaffirming the succession,” Maester Mellos says, “perhaps if her Grace had a son… but alas, Aegon is your sole heir as it stands.”
A storm rages behind Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Then we send him from King’s Landing. Betrothe him to a princess of Dorne, or a lady in the Reach.”
Lord Lyonel opens his mouth but Alicent is already speaking, knuckles white against the table.
“Out of the question,” she barks. “Aegon is my son, he will remain with me.”
Rhaenyra whips her head to face her, “last I checked, stepmother, I am queen, and you are my hand.”
Alicent stands, “the council is dismissed.” She growls.
The men seated do nothing for a moment, but Rhaenyra waves her hand and they flee the room without question. She envies it, that command which so recently belonged to her.
They are alone, for the second time in as many days. She thinks perhaps this is the most she had spoken to the girl in her life, she had so blatantly ignored her before.
“Sit.” Rhaenyra commands.
Alicent does, though with a display of reluctance. Rhaenyra also sits, her posture crumpled now, arms draped across the armrests. She looks less like a queen here, more like Viserys’ daughter, eyes shining with anger that feels just a few sizes too big for her.
“You are showing blatant disrespect to me,” Rhaenyra says. Though she doesn’t say anything else, no threat slips from her mouth.
“This council already disrespects us,” Alicent waves her hand, “we are women, Rhaenyra, that is fuel enough.”
“I know that,” she sighs, sinking backwards into her chair.
“And Aegon is my son, I can’t sit here and listen as men titter about just how far to send him from court.”
“I know that, too.”
“So what would you do about it then,” Alicent folds her arms, “you are Queen, as you have reminded me, tell me of your plan.”
“I’d like my own council,” she says, “these men are vultures who would love nothing more than to feast on my bones, I’d like to do some refining.”
Alicent nods. It’s a good move, one she hadn’t considered. Viserys’ council had to have been hers, she didn’t have the kind of power to make changes like that, but Rhaenyra is Queen. Alicent cannot deny that she would do well to have a council that she knew and trusted.
“We shall discuss titles then,” Alicent says, “and about Aegon?”
“He is the first born son of the king,” Rhaenyra sighs, “I fear that allowing him to remain in the castle is to keep him with one foot on the throne at all times.”
Alicent sours, tries not to let it be visible on her face.
“He is also your brother.”
Rhaenyra scoffs. “He is no more my brother than you are my mother.”
“Perhaps that is the problem, Rhaenyra.” She snaps, fist curling on the table. “You set him aside, you pretend he is not family? What do you think he will think of you when he comes of age? Or what will I think of you, his only remaining parent?”
Rhaenyra sneers at her.
“A man cannot steal a throne without help. Perhaps if you gave him guidance he would not have to look elsewhere.”
“What are you-“
“Spend time with him, Gods above, keep him close to you. Treat him like family.” She pretend not to hear the implication in her words. Treat us like family.
Rhaenyra blinks at her. “Yes I suppose.”
“Great,” Alicent bites.
The rest of the morning is spent, somewhat bitterly, refining the Small Council. Rhaenyra kept Lord Lyonel on as Master of Laws, and didn’t make note of the position of Hand at all, and also kept Lord Beesbury on in a temporary measure, for he was adept at his role even if he wouldn’t be much longer. Maester Mellos was to be removed, replaced by a young Septa Rhaenyra had grown up with. Ser Harrold Westerling was reinstated as Commander of the City watch. It was only Lord of the Tides that came into any kind of real question, Rhaenyra wanted to name her cousin, Laena, but Alicent feared bringing her back to court as it would bring Daemon back, yet another male line to the Iron Throne. She agreed, in the end, on the condition that the family would remain on Dragonstone, and Laena would be called for if she were needed. After all, Corlys hadn’t joined them today, and would oft be absent in dealing with his ships. Alicent sends out ravens to the Septa and to Laena Velaryon, and speaks with Maester Mellos about getting him safe passage back to the Citadel. It is all done by end of day.
—
Alicent is in her chambers just after supper. Aegon stomps his toy dragon across the floor by her feet, Helaena is on the balcony, and Aemond she had left with the handmaidens a while longer. The stone tile rings with every slam of Aegon’s hand against it and she settles her head back onto the soft cushions of her seat, eyes slipping closed.
“Your grace?”
“Tell my husband I am tired,” Alicent says, not opening her eyes.
“Yes, your grace, but the Queen is here to see you.”
That opens her eyes. Rhaenyra is stood at the door to her chambers, one hand on the door frame and a foot halfway into the room.
“Come in.” Alicent beckons.
Rhaenyra enters the room with an air of curiosity. Her eyes sweep across the scene before her and she moves towards Alicent in a longer route than necessary, running her fingers along the polished wood surfaces of the room.
“I came to visit Aegon.” She says finally, stopping a metre away from Alicent and the boy at her feet as if she is waiting for an invitation.
Aegon has paused his movements now, the wooden block clutched tightly in his fist. Slowly, he unfurls his fingers and holds it out to Rhaenyra. The girl looks between Aegon and Alicent, eyes wide, until Alicent nods just briefly.
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms folds herself down, kneels before her brother and takes the dragon from his tiny hand. It’s a sight that Alicent would have claimed to be a figment of a fever addled brain mere months ago, but she can’t deny that it’s a pleasant one. Any interest Rhaenyra takes in Aegon is a step further he takes from the headsman.
“Um, does he have a name?”
Aegon babbles. He’s always been a slow learner, whilst he can speak if he wants to, he very rarely chooses that option. Alicent has tried to read to him, to get him to speak in more than just his own language of roars and misplaced words, but it’s only beginning to provide results. Rhaenyra cocks her head up at Alicent, brows furrowed.
“I think his name is Eno.” Alicent nods, “but I can’t be sure he’s not trying to say something else entirely.”
At the mention of the dragon’s name Aegon giggles and snatches the piece back, swooping it through the air and mimicking the sound of dragon fire.
“Rather bad form,” Rhaenyra says gently to the boy, “stealing from your queen.”
Alicent twitches at the words, the display of Rhaenyra’s power even in such an innocent moment. But then she smiles, takes a second wooden piece- a boat- off of the floor and swishes it towards Aegon’s leg playfully. The boy laughs, and there’s an openness in Rhaenyra’s returning chuckle that settles Alicent’s fluttering worry.
Slowly, Rhaenyra’s practiced posture seeps into a crouching position, her elbows on the floor and her dress surely dirty from the stone beneath her. Aegon, never one for shyness, has taken her through each and every one of his wooden pieces, and much to Alicent’s surprise Rhaenyra listens. She takes the pieces he offers, indulges in his limited conversation. Normally, Alicent leaves him with the handmaids while he plays. Comes back to wish him goodnight. But tonight she stays, she watches as he plays. And yes, it’s mostly because she doesn’t trust Rhaenyra alone with him, and mostly because she doesn’t want to present as a bad mother in front of her, but a part of her is fascinated by the queen, kneeling at her feet and speaking soft words to her son. She can’t tear her eyes away.
When Rhaenyra eventually decides to take her leave Alicent sees her out.
“I suppose I shall see you at the small council,” she says.
Rhaenyra nods, “and perhaps I can speak with your other children- my other siblings, next time.”
“Next time?”
“Well, I shouldn’t think that if Aegon was pushed to overthrow me he would think back to one conversation we had when he was barely a boy.”
“No.” Alicent says. It’s a stark reminder of who she’s really dealing with, what situation they’re really in. “That is why you are here, of course.”
“Why else would I be,” Rhaenyra smiles, a flash of something like annoyance across her face, “my father has weakened my claim. I am rectifying that. That is all this is.”
“Of course.”
“Goodnight then.”
The door closes, the squeak of it’s hinges echoing in the empty chamber. She sleeps that night with an ache in her chest that is just as empty, all hollowed out by a life she never chose.
—
As Rhaenyra had said, she spends several nights a week sat in Alicent’s chambers in the company of one or more of her children, playing with them on the stone floors. Alicent very rarely speaks to her, unless it is to help her with the appropriate way to communicate with Helaena, and as the tradition continues she spends the evenings when Rhaenyra is with them in the sept, finding solace that way.
The days are long at the moment. Rhaenyra’s reign is still settling dust, is still a subject of controversy across the realm. The council grates at her, their decisions vary, and Rhaenyra often disagrees sometimes just for the sake of disagreement. So she often looks forward to evenings in the sept, sometimes watching the candles melt down to the wax, praying far into the hour of the bat.
That evening it is late when she finally leaves, the sept empty, the stone chamber growing cold. She moves with haste through the corridors, already tired, and admittedly the castle can be frightening at night. Wind whistling through the cracks in the stone, the knowledge that the walls themselves are lined with the ghosts of all those who constructed them.
Except, as she hurries down the corridor she hears noises, ones which none could mistake for whistling wind or creaking stones. No, they are the noises of pleasure, unquestionably.
Alicent comes to a stop outside the chambers in which the noises originate from. She takes in her surroundings, takes stock of the unguarded door and the richly decorated walls in this corridor. She is stood outside Rhaenyra’s chamber, no doubt about it. But Laenor left a fortnight ago, set sail for Driftmark with his paramour, and she wouldn’t wager that such pleasure could come from their union, not with Laenor’s proclivities. So there is another in the queen’s chambers, and shamelessly too, for all the castle to hear.
She has half a mind to barge inside, reprimand them both for such stupidity, but she keeps her senses. She turns on her heel and makes for the corner, back to the wall so she can hear but can’t be seen. The noise continues, Rhaenyra’s voice strung out with so much ecstacy Alicent wonders how they are still going. The moans permeate her ears, thread through her very veins until her heartbeat quickens. She can’t help but wonder just what they are doing, just what is making both of them feel that way. She wonders if Rhaenyra’s skin is soft, unmarred from a lack of motherhood, if she is perhaps the one on top, as arrogant as she is. She wonders what her face looks like when she makes those noises, and ignores the shameful ache that blooms between her thighs.
It’s then, just as she thinks maybe she should just leave, that the noises stop and moments later the door to the chambers opens. She peeks around the corner and tries not to scoff aloud as she sees none other than Harwin Strong leaving Rhaenyra’s bedchambers.
She waits until his heavy footsteps disappear around the corner and then slips out of her hiding space, marching towards the door.
Rhaenyra opens it on the third knock, still breathless, hair a mess and one shoulder slipping free of her nightgown. She’s grinning, obviously expecting Harwin at the door, but the second she sees Alicent her face morphs into a picture of incredulity.
“Alicent?” She hisses, “what are you doing here?”
“Are you really so naïve as to think you will get away with this?”
“If you are going to accuse me of something at least have the decency to do it in private.”
And so Alicent finds herself being ushered into Rhaenyra’s chambers, into rooms she has never step foot in before. She glances at the surroundings, at the banners and the history books lining the shelves, at the scribbled notes drenched in ink that cover her writing desk. The room is almost exactly the same size as hers, but it feels warmer, just a little.
“You were saying something about my naivety?” Rhaenyra gestures, eyebrows raised.
“Harwin Strong.” She states.
Rhaenyra rolls her eyes, “I wasn’t aware I was being so closely monitored.”
“You’re not Rhaenyra.” Alicent says brusquely, “but I could hear the evidence of your sins just by passing your chamber. It is reckless.”
“It’s just a bit of fun,” Rhaenyra shrugs, “let people whisper.”
“Fun?” Alicent asks incredulously, “and what happens when Laenor remains on Driftmark for all eternity? What happens if Gods forbid you find yourself bearing the consequences of this affair, bearing heirs with a scruff of brown hair? You will be ridiculed, even more than you already are.”
“That is a risk I will take.” Rhaenyra says. “Unlike you, I am not willing to give up my own pleasure.”
Alicent scoffs, taken aback. The words sting but she tries not to let it show.
“Do you even know what it feels like?” Rhaenyra takes a step forward, “to have pure desire running through you, making your eyes roll back and your hairs stand on end? Do you?”
Rhaenyra reaches up, toys with the sharp point of her pendant, the metal tugging at the back of her neck as she does. Alicent grabs her wrist, to stop her, but finds herself frozen the moment they make contact. Rhaenyra is staring at her, eyes ablaze with unbridled curiosity. Rhaenyra pulls her wrist until her grip loosens, runs her fingers along the veins of Alicent’s hand.
“Do you know what it feels like to have your skin set on fire at one single touch?” Rhaenyra whispers. “Can you truly call me naïve if you haven’t?”
Alicent inhales, wrenches her hand from Rhaenyra’s touch.
“Just…” she looks away, eyes the crumpled bedsheets spilling onto the floor. “Don’t be so reckless. Hide it better.”
Rhaenyra is still looking at her, and for a moment she sees it, a flash of fire in her eyes. She smiles with her teeth bared like a dragon, closer to Gods than men.
“I will, your grace.” She bows, a mockery of all things proper.
“Very well then,” Alicent nods.
She exits the room out of breath, anger dissipated into something else, something far less easily named. For the first time she feels it, the power Rhaenyra holds, the way she holds herself like regality is simple, as easy as breathing. And it scares her, but beneath that it sets her skin on fire, in all the ways Rhaenyra had just described.
She speed walks back to her chambers and thinks no more of it. As the sun rises she sends a cup of moon tea to the queen’s chambers, and if it comes back empty, neither of them speak of it.
—
After that night the small council meetings begin to shift, subtly, but nonetheless. Rhaenyra argues less, although no less voraciously when she does, she speaks with a confidence that feels borne out of experience, rather than arrogance, and most noticeably for Alicent, her eyes begin to find their home on her face more oft than not. In fact, for the entirety of the meeting she finds that when Rhaenyra isn’t speaking her eyes are on Alicent. An unraveling kind of sparkle in her eyes that feels like every layer of her skin is being slowly stripped away, until she’s just bones in the wooden seat of her chair.
When the meeting ends she stands immediately, excusing herself. Rhaenyra follows her out of the room, trailing behind her until they reach the corridor.
“Can I help you?” Alicent asks.
“Are you going to Helaena?”
She hates that she has become so predictable. Helaena is usually her first port of call once a meeting ends, by far the most fragile of her children. She is also Rhaenyra’s favourite, the girl’s careful ways and fascination with the world around her having charmed Rhaenyra.
Alicent sighs. “I assume you would care to join me?”
Rhaenyra grins, falling into step beside her. Helaena is sat up in her cot when they reach her, pulling at the soft crocheted ladybug one of Rhaenyra’s ladies in waiting had made her last week. Alicent reaches to lift her into her arms, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before passing her towards Rhaenyra, who is hovering beside her.
“The darling of the realm,” Rhaenyra mock cheers as she takes the girl into her arms, “how is it you are doing today?”
Helaena giggles.
“I’ll take that as well, princess.” She laughs.
Alicent surveys the two of them with folded arms. They really do look so alike, they could be full blooded sisters easily. It gets on Alicent’s nerves just how little of her own genes shines through in her children, though she supposes it’s a good thing, she knows more than most that the Hightowers are rotten all the way through.
“I need to visit your father,” Alicent says, “are you alright with her?”
“More than.” Rhaenyra says.
And it’s strange, just how much she believes that.
—
When Alicent returns to her chambers that evening it is late. Viserys had a bad spell, delirious and in pain, and Alicent had felt a need to stay with him until he had settled. What she didn’t expect though, was for Rhaenyra to still be in her chambers when she returns, Helaena on her lap as she reads from a book on the history of the women’s courts.
“She wouldn’t settle,” Rhaenyra says by way of explanation, “I figured I’d wait for you to return.”
“Oh.” Alicent bristles. “Alright then.”
She pulls the hairpin that has been digging into her skull all day free and her hair falls loosely around her shoulders. Her shoes are pulled off next and then she moves to retrieve Helaena, placing her gently in the cot for a moment so she can undress.
“You may go now, your grace” She turns to Rhaenyra.
“Would you like some help undressing?”
Alicent blinks. Rhaenyra is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she does as she pleases, holds deference for nobody. And yet here she is, offering to untie her corset like a common handmaiden.
“I have handmaidens.” She says.
“I know.” Rhaenyra says simply.
She doesn’t reply, and apparently Rhaenyra takes that for a yes, moving to stand behind her in the mirror. She begins at the nape of her neck, brushing away her curls and unfastening the button at the top of her dress. The touch sets her hairs on end, lights her nerves on fire. Rhaenyra’s skin is hot, like she is made of fire itself.
“I was thinking,” Rhaenyra says, “I would like to organise a royal tour.”
Alicent tries to reroute her brain into politicking as quickly as she can, but it’s a task with nimble fingers unlacing the back of her dress and pulling it freely from her shoulders.
“A royal tour?”
“I was reading of how Rhaenys and Alysanne held women’s courts. They listened to their subjects and enacted laws. They made a difference. I’d like Helaena to grow up in a world even slightly better than ours, and I need to see my own people in order to do that.”
Alicent can hear the passion in her voice, the reverence she has for the histories of the women who ruled before her, even if they weren’t queens in name. It makes a change to the bored tone she often takes on in the small council, the one that makes Alicent want to slap her sometimes, and agree with her other times.
“It’s a noble idea,” Alicent says, swallowing dryly as the dress loosens and sags at her hips. “You might propose it at the next small council?”
“I don’t care about them.” Rhaenyra says. “Just you.”
Her dress hits the floor with a thud. She hopes it covers her sharp exhale.
“I’d say a royal tour would be good.” Alicent says eventually, turning around and fighting the urge to cover her body with her hands. She’s still mostly covered by her underclothes, but they’re thin, and she can feel Rhaenyra’s eyes on her as much as she can see them.
“We will organise it then.” Rhaenyra smiles. “And Aegon shall join me, so I can show a united front.”
“That’s also a good idea,” Alicent frowns, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice. Only a month ago Rhaenyra had hated the boy on principle. “I only request that Helaena stays here. I fear it would be too much for her.”
“Of course.” Rhaenyra says easily. “I wouldn’t dream of taking her so far from home, I know how she is.”
And the words settle across Alicent so warmly, burning fire softened to a gentle heat, that she almost laughs aloud. How strange that Viserys, her own husband, knew so little of his daughter, and yet Rhaenyra can learn her individualities in mere weeks.
“And you will accompany us, as well.” Rhaenyra says, her eyes still roam freely, without shame.
“Very well.” Alicent nods, barely registering what she’s agreeing to. “We will begin planning in the morning.”
Rhaenyra smiles and steps back, finally exiting Alicent’s orbit.
“Goodnight then,” she grins, in a way that feels somehow altogether insincere.
“Goodnight Rhaenyra.”
And then the girl leans forward and presses her lips to Alicent’s cheek, so chastely, for barely half a second, and then she’s gone.
The spot burns like fire long after the door to her chambers shuts.
—
Alicent begins preparations for a royal tour as the sun begins to rise the next morning. She had watched her father arduously plan hunts and tourneys, had almost entirely planned the royal wedding and coronation just months before, but a royal tour is new grounds. The route, the length of the stay, the specific lords that Rhaenyra wants to pay visit to, they are all things that need taking into consideration.
The small council is also consumed at present wirh the crown’s finances, levying taxes to support the cost of the recent celebrations and now a royal tour on top of that. And again, the Brackens and Blackwoods are fighting amongst themselves. So as night falls each evening Rhaenyra makes her way through the Red Keep to Alicent’s chambers. She kisses the children goodnight, sometimes reads a story to them before they are settled down for the night, and then she and Alicent sit at the grand table in her chambers and plan. A map spreads the length of the table, a list of accompanying knights, flag bearers, and household staff runs off the edge of the wood, and ink spills mark letters written to various lords requesting a member of the family be available to meet Rhaenyra and accompany them on the last leg of each journey.
Surprisingly, the task doesn’t come alongside disagreements. Alicent is thinking of Aegon, and Rhaenyra of… well herself, and they seem to align in this way at least.
And each night, even if the expectation is unspoken, Rhaenyra stands behind her and undresses her. Unlaces the complex dresses, runs her hands through Alicent’s hair to tease out the braids. Neither of them ever ask, they just seem to end up there, and Alicent tells herself it’s because it’s late, and her staff are probably sleeping, and that all of this is just a game. A game where Alicent likes to see how far she can push Rhaenyra, where Rhaenyra likes to see if she can make her hand squirm. It’s just another form of hate. (But when soft fingers brush her skin so gently, it’s hard to feel any kind of hate at all).