Chapter Text
Never in a million years did Rhaenyra think she'd find herself back in the village she'd been born in. Part of her knew she'd have to come back one day, but one day meant more like.. when she was practically decrepit, and could no longer handle the hustle and bustle of London, the stresses of being a CEO. Not a week after her thirty-sixth birthday, so she could plan her father's fucking funeral.
In her mind, Viserys Targaryen was immortal. The same way every parent is, where you know they'll most likely die before you, but you refuse to ever think of the matter, deciding you could handle it when the time came.
(That time is now, and Rhaenyra is most certainly not handling it — If the fact that she'd been ignoring half of the things she'd needed to do off until absolutely necessary, was anything of note.
Like buy the flowers for the casket she'd only bought last week. Online.)
The florists is.. quaint, in a word. Tucked into the rest of the street and utterly unassuming in its nature. No plants lining the pathway outside, no chalkboard sign with half-faded calligraphy announcing a recent offer that needed to be brought inside once they'd closed. Double doors bracketed by fogged up windows, the frames crassly painted in a dark green. Like, come on. She can see paint streaks on the glass. Attempt for class, maybe?
She can recall a faint memory of the space being used as a micro-pub, once. Guesses this was a better use for it, because, yes, she is at the age where she's in bed by 9pm, cursing at the youths when their shouts are loud enough to be heard through her bedroom window, as unfortunate as it is.
Despite the seeming lack of care, it's still nice, she supposes. Fitting for the small village, at the very least. Her eyes flick upwards to the name of the store, written in careful white lettering. An elegant font. Caveat, or Arizonia, or something along those lines.
‘Florent’s Flowers’
Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at the name, one arm half resting against her forehead, blocking some of the rain that's steadily falling.
(It’s always fucking raining in this town. Bad omen, or just British weather?
Probably both. It'd be her luck.)
She didn't even know what flowers she needed, or which she should get. Had never even been to a funeral before, having neglected to go to her mothers— She hadn't wanted the event attached to her memories of the woman.
(Her incredibly brief Google search of the matter had told her little other than yes, flowers were needed, and no, she couldn't just skip them altogether.
Even if her dad would've understood.)
She sighs, and crosses the street in that awful little half jog pace everyone does when they can't be bothered to take the extra two seconds to check if it's even safe to cross in the first place.
She doesn't get hit by a car, though, so. Safe enough for her. She almost wishes she had been, if only so she wouldn't have to deal with this entire thing. Surely adding another casket wouldn't be too much hassle? Not as if anyone would have to plan an entirely new funeral. Bunk bed coffins, or something?
A bell above the door jingles, as she opens it. The door itself closes slowly behind her, only clicking shut when she's finished wiping her feet on the welcome mat
Good timing, she thinks, whilst she walks inside.
The inside is better than she would've assumed. Smaller than she'd thought, in a sort of opposite Tardis-like situation, but the shelving and general wildness of how the flowers are coming off of them is probably the reasoning behind that. And, in a begrudging compliment, it does look cosy. Even if her nose is already wrinkling from the overwhelming stench of, well, flowers.
(She never did like them much. Better observed from a distance, where she couldn't be rudely reminded of the fact that she had hayfever.)
The slow glance around is continued, as she steps in further. Her hands getting shoved into her pockets, to exude a calm she doesn't truly feel within herself.
There's a kid behind the counter. No older than nineteen, she'd reckon. Seventeen if she had to guess an exact age, or.. eighteen with a severe case of baby face? Whatever age he is, his auburn hair is curling around his jaw, half tied up in one of those Seven-forsaken man buns she hates so much. Reminds her of Daemon, she supposes.
Not that it matters. She's just focusing on things to avoid everything else, which is ironic, considering she's only here because of everything else. Her therapist — Not her idea. — would probably say she was avoiding her grief so she could continue to pretend her father was still alive. Which she'd reply was bullshit, because how could she pretend he was alive when everything she was doing reminded her that he was dead?
The kid — Daeron, if his nametag reads right. The similarities just don't end, it seems. — looks up, shooting her an awkward half smile as he pockets his phone, launching into a semi-perfected business speech.
“—Hi. Welcome to Florent’s Flowers.” There's a pause. Just a little too long to not be noticed, as he turns to look over his shoulder for a split second. “How can- How may I help you today?" The accents different to what she assumed it would be. Scottish, if she had to guess, although the hair might be making her biased. Not a local either way.
Rhaenyra idles over to the counter, just so she can give him a chance to deal with the dread of a customer. Least she could do, with what she's about to ask.
“You wouldn't happen to do events, would you?”
(She knows they do. Had been recommended this place by Laenor specifically because it was the only florist in the area that did fucking events. Or just the only florist in the area to begin with.)
“Yeah. Yeah, we do— Well. It kinda depends on what event, and how soon it is, and how much stuff you want, but, like.. We do them.”
“Short notice funeral..?” She trails off. Tacks on an apologetic smile at the end, as if it'd help her case. “Moderate sizing.” Based on the assumption that only half of the people she'd had to send invites out to would show up…
Daeron — she really hopes that nametags correct now — balks. Looks over his shoulder again, before scratching the back of his neck.
“Um. How short notice exactly?”
"Three days?" His resulting expression tells her that, yeah, she definitely should've done this sooner. Or completely forgone the professional flowers, and just grabbed a shitty bouquet from the reduced section at Tesco.
"…Let me- I'll need to ask, but I think maybe we could. But I have to ask."
He disappears into the back looking positively overwhelmed.
A part of her feels bad for the kid, certain that this is just some part time job his parents forced him into so he could fund his bus fair to and from the local college. Or maybe it's full time, so he could avoid further education altogether. Save up for a new game, or spend it all straightaway, mind still young enough that a purchase only brings satisfaction, instead of dread and the unsettling knowledge that you could only afford a half of what you could last year. Thank you cost of living crisis, you infuriating cunt of a—
Daeron walks out of the back, breaking her train of thought. Her eyes move past him, over his shoulder, land on whoever he'd gone back there for in the first place, and—
Her hair is lighter than it was. Jaw, cheekbones, both more defined. But that soft pout. The scrunched up nose, furrowed brow, wide brown eyes reminiscent to that of a deer in headlights...
"—Alicent?" Shock doesn't even begin to describe what she's feeling right now. If she hadn't spent the better part of eighteen fucking years switching between grief, numbness, despair, and fucking rage over the woman, she doubted she would've recognised her at all.
"Rhaenyra." Alicent's frozen in the doorway, still just staring at her, in a way that's so distantly familiar it causes a physical ache, right where her heart is. Or maybe she's just having a panic attack, because there's a slight ringing in her ears, and she's only half sure this isn't a fucking hallucination—
"—Wait you two know eachother-?" Seven hells, she'd forgotten about the kid, which, standing next to each other, they bear a striking resemblance—
"—Is that your fucking kid?!" Not the most eloquent way she could've put it, but in her defence, she's tempted to believe that, yes, this is actually just an awful joke the Universe is playing on her, because it's just her luck she'd run into Alicent fucking Hightower on the rare occasion she comes back to this Seven-forsaken village.
"His name is Daeron—"
"—Mum, what the fuck is going—"
"—Language—"
She tunes them out, because her ears are definitely ringing now, instead just choosing to focus on Alicent. Alicent admonishing her kid, because that's something she has. Alicent with her hair in a low bun, and a dirt stained apron half tied around her waist, on top of blue jeans and a dark green wool knit, because of course she wears wool knits. Alicent who's a florist, apparently. Alicent who had a mother with the maiden name Florent, and, yeah, okay. Perhaps not recognising that was an oversight on her part, but she's hardly to be blamed when she's had so much on her mind. Although it's more likely she was being wilfully blind.
Alicent Hightower is back. And not one single person thought to tell her. Which, maybe she should consider whom she calls her friends, because this is not something one should hide from someone who had been as affected as she by her sudden departure. If only to prepare her for the fact she might see her, at the very least. Alicent Hightower is back with a child of her own, nonetheless.
Eighteen years. Eighteen—
"—nyra?" She shakes herself out of her thoughts with an answering hum. Tries desperately to not gawk at Daeron, or Alicent, and remember why she was even here in the first place.
"What? Sorry, I- Missed that bit. What did you say?" Her voice is level, thankfully. A complete opposite to how she feels, considering her heart is practically attempting to beat out of chest.
"You need a funeral sorting..?" Alicent's eyes are so soft in a way that she didn't think could still affect her so much, that she almost just bursts into tears, right there on the spot.
"Oh. Right, yes, um— Dad. Dad died. Need a little something for the casket and such."
Oh, Gods. Soft eyes getting impossibly softer, with the addition of the slightest sheen, and fuck. Rhaenyra was idiotic to think that the news wouldn't affect her, because of course it would. Alicent, who had always been closer with Viserys than Otto. Alicent who had been closer with Viserys than Rhaenyra herself was, for a time.
(But maybe she did know, in that part of her that speaks before she can stop herself, only for her to realise later, that yeah, no, she just wanted to hurt whomever it was she was talking to. Like she did two years back, when she told Harwin she wasn't marrying him because he was pathetic, and that he hadn't made her cum once, scoffing when all he could do was stare at her, mouth parted in hurt.
But it wasn't as though she was lying.)
"Oh."
She still cries the same. Chin quivering, before teeth pull bottom lip firmly between them. That slight furrow to her brow, before she begins nodding like the movement would distract the people around her from the way her eyes had instantly started watering, rounded out with a hand to her chest, fingers rubbing harshly against her collarbone.
She almost feels guilty, despite it all.
"Yeah."
The silence that follows it is painful, Daeron's head swivelling between them so quick she's half sure he's to give himself whiplash.
"—Sorry, can one of yous tell me what's going on here?" Brave kid.
Rhaenyra purses her lips, rocks onto the balls of her feet, and back again, as she looks around the shop once more, avoiding Alicent's gaze. Petty to her core.
She hears the long-suffering sigh Alicent gives in response. The sound of tongue against lips, as she wets them in preparation to speak. Serves her fucking right.
"Rhaenyra was my best mate, back when we were kids."
"—Till you left," Petty, petty, petty.
"Till I left." There's a flash of something confusing in Alicent's expression. The type that makes Rhaenyra feel as though she doesn't want to know what caused it.
Daeron turns back to face Alicent, his head cocked in a way that Rhaenyra can remember Alicent doing whenever she didn't understand her homework. Seven hells, he really is her kid, isn't he?
"..I didn't think you had any friends, mum?"
Not even dignity could stop the short laugh that escapes Rhaenyra, her eyes finally moving back to the pair.
"I have friends." Alicent's voice is clipped, as her hand finally drops, to rub against her thigh. "That's not- Our history isn't important, love."
"Orwyle doesn't count."
Another sigh as she looks up, like she's praying for the Seven to strike down upon her. Rhaenyra watches as she collects herself, and almost feels guilty.
"We'd be honoured to do the flowers for Viserys, Rhaenyra. Daeron'll go through everything with you, and that. And, uh- Friends and family discount, for the sake of old times?" Her voice is shaking just the slightest amount and okay, yeah. She definitely feels guilty now.
Especially with how Daeron looks positively horrified, even if he does seem to attempt to hide it.
"Wait, mum, I thought you said there wasn't—" Hands on his shoulders as she manoeuvres him to face the counter.
"—I'm sorry for your loss. Truly. He- He was a good, kind man, and- Well, you know. It's… It's an awful thing, losing a father."
Rhaenyra's head cocks, eyes glancing over Alicent's expression once more.
"…Otto-?"
"Last year. Cancer."
"Huh." She's not sure if she should offer sympathies, considering how much of a cunt she remembered him to be. Alicent didn't look too torn up about it, but she supposed that even if she was, they were hardly in a position where she'd let Rhaenyra be privy to that.
There's a perfunctory nod from Alicent, before knuckles are whitening around Daeron's shoulders, squeezing them. She lets go with a swallow, turning back around with a hum so she can walk back through the door she came through not even five minutes earlier. Rhaenyra's almost convinced she saw her shoulders shake the exact way they used to when she was trying desperately to convince her that she wasn't having a panic attack.
Probably just a trick of the light, she surmises. Alicent hardly gave that much of a shit, considering how she abandoned Rhaenyra without the grace to let her know she'd be leaving in the first place.
To be honest, once Daeron had gotten over the original shock of finding out who Rhaenyra was, and then the later shock of finding out Rhaenyra was a Targaryen, he wasn't a bad kid. And definitely Alicent's — Not that she thought it was a lie, but. Good to be sure of these things.
Plus, that friends and family discount had knocked a sizeable portion off of her bill, thanks to the expedition charge she'd had to have tacked on for the short notice. (Despite the fact that the original price was less than her train ticket home.)
(…But only because her first train had been cancelled, and she couldn't be bothered to sort out a refund, merely booking the next available one and calling it a loss.)
She'd signed the invoice half an hour after she'd walked in, and left with the notion that it was fine if Alicent and Co™ were back, because she'd be on another train in a few days, and she'd never have to deal with her again.
Perfect.
Waking up to three unread messages from an unknown number wasn't too rare. She was a CEO. It was only natural that people reached out to her with offers, and deals, and other such things.
Waking up to;
'Hi, Rhaenyra. It's Alicent. I got your number off of the invoice sheet? My apologies if this strikes you as rude, or if it's otherwise unwelcome.'
'I was wondering if it might be alright for me to stay after I've finished setting up the flowers for Viserys?'
'Completely okay if not. I would absolutely understand if you had any reservations regarding the matter, but I'd like to be able to say a proper goodbye. Despite our current differences, he meant a lot to me.'
That was rare. Completely unheard of, in fact. Obviously, considering the complete lack of contact. (Eighteen fucking years. Eighteen!) And absolutely not what she needed at 8:45 in the bloody morning.
She'd lain in bed staring at them for an embarrassingly long amount of time. Part of her was tempted to leave her on read, or flat out say no. Or send a middle finger emoji and block her. All viable options, in her opinion.
Eventually, she just scoffs, fingers tightening around her phone in an attempt to not chuck it across the room never to be seen again. Sits up, wincing at the morning frost she can feel biting at her skin, as she taps the little box at the bottom of the screen, waiting for her keyboard to show up.
'Formal much?'
She hadn't even had time to exit the chat, before a little bubble popped up on the receiving side. Gods. Scratch formal — Desperate, much?
'I'd appreciate an answer sooner than later, but please don't feel as though you need to rush your decision.'
As if she hadn't been waiting for Rhaenyra to reply? Yeah, whatever.
'Stay if you want. Can hardly stop you.'
More typing, stopping and starting in the most annoying manner, until a final 'Okay. Thankyou, Rhaenyra.' graced her screen.
She locked her phone, and stared at herself in the screens reflection until well past nine.
Fuck.
"Did it strike any of you at any point that it might have been useful for me to know Alicent fucking Hightower was here?!"
She'd texted the family groupchat demanding an 'emergency meeting' as soon as it had sunk in that Alicent would be at the funeral now. In more than a, I've paid for a service, and you have to be there to complete it way. Had corralled the three — Laena, Laenor, and Baelon. Like fuck was she talking to Daemon any sooner than needs be, thank you very much. — through the door without so much of an explanation, preferring to just start.. shouting at them, in all honesty.
"Well I didn't think you'd end up seeing her—"
"—You literally suggested I get the flowers for dad from her store, Laenor!"
Rhaenyra throws her hands up in frustration, moving to sit on the settee moments later, head in her hands. "She's coming to the funeral." It's spoken into her palm as if it'd make matters any less awful.
"Oh, Rhae." Laena. Merciful Laena, who had been on her side from the get-go, scowling at her brother from the moment they'd stepped into her flat, certain whatever had happened was his fault. She'd be gloating about being proven right, in any other situation. "How'd that come about then, love?"
"She texted me. Asked if it'd be all right. I just- It's dad, y'know? He'd probably be chuffed to bits that she's coming. Didn't feel right to say no."
Baelon scoffs, full of spite in the way only a freshly turned twenty year old who had no true understanding of the situation could. "Don't see what that matters. Not like he'll know."
She can't fault him for saying it, in truth. Despite the way Laena and Laenor's heads had snapped around to him. He's right. But he doesn't know Alicent. He doesn't have any recollection of her, despite how she'd changed his nappies when he was a baby, except for a few brief mentions of her name before they'd invoked the whole She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named thing. He doesn't know just how broken she'd been, when she'd figured out that she wasn't just merely being ignored. She'd been completely cut ties with, no note. no nothing.
"…It's fine." In no way shape or form does Rhaenyra feel fine. "I've already said yes. Dad would want her there. And— She's hardly the type to start something or other, so. It's not an issue, in truth." But it is. Seven hells, she could hardly handle that brief two minute interaction just the other day. How on earth was she meant to deal with seeing her at her fathers funeral?
(Clearly this is her penance for all the times she's cut someone off in traffic, window rolled down so she could flag them off out of it.)
Baelon scoffs again, thankfully remaining otherwise silent. She's not sure if she could handle it if he said anything more. Laenor's in the same boat as him though. She call tell from a brief glance up, at the way his lips are thin, and his brows are knitted together. She doesn't look at Laena, because she knows she wouldn't be able to handle whatever expression she has on, whether understanding, pity, or something more complicated.
Besides. She's a grown woman. She can handle seeing an old friend for a couple hours.
…Right?