violets to roses

by celesbrini

Summary:

queen rhaenrya targaryen takes the daughter of her hand under her wing.

Notes:

the working title of this was the joffsafication of rhaenicent so take that as you will

 

not beta'd because i'm deeply impatient
minor rhaewin but VERY minor
mind the tags, title is from lana but shout out to sappho too

Alicent Hightower is the last person to see the King alive.

She is not yet a woman, a girl called from Oldtown by the Hand to serve the king. Rhaenyra had only seen glimpses of her, but she suspected that it was by design. She was a meek thing, always quick to curtsy in respect and excuse herself from the room. Rhaenyra had noticed several times the way she ripped at her fingertips and thought it peculiar that such a beautiful girl would hurt herself in such a way.

Rhaenyra had happened upon her once, at her father’s bedside reading to him. Alicent lit up in scarlet, stuttering over her words before she excused herself. Rhaenyra had thought little of it, but looking across the funeral wake she realizes just how close father and daughter are; Otto leans over her, speaking to her quietly whilst tucked against a wall. He wipes tears from her cheeks before hugging her to his chest, where she sobs.

Otto is not a fool, Rhaenyra knows this. She knows he has been breathing down her father’s neck since she was appointed as heir, and even more so since the birth of her three boys. Rhaenyra would not be obtuse enough to believe that he is unaware of his daughter’s visits to her father. If his previous machinations are any indication, she imagines that these visits were well monitored by him.

Rhaenyra watches her more closely over the days approaching her coronation. She is gentle-hearted, it seems, and well-mannered. Alicent seems plenty happy to remain in the background, whether she is bearing her father’s cup or carrying his parchment and quill.

“Do you plan to keep your daughter at court, Ser Otto?” Rhaenyra asks one day after a small council meeting to iron out the details of her coronation.

If the question takes him by surprise, he does not show it. “Alicent will return to Oldtown,” he tells her.

“She was not here very long.”

“It is almost time for her to marry,” Otto responds, matter-of-fact.

Rhaenyra considers this. She finds the girl’s timeline suspicious, especially now that she knows that a betrothal is on Otto’s mind. Things have been tense between them these past few days; Rhaenyra knows that Otto thinks her ascension will destabilize the realm, and at the same time she knows he wants power and that he would not wish away his position as Hand. Rhaenyra has yet to decide whether or not she would keep him.

“Do not send her away,” Rhaenyra tells him. “My Lady Wylla is soon to return to the Vale to marry. I will need another Lady in Waiting. Perhaps the Lady Alicent could fill her place.”

Otto looks at her now, considering. “I am most flattered by such an offer, your Grace,” he replies, in that same shaking tenor his voice usually holds. “But I am afraid she is untrained for such a station.”

“Fit for the Hand, and not the Queen?” Rhaenyra challenges him lightly. She can read that he watches her more carefully now, as if trying to see what her ulterior motives are. It is always like this between them, snakes circling, waiting for the other to spit venom first. “Surely one of your sons can fill the role of your Squire. I’ve seen her bear your own cup without issue; she would not forget such a skill now that she carries it to the head of the table.” She watches him with keen eyes, keeping her expression calm so as to not let him in on her reasonings. “Send her to me tonight,” Rhaenyra decides. “Lady Wylla will instruct her if you think her incapable.”

Otto swallows, eyeing her, before allowing duty to take precedence and bowing his head, “As you wish, Your Grace. I will have her brought to you.”

On the days in which Alicent trails dutifully behind Lady Wylla, Rhaenyra only watches. Alicent is a precocious learner, quickly picking up which wine blends Rhaenyra prefers, which dresses were her favorites, and the herbs she liked to be steeped in her bath. For whatever Otto’s plan is at keeping Alicent away from her, the poor girl does not seem to understand how much he has undersold her. She refrains from speaking to her and instead instructs Wylla privately to coach her and manage any questions between the two of them.

Alicent is wide-eyed and eager to please, not to mention incredibly well-mannered. She simply cannot imagine why Otto wants to ship her back to Oldtown; surely such a beautiful girl would find better prospects for marriage in the capitol.

“Perhaps he only wishes to keep her from all this politicking,” Harwin tells her, sweaty and satisfied as he holds her in bed.

She can’t help but scoff. “Otto? Of all people? Please,” Rhaenyra shakes her head. “She’s his only daughter. She’s the sharpest knife in his cavalry. If he truly wanted to marry her to a high lord, he would want her here – sending her back so soon is asinine.”

“You don’t think he means to marry her?”

“Of course I do. I think it’s precisely why she was spending her nights at the Widower King’s bedside. His plan didn’t work, and now he wants to send her back home for whatever his next plan to undermine me.”

“You don’t think he would marry his only girl to your father,” Harwin replies, disgust and disbelief in his voice.

She turns her head to gaze up at him for a moment before he replies, “There are few things I do not think Otto Hightower capable of.” It comes out as a warning. “Especially in his pursuit of power, my power.”

“Perhaps it would be wisest to allow it, then. He would have one less ally at court,” Harwin points out.

“He would, but I would no longer have such a close influence over his strongest negotiation tool,” Rhaenyra shakes her head. “So long as she is here, she is not being married off to a Dornish prince, or whatever other fool he can convince to usurp me.” Rhaenyra sits up, leaning over to collect her robe. “I’m going to call for a bath,” she tells him, the gentlest dismissal she can give.

Harwin sits up to press a kiss to her bare shoulder.

In another wing of the castle, Otto has called his daughter to him.

“There are uncertain times ahead,” he tells her, reclining in his chair as he watches her. Alicent is trying her best to sit precisely as she should; her shoulders are tall, her back straight, her chin up, and yet she rips at her cuticles in her lap.

“Rhaenyra being crowned will send the realm as we know it on a tilt, but it will be nothing compared to what might happen beyond that,” he says carefully. “Her boys are… not fit to ascend.”

Alicent understands precisely what he means. She is young but well-read, and her short time at her father, the king and the future queen’s sides have made her more politically literate than she might otherwise prefer. Discretion was an important thing for a lady of high status to have, and Alicent did not yet have the stomach for secrets.

“Another babe may yet be born,” Alicent says kindly. One with white hair, to soothe the realm, one to name heir and quiet those who would suggest what would be treason.

Her father fixes her with a gaze that lands somewhere between disappointed and disbelieving. “Until one is born, it is our duty to prioritize the people of the Realm. Viserys did all in his power to be sure that Rhaenyra began her reign in peace, but war will come, should Jacaerys ascend. I may not live to see it, but you will.”

Alicent swallows, but cannot find the words to respond.

“You are in a very advantageous position,” he finally spits out. She is reminded all at once of her summoning to court, of her father’s encouragement in a last-ditch attempt to keep Rhaenyra off the throne. She still remembers hearing of the king’s declined proposition from the Sea-Snake, being that his daughter was simply too young for him to take to bed. Alicent was only a few years older than Laena had been at the time; she appreciates her father’s efforts to wait until she was a woman if nothing else.

“Rhaenyra may yet grow to trust you. You must hold this in the highest regard,” Otto says carefully. “But… I would remind you of the gravity of your word. If you were to see treason…” he trails off, watching her with those hawk eyes that made her want to burst into tears, “if you were to turn your head to treason… the consequences would be dire. Do you understand your position in this game?”

Alicent nods obediently.

“Good. Sometime soon, you ought to affirm your dedication to serving her. You should go to her.”

The girl swallows, uneasiness settling into her stomach. “I wouldn’t know what to say,” she admits. A rip at the edge of her cuticle evades her bitten-short nails and she lifts it to her mouth to remove it with her teeth.

“Stop that,” he says, tone edging on sharp. She moves her hand back to her lap. “She’ll be impressed by your eagerness. Rhaenyra likes people who like her.”

Alicent can only hope that things are so simple; thus far, she cannot even bring herself to believe that Rhaenyra likes her at all. She has not said a word to her in the week that she has been at Lady Wylla’s side, only watching her with a gaze that Alicent both reviles and relishes in. It is a strange thing, to be looked at with such intensity and yet held at arm’s length. She knows that being the Queen’s Lady is a high privilege and that many in the Kingdom would jump for the opportunity to be considered; she imagines that Her Grace is considering many maidens to fill the role and that Alicent is but one of them.

Lady Wylla falls ill on the morning of Rhaenyra’s coronation. Alicent wants to do as she is told, to pursue Rhaenyra before she can appoint anyone else, but someone else beats her to it.

“Her Grace has summoned for you, Lady Alicent,” Harwin Strong tells her after knocking at the door to her apartment. Her stomach drops, and she begins a nervous sweat.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin,” she replies. She can only imagine what this might be – that perhaps Her Grace has enough respect to dismiss her properly. She only hopes that the girl lucky enough to be picked by her is not present; she would take this embarrassment alone if Her Grace was merciful enough.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra says, a hint of relief in her voice as Ser Harwin closes the door behind himself. “There you are. Come, there is much to do before the ceremony begins. I’ve washed this morning, but my hair –” Rhaenyra has thus far moved around the room, now sitting at a boudoir. She looks in the polished silver mirror at Alicent’s reflection, then looks over her shoulder at the girl. She looks like a deer cornered by a wolf, wide-eyed and nervous as she wrings her hands together. “Alicent?” Rhaenyra asks softly.

Alicent seems to pull herself out of her shock as Rhaenyra’s instructions finally sink in. “Yes, Your Grace,” she responds, and she carries herself across the room to tend to Rhaenyra’s hair.

The morning seems to pass by all too quickly; there are a thousand things to be done and only time for a hundred, leaving Alicent rushing back and forth with headpieces and skirts and the nicest dress Alicent has ever seen, much less laid her hands on. Only after Rhaenyra has been brought to the carriage, once Alicent is in her own carriage of squires and ladies, does she realize the gravity of what she’s accomplished; that it was her own hands who dressed the queen. Her hands laced the bodice of her dress around her curves, her hands wove the pattern of her braids, and her hands applied the rouge to her lips and cheeks.

(That realization specifically has Alicent leaning towards the breeze coming through the window, and as stressful as it had been, she is grateful for the pressure and fast pace. Thinking of it now, how Rhaenyra had watched her with an intensity that had Alicent burning just thinking about it. She had these amethyst eyes that seemed to see right through her in layers, burning through her dress and her skin and her flesh, down to her bones. Use your fingers, my dear, Rhaenyra had told her after she fumbled with the brush. There was something intimate about tapping her fingertip across Rhaenyra’s lips; she had never before been so close to another girl’s – a woman’s – mouth, and once again it lights a fire in her. Beneath her dress, she can feel her nipples harden into buds, and yet is far too distracted to enjoy the cool breeze that must have started such a reaction.)

The reaction to Rhaenyra’s coronation is tentative. She stands above the crowd with her father’s crown on her head, her husband at her side, and their three sons beyond him. Alicent’s own father is there to show his loyalty and the Commander of the City Watch. Rhaenyra had heard whispers that the Prince might make an appearance, but Daemon and his wife are notably absent from the crowd of royals who had made the journey for Rhaenyra’s coronation. Alicent joins her family, visiting from Oldtown to celebrate the coronation.

The banquet that follows is the largest Alicent has ever seen. Braziers are filled not with fire but exquisite flowers, overflowing with burgundy roses and dragon’s breath, accented with shades of blue and purple and black, mottled like bruises. Beautiful string music fills the hall as people eat and talk and dance, and Alicent dines with her visiting family, but keeps a close eye on the new Queen should she need something.

Soon the meal is over and the arrival of maids to gather plates invites a new obstacle for Alicent to avoid; boys.

It isn’t that she doesn’t like them, Alicent tells herself as she finds refuge in a dimly lit corner, keeping her eye on Rhaenyra – she is glowing under the attention and the candles in the chandelier above them, locking every set of eyes lucky enough to happen upon her in a trance. Alicent likes boys just fine, she thinks, it is only her purity and dedication to her future husband that makes her skin crawl when they come to touch her arm, only her devotion that encourages her to gag at the thought of being taken to bed. She will bear it, of course – she will swallow down the taste of bile and her cringing because it is her duty to take a husband. When her father finds her a suitable match, one who is perfect for her in every way, then she will know what it is to find comfort in a man. She knows this to be true because she can see it in her mind’s eye, a lovely future with a lovely husband and a babe on her hip and another in her belly.

She straightens as Rhaenyra rises from her seat and approaches her. “Your Grace,” Alicent greets with a curtsy.

Rhaenyra smiles at her, sweet and fond, the very image of the scent of the roses that fill the hall. “Are you enjoying the party, Alicent?” She asks.

“Of course, Your Grace. I have never seen a celebration like it; surely the histories will recall what a grand occasion this is,” Alicent responds. She begins to pick at a nail.

“You sound like your father when you speak like that,” Rhaenyra responds with the barest tint of frustration in her voice, and for a moment Alicent is scared she may have misstepped, but Rhaenyra reaches forward to take her hands. Rhaenyra turns to look across the room, everyone drinking and mingling and dancing. Alicent follows her gaze only for a second but is quickly drawn back to Rhaenyra. The rouge she had so carefully tapped over Rhaenyra’s cheeks and lips is long faded, replaced with a wine flush that she wears so beautifully. “Why are you hiding, darling girl?”

“I – I would never,” Alicent says. “I only wish to be ready, should you need –”

Rhaenyra fixes her with a knowing gaze, then hugs Alicent’s hands to her chest. “I understand,” she promises. “I was once your age, you know?” She lifts one hand, tucking a lock of hair behind Alicent’s ear in a gesture that has her skin lifting in gooseflesh again. “I hated parties like this,” she cast a look over her shoulder again. “I knew every time we hosted one it was just another opportunity for my father to find the highest bidder for my hand; I imagine you feel similarly.” Rhaenyra turns back to her.

“I would be honored to be considered for the hand of any of these Lords,” Alicent says.

Rhaenyra tuts her tongue lightly. “There’s your father again,” she says, and she drops Alicent’s hand. “Can you do something for me?”

“Anything, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra reaches into a nearby floral arrangement and plucks out a little purple bloom from among burgundy roses, then reaches forward and pins it into Alicent’s hair. “Relax,” she says kindly. She moves with a grace Alicent could only dream of one day replicating as she plucks a wine glass from a passing maid and hands it over to Alicent. “Have a drink. Try and have some fun with the boys; you’re the most beautiful girl here.”

Instantly, Alicent goes as red as her drink. “O-oh. I… could not hold a candle to you, Your Grace.” She believes it, too. Alicent has heard tales of Rhaenyra’s beauty in girlhood, how she had bewitched all the boys in court with her beauty and gentle demeanor. It seemed she had only grown more beautiful as she aged, turning from girl to woman and filling out her features and figure. She was stunning, the very image of the Mother, and able to light up a room with a single smile.

Rhaenyra honors her with another kind smile, and she picks up a goblet for herself, then taps their cups together. “Drink with me,” she instructs.

Alicent obeys. She finishes her glass, and Rhaenyra excuses herself for politicking, encouraging Alicent out into the crowd. Moving into the thick of the dancing intimidates her far too much, so she skirts the edge, nursing another goblet of wine, and keeps an eye on Rhaenyra before her father finds her.

“There you are,” he says, putting on a smile and wrapping an arm around her. She turns easily, following his gaze to see that he has brought over a man who must be twice her age at the very least. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

He is a Lord from the Stormlands, she learns, one who is doubtlessly strong and powerful. He is too tall and wide for her tastes, and she finds craning her head to look up at him to be both unnerving and unsettling. His smile is wide, showing too many teeth, and she does not feel unlike a doe before its neck is crushed by the jaws of a predator. She accepts his offer to dance but thinks only of Rhaenyra’s words. To have fun with the boys – she had no such privilege. She could only imagine her father’s silent outrage had she denied whatever Lord or Lord’s son he selected for her. She’s heard the stories of Rhaenyra’s youth – everyone has – of an affair that had maybe occurred, of secret parentage, of tours cut short because she simply had no interest in any of the men there. She knows Rhaenyra was able to afford such offenses based on her status and the protection given to her by her father.

With this man’s bullish hands on her slight waist, she wonders what it would be like to have a father like that. One who bent to your will rather than the other way around, one who did not have the courage and assertiveness to press for a better life for you. She wonders about it now; if perhaps that was his intention all along in arranging a marriage between her and Ser Laenor, and if she scorned him for forcing her hand.

Out of the corner of her eye, Alicent catches the Queen’s hand raise. “Excuse me, my Lord,” she says quickly, all but forgetting her manners as she weaves through the crowd to find the Queen’s side. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“More wine, please, Alicent,” she replies easily. There is a glint in her eye that has Alicent’s chest burning as though she’s sipped some cinnamon brandy.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Alicent repeats. It is all too easy to find a maid carrying a tray of wine and to return.

“That is all,” Rhaenyra tells her. Alicent returns to the crowd, only for the whole endeavor to be repeated twice over. Every time her father pins her down with another lord, it seems that Rhaenyra’s cup has run dry, or her hair needs to be repinned, or that she simply needs someone else’s attention and Alicent should be the one to get it for her. Her father, she knows, is holding himself back. He fixes her with disappointed looks but doesn’t go so far as to reprimand her. Even he knows that the queen’s will must come first, no matter how insignificant it might seem to them.

She excuses herself to a bathroom and is unlucky enough to find one of the Lords she’d escaped lingering outside the party.

“Lord Greyjoy,” Alicent curtsies. She plans to walk past him, but the Red Kraken blocks her path.

“Lady Alicent,” he drawls. “What a relief it is to find you again. I would hate to see our last interaction be one interrupted by the queen.”

“Yes,” Alicent says, her mouth pursed. She feels as though she has been caught in a trap by his gaze alone. He does not regard her with curiosity or awe or appreciation, but with a bone-chilling hunger, the kind she thinks a maggot might have if the Gods gave them faces. “It is surely a blessing to find you again.”

“Your father says you are looking for a husband,” he wets his lips. Alicent scratches at a raised cuticle. “Do you know of how we marry in the Iron Islands?”

“I… must admit I do not.” Alicent takes a small step back to counter Dalton’s step forward.

“We take salt wives,” he says, “as many as we can. The best of us have a dozen or more. Do you know how many salt wives I have, Lady Alicent?”

Alicent gives a minute shake of her head. Her stomach turns. “I am sure you are desired by many, m–”

“Twenty-two,” he cuts her off. “And only one spot for a rock wife. They are supposed to be Ironborn, but,” Dalton clicks his tongue. “A pretty little thing like you might make do just fine. Perhaps you’d like to give me a look at what I’m buying – you know. Taste the milk before you buy the cow.”

Alicent sours at his words, fighting herself not to show her frown. The way his eyes look over her feels violating, and she watches in horror as he reaches out to touch her.

“Alicent!” The queen’s voice comes. Dalton turns his head, hand going limp as he realizes what an esteemed audience they have. “There you are.”

“Your Grace,” Alicent replies, relief flowing over her like warm water in the winter. Dalton bows beside her.

“Ser Laenor has forgotten a tie for his hair – would you fetch one for us?”

It is a chore for a maid, not a Lady, but Alicent would not bite the hand that gives her such a gracious exit. “Of course, Your Grace. Ser Dalton,” she curtsies, then hurries down the hallway as Rhaenyra engages the Lord Reaper of Pyke about ships and the such.

When she returns to the feast, leather tie in hand, Ser Laenor only dismisses her; his hair is tied back cleanly as it is.

Without a clear task at hand, Otto catches her in his web yet again. “The queen requires much of you tonight,” he comments.

“It is her coronation feast,” Alicent replies. “Her Grace should want for nothing.”

Her father eyes her for a moment, then puts another hand on her shoulder. “There is another person you should meet,” he tells her. He begins leading her through the crowd, only to come across the queen herself.

“My Lord Hand,” she greets, smiling. Behind her, she tows her own son.

“Your Grace,” he bows. Alicent curtsies for good measure at his side.

“What lovely timing. We had just come looking for you. Alicent, this is my son Jacaerys – I’m sure you two have met already.”

“My Prince,” Alicent curtsies again.

“My Lady,” he bows. “I sought you out to ask if I might take you to dance.”

Alicent, perhaps improperly, looks to her father. He hesitates, but gives a short nod and releases his leading grip on her.

Jace’s grip is more elegant than any of her previous partners. She thinks he is more handsome, as well – he has Rhaenyra’s nose, straight and strong. She finds him her favorite out of all her dance partners this night, as he isn’t overly imposing or too obviously assuming that she could be his wife, and that he doesn’t try to talk to her. He seems content to spin her in circles whilst she looks over his shoulder to watch his mother. Rhaenyra honors her with her own quiet glances between conversations, flitting between ladies and lords and the like.

“Retire, sweetling,” Rhaenyra purrs in her ear as the hour of the ghost approaches. “I can see your exhaustion.”

The Hour of the Owl was approaching, but only a small portion of the party had retired, her father among them. “I would dress you for bed, Your Grace,” Alicent protests weakly.

Rhaenyra smiles, pulling her forward and touching their foreheads together. “Trust that I will manage on my own; please. I will see you in the morning for the rest of the celebrations.”

A smile twitches at the edge of her lips, comforted by such an intimate gesture between the two of them. She has half a mind to insist, if only because her father would want her to – how is she to see if Ser Harwin is sharing in the Queen’s bed if she retires so early? But Alicent is far too tempted by rest. She walks back to her room, feeling grateful for Rhaenyra’s generous and matronly presence; she hopes that this will not change.

The festivities that follow are much more of the same. Alicent becomes more familiar with Ser Laenor and Ser Harwin, as well as the three Velaryon boys. She gets the impression that Jace has been instructed to look out for her, or otherwise has become fond of her, but by far she thinks the one who favors her most is Rhaenyra. It is a deep contrast to the way she’d treated her when she was Lady Wylla’s shadow, as now she talks to her freely while Alicent dresses her and combs her hair, inviting her to sit in the quiet moments between celebrations to ask how she’s enjoying things.

Her father is relentless when he can steal her away from the queen’s side. He introduces her to so many men she could not possibly be expected to learn the names of all of them, much less their seats or stations.

“You should be proactive in this search,” he tells her late one night in his study. “You would be a good wife to many of these men, many powerful men. Lords of entire kingdoms – you might even like Pyke.”

Alicent chews her fingers raw thinking about a life like that. Her father seems intent on it, and she tries to find a silver lining. At least, she thinks, if her husband is a sailor and she is not, he would spend much of his time at sea, away from her. If he is to take other wives, he might take out his anger on them, rather than her.

They are fickle, flimsy comforts.

The morning after the festivities have concluded and the guests have started their journeys home, Alicent arrives at the queen’s chambers as expected. “Good morrow, Your Grace,” she greets with a curtsy.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra smiles at her, warm like sunlight despite the autumn wind that wafts through the grand windows. “Hello, my little rose.”

The queen has taken to calling her a myriad of nicknames, from sweetling to dear to words uttered in Valyrian that Alicent is too timid to ask the meanings of. She’d seemed to settle on this one, though – little rose. Alicent quite liked it, if she were honest with herself. It felt like something her mother might call her, and without fail each time it came from Rhaenyra’s lips Alicent went flush.

“I have a gift for you today,” Rhaenyra tells her as she slips Rhaenyra’s dressing gown over her shoulders. “Come.”

“A gift?” Alicent asks, following a pace behind her as she crossed her room.

“I wanted you to be able to wear it during the festivities,” Rhaenyra tells her, “but the seamstresses seemed overwhelmed with their work. No matter,” she sighs, pulling forth a wave of lilac fabric and draping it across her arm.

“To celebrate your new position,” she explains. Alicent’s mouth is agape as she looks over the dress, with a high neck and sheer sleeves. Tiny gems have been stitched across the garment to make it shimmer like the sea at sunset, adorned with fabric flowers all over. “The silk was dyed with violets,” Rhaenyra explains, “which are usually given to maidens. I thought it an appropriate symbol for this time in your life.”

“Your Grace,” Alicent finally says, “I… am truly flattered. I could not begin to express my gratitude.”

Rhaenyra hums with a wide grin. “You can start by taking off your dress.”

Instantly, Alicent goes scarlet. Rhaenyra acts so naturally, seemingly unaware of or completely unfazed by her scandalization, only turning the dress in her hands to undo the buttons going up the back. She is still unsure, her hands clasped together as she picks at her nails. She wants to ask things – now? Here? Before you? – but she knows better than to question her grace. Instead, she stays frozen.

Rhaenyra looks over at her and makes a sound of realization, then drapes the dress over the back of a nearby chair. “Let me help you,” she says, coming up behind Alicent in a turn of events that is somehow worse than whatever she had previously been imagining. Rhaenyra’s hands pull easily at the ties of her dress, introducing cool air to Alicent’s back. She pulls the laces loose all the way down to her hips, and Alicent instinctively crosses her arms over her chest to keep her dress from slipping off her completely, leaving her with some decency to her name.

She’d never been naked in front of anyone before, and she was sure her scarlet cheeks communicated that quite clearly. Rhaenyra was a woman, one who had commanded her to strip, and yet she felt unable to do so.

“Oh, little rose,” Rhaenyra tuts, and she places a hand on her shoulder, then drags it down her back gently. “You’re in the company of another woman – please. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. The Seven will not mind.”

Alicent looks at her for any sign of hesitation, but Rhaenyra only looks at her kindly. She swallows, then tentatively lowers her arms, and her dress falls away easily. It pools around her legs, and she steps out of the fabric while she forces herself to keep her arms down. She doesn’t think her body is anything to balk at, but Rhaenyra looks at her with a gentle fondness, over the slight swell of her breast, the softness of her tummy, and the jutting peaks of her hipbones, the modest thatch of hair between her legs. Her scrawny body is forgettable beside Rhaenyra’s, she thinks.

“You shouldn’t be so shy,” Rhaenyra tells her, reaching out a hand to hold her head gently. She pulls her in to set a kiss on her cheekbone, then turns and gathers the new dress for Alicent to slip on. She tries not to be so eager but is grateful to be covered once she has slipped the sleeves on and Rhaenyra moves to her back to finish the buttons.

“Here,” Rhaenyra says, taking Alicent’s hand to lead her to the mirror. “Have a look.”

Rhaenyra slips behind her as Alicent looks herself over. She has never worn such an exquisite gown – nor has she ever looked so beautiful. The fabric glimmers over her, adorned with little embroidered and fabric flowers that gather at her feet, as if she is walking through swirling blooms falling from trees above. The neckline is high and elegant, and her sleeves flatter her arms.

“Gorgeous,” Rhaenyra says, sliding her hands over Alicent’s waist and hips, the phantom touch lighting her up from the inside. “What do you think?”

“I… cannot express my gratitude, Your Grace,” Alicent finally says. “I have never owned anything so… magnificent in its craftsmanship. I am truly flattered by your generosity.”

The dress truly does make her feel like a princess. She floats behind Rhaenyra with newfound confidence, somehow emboldened by the heads she turns rather than humbled by them. Of course they should look; the dress is a work of art.

Even her father’s questioning cannot dim her flame today – asking her where she found such a thing, and Alicent must bite back her brightest smile as she tells him that the queen had it made for her, a gift.

He looks disapproving as he breathes deeply. “Everything has a price, Alicent,” he tells her evenly, before turning and returning to the small council table.

“Tomorrow,” Rhaenyra says as Alicent undresses her for the evening, “you’ll collect breakfast for the both of us from the kitchens. We’ll dine here.” Her braids have been carefully combed out, incense lit, and her nightdress laid out.

“You would not dine in the hall, Your Grace?” Alicent asks, collecting Rhaenyra’s rings and sorting them into their appropriate spots.

“I’d like a quiet morning,” she admits, “and with the weather cooling, getting out of bed is enough of a challenge. Find my sheepskin slippers; I’d like them set out at the bed.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Alicent says obediently. She carries Rhaenyra’s dress to the closet, storing it away safely and fishing out the slippers. Alicent returns and then kneels to slip the shoes onto the queen’s feet – as she slides the left shoe on, she can feel Rhaenyra’s hand gently slipping through her curls.

“You’re laying it on quite heavy, don’t you think?” Harwin asks that night as she leans against him in a tepid bath. “With the girl.”

“I’m trying to coax her out of her father’s influence,” Rhaenyra responds easily. “She’s a sweet girl, but her father is the only ally she has here, and he has doubtlessly warned her against me.”

“What stops you from cutting Otto out entirely?” He asks.

Rhaenyra sighs. “He served Jaehaerys and my father both faithfully. I trust his council – I just wish he trusted me enough to let me in on whatever his motives are. I have other allies in the Reach, but none so influential. Otto is waiting for me to prove myself, that I can or cannot rule. Keeping Alicent on my side gives me an advantage.” Rhaenyra pauses then. “She’s a sweet girl. What a shame she’s in this position.”

Things carry on. Rhaenyra makes breakfast a regular occurrence, just the two of them in her quarters as the Keep wakes up. Alicent finds herself utterly taken with her Queen – she doesn’t know how anyone could have ever questioned her ability to rule – and finds comfort in her gentle mothering, the way she always seems to find something for Alicent to do with her hands, the gifts of hair pins and sweets from far away. She listens to Alicent read to her, compliments her needlework, and spends evenings at her side.

One night, Rhaenyra sits her down at her boudoir and gently combs through her hair. She twists sections of her hair into little braids, that she ties at the back of her head. Rhaenyra pulls a jade tiara from a drawer and sets it atop Alicent’s head.

“What a beautiful princess you make,” Rhaenyra compliments, and in the mirror Alicent beams up at her with adoration. “My uncle brought me this crown, all the way from Essos. He told me that it once belonged to a god-empress of Leng,” Rhaenyra adjusts Alicent’s hair, draping a few curls over her shoulder. Alicent relishes in the brush of the queen’s fingertips over her collarbone.

“The one who takes two husbands?” Alicent asks. She’d been flattered by the gesture, but now it feels almost sacrilegious to wear something that once belonged to someone who would spit in the Gods’ faces in such a way.

Rhaenyra nods. “Khiara the Great started that tradition,” she says. “Do you know why?”

Alicent shakes her head.

“Khiara the Great took two husbands to please her people. To unite them. A very noble cause, in my opinion,” Rhaenyra says, adjusting Alicent’s curls this way and that way before she pulls open another drawer and draws out that same rouge Alicent had dressed her with for her coronation. She takes a seat on the bench opposite Alicent; their arms touch but their legs face opposite directions.

Rhaenyra takes the color and dabs it across Alicent’s cheek delicately.

“Your Grace?” Alicent asks after a moment.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra replies coolly, and Alicent’s unsure look cracks into an endeared smile. Rhaenyra grins back at her. “What is it, little rose?”

“I… have noticed Ser Laenor’s absence from your… quieter moments,” Alicent swallows, looking down at Rhaenyra’s lap.

Rhaenyra hums.

“I only wonder how you could be happy without a husband.”

It has not gone unnoticed by her father how much the queen seems to treasure Alicent’s company, and he has pushed her several times now to find out more than what she knows. Every night, morning, and moment that her father has alone with her, he reminds her of it. Questions of who she spends her time with, who she invites to her chambers late at night, and what she does after the sun sinks below the horizon. It is almost as if he has forgotten that she is his daughter and not one of the many spies he employs; that she does not do this for silver stags to rub together, but out of duty and love for her father. It feels as though they no longer spend time together unless it is talking about Rhaenyra’s whereabouts and personal life.

But Alicent simply knows not how to press without being overbearing; Rhaenyra is careful about dismissing her in the evenings, and every morning when Alicent returns with a tray of warm bread and jams and butter, it is only Rhaenyra in her bed. She has not even seen her husband in Rhaenyra’s bed, much less a paramour.

Rhanenyra takes a deep breath before she begins to speak. “When you marry for duty, as I did, as you likely will, you may not find exactly what you desire. That privilege may be taken from you.” Rhaenyra takes Alicent’s chin in her hand and tilts her face to look up at her. Alicent’s breath catches; Rhaenyra glows in the low light. Alicent wets her lips, falling victim to her magnetic pull. “However,” Rhaenyra swipes rouge over her finger, then begins dabbing it across Alicent’s lips softy, “you may be lucky enough to find someone kind. Kind enough to… grant you the same peace you grant them. I have many things in my life to be grateful for beyond my husband, no?” She asks, cocking her head ever so slightly. “I have a crown, I have a kingdom. I have three beautiful children and a loyal court. I have you,” she taps a finger on Alicent’s nose, and Alicent flushes at the words of affirmation. “He gave me heirs and I have a kingdom to run. What my husband does in his spare time is the least of my concerns,” Rhaenyra insists, screwing the lid onto the powder and setting it onto the boudoir. “Why do you ask?”

Alicent swallows then shakes her head and looks away. “I…”

“You’re worried about your own marriage, aren’t you?” Rhaenyra asks, taking one of Alicent’s hands from where she had been subconsciously picking at her nails.

“My marriage?” Alicent asks, looking back up to Rhaenyra with her brows knitted in concern.

“Don’t you know?” Rhaenyra asks. “Your father talks of it ceaselessly. He’d like you to be returned home at once so that you might find a husband.”

“Of course,” Alicent replies, casting her gaze downwards. She knew her father was looking for a husband for her, of course. But she had thought her position as Rhaenyra’s Lady would have calmed him, at least for a while. She didn’t particularly want to leave; she quite likes being at Rhaenyra’s side, being spoiled with gifts and treasures, and being treated the way Rhaenyra treated her. More than that, while she knew marriage was unavoidable – she spurned the thought of having to be sent from another home, being completely reliant on a man who may not even favor her. Marriage was a duty, yes, but was her duty to the crown not greater than her duty to whatever Lord her father had selected?

Her dread is clear as day. Rhaenyra cannot help but feel for her; she had once been in this very same position, despite being much more vocal about her disdain for the situation. Alicent is simply too well-behaved to fight back as Rhaenyra had.

After a moment, she finally breaks their melancholic silence, “What is it that troubles you?”

“I am not quite sure,” Alicent admits, feeling all too vulnerable and young. She has prayed for clarity from the Crone and yet she is left unanswered, lost in the Keep as the vultures circle her. “I… have always dreamed of being a mother, but I hear horrible stories of husbands and men. I have nightmares about being far from my family, having to share a bed with a stranger, a man old enough to be my father. It frightens me,” Alicent’s jaw trembles. “I know it is my duty, and I will perform it, but… I cannot help but dread it. I know it sounds foolish.”

“I don’t think it sounds foolish,” Rhaenyra interjects, her words a soothing balm over Alicent’s open wound, “I don’t.” Rhaenyra reaches for her, pulling her into her chest and holding her there. Alicent breathes deeply, matching the pace of her breath with Rhaenyra’s. It feels good to be held like this, Rhaenyra’s arms wrapped around her. It feels good to have the presence and comfort of another woman, to know that she is not alone in her fears, to know that she is not paranoid and naive like her father tells her. It has been too long since she has felt the touch of a mother beyond the phantom she feels on her knees in the sept. Alicent melts against Rhaenyra like butter on her tongue.

“Do you think your father would marry you to a cruel man?” Rhaenyra asks against her head.

Alicent shakes her head. “I fear he does not see cruelty as I do. Sometimes, it feels like men are predisposed to brutality.”

The queen makes an empathetic sound. “I could marry you to Jace,” Rhaenyra offers, pulling away and tucking an auburn curl behind Alicent’s ear. Alicent sits up, wide-eyed. Her voice is warm honey, dripping from Alicent’s ears, down her neck, and over the paltry curve of her breast to where it pools between her thighs. “Or to Luke. Both would keep you here, at my side, and they would be good to you. You would be my daughter,” Rhaenyra smiles at her, so close now that they breathe one anothers’ breaths. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

The offer is a generous one, surely, and in that single moment, the stress melts from Alicent’s posture. Jacaery and Lucerys both have been kind to her, welcoming her into their circle at her place by the queen’s side. By the queen’s side, she thinks again. She finds she quite likes this position, and hopes that they can continue this for some time, maybe until the queen grows old, and Alicent can take care of her all the time.

Alicent preens, pressing her thighs together. “I would, Your Grace,” she answers honestly, almost breathlessly. Rhaenyra has her entranced, eating out of her hands with such simplicity that it goes completely unnoticed to most. The prospect of marrying a prince has much less allure than she would normally think it would – no, she is all too excited about having Rhaenyra as a mother.

“I’ve always wanted a daughter,” Rhaenyra tells her, voice low. She nudges forwards, placing their foreheads against one another. “How lucky I am for it to be you.”

“The honor is all mine, Your Grace,” Alicent replies. Rhaenya has sunk into her lungs, suffocating her with a delicious high. Their noses bump and a shiver goes through her body, finding an end between her legs in a sensation she’s not sure she’s had before. Her entire body thrums with anticipation, frozen with both fear and excitement as Rhaenyra’s open mouth shifts against her own and yet remains perfectly poised not to touch her.

Rhaenyra moves to press a kiss to her cheekbone. Alicent flushes red. “What a blessing,” Rhaenyra says, and it blooms in Alicent’s chest like firewine.

After she has been dismissed that night, after she has prepared herself for bed and slipped beneath the covers, she thinks of what it might be like to be wed to Jacaerys. If the previous months are any indication, Alicent imagines that the celebration would be grand. She wonders what kind of dress Rhaenyra would have made for her; she fancies something creamy white and adorned in pearls, perhaps, to show respect for Jacaerys’ Velaryon father. Jacaerys would be a good husband, she thinks. He doesn’t bother her or his mother much as he could, and for that he is grateful. She only really sees him when he joins his family for dinner, when Rhaenyra stops in on his lessons, or when he comes to small council meetings. There are evenings, too, where Rhaenyra dismisses her early to spend time with her sons, but on a whole, she thinks she would be happy to be married to a man who busied himself so much with books and swords, rather than cups or whores. She would get to spend much more time with Rhaenyra, and though she would not have to wait on her so intently, she thinks she would find pride in it anyway. What a sweet thing it is to sit and braid your good mother’s hair, and then for her to braid yours. Though she has little drive for power, Alicent thinks herself a fair queen; one who would not be hated by the smallfolk, but rather appreciated for her politeness and devotion to the Seven.

“One last matter,” Rhaenyra announces at the next small council meeting. She stands at her place at the head of the table, seven men watching her carefully. “I have felt the… anxiety for your daughter’s betrothal of late, my Lord Hand. And for any dismissal you may have felt given by me, I apologize. But we are one council, and long before that, you gave your wisdom to my grandfather, and his son after him. My son Jacaerys will inherit the Iron Throne after me. I propose we betrothe him to your daughter, Alicent. Ally ourselves, once and for all.”

At her diagonal, the Hand does his best to look only unmoved, rather than offended.

“Let them rule,” Rhaenyra says, “together.”

The Hand sets his fingers over his mouth, then glances around the silent table to the other men, and then finally to where his daughter stands behind the queen, holding a goblet of wine. She looks shameful, red-cheeked. She’d known about this. He sits up, then clears his throat. “I thank you for your offer, Your Grace, and I will consider it duly,” he swallows, then bows his head. “Is this meeting adjourned?”

Rhaenyra bristles. “Yes,” she grits out, the warmth of her previous answer absent now. “This meeting is adjourned.”

Otto stands, collecting the book his notes had been written in. “Your Grace,” he says, “if it is no trouble, I might borrow my daughter for the rest of the evening.”

“She is my Lady, my Lord Hand,” Rhaenyra responds. Alicent hovers a pace away, trying too hard to look as though she was not overhearing any of it.

“And you have many Ladies,” Otto counters, tone astringently polite, “I have only one daughter.”

Rhaenyra fixes him with a challenging look, but gives him a final nod. Otto waves Alicent forward, who moves to his side. His arm wraps around her as he leads her to the door, but Alicent casts a concerned look over her shoulder, only to be met with an expression she cannot read.

Her father leads her to his chambers, all but dragging her by the arm through winding stone hallways. When the door is shut, Otto wastes no time crowding over her; Alicent freezes, mid-cower, and can feel the tears gathering before he can even open his mouth.

“Alicent,” he says, and his tone, torn between concerned and frustrated and mourning, breaks the dam. She lets out a stifled sob. “You knew about this.”

“She only proposed it last night,” Alicent insists, “I came to you, but it was late. You were asleep!”

“You should have woken me.” Otto turns then, his hold releasing on her so that he can move to his desk; it feels like abandonment. “I’ve been blindsided now, and my own daughter participated in it. Do you have anything at all to show for it?”

Alicent blubbers for a moment, but finally gives an answer. “I do! I have asked, she only told me that Ser Laenor gives her the peace that she gives him.”

“You must try harder,” Otto sets his quill down and stands, leaning over his desk to address her. “Jacaerys cannot take the Iron Throne, I will not tie you to an anchor and drop you in the sea. The rookery is filled with letters made to contest an older sister’s claim as it is; do you have any idea what will come if a bastard rises to the highest power in the realm?” He hisses. Alicent blinks tears down her cheeks, her jaw shaking. “Did you think you would be her plaything forever?”

It has been a gracious few months, Alicent thinks. Hard at times, but mostly spoiled. Rhaenyra was kind to her, a kindness that seemed unending. She listened to Alicent’s worries and soothed her, gave her trinkets and dresses and ate with her. She commanded other ladies to take care of her, and offered up her eldest son, her heir, because of Alicent’s fear of being given to a cruel man.

“I am sorry,” Alicent insists, but he is occupied with his quill again.

“You have no concept of the scale of this indiscretion; the consequences could be fatal. For you, for me, for the realm.” The angry edge has fallen from his voice, but the disappointment that has taken its place cuts her much deeper.

“It will be decades before Jacaerys inherits the realm,” Alicent tries.

“Not if Daemon returns. I would not even think it below him to slay his own niece for the throne, not when the one who inherits is a bastard.”

Alicent has never had the misfortune of meeting the prince, only through the tales fed to her by her father. “The queen says the Prince is happy in Pentos,” Alicent tries, “and that marriage has assuaged him.”

“And would you believe the sky is red if the queen told it to you?” Otto asks, not bothering to look up from his letter. He writes quickly, pausing only to let the ink dry before he rolls it up and seals it with wax. “She thinks this proposal will placate me.”

“She wishes to see me given to a kind man,” Alicent tries, but her voice shakes as much as she does. Her fingertips have gone bloody, soiling her skirt where the fabric touches her as she fidgets.

“She wishes to buy my blindness,” Otto insists, harder and louder and more forceful than Alicent could ever manage herself. She thinks of bullish hands, of rings cutting her cheek, of a greed she is duty-bound never to deny. More hot tears spill down her cheeks. “You cannot be so naive to not see it. Attaching my daughter to her illegitimate son aligns our interests. She thinks I lust for her brute power. I am a servant of the Realm, and I will sooner have my head on a pike than give you to a doomed king.”

Alicent takes it. She sniffles through her nose as to not let out any more sobs, and finally, Otto looks at her. He sighs, then rounds the table and wipes her face clean with a handkerchief before pulling her into his chest. She lets out another sob, letting tears drip down her face again.

“Here,” he says. He places the scroll in her hands, then closes her fingers around it. “Take it to the maesters to be sent to Vaemond Velaryon as soon as possible.” Her father fixes her with a look like he might say something else, then purses his lips and pulls away.

She knows she looks a mess, hurrying through the halls with her dress dirtied with blood, her face inflamed, her eyes red, and yet she carries herself to the grand maester’s quarters, only to be turned away – Maester Gerardys has already retired for the night, so she leaves the note to be sent upon his wake. The pace she takes to her own apartment is much calmer, her steps measured as she tries to sort out her thoughts. She understands where her father is coming from, she does, but she is repulsed by the idea of condemning Rhaenyra in such a way. The queen has been nothing but kind to her, going so far as to invite her into the royal family. Surely the realm would not collapse upon itself if Jacaerys ascended…

“Alicent,” a rich, familiar voice pulls her from her thoughts, and she looks up to see the queen coming towards her. She is dressed in her night shift, a light duster pulled over to keep her modest. Her hair is undone, hanging in beautiful waves around her face.

“Your Grace,” Alicent replies, surprised to see her in this part of the castle at this hour.

“Are you alright?” Rhaenyra asks, taking Alicent’s face in her hands and looking her over with a keen eye; Alicent can only hope that her eyes aren’t so red anymore.

“I am, Your Grace. What are you doing out here?” She asks.

Rhaenyra looks her over for a moment, then hums as she accepts Alicent’s answer. “I came for a walk, to clear my head. Here,” Rhaenyra takes her hand, “come with me out to the gardens.”

Alicent is certain a headache will set in soon, but it might do her well to have some fresh air – and, a quiet part of her raises, you may just hear a confession. She lets the queen turn her around and heads for the royal gardens.

“Do you think your father will accept our proposal?” Rhaenyra asks her as they meander slowly between hedges.

“I think he is torn,” Alicent answers slowly, carefully, with her head down. “But it is our honor to consider such a proposal. I can only hope that he will see reason and accept.” She can feel Rhaenyra’s eyes on her but does not lift her head.

Rhaenyra hums, then squeezes Alicent’s hand, “If you were my daughter, I would not so easily give you away, either. I understand his hesitancy.”

Alicent looks up at her, feeling a touch more relaxed. Rhaenyra could understand where he was coming from – that was better than nothing. “That is most gracious, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra smiles at her, then looks around the gardens. They’re surrounded by flowers here, bathed only in moonlight. They may well be the only two souls in the known world. Alicent has dreamed of moments like this before, of a handsome and gentle knight inviting her out for late-night walks because he is simply so taken with her that he must squeeze every moment of time from the day to be by her side. She imagines being so taken with him that she would kiss him – something she knows she would never do in actuality – right here among the roses and tansy flowers.

“Did you know that flowers have personalities of their own?” Rhaenyra asks her.

“How do you mean, Your Grace?”

“Each flower,” she says, “has a secret meaning behind it. Lady Wylla oftentimes read books from the Reach of what they meant. These laceflowers meant cleanliness and new beginnings, celocias for courage, tiger lilies for wealth. She found a lot of joy in coming down here to find the flowers in her books.”

“That is a beautiful sentiment,” Alicent replies.

Rhaenyra releases her hand to move closer to a rosebush, reaching in and pulling out a deep red flower. “Do you know what a red rose means?”

“I do not, Your Grace.”

“A red rose,” she says slowly, offering the flower to Alicent, who takes it gently by the stem, “means passion. It can also be a symbol of romantic love, sensuality, sexuality.”

Alicent flushes at the implication – one that is so far from the realm of possibility that she doesn’t even allow herself to entertain it. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Alicent effuses. Rhaenyra’s hawk eyes are on her once more, the gaze that has her feeling as though she stands naked before her. Rhaenyra lifts one hand to tuck one of Alicent’s curls away, then curls behind Alicent’s head and pulls her in ever so slightly that their foreheads touch once more. Rhaenyra is searching for her gaze, but the butterflies in Alicent’s stomach make it hard for her to meet her eyes for very long; there it is again, that same naked feeling.

Alicent gasps, looking down to her hand to see that she’s been cut by the rose’s thorn. Blood blooms on her fingertip, and Rhaenyra tuts. “Oh,” she says, taking Alicent’s hand in hers, “your poor fingers… we’ll have one of the maesters bring you a salve tomorrow.”

“It was my own mistake,” Alicent insists, defending herself against no accusation.

“Perhaps we should retire,” Rhaenyra suggests. “You must be tired, my little rose.”

Alicent follows her dutifully back to her quarters and ventures inside when invited. Rhaenyra holds her hands in the wash basin and wipes the dried blood away gently, then pats her hands dry. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Alicent says, tucking her mangled hands behind her; she’s not sure how someone as esteemed as the queen can stomach looking at them.

Rhaenyra comes behind her and sweeps her hair over one shoulder. Her fingertips skate along the line of Alicent’s neck, eliciting a shiver from her. “You are such a beautiful girl, Alicent,” she says, watching their reflection in the polished mirror. Alicent is wearing another gift from Rhaenyra, a shade of blue that looks charcoal in the low light. It hangs from the corners of her shoulders and is embellished with tiny sparkles at the neck, waist, and hemline. “You’re going to make my son a very lucky man. Are you still so nervous, knowing it will be him?”

Alicent has half a mind to point out that their betrothal is not yet certain, that her father had made it clear to her that it would not come to pass. She bites her tongue. “It soothes me to know that he will be kind to me,” Alicent says, “but there are many duties of a wife that I find myself… unprepared for.”

“Motherhood will come easily to you,” Rhaenyra promises her. “You have the heart for it, I can see it plainly.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but…” Alicent brings her hands before her to pick, then corrects herself and sets her fists at her sides. “But I’m afraid my fears will come even before motherhood.”

Rhaenyra has taken to stroking through her curls, but her hand stops when Alicent’s words find her ears. “Bedding?” She asks.

Alicent nods, her eyes still downcast.

“What of it scares you, little rose?” Rhaenyra asks.

She shakes her head this time. “I…I worry about losing my maidenhead. I know it is supposed to hurt, that you bleed, and… I do not want it to hurt. I know it is my duty to my husband, but… I worry I might not like it. I worry about not being a maiden.” Alicent’s jaw trembles at the thought, having to force herself through pain at a man’s whim, of no longer having the protection of her maidenhood to keep her from the greedy hands of me.

“My girl,” Rhaenyra sighs kindly. “You will like it. I can promise you this.”

“How can you be certain?”

Rhaenyra reaches around her and lifts her chin with two fingers. Alicent finds her empathetic gaze, shortly followed by her hair standing on end when she feels Rhaenyra’s hand undo the first clasp of her dress, and then the next. Alicent crossed her arms over her chest, frozen on the spot – she wants to turn around, to ask the queen what she is doing, but she finds herself unable to move.

“You see,” the queen says, and Alicent watches in rapt disbelief as she lowers her lips to Alicent’s neck and kisses her there. Her body responds while her mind cannot, too caught up in a jumble of wrong and queen and virtue – and would this be proof enough for her father? Would he look down upon her? Is the Mother looking down upon her now?

Alicent’s nipples perk, a shiver moving through her as Rhaenyra undoes her dress, kissing down her neck to her shoulder. “For women, as it is men,” her hands find Alicent’s shoulders, brushing down her arms to unfold her grip and let the dress fall and pool on the floor.

“Y-your husband,” Alicent manages to force out. Her throat feels tight, her chest flushed – she’s on display for the queen to see. She does not dare look at her reflection.

Rhaenyra’s fingers find her breasts, slowly rubbing around one pert nipple. “A marriage is a duty,” she murmurs against Alicent’s neck. Alicent shakes – she is not sure if she is shivering in anticipation or trembling in fear. “But that would not stop me from taking what I want,” one of Rhaenyra’s arms slips around her waist, tugging Alicent back to lean against her – a movement that has Alicent whimpering out. “From fucking who I want,” Rhaenyra continues. Alicent does not need to turn her head to know that there is a smirk on her face.

She should deny her, she knows – but who is she to deny a queen? How would she be able to serve her beyond tonight? And she knows that if she were to deny her, she would not be able to stay in the Red Keep. Alicent would lose her position, her proximity to her father, and her marriage proposal to a man she can trust. She squeezes her eyes shut and prays to the Maiden for forgiveness as Rhaenyra’s fingers brush through her pubic hair.

“Look at me,” Rhaenyra commands. Alicent has turned her face away, her hand has come to grip the hand that holds her waist. A shaking breath comes from between Alicent’s clenched teeth – is it better to deny her queen, or stumble in the eyes of the Maiden?

Alicent turns her head and is met with Rhaenyra’s hot mouth on hers. Rhaenyra’s fingers tease at her, ghosting between her legs before it moves up to hold Alicent’s jaw in place. Rhaenyra kisses like she is starving, greedy as she drinks in every taste of Alicent’s mouth, tongue pressing her lips open to claim Alicent’s first kiss. Alicent is pliant, horrified and curious still. Rhaenyra’s mouth is soft and warm and welcoming, pulling sweet noises from her as she is kissed. Her anxiety keeps her from participating, but her body is responsive enough on its own. She doesn’t even realized she’s moved her hips away until Rhaenyra pulls her back, her ass against Rhaenyra’s own hips. Rhaenyra sucks Alicent’s bottom lip into her mouth and Alicent whines again, back arching.

Rhaenyra pulls away only to replace her tongue with her fingers; she pets Alicent’s mouth until her fingers are dripping with saliva. She nuzzles against Alicent’s face as her hand moves down again, and this time there is no hair-raising preamble. She sets her slick fingers against Alicent’s cunt, pulls Alicent’s reactive body back against hers, and finds that she needed not to wet her fingers at all. She drags her finger forward, brushing over a part of Alicent that has her calling out and bucking in her hands.

“Shhhhhh,” Rhaenyra coos in her ear. The arm around her waist clamps down, holding her against Rhaenyra’s hips as she brushes her fingers over Alicent’s hood slowly to acclimate her to the feeling.

“Your Grace,” Alicent whimpers, jerking at every touch. Rhaenyra’s fingers gradually increase the pressure, circling around her clit in tighter and tighter circles. Alicent’s knees buckle and her head tips back as her back arches. She grips Rhaenyra’s arm so tight her knuckles go white, lost in this sinful pleasure.

“There’s my girl,” the queen continues, “so sensitive for me.”

Something inside Alicent crests. She keens onto her tiptoes, legs going tense and trembling, and soon the pleasure being delivered upon her is too much to bear. She begins twitching between chasing the absence of Rhaenyra’s fingers and flinching at the presence of it.

“Very good,” Rhaenyra purrs. She pulls her hand away finally, licking Alicent’s slick from her fingertip. Alicent is still fighting through a haze, her clarity only welcoming thoughts of guilt and sin. If the queen notices, she gives no indication, only pulls Alicent’s stumbling legs from her dress and sets her against her table, the very same one they break their fasts together at.

Rhaenyra drops to her knees and pulls Alicent’s apart – the girl seems to come to enough that she realizes how she looks, and she folds an arm over her chest to hide her breasts. Rhaenyra watches her, leaning forward to kiss a hipbone. She reads the worry in Alicent’s expression, the fear, she feels the way Alicent moves to close her knees.

“Your Grace,” Alicent’s voice comes out as a plea, but she is not certain what she is pleading for – more, forgiveness, an end.

In an act of generosity, Rhaenyra surges up and kisses her again. Alicent is more responsive this time, if only marginally. She keens against Rhaenyra as they kiss and Rhaenyra unties her duster, leaving the wispy garment to pool at her feet. Rhaenyra takes Alicent’s wrists in her hands and pulls them from where they hold her slight breasts, then moves to take the flesh between her lips.

Alicent forgets herself for the dozenth time, calling out in a too-loud voice. Her body reacts in kind, her bucking hips leaving a wet smear on the thigh of Rhaenyra’s nightdress. The queen’s mouth feels euphoric on her tit, tongue laving and teeth nipping at her. When she pulls away, spit strings at her mouth and leaves Alicent with fantasies of chasing her mouth, of kissing her as hungrily as she has been kissed.

Without hesitation, Rhaenyra’s mouth finds her cunt. Alicent jumps, her legs clamping shut around Rhaenyra’s head. She balls her fists and unfurls them over and over, clearly wanting to push her away and yet being unable to, either by duty or her pursuit of pleasure. The image of a woman – the queen no less – between her legs, with her mouth buried there is sin, boiled down to its purest form. Temptation has long since taken her.

Rhaenyra’s mouth is hot and wet as she licks up and down Alicent’s folds, relishing in the way Alicent jumps when her nose bumps the girl’s clit. It is plain to see that this will not last long, perhaps even shorter than the quick orgasm she’d just had. It is sweet to see this, Alicent’s first time being touched, her first time experiencing a climax. What a privilege it is to take such an esteemed young lady’s maidenhead.

She pulls away ever so slightly and spreads Alicent’s lips enough to see her hymen, just a few strands of tissue still attached to one another. She sets a finger at her entrance and then moves up to suck on her clit, simultaneously pressing her finger forwards. It is her hope that whatever pain comes with breaking her hymen is drowned out by the pleasure of so much pressure on her clit, and surely enough, Alicent reacts.

The girl arches back, all but slamming herself onto the table. She lashes out with her hand, sending a chair scraping against the stone floor whilst her thighs clamp around Rhaenyra’s head again. Rhaenyra sucks, pressing her jaw against her pussy in waves as Alicent rides her second high, right up until the point that she begins fighting herself on whether or not Rhaenyra’s mouth is a comfort or a harm.

Rhaenyra stands, pulling a dazed Alicent in to kiss her, and finally, with Alicent’s own taste on her tongue, the girl kisses back. Her hands fist into Rhaenyra’s dress, mindlessly pushing into the kiss. Her inexperience is obvious but endearing, kitten licks into Rhaenyra’s mouth without premeditation, only passion.

Alicent seems to come back to herself more as they pull away; she closes her legs and folds her arm over her chest. Rhaenyra caresses her face, blinking awake and touching the very edge of a scowl. “Come, darling,” Rhaenyra nods to her bed. “Sleep here tonight.”

The girl seems to realize more where she is and what they’ve done. She lights up red from her cheeks to where her hands cover her nipples.

“Come on,” Rhaenyra uses her hands this time rather than her words alone, gently guiding her from her perch on the table and to the bedside. She pulls back her duvet and helps Alicent in, and whilst Rhaenyra tucks the blankets over her, she feels not unlike a child.

She watches while Rhaenyra moves around the room to blow out the few candles that remain lit, then joins her in the bed.

“Was I right, then?” Rhaenyra asks. She leans over Alicent to place a kiss on her cheek, “You certainly seemed like you liked it. Now you have nothing to be afraid of.”

Conflict bubbles within her. There were much larger issues in their proposal than her anxieties. She had proof now, of Rhaenyra’s transgressions, but could not present it without incriminating herself both in the eyes of the Seven and the law. She was spoiled now, her maidenhead gone, and she would be branded a liar or a whore depending on how she tried to tell her story. Her father would think less of her; would her betrothal to Jacaerys still stand even now? She feels lost, trapped under a cresting wave and drowning already in her sin. She longed for a bath.

The queen seems to read her strife. “What is it that troubles you still?”

Rhaenyra had done this once, had she not? She had traversed girlhood and made it out as queen. Every anxiety Alicent had raised, Rhaenyra had found her own way to soothe it. Perhaps if she raised this, the queen would find a just solution for everyone.

“My father will not let me marry Jace,” Alicent whispers, “he says he will not let me marry a –” Alicent stops short, the word catching in her throat. It feels like choking.

Rhaenyra pulls her hand away, her amused expression dropping for a much colder one, and for a moment, panic spikes in Alicent’s chest and she gasps out a breath. She has never before seen a likeness to Maegor in her queen, and yet, for a split second, all she can see is ruthless cruelty.

“Please, Your Grace,” Alicent gasps. “He worries what might become of the Realm, he does not want me to see war, I know he would –”

Rhaenyra pulls her into her chest. The cruelty is gone, and once again, Rhaenyra only feels like a mother to her. The queen shushes what has turned into gasping sobs coming from Alicent’s trembling lips, holding her tightly to her chest. “My girl,” she coos, “my little rose.” One of Rhaenyra’s hands comes to stroke her back, further coaxing her from panic. “Breathe deeply. It is alright.”

Alicent tries to obey, and after a moment her shaking breaths even out.

“I will take care of it,” Rhaenyra says, pulling away to look into her eyes. “But you cannot tell anyone of what has happened tonight, do you understand?” She asks. Alicent nods with conviction. “I would not want it to reflect poorly on you, or on our proposal. You would lose all hope of finding a decent husband, and… I would be forced to act severely on your father’s accusations. You might even get mixed up in them, and… I could not stomach having to punish you.” Alicent trembles in the queen’s arms. “I will not forget your honesty, little rose.”

The night brings a deep sleep for Alicent, and when she rises the queen is already awake and moving; she has picked out a dress for Alicent to wear, one from when she was only a girl, red and gold with beautiful open bell sleeves.

“My uncle has written,” Rhaenyra tells her as Alicent twists her hair into parallel braids, “my cousin is to give birth soon. Ser Laenor and I are going to fly to Pentos to be with her.”

“What a blessing,” Alicent says. Her stomach turns, the events of last night still toiling within her.

“I’ll hear my supplicants this morning and travel on dragonback across the Narrow Sea; you’ll be without me a few days.”

She is not certain how Rhaenyra plans to handle their situation whilst being across an ocean, but she knows to trust her. She must have faith. It seems to Alicent a poor choice to leave the castle when she knows her Hand is conspiring against her, but she wouldn’t question the queen so plainly. “A few days,” she repeats.

“Don’t fret, little rose,” Rhaenyra reaches behind her and touches her leg. “I’m going to protect you. You have my word.”

She meets Rhaenyra’s gaze in the mirror, and the assurance she can plainly see soothes her. “Thank you, Your Grace,” Alicent replies obediently. She fastens a clip into Rhaenyra’s hair, then brushes through what’s left loose.

When she returns from gathering breakfast, they have another visitor.

“Ser Harwin,” Alicent says, tone polite and yet her eyes wide. She’s certain that her face has gone as red as the berries on her tray. Has Rhaenyra told him? Is he here to take her to the dungeons?

“Lady Alicent,” he bows to her ever so slightly, then turns to Rhaenyra and bows again. “I understand, Your Grace. Excuse me.”

Alicent watches him leave, and when she turns back to Rhaenyra, the queen has taken her seat and is spreading butter over a piece of crusty bread. She tells herself to trust the queen; Rhaenyra had given her word that she would look over her. That she would be alright. Alicent knows that the most critical moments to have faith are the ones when you feel the most unsure, and so she sits without questioning it.

Her father eyes her when they gather in the Great Hall to hear the small folk’s requests. She knows it is likely only that he does not recognize her dress, and yet she feels small under his watchful eye, as if he somehow knows what she had done, or rather had allowed to be done to her, last night. She carries Rhaenyra’s cup to and from the throne as gestured, nervously avoiding her father’s gaze.

After the last supplicant is heard, Alicent is surprised to hear the queen request for her court to wait. Ser Harwin moves forward and hands her a small scroll. Alicent’s blood goes cold as she spots the forest-green wax seal.

“My Lord Hand,” Rhaenyra said, loud and crisp, “please. Come before me.”

Alicent finally meets his measured gaze with her wide eyes. He does not obey immediately, eyeing her, eyeing the queen, eyeing the court – it is only when Ser Harwin and Ser Westerling move forward does he take slow, careful steps to stand before the queen. “Your Grace,” he says diplomatically.

“In yesterday’s small council meeting, I announced a proposal that would unite our houses, my Lord Hand.” Rhaenyra snaps the wax seal in her hands and unrolls the note, reading it over.

“A most generous offer, Your Grace,” Otto replies. Alicent has known him her whole life, and still, she cannot spot a single crack in his careful mask. She does not know how it is that he is so collected at all times; perhaps he had given up all of his fears when he made her. “One I am happy to be considering.”

“You sent a letter, this letter, after our meeting. A letter inviting a response from Vaemond Velaryon, citing concerns with the succession of Driftmark. I ask you now, Lord Hand, what succession concerns those are. Driftmark will go to Lucerys Velaryon, inherited from his father.”

Otto’s mouth has formed a line, but there is a glint in his eye. Alicent cannot tell if it is worry, admiration, or the sparkle of an unshed tear. “Your Grace, many elder sisters have written to the capitol to contest their brother’s claims to their inheritance since your coronation; I only wished to be sure that the Prince’s claim would not be contested by the Lady Laena’s daughters.”

“Speak plainly, Ser Otto. Honesty will be your friend; this is the gentlest questioning you will receive,” Rhaenyra spits.

“Do I stand accused, Your Grace?” Otto asks.

“The Crown finds you guilty of treason,” Rhaenyra replies sharply. The goblet in Alicent’s hand slips from her fingers, but the clatter it makes against the stone floor may as well be silent.

“On what grounds?” Otto challenges.

“On testimony by your own daughter,” Rhaenyra counters, “the Lady Alicent.”

“No!” Alicent yells out in panic. “No, no!”

Rhaenyra does not regard her. “Let this be a reminder to all,” the queen rises from her seat, raising her voice once more to echo through the halls over Alicent’s repetitive begging, “that to question the birth of my children is a crime punishable by death.”

Alicent feels frozen, every part of her. Her heart has stopped beating, her lungs stopped breathing, her voice stuck in her throat. She lets out a wail, another protest, hot tears on her cheeks as she rushes forwards. She will lay herself at his feet and beg the Queen’s mercy, she will do anything. Her father, her foe, her friend. She cannot help but scream out as she watches Ser Harwin and Ser Cargyll take her father by either arm.

She is kept from reaching him; one more of the Queensguard intercepts her, holding her in his arms as she crumples, screaming, wailing out protests. She watches the Queen descend the steps and pull the pin from his lapel. “Take him,” she commands.

Alicent has crumpled in the knight’s arms, holding her up but with gentle hands. She had trusted Rhaenyra, she had confessed to this in faith that Rhaenyra would not allow harm to come to him. Had she misjudged this so deeply?

Rhaenyra hands the pin to her husband, then turns and approaches Alicent. “You may release her, Ser Westerling.”

Alicent is set gently on the ground in a sobbing heap. She watches in her peripheral as Rhaenyre kneels down beside her; Alicent grabs at her skirt in horrid, greedy handfuls. “Please, Your Grace,” she cries, “please, please.”

The queen shushes her lightly, pulling her into a loose embrace. “I cannot let traitors run around my court,” she whispers against Alicent’s hair. “Imprisonment is a much lighter sentence than others have had.” She leans in and lays a kiss across Alicent’s cheekbone. “I told you I would keep you safe, little rose.”

Rhaenyra pulls Alicent’s hands from her dress and rises to her feet. Alicent is the last inside the hall, lying in a pathetic heap on the stone floor.

When she finally manages the energy to stand, there is only one place she would go. The dungeons are a terrifying place, filled with dirty men who call things out to her as she is led to her father. Seeing him cracks her open, sharp pain in her chest; an arrow through the heart. He has been stripped of his clothes, dressed now like a commoner. She falls to her knees, gripping the bars of his cell.

“I did not wish this,” she sobs. She had hoped to be coherent, but the sight of him imprisoned is too much for her tender heart to bear.

“A confession was your decision?” Otto asks her sharply.

“A decision I most bitterly regret,” Alicent replies desperately. She had only been trying to help, to protect them, to pacify the situation. She had been a girl, trying to do a king’s job.

“And yet you have made this possible,” his cutting indifference is worse than a blade – perhaps her father has escaped execution, but she narrowly wishes it for herself now. He will not even approach her. “You chose Rhaenyra.”

“She swore she would protect me!” Alicent counters. “And I believed her!”

“You only wanted to believe her!”

“An honest mistake!” She pleads. “I did not foresee this.”

“You should have!” Otto roars.

Her desperation curdles inside her and she yells back, “If you had not been so relentless in pushing me toward a husband!”

Otto eyes her. She has disrespected him, she knows this, and she shrinks as he finally moves to speak to her through iron bars. “Listen to me, daughter,” his voice is quiet and measured yet again. “Rhaenyra will die. It may be months or years, but she will not be Queen forever. If Jacaerys succeeds him, war will follow. Understand? The realm will not accept him, and to secure his claim she will search for every symbol of legitimacy she can muster. Being the wife to a false king will mean you and your children will be put to the sword. There will be no choice.”

Alicent sobs weakly, gasping for clean breaths in this horrible dungeon.

“You know it,” he hisses lowly. “You are no fool and yet you choose not to see it.” Otto rights himself, breathing deeply, considering all of his options, and the positions of his pieces. Freedom will be his only choice if he aims to protect his daughter or the realm. He moves back to the bars and kneels, then places his hands over hers “You must cleave to Rhaenyra and beg for her mercy.”

She cries before him, feeling like a child guilty of breaking a priceless heirloom. For what might be the first time, Otto looks at her. He sees her, broken and regretful and fatally sorry, and he pulls her in for a hug.

The following days are harrowing. Alicent moves through them like quicksand, each moment suffocating. She scarcely eats, for she has no appetite at all, and it leaves her feeling too faint to travel far from her chambers.

She finds refuge in two places; one, at her father’s side. One of the guards is gracious enough to have a stool brought down for her, and at least once a day, Alicent travels down to the dungeons to see her father. She brings what she can, bread or cheese or fruit or wine to drink, and she sits at his cell and reads aloud to him. He encourages her to eat, but Alicent refuses to take from him; the few meals she forces down are done only out of loyalty to him.

It is a mournful thing to feel so close to him like this. Without power and pursuit, he is quite human beside her, and she begins to see parts of him she had never known to exist before. Her father is a kind man, with a gentle heart, yet ruthless enough to execute things that others will not. He is clever, and in their moments together he poses her questions; hypothetical tales to see what she would do. She longs for him like this and wishes that perhaps if Rhaenyra can take pity on a young girl who loves her father as Rhaenyra had, for a man who loved his daughter as Viserys had, her father might return to Oldtown, and that Alicent could be kept as a ward. Losing her father to distance rather than to death is an easy mercy for Alicent’s transgression.

On the second day of Rhaenyra’s absence, her father reminds her to write to their family in Oldtown. She crafts a letter, telling them of what had happened, of her crime and guilt, but assures them that her father is okay. When she brings the letter to Grand Maester Gerardys, she cannot help but take offense as she watches him crack the seal on her letter and unroll it to read it.

“What are you doing?” Alicent asks, squashing the desire to pull the letter from his hands. There is nothing of political or educational purposes to be read, and yet he takes in every word. It is a violation if nothing else.

“I apologize, my Lady,” he tells her, rolling the note up and dropping in a knob of wax to reseal it. “It is the queen’s command.”

The other place she finds refuge at is the Grand Sept. When she is not tending to her father, she kneels before the Gods and prays. She sits there so long that her knees bruise, that her frame goes stiff from lack of movement, and her body aches. She has much to apologize for and repents for allowing thoughts of another woman to clutch her so tightly, she repents for allowing Rhaenyra to have her.

Repentance is key, she thinks. It is her sin of adultery, her sin of lying with another woman that led the Gods to put her father in a cell. If she prays hard enough, if she loathes herself and her sinful body with enough conviction, she knows the Gods will lead Rhaenyra towards freeing him.

Her father gives her what little advice he can in his position, but she knows that he speaks as Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the Queen when he does. She wishes she could talk to him as Otto Hightower, her father, and late at night, she wishes she could do the same to Rhaenyra. She would be put to the sword before she would admit it, but she likes Rhaenyra much more when she is not sat upon the throne; she likes the kind woman with soft curves and a mother’s touch, who tells her of her childhood in the Red Keep and her tribulations through girlhood.

Corlys Velaryon arrives to don her father’s pin. Jacaerys Velaryon tells her that he is sorry for what happened to her father. Vaemond Velaryon does not reply to her father’s letter; or rather, if he does, it does not make it to him. Alicent hears girls whisper about her father’s imprisonment, and of a knight who had incriminated the queen when she was still a princess in his confession of oathbreaking. They say he was the only person put to death by King Viserys, and that it was the princess herself who had ordered it, that his head sat atop the castle walls so long that buzzards picked him clean. Alicent prays it isn’t true, but she doesn’t have the courage to ask her father.

When Rhaenyra returns, Alicent wishes she could find more enjoyment in it. She puts on a brave face as her father has instructed her to do when the queen calls her to her chambers.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra beams. She comes to her, holding her face in her hands. “My little rose. Come, I’ve brought you gifts.”

Rhaenyra leads her with gentle hands, then opens one trunk and begins showing her her collections. The queen was most generous in her trip, and she shows Alicent tiaras and bracelets and earrings, opalescent pearls strung together, and rubies set in Valyrian steel cuffs. She brings dresses for Alicent now, too. Rhaenyra tells her of Pentos, where she had collected a tart dress, strung together with braided cords that must feel like wearing nothing at all when the wind blows, and a charcoal dress from Lys with a deep neckline and flowing caped sleeves. Carved statues, beautiful weavings and embroideries, swaths of fabric that Rhaenyra promises to have sewn into whatever gown Alicent can think of. When she has reached the bottom of the case, she returns to her seat at the table. Alicent is at her side.

“Have you sailed before?” Rhaenyra asks her, “The trip across the Narrow Sea is only a few days.”

“I have not, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps we will plan a tour across the Free Cities. I would need you at my side.”

“I am afraid my stomach would be too weak, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra hums, and she picks a fruit off the tray beside her and tucks it into her mouth. “I suppose it’s good that Syrax can fit two then, no?”

A smile twitches at her lips, but Alicent’s exhaustion is too heavy for her to feel any true relief or excitement. Rhaenyra takes her hand and pulls her closer gently, then takes her by the hips and guides her to sit in her lap. She has repented; she has spent every waking second repenting since her father was taken from her. She must have faith that this now is the will of the Gods, that They guide Rhaenyra now.

“Have you eaten today, little rose?”

“I have not, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra picks up a dark mound covered in sugar and lifts it to Alicent’s lips. She has never seen these foods before, jars and pots of different vegetables and fruits and cakes. Alicent had not realized how hungry she was, and she lets out a noise of relief at her second bite, and then again; Rhaenyra tucks one fingertip into Alicent’s mouth for her to suck off the loose sugar, and then cleans off the other one herself.

For the first time since she had humiliated herself, she feel relief. Rhaenyra has returned, her kindness, her humanity has returned. This was not a woman who would execute a man for accusing her of losing her virtue; surely there was another explanation, one that didn’t sound so good as gossip. Rhaenyra feeds her cornmeal cake drenched in honey and berry tarts, kisses the worry from her brow, lets her lay slices of herbed and smoked salmon that melt in her mouth on her tongue. For the first time all week, Alicent feels human; the Gods have smiled upon her. This was surely an act of deliverance. The Gods protected Rhaenyra and led her bounty back to Alicent. They had heard her apologies and prayers.

“My Queensguard said that you made yourself scare without me this week,” Rhaenyra tells her.

“I had no one to attend to,” Alicent admits. “I went to my father and to the sept.”

“Your father still troubles you.”

“Only his station. I hate to see him imprisoned there. It is a horrible place for a decent man to be.”

“Do you think your father decent?” Rhaenyra challenges.

Alicent bristles. Her voice shakes, but she speaks. “He is a traitor,” Alicent says obediently. She has tucked her head against Rhaenyra’s chest where she is curled in the woman’s lap. “He has lost his path, but he would surely find clarity if only he could return home,” she says. It sounds like begging; it is. “I… I could be your ward. And so you would not have to marry your son to a traitor’s daughter.”

Rhaenyra pets her hair. “I had hoped that putting him away would soothe your worries, but it seems as though that is not enough. You understand why I did it, don’t you?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Alicent replies. Especially with such a sudden exit, those days could have been largely influential in Otto’s hands. A cell was simply a safe place to put him, the same way one would put a prized necklace in a drawer with a lock. She wishes that he had been locked perhaps in his chambers or another apartment, but still Alicent understands. Rhaenyra had to make an example of him; she had said as much herself. Alicent sits up a little in the queen’s lap, turning to face her. “I… I would beg that you have mercy on him. I am his only daughter, he is my only father. I know you know what it is to lose a father.”

Rhaenyra hums. Losing her father was a hard time, surely, but it made her stronger for it. It was only after his passing that she had realized that he put a cane in her hands and told her she needed it, needed him to move forward. When he died, when she lost that support… only then did she realize how strong she really was, that she never needed him to walk. That she could run on her own. He was a caring, kind man and she missed him dearly, but his death was the only thing that had given her more than his life had.

“He can still serve the realm,” Alicent continues softly. “And if you would not send him to Oldtown, perhaps he can go to the Wall. He is a very knowledgeable man with much left to give to your subjects.” The girl slides slowly from her lap to between her spread thighs, then clasps her hands in front of her and bows her head. “Please, Your Grace. I beg your mercy for my father.”

The queen makes another sympathetic sound above her, then pets her lovingly. A daughter’s devotion is a beautiful thing, and Rhaenyra finds herself quietly jealous of Otto Hightower for commanding such devotion from a beautiful girl when he had treated her like a pawn in his game. Otto Hightower had been spitting venom at her back for years and had always been too proud, too spineless to do it to her face. Years spent making her out to be a whore, an irresponsible princess who had little patience for politics and the duties of court – and in some cases, he was right. She found Otto’s expectations painfully dull, and she was a princess. What did she exist for if not to sit above duty and the other mind-numbing rules men had made for her?

Things had changed when her children were born. She had her own blood to protect, and even less respect for a father who would push an agenda that would have her children killed, for a father who would use his only daughter the way Otto had. He didn’t deserve her.

All of his humility sat before Rhaenyra now, begging for a man who felt only entitled to her. If her father still caused her so much stress locked away, Rhaenyra would free him from his cell and place him somewhere he would be better suited for, somewhere he could no longer whisper anxieties into her darling girl’s head.

She leans forwards and takes Alicent’s face in her hands, wet cheeks and all. She places a kiss on her sweet lips.

“Your father will see my mercy, little rose.”

Rhaenyra keeps Alicent in her room again that night, tucked against her front. In the morning, after she has hand-fed Alicent soft bread slathered with jam, she instructs her to dress in the dress she’d brought from Lys. The neckline feels too revealing, and for one morning, instead of picking at her nails as she stands in for Rhaenyra’s small council meeting, she pulls at the neckline of her dress. She isn’t sure whether she should be scared or comforted by the fact that none of her father’s councilmembers can meet her eye, or that none of them bring up the circumstances of his imprisonment. She assumes it is only propriety that keeps them from speaking.

Lord Corlys, the new Hand, approaches her after the queen has dismissed the table.

“Lady Alicent,” he says, “I am very sorry for what happened to your father.”

She forces a smile to flicker at her lips. “Traitors must be punished, but I thank the queen for her clemency,” she replies, her voice taut. “I am sure you will make a fine Hand, Lord Corlys.”

He gives her a look she cannot quite place as he bows and leaves the room. Rhaenyra waves her over. “Come,” she says as Alicent picks up her skirt, “I considered your pleas, Alicent, and I arranged to have your father moved early this morning.”

Alicent’s heart skips a beat. “Oh,” she sighs, “thank you, my queen. I… I cannot express my gratitude for your kindness.”

“I’ll take you to see him,” she offers her elbow, and Alicent quickly links their arms. A devastating weight has been lifted off her shoulders, and in her mind she thanks the Gods, she thanks Rhaenyra a dozen times over, her gratitude overflowing. Whether he is being moved to the Wall or to Oldtown, he is alive, and he will live a happy life beyond his cell.

“You should know,” Rhaenyra says as they walk along the wall of the castle towards the main gate, “I act only out of my fondness for you, Alicent.”

“I am eternally grateful for your mercy, Your Grace,” she says. Alicent must keep slowing herself down with the way she tugs at the queen’s arm like an excited dog. She will have another moment with her father. She will get to hug him goodbye, to redeem herself for her betrayal of him.

Rhaenyra slows to a stop, then turns Alicent to face her. A gentle breeze comes through, wafting away a sour smell. Light streams from over the castle wall, and Alicent looks up at her queen. She blinks, adjusting to the light and Rhaenyra speaks, but she cannot hear a word of it. Recognition flashes over her face for a split second, and then shock. Agony.

If Alicent had thought she knew dread after standing in the Great Hall and watching her father be imprisoned because of her, she had only dipped her toe in. The pain that touches her feels greater than anything she knows as if someone had cracked her open like a walnut. She screams out in horror, in devastation, twisting as she collapses. One hand covers her gaping, wailing mouth and the other covers her eyes as if she could shield herself from what she had spied over the Queen’s shoulder.

Rhaenyra moves with her, holding Alicent in her arms as she shrieks and shakes with her gasping sobs. She hugs the girl firmly, then kisses her cheek. “I told you I would protect you,” Rhaenyra reminds her. She’d found the only place Otto Hightower could exist without being a threat to her crown or a source of constant stress for his daughter;

on a pike.