Vanity Fair

by Rhaenicente

Chapter 37: In Which Alicent Seals Her Fate.

Summary:

“Tonight, Alicent endeavours to chart a new course for her life—though whether her hopes shall hold is yet to be seen. After all,this is Vanity Fair, a world where everyone is striving for what is not worth having.”

Notes:

Thanks to WanderingFan who beta read this fic.

Aemma moved the brush with practised delicacy through her hair, each careful stroke easing the tightness Alicent had carried since dawn. She sat before the vanity, spine held impeccably straight, her gaze fixed upon the small wooden box left open upon the table. Between her fingertips she held the ring that had rested within, her thumb tracing the word engraved inside.

 

Forever.

 

The word had always unsettled her—so final, so absolute.

 

She had never been the sort of omega who bound herself to anything—still less to anyone—for longer than the moment happened to suit her.

 

Restless, ambitious, always reaching for whatever lay just beyond her grasp.

 

That was who Alicent was.

 

And yet… here she sat, ten years a married omega.

 

Ten years in which she had been offered more than one escape—opportunities anyone else would have seized without a second thought. When Lord Steyne had extended his hand, gilded with influence and every promise a clever omega might have coveted—what she had coveted—she had simply not taken it.

 

The notion of leaving had never truly brushed her mind, not even as a passing fancy. And that, more than anything, confounded her.

 

Why?

 

There was only one answer, and Alicent had spent years refusing to name it.

 

Aemma set the final pin into place with practiced gentleness, then stepped back, folding her hands before her as she took in the neat arrangement. “There we are, My Dear.” A hint of quiet pride warmed her tone. “I trust it is to your liking?”

Alicent lifted her eyes to her reflection in the mirror. Aemma had drawn the hair at her crown into a neat, elevated twist, the pins so deftly concealed that not a single glint of metal caught the light. Yet, it was the curls that held her gaze—the soft tendrils left to fall at her temples and along her neck, shaped into loose spirals that framed her face. She lifted one between her fingers, winding it absentmindedly as memory stirred.

 

Rhaenyra had so often done the very same, the alpha ever declaring her particular fondness for the omega’s auburn curls.

 

Realising that Aemma awaited her judgment, the omega let the lock slip free and met the older woman’s eyes through the mirror. “Yes,” she said, a faint smile brushing her lips. “It is most excellently done. Truly, your skill is admirable.”

 

Aemma’s shoulders relaxed, a faint flush rising to her cheeks at the praise. She ventured a small, grateful smile; her heart stirred by the rare approval. Alicent had always taken such care with her appearance and to hear her acknowledged it felt almost a triumph.

 

“You look most lovely,” she said softly, warmth threading through her voice. “I shall fetch your breakfast presently, if it pleases you.”

Alicent gave her reflection one last, lingering glance. Satisfied, she turned to intercept Aemma before she could leave the room. “I should prefer to take my breakfast elsewhere today,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “I have spent far too many mornings confined to the room where I have slept these past few days. It would be a relief to take it in a different setting.”

Aemma smiled, pleased by the request; a change would do Alicent good. She cast a brief glance about the chamber, its fine furnishings gleaming in the early light. “The Lady’s rooms are splendid, to be sure,” she murmured, “but it is a fine day. You ought to enjoy a little variety.” Folding her hands before her apron, she added, “If you wish, I can have a plate set in the parlour. Rhaenyra and little Rhaenar are having their breakfast there.”

 

Alicent nodded absently, her gaze drifting about the chamber as though seeing it properly for the first time. It was a gracious room—high-ceilinged, papered in a faded floral damask, the colours softened by years of sun. Pale morning light fell through the tall window, touching the polished mahogany of the vanity and the orderly row of brushes and bottles. The bed, broad and finely dressed, stood with its canopy drawn back, its linen of a quality she would once have marvelled at.

 

A Lady’s rooms, in every sense.

 

The change had not troubled her… not truly. Only a little.

 

She had grown accustomed to the warmth of Rhaenyra at her back each night, to the steady rise and fall of the alpha’s breath against her neck. But sensibility had prevailed; without a heat there was no practical reason to share a bed, and custom demanded that the mistress of the house keep her own chamber. At least this time Rhaenyra had asked, and Alicent had simply agreed.

 

“They are perfect,” she murmured—more to herself than to Aemma—before turning to the older omega with a small, genuine smile. “Yes… that would be wonderful.”

 

 

The parlour was alive with a gentle, civilised hum—the soft clink of porcelain, the muted scrape of a knife through toast, the rustle of pages being turned. The air held the warm scents of morning: fresh bread, cured ham, a trace of coffee, and the sweetness of stewed berries. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, glancing off the silverware and softening the white tablecloth with its glow. A tureen of porridge steamed at the centre, flanked by fruit and cold meats, while a small plate of pastries had already captured Rhaenar’s full attention.

 

At the head of the table sat Rhaenyra. She presided almost absently, the newspaper held before her, though she lowered it a fraction to take in the small domestic scene on either side.

 

To her left, Rhaenar swung his little feet beneath the chair, not quite reaching the floor, his face set in earnest concentration as he buttered his bread—far too generously, she noted, though she let it pass. To her right, Alicent had asked for the society pages and read them with neat attentiveness, one hand curled around her cup, the rising steam warming her cheeks.

 

The alpha let her gaze linger a moment longer on the omega. Even in so simple a setting—morning light, a cup of tea, her hair softly arranged—Alicent remained the most beautiful omega in the world. The mere act of sharing a table with her and with their son set a quiet warmth moving through Rhaenyra’s chest, tugging an unbidden smile to her lips. Yet beneath it lay a tautness she could not quite shake.

 

For when Alicent had entered earlier, Rhaenyra’s eyes had gone at once—instinctively—to her hand, noting the absence of the ring.

 

Her heart had faltered, one startled beat, before sense returned.

 

It meant nothing.

 

The omega was simply using the time she had been given. Rhaenyra had promised her space—whatever she required, for as long as she required it—and the alpha could scarcely resent her for accepting her offer.

She had mastered herself, let the moment pass, and breakfast unfolded in quiet, unhurried peace. Yet the faint sting of wanting to know—wanting to ask—remained, subtle but persistent, like the words were pressing at the back of her tongue.

 

Rhaenyra forced her eyes back to the print before her, feigning interest in lines she had already read twice.

 

This was not the moment.

 

Not with their son present. Not when the morning was so pleasant, so gently bright.

 

She could wait. She must.

Rhaenar could hardly sit still.

 

Breakfast with both his parents felt like a dream—so wonderful he was almost afraid to blink, lest it vanish. His sire sat beside him, close enough to hear the quiet turn of her pages, while his mama sat across, her cup of tea steaming softly before her. The happiness fluttered inside him like a little bird, too quick, too big, making his feet swing beneath the chair and his shoulders wiggle from time to time.

 

He tried to be good, he truly did.

 

He poked at the fruit his mama had given him and spread butter on his toast with great care, though his eyes kept straying to the cream-filled pastry. And since both his sire and mama were absorbed in their reading—quiet, peaceful, unaware—Rhaenar’s small fingers began to creep toward the sweet.

Alicent was not merely reading the society pages; she studied them with deliberate care. Whatever choice she ultimately made, Rhaenyra had promised she would remain Lady Crawley, and the omega had no intention of appearing ignorant when next they moved among them.

 

Every name, every estate, every marriage and alliance—she read them twice, sometimes thrice, until each detail was firmly lodged in her mind.

 

Yet, her concentration did not dull her awareness. Even with her eyes fixed on the print, nothing in the room escaped her notice. Without lifting her gaze, Alicent murmured calmly, a note of warning threading her voice, “Rhaenar, you may have no more pastries until you finish your fruit.”

 

Rhaenar jumped at his mother’s voice, snatching his hand back. A small, wounded growl escaped as he twisted in his chair, shoulders wriggling, his whole body taut in silent protest. “But… but Mama,” he said, lower lip pushed forward, “I thought I was your sweet boy. I must eat sweets to stay sweet… don’t I?”

 

Rhaenyra still held the newspaper aloft, though her attention had long since left its pages. She had been quietly observing her son’s small campaign, wagering with herself that he might secure his pastry unnoticed. But Alicent proved her wrong the moment she caught him, sharp as ever even with her eyes on the print.

 

The alpha did not bother to stifle her laugh at his earnest protest. Lowering the paper at last, she turned to the omega, a grin tugging at her lips. “You cannot deny him after that,” she said, amusement warming her voice. “Even you must admit defeat.”

 

Alicent pressed her lips together, resisting a laugh, though she was tempted to join in at Rhaenar’s reply. Her former self would have bristled at such cheek, perhaps even given him a sharp swat. But that mother had vanished; she could now appreciate the cunning behind his little manoeuvre, the quickness of his wit.

 

All the omega felt, in truth, was pride.

 

Yet she could not show it, lest she raise a spoiled boy. Instead, she let a gentle smile tug at her lips and, casting a knowing glance at Rhaenyra, murmured lightly, “Hush, you. If it were up to you, he would eat sweets for breakfast, luncheon, and supper alike.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh softened into a chuckle, a teasing tilt in her voice as she replied to Alicent, “Of course, Rhaenar is my sweet boy—and he must have sweets to remain so.”

 

Leaning closer, she gave his curls an affectionate flick, delighting in her son’s laughter.

Alicent’s eyes softened at the little display, a quiet amusement threading through her smile as she shook her head. Her son had certainly inherited her wit, yet he was every bit as much a little booby like Rhaenyra was. Straightening slightly, composed though far from cold, she said, “Very well. Rhaenar may have all the sweets he fancies.” Then, turning to him, her tone gentle but cautioning, “But should your stomach ache afterwards, neither your sire nor I shall offer comfort.”

 

As he popped a grape from his plate, she murmured approval, “Good boy. Mind the seeds.”

 

Returning to the newspaper, Alicent’s eyes lit upon a familiar name. A faint, knowing smile curved her lips as she inclined herself slightly toward Rhaenyra. “Have you seen this? Your dear Margaery Caswell is now widowed,” she said, the emphasis light but unmistakable. “I daresay she will be expecting your… condolence.”

 

Rhaenyra had not contradicted Alicent when the omega declared they would offer no comfort should Rhaenar suffer for overindulging. She might tease the boy and spoil him shamelessly, yet the alpha knew well when such play must end. 

 

Were the occasion to arise, she would surely suffer more than her son at being unable to soothe him. 

 

But Alicent was proving herself an excellent mother, and that alone warmed her chest. The alpha would not presume to interfere.

 

It was only when the omega delivered her pointed little remark that Rhaenyra felt bound to reply. She did, admittedly, wonder how Margaery fared without Lord Caswell, and whether she would now return to Cersei—but such thoughts were best kept private, unless she wished to invite the omega’s displeasure. So the alpha inclined her head with composed civility. “A letter of condolence shall be the only comfort she may expect from me.”

A servant stepped softly into the room, bowing with careful respect. “Pardon the intrusion, My Lord, My Lady,” he said, a silver tray balanced in his hands, a single envelope laid upon it. He advanced with measured steps, his voice suitably low. “A message for Lord Crawley, bearing the royal seal.”

 

Once the envelope had been taken, he bowed again and withdrew with quiet dignity, leaving the family to their breakfast.

Alicent schooled her features, though a quiet satisfaction stirred at Rhaenyra’s firm refusal to visit that wretched Margaery. Even had it not served her own cause, there was comfort in knowing the Lannister sisters would find no opportunity to sink their claws into the alpha, should the omega decide not to stay. They must have heard of the distance between them, and with Margaery now widowed, they would no doubt fancy themselves at liberty to try their luck.

 

It pleased her to think Rhaenyra would remain quite unaware of such manoeuvrings.

 

She said nothing further, for a servant entered then, bowing and announcing a message from the King. Curiosity pricked at her, sharp and immediate, yet she held her peace. Only when the alpha frowned, released a slow breath, and set the note aside did the omega allow herself to ask, softly, “Is everything quite all right?”

The knowledge that the message came from the King set her nerves on edge; Rhaenyra doubted His Grace would trouble himself simply to enquire after her health. And indeed, there in stark black ink lay a summons from her sovereign.

 

She shook her head and offered the omega a reassuring smile. “Nothing untoward,” she said lightly. “His Grace merely requests my attendance at court.” A soft breath escaped her before she added, “He granted me leave when he was informed of your… of our condition, so there is no cause for alarm.”

 

Alicent felt a quiet swell of pride as she listened to Rhaenyra speak of the King with such unstudied ease—almost as one might speak of a comrade rather than the sovereign. Lord Strong might have arranged their first introduction, but it was the alpha who, by her own merit, had earned His Grace’s trust; enough that he summoned her the moment he required counsel.

 

Keeping her tone light, she remarked, “His Grace is, I am sure, perfectly capable of counting.” A faint crease touched her brow as she added, “I am sorry for any trouble I may have caused you.”

Rhaenar’s little heart tightened. He did not fully understand what the King’s letter meant—not truly—but he knew enough to realise it would take his sire away. His swinging feet went still, and he lifted his gaze to her, eyes wide with worry.

 

“Do you truly have to go?” he asked in a small voice. “When will you come back?”

 

Rhaenyra gave a small shake of her head before speaking, her gaze warm upon Alicent. “You are never an inconvenience,” she said softly, then turned to Rhaenar, letting a quiet sigh escape as her hand came to rest upon his silver hair. She stroked gently, her voice gentling at his small, unhappy sound. “I fear so, little one.”

 

She understood his dismay all too well; she did not wish to go either. She wanted every moment she could steal with them—something to hold fast to, should Alicent choose, in the end, to walk away. At the very least, she would have these mornings.

 

Yet, she could try to make this one last a little longer.

 

Letting the newspaper fall entirely, the alpha lifted her free hand and laid it lightly atop the omega’s, her touch gentle, almost tentative. “Would you care to come with me?” she asked, tone light but threaded with quiet hope.

 

Alicent had not expected Rhaenyra’s invitation, nor the tender assurance of the alpha’s hand resting over hers. For a heartbeat, she could do nothing but dwell on the contact, quietly aware of the comfort it brought. She could not deny a curiosity to return to the Red Keep, that formidable edifice upon Aegon’s High Hill, which promised so many possibilities.

 

Yet, she concealed her eagerness, curling her fingers lightly around Rhaenyra’s and murmuring, “I would not wish to trouble you, when you have such important duties to attend.”

Rhaenyra’s smile deepened as she leaned slightly forward, her thumb drifting in a slow, unconscious stroke across the back of Alicent’s hand. “The meetings of the Privy Council seldom run long,” she said lightly. “His Majesty tires of them before the hour is out.” Her tone softened as she added, “There will be ample time for us at the Red Keep. And Rhaenar may accompany us, of course. I daresay Aemma would not object to staying with Helaena for the day.”

 

Before Alicent could frame a reply, Rhaenar was already wriggling with excitement at the prospect of returning to the Red Keep.

 

How could she possibly refuse?

 

A soft, fond smile rose to her lips as she turned it toward the alpha beside her. “Then I should be delighted to spend the day in the capital with you,” the omega said, her voice threaded with a warmth she made no effort to conceal.

 

 

Alicent had not expected the journey to feel quite like this.

 

For the first stretch of the road, she had scarcely been able to hear her own thoughts over Rhaenar’s delighted chatter. He bounced from one window to the other, pointing out every hill, every cart, every flock of birds as though the kingdom had sprung freshly into being that very morning.

 

And in a way, she supposed, it had. It was the first time the three of them travelled together in a carriage—as a family.

 

Eventually, all that bright energy had spent itself. The boy now lay sprawled across the opposite seat, fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of honest exhaustion.

 

A hush settled over the cabin, warm and strangely intimate.

 

The omega sat beside the alpha—a choice that had seemed harmless enough at the outset. Yet as the miles slipped by and the space remained persistently small, it had grown… challenging.

 

At some point—she could not even remember for what reason—Rhaenyra had leaned forward to point out something beyond the opposite window. In doing so, her arm had fallen naturally, almost carelessly, around Alicent’s shoulders.

 

And there it had remained.

 

The omega ought to have shifted away, or at the very least feigned a measure of discomfort. Yet instead, almost without thinking, she had leaned into that borrowed heat. Now her cheek rested lightly against the steady rise of the alpha’s chest. Rhaenyra, for her part, gazed absently through the glass as though such closeness were the most commonplace thing in the world, as though it stirred nothing in her at all.

 

Alicent was far less composed than she pretended. But she stayed where she was, drawing in the quiet, steadying breath after breath, and told herself that she would move in just another moment.

 

Just one more moment.

Rhaenyra had not meant to sit quite so close.

 

In truth, she could not recall what impulse had driven her to claim the narrow space beside Alicent—only that she now both rued it and relished it in equal measure. The warmth of the omega’s body seeped through her coat and into her skin, a quiet, persistent heat that coaxed her senses open no matter how sternly she willed them to still. And her scent—Seven help her—sweet, steady, impossibly inviting within the confines of the carriage, coiling about her like a silken ribbon she was powerless to untangle.

 

The alpha turned her head toward the window, though it offered not the slightest relief. The glass was sealed; to open it would look laughably transparent, and the passing landscape held no power to distract her. Alicent’s fragrance clung to every breath she drew, turning the meagre inches between them into a battleground she was steadily losing.

 

A long, measured breath escaped her before she could school it back. With a slow, deliberate shift, Rhaenyra straightened—an adjustment that obliged Alicent to lift her eyes to her.

 

Too close.

 

Far too close.

 

The soft brush of the omega’s breath grazed her throat, and Rhaenyra had to swallow before trusting herself to speak. “May I—” Her tongue betrayed her, catching on the words. “May I ask you something?”

Alicent adjusted her posture as Rhaenyra moved, drawing back just enough to regard the alpha properly. A faint crease touched her brow at the sight before her—Rhaenyra, uncharacteristically uncertain, almost hesitant. The omega could scarcely imagine what matter could unsettle her so.

 

Her expression softened nonetheless, and she offered a small, steadying nod. “Of course,” she murmured. “You may ask me anything.”

Rhaenyra managed a small, uneasy smile. She had been certain Alicent would answer her in that gentle way—of course she would—but certainty did little to steady the tangle of thoughts in her mind. Nothing seemed to sit in the neat order she had intended.

 

“I… I meant what I said,” the alpha began softly, willing her voice to remain even. “I gave you time to make your decision, and I will honour it. This is not an attempt to press you, nor to demand an answer before you are ready.” She paused, her thumb skimming restlessly against her knee, her breath catching as she lifted her gaze to the omega’s eyes.

Alicent set her hand atop Rhaenyra’s, stilling the restless motion of her fingers. After all that had passed between them, the alpha might say whatever she wished; the omega would not judge her for it. “Then what is it about?”

 

It was all too much again.

 

Her nearness, the lavender curling warm and sweet through the air, those brown eyes resting on her with such quiet patience. And then—Alicent’s mouth. The sight of her lips undid Rhaenyra at last, the words slipping free before she could stop them.

 

“I want to kiss you,” she blurted.

 

Mortification swept through her. She dropped her gaze at once to the slender hand upon her own, her thumb brushing lightly over the soft skin as though touch might order her thoughts.

 

When she spoke again, her voice was low, almost unsteady. “I want to kiss you,” she repeated, quieter this time. “It is an urge I—Seven help me—struggle to master. But I do. I hold it back, because I would not have you think I am attempting some… some ploy to sway your decision.”

Alicent had thought herself prepared for anything Rhaenyra might say, yet the moment the words left the alpha’s lips, her body betrayed her utterly. A warm, fluttering rush stirred low in her belly—far too giddy, far too youthful for an omega who prided herself on sense and restraint. Her pulse quickened, drumming beneath her skin; her mouth went dry, as though every coherent thought had fled in an instant.

 

It ought not to have undone her so thoroughly—and yet it did.

 

Perhaps because it echoed—so vividly, so painfully—the very first time the alpha had asked the same. A night Alicent had long forbidden herself to recall, though her body remembered all too plainly.

 

Slowly, she lifted a hand to Rhaenyra’s cheek, brushing the warm skin and urging her to meet her gaze. Tilting her head, she searched those remarkable purple eyes, finding the same sincerity, the same reckless tenderness that had undone her once before.

 

Her lips curved, soft and trembling, familiar yet thrilling. In the very same tone she had used that night—breathless, hopeful, unable to help herself—she whispered, “Then you don’t mean to ruin me, Rhaenyra?” The name left her tongue with the old, dangerous intimacy—no rank, no distance, no titles. Just as she had spoken it that first night.

 

Rhaenyra felt something inside her steady at the sight of Alicent’s smile—her nerves easing, her heartbeat growing stronger not from fear but from the force of the omega’s words. 

 

Gods, the alpha remembered that night with painful clarity. Queen’s Crawley, the hush of the gardens, the tremor in the omega’s voice as she had spoken those very same words.

 

Her fingers tightened around Alicent’s hand, holding it as though it were an anchor. For a moment she could only look at her—really look—breath catching as past and present folded together. And then, with a quiet courage, she answered as she had all those years ago.

 

“I mean, with the utmost respect and affection, Alicent… to kiss you.”

 

How it had thrilled her, back then, to speak her name—not Miss Sharp, not the polite distance expected of them, but Alicent. 

 

Just Alicent. 

 

The omega who, in that single moment, had rocked her world.

 

Just as on that night in the garden, Alicent was undone by Rhaenyra with nothing more than truth and tenderness. And, as then, she let herself be carried by the moment. Her lashes fluttered closed, the world narrowing to the warmth of the alpha’s breath, to the faint tremor in her exhale. She leaned in, drawn as surely as the tide to the shore, her hand sliding from Rhaenyra’s to rest upon the curve of her shoulder, foreheads nearly touching.

 

Her lips hovered a whisper from the alpha’s—close enough to feel the promise of the kiss, close enough that a single heartbeat would have bridged the distance—

—and then the carriage lurched violently to a halt.

 

Alicent was thrown forward, catching herself against Rhaenyra’s chest, while across from them their son—who had been sprawled in blissful sleep—tumbled clean off his seat into the narrow footwell with a soft, startled thump.

Rhaenar woke with a sharp little gasp, the breath knocked from him as he found himself unceremoniously sprawled on the carriage floor. His elbow ached, his knee too, and for a moment he could do nothing but sit blinking in bewilderment, unable to comprehend how the world had so unceremoniously toppled him from his dreams into such indignity.

Rhaenyra’s breath still caught from the moment that had nearly been—Alicent’s face so close, her lips a whisper away—when the carriage’s jolt tore the world back into motion. Rhaenar’s small body slid from the opposite seat with a soft thud, landing between their feet.

 

The alpha lurched forward at once.

 

“Easy, Little Soldier—here, give me your hand,” she murmured, lifting him upright. Concern tightened her brow as she brushed a stray curl from his face. “Are you quite well? Did you hurt yourself?”

Rhaenar blinked, the world still a little blurred, as he found his feet with his sire’s help. He glanced at the seat he had so ignominiously left, then up at his parents, lower lip jutting in a small, offended pout.

 

“I… I fell,” he declared, as if presenting proof of a grave injustice. His brows drew together. “Why did no one catch me?”

Alicent bit her lip to stifle a laugh, then looked at you.

 

She knew it was hardly proper to smile at her son’s fall, yet it was altogether too comical. Still, the moment called for tenderness rather than mirth. Leaning forward, she took his small hand gently in hers and pressed a soft kiss to its back.

 

“I am terribly sorry, My Love, I was… distracted,” the omega murmured, her voice warm. “Do you forgive me?”

Rhaenar sagged against his mother’s chest, yielding entirely to her embrace. He nuzzled instinctively, seeking the hollow of her neck where her lavender scent was strongest, and the comfort it brought made the world seem right once more. With a small, contented sigh, he murmured, “I forgive you, Mama.”

Rhaenyra remained poised, arms half-raised, waiting for her son as she always had when he sought comfort—after tumbles, after nightmares. Yet she could not deny that, for all the years, Rhaenar had more often turned to Alicent first, and only now, after so long, had he truly found solace. Watching the omega tend him with such tenderness, a quiet warmth bloomed in her chest, a deep, satisfying happiness that he had finally discovered it.

 

The carriage door opened, and she stepped out, lifting a hand in greeting as she spotted a familiar figure nearby. “Lord Beesbury!” she called, her voice carrying across the yard.

Hearing Rhaenyra call to the Master of Coin, Alicent hastened to make Rhaenar presentable, smoothing his hair and adjusting his jacket. She attended to herself with equal care, then took the alpha’s hand as she stepped from the carriage. Once on solid ground, she guided Rhaenar down, keeping both herself and her son a respectful step behind the alpha.

Lyman turned at the sound of his name, spotting Rhaenyra Crawley descending from her carriage. With a genial chuckle, he approached. “Ah, Lord Protector, have you been summoned as well?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “I had thought only I was to be dragged along—after all, His Grace always contrives some means of spending his coin.”

Rhaenyra clasped Lord Beesbury’s hand firmly, smiling as he returned the gesture with a hearty, friendly slap on her shoulder. “If Lord Westerling, in addition to you and myself, has also been summoned,” she began, teasing yet measured, “then I dare say I have a fairly shrewd notion where His Majesty intends to lavish the royal coffers—and I must trust I can count upon your aid in dissuading him from such folly.”

 

Stepping aside to allow Alicent forward, she inclined her head with a small, proud smile. “Might I present my wife, the Lady Alicent Crawley,” she added, her voice carrying a subtle warmth, “and here,” she continued, gesturing to the boy beside her, “is our son, Rhaenar.”

Lyman took the Lady’s hand, pressing a courteous kiss to her knuckles. “A true pleasure to meet you, Lady Crawley,” he said, inclining his head politely. “Your wife is most remarkable—her skill and judgement never fail to impress those who know her.”

 

His eyes then fell upon the boy, a perfect reflection of sire and mother. “And you, Young Lord,” he added with a gentle smile, “it is equally a delight to make your acquaintance.”

The Red Keep rose before Rhaenar like some slumbering giant, all red stone and high-cut towers glittering beneath the sun. Though it was only his second visit, the sight still made his breath catch—so grand, so ancient, so unlike the cramped streets of Fleabottom where he had lived with his mama.

 

Lord Beesbury approached, and the boy forced himself to stand very still, just as his mother would wish. He folded his hands before him, straightened his back, ears pricking to each word the adults exchanged.

 

As the Lord turned his kindly attention toward him, Rhaenar remembered himself at once. Bowing his head in careful reverence, he murmured, “An honour, My Lord.” His voice was soft yet steady—exactly as a young gentleman ought, or so he hoped.

 

Alicent dipped into a graceful curtsey, replying to the Master of Coin with all the warmth and courtesy expected of a lady of her station. “My Lord,” she said, her smile soft but steady, “the honour is mine. And believe me—there is no one more proud of Rhaenyra than I.”

 

She rose just in time to see Rhaenar offer his own neat little bow. Pride unfurled warmly in her chest. He looked every inch the young gentleman she and Rhaenyra had imagined—poised, attentive, destined for a world far larger and brighter than the one she had been born into.

 

When Lord Beesbury turned back to Rhaenyra, Alicent let her hands rest upon Rhaenar’s small shoulders, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze—her silent way of telling him he had done perfectly.

A faint warmth rose to Rhaenyra’s cheeks at the Master of Coin’s generous praise, yet it was not his words that truly stirred her. What made her chest swell—almost painfully—was Alicent’s quiet declaration of pride. That the omega should speak so of her… it was a longing the alpha had harboured far longer than she cared to admit.

 

She took her leave of Lord Beesbury just as another figure approached—an omega of refined bearing, her step light and measured, her countenance composed.

 

The alpha shifted to allow space for proper introductions, adopting the decorous tone expected of her station. “Alicent, allow me to present Elinda Massey,” she said, inclining her head slightly toward the young omega. “Elinda, the Lady Crawley.”

 

After the requisite courtesies, Rhaenyra addressed Alicent again, her voice softening despite her effort at formality. “Elinda shall attend you as your lady-in-waiting whilst we remain at the Red Keep. She will see you settled in our chambers and acquaint you with all that pertains to them… whilst I attend His Grace’s Small Council.”

 

For the briefest moment, the alpha felt the tug of temptation—the desire to linger by the omega’s side rather than fulfil yet another royal duty. She drew a steadying breath, squared her shoulders, and prepared herself to depart.

Alicent found herself quietly impressed with Lord Beesbury; he understood how to value Rhaenyra, and—unlike so many lords before him—she felt no prickling unease in his presence. His eyes lingered without lust, his gaze never sought to undress her, and his lips had not dwelt improperly upon her knuckles.

 

It was a rare and welcome courtesy.

 

Her composure held as a young woman approached, her scent alone marking her as an omega. Alicent knew nothing of her identity, and so was taken aback when Rhaenyra introduced the stranger as her lady’s companion.

 

She looked at you, startled by the words that followed.

 

“Our… our chambers?” the omega repeated, the phrase escaping in a small, unsteady breath, surprise overcoming her usual poise.

Rhaenyra could not suppress the soft chuckle that escaped at Alicent’s bewildered expression. Stepping closer, she lowered her voice so only her omega could hear.

 

“You may do with them precisely as you please,” she murmured. “Decorate as you wish, arrange each corner to your liking,” and then she pressed a gentle kiss to Alicent’s brow.

 

She drew back a step and turned to her son. “Be good, Rhaenar—and mind your mother.”

 

The boy straightened at once, offering a solemn little military salute. The alpha returned it with equal gravity, then tipped the omega a swift, teasing wink. With one last glance at them both, she turned and made her way toward the entrance.

Alicent watched Rhaenyra vanish beneath the vaulted archway of the Red Keep, sunlight glinting off her silver hair and casting her profile in almost heroic relief. To the omega’s eyes, she moved with that rare blend of authority and gentleness that had undone her from the start—an alpha made for command, yet human and tender in the smallest glance over her shoulder.

 

“My Lady, shall we proceed?”

 

Elinda’s voice drew Alicent from her reverie. She caught her breath, gathering herself, and cast a small, encouraging nod to Rhaenar, bidding him stay close and mind his steps. Then, with composed courtesy, she turned to her lady-in-waiting.

 

“Yes… I should be glad to see our chambers,” she said.

 

Fingers entwined with Rhaenar’s, Alicent followed Elinda forward, stepping into the fortress and all the possibilities it promised, the vast, echoing halls stretching before them.

 

 

“…and the footmen assigned to your service, My Lady, shall attend your summons at any hour,” Elinda concluded with a pleasant, well-practised smile. “The laundress comes twice daily, and the seamstress has already been informed of your arrival. Should you require any alterations—or wish for new garments—she will be entirely at your disposal.”

 

Alicent blinked, realising—too late—that she had missed nearly the whole of the young omega’s explanation. Her thoughts had wandered again, swept off on the same uneasy tide that had carried her since she entered the suite.

 

The outer parlour was almost too handsome to be borne.

 

Carved panelling, velvet chairs, sunlight glinting in the gilt about the mantelpiece. Servants moved with quiet competence, their soft steps making the room feel impossibly grand—impossibly far from the cramped little quarters she had once shared with her son. And somewhere beyond the inner door, Rhaenar had vanished into the nursery the very instant he beheld it—giggling, breathless, delighted—while a kindly maid followed in his wake.

 

It was everything Alicent had ever dreamt of.

 

Comfort.

 

Safety.

 

A household of her own.

 

A life where people bowed as she passed, where linen came warm from the hearth, where nothing smelled of damp stone or thin, hungry mornings.

 

And yet—

 

Yet something inside her refused to settle: a small, stubborn tightness beneath her ribs that dulled every shining pleasure before she could truly hold it.

 

Alicent ought to be happy.

 

She ought to feel triumphant. Instead she felt… overwhelmed. Unsteady. As though all this splendour might vanish the moment she dared to reach for it.

 

Elinda paused, waiting. Alicent lifted her chin, smoothed her skirts, and drew together what little composure she had left.

 

“Thank you, Miss Massey,” she said, inclining her head with practiced courtesy. “You have been exceedingly thorough. I… I am most grateful for your guidance.” Her voice held—barely—but for now, that was enough.

 

Elinda Massey had known Lady Crawley for scarcely the span of a half-candlemark, yet years spent in noble households had taught her to read what others preferred left unspoken. One did not serve half a dozen fine ladies without learning to observe—quietly, discreetly, and with an attentive eye.

 

And though Lady Crawley bore herself with admirable refinement—her posture precise, her gestures measured, her voice composed—there were small betrayals no courtly training could quite disguise. The widened gaze drinking in every carved moulding and velvet drape. The faint, overwhelmed shine of a woman unaccustomed to such splendour. The delicate tension across her shoulders, like a young doe poised to flee at the crack of a twig.

 

Not a lady by birth, then. Or not one raised amidst this degree of comfort. And—Elinda thought with a flicker of fondness—Lady Crawley was managing with remarkable grace despite it.

 

Sensing her mistress’ mounting strain, she cast a swift, discreet glance about the outer parlour. “Thank you, that will be all for now,” she said lightly—and the remaining servants withdrew at once.

 

The soft click of the closing door left the two omegas alone.

 

Elinda turned back to her lady, her tone gentle but assured. “My Lady,” she began, “if you wish, I can show you directly to your bedchamber. Or, should you prefer a breath of air, there is a small balcony just beyond the inner parlour. Forgive my frankness, but… you look a touch pale.”

 

For the first time since stepping foot inside the Red Keep, Alicent felt the tightness in her chest ease. With the servants gone, there were no curious eyes studying her posture, no ears poised to weigh each word upon her tongue. She allowed herself a quiet breath—small, scarcely more than a flutter—and inclined her head to Elinda.

 

“I should like to see the rest of the rooms, thank you,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

 

Miss Massey led the way from the outer parlour into the private one. It was a more intimate chamber, yet still appointed with a richness that seemed to glow in the sunlight: carved panelling of dark polished oak, a hearth framed in veined marble, and chairs upholstered in pale damask, far too fine for everyday use. A small desk stood by the window, its surface neatly arranged with papers and several carefully stacked books.

 

“Through here, My Lady,” Elinda said softly.

 

Alicent stepped out onto the narrow private balcony, taking in the cool air, sweetened by the fading light. Below her, the city stretched in a sweep of rooftops and winding streets. She let her fingers curl lightly around the stone balustrade, absorbing the vastness—impossible, breathtaking—the sort of splendour she had once imagined only in her most daring dreams.

 

When she finally allowed Elinda to guide her back inside, the omega’s eyes took in the bedchamber. Quieter, more secluded, it was no less magnificent. Heavy curtains of deep green silk framed the tall windows; a great four-poster bed occupied the centre of the room, its canopy embroidered with golden thread. A pair of wardrobes stood against the wall, their doors carved with dragons in flight, and near the window a polished walnut vanity awaited her, its mirror framed in gilt, its surface laid out with neatly arranged brushes and crystal pots.

 

Alicent paused in the middle of the room, her breath catching for a moment.

 

“It is all…” she whispered, barely forming the words. “It is all so… wonderful.”

 

Elinda worried at her lower lip, concern stirring anew. She had hoped that, once spared the eyes of half the household, Lady Crawley might steady herself—but that wide, shining gaze remained, half-delighted and half-unsettled.

 

Hoping to cheer her, she said lightly, “My Lady, several gowns have been prepared for your stay.” She opened one of the carved wardrobes, revealing silks and muslins in tasteful hues. “The Lord Protector chose them herself,” she added with a small, encouraging smile; even in their brief acquaintance, she could tell how well the gowns would suit Lady Crawley.

 

Yet something was amiss.

 

For at the mere brush of the lady’s fingers along a hem, her expression crumpled, tears rising swift and unbidden. Before Elinda could grasp what had caused them, Lady Crawley was weeping.

 

Panic caught the young omega at once. She stepped forward, hands half-lifted. “My Lady—what troubles you?” she pleaded softly. “Pray, tell me how I may help.”

 

Alicent followed Elinda almost by rote, no longer startled to find yet more fine garments awaiting her in the Red Keep’s relentless splendour. She suspected she now owned more gowns and trinkets than she had possessed in all her years combined—each one a fresh reminder of Rhaenyra’s unwavering, and at times overpowering, generosity.

 

When her lady-in-waiting drew open the wardrobe doors, a row of exquisite dresses met her gaze. The omega reached out, brushing her fingertips over the nearest; the fabric was so soft, so impossibly fine, it seemed it might melt beneath her touch.

 

Only when a tear struck the silk did she realise she was crying.

 

Mortification swept hot across her cheeks as Elinda turned with a startled gasp. Alicent dashed the tears away at once, sniffing as she attempted to gather herself.

 

“A—Apologies,” she murmured, her voice unsteady. “Nothing is amiss. Only… I must speak with the Lord Protector. I know she is presently with His Grace, but—perhaps I might go to her? If you would be so good as to announce me, she might step out for but a moment.”

Elinda’s heart tightened at the sight. She had scarcely made Lady Crawley’s acquaintance that day, yet felt she understood something of her—gleaned from the Lord Protector’s own manner. The alpha had spoken of her wife with such open fondness while overseeing these rooms, while choosing fabrics and commissioning gowns, that a quiet image had formed of the gentle, steadfast omega at their heart.

 

Venturing a careful step nearer, Elinda reached out and closed her hand around Lady Crawley’s, offering what small comfort she could. “My Lady,” she said softly, “pray leave the matter to me. Only wait here, in the ease of your chamber.”

 

With a reassuring squeeze, she released her hand, dipped into a graceful curtsey, and withdrew to see the errand done.

Alicent could only nod as Elinda swept from the room with brisk, purposeful steps. When the door closed and silence settled over the chamber, a sharper discomfort unfurled within her—mortification, plain and wretched.

 

She looked at you.

 

The omega had made a spectacle of herself, however small, and now some unfortunate servant would be interrupting the Small Council on her behalf.

 

Seven Hells… she would shame Rhaenyra at this rate.

 

A faint, vexed sound slipped from her as she pressed a hand to her brow. Crossing the chamber, she stepped out onto the fine balcony of her fine new quarters, letting the cool air sweep over her flushed cheeks.

 

A moment alone—yes. That was what Alicent needed.

 

 

Rhaenyra sat with the Small Council assembled, His Grace’s voice reaching her only in softened fragments, as though carried through water. She turned the polished sphere between her fingers, its measured rhythm a small guard against the restlessness stirring within her.

 

Her eyes followed the idle motion, but her thoughts wandered—to Alicent, to the newly appointed apartments, to whether they brought her true ease; to Rhaenar, and whether he had already claimed some small corner of the nursery as his own.

 

The King’s tone swelled, eager and insistent—speaking of war, of movement—yet the alpha scarcely heeded it. A shift at the chamber door drew her attention instead. She glimpsed Elinda and, moments later, the cupbearer approached with a discreet message from the maid.

 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the doorway, an unwelcome tug of yearning urging her to rise, slip past the Council, and go at once.

Robert was certain of his purpose in this world, of the power the Gods had seen fit to grant him. He needed only for his ineffectual Small Council to recognise it as well—if not in agreement, then at least as a necessity. He spoke of Tyrosh once more, of the reasons he deemed just to bring war upon them again, a cause rooted in the memory of battles past—battles of which Myr was but the culmination.

 

He had expected the inclusion of his Lord Protector, veteran of campaigns herself, to lend weight to his argument, to bolster the support he so craved. The alpha had witnessed, at close quarters, the capabilities of the Tyroshis, and knew well what threat they posed. Yet Lord Crawley appeared elsewhere, absorbed and distant.

 

Frustration overtook him. Interrupting his own speech, Robert demanded, voice firm and edged with ire, “Lord Protector, do you have any better occupation than attending to your King’s counsel?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to the King, though not before she caught Lord Westerling’s warning glance—quiet, measured, and far too late. Some might have said she stood at a crossroads.

 

To lie, or to speak the truth. Yet all who knew the alpha understood there was but one path.

 

Without softening her tone, she inclined her head. “Indeed, Your Grace. I must attend my wife.”

The King barked a coarse, unpredictable laugh, perched between amusement and irritation. He leaned back, brow raised, appraising her. “Must you, Lord Protector?” Robert drawled. “Did your lady wife not have enough of you during those additional days you elected to remain at her side?”

 

His grin sharpened as he scanned the table, seeking complicity. “Seven Hells—your wife must be most insatiable indeed.”

 

A few lords shifted, some flushed, others feigning interest in their papers, yet the King seemed thoroughly pleased with his own vulgar jest.

Fury struck Rhaenyra like a spark to dry tinder.

 

Sharp. Sudden. Blinding.

 

For a heartbeat, she saw nothing but the King’s smirking mouth and imagined—far too vividly—ripping that filthy tongue from it.

 

Years of soldier’s discipline alone kept her rooted to her chair. Her pulse steadied, though her hands betrayed her—knuckles white, fingers trembling with restrained force.

 

And the scent.

 

Gods, her scent.

 

A wave of her fury rolled through the chamber—iron-sharp, acrid, unmistakably alpha. She saw every man present stiffen, nostrils flaring as they instinctively recoiled from the bite of her pheromones.

 

When she spoke, her voice was ice. “My wife is alone in a strange place,” she said, each word precise, honed. “Surrounded by faces she does not know. If she requires me—yes, My King—I will go to her.”

 

She rose in a single, fluid motion; her chair scraped sharply across the stone. Silence fell, thick and brittle.

 

Rhaenyra stood tall, jaw set, eyes cold as steel.

 

“Especially,” she added, voice low yet carrying, “if what keeps me from her is a council convened merely because Your Grace found himself at leisure.”

 

Not one dared move.

Robert froze—utterly, ingloriously.

 

He had not expected such defiance from his Lord Protector. For a breathless moment, his mind went blank, struck by the sheer force of her presence.

 

The alpha’s scent surged through the chamber like a storm—commanding, edged with years of battle. It pressed against him, crawling under his skin before he could brace himself. His muscles trembled, the primitive part of him quailing, eager—even desperate—to yield.

 

Seven hells, he felt his knees threaten to give way.

 

But he could not. He was the King.

 

And though he deserved the rebuke, he would not bend, nor let such words—however justified—stand.

 

Robert ought never to have spoken so vulgarly about an omega before her alpha. That much he knew, the sting of shame burning on his cheeks.

 

Still, he straightened, spine rigid, authority reclaimed in his voice. “You do not leave this room without my leave,” he said, colder than intended. “I am your King, and will be addressed as such.”

Rhaenyra drew a measured breath, containing her fury so it would not overwhelm the chamber. Her hands trembled behind her back, yet her posture stayed unyielding, head held high.

 

She fixed the King with unwavering eyes. “If I may, Your Grace,” she began, “it seems your purpose in creating a seat for me here, abolishing the Master of Whispers, was to rid yourself of lickspittles—lords who fawn because you are King. If I am mistaken… I should return to my wife, not without first restoring the silver emblem entrusted to me.”

 

She paused, letting the words sink in. “Understand this,” Rhaenyra continued, “should you choose war, your life remains untouched. But the families of alphas and beta men who fall will bear the losses, their households and futures reshaped, their lives changed forever.”

 

The alpha replaced her chair, stood behind it with deliberate poise. Her voice carried over the silent chamber. “Do you truly believe it worth breaking ten years of peace merely for your amusement?”

 

If Robert had felt a flicker of shame for his ill‑judged remark, it was nothing compared to the mortification searing him now. His ears burned; his cheeks flamed. To be so plainly corrected by his own Lord Protector—and rightly so—was wholly unexpected.

 

His eyes swept the table. Not one man dared meet his gaze. They shifted, cleared throats, studied the grain of the wood as if it held the realm’s secrets. 

 

Cowards, the lot of them. 

 

Only his faithful Hand, Harrold, regarded the Lord Protector with something dangerously akin to pride. Old fool, sentimental to the bone.

 

Robert drew in a breath, cleared his throat—the sound jarring in the charged silence. “A wise man admits his error,” he said, gravelled and stiff. “And I… have been mistaken.”

 

He had not—Seven help him—considered the greater picture.

 

At last he forced his eyes to meet the Lord Protector’s frosted gaze. It cost him, but he did it.

 

“The curse of those who possess everything,” Robert said quietly, “is boredom. In this age of peace, the only excitement comes when those Brackens and Blackwoods decide to slaughter each other anew.”

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, the edge of her anger softening, the tension in her fingers loosening against the chair. She could blame the King for many follies, yet he was merely the sum of circumstance and sycophants. 

 

If the alpha left this chamber still bearing her title, she meant to see that changed.

 

Her voice steadied. “I will concede, Your Grace,” she said quietly, “that without purpose, one drifts—days slipping by with nothing to anchor them.”

 

Her gaze met Lord Westerling’s. The muted approval steadied her more than any draught of courage.

 

Turning back to the King, Rhaenyra added, “With respect, perhaps your purpose lies in securing an heir.”

 

She let the words settle without pressing them further, knowing full well the delicacy of the matter. Then, inclined her head with humility, firm in her dignity.

 

“If it pleases Your Grace, may I attend my wife while you reflect?”

 

The King’s nod was slight, yet unmistakable.

 

Rhaenyra did not wait further. Her heart pounding, she crossed the chamber with measured urgency and slipped through the door, uncertain whether it would open again behind her.

Harrold allowed the faintest smile to tug at his lips as the Lord Protector departed the chamber. He cast a sidelong glance at the King—quick, pointed. The others remained silent, either too cautious or too political to voice the truth. But he, like Rhaenyra Crawley, had never been one for timidity.

He cleared his throat, deliberate and controlled, letting his words carry the weight they deserved. “I daresay Her Lordship speaks true,” the Hand said, steady and unflinching.

Robert shifted uneasily in his chair, fidgeting with the small sphere between his fingers as though it alone could hold his attention. His jaw tightened, Harrold’s words and the Lord Protector’s earlier rebuke pressing on him more than he cared to admit.

 

At last he muttered, low and clipped, “I have no mind to marry. Find another to take my place.”

 

Harrold drew a slow, measured breath, more a quiet exhalation than a reproach. He exchanged a knowing glance with the Grand Maester, who—better than any living man—understood the fragile state of every great bloodline in the realm. The truth was simple, yet undeniable.

 

“My King,” the Hand said, choosing each word with deliberate care, “with you, your line ends. There is no other. You are still young; should you take a wife, the matter of an heir would be far more secure.”

Robert struck the table so sharply that inkpots danced, the crash silencing Harrold—and any other man who might have risked a word of support. His voice rolled through the chamber, raw and untempered. “How many wives must I bury before you all see the fault lies with me?”

 

The words lingered, bitter and choking, like smoke in a confined room.

 

Then the King slumped, the anger leaving him as suddenly as it had come. When he spoke again, it was scarcely above a whisper, a confession drawn from some hollow place. “I will not put another woman in the ground.”

 

For a moment, the chamber seemed smaller, the weight of his lineage pressing down. Harrold’s words echoed—no other… no one at all.

 

A stubborn flicker of hope stirred. “What of the female line?” Robert asked, voice firmer, gaze sweeping the table. “The omegas, the beta women wed into other houses—their children bear royal blood, do they not?”

Harrold inclined his head. It was far from customary, of course; titles had always passed to men—alpha or beta alike. Rhaenyra Crawley was the rarest of exceptions, an alpha woman in a lord’s station, and in all his long life the Hand had never encountered another like her.

 

“Then we shall trace the line of your female ancestors, My King,” he said gravely.

 

His attention shifted to the Grand Maester, for it would fall to him and his acolytes to examine the tangled threads of ancestry with the diligence such a task required.

 

“Surely,” Harrold added, voice steady with quiet conviction, “there must be one who yet bears Targaryen blood.”

 

 

Rhaenyra hastened through the corridors, her boots a low echo on the stone. Elinda followed in silence, offering only a respectful nod when the alpha looked back. The girl had merely said that Lady Crawley required her, and though Rhaenyra sensed something unsaid, she let it rest—the young omega was keeping her mistress' discretion, after all.

 

At the grand doors of their apartments, the alpha paused and said, “Wait here.” Then she entered the chamber, eyes sweeping across the room. The omega was nowhere in sight. 

 

“Ali?” Her voice carried softly at first, then with a sharper edge, a demand for an answer from the silence. “Alicent.”

 

Alicent stood upon the balcony of her bedchamber, eyes closed, the breeze cool against her face. The sound of her name on Rhaenyra’s lips broke the fragile quiet. Sniffling, she stepped inside to meet her, placing both hands against the alpha’s chest as though to urge her back towards the door.

 

“You ought to return to the King,” she murmured. “It is hardly proper for you to quit the Small Council on a whim.”

 

Rhaenyra caught Alicent’s hands to still them. “It is quite alright,” she said, her tone low but steady. “No mischief is done by my leaving the Council.” She bent her head a little, studying the omega with quiet concern. “Now—tell me what has distressed you so.”

 

Alicent felt utterly disarmed beneath Rhaenyra’s violet gaze and the gentle firmness of her touch. Words faltered on her tongue, thoughts scattered; she stepped back, turning her back to the alpha as if to compose herself.

 

“Elinda may have… exaggerated,” she murmured, striving for a lightness she did not feel. “I only wished to tell you I am leaving.”

 

When her composure returned, she faced the alpha again, expression tidy and measured. “Rhaenar is beside himself with delight over all that is new,” the omega added, offering a small, serviceable smile. “I fear he will not sleep for a year. We should depart at once.”

 

Rhaenyra allowed her a step back, granting the space Alicent sought. She noted, plainly, that the omega spoke no falsehood—only something delicately held back. No malice, no sharpness, no scent of betrayal.

 

Only a tremor of unease.

 

With quiet patience, the alpha closed the distance by a single step.

 

“Ali,” she said softly, her voice free of command, edged only with concern. “What troubles you?” She lingered, steady and unhurried, as though she would wait all night if need be.

 

Alicent let a faint, rueful smile surface. Rhaenyra knew her too well now; gone were the days when a flutter of lashes could bend the alpha to her will. Drawing a steadying breath, the omega finally lifted her eyes to meet hers.

 

“Why… did you bring me here?” she asked, quiet and measured.

 

Rhaenyra tilted her head, a faint crease forming between her brows at Alicent’s question. For a moment, she had no tidy answer—at least, none she was willing to speak aloud. She was oddly grateful for the small step still between them; it gave her somewhere to look as her gaze dropped to the floor, a brief moment to gather her thoughts.

 

“I thought it might be… pleasant,” the alpha said finally. “To see where you might live, should it please you.”

 

Alicent folded her arms about herself, as if to fashion a shield from her slight frame, something to hold the hurt at bay. She shifted slightly across the chamber, weighing Rhaenyra’s words, tasting them anew with each breath.

 

“Should it please me… should I stay, is that what you mean?”

 

The omega shook her head sharply, chastising herself for daring to imagine it. Her voice wavered with the accusation she could not suppress.

 

“You promised you would not sway me—yet here you are, placing before me everything I have ever dreamed of. And if I stay now, it will appear that I do so only because I covet the wealth you parade before me.”

 

Rhaenyra felt a familiar prickle of nerves, the ghost of being caught out. Alicent had seen straight through her. Her fingers brushed the thin scar above her left temple—an old habit when searching for words. She drew a steadying breath and lifted her chin, refusing to retreat.

 

“You are right,” she admitted softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

 

She stepped no closer, yet her voice held a fragile steadiness. “Yes—I brought you here to show you how life might be for you at court. The jewels, the gowns… they are a display of what I now possess, of what I can place in your hands. I can finally be the alpha I should have been, to ensure you want for nothing.”

 

A faint sigh escaped her. “The truth is… all I have ever wanted is for you to feel proud of me.”

Any guard Alicent had built around her heart crumbled beneath Rhaenyra’s words. So caught in her own anxieties, so fearful of choosing wrongly, she had forgotten the alpha’s insecurities. Rhaenyra had never once begrudged the loss of the comforts into which she had been born; never reproached the modest life they shared and had reserved her displeasure only for gifts Alicent received from others, not out of jealousy alone, but frustration at what she could not give.

 

The alpha had not been able to give her jewels. She had not even been able to give her flowers. Gods, when General Wylde had mocked the pitiful little bouquet Rhaenyra had procured for the ball, the alpha had driven her to scour the streets that very night so Alicent might have something finer.

 

For Rhaenyra, gestures were never meant to dazzle or purchase affection; they were quiet, stubborn proofs of devotion.

 

Perhaps it was time Alicent did the same.

 

She closed the space between them, hands lifting to cradle the alpha’s face with long-withheld tenderness. 

Her voice trembled as she spoke. “You have always been the best alpha to me. I have never felt anything but pride in you.” She pressed a soft, reverent kiss to the alpha’s lips.

Rhaenyra’s nerves stilled beneath the warmth of Alicent—her words, her hands, her gaze, her kiss.

 

The kiss came soft, tentative, yet piercingly certain, like the first breath after near drowning. The omega’s lips were warm, steady, full of unspoken truth.

 

There was no hunger, no attempt to distract or soothe; only honesty. Only trust long withheld, now offered freely. It wrapped around Rhaenyra’s heart with quiet, aching sweetness.

 

For a moment, the world fell away—the palace, the council, the King’s temper, the uncertain future.

 

There was only Alicent.

 

Her breath mingled with Rhaenyra’s, her hands firm upon her cheeks, her devotion conveyed in a single, tender press of lips that struck straight to the alpha’s bones.

 

In that brief, precious instant, Rhaenyra allowed herself to believe that all she had hoped for might at last be within reach.

Alicent let the kiss draw to a gentle close, her lips lingering a heartbeat before she drew back—just enough to breathe, just enough to truly see Rhaenyra. Her hands slid from the alpha’s cheeks to rest lightly upon her chest, feeling the steady rise beneath her palms.

 

Even wrapped in the warmth of the moment, she forced the thought she had carried all day into words.

 

“I still think it best,” the omega said softly, “that Rhaenar and I return home.”

A slow, foolish smile tugged at Rhaenyra’s lips before she could mask it.

 

Home.

 

The word, spoken so naturally, so unguardedly by Alicent, slipped straight beneath the alpha’s ribs.

 

“Home?” she echoed softly, the sound escaping before caution could claim it, her eyes brightening with a hope she scarcely dared to name.

 

Alicent allowed a faint, tender smile to lift her lips at the hopeful note in Rhaenyra’s voice. “Of course, Booby,” she replied softly, as though it were the simplest truth in the world. “I shall be waiting for you there.”

 

She rose onto her toes to give the alpha one last, light kiss, then slipped past her—skirts whispering over the floorboards—as she made for the nursery, already turning over in her mind how she might coax Rhaenar to leave the palace without tears.

 

 

Rhaenyra rode back from King’s Landing to Rosby, to Queen’s Crawley. Her audience with the King had gone well enough—by some measure, she still held her title and position—but the Small Council had kept her late into the afternoon, forcing a cautious pace along the darkening roads.

 

She might have taken a carriage—Her Majesty would scarcely have denied one—but impatience urged her onward. The thought of Alicent waiting warmed her chest, a small beacon against the chill and the growing shadows along the path.

 

As she neared the manor, something seemed amiss. The house lay almost entirely dark, save for a faint glow at the entrance. Her pulse quickened; the light trembled through the doorway, delicate and deliberate, like a signal meant only for her.

 

Rhaenyra dismounted with measured calm, though her heart beat faster than the rhythmic clip of her horse’s hooves. The stable boy appeared silently to take her mount, unnoticed, her gaze fixed on the glow.

 

The door opened, and the old omega stepped out, smiling. The soft light behind her caught the alpha’s eye, stirring a spark of curiosity.

 

Aemma had been ready the moment the groom returned with word of Lord Crawley’s approach. She ensured every candle burned bright before taking her place at the door. When the mare was led around, she opened it with a playful smile.

 

“Welcome back, My Lord,” she said, dipping her head in mock ceremony. Once the alpha stepped inside, she closed the door gently behind her.

Rhaenyra stepped inside, eyes widening at the unexpected sight. The rooms were not dark as she had feared; a trail of candles flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows and tracing a winding path upward toward the private chambers. She turned to the old omega, brow arched in surprise. “Aemma… what in the Seven Hells is all this?”

 

Aemma bit her lip, stifling a small laugh, though her nerves fluttered at what might follow. When Rhaenyra spoke, she shrugged, expression neutral. “I’m only here for your cloak and boots,” she said, extending her hands, eyes bright with quiet anticipation as she waited for the alpha to comply.

 

Rhaenyra gave a small, wry laugh, shaking her head before complying. She suspected Aemma’s intent, yet chose to humour her. She placed her sash into the old omega’s hands, removed the Protector of the Crown’s brooch, and unfastened her jacket to hand that over as well. Leaning against the wall to slip off her boots, she quipped lightly, “I had thought Queen’s Crawley tended its candles with more care.”

Aemma carefully stowed the badge in her apron pocket, folding the jacket and sash neatly upon her arm. She bent to gather the boots, shaking her head at the absurd regulations of Viserys, relics of a bygone age. Yet she smiled at the alpha and murmured, “If it troubles you, My Lord, you may extinguish the candles as you follow.” With a quiet nod, she departed, leaving her alone.

 

<

 

Rhaenyra moved cautiously, extinguishing each candle as she made her way deeper into the house and up the staircase. Not from concern over extravagance, but from a wary fear of fire—though she trusted Aemma hovered close enough to prevent mishap.

 

Her curiosity grew with every step, for the candles did not lead to the principal chambers, but to rooms long occupied by the household staff—by Aemma, or by…

 

The last candle stood before a door that had belonged to the governess.

 

To Alicent. 

 

Her hand trembled as she lifted the candle. When she blew out its flame, darkness did not fully claim her; a faint glow spilled from the narrow slit beneath the door. Drawing a deep breath, she gripped the handle and pushed it open, eager to see what lay within.

 

Rhaenyra’s breath caught; she froze in the doorway.

 

Alicent stood by the closed window, her nightdress slipping from one shoulder, the loose fabric draping her form. One hand held a candelabrum, the other hung by her side. The taper’s glow kissed her skin, tracing the curve of her breast, the dark-auburn curls tumbling like a secret unpinned.

 

It struck the alpha like a musket-ball. Never had an omega seemed more temptation made flesh. Parted lips, the hesitant bend of her wrist, the bare hint of thigh beneath the disordered linen—enough to make even a seasoned soldier forget every campaign prayer ever learnt.

 

Heat flared beneath the collar of Rhaenyra’s shirt; her pulse leapt traitorously, as if she were a raw cadet glimpsing an omega for the first time.

 

Gods, she could not tear her eyes away.

 

Her mouth dry, she licked her lips and murmured, almost breathless, “Good evening.”

Alicent’s heart hammered so fiercely she feared Rhaenyra might hear it. Nervousness had gripped her since confiding her plan to Aemma, and it worsened when the old omega announced the alpha’s arrival. She rose, clutching the candelabrum as though her life depended on it.

 

Before her, the alpha’s presence made her breath come in short, uneven gasps, her pulse shaking enough to make the flame dance. At last, summoning what composure she could, the omega murmured, “Would you mind closing the door, please?”

 

Rhaenyra stood momentarily dazed, mouth half-parted in near awe. Alicent had always unsettled her so—but in the flickering candlelight, clad only in her nightdress, the omega seemed almost otherworldly.

 

Inclining her head in quiet obedience, the alpha closed the door behind her; the soft click sounded startlingly loud in the stillness. Taking a tentative step forward, her voice emerged in a faint murmur. “What… what are we doing here?”

 

Alicent drew a slow, steadying breath, summoning all the resolve she had rehearsed since making her choice. The hand not holding the candelabrum trembled despite her efforts at composure. With a small, wavering gesture, she indicated the window behind her.

 

“That window,” the omega began softly, “was where I first saw you. I tried to be subtle… not to be noticed.” A faint, self-conscious smile curved her lips. “I did not succeed in the least.”

Rhaenyra felt a quiet, astonished warmth stir within her at the memory—clear, as though no years had passed.

 

She recalled that morning.

 

The brief glimpse of the new governess in the window, the unexpected strike of beauty that had startled her, the peculiar little jolt of intrigue she had felt.

 

A soft laugh escaped her as the alpha stepped closer. “Subtle?” she murmured, a mix of fondness and gentle mockery. “You nearly knocked my head off with my portrait frame.”

 

Alicent’s mouth fell open at the outrageous claim, though the smile at her lips betrayed no offence. She pointed the candlestick at the alpha in mild, theatrical accusation.

 

“At your horse’s feet, Captain—nowhere near your head,” she said, her voice soft yet playfully indignant, that gentle reproach only she could manage.

Rhaenyra bit her lip, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth as she regarded the omega. “Then you must have been looking very closely, Riña,” she murmured, hoping that High Valyrian might lend a private flourish.

Alicent pressed her lips together, stifling a smile, though a faint, heated thrill stirred low within her at the sound of Rhaenyra’s High Valyrian. She shrugged lightly, turning to rest the candlestick on the table.

 

“Indeed I was,” she said. “One does not often see a gallant alpha arrive on horseback.”

 

Her expression softened, more serious now, as she faced the alpha fully. “Your father broke the portrait when he learned of our marriage. Baela kept the fragment bearing your likeness and gave it to me when I came to see you during the Winter Fever. It was all I had to remember your face, once I had to leave the children in your care.”

 

Rhaenyra furrowed her brow, a familiar ache tightening at her chest. She stepped closer, voice soft and barely more than a breath. “Forgive me… for leaving you to such loneliness.”

 

Alicent raised her hand, now that the candelabrum rested safely upon the table, gently halting Rhaenyra in both step and word. The alpha’s presence—so commanding, so magnetic—made every utterance feel perilously fragile.

 

She spoke softly, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “All apologies that could be spoken have been spoken,” she said, with a faint smile. “There is naught left to forgive.”

 

Stepping forward, the omega pressed a clenched fist to her breast as if to summon courage. Fixing her gaze upon the alpha, she spoke with resolute gravity, voice heavy with reverence and feeling.

 

“In this very room, I vowed to myself I would be your wife. I took a liking to you—you made me laugh as no one else ever has. You were… enticing, enough that I nearly lost my virtue upon that very mattress”—her eyes flicked toward the bed—“but what truly compelled me was knowing you would be sufficiently wealthy when your inheritance came to you.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head at Alicent’s words, receiving them with a composure long absent in those early, foolish days. She was no longer the innocent alpha of old; she had long made peace with the notion that her greatest allure, once, had been the fortune Rhaenys so loudly promised.

 

She stepped closer, closing the fragile space between them, gaze fixed upon the omega’s face. A nervous, strained chuckle escaped her, betraying more than she cared to admit.

 

“Perhaps that,” she murmured, “was the only scheme that ever failed you. Rhaenys left me nothing. My father left me nothing. No fortune tied to my name… and yet you remained my wife all the same, for ten years.”

Alicent swallowed hard. Rhaenyra’s eyes had always undone her, and now—so near she felt the alpha’s warmth—her breath caught. She bit her lip, nodding with trembling resolve as she met Rhaenyra’s gaze.

 

“It mattered not,” she murmured, “how often I tried—even to myself—to deny that I cared for you. If I fretted, I could say it was only because you kept me warm… exceedingly warm.” A faint, nervous smile flickered and vanished. “Yet despite all that self-deception, I did not leave. The truth was plain enough: I had fallen in love with you—and I could not imagine my life without you.”

 

At last, she closed the remaining distance. Slowly, deliberately, she uncurled the fist pressed to her breast, revealing the object she had kept hidden: her wedding ring.

 

She extended it with quiet solemnity.

 

“In this very room,” she whispered, “I once chose to be your wife for all the wrong reasons. But now… I wish to make that same choice for the right reason. The only reason—because I love you.”

 

Rhaenyra drew a sharp breath—one she had not known she held—at the sight of the ring in Alicent’s trembling palm, at the quiet sincerity threaded through every word. Her heart beat a reckless cadence, each throb echoing the truth she had yearned for far longer than she dared admit.

 

Alicent cared.

 

Alicent chose her.

 

A smile broke over the alpha’s face—unguarded, almost boyishly bright—her eyes pricking with threatened warmth. Her hands shook as she reached out, taking the ring with something like reverence. In the wavering candlelight, the engraved word caught a faint gleam.

 

Rhaenyra hesitated only a heartbeat, steadying her breath, her voice softening into something dangerously close to hope. “Forever…?”

 

Alicent’s smile unfurled slowly, sweetly, drawn from somewhere deep within. She longed to kiss her—desperately, absurdly—but instead she nodded, her voice soft yet sure as she breathed, “Forever.”

 

With a quiet, resolute boldness, she guided her own hand forward, slipping her finger into the ring still cradled between Rhaenyra’s trembling ones. A shuddered sigh left her; tears pricked hot at the corners of her eyes. The cool weight of the gold settled upon her hand with such rightness she felt, foolishly yet truly, as though she had been bare until now.

 

Then the omega closed the last breath of distance and pressed her lips to her wife’s.

 

How good—how exquisitely good—it felt to think of the alpha as such.

 

The kiss began tenderly, a shared breath, a soft meeting of mouths, yet soon deepened into something warmer, truer—enough to make the candle-flame waver, as if it, too, felt their pull. Alicent’s fingers curled lightly at the lapel of Rhaenyra’s shirt; the alpha’s hand settled at the small of her back, steady and sure. When breath finally failed her, the omega drew back a mere inch, resting her brow against Rhaenyra’s, their breaths mingling.

 

In a whisper shaped by feeling she could no longer cage, Alicent murmured, “You loved me as no one ever did. Others admired my youth, my beauty—but you… you saw me. And you loved what you saw.”

 

She stepped back a single pace, her fingers brushing the edge of her nightdress. With unhurried deliberation, the omega loosened the simple fastening that held it, and the linen slipped from her body in a soft sweep, pooling at her feet. She stood bare before Rhaenyra, adorned only by the gleam of the ring upon her hand. Lifting her chin, she looked at the alpha—open, unguarded, wholly resolved.

 

“Thus,” she said quietly, “I would present myself to you… and mate.”

Rhaenyra felt the kiss before she fully understood it—the soft press of Alicent’s lips, warm and tremulous, stealing the breath from her chest. What began as the faintest touch deepened swiftly into something truer and achingly sincere. She tasted hope upon the omega’s mouth, felt the delicate yet deliberate curl of fingers at her collar; even the candle-flame seemed to bow toward them.

 

When Alicent drew back, their brows rested together in a shared, fragile hush. The alpha nodded, as though each word of the omega’s confession had been laid directly into her keeping.

 

How could she not love her?

 

Alicent was the most extraordinary omega she had ever known—clever, enchanting, quick of wit and bold of heart.

 

Then the omega stepped away.

 

Her nightdress slipped down in a soft whisper, pooling at her feet, and Rhaenyra’s thoughts simply stilled. 

 

Gods, but she was beautiful.

 

The graceful line of her waist, the gentle curve of her breasts, the quiet resolve in the way she stood—bare save for the gleam of the ring upon her hand.

 

Heat surged through Rhaenyra’s veins.

 

It was Alicent’s final word that stirred her to movement. The alpha stepped forward and took both of the omega’s hands in hers.

 

“Ali,” she murmured, her voice low with feeling, “are you certain? You need not do this for my sake.”

Alicent smiled with a softness drawn straight from the depths of her heart. Her Booby—ever determined to place every one of the omega’s wishes above her own. It was one of the many reasons Alicent loved her so fiercely; yet tonight she would not allow it.

 

Not when their desires, at last, stood so perfectly aligned.

 

She slipped her hands from her wife’s gentle hold and lifted them to the buttons of Rhaenyra’s shirt. Her fingers moved with quiet deliberation; one by one the buttons yielded beneath her touch.

 

“I do not do this solely for you,” she murmured, warmth threading through her voice as the linen began to fall open. “I do it for myself.”

 

When the shirt hung loose, Alicent drew it back by the lapels, urging her wife to step free of it. The alpha allowed herself to be guided, turning slightly as the garment slid from her shoulders and dropped soundlessly to the floor. Candlelight traced the lines of her bare skin, and the omega felt her breath catch—not in doubt, but in wonder at being permitted to see her thus.

 

Her hands slipped to the fastenings of Rhaenyra’s breeches. She worked them open with the same calm resolve, speaking as she did so. “When I said forever, I meant it.”

 

The fabric gave way beneath her fingers. She crouched with graceful ease to draw the breeches down, and her wife stepped free of them. Rising once more, the omega met her gaze with unshaken certainty.

 

“There shall be nothing to part us again,” she whispered, conviction ringing through each syllable. “Nothing. I would have you as mine… but more than that, Rhae—” her hand rose to the alpha’s cheek, thumb brushing tenderly along her jaw “—I long to be yours.”

Rhaenyra felt as though she had fallen beneath a spell of Alicent’s making, held fast in a gentle, irresistible thrall. She let the omega undress her without a word—barely breathing, scarcely daring to stir. It was not merely Alicent’s beauty that unmanned her, though that alone might have undone any resolve she possessed.

 

It was her words.

 

Each one struck deep, stirring a yearning the alpha had long buried.

 

Alicent being her mate. 

 

A life bound wholly to one another—no shadows, no pretence, no one set between them.

 

When at last they stood as they truly were—no ornaments, no silks or insignia, only the simplicity of bare skin and honest feeling—Rhaenyra lifted her hands to Alicent’s face. She smiled, brushing her thumbs over the omega’s warm, rose-tinted cheeks.

 

“My beautiful wife,” she murmured, tasting the word with quiet awe.

 

Wife.

 

How right it felt upon her tongue once more.

 

She leaned in and kissed her—slow and devoted, a kiss that lingered as though she wished to place years of unspoken longing into that single meeting of lips. Her wife yielded sweetly, her mouth parting beneath hers, and Rhaenyra deepened the kiss with a tenderness that set her heart aching.

 

At length she drew back and let herself sink onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her. The omega followed at once, settling astride her with effortless grace. A soft ripple of laughter escaped her wife—light, delighted, wholly unguarded—and to the alpha it was the finest music she had ever heard.

Alicent could not help but laugh—softly, breathlessly, like a young omega carried away by sheer delight—when Rhaenyra drew her down onto the bed. The gentle sound lingered in her throat as she settled astride the alpha, her movements unhurried and instinctive, guided by a certainty as old as her desire. She shifted with quiet purpose until her wife’s already-hardened cock lay nestled perfectly between the warm folds of her cunt.

 

Looping her arms around Rhaenyra’s neck, she leaned close, her breath brushing the alpha’s lips. “Are you eager, My Alpha?” she whispered, the words no more than a silken tease before she claimed her mouth.

 

The kiss kindled at once—deep and heated, a melding of breath and longing. The omega pressed forward with a hunger long restrained; The alpha answered with equal fervour, her lips parting, their tongues meeting in a slow, intoxicating tangle that sent warmth unfurling through the omega’s very core. She deepened the kiss, tasting the promise of forever in the way her wife held her, in the soft, helpless sound her wife made against her mouth.

 

Her hips began to move of their own accord, guided by instinct stronger than thought. Each glide of Rhaenyra’s cock through her slickness drew a quiet gasp from Alicent, pleasure sparking with every pass. Heat gathered low in her belly, tightening with each deliberate stroke.

 

She broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against her wife’s lips, her voice trembling with sweet delight, “I liked it so very much… the first time you did this to me.”

 

And with another slow, purposeful roll of her hips, she showed her alpha precisely how much she still did.

With Alicent’s mouth on hers, Rhaenyra could reply only through touch. Her hands traced the omega’s curves with quiet hunger, settling at last on that soft, perfect arse; her fingers pressed into it as though claiming what had ever been hers.

 

Her muffled moans were lost in the kiss, swallowed as pleasure shivered through her with each slow, deliberate glide of Alicent’s hips.

 

A breathless laugh stirred in her throat when Alicent spoke, pressing that sweet, yielding cunt against her impossibly hard cock. Meeting those brown eyes—alight with mischief, desire, and something far deeper—Rhaenyra let the faintest hint of fang show in her smile.

 

“I shall always be eager for you, My Omega.”

 

And to prove it, she tightened her hold upon her wife’s soft flesh, lifting her just enough that, with a sharp roll of her own hips, her cock slid home within her.

 

No kiss on earth could have stifled the sound that tore from the alpha then—the raw, helpless groan that burst forth the instant the molten heat of Alicent’s cunt clasped her so perfectly, so wholly, that the rest of the world seemed to fall away.

Alicent’s head tipped back at once, her mouth falling open to loose the most primal, ungoverned cry. Her nails bit into Rhaenyra’s shoulders as that perfect cock filled her—claimed her—making her whole in the way only her wife ever had.

 

Breathless, she cupped the alpha’s face, seeking her gaze, voice scarcely more than a gasp. “Can you feel it?” the omega breathed, rolling her hips to draw her wife deeper. Heat flared through her, fierce and tender. “We are made for one another… we fit as no two ever have.”

 

She pressed soft, hurried kisses to the alpha’s lips, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth—each one a fervent benediction. “My Love… My Sweetest Love…” Another kiss, then another, as if she could make amends with her mouth alone. “I feel it—I feel you—and I am so sorry.” Her lips brushed her wife’s again, trembling with emotion. “My perfect wife… my dearest… I am so very sorry I did not see it sooner.”

 

Rhaenyra felt it.

 

In the way Alicent’s cunt clutched her cock, in every kiss they shared, in each fragile breath caught between them. She had felt it from the very first moment she had seen her.

 

Destined.

 

As in the old tales—when mating marked the discovery of a lifelong companion, not the hollow custom it had since become. 

 

The alpha had never trusted such stories, until the night she first breathed in the omega’s scent beneath the shawl—the lavender that had seized her very being. The pull had been undeniable. 

 

It was the scent of her mate.

 

Her hands tightened on her wife’s soft, perfect flesh, guiding her movements as they rose and fell together. Rhaenyra’s hips met hers with eager, helpless need, each thrust an affirmation of what she had longed for and been denied. She welcomed every kiss her wife offered, chasing her mouth the instant it left her own, starving for every taste of her.

 

“My Love,” she murmured against those lips, voice rough with devotion and desire alike, “nothing else signifies now. We are here. We are together.”

Alicent whimpered, pleasure stealing all power of speech, leaving her unable to answer Rhaenyra’s tender words. If words would not suffice, her body would speak—each shiver, each rolling thrust confessed her desire. Her fingers tangled in the silver strands of her wife’s hair, anchoring herself, while her lips claimed the alpha’s in a kiss of fire and hunger, tongues entwined, breath mingling, her very soul straining toward the woman beneath her.

 

The heat surged, spreading through her limbs until she trembled with the force of it. Impending release rushed too swiftly to deny; Alicent tore free of the kiss to gasp her ecstasy into Rhaenyra’s ear, hips moving with helpless need. Her gaze fell to her wife’s neck, once a place she had scarcely dared to touch, and now she found herself drawn irresistibly to it.

 

She nuzzled the warm skin, inhaling its smoky scent, letting it fill her entirely. 

 

How had the omega deceived herself for so long? 

 

The alpha’s scent had always soothed her, stirred her, called to her.

 

Rhaenyra was her mate.

 

Breath ragged, lips grazing the pulse beneath them, Alicent whispered, “You are the love of my life,” before sinking her teeth into the tender flesh.

 

The very air about them seemed charged to breaking—thick with the heady press of their aroused pheromones, with lavender and smoke twining as intimately as their bodies. Candle-light trembled across the chamber, casting wavering shadows of their shifting forms upon the wall. The bed creaked beneath their weight, each groan of the old frame underscored by the relentless rhythm of flesh meeting flesh.

 

Rhaenyra was undone.

 

Every inch of her burned as her cock sank into Alicent’s sweet heat, the omega’s walls clutching her with exquisite insistence, stealing her breath. She met her wife’s ardent kisses with equal fire, reveling in every desperate tug at her silver hair. Feet planted firmly on the floorboards, the alpha drove her hips upward, each thrust a raw, urgent expression of need.

 

A broken whisper escaped her. “Ali…” Her voice faltered beneath the intensity of her wife’s words. Yet she had no time for more—for the instant Alicent’s teeth sank into her neck, blinding pleasure seized her. Her world rocked, her hips bucked, and release tore through her, spilling before she could summon restraint.

 

Still, she could not stop. Instinct bore her onward, body straining toward the mate who called so fiercely.

 

When the bite loosened and Alicent sagged against her, Rhaenyra caught her close, holding her as her hips continued their fervent motion. There she was—her omega yielding, tilting her head back in offering, presenting the tender curve of her throat.

 

With every last trace of doubt burned away, Rhaenyra bowed her head—and bit.

 

Alicent was overwhelmed by the multitude of sensations crashing over her at once. The moment her teeth broke the tender skin at Rhaenyra’s neck, a shiver of triumph and devotion coursed through her. To mark her alpha—to claim her—felt like stepping into the truest version of herself the omega had ever known. The taste of warm skin, the thrum of The alpha’s pulse beneath her tongue, the sharp catch of her wife’s breath—each sensation sent a low, trembling ache spiralling through her core.

 

Then came the glorious shock of feeling Rhaenyra spill inside her. The heat of it—her wife’s seed pulsing deep—made Alicent’s body seize around her, as though her very flesh sought to draw the alpha further still. A helpless whimper escaped her, undone by the ravaging sweetness of it, by the simple rightness of being filled by the alpha she loved beyond all reason.

 

In the breathless tumult, she offered her neck—head tipping back, baring herself completely.

 

And the world stopped.

 

Silence, stillness—then perfect clarity as Rhaenyra’s teeth sank into her. The bite was no pain; it was revelation. Belonging made flesh. Even the exquisite sensation of her wife’s cock could not match the profound certainty that surged through Alicent—fierce, luminous—binding them in a manner no vow or ring could ever rival.

 

A sob tore from her throat. “Rhae,” fractured by its own intensity—as her release struck. It consumed her utterly, the deepest, sharpest pleasure she had ever known. Her body shook with it, vision blurring at the edges, every nerve alight with the ecstasy of being claimed by the only alpha the omega would ever love.

 

Rhaenyra had not meant to bite her quite so hard. Yet the moment her wife’s climax crested—her body trembling so exquisitely above her—something ancient and instinctive swept through the alpha with the force of a storm. Her teeth sank into that soft, impossibly warm place at the curve of the omega’s neck, and the sharp, helpless cry it drew from the omega nearly brought her undone a second time.

 

Gods—the way Alicent yielded to her. 

 

It was enough to unmake any alpha.

 

Her teeth only released the flesh when her wife’s trembling eased, her mouth softening the mark she had made with slow, reverent tenderness. Rhaenyra soothed the bite with the flat of her tongue, then with a gentle kiss, unable to stop herself from trailing the bridge of her nose over the forming mark—this miraculous, inexplicable imprint of their bond.

 

She would never presume to understand the nature of such magic between alpha and omega. She only knew it was beautiful—devastatingly beautiful—to feel it, to witness it taking shape upon the omega who had rocked her world.

 

Drawing a steadying breath, the alpha was overtaken at once by the omega’s scent.

 

Lavender.

 

Sweet, warm, utterly intoxicating.

 

She had breathed that fragrance for ten years, yet never had it seemed lovelier than in that quiet, breathless moment.

 

Her wife had softened entirely in her arms, loose and trusting, her body moulding to the alpha’s. Instinct led her to nuzzle into the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck, seeking the fresh mark as though drawn by some unseen pull. Alicent’s warm breath against that tender place sent a delicious shiver coursing through her, making her close her eyes for a beat and savour the closeness.

 

With a deep, contented sigh, the alpha shifted only enough to settle them more comfortably. One hand found the small of her wife’s back, holding her there; the other slid to the omega’s cheek, guiding her gently upward until she could look upon her—cheeks flushed, lips parted, brown eyes still hazy with pleasure.

 

Rhaenyra brushed her thumb tenderly across the omega’s cheekbone.

 

“You are the love of my life as well,” she murmured, her voice roughened by emotion she no longer cared to conceal. A soft breath of laughter escaped her—an affectionate little chuckle. “In case I have failed to make it sufficiently clear these ten years.”

Alicent felt an exquisite, bone-deep satisfaction settle over her—so complete she could scarcely summon the will to draw breath, much less move. At some point in the fervour she had yielded wholly to the rhythm her wife set, letting the alpha guide her with those sure, relentless movements. And when her mate finally stilled, the omega simply melted, loose and languid, as though her very body had been poured into the shape of Rhaenyra’s embrace.

 

She had always cherished these quiet instants after the spilling of her wife’s seed—when the alpha’s cock remained nestled within her, their bodies joined, their breaths shared. The omega had never understood, then, what it was she sought. But now… now she knew.

 

It was this.

 

This stillness that needed no movement, no effort, no words.

A connection that existed simply because they existed—because they were.

 

Her head rested in the curve of Rhaenyra’s neck, drinking in that familiar smoky scent that clung to her mate’s skin.

 

It had never intoxicated her more.

 

She might have remained there indefinitely had her wife not coaxed her gently to lift her face. Lazy, content, the omega raised her gaze—only to lose herself at once in those divine purple eyes.

 

A light, unguarded laugh escaped her at the alpha’s teasing. She bit her lip, shoulders lifting in a small, playful shrug. “Pray forgive me,” she said, her tone warm with mischief, “for not all of us can be quite so clever as my dearest wife.”

 

But something softer stole over her.

 

She reached for the hand at her cheek and guided it down, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to her wife’s knuckles. Then she drew that hand to her chest, placing it over her heart, where her pulse beat fast and certain beneath her mate’s palm.

 

“And though it has taken me ten years to comprehend it,” Alicent said, voice steadier than she felt, “I can tell you now—with absolute certainty—Rhaenyra Crawley… I love you.”

Notes:

Well, here we are. I hope the wait was worthy and y'all like it.

Rhaenicent mated, yaaay!!

 

Kudos and specially comments feed me.🥰

Notes:

Alicent Hightower: Becky Sharp (Omega)
Rhaenyra Targaryen: Rawdon Crawley (Alpha)
Laena Velaryon: Amelia Sedley (Omega)
Daemon Targaryen: George Osborne (Beta)
Harwin Strong: William Dobbin (Alpha)
Laenor Velaryon: Jos/Joseph Sedley (Beta)
Corlys Velaryon: Mr. John Sedley? (Beta)
Viserys Targaryen: Sir Pitt Crawley (Beta)
Rhaenys Targaryen: Lady Matilda Crawley (Alpha)
Criston Cole: Bute Crawley (Beta)
Larys Strong: Lord Steyne (Alpha)
Mysaria: Sam (Beta)
Aemma Arryn: Arabella Briggs (Omega)
Jeyne Arryn: Martha Crawley, Bute's spouse. (Beta)
Floris Baratheon: Lady Steyne (Omega)
Otto Hightower: Mr. John Osborne (Alpha)
Joselyn Redwyne: Miss Pinkerton (Beta)
Rhea Royce: Jane Osborne (Omega)