Chapter Text
Warm Moon/1,000,127 Visenya VI
Alicent’s fingers drummed restlessly upon her knee as she stared out the window of Dr. Arwen’s office, acutely aware of the fact that while she was here with her therapist, Rhaenyra had returned to meet with the Westerosi delegation.
“I needn’t leave you, Ali. Visenya has matters well in hand, I’m sure, and my presence may cause more trouble than not considering their reasons for being here.”
“You’re the Queen of Kastrell and the Dowager Empress. Circumstances aside, your presence is required for a meeting such as this. And I would prefer to remain apprised of what all is happening.”
“Are those your only reasons?” Rhaenyra had asked gently, her eyes sweeping over Alicent’s face as her thumbs rubbed soothing circles on the backs of her hands.
“I would also prefer to remain apprised of my brother.” Alicent hadn’t been able to see his face before she and Rhaenyra had disappeared, but she’d felt a brief flash of his horror and indignation. Gwayne was no doubt convinced that Rhaenyra had taken her away to punish her, and she hoped that perhaps seeing Rhaenyra was with the other Valyrians and therefore not with Alicent might ease his mind somewhat.
Would that he had never seen her panicking.
Would that she’d been able to control herself.
Convincing him to accept help of any kind was always going to be a challenge, but now?
And then there was her mother.
A shiver rippled down Alicent’s spine at the memory of seeing her emerge from the starship—gowned in green and shimmering in the sun, her auburn hair perfectly coiffed and not even so much as a single stitch out of place.
As beautiful and terrible as Alicent remembered.
Had her mother even noticed her?
If she did, she was most certainly sneering at my loss of composure.
Alicent’s stomach tightened.
Her mother’s opinions of her didn’t matter.
Her mother’s disdain for her didn’t matter.
Her mother didn’t matter—not anymore.
Yet such assurances rang hollow even in her own mind.
She’d never thought to see her again, not after everything.
But perhaps that had been foolish?
Why did Gwayne bring her?
Why had her brother brought any women with him?
Unless changes the likes of which she could hardly fathom had taken place on Westeros these last six years, there would be no reason—
«Life is little more than a series of moves and countermoves, Children. Learn the minds of others as best you can, for that is how you both defeat them and turn them to your cause.»
Gwayne had been captured following the end of the war, so he must have had the chance to observe the Valyrians the same as she had. What had he seen? What had he overheard? While she assumed that the Valyrians had taken care with their words in his presence, her brother had learned well their father’s lessons about observation.
Were her mother and the other women a token of some kind? A silent showing that the Westerosi were not here to wage another war?
But no, Criston had brought his wives with him to Valyria—as had several other high lords—and lords both high and low had all brought houseless serving women and girls with them to provide what they’d considered necessary amenities whilst they waged war. The presence of women now could hardly be interpreted as a gesture of peace, but perhaps . . .
Perhaps her brother believed that the Valyrians would be less inclined to attack a delegation that included women.
A not unreasonable belief, she supposed.
And also a not untrue one.
Yet she misliked the thought of Gwayne performing such a cold calculation, especially considering the consequences had he been wrong . . .
Who else did Gwayne select to shield the delegation?
She’d been so focused on her mother that she hadn’t even noticed the other faces surrounding her.
I’ll have to pay better mind next time.
Next time . . .
Alicent’s fingers curled around her bonding bracelet.
Her mother was here.
Her mother was here on Valyria.
A guest—
No, not a guest.
The Imperial Council had issued an edict several months ago that no Valyrian was to offer the Westerosi visitors food or drink or lodging, lest any of them become protected by guest rite.
That edict, Alicent had swiftly decided, was going to prove troublesome.
Finding a way to speak with Gwayne once the trial was underway would likely be nigh impossible, especially if and when matters became contentious, so she’d resolved to speak with him beforehand, which she’d hoped would also ensure he was at least somewhat warded during the trial. Her first thought had been inviting some of the Westerosi to a welcoming feast to lure her brother into the Queen’s Keep, but with the edict in place, such was no longer a possibility. And they couldn’t very well visit the Westerosi without raising far too many questions, and while she was certain that Rhaenyra could manage finding a way for them to infiltrate the camp without being detected, Alicent didn’t think that such a risk was wise—especially given what Rhaenyra had been accused of.
And now knowing that her mother would be present in that camp . . .
She swallowed past the lump beginning to form in her throat.
“Alicent?”
Shaking her head a little, Alicent turned her attention to Dr. Arwen, who was watching her with gentle eyes. “Please forgive me, my mind was elsewhere.”
“As can only be expected considering the arrivals today.” Dr. Arwen folded her hands in her lap. “But perhaps we might discuss your reaction to seeing your mother again?”
Alicent sighed as she sat back in her chair. “I panicked. Seeing her again . . . I wasn’t prepared for it, and I panicked.”
Dr. Arwen nodded, her head cocking slightly. “Were you unprepared to see her in that moment, or unprepared to see her at all?”
“Both.”
“And now that you know she’s here? Do you think that seeing her again could induce the same reaction?”
Alicent’s lips pursed as she considered. She and Dr. Arwen had spent many a session over the years discussing her mother’s abuse and developing coping mechanisms for when the memories overwhelmed her or something triggered her, but she supposed that throughout the process she’d privately been under the impression that she would never have to actually see her mother again . . .
“I don’t know,” she finally decided.
“Why don’t we begin with that then?”
“All right.” Yet even as Alicent nodded, her mind was already flitting back to her brother.
∞
Main Westerosi Encampment
(Harzon/972,881,131 AC)
Gwayne’s stomach was little more than a knotted mass of dread. He barely recalled a word that had passed between himself and Imperator Visenya following the disembarking and the Firestorm absconding with his sister—though he certainly remembered when the Firestorm had returned.
Her expression had been cold and empty, her eyes as dead and unfeeling as a snake’s.
Gwayne had wanted to confront the vile woman. He had wanted to grab her by the arms and demand answers as to his sister’s whereabouts and health. He had wanted to denounce her as a monster, to make her understand that only a cruel and callous beast could even consider raising their hand against a woman as gentle and kind as his little sister.
Only the knowledge that Alicent would no doubt suffer even more as punishment for such an outburst had kept him silent.
He remembered the feeling of the Firestorm’s eyes upon him—taking his measure, no doubt contemplating how she would break him as she had no many others, if given the chance.
The thought of his poor sister in the clutches of such a depraved creature made his heart ache.
And his blood burn.
Whatever it took, he would see Alicent freed and happy.
His greatest challenge would be justifying her reclamation to the other high lords.
Already, Lord Vidor had begun looking at him strangely since Gwayne had started towards Alicent, and were it not for the necessity of ensuring the Valyrians saw only unity and singularity of purpose amongst the high lords, his mother’s brother would no doubt have confronted him about the matter by now.
Gwayne huffed out a breath as he continued to pace around his study. Outside, rain battered against the roof—as it had from nigh the moment they’d begun assembling their encampment—while inside, the harsh strike of his boots on the cold metal beneath his feet echoed through the austere room. Like his father before him, he’d seen no sense in dragging luxuries from home across galaxies to Valyria, so there was little and less of himself in this room or any of the others that made up his temporary quarters.
Yet this Hightower Pavilion was still far grander than the one his father had dwelled in during the war, as was only fitting, given his House’s elevated status.
Reuben Cole had rather snidely offered his own father’s old pavilion prior to their leave-taking. «Seeing as how the House of Hightower may not yet have had the time to properly outfit their own pavilion.»
Gwayne had dismissed the man with naught but a cold and withering look, for he’d deserved nothing more.
Would that the Firestorm and her ownership of his sister were so easily dismissed . . .
Poor Alicent.
What must she have been thinking upon seeing him and the others?
Between their mother’s and Criston’s mistreatment of her, his dear little sister no doubt had few fond memories of home, yet surely even those must be sweet compared to whatever vile horrors the Firestorm was inflicting upon her.
But soon those vile horrors would be brought to an end.
He would see to it.
He would see to it that she was safe and happy and protected.
If he could find some way to speak with Alicent and assure her that he was here to help, that her suffering would soon be at an end, that if she needn’t despair . . .
Strong Sytarr he hoped that she didn’t do anything—
He swiftly shoved aside the thought.
Alicent had survived twenty-three years in Criston’s clutches and another six in the Firestorm’s. She would survive a few weeks more until the trial was over and done.
Assuming she could survive tonight . . .
The Firestorm had seemed so furious with Alicent, and his sister had looked so small and pale, as if an errant wind might topple her.
Yet she hadn’t crumpled to her knees, hadn’t shed a tear.
Even then—beneath the Firestorm’s ire—Alicent had managed to keep her composure, in a way.
By the Sword, she must be so strong.
Stronger than he would have imagined possible, in truth.
And perhaps that was his failing.
Gwayne raked his fingers through his hair as he turned on his heel and began making his way back across the room again, demanding, «Did you see how she was shaking?»
From her place seated straight-backed upon a thickly upholstered chair, her fingers laced together and her hands settled neatly in her lap, Lora offered a small nod. «I once saw her shake so when she was a child, after a particularly harsh scolding from your mother.»
Gwayne’s steps faltered, a frown tugging at his mouth as he slowly turned to fully look at her. «My mother?»
Lora nodded once more. «Alicent was never a girl given to great displays of emotion—Clarissa would never have allowed it—but there were times . . .» Shadows darkened her eyes for a brief moment—there and gone in a trice. «I think that your sister has always been rather afraid of your mother.»
And who could fault her for that?
Gwayne well-remembered how Alicent had stiffened and paled when their mother had found him teaching her how to play the oud, and he well-remembered when she’d quietly told him that she knew their mother despised her.
Not even a daughter of Otto Hightower should have known the word «despise» at the age of three.
His lips pursed.
Could it be . . ?
Alicent had been watching him, watching all of them—such had always been her way—and she would surely have seen their mother disembark at the head of the other women.
Perhaps that had been the cause of her sudden paleness and the start of her shaking?
His jaw tightened.
Seeing Mother again must have frightened her half to death.
And now the Firestorm was punishing her for it.
Sytarr’s curse upon her.
«Alicent seems to be in good health,» Lora mused, her gentle voice pulling Gwayne from his dark thoughts. «Considering what stories I heard of the Firestorm, I would have expected her to appear gaunt, at the least.»
Gwayne’s brow furrowed as he called forth the memory of his sister standing amongst the Valyrians. Her eyes had been clear and bright—surprisingly so—he remembered that, and he supposed that Lora was correct about her not appearing gaunt or ill-fed. There had been no fresh bruises or other injuries that he could recall seeing, but then, her long sleeves would have covered those—assuming the Firestorm had taken care where she hurt her—
His fists clenched as the memory of Alicent’s neck suddenly flashed through his mind.
Teeth marks.
Plain for all to see.
That beast had bitten his sister so hard that she’d left a gruesome scar behind.
Sytarr’s wroth, what he wouldn’t give to—
What?
He nearly snorted aloud at his own foolishness.
For all that he’d never seen the Firestorm on the battlefield, he knew full well that she could like as not kill him with a thought.
There would be no justice for Alicent beyond what he might have managed to exact against their mother.
But there would be an end to the cruelties.
And there would be safety and protection.
«I must find a way to speak with her,» he muttered.
He would have her know that salvation was at hand, that there was reason to hope and continue to endure as she had been.
«Perhaps you might request an audience with the Firestorm?» Lora offered.
Gwayne’s cheeks warmed as he realized that he’d spoken loud enough for Lora to hear. «I doubt that she would acquiesce.»
And he was not in a position to force the matter.
Not yet.
Lora’s expression had grown thoughtful as she stared at something Gwayne knew he would not be able to see. «Perhaps—» She broke off, delicately clearing her throat as she lowered her head. «Forgive me, My Lord, I forgot myself.»
Gwayne waved dismissively. «Speak freely, Lady Lora. I would know your thoughts on this matter.»
For Sytarr knew he had yet to devise a solution himself.
«Perhaps you might invite the Firestorm and some of the other Valyrians to a feast? As a sign of goodwill and a further demonstration that we are here for the sake of justice—no more, no less. They may be determined not to offer us true hospitality, but there is no reason for us to respond in kind.»
Gwayne’s lips pursed.
He could think of a dozen reasons why the Valyrians—and the Firestorm, specifically—would decline such an invitation, but he supposed there was no harm in it . . .
And if I wait until the Arbiters arrive, I could invite them as well.
Which might well prevent the Firestorm from refusing.
At the least, he and his people would appear far more hospitable than the Valyrians.
«That is an excellent suggestion, Lady Lora.» He inclined his head. «My thanks.»
Lora’s lips briefly curved upwards in a smile. «As ever, My Lord Hightower, I am most pleased to be of service.»
∞
«He means to do what?» Clarissa sputtered, certain that she’d misheard, for surely her precious son would never be so foolish as to invite those degenerate vipers to break bread with them.
The mere thought of being in such close proximity to such hideous abominations turned her stomach.
Seeing them all at the disembarking—dressed so unnaturally like men and surrounded by their queer beasts—had been disturbing enough, but sharing a table with them? Sharing food and drink with them?
Surely her son did not mean for them to debase themselves so.
Yet Lora’s words wavered no more than her insipid expression as she repeated, «His Grand Lordship has decided to extend an invitation for the Valyrians to dine with us in two weeks’ time, as a demonstration of good will.»
Good will?
What nonsense was that?
They bore no more good will towards the Valyrians than Sytarr did the weak and sinful.
Why is Gwayne doing this?
He must have his reasons, surely . . .
But she couldn’t begin to imagine what those reasons might be.
Inviting the Valyrians to dine with them could only end badly, for they would surely prove themselves to be the most wretched and wicked of guests.
And Sytarr only knows what sort of depravity they will engage in whilst dining with us.
Her nose wrinkled as she recalled the revolting sight of Alicent’s lips greedily molesting those of Adelaide Axton. No doubt the Valyrians would be inclined to similar debauchery, and she could hardly imagine being forced to bear witness to such disgusting displays.
Yet that was precisely what it seemed her son wished of her.
But why?
What advantage did he hope to gain from this?
«We will be expected to oversee the feast’s preparations, of course,» Lora was saying, seemingly unbothered by this madness. «Lord Hightower is still determining which Valyrians to invite, and he does not seem to be expecting . . .»
A feast.
A Sytarr-cursed feast.
With the damned Valyrians.
Her jaw was beginning to ache from clenching, and the desire to storm from the room and speak with Gwayne herself about this matter clawed at her insides like a feral beast.
What sort of madness has taken hold of my precious boy?
Clarissa hurriedly quashed the wicked thought, her nails digging harshly into her palms as she forced herself to calm, to think rationally.
Silent.
Serene.
Submissive.
Her son was not mad.
Whatever his reasons, they must surely be good.
It was not her place to judge, and it was no longer her place to question.
She would do as bid.
She would oversee the preparations as he willed.
She would ensure that this feast was all that her darling boy desired.
And perhaps . . .
Perhaps there are opportunities to be had as well.
∞
Stone Garden
(Warm Moon/1,000,127 Visenya VI)
Alicent huffed out a frustrated breath as she swept back and forth across her study, her mind concocting and dismissing ways that she might speak with Gwayne so swiftly that she could hardly keep pace with her own churning thoughts.
Sneaking into the encampment was not an option—even if Rhaenyra could, like as not, manage if she wished.
They couldn’t send King Aedrius or any of the other Kervanites to her brother in a more official capacity because Empress Visenya wished for them to remain out of sight until it was deemed advantageous to reveal them.
Which might well be never, according to Rhaenyra.
“We would just as soon not have them aware of our male counterparts, especially now that we know the highborn are descended from the Old World.”
“You don’t truly believe that the Westerosi would be able to influence the Kervanites, do you?”
“I don’t, no, but not everyone shares that opinion.” Rhaenyra had shrugged in response to Alicent’s questioning look. “The collective memory of my people is a long one, and whispers of the ancient past are never far from our ears.”
Even so, Alicent found such an assumption to be rather uncharitable.
Uncharitable, and now entirely inconvenient.
Luring Gwayne to Stone Garden wouldn’t be feasible either, in no small part because she wasn’t certain what might entice him to enter the Firestorm’s domain.
She doubted that her brother would venture far beyond the outer perimeter of the main encampment, elsewise she might attempt to speak with him then, away from the prying eyes and expectant ears of the other Westerosi.
Sending any form of written correspondence would be far too dangerous, and she lacked the equipment necessary to breach the internal communication networks that had no doubt been established within and between the encampments, or were in the process of being established.
“Have you considered simply requesting an audience?” Rhaenyra asked from where she was seated at her desk reviewing Mistress Bartima’s latest accounting reports.
Alicent shook her head, continuing to pace. “Even if Gwayne was personally inclined to grant such a request, he wouldn’t be able to do so without appearing weak.”
“How in Relle’s name is speaking with you weakness?” Rhaenyra scoffed.
“Because as far as they’re concerned, I belong to the Firestorm.” Alicent’s nose wrinkled as she spoke, both in distaste for the words themselves and at the sudden souring of her mate’s scent. “It would be unseemly for a Lord of Lords to lower himself to speak with the property of an enemy, blood and bone or no. Granting my request would therefore be seen as Gwayne allowing old, familial sentiment to dictate his actions, which is weakness.”
“Merciful Mother above,” Rhaenyra muttered. “The amount of illogic.”
Alicent didn’t disagree, even if a small part of her still perfectly understood such twisted thinking.
Nigh anything could be construed as weakness with enough consideration.
“I could summon him here,” Rhaenyra mused, her fingers drumming upon her desk as she turned away from the stacks of paper to look over at Alicent.
Alicent shook her head once more. “Heeding such a summons would also make him appear weak. A high lord does not answer summons save from the Lord of Lords, and the Lord of Lords answers no summons save Sytarr’s when his time has come.”
“Seven Hells,” Rhaenyra growled, her scent sharpening with frustration as she threw up her hands, “is there anything he can do without appearing weak?”
“Little and less.”
Which Alicent imagined must be exhausting.
She well-remembered the physical and mental exhaustion that had come from always having to be hyperaware of everyone and everything around her, of every furrowed brow and twitching lip, of every hand movement and shift in breathing—all in her desperate efforts to avoid someone’s ire.
Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, muttering something in a language that Alicent didn’t understand before saying, “My offer to infiltrate the encampment and abscond with him still stands.”
That Alicent knew her mate was being entirely sincere had her swiftly crossing the room to where she sat, wrapping her arms around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, and then resting her chin atop her safa’s head. “And my polite refusal of your offer still stands as well.” She tilted her own head so that she could lightly kiss the top of Rhaenyra’s. “I’ll not have you abducting my brother, Nyra. That would cause even more trouble.”
“As you will,” Rhaenyra sighed, shifting a little and nuzzling Alicent’s encircling right arm. “My other offer to transmogrify you into an animal so that we might both infiltrate the camp also still stands.”
Alicent had been tempted by that offer, in truth—admittedly in part because she was intrigued by the thought of becoming an animal for a time—but she couldn’t be certain how Gwayne would react to being ambushed so. And she dared not place herself and Rhaenyra in a situation wherein her mate might have to protect her from hostile Westerosi.
“Thank you, Nyra, but I think it best—”
A brisk knock interrupted her words, and they both turned towards the door, calling “Enter,” at nigh the same moment.
Rhaenyra chuckled as she gently extricated herself from Alicent’s arms and rose to her feet.
Vora Hylda strode into the study a moment later, her expression stormy as she briskly tapped her fist against her heart in salute. “Your Majesty, Lady Alicent, we’ve received a communique from the Westerosi.”
Alicent’s eyebrows rose. “From Gwayne?”
“So said the messenger.” Vora Hylda’s lips twisted as shadows darkened in her eyes, and Alicent was suddenly reminded that the Shield Sister Society had formed the tip of the Valyrians’ spear during the war. “He gave me another of their thrice-damned crystals and this contraption.” She uncurled her clenched fist to reveal a recording crystal, whilst with her other hand she presented a small, portable communications module.
Alicent quickly claimed both and carried them over to the nearest table, her eyes swiftly sweeping over the module to ensure that all appeared in order before she placed it down on the table and keyed in the activation sequence. As her fingers moved across the keypad, she wondered absently how her brother had intended for the Valyrians to actually receive this message, or his prior one, for that matter.
After placing the crystal into the thin, spider leg-like prongs of the module, Alicent stepped back so that both Rhaenyra and Vora Hylda would be able to properly see the projection.
When her brother’s face appeared a moment later—floating about half an inch above the recording crystal—Alicent couldn’t help but sigh with relief.
He looked well.
Unaffected by her earlier panic attack.
Rhaenyra had assured her as much earlier after returning from the welcoming, but it was still good to see for herself.
«Good evening, Commander Rhaenyra. I am hereby extending to you and three guests of your choosing an invitation to dine with myself, my family, and several other high lords and their families in two weeks’ time—upon the arrival of the Arbiters. I would have you respond to this message within the next thirty-six hours so that my lady mothers might best begin their preparations.» Gwayne paused, and for a moment, Alicent saw him as he’d been twenty-nine years ago on the day that she’d left Tamworth Palace—stern and stoic and cold, yet somehow not without his warmth, not with a quiet sort of sadness. «I would also request that you bring with you the Lady Alicent Hightower.»
Alicent couldn’t stop that gasp that left her at those words, couldn’t stop her hand flying to her mouth in shock.
“Ali?”
Surely she’d misheard him.
Surely—
“Good evening, Commander Rhaenyra . . .”
Yet as her brother repeated his message in High Valyrian, as he spoke the same words that she’d heard before . . .
He requested my presence.
He requested her presence.
High lords did not make requests.
They barked orders and issued demands, but they did not make requests.
Yet Gwayne had.
And he most certainly did not record that message with others listening.
“Ali?” Rhaenyra lightly touched her arm, and the sweet scent of roses wrapped around Alicent like a familiar cloak. “Are you upset, My Love?”
She managed to shake her head, one of her hands blinding reaching for Rhaenyra’s.
Warm fingers laced with hers, squeezing gently.
“He asked for me to attend,” she murmured, still feeling as if she must be mistaken. While Gwayne had occasionally requested things of her when she was child—though only ever when their mother wasn’t nearby to overhear—that was a far cry from making a request of Rhaenyra.
Requesting anything of an enemy was tantamount to Confessing Weakness.
Had anyone overheard him speak those words . . .
“Perhaps he wishes to ensure that the Firestorm hasn’t done away with you,” Rhaenyra said dryly.
Perhaps.
Perhaps he wished only to know whether she still lived after her panic earlier.
But even that was far more significant than her mate realized.
Gwayne still had a care for her.
Even after all these years.
Even after she’d been traded.
Even knowing that she was barren.
A bright, foolish smile curled Alicent’s lips as affection for her brother surged within her.
She’d always known that he was fond of her, that he’d seen her in a way that few others had, but she hadn’t imagined that his care for her would be this deep and strong.
Rhaenyra cocked her head slightly as she peered at her. “Ali?”
“He still cares whether I’m alive.” Alicent grinned at her, a foolish sort of giddiness that she wouldn’t have expected taking hold of her. “He still cares, Nyra!”
“Why wouldn’t h—?” Rhaenyra shook her head, waving away her own question. “That bodes well for our own efforts, I should think.”
“Very well,” Alicent agreed, tugging her mate closer and then releasing her hand so that she could wrap her arms around her waist. “If he still cares for me, if he doesn’t think me entirely wicked, sinful, and dead in all but truth, perhaps he’ll be more amenable to accepting help once I explain matters to him.”
Rhaenyra hummed in agreement as she pressed a brief kiss to Alicent’s forehead. “And I suppose that we ought to be thanking him for resolving the pesky matter of how you might see him before the trial begins.” She paused, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. “Though I remain of the opinion that you would have been a most beautiful fox, had you accepted my offer to transmogrify you.”
Alicent laughed, hugging Rhaenyra tighter and burying her face in her safa’s shoulder as some of the tension that had been plaguing her for months at last began to ease.
Not much.
But some.
∞
Main Westerosi Encampment
(Harzon/972,881,131 AC)
«You’re certain?»
«I saw him dispatch the messengers myself.»
«Thank Sytarr.»
«He had naught to do with this.»
«All the same, we’ve two weeks now to complete our preparations.»
«A distraction of some kind will be imperative, I should think.»
«But nothing so disruptive that the Valyrians would depart in response.»
«A minor altercation, perhaps? Nigh all of the lords are one wrong word from coming to blows.»
«We would have too little control over such a distraction, and we cannot afford any of them turning their ire on the visiting Valyrians.»
«Does His Grand Lordship intend entertainment of some kind? That might provide the necessary distraction. If something should go wrong, perhaps.»
«He hasn’t mentioned entertainment, but his plans on the matter are still being formed.»
«Then you had best ensure that they are formed to our needs.»
«Will you be able to manage? Perhaps I might be of help?»
«I don’t believe that there is need. Your attention ought to be on your husband.»
«He is not well-pleased by all of this.»
«In a way that benefits us?»
«Perhaps. He wishes ill upon the Firestorm as do they all, but he’s rather incensed that all of this is being done in Criston Cole’s name.»
«Enough to sway his actions?»
«Not at present, but we’ve two weeks until the Arbiters arrive.»
«The Lady Alicent’s reaction to our arrival does not bode well. If she is unable to keep her composure—»
«I’m certain she was merely surprised by the sight of her mother.»
«Shaking and nigh collapsing like that was hardly what I would call surprise.»
«She’ll have recovered herself by the time of the feast.»
«I am concerned less about that and more about the Firestorm choosing not to bring her after such a display.»
«Did you see how Lady Alicent was dressed? And that bite mark on her neck? The Firestorm plainly wished for all to know that Lady Alicent belongs to her. I don’t imagine that she’ll decline an opportunity to flaunt her ownership of the Lord of Lords’ blood and bone sister.»
«For all of our sakes, I hope that you are correct.»
«I would stake much and more on it.»
«We are staking all of our lives.»
«Just so, but there is little choice in that. You are certain that you’ll be able to steal a moment with her?»
«My hope will be during the entertainment so that a distraction will not be necessary. It would not look so strange, I should think, for me to approach her.»
«And if you are unable to steal a moment with her, I might try as well.»
«Your lord husband may not be inclined to allow you such liberty.»
«Do not fret about that. I can persuade him.»
«If the Lady Alicent does not attend, we had best have contingencies in place.»
«We dare not approach the Firestorm directly.»
«Agreed. Perhaps one of the other commanders?»
«There was a softness about the one with wings. She might prove more amenable.»
«We’ll need to make certain that some of us are selected to serve that night.»
«Yes, that could well prove the most opportune time to whisper a few words in the correct ear.»
«And we had best pray that those ears are willing to listen.»
∞
Lora expelled a heavy breath as she gracelessly fell back onto her bed, her limbs splayed haphazardly in a way that she knew would have earned her a scolding in her youth. Her scalp was still sore from the countless pins that Clarissa had stabbed into her that morning after insisting that they all wear their hair in the absurdly intricate, traditional styles usually reserved for the high festivals.
«I’ll not have you embarrassing my son,» she’d snapped when Zelma had asked why they should trouble themselves so.
Adah had snorted in response, and Lora had been certain that Clarissa was about to lunge at her.
Given how Roka and Zelma had both tensed, they’d evidently expected the same.
But Clarissa had quickly reclaimed her composure and simply glared at Adah with such hostility and contempt that it was a wonder Adah hadn’t staggered back from the force of the other woman’s loathing.
Sooner or late, one was like as not going to murder the other.
Lora had her preference as to who should prevail, but that was a rather cold thought.
Yet also an unavoidable one.
As her eyes roved aimlessly across the shadowed ceiling overhead—listening to the insistent patter of rain all the while—she couldn’t help but smile as she recalled her brief moment of seeing Alicent before the Firestorm had disappeared with her.
Alicent hadn’t aged a day since Lora had last seen her, yet she had unquestionably grown older. The woman standing beside the Firestorm, with her head held high, swathed in sable and crimson, and proudly displaying her House’s flaming watchtower encircled by a silver dragon had little resembled the shy girl and anxious maiden of Lora’s memories.
But that woman was the very image of the Alicent who had been haunting Lora’s dreams of late.
For all that Alicent’s face had remained perfectly calm and composed prior to her seeing Clarissa, there had been a softness to her expression, a warmth. And while Lora had certainly noticed the tense set of her shoulders and the way that her eyes had nervously roamed over those disembarking, Alicent’s eyes had been shining, and there had been a sort of . . . peacefulness about her.
A serenity.
Despite having been standing nigh hip-to-hip with the Firestorm, Alicent had been calm.
And despite now plainly belonging to the Firestorm, Alicent was happy here.
Lora was certain of it—down to her bones, she was certain of it.
Perhaps the Firestorm simply wasn’t the monster the stories claimed she was.
Or perhaps whatever kindness the Firestorm possessed was—for reasons that Lora couldn’t begin to fathom—devoted entirely to Alicent.
Whatever the truth of the matter, Sytarr willing—
Lora snorted aloud, and the sound nigh echoed in the empty, austere bedchamber.
Sytarr would most certainly not be willing.
And that is just as well.
Expelling another heavy breath, Lora closed her eyes and hoped that this night would prove a peaceful one.
∞
Stone Garden
(Warm Moon/1,000,127 Visenya VI)
Gwayne had Alicent’s eyes.
That had been Rhaenyra’s first thought upon at last seeing the man in truth and not as a projection.
He had Alicent’s eyes and Alicent’s hair. And something of Alicent’s anxious suspicion as well—from back when she’d first come to Stone Garden—but laced with far more aggression than her mate had ever outwardly displayed. The tension coiled in Gwayne’s body had been plain to see in the stiff set of his shoulders and the tight clenching of his jaw, and his gaze had been sharp and cutting as it roved over them. But there had also been hesitation in his steps, and wariness lurking just beneath the surface of his stern expression.
He’d reminded her of both an easily spooked horse and a feral lone wolf—as like to flee as he was to rake his claws across her face.
She wondered if he would be more at ease during the feast when amongst his own people.
Or perhaps being surrounded by those who would see him dead for nothing will serve to increase his nerves.
For Alicent’s sake, she hoped that it would be the former. Her mate would be nervous enough without having to experience Gwayne’s anxiety in addition.
And it won’t do for Alicent or her brother to lose consciousness during supper.
Rhaenyra shifted slightly, raising her head just enough so that she could telekinetically plump her pillow, but taking care not to jostle her mate, who had decided to sprawl out atop her the moment they’d settled into bed. The warm scent of freshly baked bread filled her senses, lulling her into a pleasant haze of contentment.
She could spend an age like this—simply lounging abed, or anywhere, in truth, with her Alicent and basking in her sweet safa’s presence.
“Nyra?”
“Yes, My Love?” Rhaenyra’s fingers slowed their absent carding through Alicent’s hair, earning a disgruntled sound. She smiled slightly as she resumed stroking her mate’s hair, this time receiving a pleased purr.
Despite the purr, her mate’s expression was pensive—as it had been since they’d received Gwayne’s invitation to sup with the Westerosi.
An invitation that all seven of her daughters—as well as the eight Matriarchs—had also received.
Of her daughters, Visenya, Jaehaera, Jacaerya, and Lucerya were not inclined to accept. Aeloa and Vaella were curious but wary. And only Helaena seemed to be giving the matter true consideration.
As for the Matriarchs, the All Mother had refused outright, as had Lady Martell, Lady Lannister, and Lady Tully. Lady Arryn, Lady Stark, and Lady Baratheon claimed to be deciding still. And Lady Tyrell has surprised them all by accepting at once.
“My sister and I can hardly decline an opportunity to observe the Westerosi in something approximating their natural habitat,” she’d explained with a shrug in response to Lady Martell’s incredulous demand to know why she would wish to dine with any Westerosi aside from Alicent. “And unlike several of you, I was not recently graced with a visit from the Lady Alicent.”
Alicent’s decision to not call on either Lady Tyrell or Archmagister Alerie had been born from both her desire for their first meeting to be under more pleasant circumstances, and her rather adorable awe of them as the two oldest women on the planet and the founders of the Order of Magisters.
“Hypothetically,” Alicent began slowly, her lovely voice drawing Rhaenyra from her thoughts, “when you cursed Criston, you were able to bypass the protection of his nth metal clothing by attaching your curse to his ring, yes?”
Rhaenyra nodded, absently winding a loose lock of auburn hair around her finger. “The underlying mechanics would have hypothetically been the same as the arrows that I used at Lochlain.” Her lips twisted into a grimace as memories of the horrific carnage briefly flashed through her mind before she quickly snatched them up and buried them once more. “Nth metal clothing is a shield like any other, once all is said and done. Pierce it or strike somewhere uncovered, and damage can be inflicted.”
“Do you believe that the same would be true of our empathic abilities?” Alicent was watching her intently, hopefully.
A frown stole across Rhaenyra’s lips as she realized the reason for her mate’s questions. “Ali, sharing your emotions with another, opening yourself in such a way . . . It’s an exceedingly intimate act.”
And she deeply misliked the thought of Alicent experiencing that intimacy with anyone other than herself.
“I know, Nyra.” Alicent pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “But I’m not certain that Gwayne will believe all that I have to say unless he can feel my sincerity.” She paused, shifting once more so that she could nuzzle Rhaenyra’s neck. “And I’m not certain that he will believe me when I tell him that I’m happy here and that I love you more than words unless he can truly feel as I do.”
For all that her mate was no doubt correct, Rhaenyra still misliked the thought of Alicent sharing her emotions with her brother beyond the blessing of birth and bone.
“Safa, please just tell me if you think it’s possible.” Alicent was gazing at her with her impossibly large and expressive eyes, and Seven Hells, how was Rhaenyra meant to deny her mate when she was looking at her so?
Expelling a heavy breath, Rhaenyra nodded slowly. “I should think that it would be possible, yes. If you’re touching his bare skin, then you ought to be able to bypass the nth metal’s shielding properties.”
Alicent beamed, her eyes beautifully bright as she captured Rhaenyra’s lips in a fierce yet tender kiss.
Rhaenyra’s own eyes slipped shut as she allowed herself to become lost in the glorious feeling of her Alicent’s soft and perfect lips moving against her own. Her legs tangled with Alicent’s as her arms rose to wrap around her mate, hugging her impossibly close and savoring the sensation of Alicent’s body pressed fully against her own. “I love you, Ali.”
“And I love you, My Nyra.” One of Alicent’s hands managed to find its way to Rhaenyra’s cheek, gently caressing as she crooned in Rhaenyra’s mind, “I’m yours, and you’re mine. Until the stars go dark.”
“And long after that as well.”
∞
Main Westerosi Encampment
(Harzon/972,881,131 AC)
Adah’s lips pursed as she inspected the list of servants that had accompanied them to Valyria. Most could be depended upon—in one fashion or another—and none could be considered loyal to Clarissa, but about two-dozen of them were utterly terrified of her.
More troubling was that of those two-dozen, eight of them were assigned to the kitchens, and another five would like as not be serving at Gwayne’s feast.
Clarissa would sooner die than set foot anywhere near the kitchens.
And the horrid woman wasn’t fool enough to entrust poisoning with a houseless servant.
All the same . . .
She couldn’t manage the food preparations herself without rousing Clarissa’s paranoia, but perhaps she might persuade Roka or Pella to do so instead.
Usually she would have looked to Zelma or Lora for this, but Clarissa had been nursing a grudge against Zelma since Dr. Axton had allowed her to remain in the infirmary after Gwayne’s last collapse, and Lora had been acting out of sorts since they’d left Westeros.
Clarissa like as not wouldn’t question overmuch Pella requesting to oversee the food preparation. Their sister-wife had recently decided to take an interest in the menial task for whatever reason.
She could make certain that her eyes and ears were present in the kitchens, and there were a few servants who might just be foolish enough to—
Adah expelled a harsh breath.
The simplest solution was a neat decapitation strike.
She knew this.
Gwayne, his wretched mother, and his blood and bone brothers who had accompanied them.
But Azar had remained back home as Gwayne’s heir, and her reach did not extend quite that far.
Besides, sudden deaths on Valyria could be explained—sudden, perhaps too convenient deaths back home could not.
Sighing as loudly as she dared, Adah leaned back in her chair and allowed her eyes to drift towards the large window. The rain had at last eased, and through the tinted, one-way glass, she could see queer stars twinkling overhead, but more importantly, she could see the nearby Vidor, Kazsan, and Vensar Pavilions.
Gwayne had made certain to give her rooms facing the interior of the encampment so that she might observe the comings and goings of those stationed with them.
It was a kindness, she knew—one of many that he had been bestowing upon her since her lashing.
She couldn’t think of a single other lord—be they high or low—who would behave so.
But then, Gwayne had always been a rather queer man, even when he was a boy.
Not that Clarissa ever seemed to truly notice.
Gwayne had always had a kindness about him, though she could not for the life of her say from where it had come.
Certainly not his wretched mother, and likely not his lord father either.
Such kindness, such gentleness, might have been borne in a younger son—even the younger son of a first wife—but such could never be tolerated in a high lord.
Gwayne’s kindness—appreciated though it had been these past months—would be the doom of the House of Hightower it left unhindered.
And Adah would not allow that to come to pass.
Which was a shame, in truth.
Unlike his poisonous mother’s, Gwayne’s death would be something of a pity.
For all that he was his mother’s son by blood and bone, in every way that mattered, he was anything but.
Adah was rather fond of him, in truth.
Or at least as fond as she could be of any man who is not her son.
Adah’s eyes returned to the list of servants, lingering on those that might be of use to her as her instruments as a soft sigh escaped her lips. It was most unfortunate that Gwayne would have to die in order to preserve the future of their House.
But less unfortunate will be watching Clarissa die.
∞
Lora’s eyes fluttered open slowly, only to squint when she found herself staring up at an impossibly clear, blue sky filled with fluffy, white clouds that looked as if they’d been painted upon the heavens. The sun shone bright and golden overhead, almost blinding her, and the air smelled fresh and clean and full of life.
So different from home . . .
How—?
Huffing out a breath, Lora pushed herself up into a sitting position, hardly even surprised to find herself surrounded by tall grasses swaying gently with the breezes.
A meadow.
I suppose that I ought to be grateful for having awoken here rather than in the middle of a bloody war.
Yet she found the picturesque meadow far more unsettling than any of the other places she’d visited in her dreams. For all that she could see no eyes or faces here, she still felt as if she was being watched. And for all that the voice was now silent, she swore that she could still hear its faint whispers.
Why am I here?
The sound of approaching footsteps had Lora springing to her feet. Her heart thundered in her chest, and blood roared in her ears. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and the desire to hide clawed at her insides.
But there was nowhere to go save for lying back down in the grass, and she misliked the thought of not being able to see—
«Hello, Little Sister.»
Lora whirled around, an undignified squawk of surprise escaping her.
She was certain that she’d heard the footsteps coming from the opposite direction.
Standing before her was a pair of ancient women who must surely be sisters. Both had the same black eyes, the same fair skin, the same gently sloping nose, and the same oval face. The most notable differences were their hair—one woman’s was as black as the night, the other’s was as golden as the sun—and the blue-eyed raven perched on the dark-haired sister’s shoulder.
Lora recognized that raven.
And she recognized the woman whose shoulder it was perched upon.
The unknown face from her dreams.
She swallowed a little, her mouth suddenly dry as she forced her legs not to shake, as she forced herself not to back away from these strange women—one of whom had been haunting her dreams for nearly a year.
Overhead, the skies began to darken.
Lora opened her mouth, but no words came.
She knew that she was dreaming, and yet this felt like none of her previous dreams. Everything was sharper—the sights, the sounds, the smells . . . She could feel the breezes on her cheeks, smell the grass, hear the quiet croaks of the ravens, and for a moment, she could swear that she smelled—
«Long have we awaited your arrival, Little Sister,» the blonde woman rasped, her voice distant and echoing, despite her standing not even five feet away.
Lora recognized it at once. «Who are you?» she demanded. «Why have you been calling to me? And why have you—?» She broke off as she looked once more at the woman with the raven perched upon her shoulder, her eyes widening with recognition.
How had she not realized before?
You fool.
Had she truly been so absorbed by the sight of Alicent that she’d failed to notice this woman and realize her significance during the disembarking?
Lora’s gaze shifted between them, and something dangerously close to hope began to kindle within her. «Who are you?» she repeated. «Why have you brought me here?»
For surely this strange dream space was their doing.
A faint smile curled the blonde woman’s lips. «We are the kin of your kin, Little Sister, but we are bound by far more than mere blood.» She lifted a withered hand, and Lora was surprised to see that her veins were not the same silvery color as her dark-haired sister’s. «The winds of change are upon you and yours, Little Sister, and Our Heavenly Mother calls upon you to be her voice, as I once was in ages past.»
Heavenly Mother?
Lora frowned in confusion. «What do you mean?»
«You stand in the presence of Queen Orestilla Tyrell,» the black-haired woman intoned, her voice somehow both booming and soft, «the Last Prophetess of the Old World.»
Queen Orestilla smiled at Lora, her onyx eyes twinkling. «In times long gone to dust, I was the final prophetess of my world, chosen by Relle Lightbringer to guide her temporal daughters. Now, Mother Relle has chosen you to become the first prophetess of your world so that you might do the same.»
Lora’s knees buckled.