Chapter Text
The second she sees Alyssa, she freezes. Her daughter is sitting down, stoic as a maester sews up her eye. An ugly red slash decorates her beautiful face. Her little lips are pressed together, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even move. Her fingers aren’t twitching, her eyes are staring straight ahead, her body is frozen. She looks like a corpse. Is she even breathing?
Alicent rushes forward. She ignores the wailing of the bastards, also bloodied. Her daughter is sitting there. Her daughter has been wounded. The famed maternal instincts that Alicent had longed for finally rises, a beast in her chest, clawing against her lungs, begging for blood. They have come far too late. Why didn’t Alicent wake up? Her daughter has been maimed. Why was she sleeping peacefully? Shouldn’t a mother know?
Rhaenyra would have, Alicent thinks darkly. Rhaenyra would know what to do with the burning coursing through her veins, the lust for vengeance. Rhaenyra would have woken up.
Her children are dragons. Her husband is a dragon. For the first time, Alicent feels like one too. How else can she describe the fire? How else can she describe the anger coursing through her body?
Her daughter is in agony. Her daughter has been harmed.
Allicent unfreezes, uncoils herself slowly. She takes her daughter’s hand. Alyssa doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge her. Her hand is limp and cool. Alicent lifts the hand into her lap and cradles it.
Why isn’t she talking? Why is she staring? Why isn’t she crying?
She isn’t even wincing.
Who did this?
Who would attack a princess of blood? And the bastards, too—Viserys has claimed them, and foolish as it may be, they are princes. It is the highest of treason to lay hands on them. Were they thugs wanting a ransom? A drunkard? The wound her daughter sports was made by a weapon, Alicent is certain of it. Was it a knight? One who did not recognize the silver hair of House Targaryen?
All around the two, courtiers are staring. They are murmuring, their voices soft. They are bustling around her, breathing down her neck, staring at her daughter. Alicent’s skin crawls. She wants to scream.
Viserys is yelling. Like the dragon he wants to be. There is nothing kingly about his presence; a rotting old man, spittle flying out of his mouth. Despite that, Alicent feels a swell of love. He’s defending his daughter. Despite his favoritism toward Rhaenyra, he recognizes the blood that flows through Alyssa’s veins. Her husband will protect them. Her husband will give her blood.
“Who did this?!” Viserys roars.
The door swung open with a deafening bang. All heads turn to the Lord and Lady of Drifmark, entering in their night clothes but with straight spines and a fierce tilt to their jaws.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Corlys bellowed, just as his wife rushed over to her real grandkids.
“Baela, Rhaena! What happened?”
Rhaenyra entered next, uncaring of her messy attire. Her steps were loud, even in the loud hall. Her chin was tilted up; the perfect image of a future queen. “What happened?” she ordered.
The mask crumbled the second her eyes saw her sons.
“Jace?—Luke!”
She rushed forward, her fingers gripping their chins and tilting her brown pug noses up to study the blood her house was so obsessed with. “Show me,” the princess said. “Show me.”
The bastard only wailed, rotten blood spilling from his nose.
“Who did this?” Rhaenyra asked.
Immediately, they start heaping blame on her mutilated daughter. The same who had been sitting in the corner, staring at nothing, hearing nothing.
“She attacked Baela!” Lucerys cried, pointing Harwin Strong’s finger at the little girl soaked in blood with the blank eyes.
“She broke Luke’s nose!” Jacaerys backed up his brother, of course. As if a punch from a girl could warrant a prince disfiguring a princess.
Their voices rose, tripping over themselves to justify butchering their own cousin; the one who still hadn’t said a single word. Alicent felt a new spike of panic. Every part of her being longed to cradle her daughter close. But this time, she had to be the protector. She stood in front of her daughter, ready to bloody her hands if any bastards dared attack her child. Creatures of sin. Creatures of lust. Creatures of hate.
No one had seen it, choosing to turn a blind eye to the King’s subtle threats. But they would. They all would.
“He stole my mother’s dragon!” one of the twins cried.
“Enough,” Alicent’s husband tried to rasp, but his voice was weak, easily overcome by mere children’s shouting.
“She was gonna kill Jace!” Lucerys said, as if her daughter could ever do something so craven. How dare they make up lies to justify maiming her child?
Still, there was no response.
No defense.
Nothing.
The attack she endured seemed to have wounded her very soul.
“Enough…” the King said, his voice high and thin. He rubbed his rotting forehead with a mangled hand. Alicent looked at him—waiting for the anger. Waiting for the dragon to rise.
“She called us—”
Finally, Viserys Targaryen, first of his name, roared. “Silence!”
Silence fell as fast as it had risen. The room felt heavy; fifty of the courtiers freezing, not daring to breathe. No one wanted to be the one to break the silence. Dare their peaceful sovereign’s ire.
But of course, the bastards would interrupt. Of course, they had no respect for their grandfather—the King. And, of course, Viserys didn’t reprimand them.
“She called us bastards,” Lucerys said. The words felt like a thunderclap in the silence. A storm in the frozen hall. The bang of a gravel; the ringing of a sword. Outside, rain dropped. It splattered against the walls with a faint little clink. Alicent imagined the sky was raining blood. She imagined it was landing against instead of rain, rising up to drown them all.
Her body shifted, protective for the first time not against her bastard stepchildren, but against her own husband. He wouldn’t.
“Alyssa…” Viserys rasped, and his voice was like ice. It felt like nails tearing down her spine.
No.
“I will have the truth of what happened,” the King demanded. It isn’t a demand, more like a simple croak, but they are forced to listen. “Now.”
For the first time in her life, Alicent questioned the authority of the king. Of her husband. Because how could this rotting man command their kingdom? How could he, whose voice barely reached a whisper and whose heart was swayed by his whore of a daughter, be her husband?
“What else is there to hear?” Alicent demanded, and she could feel her voice rising into a shriek. It is unqueenly, unladylike. She doesn't care. “Your daughter has been maimed. Her son is responsible.” To her consternation, decades of etiquette training rebelled against her, forcing her shoulders to slant demurely when addressing her husband.
“It was a regrettable accident,” Viserys deflected, voice a shade too calm. It makes Alicent’s blood shake in her veins. It makes her want to scream.
How dare he. How dare he?
His daughter is maimed. His daughter is silent. His daughter is sitting mere feet away, bloodied with a wound that will derail her life. And yet Aemma’s grandson matters more. Rhaenyra matters more.
“Accident?” Alicent hissed. Her voice is fiercer than their dragon's flames. She feels like a dragon now, ready to roar. Ready to kill. For the first time in her life, she understands. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush,” she continues. “He meant to kill my daughter.”
Your daughter, she wanted to say, but Rhaenyra interrupted her first. For a moment, her hatred surged. She wanted to strangle her childhood friend. She wanted her dead.
“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves,” Rhaenyra objected, trying to display the meager power she possessed. Powers granted at the whims of her father. For all she claimed to stand for her birthright, for all she derided Alicent for her submissive ways, Rhaenyra didn’t seem to realize her wild pride and mischievous nature were only allowed at the mercy of the king. The ignorance was the worst part. Alicent knows Rhaenyra resents her. It is because she never lived her life; ordered by the two most powerful men in the realm to keep their meetings secret, terrified of the punishment she would receive for disobeying.
“Vile insults were levied against them.”
Alicent imagined tearing out that pretty silver hair. She imagined slicing her open until Targaryen blood burns. She looked at her daughter, willing the urge to fade. It doesn’t. It only grows, roaring within her at the sight of the purpling wound.
“What insults?” And instead of fire, her voice was ice cold. Frigid in the way only a furious mother’s could be.
“The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.” Rhaenyra stated, prompting a scoff out of Alicent. Because it was true, she wanted to shout. But if she does, her life is forfeit. Birthing Targaryen children will not change Viserys' favor for Rhaenyra.
“What?” Viserys croaked, eyes wide like he somehow couldn’t believe others could see the obvious truth.
And this is when Alicent feels the stirring of worry, deep in her stomach. Rhaenyra is favored. Favored enough for Alyssa’s comment to put her in harm’s way? Alicent does not know, and it terrifies her.
“She called us bastards,” the older one claimed. Alicent wants to kill him too.
My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons,” Rhaenyra stood tall in her simple shift. She seemed perfectly orderly, Valyrian to the core. Alicent felt like she was unraveling. “Princess Alyssa must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”
The words rang in her ears.
No.
Alicent stared at her childhood friend, the girl she had laughed with, the girl she had raged with, the girl she would have died for. She stares and feels the last ember of affection die. In another life, perhaps her belief in the superiority of men would have assured her, opened her heart once more. There is no such consolation in this life.
Only fear.
“Over an insult?” Alicent demanded, her voice wild. She felt like a beast. She was sure she looked one too.
Hair a cloud of red. Face twisted in a scowl. Candlelight flickering over porcelain skin. Although Alicent had no way to realize it, she did not look like a beast. She looked like a wildfire, a raging goddess. Andal blood, dirty blood, courses through her veins, and yet, for a moment, she looks as inhuman as Valyrians.
The world forgot the House Hightower was First Man before it was ever Andal. Forget that their house has always been rumored to dabble in magic. Forgot that the Hightowers control the Faith, and the the Faith controls Westeros. Forgot that she is made of ancient blood, far older than the Targaryens can dream.
She forgot as well.
“My daughter has lost an eye!” Alicent whirls around, jabbing her finger at her chest, pointing it widely at Alyssa, giving into the animalistic instincts of all humans to be bigger in the face of threats. Dangerous in the face of a predator. “What lord will marry her now?”
Viserys points a crooked finger at his daughter. “You.” Alyssa doesn’t look up. She is completely still. “Tell me, girl. Where did you hear this lie?”
Lie? Alicent wanted to shout? Where is the lie? Instead, she deflected. “The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of cousins. It was nothing.”
Her husband ignores her. He always seems to. “Alyssa… I asked you a question.” Her husband has no right to use their daughter’s name. Not when he was standing against her, shielding her attacker. Her poor daughter. Mayhaps that was what kept her so still, locked inside her own body. The knowledge that her king—her father did not care if she lived or died.
She was of his seed. She had his Valyrian colors. And yet he had never seen her as his daughter.
“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder?” Alicent said spitefully, just to watch Rhaenyra’s minute flinch, the way her eyes darted to the door in a panic. Valyrians were notoriously hard to read, but Alicent had practice. It had all paid off. “The boys’ father? Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”
Her words seemed to reach her husband. He finally turned his gaze to his favored daughter. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”
“Rhaenyra swallowed, and the sound was loud in the silent rooms. Dozens of eyes watched as she twisted the rings on her finger and stumbled over her words. “I-I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”
“Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.” Alicent snipped. Offending the gods, leaving his wretched wife to cuckold him and commit treason. She knew he was a weak man as sword-swallowers were, but where was his pride? His respect? Nay, his sheer loyalty to Westeros, placing a bastard child on the throne?
The answer seems to satisfy Viserys, for all Alicent wants to laugh. Walking? Yes, perhaps on the streets of silk. Or perhaps for her uncle, it wouldn’t surprise Alicent a jot to learn Rhaenyra disrespected Laena Velaryon’s funeral for the chance of cock.
“Alyssa…look at me.” Viserys rasped. Her daughter does not. “Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”
But there was no answer. Alyssa was as still as a corpse. Her chest wasn’t rising. Her eyes were unblinking. For a terrible second, Alicent thought her youngest was dead.
“ALYSSA!” The king roared, because he only saw her silence, not her pain. Alicent rushed forward, shielding her daughter with her own body.
“She is in pain!” Alicent retorted in a voice wild with fury. “Have you noticed not a single movement from your own daughter? That a sound has passed her lips?”
Viserys reeled back, and the courtiers aren’t sure it is at seeing his submissive, obedient wife so vicious, or his newfound knowledge of his daughter's condition.
Alicent continues, her voice growing louder. “She does not breathe! Does not blink! She is dead to the world from her agony! She has no answer that would satisfy you! And your daughter asks her to be tortured!”
“Of course, Alyssa will be allowed the chance to recuperate,” Rhaenyra interrupted. To save face, a snide voice whispers inside Alicent. “All I desire is the knowledge of where your daughter heard these treasonous thoughts.”
And now, the situation grew dangerous. Alicent didn’t care. She was treading dangerous waters. Nay; she was already sinking. She was ready to die. She was eager to die. Anything to finally relive her burden, finally shout the truth in the whore’s face. It was unadvisable. It was idiotic. It might have gotten her killed.
“WE know!” Alicent yelled. “They have brown eyes, not Valyrian violet. They have brown hair, not blonde. They have different noses. They have different mouths. They even have different skin!”
“ALICENT!”
She has gone too far. Alicent realized it now. Her father’s face showed only horror. Courtiers hid their expressions masterfully, behind practiced disapproval. The truth was, Black courtiers believed the king had the power to choose his heir, even if his heir was a bastard. The treason of the crown princess could be excused, for the king favored her. The bastardy of her sons would be ignored because the king named them Velaryon.
The king’s hand raised, and Alicent braced herself for a strike. It would be humiliating for it to be done in front of the twenty or so courtiers and Rhaenyra and Daemon both. Daemon would enjoy it; the daughter of Otto Hightower being smacked for her impudence.
But Viserys doesn’t. Perhaps he is a weak man. Perhaps he realizes the whispers this will start. Or maybe he is just an old man. He rests his body on his cane, leaning heavily. In the silence of the room, his breath comes in rattling drags.
“Watch your tongue, Your Majesty,” Rhaenyra hissed poisonously, her eyes narrowed to slits. “You just committed treason.”
And Alicent trembles at the idea.
She forced her knees to lock, her shoulders to straighten. She tilted her chin into a fixed position. She will show no fear in front of Rhaenyra.
“ENOUGH!”
For the first time in Alicent’s marriage, her husband interceded. He interrupted them both, looking to all the world like the tired old man that he was. His eyes were closed in what must have been exhaustion. And looking at him, Alicent realized something.
He knew.
He knew the truth, knew Rhaenyra’s sons were bastards. He was never blind.
But he was scared for his daughter, for her fate at the hands of perhaps Lord Corlys, or maybe the judgmental eyes of the world. Or perhaps he was scared for Jacaerys, with Aemma’s blood running through his veins.
He knew.
“This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grand sire, your king demands it!”
He never reprimanded her, Alicent realized. She had always wondered the arrogance the princess must have possessed to have three obvious bastard–borne sons. One is terrible enough. Jacaerys, she might have understood. Not being a whore; Alicent would never understand that. But the simple hope that no one would find out her treachery, that her son would be born with her coloring. But he wasn’t. And her father never reprimanded her. And then he hatched a dragon. The next time, she didn’t bother with a Valyrian whore. She simply broke the rules again, for what could touch her?
Alicent had arranged her betrothal tour. Alicent had allowed her to keep her position. Alicent had tried to warn her.
She had been dutiful all her life. She had followed orders and bowed her head. Marriage was supposed to be her reward. This was supposed to be her reward. It felt more like a noose, squeezing until no air was left. She felt adrift. She felt numb. She felt dead.
“That is insufficient,” she bit out because fury is the one thing she can hold. It is fury inspired by love, and it is the most ferocious thing Alicent had ever felt. It compels her to march up to the king, staring directly into his beady eyes the way no queen should. “Alyssa has been damaged, permanently, My King.” Alicent hissed. “‘Good will’ cannot make her whole. It can not fix her marriage prospects, ruined they now are.”
Her daughter could have been a Lannister, with mountains of gold under her feet. A Stark, with hundreds of banners at her beckoning. A Baratheon with the force of storms at her fingers. But now, she would forever be designated some poor banner’s wife. Written from the footnotes of history. Another faceless, nameless woman. Insignificant. Mocked. Under heel.
It made Alicent’s blood rage. She opened her mouth to continue her teraid—she has already pushed the limits she skirted, and the chance to break them was ever so tempting. She wanted to carve out one of the bastards’ eyes. She thinks she will, too.
But her husband's words immobilized her.
He stood, pulling himself to his full height as his hands trembled on his cane. His hand was white, his face long. He was exhausted. He was fed up. And so, he chose the easiest option.
“Very well then. Princess Alyssa and Prince Jacaerys shall marry once they both come of age, finally reuniting the Taragryen family.”
Horror.
No.
Of gods no.
“Husband!” Alicent shouted, barely heard over Rhaenyra’s furious “Father!”
The rooms fill with murmurs—repressed shouts; Daemon: “BROTHER!,” Otto: “My king—”, Corlys: “Baela and Rhaena—”
Did he understand what he was asking? Did he understand he was handing his daughter over to be a hostage?
Did he understand that Jacaerys will never rule?
“My daughter will rule by her nephew’s side as queen,” Viserys continued, ignoring the two women. Ignoring their daughter’s fate as he hands a bastard her hand. Her life is his now. Her punishments are his to deliver. It terrified Alicent, what twisted punishments a bastard could provide. “Anyone who looks upon her damaged face will kneel before her. This is my decree.”
And then her husband smiled; once, tiredly. As if he had truly found the perfect solution.
The noose tightens.
Her heart pounded in her chest, rising to a defending crescendo. It echoed in her ears, making it impossible to hear more. She fought to take in air. She fought to surface.
She was drowning. She was adrift.
She had failed.
Never before did her helplessness destroy her like it did then. Lack of agency over herself was one thing. Lack of agency for her children was separate altogether. She could disagree, hope that he changed his mind. She would. But she couldn't reverse his degree. She was queen, and yet powerless. She was bound. Her husband yanked her around, a collar on his neck. She was a slave to his terrible ways.
She would have to stand by and watch her daughter brutalized.
She clamped her lips shut to avoid screaming.
“Very well,” Alicent spat out. “If, and only if, I gain one of her sons’ eyes in return.”
The room filled with murmuring, the sounds blending into a crescendo, tripping over each other until the words slurred together. A room full of Black courtiers, full of disapproval. Alicent found she couldn’t care.
“My dear wife—” Viserys tries.
“She is your daughter, Viserys,” Alicent interrupts coldly. “Your blood.
“Do not… allow your temper to guide your judgment,” Viserys said, his voice rising as he saw the serious lines of Alicent’s face, her grim, chilling wrath. Alicent’s anger was slow. Cold. She kept it bottled up the way she had learned to do so, taking her displeasure out with petty slights. But it was no less valid. It was no less dangerous. The Taragryens seemed to have forgotten.
“If the King will not seek justice,” Alicent said calmly. “The Queen will. Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Jacaerys Velaryon.”
Aegon’s head snapped in a panic. Jacaerys tripped back, his face white in fear. He let out a shriek, and the sound roused his mother, who stepped forward with blazing fury. Lucerys rushed to shield his brother with his smaller body.
“HOW DA—!” Rhaenyra started, her voice in a shout.
“Alicent!” Viserys bellowed, and for a moment, they were identical in their fury.
The moment passed.
“He can choose which eye to keep,” Alicent spat, “A privilege he did not grant my daughter.”
“You will do no such thing!” Rhaenyra cried, rushing forward, her robes billowing behind her. Her face was gaining an unattractive shade of red. At the sight of his daughter’s anger, the king of Westeros finally acted.
“Stay your hand!” he ordered Criston, who had unsheeted his blade in response to his queen’s demand for an eye. Alicent felt a fierce wave of love for this man. He had listened to her. He followed her. And then the king turned his indigo gaze to his wife. “Alicent, this matter is finished. Your daughter will be queen. Any and all debts have been paid.”
Alicent shook her head widely, trying hard to contain the strangled scream trapped in her throat. “I am her mother,” she said. “I refuse!”
“And I am your king,” Viserys replied. “And their father. Your opinion is irrelevant. The marriage will commence.”
Alicent could see the realization dawn on Rhaenyra, the political gold she cupped in her hands, evident by the way her former friend stepped back. She could gain a valuable hostage, and she would not butcher the chance.
“It would strengthen the house,” the princess interrupted. Jacaerys’s head snapped to his mother, his little mouth falling open in disgust, as if the thought of marrying her maimed daughter was somehow disgusting. “Bridge the divide.”
“Absolutely not—” Alicent tried to cry, tried to speak. But it was no use. She was a bird in a cage, tweeting songs that no one listened to. She was a caged animal, to be seen but never heard. She had no claws, no weapons, no guards beside Criston. And now, she had no voice.
That is when the realization hit. Her opinion didn’t matter. Her thoughts didn’t matter. Her voice didn’t matter. Their daughter didn’t matter. Only Rhaenyra did. And Rhaenyra had said yes.
The king’s voice was calm. “Do you understand?”
The second her eye is slashed out, she remembers.
Overwhelming pain envelops her. Her brain explodes in agony. She’s wailing, but she cannot even recognize it. Warm sticky blood drips down her skin. She presses her face to the sandy ground, screaming. It hurts. It hurts so bad.
Her brain feels like it’s being stabbed with a thousand needles. Her eye is in agony. Nerves served, skin split, and her mind cracked. Memories overwhelm her. She can’t breathe.
HELP
HeLp mE
Ithurts—please,momhelpMOTHER
“I love you Anki.”
Who are you?
MOThEr PLEASE
Shouting, lights, voices. Pain, hands, arms. Her head swims.
She can’t feel her feet lifted off the ground, but she feels the frantic pace. Numbness creeps over her. Her vision swims.
Heartbeat, voices, words.
AEgonITACHI
NARUTO
Sour pain rushes up her throat. Empties. It’s gone now.
HElenA
She drifts.
Blood. Sticky. Warm. Help me Help Me.
HELP ME.
Her toes and fingers tingle.
Sakura.
“Hand on princess,” a voice says.
But that’s wrong. It feels wrong.
Kakashi.
The memories are sliding back into place. Like they’ve always been there.
FatherUchihaTargaryenNewphewsDeath
And they have, haven’t they? Just out of her reach. Forever out of sight.
Death, death, death. Cold. Screams. Numb.
The subconscious knows what the conscious doesn’t.
“Alyssa!” a voice shouts.
“Sasuke,” a voice whispers.
White hair. Pink hair. Bloody hair.
That’s wrong.
Blue eyes.Black eyes.Red eyes.Green eyes.
Sunshine hair. Warm hand reaching out.
Purple eyes.
Mine?
No.
Red eyes. Death. Trapped.
Laughter, grey hair.
Laughter, dragons.
Laughter, home.
Leaves.
Magic.Chakra.
Me.
Sasuke Uchiha stares.
Alyssa Targaryen screams.