Chapter Text
An unloved child becomes a broken adult.
*
The commotion coming from the Great Hall of High Tide’s Castle draws you out of your rooms in the middle of the night. Much like a shadow or a wraith, you wander the dark corridors. Your bare feet don’t make a sound against the cold, stone floors, though you needn’t have been sneaking – the guests, the knights, the servants; everyone it seems, is drawn to the same spectacle as you, and none too interested in a monster hiding in their midst.
You came here for the funeral of Leana Targaryen, nee Velaryon, out of duty and an unspoken obligation to support your older brother should he find himself mourning her passing. More than half of the realm believed Daemon to be a complete rake; The Rogue Prince - The Lord of Flee Bottom! and thus could not even imagine him affected by something so mundane as a death in childbirth. When his first wife died, he had celebrated, after all. But you’ve met the two daughters that Leana bore into this world, however brief that meeting was, and you know that your brother must have felt something for the woman.
You did not come here for the family drama, though, with each step you take towards the Great Hall, it seems that you can’t escape it. Tonight, something in your gut clenches painfully, reminding you of times full of anxiety and self-destruction. It’s a sinister sensation, buried deep within you, almost unnoticed until your breath hitches suddenly; until fear grasps at your heart and makes it stutter.
“Who had the watch!?” The King’s booming voice makes you flinch and halt in your approach. The large, wooden double door, intricately carved, leads to the hall and the centre of commotion. In the flickering light of the lit torches, the shadows of your family dance.
“The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace.” You hear the knight say.
A shudder of anticipation chases away the last traces of sleep and mixes unpleasantly with the growing anxiety. You pick up on the dangerous concoction of emotions the people around you feel. Some of them are afraid; some are confused and worried, but some – some are excited. Eager to witness the scandal of the royal family. You’ve always been easily influenced by the moods of others, and even though your father thought of it as a talent, to you it has forever remained a detriment; a weakness. You take a deep breath and try to centre yourself against the onslaught of emotions. It’s easy to choke on Visery’s fury, so much more potent for how hard it is to invoke. Daemon, you know how to handle, but your eldest brother giving in to the family’s heritage and losing his nerve is almost unheard of.
When you slip inside the Great Hall, the King is yelling at one of his King's Guards. His face is older than you’ve remembered, fatter and wrinkled, with spots of unhealthy discolouration under his eyes and over his cheekbones. He’s red as a tomato, and as he yells, spit comes flying from his mouth and splatters against the polished armour of the knight.
“You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” Visery’s voice rings through the hushed hall.
“I’m very sorry, Your Grace.”
When you look around the room, it’s clear that the people inside are divided. On one side, as far away from the Queen, are Rhaenyra’s children – Lucerys and Jacaerys are both bloodied and bruised. You haven’t had a chance to meet them yet. The two gorgeous girls behind them, though, you know as your nieces. Baela and Rheana don’t look much better, their nightowns dirtied, their hair in disarray, and their knuckles scratched. All four children look fearfully at the raging King and do their best to stand proud. There’s no adult present to protect them, as both Rhaenyra and Daemon are missing from the scene.
On the other side of the room, next to the fireplace, a Maester is sewing shut an awful-looking wound on the youngest of Viserys’ children. The Queen and her retinue crowd around the distressed child.
Then there’s Viserys – neither on the right, nor left – torn between his children and grandchildren.
“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, Your Grace,” is the verdict of the Maester. Somewhere in the crowd, Aegon lets out a quiet sob and draws the attention of his mother. Queen Alicent is quick to act on her anger.
“Where were you?” She snaps at the cowering boy and slaps him. His pained whimper only serves to fuel her fury. “It was nothing compared to what your brother suffered when you were drowning in your cups, you fool!”
Aegon’s desperation, Aemond’s pain, your niece’s fear – it all mixes in the air around you and messes with your head. A rumble steadily grows within you; the connection you have with your dragon is brimming with fury. You’ve left Kings Landing because you couldn’t stomach the ubiquitous cruelty, and it was at its worst when the children suffered.
You’ve grown enough to know that all your simmering anger, all the violence that threatens to burst out of you, has always been fear turned into self-destructive self-defence. Ever since you’ve run with your dragons to the Stony Shore, you’ve been a different person than what you’ve made the realm believe. Here? Now? All the worst parts of you come back.
“What’s the meaning of this!?” The Lord and the Lady of the High Tide enter the room, drawing everyone’s attention, and the sob Aegon stiffens goes mostly unnoticed. But you’ve seen it, and your stomach churns with unease. It’s harder and harder to keep yourself out of this mess.
At least your aunt has the good sense to get to Baela and Rheana.
Before anyone can start explaining the mess to Lord Velaryon, Rhaenyra bursts into the hall, your other brother following like a faithful dog. Daemon, forever a warrior, is the only one to notice your presence, despite the shadows hiding you from view. His eyes widen in silent panic, and you can almost taste the curse words that must swirl hecticly in his mind. You weren’t invited or expected to attend, you didn’t show up with the rest of the noble guests, but Rhaenys has spotted you from Meleys’ back and smuggled you in, allowed you to see Leana’s body in peace and pay your own, quiet respects away from the pageantry of a funeral.
“Who did this!?”
“He attacked me!”
The children start yelling. Beala, Rhaena, Jacaerys and Lucerys band together to outshout Aemond, who’s pale and shaking and left completely alone in this battle. When you look, you see Aegon trying to melt into the wall, picking his nails in distress. Helaena has merged herself with the crowd and doesn’t look at anyone, dissociating.
“Silence!” Viserys roars over the voices.
You flinch, right hand reaching for the sword you did not bring. Demon notices, of course. He has had his eyes on you ever since your early childhood, watching for your outbursts. There was a time when he had feared you. When you had made every member of the court, your family included, fear you. Daemon has not forgotten that, and although time and distance did wonders for your relationship, you can’t fault him for his caution. You’ve taught him that he needs it when you’re around.
“Aemond,” the King commands - and it is a command of a King, not a question of a concerned father. You move closer to the centre of the room, unnoticed by most, only because everyone’s looking at the young prince. Daemon moves to shadow you. “I’ll have the truth of what happened.”
“Now,” Viserys demands, and you see not an ounce of concern for the child’s well-being. Not a drop of compassion or gentleness. No love. This is the King of the Seven Kingdoms dealing with a lowly subject.
The burning in your stomach turns to pain. The fear turns to fury. Your left leg starts fidgeting, tapping a practised rhythm on the floor.
“What else is there to hear?” The Queen moves to put herself between the King and his son. “Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”
“It was a regrettable accident,” Rhaenyra defends her son, and the Queen’s protests fall on deaf ears. Viserys has only ever loved one child. One wife. And he still raped her at their wedding. And he still pushed for more children. And he still butchered her in her birthing bed. And you’re still angry at how helpless you are in this world, even as a prince.
“The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question,” your niece says, and the room gets colder. Or perhaps you’re the one who feels the chill, the change from a family spat to an outright war. The assembled courtiers turn to look at one another, their faces turned into theatrical, fake outrage, but their eyes gleam with hunger. Here, there are dragons, spilling their own blood. “My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne. This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned, so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”
A part of you realises why exactly Daemon is so whipped for the Crown Princess. She is every inch a dragon, prowling across the hall and facing her father. Not an ounce of hesitation when she looks at her youngest sibling and condemns the eight-year-old boy to torture. The implication of her words isn’t lost on the young prince. Aemond loses what little blood he has, going pale. You can feel the boy’s terror, and it fuels your own fury. It’s so potent that you think you could spit fire. Aegon and Heleana shrink further into themselves. Even the Queen realises the dangerous position her son is in.
“You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?” Viserys looms over his son, voice sharp when he asks his question.
“The insult was a training yard bluster–” the Queen tries, desperate.
“I asked you a question,” Viserys raises his voice, and the boy flinches hard. He must have balls of steel, you think, when you see the boy trying to formulate an answer. He opens his mouth and his lower lip trembles, hands clenched on the armchair, but he still tries to speak. You think you hear something fragile breaking inside your chest, and then there’s nothing but red.
Red, hot, burning fury.
“Speak!” Viserys shouts in his son’s face.
“Fucking hypocrite,” you don’t remember if your voice has ever had so much venom in it. Were you truly a dragon, molten lava would have been dripping from your chin. You take Viserys by surprise – it’s the first time he sees you in years, and you can’t say that you’ve left on good terms. Daemon puts his hand on Dark Sister, ready to get between the two of you if need be.
“Excuse me?” The King rounds on you, and finally, the people in the room realise who exactly has been standing amongst them. They scramble to get away from you. From the beast that you’re going to prove you are.
“You are a fucking hypocrite, Viserys,” you say louder, closing the distance between you two. Even the Kingsguards hesitate before drawing their swords, but Daemon has his other hand on your shoulder. “So many years hearing you talk about the sanctity of a family and the importance of love, and this is how you practice what you preach? Pathetic.”
You spit at his feet. You aim to hurt; you don’t mask your fury. Viserys deserves to take it all.
“You dare to speak to your King in such a way!? I will have you executed,” Viserys threatens, and you show your teeth in a nasty snarl.
You hear Daemon’s curse – your older brother moves to apprehend you, but he’s never been able to best you in combat. Half-human, half-dragon, you move faster than he expects and hit his sword hand hard enough for him to release his weapon. You’re on him in a blink, not giving him a chance to make a sound before you kick his knees and make him kneel. Your right hand crushes his throat, and the other pulls at his hair.
“Daemon!” Rhaenyra’s eyes are so full of fear that you feel like you’re back at home in the Red Keep. Replace Viserys with your grandfather, King Jaehaerys, and Rhaenyra with your father, Baelon, and it would be just like before.
Some of the older Kingsguards probably recognise the scene. How many times have you hurt Daemon when you were younger? How many times did your foolish, big-hearted brother put himself at risk just to mitigate the fallout of your inevitable rage? He’d limp back to his chambers with the rougish half-smile and a joke at the ready, his violet eyes always so soft for you.
Daemon gives only a token effort to struggle in your hold, but you can feel how quick his pulse is. He doesn’t trust you not to take things too far, not truly.
You hate yourself.
You hate what this world made you.
But at the moment, you hate Viserys more.
“Maelkor, stop this nonsense!” Viserys snarls, hackles raised as Daemon struggles to catch another breath against your hold. “Release your brother!”
“Don’t pretend you care about anyone but your precious daughter,” you growl out, “your son has lost an eye, and you look at him as if he were a stranger. Your wife pleads for your love, and you have none. If you can’t treat them well, why have them at all?”
Viserys starts to turn more and more red with each of your words. Daemon’s not far behind him, but his hold on your hands grows weaker.
“And yet you dare to tell me how to treat my family?” You whisper the last part, certain that had you raised your voice, your roar would have shattered the glass. “If Rhaenyra’s all you care about, surely I can kill the rest of them now. Save you the trouble of a messy succession.”
“Oh,” Viserys spits out, mocking and vicious. “So you think you can handle them better than me, is that it? A fucking beast like you, having a family? Being a husband and a father? You’d kill them all in a fit of rage just like this one!”
His words hurt you and hit all the insecurities you have struggled with since childhood. You might be able to jab at Viserys’ weaknesses, but he is your oldest brother. He can hurt you as only family can.
The world narrows down to just the two of you and the ugly, livid hatred between you.
“You wouldn’t know what love is even if it fucked you,” Viserys continues, the same madness that plagues everyone in this cursed family shining in his eyes. “But you already know that, don’t you? That’s why you begged me not to marry you off.”
There’s something menacing in the way Viserys starts to circle you. A dragon, out for blood. All you can do is growl and wait for his attack, your hands busy holding up Daemon. You’ve stopped actively choking him, but he’s not trying to get away from you just yet.
“Fine,” Viserys says loudly, with fake cheerfulness in his manner. “I am a benevolent king. I shall give you a chance to prove yourself.”
Fuck.
“Vise–,” Daemon tries to plead, but ends up coughing. Viserys looks at you, his eyes shining with malice, and then turns to the Queen and her children. They’re all frozen still; they’re all prey, shutting down higher body functions when in the presence of a predator they can’t escape.
Understanding hits you like a wrecking ball – you know what your eldest brother intends to do before he even speaks a word. And oh, how Viserys relishes in the fear he can see in you. You can see it in his vicious smile, the pleasure at finding your weakness, in going for the kill.
“Get the Septon,” the King commands, “my youngest brother shall marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”
You let go of Deamon, too shocked to be able to support his weight. He lands on his ass on the floor and leans against your legs. His neck is already starting to swell, but still, he tries to reach out for Viserys.
“Even a king can’t force a marriage,” you say through clenched teeth, but your voice is weak, and Viserys knows it. He laughs at your struggle.
“Either you marry her and take her children as yours, or I kill them all,” Viserys decides, gesturing to the Kingsguard to surround you and the Hightowers. You barely hear the Hand’s vigorous protests, but all you can do is look at the Queen. “After all, it is just as you’ve said, brother. I only love one child. The rest is redundant.”
The Queen looks as if she’s standing just because there hasn’t yet been a breeze to knock her over.
Her children are equally horrified.
In fact, everyone in the Great Hall is afraid. The emotion is so strong you can’t help but shiver with it; you can’t help but internalise and mix it with your own dread. You know your eyes are wide and half-unseeing; your breath ragged and heavy. Outside, your dragon roars in fury.
Lord Corlys is keeping his wife by his side, forcing her not to intervene in this mess. Despite the shock and fear you can read on the Sea Snake's face, there’s also a gleam of something else there – greed. He won’t be stopping the king from clearing a succession line for his own grandchildren.
“You heard the king! Bring the Septon!” Corlys roars when no one moves to obey Viserys. A servant hurries out, their disappearing footsteps the only sound in the Great Hall.
You lose time trying not to fight the best swordsmen of the realm without any weapon on you. Trying not to let the flames of fear consume you so thoroughly you’ll wake up days later, with the blood of another dozen on your hands. Or perhaps this time, not wake up at all.
Viserys is counting on your anger clouding your judgment. You can tell in the gleeful, vindictive way he looks at you that he knows you’re close to your limit. That you’re one step away from your own destructive brand of madness. And the King seems to be out for blood tonight.
He wants you to try to kill him.
He wants you to burn.
But you’re no longer a young man struggling through puberty. The years in your self-imposed exile have borne fruit – and two can play this game of vengeance.
“Brother–,” Daemon rasps out, breaking the stifling silence, his voice distorted by the bruising. For once, the mask of boredom is shattered, and the real person behind it is exposed. The real Daemon who learned to shield his heart with flamboyance and indifference, the real one who wakes up from nightmares of his family eating itself alive. It’s always jarring to see his fear. “Perhaps we can call it a night and– and talk about this tomorrow?”
“The Prince is right, husband.” The Queen whispers, trying to touch Viserys’ arm. She shouldn’t have done that, you think bitterly, as Vis proves once more that he is of the same blood as you. He slaps her hand away and snarls in her face so suddenly she shrieks and steps away, bumping into her own father.
Lord Hand catches his daughter, but before he can speak, Viserys rounds on them.
“Draft the annulment of our marriage, Otto,” Viserys commands. “Or there’ll be no House Hightower come morning.”
White Colaks obey blindly, holding their swords to the Queen and her children’s throats. Aegon and Helena are weeping, but Aemond – already full of poppy milk – silently stares at Viserys as if he were seeing his father for the first time. The rest of the children have been stealthily whisked from the Great Hall when you weren’t looking. Rhaenys’ doing, you’re sure.
Someone drags a terrified Septon in – the man is young enough to have pimples and can barely form a single sentence. Lord Corlys is a Velaryon of Old Valyria, and though he agreed to allow the Seven to be worshipped on Driftmark, the Faith does not have a strong foothold in his land. Now, the Lord of the High Tide will reap the benefits of his strategy. Were this an older, more powerful priest, then perhaps he would have known to object – to refuse an annulment even at the cost of his life.
Septon Harrin is a coward, and soon, the Queen is a queen no more.
“L-lady A-alicent,” Harrin stutters. “P-please take your place by the groom.”
The lady can’t even stand on her own, and a Kingsguard has to carry her towards you and keep her in place. You haven’t moved an inch and barely noticed the three swords pointed at your back, your heart and your throat. In the Faith of the Seven, marrying at swordpoint is illegal and, therefore, would render any such marriage void. But Viserys knows this, and you know Viserys – he’s too gleeful not to have planned for this.
You know what he’ll say before he says it.
“I-in the name of the Seven, the Moth–”
“No,” Viserys interrupts the Septon, looking straight at you. “He’ll marry her in our tradition.”
Daemon tries to say something again, but all you can think of is the blood rushing in Viserys’ veins. You see yourself tearing his throat out. Killing everyone in this room. Burning them alive. But you hold yourself still; there’s only one way for you to win, even if it’ll be a pyrrhic one.
You don’t want to marry the terrified woman in front of you. Not in the tradition of your House. You don’t want to be responsible for her and her children. But the terrible, monstrous fire inside you doesn’t want to lose to Viserys even more. So, you smile a smile of a dying dragon, knowing you’ll drag your eldest brother into the fires of madness with you.
“Blood of two, joined as one,” you recite in Valyrian and grab Alicent’s cold hand. “Ghostly flame and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness. The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.”
Your words are rushed, but they sound loud and clear in the room. It’s Viserys turn to pale, to stumble back. Just seconds before, he was so sure you’d break out and start a fight. You smile through your fear and finish the vow in Common.
“I am hers, and she is mine,” you say, looking at Alicent with fire in your eyes.
She is the one to make a decision now. No one will force her to say the vows, not the King who’s still in shock, not the Kingsguard, nor the Hand. She is shaking in your grip, but she doesn’t pull her hand back. Instead, she looks at Aemond. The boy is hugging his sister, openly crying, as are his siblings. A White Cloak is keeping watch over them, his sword at Aegon’s throat, near to where a new bruise is forming on his cheek. She looks at her father, and Otto shakes his head, lips pursed in anger. Everyone in the Great Hall is holding their breath, yourself included.
Then.
“I am his, and he is mine.”
*
Viserys has the forethought to faint, and in the commotion, you move before you give yourself a chance to think of killing him for good. A heartbeat late,r and Alicent Hightower is flung across your shoulder, not at all like a bride. She doesn’t even have time to make a sound when you make your way out of the Great Hall.
“Follow,” you bark at her children - your children, now - in Valyrian, hoping that at least in this aspect, their biological father did not fail them. The Kingsguard releases Aegon, and the three follow you with all haste. Their mother doesn’t struggle in your hold, even though it’s not the most comfortable position to be in. Your shoulder must dig painfully into her abdomen, but she doesn’t fight, doesn’t even make a sound and the only reason you know she’s not unconscious is the tension in her whole body.
“Get inside,” you command again, standing in the open doors to the guest chamber Rhaenys found for you. It’s a room far too small to house a family, too small to house a noble of your calibre, either, but the bed will at least fit the children and their mother. You can sleep on the floor.
Aegon pushes his siblings forward and, in a heartbreaking display of bravery and loyalty, places himself in front of them. He wouldn’t be able to do a single thing were you to reach out for Heleana or Aemond, and judging by the desperation in his eyes, he knows it. He knows he can’t win, and yet he still stands his ground.
He could be a good knight.
You can taste the acid of their fear on your tongue. It’s almost too much to bear, almost too much like King’s Landing. The pain in your stomach makes you want to curl up on the floor and weep like a child, but you don’t have the luxury of privacy. Perhaps you never will again, after tonight’s disaster.
You set Alicent on her two feet and take a step back to close the door. You let her see you, the monster that you are. There’s no softness in you that Viserys had taken from your mother, nor handsomeness Daemon had inherited from your father. All you are is an awful exaggeration of what smallfolk think of Targaryens. You are the incarnation of their superstitions -- bulky and muscular, all sharp angles. Your skin isn’t just pale or milky, it’s ghastly white, translucent in certain spots to the point you can see your own blue and red veins. Your eyes are not a pleasant lilac, but blood red. You had heard people say that they glow in the dark, a devil lurking in the shadows. Even your hair adds to your ominous visage, with your long white hair being curly, knotted and matted beyond help. You’ve given up on it years ago, only keeping it in a loose ponytail. You think that there might still be the blood of your recent hunt staining them.
You are far from someone a lady would choose to wed, much less a highborn queen. Yet, she has claimed you as hers in front of your gods. A choice that she’s sure to be reconsidering, now that she’s alone with you. She looks to the only bed in the room, then back to you, then to the bed and then to you again. If a human could shake more, surely it would be called a seizure.
“I will not take that, which is not freely given, wife,” you aim to reassure, but Valyrian has always been harsh on your tongue. You can’t speak it as seductively as Daemon can, nor as scholarly as Viserys. Your throat was not built for speech, but for roars and it seems that all you are good for is making your wife cry.
Alicent flinches at your words. She’s twisting her hands, bending delicate fingers until you hear the faint pop of her bones. She’s trembling, petrified on the spot where you have left her and yet, despite all of that, looking at you.
“Mother doesn’t speak Valyrian,” the girl, squeezed between her brothers, breaks the silence. When you look at her, Heleana seems to be the calmest of you all. The dreamy look on her face is back, but she’s smiling now. Then, you process her words and look back to Alicent.
“You do not?” Alicent hides her expression in her auburn hair. You taste shame and a fair bit of anger, under the generous coat of sour fear.
“Well,” you amend, somehow awkwardly. “I will not– I won’t make you do–” you look at the bed, hoping it will be enough, then clear your suddenly very tight throat. “I will not take that which is not freely given.” Repeating those words in Common is harder; the syllables sound forced, and you can’t quite pronounce them the way they should be. You sound like a foreigner, speaking a second language.
“Oh,” Alicent looks at you then, surprise and relief mixing in the air.
The tension is still thick, though. You don’t know each other and the events of tonight – all of them -- have left you all exposed and hurt. You’re still reeling from Viserys’ jabs, from having Daemon on his knees. It’s too much like your past, and you already know that you won’t be able to sleep. The kids, though, might yet get some respite.
“Get ready to sleep,” you say, nodding at the siblings hidden behind their mother. “You’ll take the bed.”
Alicent seems to be grateful to be given a task to complete. She busies herself with her children, fussing over Aemond and Helena and ordering Aegon to help with their hair. Even though her hands shake, she’s a picture of a doting mother. You haven’t forgotten how she had slapped her eldest son, but whatever anger had moved her to do so is now gone. Replaced by worry and love in equal measure.
You stay by the door, giving your new family space to settle. They sneak fearful glances at you, every now and then, but you avoid eye contact entirely. There’s no need to scare the children more, and you’d do about anything to get rid of the stench of fear that still prickles at your senses.
You reach out with your mind to the familiar warmth of your dragon. The Cannibal has been waiting patiently for your orders – whether to burn Driftmark and everything on it to the ground or to take you and fly away to your sanctuary. His presence in your mind, your heart, and your soul brings you more comfort than anything else in this life. You compared Hannie to the first pumpkin spice latte of the season when you braced yourself for a crazy work schedule. Or to a blanket your mother had knitted for you - imperfect, but every stitch full of love. Or to your cats butting their heads against you and demanding pets when you were feeling down. Brief moments of relief, safety, and happiness. You let yourself lose a couple of minutes to that feeling, using it to anchor yourself.
There is no war in Ba Sing Se, you repeat in your mind to the eternal amusement of your dragon. There is no war in Ba Sing Se.
If there’s one good thing about this world, you think as you look at Alicent tucking her children to bed, there are no therapists to overpay for sanity here. You’ve come here somewhat equipped with various therapeutic tools, but none of them prepared you for body dysmorphia or anger issues the size of an iceberg. Having a name to put down and knowing what your issues are doesn’t exactly give you a leg up on dealing with them.
She hovers by the bed, hands twisting, as she looks at you. You don’t really know what to say. “Sorry for marrying you, it was an impulse decision” doesn’t really sound true. You’re angry about the situation, your fury at Viserys still burns in your blood, and just one glance at Aemond’s maimed face makes you want to break something. Probably a neck or two. But you’re not sorry that you’ve married Alicent, no matter how terrifying the prospect of having people to be responsible for is. No matter that you’re not ready to voice these thoughts.
That, and you want to prove to your older brother that you’d be a better father and husband than he was. The need to prove him right is overwhelming.
How positively Targaryen of you.
“Where–,” she starts, too soft and unsure to be heard properly. “Where are you going to sleep, husband?” She finishes the sentence with more confidence, though you sense how much that bravery took out of her. It’s the first thing she said to you.
“On the floor,” you manage to grunt out. Fuck. You still sound angry; you can’t stop yourself, can you? She flinches back at your tone, and you need to take a deep breath not to drown in her fear. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to sleeping rough.”
Because you’re better with actions than words in this world, even if only by a slim margin, you make your way to your luggage and take your black coat off it. It served you well on your way here from the Stoney Shore, and it will do even better here, in a room warmed by the internal heating of the keep.
“Oh,” she says again, voice like a breath escaping her. “Should I–”
She makes a half-aborted gesture to the spot on the carpet you looked at earlier. Her children, tucked in bed, try very hard to pretend not to listen. Under any other circumstances, you would have found it funny, but all you can think of now is how stressful and traumatising this night is for them. There’s very little space on the bed, and the kids are hogging all of the covers. Alicent is a small woman; she’d be able to squeeze in and claim a little bit of space for herself.
“It’s your decision,” you mutter eventually, heart hammering in your chest. The last time you slept with someone else, you had still been stuck in King’s Landing. It’s been, what, twenty years? She was a whore paid to spy on you, and it all ended in heartbreak and misery.
You throw the coat on the carpet and take another piece of clothing to fold as an impromptu pillow. She’s still making up her mind when you blow the candles out – leaving the shimmering sparkles of a dying fire in the hearth as the only source of light. Taking care not to make any sudden movements, you lie down and simmer in the awkwardness of it all.
What was that saying, from before? A man on a date is afraid of being laughed at, you think, but a woman is afraid of being murdered. If you can barely tolerate the awkwardness of this situation, how much worse is it for Alicent? Is there even anything you can do to make it better?
You’re almost at the point of breaking the silence when Alicent takes a deep breath and, equally slowly lays right next to you. The first thing you notice, apart from her stiffness, is that she’s much colder than you’d expected. You know that Targaryens run hot, that it takes a lot for you to actually feel chilly. But she’s a Hightower, without the fire magic in her blood, and she’s been out of her bed, in her nightgown, for more than an hour now.
You carefully put a spare blanket over her.
It’s terrible, lying shoulder to shoulder, looking at the ceiling and trying to breathe as unobtrusively as you can manage. Even if Alicent is doing the same.
“Wife,” you say hesitantly, after a few minutes when neither of you dared to move. Her breath hitches, and you can hear the kids shifting on the bed. “You have claimed me as yours tonight so,” Gods be good, this is the hardest thing you’ve had to say in years, but there’s a need in you to get it out, to have at least one thing from your past world here, between you, “so if your feet are cold, just put them against my legs.”
(You hear a stifled “what the fuck?” that sounds suspiciously like Aegon and then a yelp when someone moves on the bed.)
Alicent snorts in an unladylike manner and accidentally meets your eyes in the dim room. Her fear, even if just for a moment, is replaced by amused confusion.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you whisper back, already shifting to accommodate her cold feet.
She doesn’t move immediately, as if giving it a thought, but after a moment, you can hear a whispered “why not Ally” and her posture relaxes a bit. She moves her leg,s and soon enough, two icicles are pressed against your calf. You suck in a breath.
“You’re already regretting it, aren’t you?” She asks. You huff in her hair in retaliation and lie.
“No.”
“Even if I do it every night?”
“Even if you do it every night.”
“Do you regret marrying me?”
“No.” You’re sure that’s not a lie.
“Good.”
Alicent spends the night crying, but she doesn’t move her feet.