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The halls of the Red Keep had felt hushed since her mother had died; lords and ladies quieted their conversation as Rhaenyra walked by, and the servants faded even farther into the background, stopping their work and lowering their heads until she’d passed. She appreciated the gesture, but the silence was becoming oppressive. She was the king’s heir now, the Princess of Dragonstone, and these would be her people. She longed for them to treat her as a ruler-in-waiting, not as a fragile doll that might be broken by a thoughtless word.
Seeing Alicent coming toward her through the corridor, a smile came to her lips. At least Alicent, her oldest and dearest friend, hadn’t changed her manner. She’d held Rhaenyra while she shook with silent tears, and she had understood they were tears of both sadness and anger. She’d taken her hand, and walked with her through the godswood, and told her about how much she had admired Queen Aemma, and how difficult it had been for her when her own mother had died. And that had been it. The matter had been discussed, and the subject was closed, and for that, Rhaenyra was grateful.
But as she drew nearer, she could see that her friend was in turmoil. Nothing an onlooker who didn’t know her well would notice, for her brow was as unwrinkled as ever, her expression untroubled and serene. But for Rhaenyra, the quickness in Alicent’s step and the way her gaze was fixed on some faraway point was a clear sign that her mind was as stormy as the seas off Dragonstone.
Alicent’s smile betrayed nothing as she approached Rhaenyra. “Let us go to your rooms, if we might? I was coming to find you there.” Her voice was steady, but Rhaenyra knew it must be something serious. Something that she did not want to discuss where ears might overhear, or even where a keen observer might notice.
They talked of inconsequential nothings, of new gowns and court rumors, as they headed for Rhaenyra’s chambers. As soon as they’d closed the door behind them, Rhaenyra motioned Alicent to a seat on the soft couch, then sat beside her and took her friend’s hands in hers. “What is it that troubles you?”
A long moment passed before she looked up and met Rhaenyra’s eyes. “You know I went to His Grace after—after, to offer my condolences.”
Rhaenyra nodded, baffled. Why would this upset Alicent? It had been good of her to go to him, for he’d been near out of his mind with grief. He’d hardly spoken to her since her mother’s funeral, and she’d sensed that she reminded him too much of her mother for him to be comfortable in her company. If Alicent had eased his pain where she could not, that was a good thing. “It was a kind gesture.”
“A kind gesture,” repeated Alicent, her voice suddenly hard and sharp. “Do you think it was my kind gesture? It was my father who asked me to go to His Grace.”
“It doesn’t matter. It was kind of you. I’m certain he appreciated your sympathy.”
“It is not only sympathy that my father wants me to give,” said Alicent bitterly. “He wants me to seduce him. To capture his heart so that he will choose me to be his next bride.”
“What?” Rhaenyra’s heart suddenly seemed to beat faster, louder, thudding in her chest with alarm. “That’s ridiculous. You’re my friend. You’re only four months older than I am.”
“Men often take much younger women to wife. But I felt a foolish and awkward girl in his presence.” Delicately, she added, “I don’t think we’d suit each other.”
“Come, Alicent, you don’t need to spare my feelings on his behalf. He’s an old man! You can’t possibly want to—to bed him.” It seemed strange to say those words out loud. It was hard to think of anyone, even her mother, bedding her father. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how babies were made; it was only that bedding was for fair maidens and dashing knights, not for such as her parents.
And it made her feel strange and uncomfortable, thinking of Alicent with her father, and not only because it seemed horrible that anyone could replace her mother. It was the idea of Alicent with her father. Alicent with anyone, really. Raised together, they had always been inseparable, the closest of heart-companions; two vines that encircled the same tree, winding apart but always coming together. They knew each other’s thoughts, and they kept each other’s secrets, and they stood at each other’s side, loyal and true, always.
One day, Rhaenyra knew, Alicent would marry, and leave the Red Keep. It was inevitable, for she was an important noblewoman, the daughter of the Hand of the King, as well as a renowned beauty. Those things mattered more to the men of the world than the bonds between two women. Alicent would marry, and then they would see each other but rarely. She hoped that day would not come for a very long time.
“I do not want to bed him,” said Alicent. “But my father would like his daughter to be a queen, and he would like his grandchildren…” She bit her lip.
Rhaenyra knew exactly what was in the words Alicent couldn’t bring herself to say. “He does not think me a suitable heir.”
“You know that many men of his generation feel that way,” said Alicent, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hands. “You will prove them all wrong.”
“Your faith warms me.”
“It is not faith, but certain knowledge. You will be a good queen, Rhaenyra.” Alicent tilted her head. “Besides, if I’m to seduce someone into making me queen, I would prefer a different Targaryen.”
Rhaenyra laughed. “Surely you don’t have your eye on my uncle! At any rate, he’s been disinherited, though I grant you that he is a handsome rogue.”
Her laugh quieted as Alicent slid closer to her on the couch, and it struck her, suddenly, with the clear sharpness of dragonfire, what Alicent’s light words had meant.
They always knew each other’s thoughts, after all.
Rhaenyra’s heart began to beat faster again, and she was certain Alicent could hear it. For if she knew what Alicent was thinking, Alicent knew what she was thinking.
“Rhaenyra,” whispered Alicent. Her face was very close, and Rhaenyra could feel the soft gust of her breath, smell the mint leaves she chewed to keep her breath sweet.
Rhaenyra turned her head and drew Alicent towards her, and their lips met. This is my first kiss, she thought distantly. She had expected her first kiss to be with the man her parents had chosen to marry her, the scion of some noble house of the Seven Kingdoms. But it was Alicent’s mouth on hers, Alicent’s fingers on her jaw, in her hair.
It was Alicent who unlaced her gown, and pushed it from her shoulders. Alicent’s lips tracing a path down her neck to her collarbone, then back to take her mouth again and press her down into the cushions. The soft, scented cloud of Alicent’s hair falling over her face. This was what she wanted, she realized; this was what she had always yearned for, in a deep place in her heart that she’d never allowed herself to examine too closely.
Wriggling, Rhaenyra slid and turned so that she had Alicent pinned, then pulled at the sleeves of Alicent’s gown to bare her shoulders so she could explore them with her lips. It was intoxicating, like Dornish wine, like flying high over the coast on Syrax and feeling the wind biting at her skin. It was glorious.
She pushed Alicent’s gown down farther, exposing the gentle curve of Alicent’s breasts. When they’d been younger, before their flowerings, they had stood beside each other to compare their progress toward maidenhood. Alicent had been taller, her hips wider, her breasts like apples before Rhaenyra’s had even been the size of duck eggs.
Rhaenyra’s breasts were apples now, and still Alicent’s were larger. They were warm, soft globes that filled Rhaenyra’s cupped hands. She pressed her face between them, into that warm, scented place, and dropped kisses across each breast, eliciting moans from Alicent that sent shivers down her own body.
She lifted her head and looked up. Alicent’s face made her shiver again; her eyes were heavy-lidded and her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was a tangled flame across her bare shoulders. She looked like the women in the paintings that Rhaenyra wasn’t supposed to know about, the ones in the rooms where Daemon stayed when he visited. She remembered what her mother had said about those women. “You look like a whore on the Street of Silk,”she said, drawing one finger down Alicent’s pale skin.
Alicent laughed. “You’ve never been to the Street of Silk.”
“Well, no,” admitted Rhaenyra. “But you’re beautiful! Your skin, and your hair, and—well, everything.” She bent to kiss Alicent again, then flopped down beside her and nuzzled against her ear. “Your seduction of a Targaryen has been a complete success,” she murmured. “I will marry you, and make you queen beside me.”
To her dismay, Alicent stiffened, then abruptly sat up and began to straighten her clothing, pulling up her gown and redoing the laces.
“Wait, Alicent, stop.”
Alicent did not stop. Her face was still flushed, but Rhaenyra could see it was anger and embarrassment that painted her cheeks now.
“Don’t go. I did not mean to offend you.”
“It was a sorry jest,” Alicent muttered. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to put it to rights. “You know it’s not possible. We’ll not talk of it again.”
Rhaenyra pulled Alicent’s hands away from her hair and held them firmly between her own. “It was not a jest. When I am queen, I shall do as I please.”
“Don’t be foolish. The people will never allow it. The small council will never allow it.”
“They said the people would never allow a queen to rule the Seven Kingdoms, when they gave the Iron Throne to my father and not to Princess Rhaenys. Now I am the Princess of Dragonstone, and when my father is gone I will be Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. The nobles have sworn their allegiance to me. Times change, Alicent. People change.”
“They will not accept that much change. They will point out you need an heir—and that will require a husband.”
Rhaenyra shrugged. “Had my father not insisted on naming me heir, my uncle would have succeeded him. I shall name cousin Laenor—no, I shall name Laena my heir.” She smiled at the thought. She would start her own dynasty, a dynasty of women.
“You have it all figured out,” said Alicent. “But you are not queen yet.”
“But I will be,” said Rhaenyra, drawing Alicent close. She lifted a hand and drew it through Alicent’s still-disordered locks; somehow she’d caught her own loose hair between her fingers, and the strands mingled, silver and red, ice and fire. “We will be,” she said, and she kissed Alicent again.