Echoes of Grace

by Trishtan

Summary:

A mid-level executive wakes up in the body of Queen Alicent Hightower and Westeros is better off for it (or worse, depend on who you're asking).

Notes:

Hey! I have not posted or publish a story in a hot minute. Although I am familiar with A Song of Ice and Fire and it's properties...this is my first time publishing for HOTD. I hope you guys enjoy!!

Chapter 1: Whose Bed is this?

I should have known I wasn't in my own bed when I felt a tiny finger poke my nose. First, I live alone, so the sensation of someone touching me was downright alarming. Second, the room was filled with unfamiliar giggles, a light, airy sound that seemed to bounce off the walls. It wasn’t just one giggle but a chorus of them, blending together in a symphony of mischief. I could practically hear my mother’s voice mocking me for not praying before bed, her words echoing in my mind as if they could ward off whatever was lurking in the darkness. My heart raced, and I couldn't help but call out to God to save me from the demons that surely must be surrounding me. Preparing to make a mad dash out of the room, I opened my eyes wide and flew off the bed. There was a scream, high-pitched and piercing, as something—or someone—crashed to the floor.

 

"Daeron!" shouted a child's voice, clear and sharp. I blinked in the dim light, my eyes slowly adjusting to the scene in front of me. Three children stood at the foot of my bed, their small forms casting long shadows in the early morning light. They were picking up something—another child? All of them had blonde hair, so light it was almost white, catching the first rays of dawn. For a moment, I wondered if I was still dreaming, or if I had somehow stepped into a scene from the Village of the Damned. As my eyes roamed the room, I realized this wasn't my bedroom. This place was vast, almost regal, with high ceilings and antique furnishings that looked like they belonged in a museum or an old, grand estate. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and paintings, each piece telling a story of its own.

 

The children were all facing me now, the littlest one with tears streaming down his chubby cheeks. 

"Mama?" he said, his voice small and trembling as he rubbed his eyes. 

I looked around the room again, desperately searching for the mother he was calling for, because there was no way he was talking to me. 

"We just wanted to surprise you!" shouted the eldest, their voice filled with an innocent excitement that contrasted sharply with my growing panic. Their hair, all shoulder-length, shimmered in the soft light, except for the youngest, who had a wild mess of chin-length curls. They were dressed in nightgowns that looked like they belonged to another era, adding to the surreal quality of the scene in front of me.

 

The second oldest one stepped forward, her eyes wide and sincere, and quickly enveloped me in a hug. Her small hands wrapped around my waist, and she rested her forehead against my stomach with a familiarity that made my heart ache with confusion. 

"Hello, new mama," the child said softly, her voice filled with a strange blend of hope and certainty. 

"Helaena," the eldest one corrected, their tone authoritative and protective. So, this one who clung to me like a lifeline was a girl, Helaena.

 

Before I could respond or make sense of the situation, the door swung open, and two women fluttered in. They were dressed in clothes that looked straight out of a period drama, their skirts rustling as they moved. Both women curtsied deeply, their movements graceful and practiced. "Your Grace, we can return the Princes and the Princess to the nursery," said one of them, her bright red hair peeking out from under her bonnet. 

The other woman gave her a sideways glance before adding, "If it's what you wish." Their words swirled around me, each one more perplexing than the last. Your Grace? Princes and Princess?  

Maybe this was a sick dream, I thought, as I unwound the child’s hand from my waist and sat back down on the bed, my legs feeling weak and unsteady. The two women exchanged pointed looks, their eyes filled with silent questions. "Should we fetch the Maester for you, Your Grace?" asked the redhead, her voice tinged with concern, again receiving a look from the other woman. The little girl next to me gave me a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with trust and affection. She sat down beside me and grabbed my hand. 

 

"It's okay, new mama," she said reassuringly. The other three children, seeing her gesture, came around to the side of the bed and climbed on, their movements quick and coordinated.

The littlest one, his face still tear-stained, beamed up at me with a mixture of hope and fear. "Mama, okay?" he asked, his small voice trembling as he crawled into my lap. I managed to give him a weak smile, my mind reeling with the impossibility of it all. Just as I was about to speak, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and everything went black.

Chapter 2: Fairytales

Summary:

She will like to remind you that she didn't not baptized these children....

It's been a week since I woke up in what feels like medieval England—if England was designed by Satan himself. Instead of modern amenities and comforts, I found myself in a world filled with dark stone walls, flickering candlelight, and the pervasive smell of dampness. The place was called Westeros, a name that sounded straight out of a dark fantasy novel. To make matters worse, I discovered that I was the Queen of this strange land, a role I was woefully unprepared for. And then there was my husband, the King, who looked like he was one sneeze away from dying. The first time I laid eyes on him, his gaunt, sickly appearance sent a scream ripping from my throat. To say he wasn’t pleased with my reaction would be putting it mildly. His expression of hurt and confusion was burned into my memory.

 

After I fainted, I was vaguely aware of being carried back to the bed and surrounded by concerned voices. Someone called a Maester was summoned, and through my hazy consciousness, I could hear him and his assistants discussing my condition. Their voices were calm but their words were alarming. As soon as they started talking about leeches and bloodletting, I knew I had to get up. I forced myself to wake fully, fighting the dizziness. There was no way I was going to let them turn me into a medieval science experiment. The idea of leeches crawling over my skin was too horrifying to contemplate.

 

Besides the barbaric medical practices, I learned some shocking personal details about my new life. Apparently, I was 22 years old and already had four children. Four! The little rascals had been in my room earlier: Aedyn, Allen, Helen, and Darren—at least, those were the names I thought I remembered. They were adorable but exhausting, and their constant questions and demands were overwhelming. The Maesters suggested checking if I was pregnant again, but I flatly refused. I didn’t want any strange man near my private parts, especially not one who was about to put leeches on me.

 

For the rest of the week, I was confined to my room, a grand but stifling chamber with high ceilings and heavy drapes. My only companions were two maids, Ophelia and Talya, who were the only ones allowed in besides the Maester and the King. Ophelia, the redhead, had apparently started a sennight ago, which I learned meant two weeks. She was new and eager to please, her constant chatter a welcome distraction. Talya, on the other hand, had been in my service since I was pregnant with my third child. She was more reserved but incredibly efficient, her calm demeanor a source of comfort in this strange new world.

 

Ophelia relayed the children’s messages, and it seemed that the two youngest, who were four and two years old, were having a particularly hard time. They missed their mother, and their confusion and sadness tugged at my heartstrings. I felt sorry for the poor things, but I wasn’t their mother. My focus was now on understanding this place and figuring out why I was here. The enormity of my situation weighed heavily on my shoulders, and I knew I needed to gather as much information as possible to survive.

 

I requested that Ophelia and Talya bring me books, maps, and whatever else they could get their hands on. I needed to learn everything about this world, from its history and geography to its customs and politics. They returned a little while later, their arms laden with tomes and scrolls. Helping them was Ser Criston Cole, my sworn shield, a figure I had only glimpsed briefly before. He was tall and imposing, his armor gleaming in the daylight. As he placed the books on the table before me, I noticed a look of concern in his eyes. It was clear that he and the previous occupant of my body had a close relationship. I smiled up at him, grateful for his assistance. He returned an awkward smile before bowing and exiting the room to resume his guard duty. 

 

Ophelia and Talya stood aside as I marveled at the collection of books and maps before me. Though I wasn’t an avid reader, my co-worker Sophia had always chided me for it, insisting that in marketing, “the best ideas have already been done.” I opened the first tome, which appeared to be a financial report. The quality of the paper suggested it was recent, but the numbers made my head spin. I set it aside and continued searching for something more comprehensible, finally landing on some history books. 

 

I had always excelled in history back in Secondary School. Opening one of the books, I found a detailed account of the conquest of Westeros by Aegon I Targaryen. One page in, I dropped the book onto my lap in shock. “Dragons?!” I exclaimed. The realization that my husband’s ancestor had conquered this hellscape with dragons was mind-blowing. And he did it alongside his two sister-wives, which was beyond disturbing. I couldn’t fathom looking at either of my brothers and suggesting, “Let’s get married and conquer a continent.” The whole concept felt like something Napoleon would dream up on crack. Yet, here it was, detailed in the history of this twisted world I now found myself navigating.

 

And the kicker was that the family still had dragons! The thought sent a shiver down my spine. The idea of living in a world where dragons were real and still around was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. How could I have possibly ended up here, in a place where myth and reality seemed to blend seamlessly? The more I read, the more surreal it all became. I dismissed Ophelia and Talya, who exchanged a look of concern. Clearly, they sensed that something was off about me, but for now, they followed my orders.

 

I spent the rest of the day on the bed, surrounded by books, scrolls, and tomes. They were scattered around me like a fortress of knowledge, a barrier against the overwhelming strangeness of this new reality. I only stopped reading when Talya brought my noonday meal. The food was an adjustment. I refused to touch the meat; it was tasteless and unappealing. The fruits and pastries, however, were a small comfort. The cheeses were pungent, but after experimenting with different combinations of fruits and breads, I found them tolerable—though definitely not something I would eat by choice.

 

The lack of modern conveniences was another challenge. As the room began to darken, Ophelia and Talya came in to light the candles. The flickering light cast eerie shadows on the walls, reminding me just how far from home I was. No electricity, no air conditioning, no phone. I felt the pang of longing for my phone, the urge to check messages or scroll through social media. If anyone needed proof that cell phones were addicting, I was living it. The absence of that constant connection to the modern world made me feel more isolated than ever.

 

I didn’t remember falling asleep, but, like a repeat of the morning, I found myself being poked in the nose. I opened one eye and was met by a pair of violet eyes staring back at me. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The books I had fallen asleep reading were stacked in a neat pile beside me, evidence of someone’s quiet diligence. The children, whom I had mentally dubbed the "Village of the Damned" kids due to their eerie presence, were gathered around me, watching with curious eyes.

 

The youngest one was sitting on my lap, his wide smile revealing a gap where a tooth had recently been lost. “Mama, okay?” he asked, bouncing on my lap with infectious energy.

His innocent concern tugged at my heart. The other youngest, Allen—I think that was his name—climbed onto the bed, his thumb firmly planted in his mouth and a well-loved doll clutched in his other hand. He snuggled up to me, laying his head on my shoulder without a word, his small form warm and trusting.

 

“Mother, you haven’t visited in a long time,” exclaimed the eldest boy, his voice loud and commanding, making me wince. His serious expression and authoritative tone made it clear that he took his role very seriously.

 

“Where is your nanny?” I asked them, hoping to deflect their attention. It was too early and too soon to be dealing with this. I needed time to think, to process, and to figure out my next move in this bizarre new world. But for now, it seemed I would have to navigate the complexities of motherhood, royal duties, and the ever-present mystery of how and why I was here.

 

"Septa Aggie is old," the girl said matter-of-factly, her small face scrunching up with a mix of concern and frustration. It seemed they would need a new nanny, someone who could actually keep track of all four of these lively children. I watched as Helen, taking my silence as acceptance, clambered onto the bed with a determined look in her eye.

 

“Tell us a story, new mama,” she demanded, her voice carrying a tone of authority that was hard to ignore. The eldest boy stood by, watching me intently with his dark violet eyes, his expression wary as if he expected me to make a wrong move at any moment. The weight of his gaze made me feel like I was being tested, and I knew I had to tread carefully.

 

“I think it’s best for me to find your nanny and for you to return to the nursery,” I suggested, reaching over to gently lift the baby from my lap and placing him on the bed. I hoped that redirecting them would give me a moment of peace to gather my thoughts.

 

“No, mama, I don’t wanna go back to the nursery,” Allen protested, pulling his thumb from his mouth and looking up at me with wide, imploring eyes.

 

“Nobody has told us stories in ages!” Helen complained, her voice rising with frustration. “Old mama told us stories all the time, and now there are no stories—”

 

“And no one came and visited us!” the eldest boy interjected, his voice tinged with bitterness. “They said you were sick and we couldn’t come and see you, but you’re not. That means Father is lying again!”

 

Again? His words hung in the air, loaded with more implications than I could process at that moment. It was clear these children had been through a lot and had learned to rely on their mother as their sole source of comfort and truth. I looked around at their little faces, their expressions a mix of hope and skepticism, and I felt a pang of sympathy.

 

I sighed, realizing that perhaps telling them a story might give me the time I needed to think. Maybe, just maybe, it would provide a brief reprieve for both them and myself. “Okay, I’ll tell you a story,” I agreed, hoping this would buy me some time.

 

Helen’s face lit up with excitement. “Aegon, come on up!” she called, and I realized with a jolt that I had been calling the poor child by the wrong name. Aegon, like the conqueror. How had I missed that? He climbed up onto the bed and took a seat next to Helen, while the baby clambered back onto my lap, his large smile infectious and heartwarming.

 

“I was reading about Aegon the Conqueror—” I began, but Helen cut me off with a loud, impatient shout.

 

“No! We’ve heard that a million times already!” she declared, her voice ringing in my ears.

 

Why are little children so loud? I thought, stifling a laugh. “Okay, you don’t have to shout,” I chuckled, trying to think of something else I could tell them. My mind raced through the few things I had read recently, but nothing seemed appropriate for a bedtime story. Movies, I thought, but quickly dismissed the idea of recounting Saltburn. So, I settled on a certified classic, hoping it would hold their interest.

 

“Once upon a time in a land, well, a land that was far away from a land called Far Far Away, lived an ogre named Shrek….” I began, watching as their eyes widened with curiosity and anticipation. As I continued, I could see them slowly relaxing, their earlier tension melting away. For a moment, at least, we were all transported to a different world, one where the problems of Westeros could be forgotten, even if only for a little while

Notes:

What her ass was seeing when the kids come and wake her up:

remove duplicates from list online
Next Chapter: The Rotting King and his Rotten daughter....

Chapter 3: Glamma

Notes:

This chapter came out differently than I intended. The kids took over again lol.

Discovering I was a mother was one thing, but realizing I was a young mother, especially with Aegon already being eight years old, was quite another shock. Doing the math, it meant I had been pregnant at the tender age of fourteen! The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. But the surprises didn’t stop there. Finding out I had a stepdaughter who was the same age as me was an entirely different matter. Ophelia was relentless in her gossip,she talked about my stepdaughter and my former close bond with her. Rhaeneira—or was it Rhaenys? Maybe Rhaenay? We were supposedly best friends until I married the King, which, considering I was only fourteen, wasn’t exactly my decision.

 

Once I was released from my confinement, I made it a point to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. I spent hours exploring the castle, each corridor and room revealing more about my new life. I had read some unsettling things, including rumors that the castle walls might be home to the remains of the dead. The thought sent shivers down my spine. Maegor, with his extreme passion for architecture, seemed to have taken things a bit too far, leaving behind a legacy that was both fascinating and horrifying. Every time I passed a new section, I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets the walls held.

 

Walking through the castle, I couldn’t help but notice how everyone stopped and either bowed or curtsied as I passed by. At first, it was thrilling, making me feel like I was living in a fairy tale where I was the princess. But then reality set in—I wasn’t just playing royalty; I was royalty. The weight of that realization was heavy. It meant responsibilities, expectations, and a life that was no longer my own. The initial excitement quickly gave way to a sobering understanding of what my new life entailed. It became clear that being royalty wasn't as glamorous as it seemed.

 

The children were frequent visitors, always eager for stories and attention. They were relentless in their pursuit, constantly begging for another tale. The last story I told them was "The Princess and the Frog," the Disney version, but I hadn’t gotten the chance to finish it. Today, I decided to continue the story, so I made my way to the nursery for the first time. As I walked, I realized just how far the nursery was from my chambers—a good five-minute walk. I couldn’t help but think about how the children managed to evade the nanny and whether anyone noticed their little escapades.

 

Behind me, Talya and Ser Criston followed at a respectful distance of two steps. Ophelia, my usual attendant, had her day off. Just yesterday, as she helped me dress, she had spoken at length about her plans for her day off. It sounded delightful, filled with simple pleasures and relaxation, and it made me wonder if queens ever got days off. The thought lingered as we approached the nursery door, the absence of guards catching my attention immediately. The noise coming from inside was equally concerning, a chaotic symphony that didn’t bode well.

 

Ser Criston, sensing my unease, gently pushed past me and opened the door. I watched as his shoulders slumped, a clear sign that whatever was happening inside wasn’t good. I hurried my steps, bracing myself for what I might find. The scene that greeted me was one of utter chaos. I stood there, torn between laughter and tears, unsure how to react to the sight before me. 

 

 

It was utter chaos, like a gas station overrun by crackheads after midnight—the children were behaving wildly. Helaena was standing on the table, her high-pitched screams echoing through the room. When I say screaming, I mean she was letting out ear-piercing shrieks that made me cringe. Meanwhile, Daeron was running around like a little tornado, clutching the Septa’s habit in his hand as she chased after him, looking both exasperated and frantic. He was shirtless for some reason, his little torso bare and gleaming with sweat. In another corner, Aemond was locked in a fierce wrestling match with a brown-haired boy his age, his thumb still planted firmly in his mouth. The Kingsguard, who should have been standing watch outside, was in the thick of it, trying and failing to separate the two pint-sized brawlers. It was quite the spectacle—a man trained in the art of war, reduced to struggling with a pair of stubborn four-year-olds. The sight was almost too ridiculous to believe.

 

Ser Criston, ever the calm in the storm, walked over to the melee. He picked up Aemond effortlessly, causing the boy to pull his thumb from his mouth and stick his tongue out at his opponent in a final act of defiance. Over by the window, Aegon was perched on the sill like a mischievous gargoyle, another brown-haired boy beside him. The two were gleefully tossing random objects out of the window, laughing each time something hit the ground with a satisfying crash. It was clear they were having the time of their lives, utterly oblivious to the chaos around them.

 

But the most astonishing sight in the room was the two baby dragons in the middle of it all, hissing and snapping at each other. One was covered in bright blue scales that shimmered in the light, while the other had dark green scales that looked almost black. They circled each other warily, like two wrestlers sizing each other up before a match. Their tails lashed, and their eyes were locked in a fierce stare-down. It was both mesmerizing and terrifying to watch.

 

Helaena was the first to notice me. She jumped down from the table and ran over, grabbing my hand tightly. “New mama, they are being naughty!” she exclaimed, her face a picture of righteous indignation.

 

“I can see that,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the chaos. Daeron was the next to spot me. He came running over, giggling with delight, the Septa’s habit still clutched in his little hand.

 

“Mama, look!” he shouted, waving the stolen garment like a flag. His enthusiasm was infectious, even in the midst of the pandemonium.

 

I sighed and picked him up, scanning the room as I tried to formulate a plan to restore order. The task seemed monumental. “Aegon, get down from there and take the baby off—Aemond, no, don’t—Ser Criston, can you hold—”

 

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Helaena started screaming again, her earlier indignation forgotten in favor of pure, unbridled vocalization. Daeron, ever the little imp, gave me a toothy grin as he shook the Septa’s habit like a rattle. It was clear that this was going to be a long day.

 

“Aye,” I shouted, making sure to add bass to my voice just like my mom used to when she meant business. The room fell silent almost instantly, every pair of eyes snapping to me, including the beady ones of the two baby dragons. Their hissing stopped as they turned their attention toward me, curiosity and wariness etched in their reptilian gazes. It was as if even they could sense the shift in authority.

 

“Since I have everyone’s attention, here’s what we’re going to do,” I continued, trying to project confidence and control. I passed Daeron over to Talya, who took him with a practiced ease. “You,” I pointed to the guard who was awkwardly holding the older brown-haired boy, “go find some zookeepers for our friends over here.” The guard looked relieved to have a clear directive and quickly nodded before heading off to fulfill the task.

 

In the corner, the Septa was huddled with her head bowed, staring intently at the floor. Her age was painfully evident; Helaena was right, she was far too old to be managing this rambunctious brood. I approached Daeron, who was still clutching the Septa’s habit. “Come on, Daeron, let go,” I coaxed, trying to retrieve it. But Daeron, thinking it was a game, giggled and held on tighter. After a few playful but firm tugs, I finally managed to pull it free from his tiny, strong hands.

 

I walked over to the Septa, who still hadn’t lifted her eyes. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice filled with weariness. I handed her back the habit. “When the keepers come for our scaly friends, please get some maids to clean up this mess,” I instructed gently but firmly. She nodded in understanding, finally raising her eyes briefly to meet mine before returning to her task.

 

“Aegon, get off there and find a shirt for Daeron,” I called out, my patience wearing thin. Aegon was perched on the windowsill, pinching his nose with an exaggerated expression of disgust as he eyed the baby next to him.

 

“Mama!” he shouted back, his voice filled with distress. “Luke shat himself!” 

 

_________

 

The children were now spread across my room like a miniature, unruly court. The two little boys, Jace and Luke, were apparently my step-grandsons. Trying to wrap my head around the family dynamics was exhausting. I wasn’t even going to attempt to pronounce their full names; I figured they wouldn’t be able to either until they were at least ten years old.

 

I sat cross-legged on the floor, my attention fully captured by Daeron and Luke as they played with their toy dragons, swooping and diving over the meticulously crafted wooden replica of the Red Keep. Jace and Aemond, a little way off, were engrossed in their own game with blocks—a medieval version of Jenga, it seemed. Aemond, in his blunt honesty, took the opportunity to inform me that Jace was his nephew and also that Jace was, in his opinion, quite ugly. The candidness of children never failed to amuse me, even in the midst of their imaginative play.

 

Aegon informed me that the two Dragons that hatched belonged to Daeron and Jace respectively. The blue one was Daeron own and the green one, Jace. Aegon had his own dragon, one he claimed a few months ago named Sunfyre. Luke had an egg that didn't hatch as yet and Aemond had none. Something he seemed upset with until I sent him to play with Jace.

 

 

On the divan, Helaena and Talya were nestled together, their bodies huddled over a large tome on insects. It was a charming sight, the two of them so engrossed in their reading. Meanwhile, Aegon sat by the window, his gaze fixed outside with a bored expression. I decided to intervene, getting up from my spot and leaving Daeron and Luke to join him by the window.

 

“Mama, I'm bored,” Aegon complained as I approached, his eyes roaming around the room, observing everyone.

 

I smiled sympathetically. Aegon was almost nine, and with his younger siblings and baby nephews as his only playmates, boredom was inevitable. It was something I needed to rectify soon.

 

“Come, let's play with Daeron and Luke until it's time for the Maester to fetch you,” I suggested, hoping to alleviate his restlessness.

 

After lunch, the inevitable ‘itis’ kicked in. Daeron and Luke were sprawled out on the bed, Helaena nestled between them, their earlier excitement now replaced by post-lunch lethargy. Jace and Aemond, despite their usual claims of mutual dislike, were lying on a blanket on the floor, surprisingly cuddly for two who often clashed. Aegon was shuffled off to his lessons, and I wouldn't be surprised if he dozed off, the warmth of the afternoon sun lulling him into a peaceful nap.

 

I settled onto the divan, a book resting on my lap, the drowsiness of post-lunch setting in. My thoughts began to drift—to my mother and whether she was okay, to my brothers and father, to my staff and even to Worm, my pet fish. I remembered how particular she was about her dinner. My mind even wandered to the guy I had gone on a date with and then ghosted a few weeks ago. I realized I wouldn't be able to apologize to him now, even if I wanted to.

 

It was then that I heard it, faintly at first, like a whisper in the wind, calling my name, “Gr-”

 

“Your Grace,” a voice interrupted, pulling me out of my musings.

 

I blinked, refocusing on the woman standing in front of 

 

“Where are my children?” demanded the woman standing before me. She bore a striking resemblance to the children—Aemond's nose and Daeron's eyes. This must be the illustrious Crown Princess. Her hair was elegantly styled in an updo, secured by a circlet. Despite her beauty, the anger etched on her face gave her a rather unpleasant look.

 

I couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance. Here she was, barging into my room like the police, while I had spent the entire day wiping her children's noses and bottoms, all while keeping them entertained. "They are sleeping, and you are being loud," I replied tersely, standing up and placing the book on the table in front of me.

 

“I went to the nursery and it was empty,” she continued, her voice tinged with worry and frustration.

 

“Yes, because the Septa who minds the children looks like she has been here since the Andals fled Essos,” I retorted, my own frustration bubbling to the surface. Before I could continue, the door opened, and two men entered followed by Ser Criston and Talya. Ser Criston wore a look of concern, adding to my growing irritation. Why was everyone invading my room as if it were a club before midnight?

 

The first man bore a strong resemblance to Lucerys, sharing the same nose shape and the same curl to their hair. He was tall and broad, rushing to Rhaenyra's side. She looked at him and gave a tight smile, relief evident in her eyes. The other man stood slightly behind, his sepia-colored skin contrasting with his lighter blonde locs, almost white. His light purple eyes looked bloodshot, and there were bags under his eyes, indicating a man who had seen the bottom of the barrel more than often.

 

“Your Grace, I'm sorry,” began Criston, but I cut him off, my patience wearing thin.

 

“It's okay,” I interjected, trying to diffuse the tension. “We can't fault them for acting like dolts over the children. I would do the same.” It was a veiled insult, and I was pleased to see that the Princess understood it as such, judging by the glare she shot my way.

 

 

I walked over to where Aemond and Jace slept, finding them fully entangled in each other. Jace held Aemond as one would a stuffed toy, clinging tightly in his sleep. Carefully, I untangled Jace's arms from around Aemond, who groaned softly from the loss of contact.

 

“Jace, can you wake up for me?” I said, gently shaking him awake. One brown eye opened slowly, followed by the other. He sat up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. There was a slight wetness on his left cheek and an indentation from where he had been sleeping on Aemond's arm. I helped him up and walked him over to his mother, who greeted him with a tired but relieved smile.

 

“My baby,” she exclaimed, as if she were reuniting with a child held hostage. I rolled my eyes at her dramatics and made my way back to the bed to pick up Luke.

 

As I lifted him, I caught a whiff and almost gagged. They really needed to potty train this poor baby. I held him at arm's length, but the little thing didn't even stir from his slumber. The man with the locs stepped forward and took Luke from my arms, grimacing at the scent.

 

“Thank you, your grace,” he said, his expression showing both gratitude and discomfort. There was an awkward silence before the Princess turned on her heel, taking Jace's hand firmly in hers. Jace gave me a tired smile and a wave before they exited the room, the male versions of Gretchen Weiners and Karen Smith following behind her.

 

I glanced over at Criston and Talya, giving them a knowing look.

 

“When the children are returned to the nursery, grab Ophelia and some wine. We all need to talk,” I said, my tone firm.

 

 

Notes:

Next Chapter is a kids free chapter but it's still going to be messy, after all our quartet is about get drunk and spill tea.

Chapter 4: The Truth Will Set You Free.....

Notes:

If y'all see I updated the tags because these past few weeks, I have been doing some planning. Further clues to future plot lines will be given in the end notes 😊

The wine sat atop the table, untouched, its deep crimson hue glinting in the flickering candlelight. Beside it, the cheese and fruits Ophelia had fetched from the kitchen lay undisturbed, their once-inviting aromas now mingling with the faint mustiness of the room.

But the real drama wasn’t in the neglected refreshments—it was in the faces of the three people sitting before me. Talya’s expression was a study in contrasts: worry etched in the lines of her forehead, yet there was a spark of curiosity in her eyes, as if she couldn’t help but be intrigued by what might unfold next. Ser Criston was a different story altogether. He looked like a man on the brink of collapse, his nervous energy visible, as if the very air around him might turn solid and suffocate him. His hands trembled slightly as they gripped his glass, and there was a look in his eyes that spoke of a thousand unspoken apologies. And then there was Ophelia, the outlier in this tense tableau. She practically vibrated with excitement, her lips curved in a knowing smile, as if she had been waiting for this confrontation with bated breath. She was the embodiment of someone who had watched the pot boil over and couldn’t wait to see what would spill out.

 

I had thrown them all off-balance with this unexpected demand for answers, but it couldn’t be helped. One of them had the answers I needed, and I wasn’t about to let this moment slip away. 

 

“I—” I started, trying to seize control of the conversation, but Ophelia was quicker.

 

“Yes, the Princes' father is Ser Harwin, and the Princess is actively cuckolding Ser Laenor Velaryon,” she declared with unsettling ease, as though she were commenting on a change in the weather. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, slicing through the tension like a blade. Talya’s eyes flashed with anger as she shot Ophelia a glare that could have curdled milk. But Ophelia merely shrugged, unfazed, and casually poured herself a glass of wine, the liquid splashing softly against the sides of the cup. It was as if she had been carrying this secret like a precious gem, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal it.

 

I opened my mouth to speak again, trying to regain control of the spiraling conversation, but Talya was quick to seize her own opportunity.

 

“Yes, Ser Harwin is married,” Talya continued, her voice lower, tinged with something close to pity, “and he has two daughters—mere babes. Some people say his wife knows.” The words were quieter, more resigned, as if the weight of the truth had finally settled on her shoulders. 

 

It was as if the floodgates had opened, and now there was no stopping the tide of revelations. 

 

I turned to Ser Criston, hoping that he might provide some clarity or, at the very least, rein in the chaos. But he was lost in his own thoughts, staring intently into his wineglass as though it held the meaning of life itself. I cleared my throat, trying to break through his reverie, and his eyes snapped up to meet mine. There was a haunted look in them, one that spoke of secrets too painful to voice.

 

“Anything to add?” I asked, my voice edged with impatience, trying to pierce through the wall of silence he had built around himself. But he merely shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to divulge whatever it was that tormented him.

 

Ophelia, ever the provocateur, wasn’t done yet. She tilted her head, a sly grin creeping onto her face as she spoke. “I mean, Ser Laenor is a sword swallower, so I can't fault her,” she said with a smirk, her words laced with insinuation. 

 

Talya gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her face paled. “I have a distant cousin who is often in the company of men,” she began, her voice trembling with indignation, “and he did not fail his duty in providing legitimate heirs.” 

 

 

"Maybe his wife is smarter than the Princess and found a man who bears a resemblance to her husband," Ophelia quipped, her voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and daring. Her words hung in the air, and I could see the spark of triumph in her eyes as she delivered the blow. Ophelia had a knack for cutting through the niceties and hitting the heart of the matter with a single sentence. She knew the game, and she played it well.

 

Ophelia had a point, one that was impossible to ignore. I didn’t have any issues with the boys; they were only four and two, after all. What harm could they do, with their innocent faces and wide-eyed curiosity? But still, Ophelia’s observation was sharp as a dagger. The Princess couldn’t be entirely blamed for her husband's…predilections, yet surely, she could have at least chosen a lover who bore a passing resemblance to Ser Laenor. The differences between those children and their supposed father were as obvious as the sun and the moon. Even Ray Charles could see that.

 

And then there was the matter of Ser Harwin’s wife. The thought of her simmering rage bubbled to the surface of my mind, and I couldn’t help but imagine her setting him ablaze the next time she laid eyes on him. Westeros was a twisted, patriarchal nightmare, but even here, fathering children with the Crown Princess had to be a grievous offense. Especially when those children bore such an unmistakable resemblance to their true father, a resemblance that was nothing short of a slap in the face.

 

"I mean, it’s treason at this point," Ophelia whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone as if the walls themselves were listening. "Yet everyone pretends it’s not, and we’re all expected to continue the charade as if nothing is amiss." 

 

After a long, pregnant pause, Ophelia broke the silence once more, her tone lighter but no less cutting. "No one has better insights into the Princess than you, Your Grace," she said, her eyes narrowing as they flicked over to Ser Criston, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here. "Except perhaps Ser Criston." Her words were like a needle, carefully pricking at the tension between them, drawing out the discomfort for all to see.

 

Ser Criston’s expression darkened, his anger barely concealed beneath the surface. It was clear that Ophelia’s jabs had hit their mark, and the simmering frustration in his eyes was almost tangible. Tayla, ever the picture of composure, chose to ignore the growing tension, her gaze fixed firmly on her own thoughts. But Ophelia thrived on this kind of friction, poking at Ser Criston like a child tormenting a tethered beast. The dynamic between them was oddly reminiscent of Jace and Aemond. I often caught Ser Criston muttering under his breath whenever Ophelia left the room, his words too low to make out but the bitterness clear.

 

I turned my gaze to Ser Criston, arching an eyebrow in curiosity, my mind racing with questions. "Truly?" I asked, letting the word hang between us, heavy with implication. His reaction would tell me more than any answer he could give.

 

Ser Criston met my gaze, his own eyebrow quirking in response, but his lips remained sealed. The silence between us was thick, charged with unspoken tension. It was clear that there was more to this story than what had been said.

 

“If you all don't realize, I can’t remember anything,” I confessed, my voice tinged with frustration. It wasn’t just that my memory was gone—I was navigating a world I didn’t belong in, a life that felt as foreign as the faces staring back at me. But they didn’t need to know how deep my confusion truly ran. That was my secret to keep.

 

Ser Criston shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed my words. There was something almost haunted in his gaze, a weight that seemed to drag his posture down. “I was her sworn shield before Prince Aemond was born,” he said, his voice a monotone mask for whatever emotions lay beneath. With careful precision, he took a sip of wine, the motion almost ritualistic, as if the drink could wash away the memories he didn’t want to share.

 

Ophelia, never one to let a moment of tension pass without her signature wit, interjected with a smirk that spoke of mischief. “Well, you definitely couldn’t be after you killed Laenor’s beau,” she quipped, her tone light but laced with a hint of malice.

 

Her words landed like a stone in a still pond, rippling through the room. It was official—Ophelia was as messy as they came, the kind of person who thrived on the chaos she created. I couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or impressed by her audacity.

 

Ser Criston’s expression darkened, his features tightening as if he were physically holding back his response. In one fluid motion, he stood, his armor clinking softly with the movement. “Your Grace, I would ask for permission to be dismissed,” he said, the strain in his voice betraying his discomfort. Whatever emotions Ophelia’s barb had stirred, he clearly had no intention of confronting them here.

 

I nodded, silently granting his request. Without another word, he bowed stiffly, shooting one last venomous glare at Ophelia before making his exit. The door closed behind him with a heavy finality.

 

I turned my attention to Ophelia, who simply shrugged, her smirk now a full-blown grin. She was unapologetic, reveling in the turmoil she’d just unleashed. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at her, though a small part of me was amused by her sheer boldness. There was something oddly refreshing about her unfiltered approach to life in the Keep.

 

As the night deepened, our conversation took on a more conspiratorial tone. It became clear that if there was one universal truth in this place, it was that the servants knew everything—every secret, every scandal, every whispered conversation behind closed doors. 

 

Ophelia and Talya, with their unassuming presence, were the keepers of these secrets, their knowledge of the court's dirty laundry both extensive and messy. Take Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws—he was apparently notorious for spreading his seed far and wide. Four maids had been quietly dismissed from the Keep this year alone, all bearing the same telltale signs of his indiscretions. Then there was Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships, whose lack of tact with women was legendary. To hear Ophelia tell it, he had a chronic case of foot-in-mouth disease, completely oblivious to how his words landed. And Lyman Beesbury—well, the man might be old, but he wasn’t blind to his preferences. Blond hair was his weakness, and his obsession with Queen Alysanne, dead for decades, was the stuff of tragic ballads. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around how someone could pine for a woman long since turned to dust. But perhaps the most unsettling rumor was about Maester Orwyle. The whispers claimed he was dabbling in necromancy, raising the dead in the bowels of the Keep.

 

“He is keeping the King alive, so that may have some truth to it,” Tayla muttered, her eyes widening in horror as soon as she realized what she had said. She quickly backtracked, her voice trembling with regret. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

 

I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. The sound felt foreign in the otherwise somber atmosphere of my new reality, but it was exactly what I needed. It was “unqueenly,” or so they say, but after everything that had happened, a genuine laugh was like a breath of fresh air. Ophelia’s and Tayla's gossip had provided a much-needed distraction from the gravity of my situation. Ophelia was adamant that Lorent Marbrand’s eyes lingered on her every time she walked past him, and she was convinced that Ser Rickard Thorne had a healthy dose of fear towards Aemond. 

 

I had to stifle a chuckle at the thought of Aemond’s biting habit. Apparently, he had left quite a few scars on Ser Rickard. It was a troubling trait I knew I’d have to address.Alongside the thumb-sucking, were habits I definitely didn’t want to see persist into his later years, especially not when his adult teeth came in.

 

The next morning, however, my laughter felt like a distant memory. I woke up with my head throbbing as if someone had set it ablaze. The pain was relentless, and my stomach was in knots, leaving me clutching the bedpan with a grimace. I found myself in the midst of a brutal hangover, a sensation all too familiar from my family’s New Year’s parties, where I once again remembered being unceremoniously rolled to my room by my brother.

 

This morning, however, there was no comforting breakfast or pain relief awaiting me. The door to my chambers creaked open, and two unfamiliar faces stepped in. I hadn’t anticipated seeing anyone other than Ophelia and Talya, and it was clear they were likely in no better shape than I was. 

 

With a weary sigh, I instructed the newcomers to prepare a bath, hoping the warm water would soothe my aching body and provide some relief. As I sank into the bath, the hot water enveloped me, easing the tension in my muscles and providing a small measure of comfort. Despite the temporary reprieve, the day ahead promised to be long and demanding, and I braced myself for whatever challenges it might bring.

 

____________

 

I spent the rest of the day confined to my chambers, the walls seeming to close in on me with every passing hour. The children had made their brief appearance, their innocent faces lighting up with hope as they bounded into the room. Yet, their excitement quickly turned to disappointment when I had to send them away, unable to muster the energy to interact with them. Their cries, soft and forlorn, echoed down the corridor. My heart ached hearing Daeron screams. I definitely needed to make it up to them soon.

 

In between bouts of nausea, I painstakingly sifted through the lineage books that lay strewn across my bed. It was intriguing, and somewhat disconcerting, to discover that the Hightowers had a remarkable knack for producing offspring. I found myself staring at the list of siblings, my heart skipping a beat when I saw that I had three older brothers, much like the siblings I had known in my previous life. It was uncanny, almost as if my past life was echoing through the corridors of this new reality.

 

Despite the disorientation and discomfort, I couldn’t help but notice the growing sense of belonging I was starting to feel. The children, though they were a source of concern, had begun to worm their way into my heart. Ophelia and Talya, with their quirks and personalities, had become fixtures in my daily life. Even Ser Criston, though a somewhat imposing figure, had started to grow on me. Yet, a part of me—an aching part—longed for the familiar comforts of my old life. I missed my office, my apartment, and most profoundly, my family. The thought of the real Alicent Hightower, whether she was trapped in my body or had met a tragic end, loomed over me like a dark cloud.

 

If I could somehow return to my previous life, what would become of those I had come to care for here? I found myself wishing I could bring them with me—imagine the children adapting to a world of iPads, Ophelia indulging in the latest celebrity gossip, Talya thriving in academic discussions, and Criston benefiting from some much-needed therapy. The attachment I felt was real and growing stronger each day.

 

It was becoming increasingly clear that Alicent’s life was more complicated than I had initially thought. There were reasons for the people she had allowed into her inner circle, for the relationships she had cultivated. Her isolation was noticeable, especially in the hesitant way Talya interacted with me. Ophelia, who had only known the Queen as I presented myself, seemed to be adjusting to this new dynamic. The need for companionship and understanding was evident, not just for Alicent but for me as well.

 

I found myself yearning for the kind of support that Queen Charlotte had in Bridgerton—a retinue of ladies-in-waiting to provide both company and aid. Why couldn’t I have something similar? Aegon needed friends his own age, and Helaena deserved some companionship too. Perhaps I could ensure that they have pillars of support and love in case I ever return to my real life. 

 

Fueled by a sudden resolve, I threw off the covers and wrapped my night robe around me. . As I opened the door, I was greeted by Ser Criston, his stance rigid and his face etched with concern. His eyes met mine with a mix of caution and curiosity as he took in my disheveled appearance.

 

“Your Grace?” he asked, his voice a careful blend of respect and inquiry.

 

“Go get Talya and Ophelia right now!” I instructed Ser Criston, my tone firm and commanding. “We need to have another discussion, and we need it now.”

 

Ser Criston’s face fell at the mention of Ophelia’s name, but he nodded in acknowledgment and exited the room. I shut the door behind him, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on my shoulders.

 

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door, and I called them in. Talya and Ophelia entered with a nonchalant stride, their expressions betraying no urgency. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as I motioned for them to take their seats. They settled into the chairs with casual ease, and I took a deep breath, preparing to address the pressing issues.

 

“I’ve come to a realization,” I began, trying to maintain a calm demeanor, “that my household is severely understaffed.”

 

Talya’s eyes lit up with an almost relieved satisfaction. “Finally!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat with a sense of victory. It was evident that she had been waiting for this acknowledgment. However, as the others turned to look at her in surprise, she quickly sat back down, her enthusiasm dimming under their scrutiny.

 

I sighed, my patience wearing thin. “In this room, speech is both given and received freely. Please, Talya, express your thoughts openly.”

 

Talya glanced at Ophelia and Criston, gathering her thoughts before speaking. “You’ve been Queen for over eight years, and yet, the only official member of your household is Ser Criston, who is sworn to your service. Ophelia and I are officially part of the King’s Household. We receive our salaries from the King’s treasurer, not from your purse. We function both as your servants and as your companions—”

 

Before she could finish, Ophelia interjected, her tone somewhat mischievous. “I mean, he won’t say it, but I will,” she said, shooting a pointed look at Criston. “He doesn’t have any squires or pages. He has to clean his own armor, and let me tell you, that’s no small feat.”

 

Ophelia’s face reflected her disbelief at the situation as if a knight cleaning his own amour was a foreign concept. Criston’s expression darkened with annoyance. He shot Ophelia a withering look that suggested he was not pleased with the revelation.

 

“I can’t accept squires and pages into my service without your explicit permission, Your Grace,” Criston said, his frustration evident in his voice. It seemed it was something he wanted to approach me about but of course Ophelia beat him to the punch.

 

“Then you have my permission,” I replied, offering him a reassuring smile. It was clear that some changes were overdue.

 

Talya took the opportunity to explain the various positions that needed filling. I was informed that I lacked a treasurer to manage my allowance, chambermaids, ladies-in-waiting, and maids of honor. With Aegon reaching an age where he required companions and needed to be moved out of the nursery.

 

Talya, leveraging her background as the child of a steward, volunteered to find suitable candidates for the open positions. As she and Criston delved into the details of this undertaking, I turned my attention to Ophelia, who wore a thoughtful expression.

 

“I would humbly offer myself as one of your maids of honor,” Ophelia said with a wry smile, “but alas, I am merely the third daughter of a landed knight. However, I was recommended to your service by your Lady Aunt, Marie Marbrand. Perhaps she could suggest some noble families who would be suitable for your court?”

 

I recalled the name from the lineage book. Lady Marbrand was my father’s younger sister.

 

“Do you think it’s wise to bring Lady Marie to court?” Talya chimed in, her voice tinged with concern. “She served as one of Queen Aemma’s ladies but was dismissed rather abruptly. There were rumors that she displeased the Queen.”

 

“I believe it was more about upsetting the King,” added Criston, his tone revealing his opinion. “Ser Rickard has a tendency to gossip, and Lorent Marbrand, her brother, has a significant dislike for her. She’s certainly not in his favor.”

 

Anyone who managed to anger the King was intriguing to me. Since the day I fainted, the King had not inquired about my health or made any effort to visit. The children rarely spoke of him, and the last time Aegon mentioned him, he called him a liar.

 

I really could care less about Emperor Palpatine being upset. After all, I don’t remember anything and what is better support than family, during these trying times?

 

Notes:

Opehlia when Gwayne pulls up:

Dinner:

Otto currently in Oldtown:

Chapter 5: ......but first it will piss you off

Notes:

All I have to say real life and the utter balderdash that was season 2 got to me.

He was doing that thing again. Daeron had developed an odd fascination with putting his hand on the ground and peering between his legs, giggling like it was the funniest thing in the world. At first, it was amusing, but the more I watched, the more something about it scratched at the back of my mind—a faint, nagging itch I couldn’t quite place. It was as though my subconscious was desperately trying to remind me of something important, but it remained frustratingly out of reach.  

 

Hoping to clear my head, I decided to take the children out into the gardens for some fresh air, though it turned out to be an instant regret. Fresh air was apparently a myth in this part of the Keep. The stench that greeted us was indescribable—putrid and overwhelming, like a bizarre mix of manure and rotting vegetation. It seemed to cling to the air, refusing to disperse. The worst part? No one else seemed bothered by it. The children were running around energetically, their laughter ringing out across the garden. Talya sat primly on the ground, entirely unperturbed, while Criston stood at his usual post, the picture of calm. Meanwhile, I felt like I was the only one stuck in some olfactory nightmare. Resigned, I pulled out my handkerchief, pressing it to my nose in a futile attempt to chase away the nausea.  

 

Jace and Aemond darted around the garden, engaged in a chaotic game that seemed to oscillate between catch and running in dizzying circles. Their energy was boundless, their laughter infectious. Helaena sat quietly by the hedge, her gaze intently fixed on the flowers—or perhaps the bees buzzing lazily around them. She had always been drawn to nature, with a fascination for plants and animals that seemed far beyond her years. She frequently asked Talya or me to read her books about them, her eyes lighting up with wonder at every story.  

 

Aegon, ever the quiet one in such settings, sat a few paces from me with a book balanced on his lap. His charcoal-stained fingers worked methodically, sketching something on the pages of his notebook. His drawings were far from refined, but there was undeniable talent there, a raw potential waiting to be nurtured. It was another thing to add to my ever-growing list of responsibilities: find an art tutor for Aegon.  

 

About a week ago, I sent a raven to Lady Marbrand. After that was done,Talya and I began. the slow but necessary process of addressing financial matters. We started with the daunting task of reviewing my assets. It was a tedious endeavor, combing through years of records and meticulously cataloging everything. The list included wedding gifts, birthday gifts—or nameday gifts, as they called them here. Among the items were four bolts of silk, one bolt of Myrish lace, and a small case containing pearls and other precious stones.  

 

Then there were the dower lands, a flock of sheep, and a herd of cows. The livestock, I learned, had been a gift from my paternal uncle, Septon Martyn. He’d even left a note with the animals that read, “To feed your future dragons.”It seemed he had a dry sense of humor, one I couldn’t help but appreciate it.  

 

Speaking of dragons, the Dragonkeepers had sent a formal request for Daeron to visit the dragonpit and bond with his dragon, Tessarion. It appeared Rhaenyra had recently taken Jace to see his dragon, and now it was time for me to do the same with Daeron. Naturally, the other children would accompany us. Aegon, in particular, had been relentless in pestering me about visiting Sunfyre. I also began to wonder if it might be possible to acquire an egg for Helaena and Aemond.

 

Daeron interrupted my thoughts by bending down again, his little frame folding as he pressed his hands to the ground and peered between his legs. He grinned up at me with wide, sparkling eyes.  

 

“Look, Mama,” he chirped, his voice filled with the innocent joy only a child could muster.  

 

Lucerys sat close by, clutching a stuffed horse as though it were a lifeline. His wide, admiring eyes were fixed on Criston—or more accurately, on Criston’s sword. The fascination was so blatant it made Criston visibly uncomfortable. 

 

Helaena rose from her crouched position by the hedge, her hands dirtied from whatever she had been examining. She made her way toward us, clutching something tightly in her small hand. Aegon glanced up from his sketchpad, immediately groaning in exasperation.  

 

“Please don’t let her come near me,” he muttered, the dread in his voice unmistakable.  

 

Helaena had developed a habit of presenting her “discoveries” to her siblings and nephews—usually insects or small creatures she found fascinating. The reactions were a mixed bag: Aegon and Jace were decidedly terrified of creepy crawlies and would scatter at the mere sight of Helaena with a jar or dirt-covered hands. Aemond, on the other hand, was utterly indifferent, often sucking his thumb and wandering off without a second glance. Daeron and Luke, however, showed genuine interest—though for entirely different reasons.  

 

Daeron was at that age where everything, quite literally, went into his mouth. This included moths, spiders, and, to my horror, even cockroaches. The latter had nearly caused me a heart attack. Luke, by contrast, seemed to see himself as a tiny liberator, often releasing Helaena’s captive creatures from their jars. This earned him the title of public enemy number one in her eyes.  

 

“New Mama!” Helaena exclaimed with enthusiasm, holding out her dirt-covered hands.  

 

Her declaration caught me off guard, as it often did these days. Initially, I had dismissed the phrase as a playful quirk, but a few days ago, while soaking in a hot bath, the meaning finally dawned on me. Helaena somehow knew. She knew I wasn’t her mother.  

 

That realization had shaken me. After my bath, I’d summoned her to my chambers, hoping to unravel the mystery. She entered with her usual wide smile, her little feet pattering softly against the floor. Without hesitation, she made a beeline for my bed, throwing herself onto the sheets with a dramatic flourish.  

 

She burrowed under the covers like a mole, completely oblivious to the fact that she hadn’t even removed her shoes. I sighed, biting back a reprimand as I sat on the edge of the bed.  

 

Before I could speak, she beat me to it.  

 

“Are you going to tell me a story, New Mama?” she asked, her voice muffled by the thick duvet she had wrapped herself in.  

 

“You know I can’t tell any new stories without your brothers here,” I replied gently, trying to mask my growing unease.  

 

Her frown was immediate, a pout forming on her little lips as she peeked out from beneath the covers. “But they’re not here,” she protested, her tone laced with indignation.  

 

I chuckled despite myself. “They’re not,” I agreed, “but I have something important to ask you instead.” I reached out to touch her hand, but she flinched, pulling away instinctively.  

 

The movement was subtle, but it struck a nerve. Helaena had always been wary of unexpected touch, preferring to initiate contact on her own terms. It was one of those small things that hinted at a deeper, unspoken trauma. The thought twisted my heart.  

 

“Mama just wants to know why you call me ‘New Mama,’” I said softly, careful not to push too hard.  

 

She regarded me with wide, curious eyes, her head tilting slightly as if I’d asked a ridiculous question. “Because you’re my new mama,” she replied matter-of-factly, her tone as casual as if she were stating the color of the sky. “Can you tell me a story now? I promise I won’t tell Aegon!”  

 

I should have known better than to expect a straightforward answer from a six-year-old. Still, I pressed on.  

 

“Helaena, darling, this is important.”  

 

Her little brow furrowed, and I could tell she was trying to gauge just how serious I was. “Septa Aggie said ‘important’ is a big word,” she finally said. “Like being a proper prince and princess is important. Is it that important?”  

 

“It is, bug,” I replied, using the nickname that always made her smile.  

 

And smile she did, her face lighting up like the sun. “It was a pretty lady,” she said after a moment, her voice thoughtful. “She looked sad, but she said I would have a new mama.”  

 

A chill ran down my spine. I forced myself to keep my tone calm as I asked, “Where did you meet her, Helaena? Mama needs to know because it’s very important.”  

 

Her eyes widened at the urgency in my voice, and for a moment, I feared I’d frightened her. But then she answered with the blunt honesty that only she could.

 

“In my dreams,” she said simply. “Aegon told me it’s silly, but I dream of her. She has hair like me and eyes like mine, and she was so sad.”  

 

My breath caught. My mind raced with questions I couldn’t voice. Dreams? The Targaryens were known for their prophetic dreams. Legend claimed their bloodline had been saved from the Doom of Valyria by a dream. I had always dismissed such tales as embellished history, but hearing this from Helaena, I couldn’t help but wonder. Could it be true?  

 

Could this be a dream?  

 

Before I could spiral further, the bed shifted as Helaena crawled closer, her small hand reaching for mine.  

 

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said softly, her voice tinged with guilt.  

 

I didn’t have the words to respond. Instead, I squeezed her hand, grounding myself in the moment.  

 

I was jolted out of my thoughts by a piercing scream. My head snapped up just in time to see Aegon sprinting across the garden at full speed, his face a mixture of terror and determination. Helaena was hot on his heels, clutching her dirt-covered treasure. Behind them, Daeron trailed, laughing gleefully as if this were all a grand game.  

 

Luke, meanwhile, had abandoned his admiration of Criston’s sword and crawled into Talya’s lap, babbling incoherently as he busied himself with her necklace.  

 

The sun hung high in the sky now, its heat intensifying with every passing moment. Autumn had been unusually warm this year, and the Maesters were predicting it would last at least another two years. The thought of enduring such heat for that long made me long for winter—not that I truly expected the colder months to be much better.  

 

I sighed, preparing to call the children over so we could escape the oppressive sun and head inside for lunch. But before I could, unfamiliar voices broke through the tranquility of the garden.  

 

Talya’s posture stiffened as she gently set Luke aside, rising to her feet. “It’s the King, Your Grace,” she said quietly, her tone a mix of caution and deference.  

The distinct sound of heavy boots and clanking armor filled the air, growing louder with every step. I stood, brushing off my skirts as I gestured for Criston to round up the children.

Aegon, sensing the shift in atmosphere, skidded to a stop, his sudden halt causing Helaena to nearly crash into him. She stumbled but quickly steadied herself, the bug in her hands momentarily forgotten. Daeron, oblivious as always, continued running in carefree circles, his laughter ringing out across the garden.

“Children, compose yourselves,” I called out, though my voice carried a slight tremor. I willed myself to remain calm, even as unease settled in my stomach.

Viserys emerged through the garden archway, his golden crown gleaming in the midday sun. He cut an imposing figure, though the years had taken their toll on him. Despite the warmth of the day, he wore a heavy crimson doublet embroidered with the Targaryen dragon. His flushed face betrayed a mix of exhaustion and indulgence, likely from the wine that often accompanied him.

“My queen,” he greeted, his voice resonating with a practiced authority. The children fell silent, their playful chatter dissolving into an uneasy stillness. Even Daeron paused his antics, wide eyes fixed on the approaching figure.

“I’ve received interesting news from the Dragonkeepers,” Viserys announced, his gaze shifting between me and the children.

My heart tightened. The request about Daeron and Tessarion immediately sprang to mind. Had I overstepped by not consulting him first? My mind raced to craft a response, but before I could speak, Viserys’s stern expression softened unexpectedly.

“They tell me the blue she-dragon has been especially restless lately,” he continued, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Calling out at odd hours.”

He moved closer, reaching down to ruffle Daeron’s silver hair. “They say it’s a sign she’s ready for her rider.”

Daeron, blissfully unaware of the weight of his father’s words, chose that exact moment to bend over again, peering between his legs with an impish grin. His giggles filled the air, his small body shaking with delight at his upside-down view of Viserys.

The King’s hearty laugh boomed across the garden, startling even the birds perched in the hedges. “Already trying to see the world from different angles, are you, my boy?” he said, straightening and turning his attention to me. “I think it’s time you arranged that visit to the dragonpit.”

I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral. “It was something I was getting to—perhaps even arranging for an egg—”

A shrill scream interrupted me, cutting through the air like a blade. My head snapped around just in time to see Aegon leaping backward with a startled yelp, narrowly avoiding a potted plant. His panicked gaze was fixed on the ground where the bug Helaena had dropped now crawled toward him.

Viserys’s laughter only grew louder, his amusement echoing across the garden. “Perhaps we should work on their courage first,” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Though I suppose even dragonriders can have their... particular fears.”

I suppressed a sigh, watching as Helaena carefully scooped up her escaped treasure. Lucerys, still in Talya’s arms, squirmed and reached out toward the bug, his curiosity evident. Some fears, I thought, were natural. Others—like my growing unease about Helaena’s maybe prophetic dreams and the immense responsibility of raising future dragonriders—were fears I would have to face alone.

“I was thinking of getting eggs for Helaena and Aemond as well,” I said cautiously, attempting to steer the conversation back on track.

Viserys waved a hand dismissively, as though shooing away an insect. “The only eggs available are from Syrax, and Rhaenyra will most likely keep them for her future offspring,” he said, his tone carrying an air of finality.

I forced a polite smile, though irritation simmered beneath the surface. I knew he was lying. Ser Criston had already confirmed the existence of two viable eggs from Dreamfyre, with more held in reserve on Dragonstone. Yet Viserys’s transparent favoritism toward Rhaenyra always seemed to overshadow reason .

“I request your presence for dinner tonight,” Viserys continued, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. The statement carried the weight of a royal decree, a reminder of his authority.

My stomach churned at the thought. I wanted nothing more than to decline, to make up some excuse and spare myself the ordeal of an evening in his presence. But before I could respond, I felt a small tug on my skirts.

Daeron stood at my side, his tiny arms stretched upward, his expression sweet and expectant. Without hesitation, I scooped him up, cradling his small frame against me. He nestled into my shoulder, his soft curls brushing against my cheek, grounding me with his innocent warmth.

Viserys’s disapproving gaze fell on us like a shadow. “He’s getting too old to be carried around,” he commented, his voice tinged with that particular tone of paternal authority.

I bit back a retort, adjusting Daeron on my hip as if to shield him from his father’s judgment. “He’s barely two,” I replied evenly, keeping my voice calm despite the sharp edge of irritation rising within me.

“The children are hungry,” I added, my tone clipped as I redirected the focus. “It’s nearly noon. They need to eat.”

Viserys’s expression didn’t waver, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Rhaenyra has a request,” he said, ignoring my attempt to change the subject. “I trust you’ll attend tonight. It would mean a great deal to me,”

 

I hesitated, my grip on Daeron tightening slightly as I weighed his words. The mention of Rhaenyra made my stomach knot. What could she possibly want from me now? She barely acknowledged me, when she picks up the children from “The Queen of Westeros Daycare and Storytelling Center”

If it was important she could have asked. Sending her daddy? I knew it was about to be bs. However, I was curious.

“What kind of request?” I asked, my voice carefully measured, though wariness seeped through in spite of my best efforts.  

 

Viserys’s lips curved into a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something in his gaze—sharp, calculating—that made me feel as though I were a pawn in a game I didn’t fully understand.  

 

“You’ll find out at dinner,” he replied cryptically, his tone carrying a subtle command, as though he believed I had no choice but to comply.  

 

I felt a cold pang of unease settle in my chest. I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, though the weight of the unknown pressed heavily on me. Daeron stirred in my arms, his tiny hand clutching at the fabric of my sleeve, as though sensing my unease. His presence grounding me.

“I’ll consider it,” I said finally, my words hollow but sufficient to placate Viserys. For now, it would have to be enough.  

Viserys gave a curt nod, seemingly satisfied with the outcome. “Good. I’ll expect you then,” he said, turning on his heel without waiting for any further acknowledgment.  

As he walked away, his presence lingering in the garden like a storm cloud, I let out a slow breath. The tension in my shoulders finally began to ease, but the gnawing feeling in my gut remained. Daeron, now half-asleep in my arms, murmured softly.  

“Hungry,” he said, his little voice barely above a whisper.  

I smiled down at him, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Let’s get you something to eat,” I replied, my voice gentle as I kissed the top of his head. 

 

__________

“What do I normally wear to dinner with the King?” I asked Talya, hoping to shift my focus away from the unease still churning within me. She gave me an almost sheepish smile, as though she could sense my discomfort, and walked over to my cupboard.  

 

She opened the doors, pulling out a white silk dress. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light of the room, a stark contrast to the plain, modest dresses I usually wore. It was sleeveless, the cut elegant yet simple, and immediately, I knew exactly what Viserys expected.  

 

“You can’t refuse the King, Your Grace,” Talya said softly, her eyes filled with pity.  

 

I felt a wave of bitterness rise in my throat. I had long since resigned myself to the fact that I was no more than property in Viserys’s eyes. 

 

I could have told him I was ill, but that excuse wouldn’t work—he had seen me up and about with the children.  

 

The children…  

 

I suddenly realized there was another way out. A small flicker of hope ignited within me.  

 

“Are the children awake?” I asked, my voice taking on a new urgency.  

 

“Suppose so,” Talya answered, glancing toward the door. “They tend to take a while to settle.”  

 

“Ask the maids to get them dressed,” I said, my mind already racing with the possibilities.  

 

As Talya left to carry out my request, I hurried to change into one of my usual nightgowns. I slipped on my robe, determined to delay Viserys’s expectations for as long as possible. The thought of him seeing me dressed up in that silk monstrosity made my skin crawl. It was exactly the kind of attire he would have preferred—elegant and submissive. I had no intention of playing into that.  

Viserys definitely wasn't seeing me in the Muumu 1000 AD. Those things kept my grandmother’s bills paid but it also kept her barefoot and pregnant. And that's something I wasn’t trying to be.

I was pulling my robe on when the children burst into the room, their little voices filling the space.  

 

“Mama, are we having dinner with you?” Aemond asked, his tone bright with excitement. This surprised me—Aemond was typically the quiet one, the first to withdraw into himself. But today, he was full of energy, perhaps sensing the importance of the evening.  

 

“I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?” Helaena asked plainly, her usual aloofness replaced with the simple demands of a child eager for a meal.  

 

“Hungry, Mama,” Daeron piped up, running toward me with his arms outstretched.  

 

I lifted him easily, settling him on my hip.  

 

Aegon, who had been standing off to the side, suddenly gave me a solemn look. “We are going to have dinner with the King, aren’t we?”  

 

“Yes,” I said quietly, bracing myself for the inevitable.  

 

Helaena’s face immediately dropped. “I don’t want to,” she said, her little feet stamping the ground in protest. I could see the tantrum brewing in her, and my heart ached. “He smells bad.”  

 

I swallowed a laugh at the truth of her words. Helaena wasn’t wrong—Viserys’s presence always carried an unpleasant odor.  

 

“It’s just for a short time,” I reassured her, hoping to alleviate her discomfort.  

 

“You only call us to have dinner when it’s with Father,” Aegon said, his voice tinged with disappointment. The words carried a deeper meaning, one that cut to the core of our family’s fractured dynamics.  

 

It seemed like this was a tactic they had used before—something they had come to expect.  

 

“Well, then we will start having dinner together without the King tomorrow night,” I promised them, my voice firm.  

 

Aemond and Daeron seemed content with this answer, though Aegon eyed me skeptically, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced.  

 

I adjusted Daeron on my hip, meeting Aegon’s gaze. “You promise?” he pressed, his violet eyes searching my face for any sign of deception.  

 

I could see the doubt in his eyes—the hurt that came from too many empty promises. These children had been let down far too often.  

 

“Cross my heart,” I replied, making the gesture with my free hand. “We’ll make it a regular thing. Just us.”  

 

Helaena was still pouting, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She tugged at the itchy fabric of her dress, her discomfort clear. “Can I wear my other dress?” she asked plaintively, her face scrunched up in annoyance. “This one itches.”  

 

I glanced at her dress and could see it was indeed hastily put on, the seams not quite lining up as they should. Her reluctance was understandable; no child liked to feel uncomfortable, especially when it was something they had no control over. But the reality was that there was no time for changes now.  

 

“No time for changes now, bug,” I said with a soft smile, though I couldn’t hide the slight urgency in my voice. The sound of footsteps drawing closer meant we didn’t have much time. “But tomorrow, you can wear whatever you like to our dinner.”  

 

Helaena’s pout deepened, but her tantrum seemed to be averted for the moment. She tugged at her dress once more but then accepted my words without protest, though her small hands still pulled at the fabric nervously. I watched her for a moment, feeling a pang of sympathy. The weight of being thrust into this new world was heavy for a little one like her.  

 

Before I could say more, a servant appeared at the door, bowing slightly as they delivered their message. “His Grace awaits in his private dining chamber.”  

 

I nodded, feeling my heart sink further at the thought of the evening ahead. I adjusted Daeron on my hip, feeling the familiar weight of him against me, his small form a reassuring presence. The other children followed me closely, and as we made our way down the hallway, I couldn’t help but notice Aegon’s gaze on me. His eyes were filled with suspicion, the kind that only children who had been disappointed too many times could carry. He was still unsure about my promise, and the weight of that uncertainty pressed heavily on me. These children deserved stability, consistency—things I feared they would never find in this castle of secrets and shifting alliances.  

 

The smell hit us before we even reached the dining room. It was the faint yet unmistakable scent of decay—something that had clung to Viserys for years, an odd mix of travel, wine, and illness that seemed to follow him everywhere. Helaena wrinkled her nose beside me, her reaction confirming that I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. Perhaps I wasn’t alone in my perception after all.  

 

Viserys looked up as we entered, his expression flickering with surprise before it was quickly masked with his usual royal demeanor. The intimate table setting, complete with numerous flagons of wine, told me this wasn’t going to be a casual family dinner. This was a scene carefully orchestrated for a specific purpose.  

 

“I thought we might have a family dinner,” I said, keeping my tone steady despite the flutter of anxiety in my stomach. “The children so rarely get to spend time with their father.”  

 

Viserys’s eyes moved from me to the children, assessing them, then back to me. For a moment, I thought he might protest—might dismiss the children so he could enjoy a more private, uninterrupted meal. But then Daeron reached out toward him from my hip, babbling “Papa!” and suddenly the tension seemed to dissipate, if only slightly.  

 

“Of course,” Viserys said, though there was an edge to his voice. “Though I had hoped for a private audience to discuss certain matters.”  

 

I pressed on, determined to make the most of this rare family moment. “We can talk after the children are in bed,” I suggested, already directing the servants to bring additional place settings. “Family should come first, shouldn’t it, Your Grace?”  

 

Viserys’s eyes narrowed slightly, the slightest flicker of annoyance crossing his face. Me: 1, Darth Sidious: 0.

 

“Indeed,” he said, finally relenting, though not without a trace of displeasure. “Though I trust you’ll join me for wine afterward?”  

 

I nodded, fully aware that this was a temporary victory. I had managed to delay the inevitable—though whatever came next, I knew I would face it with the children beside me. Seeing Aegon’s surprised smile as he took his seat made the moment feel worthwhile.  

 

“Can we have stories too?” Aemond asked hopefully as he climbed into his chair, his eyes wide with simple eagerness.

 

“Let’s just start with dinner,” I replied, settling Daeron into his chair. I shot a look at Helaena, who was still staring intently at her father, her mind clearly preoccupied with something else. “One victory at a time.”  

 

Helaena, now seemingly resigned to the discomfort of her itchy dress, was peering at Viserys with an intense curiosity. “The bugs don’t like the smell either,” she declared matter-of-factly, causing Viserys to choke slightly on his wine.  

 

I fought back a smile, feeling a surge of amusement despite the tension in the room. There was something so simple, so pure in Helaena’s honesty. She saw the world with a clear-eyed perspective , unafraid to speak the truth—even when it might be uncomfortable.  

 

Viserys’s face flushed slightly, but he recovered quickly, his gaze moving from Helaena to the rest of the children. I focused on Daeron, helping him with his spoon, my mind shifting gears from my worries to something more immediate and human.  

 

This wasn’t the dinner I had imagined—one filled with calm conversation and familial warmth. But I realized, in that moment, that I had four children around me who needed me, who needed consistency and stability. They were the ones who mattered most, not whatever game that Viserys wanted to play.

 

I glanced at Aegon, who was watching me intently, still unsure of my promises. Helaena’s comment about the bugs had lightened the mood, but I knew that we were all still holding our breath for what would come next.  

 

Now, I just had to survive dinner, get the children to bed, and face whatever the rest of the evening had in store for me.

 

Notes:

Harwin at The Anniversary Debutante Tourney Celebration of Targaryen Greatness or whatever Queen Alicent calls it:

Daemon:

Myles Dondarrion:

Vaemond watching Corlys life fall apart:

Lady Marbrand before she left Ashenmark:

Chapter 6: Dream On

Notes:

I have been sitting on this chapter for a whole month, permission to throw tomatoes.

 

As someone who worked in marketing for many years, I knew how to speak utter bullshit. Most products or services that come onto the market are created with one goal in mind: profit. Companies are driven by their bottom line, which is why some of them are willing to invest millions of dollars into their marketing departments. The success of a product isn’t solely determined by its quality but by how well it's marketed to consumers. For example, a drink that could double as a toilet cleaner can still rake in millions in sales—all because the marketing team convinces the public that it’s the drink of the stars or that it refreshes more than water on a hot day. The illusion of desirability is carefully crafted, making the audience believe they need something they don’t.

 

Beyond that, understanding your demographic is key. A successful marketing campaign hinges on identifying who is most likely to believe in the product’s supposed benefits. Is it exhausted parents seeking convenience? Trend-chasing teenagers? Health-conscious individuals swayed by pseudo-science? Once the target audience is identified, the entire campaign is designed to appeal to their emotions and desires. Advertisements, branding, and messaging are tailored to make them feel like this product is made just for them. If executed well, this strategy leads to increasing sales and a growing market presence.

 

And because of my marketing background, I knew exactly what Viserys was trying to do. He wasn’t just proposing an arrangement; he was selling an idea, trying to repackage a decision to make it palatable. But I wasn’t buying it.

 

---

 

After supper, I put the children to bed, placing a sleeping Daeron in the crib next to Luke, who was drooling all over the stuffed dragon clutched in his hand. His egg rested at his feet, nestled among the blankets. Throughout dinner, Daeron’s exhaustion became apparent, his small body growing heavier as he leaned into me, eyelids fluttering shut. By the time the meal was over, he had fully surrendered to sleep, his breathing soft and steady.

 

Aemond, on the other hand, was less agreeable. He threw a fit over the peas on his plate, furious that they had dared to touch his other food. His expression was one of pure betrayal, as though his meal had personally offended him. Helaena, oblivious to the drama, chattered non-stop, listing all her bugs in alphabetical order, taking great pleasure in naming each one. She rattled off names enthusiastically, with Aemond reluctantly helping her when she reached the letter "D." However, his patience ran out at "G," and he returned to glaring at his peas with renewed resentment.

 

Aegon, ever the opposite, devoured everything on his plate without complaint, his usual carefree demeanor intact—at least until he tried to engage Viserys in conversation. The enthusiasm in his voice dimmed slightly every time his father responded with a half-hearted hum or an almost undignified grunt. The hurt in Aegon’s eyes was subtle, but it was there, a quiet longing for approval that never came.

 

Viserys, meanwhile, looked exhausted, practically inhaling his wine as though it were his only solace.

 

I ate my meal in silence. The food still held no appeal, but hunger dictated that I push through. As the children grew crankier, their exhaustion settling in, I called for Talya so we could take them to the nursery. The sooner they were asleep, the better.

 

---

 

After kissing Daeron’s forehead, I helped Helaena change into her nightgown. Her small hands rubbed at her sleepy eyes as she tried to keep herself awake just a little longer.

 

“I’m so excited for tomorrow, new Mama,” she murmured, her voice drowsy but filled with anticipation. “The sky is going to be so blue.”

 

She yawned as I led her to bed, her steps slow and unsteady with exhaustion. Once she climbed under the covers, I tucked her in just the way she liked—snug and secure, the blankets neatly folded at the edges.

 

“Goodnight, Bug,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead as her eyes fluttered shut, lost to sleep before she could respond.

 

On the boys’ side of the room, Aemond was sprawled awkwardly across the bed, his head dangling over the edge while his feet twisted at odd angles. My mother would have called him a roller—one of those children who never stay in one place for long while sleeping. His tendency to shift and roll in his sleep often left him tangled in his blankets by morning.

 

I carefully lifted him into a proper sleeping position, pulling the covers over him. Almost instinctively, his thumb found its way into his mouth, his expression peaceful. Smiling, I smoothed his hair away from his forehead, taking in the soft curls that framed his face. His hair was longer than his siblings’, curling at the ends with golden tips. It had been a battle the last time his hair needed trimming—one he had no intention of losing again.

 

After tucking him in, I turned to Aegon, who was already lying down, his covers pulled up to his chest. Unlike the others, he wasn’t asleep. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling in contemplation. I sat at the edge of his bed, waiting until he was ready to speak.

 

“I don’t think Father likes me,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

The vulnerability in his words struck me. I had no easy answer. How do you tell a child that the love they crave most might never come?

 

I could have lied, could have told him something simple like, That’s not true; your father loves you. But Aegon was perceptive. He would know the truth before I even spoke it. A hollow reassurance would only make it worse.

 

I sighed, reaching out to brush a strand of silver hair from his forehead. “If the King can’t see how brilliant you are, that’s his loss. You’re easy to love.”

 

He looked up at me then, tears brimming in his eyes, though they did not fall. Instead, he gave me a small, watery smile.

 

“I like this new version of you, Mummy,” he whispered. “You don’t pretend.”

 

The words hit deep, and for a moment, I had no response. My heart ached for the real Alicent—the young girl who had been thrust into this world far too soon, burdened with expectations she never chose. But my heart also ached for Aegon, a child who only wanted to be loved.

 

I brushed my fingers across his cheek, wiping away the lingering dampness. “It’s going to be okay now.”

 

He smiled at that, a small flicker of hope in his eyes.

 

After extinguishing the candles, I stepped outside, closing the door softly behind me. Ser Lorent Marbrand was on guard tonight, offering me a polite bow as I passed. Nearby, Talya stood waiting.

 

“Go to bed,” I told her gently. “I’ll get myself to bed tonight.”

 

She hesitated briefly before curtsying and departing. Ser Criston and Ophelia had taken the night off. Knowing Criston, he was finally allowing himself a well-deserved rest.

 

 

Ser Harrold opened the door, stepping back to let me enter. The heavy oak creaked on its hinges, the sound grating against my nerves. I inhaled sharply and regretted it immediately. The room smelled of stale wine, damp stone, and something faintly metallic—illness, decay. My stomach churned.  

 

The King sat at the long table, hunched over his goblet, his fingers curled loosely around the stem. He looked worse than before, if that was even possible. His skin, waxy and pale, stretched too thin over his bones, and the deep purple bags under his eyes made him look more corpse than king. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was one strong breeze away from toppling over.  

 

I gave him a once-over, analyzing him like a stranger rather than the husband I was supposed to know. 

 

Despite his withering state, he and Daeron shared the same striking purple eyes. Aegon’s and Helaena’s were a lighter shade, almost lilac, while Aemond’s were a sharp, piercing blue. Genetics. That’s what my brain supplied. Targaryen blood, recessive traits, the whole lot of it. But in this world, those eyes weren’t just the result of centuries of inbreeding—they were symbols of something greater, something almost divine.  

 

I took a seat across from him, ignoring the way he studied me like I was something unfamiliar. Because I was, wasn’t I? The real Alicent would have handled this differently—more cautious, more subdued. But I wasn’t her, and playing pretend was getting exhausting.  

 

A heavy silence filled the room, thick and stifling.  

 

“You seem different,” Viserys said finally, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.  

 

I resisted the urge to laugh.  

 

Of course, I seemed different. Because I was different. This wasn’t his dutiful, meek little wife sitting across from him anymore. The girl he had married—the one pushed into this life with no real say, the one who had been taught to obey and endure—was gone. And in her place was me.  

 

I leaned forward slightly, resting my hands on the table. “What does Rhaenyra want?” I asked, cutting straight to the point. My patience was thin, and my tolerance for pointless pleasantries was nonexistent. Whatever game he was playing, I wasn’t interested. I had spent enough of my life bending over backward to keep other people comfortable. That wasn’t happening here.  

 

Viserys exhaled, rubbing his temple with two fingers. “Alicent, you haven’t come to my chambers since your accident,” he murmured, swirling his goblet. “The maids, and especially the Maester, do not have the same healing touch as you.”  

 

I blinked. Was he serious?

 

I stared at him, half-expecting a punchline that never came.  

 

My stomach twisted, but not from nausea this time—from sheer, bone-deep disgust. Was this some weak attempt at seduction? The thought alone made my skin crawl. I had never wanted to be here, never wanted to be tied to this man, and now he had the audacity to act as if my presence was something he longed for?  

 

I nearly sucked my teeth. The old Alicent might have let this slide, might have blushed or ducked her head, but I wasn’t her. I wouldn’t entertain this nonsense.  

 

“If you aren’t going to tell me what Rhaenyra wants,” I said coolly, rising from my seat, “then this can be rescheduled for another time.”  

 

“Alicent,” he said sharply, the weight of his voice halting me mid-step. “Sit down.”  

 

I didn’t want to. Every instinct told me to walk out that door, but I forced myself to lower back into the chair, if only to avoid whatever unnecessary drama would come from outright defying him.  

 

The room was silent again, the tension thick enough to cut with a Valyrian steel blade.  

 

Then, finally, he spoke.  

 

“Rhaenyra wishes for Jace to be betrothed to Helaena.”  

 

For a second, I just stared at him, waiting for him to correct himself. To laugh and say it was some ill-timed joke.  

 

But he didn’t.  

 

The laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. A sharp, incredulous, you’ve got to be kidding me kind of laugh.  

 

He didn’t react.  

 

That was what made it worse. The fact that he wasn’t joking. That he genuinely believed this was a reasonable request.  

 

“You’re serious?” I asked, wiping at the corner of my eye.  

 

Viserys sighed, clearly irritated now. “Rhaenyra hopes to mend the division in our family,” he explained. “To settle any lingering bad blood between you two.”  

 

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “And she sent you as her diplomat?” I arched a brow. “Helaena is six. Jace is four. Jace can barely say his own name without tripping over the syllables, and Helaena—” I shook my head. “Helaena is more interested in naming her pet bugs than betrothals.”  

 

“They are children,” he countered, voice patient but firm. “They will grow. They will change.”  

 

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “They already see each other as family, so the gap is already filled,” I said, standing once more.  

 

At the very least, he could have waited until Helaena was sixteen before throwing this nonsense at her.  

 

This family’s obsession with keeping the bloodline pure had blinded them to the consequences. They didn’t see the pattern. The way their lineage was twisting into something sickly, frail. Viserys’ first wife had lost more babies than anyone could count—partly because she had been too young, but also because their blood was too tightly woven together.  

 

And now, they wanted my daughter to continue that cycle.  

 

No.  

 

No woman deserved that. Least of all Helaena. Childbirth was already a battle, even in a world with modern medicine. Here? It was a war fought between the gods, leeches, and the desperate prayers of Maesters who still thought bleeding people dry was an acceptable cure.  

 

“Alicent, think it over,” Viserys said.  

 

It wasn’t a suggestion.  

 

I turned fully then, leveling him with a slow, deliberate roll of my eyes. Childish? Petty? Maybe. But it was satisfying.  

 

Then, without another word, I turned and walked out of the chamber.  

 

The moment I stepped into the hall, my stomach lurched. A cold sweat prickled across my skin, and I barely made it to the nearest column before doubling over, emptying the contents of my stomach onto the stone floor.  

______

I was trying to keep a pleasant mood, but from the way Aegon kept glancing at me with mild suspicion, I knew I wasn’t succeeding. The expression on his face was too perceptive, too knowing. Damn these kids and their ability to sense when things are off. Still, I couldn’t blame him. My face probably looked as miserable as I felt.

The city was disgusting. The smell alone was a personal affront to my senses, like a challenge from the very gods above to see if I could endure the assault. It reeked of filth, piss, unwashed bodies, and the stale rot of whatever refuse had been left to fester under the sun. I had tried breathing through my mouth, but that only resulted in tasting the air, which was somehow worse. My stomach clenched in protest, but I swallowed down the rising nausea, determined not to humiliate myself in front of half the court.

And the Dragonpit? The Dragonpit was its own special brand of hell. The moment we stepped inside, the scent of sulfur and charred stone hit me like a wall. It was thick, suffocating, clinging to my clothes and hair like an unwanted embrace. Smoke and the earthy musk of dragons filled every breath, layered beneath the sharp, pungent tang of animal waste. If the city was an open-air zoo, then the Dragonpit was the heart of the entire menagerie.

Yet, for all the nausea rolling through my gut, I was starving. The contradiction made no sense. My stomach twisted and churned with sickness, yet my body screamed for food like it was a furnace needing fuel. I had devoured the greasy, over-salted meats I had previously refused to touch, barely stopping to grimace at their texture. Every bite should have been unpalatable, yet I had eaten with a hunger so overwhelming it bordered on primal. It was as if my body was desperately trying to replenish something—something I didn’t even know I was missing.

And then there was Ser Criston.

He was watching me. Not subtly, either. His gaze lingered in a way that made my skin prickle, like he had already pieced together something I hadn’t even considered. There was no open suspicion in his expression, no immediate challenge, but the weight of his stare was enough to put me on edge. He knew something. Or at the very least, he suspected something. And that was dangerous.

He stood at a distance, stationed near Ser Rickard, his arms crossed over his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was something calculated in the way he observed me. Like he was waiting for confirmation of whatever theory had planted itself in his mind.

I tore my attention away from him, forcing my focus back onto the children.

Aemond and Helaena were kneeling beside Daeron, who was giggling uncontrollably at the little dragon in front of him. Tessarion was bouncing around in her cage, her brilliant blue scales shimmering as she flapped her wings. She let out a shriek—a high-pitched, excited sound—and Daeron responded with his own delighted squeal.

“Tessie funny,” he declared, beaming as he clapped his tiny hands together. His entire face was lit with joy, round cheeks flushed pink with excitement.

Aegon, standing next to me, let out a long, theatrical sigh. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed over his chest in impatience.

“Mama, I’m bored. When are we going to see Sunfyre?” he asked, his voice bordering on a whine.

I reached out absentmindedly, passing my fingers through his silver hair in an attempt to soothe his irritation. “As soon as your brother is done,” I murmured, keeping my tone light.

It didn’t take long.

Tessarion and Daeron exhausted each other quickly. The little dragon’s eyes grew heavy, her blinks slow and deliberate as she finally curled into herself, watching us through half-lidded eyes. Even Daeron had begun to droop in my arms, his small fingers curling into the fabric of my gown as he rubbed his face against my shoulder. His body relaxed completely, his weight growing heavier with sleep.

The Dragonkeepers moved efficiently, leading Tessarion away. For a brief moment, all was quiet.

Then, from deep within the tunnels, a sound reverberated through the pit—a deep, rolling roar that sent vibrations through the very stone beneath my feet.

A shiver ran down my spine.

It was the kind of sound that didn’t belong in the world I had come from. Jurassic Park. That’s what it reminded me of. The low, rumbling growl of a predator, something ancient and dangerous. It was a fair comparison—dragons were just fantasy dinosaurs, after all.

A massive, golden-scaled creature emerged from the darkness, its sleek body moving with the effortless grace of something that knew it had nothing to fear. Sunfyre. His scales gleamed in the firelight, the deep gold turning to molten light as he stretched his wings. The undersides flashed bright pink, a stark contrast to the rest of him.

Aegon’s entire demeanor shifted. His earlier boredom vanished, replaced by wide-eyed excitement.

“Mama, meet Sunfyre!” he announced, his voice practically vibrating with pride.

Sunfyre’s golden eyes locked onto him immediately. He tried to move forward, eager, but was held back by the firm hands of the Dragonkeepers.

Aegon, unfazed, strode forward confidently. Sunfyre responded immediately, nudging him with a clear display of affection.

I reminded myself that this was a controlled environment. The Dragonkeepers wouldn’t let anything happen.

And yet—

Something was wrong.

The unease slithered up my spine, coiling around my ribs like a vice. My body went rigid, every instinct screaming at me that something wasn’t right. I shifted Daeron in my arms, my grip tightening just slightly.

Aemond was standing off to the side, deep in conversation with one of the Dragonkeepers. His small hands gestured animatedly, pointing toward Sunfyre as he spoke with sharp, deliberate movements.

But—

Where was Helaena?

I turned sharply, my pulse spiking.

“Helaena?” My voice was calm, but inside, my stomach had begun to twist into knots. “Has anyone seen Helaena?”

The Dragonkeepers exchanged glances, their uncertainty feeding the growing dread inside me.

Aegon frowned, his excitement dimming.

“She was right here,” Aemond said, stepping closer, his voice small but urgent. “I swear she was.”

A sick feeling settled in my gut.

Helaena wouldn’t have just wandered off. She was quiet, always lost in her own thoughts, but she wasn’t reckless.

And yet—

A sudden commotion erupted at the far end of the pit.

Shouts.

Scrambling.

Something massive shifted in the darkness.

And then I saw her.

Helaena stood before a dragon, her tiny hands pressed against its snout.

Dreamfyre.

The massive dragon lowered its head, exhaling softly as Helaena ran her fingers along the deep blue scales. Torchlight flickered across the dragon’s body, revealing a shimmering pattern beneath the dark hues.

She was too close.

A strangled sound escaped my throat. My vision blurred, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.

The weight of Daeron in my arms suddenly felt distant.

Breathe. Just breathe.

My hands were clammy. My knees weak. The walls of the Dragonpit seemed to close in around me—

A firm grip landed on my shoulders.

“Your Grace.”

Criston. His voice was steady, grounding.

I blinked rapidly, forcing air into my lungs.

Helaena was still there, completely at ease.

I swallowed hard.

“Helaena, come here.”

She turned to me, expression unreadable. Then, she stepped away.

“New Mama! Did you see?” she beamed. “Dreamfyre let me touch her.”

I couldn’t speak. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, each frantic beat so forceful that I could feel it in my throat. My lungs ached as I struggled to regulate my breathing, each inhale feeling too sharp, each exhale too shaky. The world around me still felt slightly off-kilter, as if I were standing on unsteady ground, the aftershocks of my panic refusing to settle.

“You scared the life out of me,” I finally managed, my voice raw, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t just a turn of phrase—I genuinely felt like my heart had seized in my chest the moment I saw her standing there, too close, touching something that could have ended her existence in the blink of an eye.

Helaena merely tilted her head at me, her pale brows knitting together in the faintest show of confusion. “But I wasn’t scared,” she said, as if that should be enough to reassure me.

I stared at her, trying to process the sheer innocence of that response. My mind—still wired to the logic of my previous life—wanted to scream. That isn’t the point! You should have been scared! That was a dragon, not a kitten, not a toy! But I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. Helaena’s world didn’t work like mine had. She had been raised around creatures that could snap a person in half with minimal effort. In her mind, there had been no real danger.

Aegon, ever the unpredictable one, reached out and grasped her sleeve, tugging her toward him in an almost absent-minded but protective gesture. “You shouldn’t do that,” he mumbled, eyes downcast. “What if she got mad?”

I could see it—the unspoken worry in his posture, the way his fingers clenched tighter around the fabric before letting go. Aegon might not have always known how to care, but that didn’t mean he didn’t.

Helaena simply smiled, unfazed, her gaze drifting back toward the dragon pit as if she were already mentally cataloging the experience.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, to settle the frantic buzzing in my head. Keep it together. No one here is reacting the way you are. If you break down now, you’ll only draw attention. So, instead, I nodded—once, sharp—toward Criston, acknowledging his presence, acknowledging that he had been the one to pull me back when I’d nearly spiraled.

He was still watching me, his gaze unreadable but present, as though he had taken note of every moment, every faltering breath. I pushed that thought aside.

“We’re going back to the Keep,” I announced, forcing my voice into something steady, something that sounded like control. Even if I had none.

The walk back to the wheelhouse was quiet, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

I couldn’t shake the lingering tension from my body, the way my muscles still coiled tight, braced for a threat that had long passed. It felt like my nerves had been scraped raw, like I was balancing on the edge of something unseen. No matter how many deep breaths I took, the residual panic still clung to me like a second skin.

Helaena, of course, seemed completely unaffected. She sat in the wheelhouse with light effortlessness , her fingers absentmindedly twirling a strand of her hair. She hummed softly to herself, lost in whatever strange, beautiful world existed inside her mind.

I envied her ease.

We returned and the children practically ran out of the wheelhouse into the Keep. Aegon complained about hunger and Aemond voiced the same. Helaena followed behind them yelling about Dreamfyre.

I stepped out of the wheelhouse, holding on to Daeron trying not to jolt him out of his sleep. 

Criston appeared beside me, matching my pace, his presence steady and solid. He hadn’t spoken since pulling me back from my spiral, but I knew he had noticed. He always noticed. He saw things others ignored, whether it was in battle, in court, or in moments like this—where I had nearly lost myself entirely.

It should have unsettled me. It did unsettle me. But there was also something oddly grounding about it, knowing that someone was paying attention.

We had barely crossed the threshold of the Keep when he finally spoke.

“I need to ask you something.”

His voice was quiet, careful.

Something in his tone sent a pulse of apprehension through me, a warning that whatever he was about to say wasn’t something I could brush off.

I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers to my temples, trying to stave off the dull headache forming there. “What is it?”

Daeron’s weight in my arms suddenly felt heavier, as if gravity itself had increased. His small body was still nestled against me, warm and trusting, oblivious to the tension threading through my spine.

Criston hesitated. Just for a moment. But that moment stretched between us, thick and loaded with meaning. Then, finally, he met my gaze, dark eyes sharp, searching.

“Are you with child?”

The question hit me like a physical blow.

I stopped walking.

The air around us seemed to still, thickening with something unspoken, something dangerous.

I turned to face him slowly, my heartbeat thundering against my ribs for an entirely different reason now. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t soften. He was waiting for an answer.

“I—”

The words caught in my throat.

I hadn’t thought about it. Not once. Not even considered it.

But now that the possibility had been spoken aloud, it was all I could think about.

Had I been more tired than usual? Yes, but exhaustion was part of life here. Had I been eating more? Yes, but I had just assumed it was a result of my body adjusting, trying to replenish something lost. The nausea? That could be stress. That could be anything.

But then, why was Criston asking?

He wouldn’t have brought it up without reason. Something in my behavior had made him suspicious. Something I hadn’t even noticed.

Criston didn’t press further, but the silence between us was suffocating.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. The truth was, I didn’t know. And the uncertainty of that—of not having an immediate, logical answer—was terrifying.

Because for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t sure if I could trust what my own body was telling me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Criston realizing that 'Alicent' is taking baths twice a day:

Helaena after her schemes work:

Criston and Alicent in Dorne:

Me (the author) after being veto out of certain storylines:

(My best friend is a hard task master)

Chapter 7: Changes

Notes:

This chapter has been rewritten like ten times. It's not my best but the show had to go on.

 

 

I wasn't ashamed of my past—far from it. However, I refused to return to my old behaviors. Yet it seemed I might be slipping back into my old ways, and these pregnancy hormones weren't helping.

 

After Criston arranged for a midwife to confirm the pregnancy (I still refused to let those leech-loving maesters touch me), I felt constantly on edge. The only person who seemed happy with the news was Viserys. I'm sure he saw it as some sign of his virility or something equally ridiculous. Most of the court looked at me with pity, and my “sweet” stepdaughter regarded me with disgust. I couldn't fault her—it was disgusting.

 

When the initial examination was finished, I quietly asked the midwife if there was any way to terminate the pregnancy. I think she was horrified, but she informed me that I was too far along for any intervention. The baby was near the quickening stage.

 

I had Talya pay her for her silence. I really couldn't let word spread that the queen was willing to kill a royal baby. After the midwife left, I sat on the bed with my head in my hands, wondering what the hell I was going to do. The children who had been thrust upon me were old enough to handle basic tasks like walking and eating solid food. What was I supposed to do with a baby?

 

Then, like a crashing wave on the shore, it hit me—this wasn't my body.

 

The feet, the hands, the fingernails, the hair, the eyes, the nose—none of it belonged to me. Not even the skin was the right color.

 

Like an old friend, that familiar nauseous feeling washed over me, and within seconds I was on my knees, heaving up the hearty breakfast I'd eaten that morning.

 

Wiping the bile from my mouth, I began to sob.

 

I didn't realize I was screaming until I heard the door burst open and the footsteps of at least three people rushing in. I didn't even know when someone lifted me and placed me back on the bed.

 

"I just want to go home," I sobbed.

 

---

 

It took me several days to leave my room. The children were distraught, and I couldn't bring myself to tend to them.

 

Ophelia informed me that Lucerys refused to use the potty unless I was present. It had been an uphill battle teaching him proper toilet habits, and knowing the three stooges—Tweedle-dee, Tweedle-dum, and Tweedle-dumbass—they had undoubtedly set back all my progress.

 

The household had also begun preparations to move Aegon out of the nursery, something he wasn't pleased about. He made his displeasure known to Talya, who had spent my absence caring for the children.

 

Helaena had joined Aegon for dragon lessons, her bond with Dreamfyre growing stronger. However, besides managing Dreamfyre, the dragonkeepers had to manage Helaena herself. They'd caught her multiple times attempting to climb onto the she-dragon. Given the chance, I knew that girl would fly away and never return. Who could blame her?

 

Since the dragon was bonded to her, the eggs were hers as well, which meant Aemond now had an egg—and he refused to put it down. He carried it everywhere, even giving it its own seat at the supper table.

 

Daeron had discovered a new pastime: jumping. Not just bouncing up and down, but launching himself off furniture—tables, beds, and most recently, the stairs. Fortunately, Ser Rickard had been there in time to catch him during his latest aerial adventure.

 

Hearing about the antics of my little troublemakers actually brightened my day. Ophelia and Talya also kept me updated on court gossip, including the celebratory feast Viserys had hosted for the pregnancy—one to which I, the actual carrier of his progeny, hadn't even been invited.

 

They also mentioned that Lord Lyonel's second son had returned to court. Ophelia's friend Liv, who worked in the Tower of the Hand, had overheard that Ser Harwin's wife was deeply unhappy and had even threatened to return to Seagard with her daughters.

 

The Mallisters were one of the most powerful houses in the Riverlands, and apparently the current heir to House Tully had once sought her hand in marriage. He was reportedly incensed by her treatment at Ser Harwin's hands.

 

Eleyna Strong seemed to be struggling, and the petty side of me wanted to write her a letter, inviting her to join my ladies-in-waiting. However, my logical side counseled patience—I should wait for Lady Marbrand's arrival. She would have a better grasp of the current political climate.

 

I didn't have to wait long.

 

---

 

I was still wallowing in bed several days later when Ophelia burst into my chambers in a panic.

 

"Lady Marbrand is about half a day away," she announced, rushing to my bedside and yanking off the covers.

 

I groaned. Couldn't she give me a few more days to wallow in self-pity?

 

I placed my feet on the floor and immediately felt my knees buckle with weakness. Ophelia caught me by the arm and helped me sit back down. I looked down at my stomach—it looked like I'd swallowed a cannonball.

 

"They're bringing water for a bath," Ophelia said.

 

Talya appeared in the doorway, her arms laden with fresh linens and what looked like a small mountain of soap.

 

"My lady," she said gently, setting everything down on the chest at the foot of my bed. "Lady Marbrand's party was spotted from the watchtowers. She'll be here within hours."

 

I nodded weakly, trying to summon the energy to care about appearances. Lady Marbrand had been my lifeline in the letters we'd exchanged—a sharp, politically astute woman who understood the delicate balance of court life. If anyone could help me navigate this mess, it would be her.

 

"Help me up," I said, extending my hand to Ophelia.

 

The bath was a torturous affair. Every movement felt like I was carrying stones instead of a child, and the warm water only made me more aware of how drastically my body had changed. Ophelia and Talya worked efficiently, washing my hair and scrubbing away days of neglect while I stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about the life growing inside me.

 

"The green dress, my lady?" Talya asked, holding up a flowing gown that would accommodate my expanding waistline.

 

"The blue one," I countered. "With the silver embroidery. If I'm going to face Lady Marbrand looking like I've swallowed a boulder, at least I'll do it in style."

 

Ophelia raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She knew me well enough by now to recognize when I was putting on armor, even if that armor happened to be silk and jewels.

 

By the time the horns announced Lady Marbrand's arrival, I was dressed, my hair was arranged in an elaborate braided crown, and I had managed to apply enough rouge to my cheeks to look less like a corpse. The children had been cleaned up and were lined up in the solar, looking like miniature courtiers instead of the wild creatures they'd been in my absence.

 

Aegon stood at attention, his small chest puffed out with importance. Helaena clutched a small wooden dragon carving, her silver-gold hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Aemond still had his dragon egg tucked under one arm, refusing to relinquish it even for formal occasions. And Daeron... well, Daeron was eyeing the windowsill with a calculating look that made me want to move him away from any potential jumping opportunities.

 

"Remember," I told them quietly, "Lady Marbrand is very important. She's here to help us, so please—" I looked directly at Daeron, "—no jumping off furniture."

 

He grinned at me, a mischievous glint in his purple eyes that promised nothing. He stretched out his hand for me to pick him. I did, knowing that this habit would have to stop once I start to get larger.

 

The great doors opened, and Lady Marbrand swept in like a force of nature. She was a woman in her early forties, with golden blonde hair woven in a braid. Her blue eyes, the same shade as Aemond's, scanned the room before landing on me. 

"Your Grace," she said, offering a perfectly calibrated curtsy. Not too deep, not too shallow. 

 

"Aunt Marie," I said, the familiarity slipping out before I could stop it. A genuine smile crossed my face for the first time in days. "Welcome to King's Landing. I trust your journey was... eventful?"

 

A knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Indeed, niece. Though I suspect the real surprises have been unfolding here at court." Her gaze flickered to my midsection, then back to my face with unmistakable concern. "Your letter suggested you needed family support. I can see why."

 

The warmth in her voice made my throat tighten unexpectedly. When was the last time someone had looked at me with genuine care rather than as a stranger who was occupying this body?

 

"Perhaps we might speak privately?" I suggested, gesturing toward the smaller adjoining chamber. "The children have been eager to meet you, but I imagine you'd appreciate some refreshment after your travels."

 

"Of course, Your Grace." She turned to the children, her expression softening slightly. "And what fine young dragons we have here. Prince Aegon, you've grown since I last saw you. And Princess Helaena, what a lovely carving you have there."

 

Helaena mumbled something inaudible and pressed closer to Aegon's side. Helaena tends to be shy around new people but I'm sure in a few days, Lady Marie will see the hellion I have been dealing with. Aemond stepped forward, proudly displaying his egg.

 

"It's going to hatch soon," he announced with the confidence only a child could possess. "And then I'll have a dragon too."

 

"I'm sure you will, young prince," Lady Marbrand said seriously, treating his declaration with the gravity it deserved. "Dragon eggs have a way of knowing when their rider is ready."

 

As we moved to the private chamber, I caught Ophelia's eye, I passed Daeron over to her and nodded toward the children. She understood immediately—keep them occupied and out of trouble while I conducted business.

 

Lady Marbrand settled into her chair with fluid grace, but I could see the intensity in her eyes as she waited for me to speak first. 

 

"I imagine you have questions," I began, pouring wine for both of us despite the early hour. "About... recent developments."

 

"Many questions, dear niece," she replied, her voice softening from its formal tone. "But first, let me say this—you look terrible."

 

I nearly choked on my wine. "Thank you for your honesty."

 

"Someone needs to be honest with you. That husband of yours certainly isn't." Her expression hardened, and I caught a glimpse of the steel that must have made her such an effective lady-in-waiting. "I served Queen Aemma for eight years, Alicent. I watched her struggle through pregnancy after pregnancy, watched her fade a little more each time. And I watched Viserys do nothing but demand she produce him a son."

 

The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. I remembered Talya saying that she left court abruptly . 

 

"He dismissed you," I said quietly.

 

"He dismissed me because I told him exactly what I thought of his treatment of his wife." Her green eyes flashed with old anger. "Because I refused to pretend that what was happening to Aemma was not going to lead to her death.”

 

There was an almost deafening silence.

 

A chill ran down my spine. The parallels were uncomfortably clear—another young wife, another pregnancy, another king who saw women as vessels for his legacy.

 

"And now," she continued, her voice gentling again, "I have my brother's daughter in the same position, writing me letters that sound increasingly desperate. So yes, I have questions. But my first concern is not politics or strategy—it's you."

 

I took a shaky sip of wine, feeling tears prick at my eyes. 

 

"I feel like I'm drowning," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "This pregnancy, this court, these children who aren't mine but somehow are... I don't know how to be what everyone expects me to be."

 

 

Aunt Marie leaned forward, her expression fierce with protective concern. "Then don't be what they expect. Be what you need to be to survive." She paused, studying my face carefully. 

 

My breath caught. How much could I reveal? How much would she believe?

 

"Sometimes I feel like I'm living someone else's life," I said carefully. "Like I'm wearing someone else's skin, making choices that another version of me would never make. Does that sound mad?"

 

"After what I witnessed with Aemma? Nothing sounds mad anymore." Her voice was grim. "The question is: what are you going to do about it? Because sitting in your chambers weeping isn't going to change your circumstances, and it certainly isn't going to protect those children."

 

She was right, and we both knew it. I straightened in my chair, feeling some of my old resolve returning.

 

"I need allies," I said finally. "Real ones. People who understand that sometimes survival requires unconventional strategies. People who will take care of the children if I'm gone,”

 

-or if I return to my life.

 

Lady Marie gave me a sad smile, “Don't speak such nonsense Lissy,” 

The unfamiliar nickname made me smile. 

 

She grabbed my hands, “You will live, you will live to see Aegon have children, and to see Helaena marry and to see Aemond take his flight and to see Daeron lead armies,”

 

I give her a smile but couldn't help but mentally laugh at Daeron leading armies.

 

 

 

Notes:

Daeron:

Rhaenyra and Viserys in S1 eps 8:

Criston anytime he sees Gwayne:

The author these past few weeks:

Me to y'all:

Also guys I have a Tumblr
dedicated to this fic and any future HOTD fics I might write. Send me ask and give a follow. I want to meet y'all!!!

Chapter 8: Foundations

Notes:

I just want to say thank you for 1000 kudos on this fic🎉🎉🎉. I know updates were slow, but as I currently have nothing but time these days, updates should come out everyone 1-2 weeks. Also the chapter count may increase as we go along.

 

The Queen’s solar smells of lavender, ink, and the faint bitter note of my own unease. Between us sits a sweating decanter of Arbor gold — I pretend it soothes my nerves but my stomach has other plans these days. A dish of sugared almonds, a tray of cheese-stuffed dates — little luxuries scattered across scrolls waiting to be signed.

 

It’s well past midnight, and my back aches in places no maester’s potion can reach. Deep beneath my ribs, the child stirs — a small, warm reminder that the thing I fear most is the very thing growing inside me. The first time I felt the stir was two days ago. I thought it was gas and ordered Talya to get me some tea. It did not subside. However, reading the Midwife accounts, made me realize that it's the baby moving. I didn’t feel the sensation for the rest of the day. However the next day, there were no movements. Today however, nonestop.

 

I rest my hand over the swell that only I can feel for now. Stay with me. Come gently. Be a girl, please. 

___________

 

Marie Marbrand — my aunt by blood and a stranger by choice — breaks the hush first.

 

"Lord Beesbury’s doublet looked like it died twice before he wore it," she says, flicking an almond into her mouth like she’s making some grand sacrifice. "If that’s the state of our court’s fashion, the dragons should fly off in shame."

 

Ophelia nearly snorts her wine all over Talya’s neat parchment "I swear it walked into the chamber by itself. Probably wearing him for warmth."

 

Criston sits by the window, arms folded like a knight carved from salt and silence. He sighs without sighing — a talent he’s perfected after too many nights like this.

 

Talya’s mouth twitches behind her cup. "Maybe he’s hiding secret orders in there. Or whole pies."

 

"If he is, he’s selfish not to share," I mutter. The baby pushes against my ribs in gentle protest — no pie for you yet, then. Fine.

 

"Enough about Beesbury’s shambling wardrobe," I say, tapping the tablet. "Let’s discuss something more dignified. Like the embarrassing state of my household."

 

Ophelia lounges back, wine balanced on her knee. "Your entire court could fit in the royal linen closet. With room for spare sheets."

 

"Don’t remind me," I groan. "Eight years as Queen and I have fewer loyal ladies than the stable boys have horses. And the horses gossip less."

 

Even Rhaenyra had a bustling household, with the Hand’s own two daughters, a young Massey girl and a cousin from the Vale. She had extra household guards, maids , squires and pages. All we had were an Ophelia, a Tayla, two distinct personalities of Criston (depending on the shift) and recently added Marie. Still I wouldn't trade them for the world.

 

Marie clicks her tongue, like she’s known me forever when truly she’s barely known me at all. "You can thank Viserys for that. He likes his women gentle, silent, or gone. You’re inconveniently none of those."

 

"He likes the fainting kind," Ophelia adds. "All swoons and sighs. No sharp edges to prick him."

 

Criston makes a sound — half cough, half laughter. Ophelia turned and stuck out her tongue childishly at him. It was like constantly witnessing an older Jace and Aemond.

 

"So?" I ask, rolling my aching shoulders. "I want names. If I’m to rebuild this household, we start tonight. Pick wisely. Women who will put me and the children first.”

 

I wanted women like Aunt Marie. It was obvious that she saw Aemma as a sister first, a queen second and I wanted that type of loyalty. 

 

Talya flips her pages, quill tapping softly. "The Stormlands first—"

 

Criston surprises us all. "Melyssa Dondarrion," he says, flat and certain.

 

I raise my brows. Criston rarely volunteers anything without a push. "Why her?"

 

"My father is a steward serving Blackhaven," he says, not quite looking at me. "I know her kin. Melyssa’s got sense. Keeps men honest. Won’t flinch when they shout."

 

"Better than fainting," Ophelia quips.

 

“She is also the sister of Elenda Baratheon,” added Aunt Marie, “The next Lady of the Stormlands, plus her good mother hates Rhaenyra. She never forgave her for ruining her floors, during her marriage tour,”

 

So Rhaenyra gets to have Bachelorette: Westeros edition and Helaena should just marry her son? I shook my head. 

 

Viserys was playing in my face.

 

"Done," I say, scratching Melyssa's name into the paper . "Stormlands secured. Next?"

 

"Rosalind Fossaway," Talya offers. "Reach-born but fostered with the Mallisters in Seagard — her mother and Eleyna Mallister were sisters. She knows both courts."

 

"A Reach rose with Riverland thorns," Marie says approvingly.

 

"Risky," I murmur. “I wonder how her Uncle will feel about her presence,”

 

"That’s the point," Ophelia says, grinning. “Her entire family hates him,”

 

"Fine," I sigh. "Who else?"

 

"Amanda Redwyne," Ophelia says. "Your mother’s half-sister. Tongue sharp as a blade. Once slapped a septon for calling her voice unseemly. Aegon will have a household soon, she will be perfect as a Matron,”

 

"Perfect," I say. "If she can keep Aegon from flinging himself off the ramparts out of boredom, she can have my crown too."

 

Talya hesitates, quill hovering. "Beth Hightower?"

 

Criston bristles. “She was a mere girl the last time your Uncle visited,”

 

“You mean when she dyed your cloak purple?” teased Tayla. “She dyed all the Kingsguard's cloaks different colours, declaring that white is a boring colour and how do they expect the King to find them,”

 

I laughed, “How old is she now?”

 

“She is fifteen, the last of Hobert's brood,” said Aunt Marie, “Hobert wanted Myriah or I to foster her but I know she will torture my soft-hearted sons and Myriah just had her last babe and keeping up with an energetic little girl would have been too much for her. I am sure he will be pleased with your invitation,”

 

I wrote her name down. A younger girl would be nice to have around, maybe she could be like a pseudo big sister for the children.

 

 

____

 

By the time the last wax seal cools on the letter of invites, the room is empty but for me and my thoughts. The baby moved again, this time it felt like butterflies. I wished my mother was here. She would have known what to do. I thought I would have shared this moment with her and the thought of it all made me cry.

 

 

______

 

I find them the next morning in the nursery, in a kingdom of toys and chaos. Aegon is half under the table, chasing Daeron. The little boy shrieked with excitement at their little game. Aemond sits cross-legged by the fire, one arm wrapped around his dragon egg and the next building a puzzle with Jace. Helaena hums as she braids ribbons in Luke's hair. He was sitting chewing a biscuit and since they haven't had breakfast, I knew Aegon bribed the maids for some.

 

"Alright, my menagerie," I say, stepping in, I took a seat next to Helaena who immediately leaned into me. "Gather close. I have news."

 

Aegon’s head pops up. "Did we do something wrong? It was Daeron. I saw him."

 

"Trait," Daeron babbles, face lighting up as he toddles over to grab my skirts. I laugh, knowing he was trying to say traitor.

 

*"No one’s in trouble — yet." I smooth Daeron’s hair, let his sticky fingers tug at my sleeve. "I’m going to have a baby. You’ll have a new brother or sister in a few moons, maybe a few weeks before Aemond's nameday,”

 

Helaena gasps, dropping the ribbons "A baby? Can I hold her? I don’t want her to be loud and big like Daeron was. He made my ears hurt."

 

Daeron squeals — oblivious, happy — and pats my belly with chubby hands. "Bebee!" he squeaks.

 

Aemond rises to his knees, clutching his egg tight. His small serious face glows with a certainty that makes my heart squeeze. "It’s a girl.” 

 

Jace ran over to me “I'm going to have a sister?! I can't wait to meet her!”

 

I was going to explain to him that the new baby was going to his new Aunt or Uncle but Aegon in all his eight years of wisdom beat me to it.

 

“The baby is going to be your Aunt, she is my sister,” he explained, rolling his eyes. Jace's face immediately fell..

 

“But does that mean I can't play with her?” he asked, tears seeming to well up in his eyes.

 

“Yes, you could play with her, you do play with Helaena and she is your Aunt,” I explained to him.

 

“Truly?”

 

“Yes,” and he gave me a smile that made him look like the splitting image of his true father.

 

“She will need a name,” said Aemond, coming to sit in front of me.

 

"Oh?" I ask, amused, my hand pressed to the spot where the baby kicks. "What should we name her then, my wise boy?"

 

Aemond’s eyes flick to the flames, solemn and ancient. "Daenerys," he says, as if the word has always existed behind his teeth. "She’ll be Daenerys."

 

"Daenerys," I repeat softly. The word tastes strange, old, sharp as a dragon’s wing. Or maybe… Naerys, I think, though I keep that part to myself.

 

Aegon huffs, flopping onto his back dramatically. "Does this mean I have to leave the nursery now? It’s cold in the other rooms. And boring. And everyone’s here."

 

Helaena pokes his feet with her finger "The baby needs your bed, Aegon. You can visit her. But I get to hold her first."

 

Luke took the opportunity to jump on Aegon, who immediately tickled the dolled up toddler.

 

Aemond nods, fierce. "She’s mine too. She gets an egg."

 

"She’ll need all of you," I say, laughing through the lump in my throat. "And I will too."

 

Aegon sighs so dramatically I nearly grin. He placed Luke back next to Helaena. Then he reaches out and pats my belly like he’s accepting a great burden. "Fine. I’m happy too, I suppose. Someone has to teach her how to climb out the windows."

 

"Over my dead body," I mutter, kissing his forehead anyway.

 

Daeron squeals again, clutching my skirts. "Bebee!"

 

"Yes, sweet boy," I whisper, letting them all press close. Helaena rests her head on my arm. Luke hugged my leg and Jace laid on Helaena. Aemond presses his egg to my belly like a solemn blessing. Aegon leans in too, pretending to sulk but smiling when he thinks I can’t see.

 

And for this small hush of morning, my fear retreats. For this heartbeat, the Keep feels safe, and I dare to believe I’ll live to see her loud and bright and bigger than all my shadows.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Please follow me on this Tumblr account instead, I have decided to resurrect it from the dead.

Chapter 9: The MotherF**king Queen

Notes:

Hey back again with more shanniegans!! Chapter ten may come out the second week in August as it's the interlude chapter. It will be multiple povs and might be hefty one. Could be between 5000 words to 10,000. There is a lot to be said and done.

The only one who seemed to be excited for supper tonight was Marie. The King had sent a formal invitation for myself and Aunt Marie to dine in his chambers. He also instructed that the children must be abed. For someone who had a strong interest in having children, he sure hated to be in their presence. I tucked them comfortably into bed, ensuring that everyone was asleep. Aemond holding on tighter to his egg. A crack appeared on it, meaning according to the Dragonkeepers, that a hatchling will appear soon.

I decided to wear a new dress made out of one of the bolts of silk that was in my inventory. I was very specific about my designing the seamstresses raised their eyebrows more than once at my description. The gown was a deep regal purple.Sliver and gold threads twist across the bodice in floral patterns, blooming like a garden against the velvet fabric. The sleeves slip off my shoulder and gather at my arms, leaving my collarbones bare and cool against the air. The skirt was full but light, layers draped and gathered at my hips so it moves like a shadow when I walk. I know it was a bit more daring than the styles the ladies wear, as the top part of my bosom showed. I remind myself that I was the mother fucking queen and if I wanted to make heaving bosom a fashion statement, then I had the right to.

Ophelia came over with a pearl necklace and a pair of matching earrings. My hair was clipped in the middle with a jeweled clip that was gifted to me by Aunt Marie.

“You look phenomenal my Queen,” she complimented.

Shall I send for Ser Criston, Your Grace?” she asked, stepping back to study her work.

“No need.” I checked my reflection once more — not the young girl people mistook for gentle, but a woman who knew exactly how to be seen.

When I stepped into the corridor, the smell of rushlights and lavender drifted under the door. Criston stood waiting, helm tucked under his arm, shoulders squared. Ever the model knight — until he saw me.

His mouth fell open for half a second before he managed to snap it shut. His eyes darted down, then back to my face, only to betray him again when they flicked lower once more.

I raised an eyebrow, letting the corner of my mouth curl. “You’re staring, Ser Criston.”

His throat bobbed. “I— forgive me, Your Grace. I— it’s just— you look—”

“Beautiful,” Ophelia said behind me, all teeth in her smile. “He means beautiful, though you’d never catch him saying it.”

Criston’s ears flushed red. For a man who commanded the training yard without blinking, he seemed ready to drop his helm just to have somewhere to hide his face.

I held out my hand, just enough to remind him who I was. He bowed stiffly, brushing his fingers to mine as if they might burn him. Ophelia’s soft laugh followed us as we started down the corridor.

Criston led the way in silence, footsteps echoing on the stone.

When I arrived at the King's chambers, the dinner party was already assembled. Marie sat at the table, taking small sips of wine, while Lord Lyonel Strong stood near the hearth discussing something in low tones with the King. Rhaenyra was seated beside her husband Laenor, who looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else - a sentiment I could relate to.

Marie looked up as I entered, and I caught the brief widening of her eyes as she took in my appearance. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth - approval, I thought, or perhaps amusement at my audacity.

Rhaenyra's reaction was less subtle. Her violet eyes swept over my gown with barely concealed disdain before settling on my face with a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Stepmother," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "What an... interesting choice of attire."

Before I could respond, Marie's voice cut through the air like silk over steel. "Indeed, Princess. It's refreshing to see someone embrace fashion rather than simply endure it." Her gaze flicked meaningfully to Rhaenyra's dress. It was beautifully embroidered and cut but looked almost conservative to what I was wearing."Though I suppose not everyone has the confidence to carry off such bold choices."

Viserys paused mid-gesture while reaching for his wine cup, his gaze traveling slowly from my face down to the neckline of my gown and back up again. "Your Grace," I said, offering a curtsy that was perhaps a touch more dramatic than necessary. The movement caused the silk to shift and catch the candlelight.

"Alicent," he said finally. "That is... quite a striking gown."

Lord Strong cleared his throat. "Your Grace, if we might discuss the matter of the royal progress-"

"Business can wait, my lord," Viserys interrupted, still looking at me. "My wife looks radiant tonight."

Laenor took a long drink of his wine, clearly uncomfortable with the tension already crackling in the room. "The seamstresses have certainly outdone themselves," he offered diplomatically.

"Haven't they just," Marie agreed, settling back in her chair with the satisfied air of a cat who'd caught a particularly fat mouse. "Though I'm sure some might find such... creativity unnecessary. After all, why draw attention when one can simply fade into the background?"

Rhaenyra's grip tightened on her goblet. "I find that true nobility doesn't need to announce itself quite so loudly, Lady Marie."

"How fascinating," Marie replied, her tone light as summer air. "I've always believed that confidence in one's position allows for a certain... flexibility in expression. But perhaps that comes with age and experience."

I bit back a smile as I took my seat. Marie was an artist with her words, each barb wrapped in silk and delivered with a smile.

"The children settled well?" Viserys asked me, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the undercurrents at the table.

"Of course. Though Aemond was reluctant to part with his dragon egg. There's been some development - a crack has appeared."

This captured everyone's attention. Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly. "Truly? The Dragonkeepers believe it will hatch?"

"Soon, they think." I reached for some bread, aware of all eyes on me. "Aemond will be pleased. He's been so patient."

"Patience is a virtue in princes," Lord Strong observed. "As is preparation for the responsibilities that come with... unique gifts."

Laenor shifted in his seat. "Dragons choose their riders, not the other way around. He will be fine,”

"I'm sure Aemond will manage admirably," Rhaenyra said, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely pleased with the prospect. "He is his father's son, after all."

Marie's smile was razor-sharp. "Indeed. And his mother's. A powerful combination, wouldn't you say? Intelligence and strength, properly channeled."

The servants began bringing in the evening's fare - roasted capon with herbs, fresh bread, and honeyed figs that made my mouth water. Being pregnant had certainly increased my appetite.

"Speaking of channeling," Marie continued conversationally as she selected a piece of fruit, "I received word from Oldtown today. The Faith is quite pleased with Her Grace's recent devotions. They find her... commitment inspiring."

I nearly choked on my wine. I haven't even visited the Sept and barely knew the tenants of the religion.

Rhaenyra's smile grew more strained. "How wonderful. Though I'm sure the smallfolk are more concerned with practical matters than royal piety."

"Are they?" Marie asked innocently. "I find people draw great comfort from seeing their betters set proper examples. Don't you agree, Princess?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Lord Strong cleared his throat again, clearly sensing the building storm. "Perhaps we might discuss more pleasant matters-"

"Oh, but this is pleasant," Rhaenyra interrupted, her voice taking on a crystalline edge. "I do so enjoy discussions of proper behavior. Tell me, Lady Marie, what exactly constitutes a 'proper example' in your estimation?"

Marie dabbed at her lips with her napkin, taking her time. "Well, Princess, I believe it involves understanding one's role and fulfilling it with grace. A queen, for instance, should present herself as worthy of the crown she wears. Not everyone can manage such... presence."

"Presence," Rhaenyra repeated slowly, her violet eyes flashing. "Is that what we're calling it?"

I felt the baby flutter in my stomach, as if even my unborn child could sense the tension. Viserys seemed oblivious, too focused on his wine and his appreciation of my appearance to notice his daughter and my aunt circling each other like dragons about to breathe fire.

"I think," I said carefully, "that we each serve the realm in our own way-"

"Indeed we do," Rhaenyra cut me off, her gaze fixed on me now. "Some of us were born to it. Others... adapt as circumstances require."

The insult hit its mark. Born to it - while I was merely an upstart who'd married into power. In her mind, anyway.

Marie's smile didn't waver, but her eyes went cold as winter steel. "How true, Princess. Though I've always found that those who must earn their place often prove more capable than those who simply inherit it. After all, assumption of worthiness and actual worthiness are two very different things."

Laenor actually winced. "Perhaps we should-"

"No, please, let her continue," Rhaenyra said, her voice deceptively light. "I'm fascinated by Lady Marie's perspective on worthiness. Particularly given her... unique position in court."

The barb was aimed at Marie's position as a Hightower woman who'd left her own well-ordered household at Ashenmark to come support her niece at court. But Marie had weathered far worse storms than a spoiled princess.

"My position allows me certain... observations," Marie replied smoothly. "For instance, I've noticed that those most secure in their birthright rarely feel the need to remind others of it. Confidence, you see, speaks for itself."

"As does competence," Rhaenyra shot back. "And loyalty. Some qualities cannot be taught or... acquired through marriage."

That was it. The line in the sand.

I set down my goblet with deliberate care, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. "You're absolutely right, Rhaenyra. Loyalty cannot be taught." I met her gaze directly, letting every ounce of my modern backbone show through. "It must be earned. And it flows both ways. Those who demand it must first prove themselves worthy of it."

Viserys finally looked up, blinking as if waking from a dream. "What are we discussing?"

"Family," I said sweetly, never breaking eye contact with his daughter. "And the importance of... supporting one another."

Rhaenyra's smile was razor-thin. "Support. Yes. Though some might call it something else entirely."

"Such as?" I challenged.

"Ambition. Calculation. The careful cultivation of... influence."

Lord Strong stood abruptly. "Your Grace, perhaps this would be a good time to discuss the grain shipments from the Reach-"

"Sit down, Lyonel," Viserys said absently, finally picking up on the undercurrents. "What's this about ambition?"

Marie leaned back in her chair, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. "I believe the Princess is concerned about Her Grace's... rising prominence at court. Though why that should trouble anyone who truly has the realm's interests at heart, I cannot fathom."

"Rising prominence," Rhaenyra repeated, her voice dripping with disdain. "Is that what we're calling wearing gowns cut down to one's navel?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the servants seemed to freeze in place, platters halfway to the table.

I felt heat rise in my cheeks - not from embarrassment, but from pure fury. The modern woman in me wanted to tell this entitled princess exactly where she could shove her opinions about my fashion choices. But I was also a queen now, carrying the future of this dynasty in my belly, and I'd be damned if I let some spoiled brat make me feel small.

"My apologies, Princess," I said, my voice perfectly controlled. "I wasn't aware you'd become so... intimately familiar with the details of my attire. How... observant of you."

Viserys finally seemed to grasp what was happening, his face darkening. "Rhaenyra-"

"No, Viserys, let her speak," I interrupted, never taking my eyes off his daughter. "I'm fascinated to hear more of her thoughts on appropriate royal dress. Particularly from someone who once wore riding leathers to a feast with foreign dignitaries."

Thank Jesus that Ophelia was a profound gossip.

Marie actually laughed - a bright, delighted sound. "Oh my, yes! I remember that evening. The Dornish ambassador didn't quite know where to look, did he?"

Rhaenyra's face flushed crimson. "That was different. I was-"

"Young?" I suggested sweetly. "Inexperienced? Learning your place?" I leaned forward slightly, letting the jeweled threads of my bodice catch the light. "How fortunate that you've since developed such... refined sensibilities about proper behavior."

"At least I never needed to resort to displaying myself like a Lys pleasure house whore to maintain my father's attention," Rhaenyra snarled.

The words hung in the air like poison.

Laenor went white as parchment. Lord Strong looked as though he wished the floor would swallow him. Even Viserys seemed stunned into silence.

But Marie? Marie smiled like a cat presented with fresh cream..

"My dear Princess," she said, her voice carrying the authority of her years and her position as Lady of Ashenmark, "I do believe you've just compared the Queen - your father's wife, the mother of your siblings, and the woman carrying the next royal heir - to a common whore. In front of witnesses."

She paused, letting that sink in.

"Now, I'm sure you misspoke. After all, such words could be construed as treason. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The word 'treason' seemed to break whatever spell had held the room. Viserys rose from his chair so abruptly that it scraped against the stone floor with a harsh grinding sound. His face had gone from flushed to pale to a mottled red that suggested an apoplectic fit was imminent.

"RHAENYRA." His voice boomed through the chamber, causing a serving girl to drop a pewter pitcher with a crash. "What did you just say?"

Rhaenyra seemed to realize, perhaps for the first time, exactly how far she'd overstepped. Her defiant mask slipped, revealing something younger and more frightened underneath. "Father, I... I didn't mean-"

"You didn't mean to call my wife, your queen, a whore?" Viserys's voice was deadly quiet now, which was somehow more terrifying than his shouting. "You didn't mean to insult the mother of your brothers and sister? You didn't mean to dishonor the woman who carries my child?"

"Viserys," I said quietly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. I could feel his muscles coiled tight as a bowstring beneath the fabric. "Perhaps we should-"

"No." He shook me off, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face. "This has gone far enough. Too far." He turned to Lord Strong, who looked as though he'd rather be facing down a dragon than this family drama. "Lyonel. You heard what was said here tonight. As Hand of the King, what would you counsel in such a situation?"

Lord Strong's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Your Grace, I... the Princess is young, emotions run high-"

"The Princess," Viserys interrupted, "is twenty-two years old. Old enough to be married, old enough to understand the weight of her words, and certainly old enough to know better than to insult her queen in such vile terms."

Laenor had gone so pale I worried he might faint. "Your Grace, surely we can resolve this within the family-"

"Family." Viserys laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Yes, let's discuss family, Laenor. Your wife has just accused my wife of being a whore. How exactly do you propose we resolve that?"

I watched Rhaenyra's face crumble as the full weight of her words - and their consequences - finally hit her.

"I think," I said quietly, standing with deliberate grace, "that the Princess has made her feelings about me quite clear. And I believe everyone here has heard them." I smoothed my hands over my silk skirts, the gesture drawing attention to the very dress that had started this whole mess. "The question now is what we do about it."

Marie's smile was sharp as a blade. "Indeed. After all, words have consequences. Even for princesses."

But then, in a move that shouldn't have surprised me but somehow still did, Viserys's rage seemed to deflate like a punctured bladder. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh.

"Rhaenyra is... upset," he said finally, not meeting anyone's eyes. "The stress of recent months, the changes at court... perhaps we should consider that emotions are running high for everyone."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. Here it was - the Viserys I should have expected. The one who would always find a way to excuse his precious daughter's behavior, no matter how inexcusable.

"Upset," I repeated quietly, tasting the word like poison on my tongue.

"Yes, well," Viserys continued, clearly warming to his theme now that he'd found his escape route. "We've all said things in the heat of the moment that we didn't mean. Haven't we, Rhaenyra?" He looked at his daughter with such hopeful expectation that I wanted to shake him.

Rhaenyra, sensing the lifeline being thrown to her, straightened slightly. "Of course, Father. I... I spoke in anger. The words were poorly chosen."

Poorly chosen. Not wrong. Not cruel. Not treasonous. Just poorly chosen, like selecting the wrong wine for dinner.

Lord Strong looked relieved at this diplomatic solution. Laenor was practically sagging with gratitude. Even some of the servants seemed to exhale.

But Marie's expression had gone arctic. And I... I felt something inside me crystallize into diamond-hard clarity.

"Poorly chosen," I said, my voice perfectly pleasant. "How illuminating."

Viserys smiled, clearly thinking the crisis had passed. "There, you see? A misunderstanding between family members. Nothing more."

"Nothing more," I agreed, still in that same pleasant tone. I picked up my wine goblet and took a delicate sip. "And here I thought your daughter had just called me a whore in front of the Hand of the King, Lord Laenor, Lady Marie, and half a dozen servants. But if it was just... poorly chosen words, then I suppose there's nothing to be concerned about."

The silence stretched. Viserys shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finally beginning to realize that his easy dismissal hadn't actually resolved anything.

"Alicent," he said carefully, "surely you can forgive a moment of... intemperate speech?"

I set down my goblet and looked directly at him. "Can I? How generous of you to assume what I can and cannot forgive, husband."

The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees.

Viserys cleared his throat, clearly desperate to escape the hole he'd dug himself into. "Perhaps we should speak of more... pleasant matters. The babe, for instance." His face brightened with forced enthusiasm. "I've been thinking about names. If it's a boy - and I'm certain it will be - Jaehaerys would be fitting, don't you think? After my grandfather. He'll be a strong knight, I'm sure of it."

The abrupt change of subject was so clumsy, so obviously an attempt to deflect from what had just happened, that I almost laughed. Almost.

"Actually," I said, my voice still carrying that edge of steel, "all the children think it's a girl."

Viserys blinked, clearly not expecting this response. "A girl? Nonsense. I can tell these things. It sits differently, moves differently. It's definitely a boy."

It took everything in me, not to pick up the goblet of wine and launch it at his head. Instead I swallowed the anger and gave my best customer service smile.

"The children disagree. They've been quite insistent about it, actually. Aegon keeps talking about his 'little sister.' Helaena says she can sense it. Even Aemond has mentioned hoping for a sister to protect." I paused, letting my gaze drift meaningfully toward Rhaenyra and Laenor. "Even Jace and Luke are excited about their new aunt. They're quite certain she'll be a girl too."

"Children's fancies," Viserys waved dismissively. "What would they know of such matters?"

The irony wasn't lost on me - the man who'd just excused his grown daughter's vicious insult as a momentary lapse was now dismissing his actual children's innocent observations.

"Perhaps," I said coolly, "they simply pay more attention than some people give them credit for."

Marie's lips twitched with what might have been approval. Rhaenyra remained silent, clearly hoping the conversation would stay diverted from her earlier outburst.

"Well," Viserys said, still clinging to his forced cheer, "boy or girl, they'll be welcomed. Though I do hope for another son. The realm can always use more princes."

"Can it?" I asked, taking another sip of wine. "Or does it simply need children who are raised properly, with proper respect for their family and their duties?" I turned my attention to Rhaenyra and Laenor with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Speaking of children, when might we expect a third addition to your family? Surely Jace and Luke would love another sibling."

Laenor nearly choked on his wine. Rhaenyra's face went carefully blank.

"The gods will bless us when they see fit," Rhaenyra said stiffly.

"Indeed," I agreed pleasantly. "Though I do wonder... will the next babe finally favor Lord Laenor's side? Jace and Luke are such handsome boys, but they do look so very much like you, Rhaenyra. It would be lovely to see some of their father's Velaryon features shine through, don't you think?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Everyone at the table understood exactly what I was suggesting, and the implications hung in the air like smoke from a dragon's breath.

Lord Strong looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. Marie's eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. Laenor had gone white as fresh snow.

The barb hit home. Viserys's smile faltered slightly.

“I'm sure the next babe will be loved, no matter who they look like,” said Viserys, the deflector.

“I'm sure,” I added with another fake smile.

The scrapping of spoons and forks were the only sound that continued for the rest of the dinner.

__________

Aegon and Helaena were off to their morning lessons. Aegon to the tiltyard with Ser Criston and Helaena with the Septa and Maester to learn her letters. Laenor had taken Jace and Luke, which left me with Aemond and Daeron. Daeron was playing with his toys, babbling to himself, while Aemond lay next to him. He was sucking his thumb, dragon egg next to him. The crack had gotten bigger, but the little dragon still wasn't ready to make its presence known.

I was sitting at my desk, going through various ledgers and all the notes from Talya. I needed to ensure that chambers were ready for the various ladies who were going to join my court, plus I requested two extra rooms—rooms to remain unoccupied for now. One for Helaena and one for Aemond.

“Mama, sing,” said Daeron, abandoning his toys and walking over to me. I don't think I'm much of a good singer, but the past few weeks, the children have been demanding songs. Which is why they’ve been getting lessons in '90s and early 2000s R&B, hip hop, and soul.

“Sing my song, Mama,” said Aemond, taking his thumb out of his mouth and sitting up. “Crimson likes it.”

Aemond was convinced that the egg beginning to hatch was because I sang Monica's “For You I Will.”

My younger brother was obsessed with Space Jam and always had the soundtrack on rotation.

I picked up Daeron and sat him on the desk. He giggled and the baby rolled at the sound of their brother's voice.

“It looks like somebody else wants to hear the song,” I said, touching my belly.

“Yeah, Naerys,” said Aemond, getting up and running over to me, egg in hand, of course. He touched my stomach and the baby rolled.

Aemond had taken to calling the baby Naerys after Aegon told him that Daenerys was a bad name because the last Princess named Daenerys died. She also died without a dragon. Aemond was devastated. He was convinced that the baby was going to die and refused to leave my side. Aegon was placed in timeout for scaring his brother.

I started singing the familiar lyrics whilst Aemond began to hum along. We were about to begin the second chorus when there was a knock on the door.

I shouted for them to come in. Aemond was humming the song to the egg when Talya stepped in.

“Your Grace,” she said, her tone very formal. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Larys Strong has requested an audience with you.”

Larys Strong? The Hand’s son?

The name meant little to me beyond the obvious connection. Larys Strong. The Hand’s son. Brother to Ser Harwin and 100% the biological uncle to Jace and Luke. No whispers, no rumors. Just another nobleman with a family name that carried weight in this court.

Still, curiosity prickled. Why would the Hand’s son request an audience with me?

“Send him in,” I said finally.

What did he want with me?

I didn’t miss the flicker of something in Talya’s eyes—concern? Curiosity? Fear?

I turned back to Aemond and Daeron, who were watching me like little silver-haired hawks. “Go with Talya,” I said gently. “Play in the gardens. Both of you.”

Aemond hesitated, clutching his egg as though it could ward off the world’s evils. “Mama?”

“I’ll be fine,” I promised, smoothing a hand over his pale hair. “Keep an eye on your brother.”

Tayla picked up Daeron and they all walked out leaving the door open. I heard Talya’s voice in the hallway but the only words I could make out were, ‘her grace’ and ‘permission’

In walked a man who moved with a slow, deliberate grace. The first thing I noticed was the cane. The second was the way he wielded it—not as a crutch, but as a statement. Notice me, underestimate me. His limp was real, but it didn’t diminish him. If anything, it drew the eye to the rest of him: dark eyes, sharp jaw, the faintest curve of a smile that never reached those eyes.

Your Grace,” he said smoothly, bowing low before straightening with a faint, practiced smile. “I am grateful you’ve agreed to see me.”

I gestured toward the chair across from my desk. “And you are…?”

“Larys Strong,” he replied, settling into the seat without waiting for my invitation.

Ah. That much I knew. Beyond that? Nothing. Which begged the question—why was he here?

“I wished to make your reacquaintance,” he continued calmly. “It has been far too long since we last spoke.”

I blinked. “Re acquaintance?” The word felt strange on my tongue. “Forgive me, my lord, but… I don’t recall us ever being acquainted.”

His smile didn’t falter, though something in his eyes flickered—quick, sharp, gone as soon as it appeared. “Ah, but that is to be expected,” he said lightly. “I heard of your… accident. The loss of memory. Tragic, truly. We were… allies, once. I should hate to think that bond has been erased entirely.”

A chill slid down my spine, though I kept my expression pleasant. Allies? “That’s odd,” I said, tilting my head slightly. “Neither Talya, nor Ophelia, nor Ser Criston ever mentioned you. And they’ve been quite thorough in reminding me of everything I supposedly forgot.”

His smile stayed fixed, but I saw it then—the brief tightening at the corners of his mouth, the flash of something sharp in his eyes before he smoothed it away. Annoyance. Just a glint, but enough to make my instincts prickle.

“They must have thought it unnecessary to speak of me,” he said, voice silky as ever. “My contributions are… quiet ones. Easily overlooked by those who fail to recognize their value.”

I folded my hands on the desk, studying him carefully now. His words were calm, courteous even, but beneath them I could feel something coiling. Something patient. Something dangerous.

“Well then,” I said, keeping my tone even, “I suppose I’m fortunate you’ve chosen to remind me of your importance.”

The glint returned—less annoyance this time, more amusement, though I couldn’t shake the sense that I’d just stepped into a game I didn’t fully understand.

“Fortunate indeed,” he murmured, his gaze holding mine just a moment too long. “I trust, in time, you’ll come to value it as you once did.”

Notes:

The servants who were present at dinner:

Lyonel in his room after dinner that night:

Alicent when Larys sat down:

Laenor:

 

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Chapter 10: Interlude: The Knight, The Heiress and The Prince

Notes:

Hey guys!!! I just want to thank you guys for the support and I just love the comments and also the ask on my Tumblr. Y'all are so much fun!!

This is part 1 of the Interlude, Part 2 should be out by Saturday for the latest.

Criston

There came a time in a man's life when he could admit he regretted some of his choices. Ser Criston Cole had more than a few—choices that gnawed at him like wolves in the dark. But as Ophelia prattled in his ear like a cursed songbird, he found himself regretting ever coming to King's Landing at all.

She'd been in the Queen's service a sennight before the "accident." Back then, she was quiet—dutiful, unobtrusive, giving him nothing more than a nod when their paths crossed. He'd assumed it would remain that way until the Stranger came for them both.

But then the Queen changed. Not just her memory, but her manner—softened in some places, sharpened in others. She laughed now. Smiled. And, gods help him, she gave the red-haired beast permission to speak.

Ophelia had not stopped since.

"Katherine said you could hear a pin drop after the Princess called Her Grace a Lys pleasure house whore," Ophelia whispered, her green eyes dancing with mischief.

Criston ground his teeth. They stood outside the nursery—he standing like the sworn shield he was, she leaning against the wall as if they were sharing secrets at a village fair.

Inside, the Queen's voice drifted out, low and melodic, telling a story to the children. Then came the sound of her laughter—soft, warm, rolling like sunlight across stone. It shouldn't have unsettled him. It did.

"She shouldn't be speaking of it at all," he muttered, fixing his eyes on the carved oak door.

Ophelia smirked. "Why not? It's the only thing anyone's talking about. Half the Red Keep is whispering about how the Princess lost her composure. And the other half…" She tilted her head. "Well. They're wondering how a mother of four looks better in silk than they do."

"Five," he corrected automatically, then cursed himself for the slip.

"Five?" Ophelia's eyebrows rose. "Oh, you mean with the babe. Aye, five it'll be." She studied his face with uncomfortable intensity. "You pay close attention to Her Grace's children, don't you, Ser Cole?"

Criston stayed silent. His jaw ached from the force of it.

"You know what I think?" Ophelia continued, lowering her voice like a conspirator. "I think it suits her—this new fire. Don't you?"

His eyes flicked to her, sharp as a blade. She only grinned wider, like a cat toying with a hound. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Ser Cole. I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking."

He said nothing. Because the truth he'd never voice—not to Ophelia, not to the Queen, not even to the Stranger himself—was this: He liked her laugh. Gods forgive him, but he liked it.

He liked it when she teased Aegon about washing his hair, when she coaxed a shy smile from Aemond, when she hummed to the babe in her belly as if nothing in the world could touch her. It made her seem… real. Not the distant Queen on the throne, not the girl from Oldtown he'd sworn to protect, but something in between.

 

---

Later that evening, he sat in the White Sword Tower, the fire casting long shadows across the white walls. His brothers-in-arms were gathered—Ser Arryk oiling his sword, Ser Steffon cleaning his gauntlets, Ser Rickard nursing a cup of watered wine.

The conversation had turned, as it often did these days, to women. For men who swore a celibacy oath, they talked and thought about women more than men with wives and daughters.

He knew that his brothers had their slip ups, some of their coins finding their way to the Street of Silk more than often. But him? He broke his oath once and the repercussions still weigh heavily on his heart.

Plus he had more important things to focus on, like choosing a squire and a page. Talya had given him a list of minor nobles who were willing to let their young sons trained under him.

The list was ordered by names, rank and which of the Kingdoms they were from. Talya was an administrative genius and he was glad her talents were being utilized.

He didn't realised that he was humming until Ser Arryk called out his name.

“That's a junty tune there Cole,” said Arryk with a mocking laugh. He rolled his eyes and continued with his list.

"Just something I heard in the markets," Cole muttered, not looking up from the parchment. The names blurred together—second sons and third sons, all eager to earn their spurs in service to the Kingsguard.

"Markets?" Ser Steffon raised an eyebrow, setting down his gauntlets. "When do you ever go to the markets? You barely leave this tower except for duties."

Cole felt heat creep up his neck. It wasn't from the markets at all—it was something she had hummed while braiding her hair that morning, before the world reminded them both of their places. Before duty called him back to white cloaks and empty vows.

"A serving girl was singing it," he said finally, which wasn't entirely a lie. She had been serving, in her own way. Serving the realm, serving her family's ambitions, serving everyone but herself.

Ser Rickard chuckled into his wine. "Careful, Cole. That's how it starts—first you're humming their songs, then you're writing them letters, then you're scaling castle walls like some lovesick fool from the songs themselves."

The irony wasn't lost on him. If only Rickard knew how close to the truth he'd stumbled.

Cole forced himself to focus on the list again, but Ser Steffon's voice cut through his concentration.

"Speaking of catching eyes," Steffon said with a grin, "that red-haired serving girl of the Queen's has been quite the sight lately. Ophelia, isn't it? Seven hells, the way she moves through the corridors..."

Cole's quill stilled on the parchment. Ophelia was right—Steffon had been watching her. He'd need to tell her, though he wasn't sure why the thought of her being right about yet another piece of castle gossip irritated him so much. When had her endless chatter started affecting his own thoughts?

"Aye, she's a beauty," Arryk agreed, though his tone was more thoughtful. "Though if we're speaking of Hightower women, Lady Marie Marbrand puts them all to shame. There's something to be said for a woman with experience."

Steffon nearly choked on his wine. "Marie? My good-sister Marie?" He rolled his eyes skyward. "She's beautiful, I'll give you that, but the woman is absolutely mad. Do you know what she did to my brother last year?"

The other knights leaned in despite themselves.

"She paid a group of sellswords to rob him while he was... visiting his mistress. Had them beat both of them bloody in the woman's own home. The men vanished without a trace afterward, and Marie swore on the Seven that she had nothing to do with it." Steffon shook his head. "My brother still jumps at shadows."

Ser Rickard chuckled darkly. "Seems the madness runs in Hightower blood. Remember Lady Myriah? The Queen's other aunt nearly set her husband afire for looking sideways at a tavern wench."

"Thank the gods that particular curse skipped over Her Grace," Steffon muttered.

Cole said nothing, but privately wondered if they'd noticed the Queen's recent... changes. The sharp wit that hadn't been there before, the way she seemed to know things she shouldn't. Perhaps the Hightower madness had simply taken a different form.

“Speaking of the Queen" Arryk said suddenly,

Criston stiffened. "What of her?"

Arryk grinned. "Come now, Cole. We all have eyes. She's… different. Laughing, smiling, striding about like she owns the Keep." He gave a low whistle. "And those gowns…"

"Careful," Criston snapped, sharper than intended. The room went still for a moment.

Ser Steffon chuckled softly. "He's right, though. Half the court's talking about her. First the dinner, now these changes. If you ask me, a woman who commands attention like that? She's not to be underestimated."

"She's the Queen," Criston said flatly. "Show her some respect."

"Oh, we do," Arryk said with a smirk. "Plenty of it. Doesn't mean we can't notice when a storm's brewing in silk and pearls."

"Maybe it's the Dornish in you," Rickard said with a laugh. "Always so protective of your charges. Must be all that desert loyalty."

The words hit like a physical blow. Desert loyalty—as if his devotion was somehow foreign, something to be explained away by his bloodline rather than respected as the product of his choice and honor.

Criston stood abruptly. "I have duties to attend to."

The laughter that followed grated against his nerves as he left, retreating into the cold corridors where silence couldn't mock him with casual prejudice wrapped in jest.

---

But even silence wasn't enough. He found himself standing in the shadowed hallway that infront of the Queen's apartments, torchlight spilling from beneath the door. He could hear her voice—soft, lilting, telling Aemond some tale of dragons before bed.

He should leave.

He wasn’t even supposed to be on duty tonight. However Westerling had given him, Steffon duties as the man complained that he was unwell. Yet, Criston left him laughing along with their fellow brothers. He could go back to the tower and demand that Steffon did his duty but then he remembered who he was. No matter how many tourneys he won, or he swore personal oaths to-he was still the half-dornish son of a steward.

Instead, he lingered, listening to her hum low and gentle, the melody curling through the corridor like incense. He pressed his fist against the stone wall, hard enough to hurt, willing himself to turn away.

The door opened.

"Ser Criston?" The Queen's voice was soft with surprise. She stepped into the corridor, still dressed in her evening gown—deep blue silk that seemed to capture starlight. "Is something amiss?"

"No, Your Grace. I was merely... ensuring your safety."

She studied his face in the torchlight, those green eyes seeing far too much. "Were you? Or were you brooding in shadows like some tragic figure from a bard's tale?"

The observation was so unexpected, so direct, that he blinked. The old version of the Queen would never have said such a thing. She would have accepted his explanation with a gracious nod and returned to her chambers.

"I don't brood, Your Grace."

"No?" She stepped closer, and he caught the scent of jasmine and something else—something warm and unfamiliar. "Then what would you call standing alone in dark corridors, looking as though the weight of the world rests on your shoulders?"

"Duty."

She laughed—that sound that had been haunting him—but there was something different in it now. Not the gentle music he'd been idealizing, but something sharper. More real.

"Duty," she repeated. "And what duty requires you to lurk outside my chambers like a lovesick boy?"

The words hit him like a slap. "Your Grace, I would never—"

"Wouldn't you?" She tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made him want to step back. "Tell me, Ser Criston, what exactly do you think I am?"

"You are my Queen."

"Yes, but what else? In your mind, I mean. When you think of me, what do you see?"

The question was so personal, so penetrating, that he felt exposed. Raw. "I see... a lady of great virtue. Grace. Someone worthy of protection."

"Virtue," she said slowly. "Grace. How wonderfully vague." She leaned against the stone wall, her posture casual in a way that he never seen before."And before my accident? What did you see then?"

He hesitated. How could he explain the pedestal he'd built for her? The perfect, untouchable ideal she'd represented?

"A maiden deserving of devotion," he said finally.

"A maiden." Her smile was sharp now, cutting. "Not a woman. Not a person with thoughts and desires and flaws and ambitions. A maiden. Something pure and untouched and perfect."

"You were perfect," he said before he could stop himself.

"I was a child playing at being what others expected me to be," she said bluntly. "I was so desperate for approval, so afraid of disappointing anyone, that I made myself into exactly what you wanted to see. A beautiful, tragic maiden in need of rescue."

The words struck him dumb.

"Did you know," she continued conversationally, "that I used to vomit before every formal dinner? That I would lie awake at night rehearsing conversations, terrified I'd say the wrong thing? That I cried myself to sleep more nights than not, because I felt like I was drowning in everyone else's expectations?"

He stared at her. This wasn't the Queen he'd sworn to protect. This wasn't the maiden he'd... loved.

"No," he said quietly. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. Because you didn't want to know. You wanted the perfect, pure maiden who would gaze at you with worshipful eyes and never challenge you or surprise you or disappoint you." Her voice was kind, but the words were merciless. "You were in love with an idea, Ser Criston. Not with me."

The truth of it hit him like a physical blow. All those years of devotion, of secret longing, of holding her on a pedestal so high he could barely see her as human...

"And now?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

She considered this, her head tilted to one side. "Now I laugh too loudly and wear gowns that shock people and speak my mind and lose my temper and eat too much cake when I'm pregnant." She shrugged. "I'm a person, Ser Criston. Flawed and real and sometimes difficult."

She pushed off from the wall, moving toward her door. "The question is: can you protect a person? Or do you only know how to worship an ideal?"

She paused at her threshold, looking back at him with something that might have been pity.

"Think about it," she said softly. "Because I need knights who serve the woman I am, not the maiden you thought I was."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving him alone in the corridor with the ruins of everything he'd thought he knew about love, duty, and the woman he'd sworn to serve.

A knight had no business craving the sound of his Queen's laughter. But perhaps, he thought as he stood in the gathering shadows, he'd been asking the wrong question all along.

Perhaps the real question was: could he learn to serve a Queen instead of worshipping a maiden?

The answer, he realized with a mixture of terror and something that might have been relief, was that he wanted to try.

_______

Rhaenyra

She loved her boys and she wouldn't trade them for the world, but they were noisy. Rhaenyra pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the headache that had been building since dawn. Four-year-old Jace refused to sit still, his boundless energy making him pace around her chambers like a caged dragon, while two-year-old Luke had discovered the joy of shrieking at the top of his lungs just to hear the echo.

It was a tragedy that the nursery was closed today due to cleaning. Helaena had caught a slight flu, and Alicent had demanded that the entire nursery be cleaned and sanitized so the other children wouldn't pick up the bug. Her half-brothers were staying in Aegon's new chambers, whilst Helaena rested in the guest chambers under her stepmother's watchful eye.

The boys had been with her since morning, and they didn't understand why Alicent insisted that they be with their mother. Rhaenyra didn't understand it either, if she was being honest. The woman had sent Septa Agatha back to the Motherhouse and taken over the duties of main caretaker herself.

It wasn't... normal. Children were meant to be seen perhaps twice a day, morning and evening, while remaining in the care of septas and wet nurses until they were old enough to begin proper education as royal princes and princesses. Instead, Alicent had them trailing behind her like little ducklings, always underfoot, always demanding attention.

"Mother, can we go see Aegon?" Jace asked for the fifth time in as many minutes, bouncing on his toes with excess energy. He had the persistence of a particularly determined puppy.

"Aegon is busy with his lessons," Rhaenyra replied, though she knew that wasn't entirely true. The eight-year-old had begun training more often with Ser Criston, and yes, he was doing his histories and letters with the maesters, but she suspected Alicent would find time for him to visit his half-nephews if asked.

That was another oddity. The increased attention to Aegon's education, the way Alicent seemed to be molding him into something more... focused. More purposeful. The boy had always been willful, but lately there was a different quality to him. As if someone had finally convinced him that his position meant something. He'd even taken his first flight on Sunfyre just last week, soaring over the Blackwater with a confidence that belied his young age.

"Why can't we go to the nursery?" Luke whined, though at two his words were still somewhat garbled. He had mastered the art of making his displeasure known even if his vocabulary was limited.

"Because it's being cleaned, sweetling. I've told you this."

"Cleaning?" Luke's face scrunched up in confusion, the concept still somewhat foreign to a toddler.

The innocent question hit uncomfortably close to something Rhaenyra had been trying not to think about. The difference in how their households were managed. Her own chambers were cleaned adequately, of course, but Alicent's attention to detail had become almost obsessive lately. Everything had to be perfect, pristine, organized down to the last detail.

It made Rhaenyra feel... lacking, somehow. As if she was failing at something she hadn't realized was a competition.

"Some people prefer things... very clean," she said carefully.

"Like the Queen?" Jace asked, far too perceptively for a boy of four.

"Yes, like the Queen."

"Father says she's been different lately." Jace settled onto the carpet, apparently abandoning his earlier energy. "Ser Harwin says she smiles more now."

Ser Harwin. The mention of him in Jace's innocent chatter sent a familiar flutter of guilt and longing through her chest. She'd been more careful lately, more discrete, but she knew the court still whispered. Still watched. Still made their calculations about dark hair and strong features, about the timing of births and the frequency of a certain knight's visits to her chambers.

The guilt was a constant companion now, made worse by the knowledge of what her indiscretions cost not just her, but him. He had a wife waiting for him in the Riverlands, daughters who barely knew their father because he couldn't leave court. Couldn't leave her.

"The Queen has been... more comfortable in her role recently," Rhaenyra said diplomatically.

More comfortable. What a pale way to describe the transformation she'd witnessed. The woman who had stammered through dinner conversations now held court like she'd been born to it. The girl who had flinched at raised voices now faced down challenges with steel in her spine.

And that dress. Gods, that purple silk monstrosity that had made every woman in the keep look like a drab sparrow by comparison. The memory of it still made Rhaenyra's cheeks burn with embarrassment and something that felt uncomfortably like envy.

She'd called Alicent a whore. The words had left her mouth before she could stop them, born from frustration and wine and the horrible, creeping feeling that she was being displaced. Not just as heir—she would always be her father's heir—but as... as something else. As the most important woman in his life.

"I like her better now," Luke announced in his toddler lisp, oblivious to his mother's internal turmoil. "She tells good stories."

"She tells you stories?" Rhaenyra asked, surprised. Luke was barely more than a baby—most adults barely bothered to speak directly to children his age.

"Mmhmm. About dragons and princesses. And she lets Jace help with things." Luke's vocabulary was limited, but his enthusiasm was clear.

"She showed me how dragon eggs get warm," Jace added excitedly. "And she said Vermax is getting bigger every day."

Rhaenyra felt a flicker of irritation. Dragon knowledge was her domain—she was the dragonrider in the family, the one who understood the ancient bond between Targaryen and beast. Yet somehow Alicent had positioned herself as an expert, offering guidance that should have come from her.

"Dragons are... complex creatures," Rhaenyra said carefully. "Perhaps we should focus on your lessons with the Dragonkeepers."

 

Jace continued to babble about the Queen and how she taught them to paint on their hands and place it on a paper. How her youngest brother placed it on her face instead of the paper and she wasn’t angry, instead she laughed.

Rhaenyra tried to imagine the pious, rigid girl she'd grown up alongside snorting with laughter in the nursery covered in paints and charcoal. The image wouldn't form. This new Alicent was like a stranger wearing a familiar face.

"That sounds... delightful," she managed.

"Can we go see if Aemond's dragon egg hatched?" Jace asked hopefully. "Maybe it cracked more."

"I heard it cracked," Luke added, though his pronunciation made 'cracked' sound more like 'cacked.'

The reminder made Rhaenyra's stomach twist. Soon Aemond would have a dragon, making him the fourth of Alicent's children to bond with one of the great beasts. Aegon had Sunfyre and had already taken his first flight. Six-year-old Helaena had claimed Dreamfyre just a moon ago, though she hadn't yet taken her maiden flight. Even little Daeron had Tessarion, whose egg had hatched the same day as Jace's Vermax.

Meanwhile, Luke's egg remained stubbornly unhatched, a constant reminder of the uncertainty surrounding his bloodline. The boy was too young to understand the implications, but Rhaenyra felt the weight of every sideways glance, every whispered conversation that stopped when she entered a room. Dragon eggs responded to Targaryen blood—everyone knew that. So why wouldn't Luke's respond to him?

The fear gnawed at her constantly. What if the egg never hatched? What if the realm's suspicions about her sons' parentage were confirmed in the most public way possible? A Targaryen without a dragon was almost unthinkable, but a bastard pretending to be a Targaryen...

She pushed the thought away. Luke was barely two. Some eggs took longer to hatch. It meant nothing.

Their Strong blood, whispered a traitorous voice in her mind. Their baseborn blood that shows in their faces for all to see.

"We'll check on them later," Rhaenyra said firmly, pushing the thought away. "For now, perhaps you could practice your letters. Or your High Valyrian."

The boys made appropriately excited noises—or in Luke's case, happy babbling—but before they could get too worked up, a knock came at the door. Ser Harwin entered at her invitation, his presence immediately filling the room with warmth.

"Princess," he said formally, though his eyes held private messages. The careful distance they maintained in public had become second nature, but it didn't stop her heart from racing whenever he walked into a room.

It was dangerous, this thing between them. He was married—had been for six years now, to Eleyna Mallister, a perfectly suitable wife who had given him two daughters. Lianne was five, just a year older than Jace, and two-year-old Zia was Luke's age. They lived at Harrenhal with their mother, safe in the Riverlands while Harwin served at court.

Rhaenyra tried not to think about them too often. About the life he had built away from King's Landing, the family that existed in the daylight while what they shared lived only in shadows and stolen moments. It was easier to pretend sometimes that he belonged only to her, that their stolen kisses and whispered promises were the sum total of his heart.

But she knew better. She'd seen the letters that arrived from Harrenhal, watched the way his face softened when he read news of his daughters. He was a good father, even from a distance. A devoted husband, despite everything.

It made her love him more, and hate herself for it.

"Princess," he said formally, though his eyes held private messages. "The Queen has sent word that the nursery is ready. The young princes are welcome to return whenever they wish."

"Thank God," Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, then caught herself. "That is... how thoughtful of Her Grace."

Ser Harwin's mouth twitched with barely suppressed amusement. "She also extends an invitation for the princes to join her children for the evening meal, if it pleases you. She thought they might enjoy eating together after being separated all day."

Another kindness. Another gesture that made Rhaenyra feel petty and small for her earlier words. The woman she'd insulted was extending olive branches while she nursed her wounded pride.

"That's very generous," she said slowly. "Boys, would you like to dine with your Aunt and Uncles tonight?"

The enthusiastic shouts were answer enough. As Ser Harwin led them away, their chatter already turning to dragons and whatever adventures awaited them, Rhaenyra was left alone with her thoughts and the weight of her choices. She watched him go, noting the easy way he hoisted Luke onto his shoulders when the toddler's legs grew tired, the patience he showed when Jace peppered him with questions about swords and knights.

He would make a wonderful father to his legitimate daughters, she thought with a pang. Did Lianne have his dark hair? Did little Zia share his gentle strength? She'd never asked, never dared to bring up his other family directly, but the questions haunted her nonetheless.

She moved to her window, looking out over the courtyard where she could see Alicent walking with little Daeron on her hip, Helaena holding her free hand despite supposedly being unwell. The woman was still dressed in that same careful elegance that had become her signature, but there was something relaxed about her posture. Something... content.

For the first time in years, Rhaenyra felt like she was the one struggling to keep up. The realization should have angered her. Instead, it left her feeling oddly hollow, as if she'd lost something she hadn't known she was fighting for.

Outside, Alicent laughed at something Helaena said, the sound carrying clearly through the open window. It was warm and genuine and utterly unguarded—the laugh of a woman who knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.

Rhaenyra closed the window and turned away, but the sound seemed to linger in the air like an accusation.

_______

Aegon

Mother was different now, and Aegon liked it.

He couldn't put his finger on exactly what had changed—he was only eight, after all, and grown-up things were often confusing—but she laughed now. Real laughs, not the polite little sounds she used to make when Father told his boring stories about old kings. She ruffled his hair when he got his letters right and didn't scold him too much when he tracked mud through the corridors.

Best of all, she didn't look sad all the time anymore.

Aegon hadn't realized how much Mother's sadness had bothered him until it went away. Before, she'd worn it like a cloak, heavy and dark, making even her smiles seem tired. Now she moved through the Keep like she belonged there, like she wanted to be there, and it made everything feel... lighter.

Even moving out of the nursery didn't seem so bad when Mother explained it properly.

"You're eight now," she'd said, sitting on his new bed in his new chambers. They were bigger than his old room, with a proper window that looked out over the courtyard and a desk where he could do his lessons. "You're a prince of the realm now, and princes need their own space. A place where you can grow into the man you'll become."

Aegon had kicked at the floor with his toe. "But what if I don't want to be a man yet?"

Mother had laughed—that new, real laugh—and pulled him close. "Oh, sweetheart. You don't have to be a man tomorrow. You just have to be a slightly bigger boy today."

"What kind of prince should I be?" he'd asked, because Mother always had good answers to important questions.

"The kind from the stories," she'd said without hesitation. "Brave and kind and good. The kind who helps people instead of hurting them. The kind who protects those who can't protect themselves."

"Like Prince Eric? The one who saved the mermaid?"

"Exactly like him. Or Prince Phillip, who was brave enough to fight a dragon for love."

That made sense, sort of. And he did like having his own space, especially when Jace and Luke came to visit and he could show off his grown-up room. Though he missed the easy comfort of having all of them just across the room.

"It's not fair," he'd complained to Ser Criston during sword practice. "Why do I have to be the oldest?"

Ser Criston had paused in correcting his grip on the practice sword. "Being the oldest is a privilege, Prince Aegon. And a responsibility."

"I don't want privilege. I want to play with my dragon and not worry about being proper all the time."

"And what does your mother say about that?"

Aegon had considered this. Mother had been different about duties too—she still expected him to do his lessons and practice his manners, but she'd also started teaching him things the septas never mentioned. Like how to really listen when people talked, not just wait for your turn to speak. And how to tell when someone was lying by watching their eyes.

"She says being a prince means protecting people," he'd said finally. "And that I can't protect anyone if I don't know how."

Ser Criston had nodded approvingly. "Your mother is wise."

She was. Even when she made decisions that confused him, like when she'd insisted he comfort Aemond after... after what happened with Crimson.

Aegon's stomach still felt sick when he thought about it. Aemond's egg had finally cracked three days ago, and they'd all been so excited. Even baby Daeron had clapped his hands when the tiny red dragon poked his head out, no bigger than a kitten but already fierce.

Aemond had been overjoyed. He'd named the little dragon Crimson because of his deep red scales, and for two wonderful days, everything had been perfect. Crimson had slept curled up on Aemond's chest, had eaten scraps of meat from his hand, had chirped and warbled like a strange little bird.

Then, on the third morning, Crimson wouldn't wake up.

Aegon had found Aemond in his bed, crying over the tiny still form. The Dragonkeepers came and spoke in hushed voices about how sometimes the smallest hatchlings simply... weren't strong enough. It happened, they said. Not often, but sometimes.

Aemond hadn't cared about sometimes. He'd just cried, great heaving sobs that made Aegon's chest hurt.

"Why did you send me?" he'd asked Mother later, after they'd buried Crimson in the gardens and Aemond had finally fallen asleep, exhausted from grief. "I didn't know what to say."

Mother had been sitting by her window, one hand resting on her growing belly. "What did you say?"

"That... that it wasn't his fault. And that Crimson knew he was loved."

"And was that true?"

Aegon had thought about it. "Yes."

"Then you said exactly the right thing." Mother had reached out to smooth his hair. "Being the oldest doesn't mean you have all the answers, Aegon. It means you show up anyway, especially when things are hard."

"But what if I mess up? What if I say something stupid and make it worse?"

"Then you try again. And again. Until you get it right." Her smile had been soft and sad and proud all at once. "Love doesn't require perfection, sweetheart. It just requires presence."

That night, when Aemond had crawled into his bed because his own felt too big and empty, Aegon hadn't complained or told him to go back to his room. He'd just scooted over and let his little brother curl up beside him, small and warm and still occasionally sniffling.

"Will I get another egg?" Aemond had whispered in the dark.

"Mother says maybe. When you're ready."

"When will I be ready?"

Aegon had considered this with all the wisdom of his eight years. "When it doesn't hurt so much to think about Crimson, I think. When you can remember the good parts without crying."

Aemond had been quiet for a long time. Then: "Do you think he knew I loved him?"

"Yeah," Aegon had said, meaning it. "I think all dragons know when they're loved. Even the little ones."

Now, a week later, Aemond was starting to smile again. Not as much as before, but enough. And when he'd asked if he could help Aegon clean Sunfyre's saddle, Aegon had said yes without hesitation.

"You're growing up," Mother had said that afternoon, watching them work together in comfortable silence.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's necessary," she'd replied. "And you're doing it beautifully."

Aegon had ducked his head to hide his pleased smile. He might not have chosen to be the oldest, might not have wanted the responsibilities that came with it, but if Mother thought he was doing well...

Maybe being eight wasn't so bad after all. Maybe being the big brother, the one who showed up when things were hard, was something he could actually be good at.

And if Mother kept laughing and ruffling his hair and telling him he was doing beautifully, maybe he could learn to like it too.

---

"Aegon, come here, love."

He looked up from where he'd been lying on his belly in Mother's solar, drawing pictures of dragons in the margins of his practice letters. She was sitting in her favorite chair by the window, the afternoon sun catching the auburn highlights in her hair and making them gleam like burnished copper. Her belly was getting rounder with the baby—his little sister, because everyone knew it was going to be a girl.

Everyone else was down for their afternoon nap, except for him because he was a big boy.

"Am I in trouble?" he asked, scrambling to his feet. He'd been trying to be good, but sometimes good was harder than it looked.

"Not at all." Mother patted her lap—well, what was left of it with the baby taking up so much space. "I wanted to show you something."

Aegon climbed up carefully, mindful of the baby. Mother had explained that his little sister was still very small and growing, so he had to be gentle. He settled against her shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent of jasmine.

"Look," she said, placing his hand on her belly. "Feel that?"

At first there was nothing, just the soft warmth of Mother's skin through her dress. Then—there! A tiny push against his palm, like someone was poking him from the inside.

"The baby!" he gasped, delighted. "She's moving!"

"She is indeed." Mother's voice was soft and happy. "Would you like to talk to her?"

Aegon leaned down, putting his face close to Mother's belly. "Hello, little sister," he whispered. "I'm Aegon. I'm your big brother."

Another little push, right where his hand was resting.

"She knows my voice!"

"I think she does. I've been telling her all about her wonderful big brother who's brave and kind and going to protect her."

"I will," Aegon said seriously. "I'll be the best big brother ever. I'll teach her about dragons and how to ride and—" Another thought struck him. "What if Father wants her to marry someone mean? Can I tell him no?"

Mother's laugh was quiet but full of warmth. "Let's worry about teaching her to walk first, shall we? Though I'm sure your father will listen to your counsel when the time comes."

"Will you tell her the story about Prince Phillip again? The one where he fights the dragon to save Princess Aurora?"

"I think she'd like that." Mother adjusted him so he was more comfortable, then began the familiar tale in her storytelling voice. "Once upon a time, there was a princess who was cursed by an evil fairy, and a brave prince who loved her so much he was willing to fight a terrible dragon..."

As Mother's voice washed over him, Aegon felt something settle in his chest. This was what he wanted to be—not just a prince, but the kind of prince from the stories. The kind who saved people and was good and kind and brave.

"Mother?" he interrupted softly.

"Yes, love?"

"When the baby comes, will you still have time for just me sometimes?"

Mother's hand came up to stroke his hair. "Oh, my sweet boy. You know what I discovered? Love isn't like cake—it doesn't get smaller when you share it. It gets bigger. I'll love your sister very much, but that won't make me love you any less."

"Promise?"

"I promise. You're my firstborn son, my brave little prince. Nothing could ever change how much I love you."

Aegon snuggled closer, feeling warm and safe and loved. The baby kicked again, and he smiled against Mother's shoulder.

"I think she likes the story too," he murmured.

"I think you're right," Mother agreed, continuing her tale of brave princes and noble deeds, while the afternoon sun painted everything golden and perfect around them

Notes:

Ophelia after finding out that Steffon Marbrand do stare at her ass:

Marie listening to her husband recount his ordeal:

(She sent the goons)

Myriah:

Harwin thinking he is managing his two families well:

(He is not)

This was the song that Criston was humming

Chapter 11: Interlude: The Lady, The Father, The King and The Confessor

Notes:

It was Larys fault y'all got this chapter late.

(I also supposed to post a one shot where Cersei transmigrated into Alicent right after Aemond lost his eye....whenI do, I'll link. It's finish but I'm just tired 😫)

Also thank you guys for the subscriptions on the fic and also the bookmarks.

Marie 

 

Marie Hightower Marbrand had left a perfectly well-ordered household at Ashenmark to come to King's Landing, and some days she wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake.

 

Not because of Alicent—never because of Alicent. Her niece had needed her, and Marie had never been one to ignore family obligations. When the raven had arrived with news of Alicent's "accident" and subsequent memory loss, Marie had packed her belongings and ridden hard for the capital without a second thought. Her own daughters and sons were grown and married, her husband capable of managing their lands, and her sweet niece required guidance. She also ensured that an eye was kept out for her husband's mistress. If that woman dared step in her home, she wouldn't be leaving alive. She didn't particularly care for Perwyn or even love him but it was the principle of the matter. 

 

What she hadn't expected was to find the royal court in such a state of barely controlled chaos.

 

She sat in her chambers now, reviewing the household accounts that Alicent had asked her to examine. The numbers told a story of neglect and mismanagement that made her teeth ache. How had things been allowed to deteriorate so badly? The Queen's household should have been a model of efficiency, a demonstration of proper royal management. Instead, Marie had found overworked servants, confused hierarchies, and books that hadn't been properly balanced in years.

 

It was Otto's fault, of course. Her brother had always been brilliant at the grand political maneuvers, but he'd never understood the importance of domestic stability. He'd pushed his young daughter into marriage with a king and then... what? Expected her to simply figure out how to manage one of the most complex households in the realm with no guidance, no support, no maternal figure to show her the way?

 

Marie set down her quill with more force than necessary. Aemma would have been appalled.

 

The thought of her dear friend brought the familiar ache to her chest. She and Queen Aemma had been close, their friendship weathering years of separation between Ashenmark and King's Landing. When Aemma had died, Marie had grieved not just for the loss of a friend, but for the motherless girl who would now have to navigate court politics without guidance.

 

She'd tried to be there for Rhaenyra in the aftermath. Had written letters, offered advice, even visited when she could manage it. The girl had been so small in her grief, so lost without her mother's steady presence. Marie had seen echoes of Aemma in her violet eyes and fierce spirit, had hoped that time might heal the worst of the wounds.

 

Instead, she'd watched from afar as Rhaenyra grew into someone Marie barely recognized. The sweet, if spirited, child had hardened into a young woman who wielded cruelty like a blade, particularly toward Alicent.

 

And that, Marie simply could not forgive.

 

She understood anger. She understood grief. She even understood jealousy, though it was an ugly emotion that did no one credit. But what she couldn't understand was how Rhaenyra had chosen to punish Alicent for the circumstances of their marriage, as if her teenage stepmother had somehow orchestrated her father's affections rather than simply being a pawn in Otto's machinations.

 

The dinner incident still made her blood run cold. To call the Queen—pregnant and trying so hard to find her place—a whore in front of witnesses... it was unconscionable. Aemma would have been horrified to see what her daughter had become.

 

"My lady?" A soft knock at her door interrupted her dark thoughts. "Her Grace requests your presence in her solar."

 

Marie rose, smoothing her skirts automatically. At least one thing had improved dramatically since her arrival—Alicent herself. The girl who had once been so uncertain, so eager to please everyone that she pleased no one, had blossomed into someone with actual presence. She made decisions now. Set boundaries. Laughed with genuine joy instead of nervous politeness.

 

The memory loss, whatever had caused it, had been a blessing in disguise. Without the weight of past hurts and accumulated fears, Alicent had finally become the woman she was meant to be. The Queen she should have been from the beginning.

 

Marie found her niece in her solar, playing with little Daeron while Helaena worked on her embroidery nearby. The domestic scene warmed something in Marie's chest that had been cold since arriving at court.

 

"Aunt Marie!" Alicent looked up with a smile that reached her eyes. "How were the accounts?"

 

"Improving," Marie said diplomatically, settling into her customary chair. "Though we still have work to do."

 

"The servants seem happier," Helaena observed without looking up from her needlework. "They smile more now. Before, they always looked... worried."

 

Out of the mouths of babes. Even a six-year-old had noticed the difference proper household management made.

 

"Speaking of worry," Marie said carefully, "I had an interesting conversation with Lord Larys Strong yesterday."

 

Alicent's expression sharpened. "Oh?"

 

"He seems... very interested in your recovery. Ask a great many questions about your new perspectives on things."

 

"I'm sure he does." There was something in Alicent's tone that suggested she understood exactly what Marie wasn't saying directly. Good. The girl had developed political instincts along with everything else.

 

"He also mentioned that the Princess has been asking about increased security for her children's quarters."

 

Marie watched her niece's face carefully. There—just a flicker of something. Concern? Guilt? It was hard to say.

 

"The Princess is protective of her sons," Alicent said neutrally. "It's understandable."

 

"Is it?" Marie leaned forward slightly. "Because from where I sit, it looks more like paranoia. Or perhaps... conscience."

 

Alicent was quiet for a moment, absently stroking Daeron's silver hair as he played with wooden blocks at her feet. "People see what they choose to see, Aunt Marie. And they fear what threatens their vision of how things should be."

 

Wise words from a woman who had apparently learned harsh lessons about perception and reality.

 

"Your father sends his regards, by the way," Marie said, changing the subject deliberately. "And his congratulations on your improved health."

 

"How kind of him." There was no warmth in Alicent's voice when she spoke of Otto, which was telling. Before the accident, she'd been desperate for his approval, hanging on his every word like gospel. Now she seemed to view him with something approaching cool assessment.

 

Perhaps the memory loss had done more than simply erase painful experiences. Perhaps it had also erased the blind devotion that had made her so easy to manipulate.

 

"He's eager to return to court," Marie continued, watching for any reaction. "Believes his presence might help stabilize certain... situations."

 

"I'm sure he does." Alicent's smile was sharp as a blade. "Though I find I'm managing quite well without his particular brand of guidance."

 

Marie felt a surge of pride. There was the steel she'd been hoping to see. Otto might be her brother, but he'd failed his daughter spectacularly. It was satisfying to see Alicent finally recognizing that fact.

 

"The King seems... fond of your new confidence," Marie observed.

 

"The King appreciates a wife who can manage their household properly and present herself with dignity." Alicent's tone was matter-of-fact. "Novel concept, I'm sure."

 

Marie bit back a smile. Oh yes, her niece had definitely developed a spine. And a tongue to go with it.

 

"He's been less... attentive to the Princess lately," she added casually.

 

"Has he?" Alicent seemed genuinely unconcerned by this observation. "How unfortunate for her."

 

There it was—the crucial difference. The old Alicent would have been worried about Rhaenyra's feelings, would have felt guilty about any perceived slight to her stepdaughter. This Alicent simply didn't care whether the Princess felt neglected.

 

Marie approved wholeheartedly.

 

"She's been spending more time with Ser Harwin Strong," Marie continued, testing the waters.

 

"I'm sure she has." Still that same cool indifference. "She's always been... close to the Strong family."

 

The euphemism was delicately handled. Yes, Alicent understood exactly what was happening between Rhaenyra and her sworn protector. She simply chose not to make it her problem.

 

"Some might say such closeness is... inappropriate."

 

"Some might say a great many things." Alicent finally looked up, meeting Marie's gaze directly. "But I've learned that concerning myself with other people's choices often comes at the expense of my own happiness."

 

Marie felt a warm glow of satisfaction. This was exactly what she'd hoped to achieve by coming to King's Landing. Not just organizing the household accounts or managing the servants, but helping her niece find her backbone.

 

"You've grown wise, my dear."

 

"I've grown tired of being unhappy," Alicent corrected. "It's amazing how much clearer things become when you stop trying to please everyone and start focusing on what actually matters."

 

And what mattered, clearly, was her children, her household, and her own dignity. Everything else—including the feelings of ungrateful stepdaughters and ineffectual husbands—could look after itself.

 

Marie settled back in her chair, watching her niece play with her youngest son while her daughter hummed softly over her embroidery. This was what a royal household should look like. Peaceful, well-ordered, content.

 

Let Otto scheme his schemes and Rhaenyra nurse her wounded pride. Marie had accomplished what she'd come here to do: she'd helped raise a queen worthy of her crown.

 

The rest of them could sort themselves out.

 

_________________

Otto

 

 

The letter arrived with the morning post, carried by a raven bearing the royal seal.

 

"Uncle!" Beth burst through his door without ceremony, clutching a parchment to her chest like a holy relic. "Uncle, you'll never believe—Queen Alicent has written! She's invited me to court! To serve as one of her Maidens in Waiting!"

 

Otto set down his quill with deliberate care, though his hand wanted to shake. He'd been corresponding with lords throughout the Reach about grain shipments—mundane work that kept his mind occupied when greater concerns threatened to consume him. Now those concerns came flooding back with the force of a dam bursting.

 

"How wonderful for you, my dear," he said, his voice perfectly modulated. Years of court politics had taught him to school his features into pleasantness even when his thoughts ran dark. "The Queen honors our house with her trust."

 

Beth practically glowed with pride. "She says I'm to come as soon as arrangements can be made! That she remembers me fondly from when we were children and thinks I might find court... educational." She paused, frowning slightly. "Though she writes strangely. Not like I remember her writing before."

 

Of course she does. Otto kept his expression benign while his mind raced. His daughter—for she was still his daughter, no matter how thoroughly she seemed to have forgotten that fact—hadn't written to him directly in nearly Six moons. Six moons since her supposed accident, since the mysterious memory loss that his network of informants had described with varying degrees of incredulity.

 

Six moons since she'd apparently become a stranger wearing his daughter's face.

 

"People often change their writing style as they mature," Otto said smoothly. "I'm sure Her Grace has grown more confident in her correspondence, as befits a queen."

 

The reports from King's Landing painted a picture of confidence run riot. His meek, dutiful daughter—the girl who'd once hung on his every word, who'd married the King because he'd asked it of her—had apparently transformed into someone who dismissed septas, reorganized entire households, and faced down the Princess Rhaenyra with steel in her spine.

 

Someone who no longer wrote to her father.

 

"Will you help me prepare?" Beth asked, already planning her wardrobe in her head, no doubt. "I want to make the best impression. The Queen must have such elegant ladies around her now!"

 

Like his sister Marie, who'd ridden to King's Landing without so much as a by-your-leave when she'd heard of Alicent's condition. Marie, who'd apparently been welcomed with open arms while he—the girl's own father—remained exiled in Oldtown like some disgraced relation.

 

The irony was bitter as wormwood. He'd spent years building Alicent's position, carefully crafting her into the perfect queen, only to be dismissed from court for his troubles. And now, while he rotted away in his ancestral seat, his daughter was apparently thriving without him.

 

"Of course," Otto said, rising to embrace his niece. Beth was a sweet girl, much like Alicent had been at that age—eager to please, anxious for approval, malleable. Perhaps that was why his transformed daughter had chosen her. "We'll have the finest seamstresses in Oldtown outfit you properly. A Hightower must always represent the family with dignity."

 

Another quality his daughter seemed to have rediscovered in abundance. The same informants who told him of her reorganized household and newfound authority also whispered about silk gowns that put the rest of the court to shame, about the way she'd faced down Rhaenyra's public insult with grace and steel.

 

Part of him was proud. This was what he'd always wanted for her—strength, confidence, the ability to command respect. But a larger part burned with frustrated rage that she'd found these qualities only after cutting him out of her life entirely.

 

"I should write to thank Her Grace," Beth continued, already planning her response. "And perhaps ask after her health? I heard she was unwell for a time."

 

Such a delicate euphemism for whatever had truly happened to his daughter. Memory loss, the reports claimed. A blow to the head during a fall that had somehow erased her love and devotion to her only living parent.

 

Otto had his doubts about that explanation. Memory loss was convenient—too convenient. It excused every change in behavior, every abandonment of previously held beliefs, every rejection of advice that had once been heeded without question.

 

But if not memory loss, then what? Had his daughter simply decided to play a role, to pretend forgetfulness as an excuse to remake herself? It wouldn't be the first time someone at court had used a convenient excuse to shed an inconvenient past.

 

The thought should have impressed him. Instead, it left him feeling oddly hollow. If Alicent was capable of such calculation, such elaborate deception, then he'd failed to recognize his own daughter's potential. And if she truly had suffered some trauma that had transformed her so completely...

 

Well. That suggested other failures entirely.

 

"I'm sure she would appreciate your concern," Otto said carefully. "Though from what I hear, Her Grace has made a remarkable recovery. Quite remarkable indeed."

 

Remarkable enough to be carrying another child—a fact he'd learned not from her letters, which had ceased entirely, but from whispered reports carried by merchants and maesters. His daughter was with child again, had been for months now, and he'd had to piece together the timing like some common gossip-monger.

 

The babe would be born early next year, if the reports were accurate. His fifth grandchild, and he'd likely learn of its birth the same way he'd learned of its conception—through secondhand whispers and carefully worded dispatches from men he paid to watch his own family.

 

"She must be so busy now," Beth said sympathetically. "Managing the household, caring for her children, attending to her duties as queen. No wonder her correspondence has been... limited."

 

Otto almost smiled at his niece's diplomatic phrasing. Limited. Yes, one could certainly call his daughter's complete silence "limited."

 

"The Queen has many demands on her time," he agreed. "Though I confess I would have appreciated more frequent updates on her health. A father worries, you understand."

 

It wasn't entirely a lie. He did worry—not just about Alicent's wellbeing, but about the implications of her transformation. A queen who no longer sought her father's counsel was dangerous. A queen who had learned to think for herself, to make her own alliances and pursue her own agenda...

 

That was either a magnificent success or a catastrophic failure, and Otto wasn't certain which.

 

"Perhaps I could carry a letter from you?" Beth suggested helpfully. "When I go to court. It might be... easier than sending ravens."

 

Because ravens bearing his seal apparently weren't being answered. The thought stung more than he cared to admit.

 

"That's very thoughtful of you, child." Otto moved to his desk, already composing his response in his mind. Something careful, diplomatic. Expressing pleasure at her invitation to Beth, concern for her health, pride in her accomplishments. Nothing that could be construed as controlling or manipulative.

 

Nothing that would give her reason to maintain her silence.

 

He paused with the quill in his hand, staring at the blank parchment. What did one write to a daughter who had apparently decided her father was superfluous to her life? How did one rebuild a relationship with someone who no longer remembered why it had mattered in the first place?

 

Dear Alicent, he began, then stopped. Too formal. But My dear daughter felt presumptuous given the circumstances.

 

Your Grace, he wrote finally. If she wanted to play at being strangers, he could accommodate that game.

 

I was pleased to learn of your invitation to Beth. She is honored by your trust and eager to serve the crown faithfully. I know she will represent our house well under your guidance.

 

Safe words. Neutral territory. Nothing that could be construed as overreach or manipulation.

 

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Reports from the capital speak of your remarkable recovery and the admirable changes you have implemented in the royal household. Your mother would be proud.

 

Would she be? Alerie Hightower had been dead these many years, but Otto liked to think she would have approved of her daughter's newfound strength. She'd been strong too, in her quiet way. Perhaps that's where Alicent had found this steel spine—not from his careful molding, but from her mother's distant example.

 

I remain, as always, your devoted father. Should you have need of anything—counsel, assistance, or simply correspondence—you need only ask.

 

He signed it simply: Otto Hightower.

 

Not Your loving father or Hand of the King or any of the titles and relationships that had once defined him. Just a name, as distant and formal as she had apparently chosen to make things between them.

 

Otto sealed the letter carefully and handed it to Beth, who accepted it with the reverence of a holy offering.

 

"Thank you, Uncle. I'm sure the Queen will be pleased to hear from you."

 

Will she? Otto wondered. Or would his letter join whatever other correspondence from him had apparently been deemed unworthy of response?

 

"Before you go," Otto said, his mind already turning to practical matters. "Send word to Gwayne. Tell him I wish to speak with him immediately."

 

Beth nodded and curtsied before hurrying off, no doubt eager to share her news with the rest of the household. Otto returned to his desk, considering. If Beth was to go to court, she would need proper escort. And perhaps it was time his son remembered where his loyalties should lie.

 

Gwayne arrived within the hour, still in his practice leathers from the training yard. At twenty-five, he'd grown into a fine knight, though Otto sometimes wondered if the boy possessed the political acumen necessary to advance the family's interests. He was too honest, too straightforward—qualities that served him well with a sword but poorly in the game of thrones.

 

"You sent for me, Father?"

 

"Sit," Otto commanded, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "Your cousin Beth has received an invitation to serve as one of Queen Alicent's Maidens in Waiting."

 

Gwayne's eyebrows rose. "That's... unexpected. Alicent has been rather selective about her correspondence lately."

 

So even Gwayne had noticed his sister's silence. Otto filed that observation away for later consideration.

 

"Indeed. Which is why you will escort her to King's Landing and remain at court."

 

"Father, I—"

 

"This is not a request." Otto's voice carried the steel that had once made kings listen. "Our family's position hangs in the balance, and I will not allow pride or comfort to prevent us from seizing this opportunity."

 

Gwayne shifted uncomfortably. "What would you have me do? Alicent has made it clear she has no desire for your counsel. What makes you think she'll welcome mine?"

 

"Because you're not me," Otto said bluntly. "You're her beloved brother, not the father who arranged her marriage. She may trust you where she no longer trusts me."

 

"And if she doesn't?"

 

Otto leaned back in his chair, studying his son's face. "Then you watch. You listen. You report back everything you observe about her condition, her household, her relationship with the King." He paused. "And you protect our interests."

 

As Beth left to begin her preparations, Otto returned to his window, though now he looked out not over his brother's city but over the ancient seat that should have been enough to satisfy any man's ambition. Oldtown was ancient and beautiful, full of history and learning. It should have been enough—being the second son who'd risen higher than his elder brother ever dreamed, advising kings while Hobert managed trade routes and grain stores.

 

It should have been enough, but it wasn't. Not when King's Landing pulsed with real power, when the Iron Throne sat empty of his influence, when his carefully laid plans were being dismantled by a daughter who no longer remembered why they'd been necessary in the first place.

 

The game continued without him, and that was perhaps the most galling thing of all. He'd spent decades positioning pieces, building alliances, securing his family's future. And now those very pieces were moving independently, making their own choices, pursuing their own goals.

 

His sister Marie, establishing herself as the Queen's trusted advisor. His daughter, wielding authority he'd taught her to claim but never expected her to use against him. His grandchildren, growing up in a court where the Hightower name carried weight but the man who'd made it powerful remained conspicuously absent.

 

Otto closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of honest assessment. He was proud of Alicent—how could he not be? The reports painted a picture of a queen coming into her own, a woman finally worthy of her crown. This was what he'd always wanted for her.

 

But pride was a cold comfort when it came at the cost of his own relevance. He'd created a queen, yes. But in doing so, he'd apparently made himself obsolete.

 

The irony would have been amusing if it hadn't been so thoroughly maddening.

 

Otto Hightower, master of the game, outplayed by his own daughter. And the worst part was, he wasn't even sure she was playing at all. Her moves seemed too natural, too unconscious, too much like someone who had simply decided to be herself rather than someone executing a careful strategy.

 

Perhaps that was the most dangerous opponent of all—someone who wasn't playing the game but was simply living authentically. Such people were unpredictable, uncontrollable, immune to the usual levers of influence and manipulation.

 

Such people changed everything, usually without meaning to.

 

Otto opened his eyes and returned to his correspondence, but the words on the page seemed distant and unimportant. Grain shipments and trade agreements felt like children's games compared to the shifting dynamics in King's Landing.

 

But he would wait. He would watch. And when the time came—when his daughter needed him again, when the game grew too complex for even her newfound confidence to navigate—he would be ready.

 

After all, he was still Otto Hightower. Still a master of the great game, even if he was currently playing from exile.

 

And games, he'd learned, were rarely over when you thought they were.

 

______________

Viserys

 

The infection had spread again.

 

Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, sat in his chambers while Grand Maester Orywle examined the festering wound on his back with barely concealed dismay. The cuts from the Iron Throne seemed to heal more slowly each time, if they healed at all.

 

"Perhaps we should consider... alternative treatments, Your Grace," Orywle said carefully, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had delivered this same gentle suggestion many times before.

 

Viserys waved him away with practiced irritation. "The same remedies as always, Grand Maester. I have work to attend to."

 

But as Orywle gathered his instruments and potions, Viserys found his mind wandering not to matters of state, but to the woman who had once fussed over these very wounds with gentle hands and worried eyes.

 

Alicent used to tend to him herself during his flare-ups, back when she was still... well, when she was still the woman he'd married. She would come to his chambers when the pain was particularly bad, reading to him from histories or simply humming those sweet songs she'd learned in Oldtown. Her touch had been soft, careful, devoted.

 

Now she sent Grand Maester Orywle instead. During his last episode—three weeks of festering sores and fever that had left him bedridden—she'd visited exactly twice. Both times she'd stayed mere minutes, asking perfunctory questions about his comfort before retreating to her own chambers with barely concealed haste.

 

But when little Helaena had caught that slight flu last week? Alicent had practically moved into the child's sickroom. She'd tended the girl personally, bringing cool cloths for her fever, coaxing her to eat, reading story after story until her voice grew hoarse. For three days, his wife had been the picture of devoted care—just not for him.

 

When did that change? he wondered, settling back into his chair with a grimace. The accident, obviously. That damned fall that had addled her memory and somehow transformed his gentle, attentive wife into this... stranger.

 

Not that the changes were entirely unwelcome. Gods, no. The new Alicent was magnificent in ways that still took his breath away. The way she'd faced down Rhaenyra at that dinner, the steel in her voice when she'd defended herself against his daughter's cruel words... it had stirred something in him he'd thought long dead. She was a queen now in truth, not just in title, commanding respect rather than simply hoping for it.

 

But she'd been so sweet before. So eager to please him, to anticipate his needs, to make him feel like the center of her world. She would light up when he entered a room, as if his mere presence was a gift. She would hang on his words when he told her stories of dragons and conquest, her green eyes wide with fascination.

 

Now she listened politely when he spoke, but her attention seemed... divided. Always thinking about something else, some household matter or concern with the children that apparently took precedence over his conversation.

 

The children. That was perhaps the most dramatic change of all.

 

Before the accident, Alicent had been a dutiful mother, of course. She'd loved their children, had seen to their basic needs, had made sure they were properly educated and cared for. But she'd also understood that they had nurses and septas and maesters for a reason. Royal children were meant to be seen at appropriate times, presented properly, and then returned to their caregivers while their parents attended to the business of ruling.

 

Now she acted as if she were some common merchant's wife, constantly surrounded by children, always aware of where they were and what they were doing. She'd dismissed Septa Agatha entirely and taken over much of their daily care herself. It was... unseemly, really. Beneath her station.

 

Just yesterday he'd gone to her solar expecting to find her available for conversation, perhaps to share some wine and discuss the business of the day. Instead, he'd found her on the floor—on the floor!—playing some elaborate game with wooden blocks while Daeron shrieked with laughter and Helaena sang nonsense songs to her embroidery.

 

"Viserys!" she'd said, looking up at him with genuine pleasure. "Come, join us. Daeron has built an entire castle, and now we're going to knock it down so he can build it again."

 

The invitation had been warm, inclusive, but also somehow... dismissive. As if he were just another playmate rather than her king and husband. As if this children's game was more important than whatever matter had brought him to seek her company.

 

He'd made some excuse and left, feeling strangely petulant. When had his wife's attention become something he had to compete for with toddlers?

 

It wasn't that he didn't love his children—he did, deeply. But there was a natural order to things. Children had their place, and that place was not constantly underfoot, demanding attention that should rightfully belong to more important matters. To him.

 

The worst part was how much the children seemed to thrive under this new arrangement. Aegon had grown from a sulky, difficult boy into someone with actual purpose. He applied himself to his lessons now, showed genuine interest in his dragon, even displayed flashes of the kind of natural authority that might actually make him a decent Lord someday.

 

Aemond had emerged from his shell entirely, chattering away about everything from dragon lore to histories to whatever story his mother had told him the night before. The boy who had once hidden behind his septa's skirts now approached his father with confidence, eager to share his latest accomplishment or seek advice.

 

Even little Helaena seemed brighter, more present. Less lost in whatever strange things usually occupied her mind.

 

And Daeron... gods, Daeron was thriving. The boy who had barely spoken before now babbled constantly, his vocabulary expanding daily under his mother's patient attention. He followed Alicent around like a devoted puppy, secure in the knowledge that she would always have time for him.

 

It was wonderful to see them so happy, so confident. But it also left Viserys feeling oddly... displaced. As if his role in their lives had somehow diminished in direct proportion to their mother's increased involvement.

 

Before, when Alicent had been more distant with the children, they'd come to him occasionally—though even then, their visits had felt dutiful rather than affectionate. Aegon had approached him with the stiff formality of a courtier seeking audience. Aemond had mumbled through conversations about dragons, clearly eager to escape. Even Helaena had seemed more interested in her embroidery than in anything he had to say.

 

He'd told himself it was natural—royal children were raised by septas and maesters, not parents. But watching them now with their mother, seeing the easy affection and genuine joy in their interactions, he realized the truth was more uncomfortable. They'd never sought him out because they'd never felt particularly welcome. His attention had always been... limited. Distracted by matters of state, by his failing health, by the simple fact that children required an energy he'd never quite possessed.

 

Now they went to their mother first for everything. Comfort, guidance, entertainment, approval—it all flowed through Alicent as if she were the sun around which their small worlds revolved.

 

He should be pleased. He was pleased. A strong mother was better for the children than a nervous, uncertain one. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd lost something in the bargain, some special place in their lives that he might never get back.

 

The pregnancy wasn't helping matters either. This would be their fifth child together.

 Alicent was radiant in her expectation, glowing with health and contentment in a way that made her more beautiful than ever.

 

But she was also... distant. More easily fatigued than she'd been with previous pregnancies, less interested in his company. She retired to her own chambers each night—as she always had, of course. Royal couples maintaining separate apartments was hardly unusual. But now her polite goodnights felt more like dismissals, her brief kisses more like obligations fulfilled rather than affection expressed.

 

This will be the last one, he'd decided months ago, though he hadn't told her yet. The thought of losing her the way he'd lost Aemma was unbearable, and each pregnancy carried risks. Besides, they had four healthy children already, soon to be five. Surely that was enough for any man, even a king.

 

But the decision also felt like an admission of defeat. That whatever intimate connection they'd once shared—the careful, dutiful encounters in her chambers that had produced their children—was finished forever. She seemed as relieved by the prospect as he was melancholy about it.

 

Maybe she'll visit me more often then, he thought, then immediately felt petulant for the thought. What kind of man resented his wife for caring more about their sick child than his chronic complaints? What kind of king felt jealous of a six-year-old with a fever?

 

A sick one, perhaps. A man whose body was slowly rotting from within, who sometimes caught his wife looking at him with something that might have been disgust before she carefully schooled her features back to polite concern. She thought he didn't notice, but he did. The way her eyes would linger on his bandages with barely concealed revulsion, the way she held her breath slightly when changing his dressings, as if the smell of his decay was too much to bear.

 

Not that he could blame her. The infections had grown worse over the years, the wounds more reluctant to heal, the odor more persistent despite the maesters' best efforts. He was rotting alive, piece by piece, and expecting his beautiful young wife to tend to him with devotion seemed... unreasonable, when viewed in that light.

 

But it didn't stop him from missing the way she used to look at him. With worry, yes, but also with genuine care. Before she'd learned to keep her expressions carefully neutral when faced with his decay.

 

The door to his chambers opened, interrupting his brooding. Alicent entered without ceremony, carrying a tray of food and wearing one of those gowns that somehow managed to accommodate her growing belly while still making her look like a goddess.

 

"You missed the midday meal," she said without reproach, setting the tray on his table. "I thought you might be hungry."

 

She moved with such easy grace, even heavy with child. Every gesture was economical, purposeful, confident in a way that still sometimes took him by surprise. This was not the hesitant girl he'd married, who'd second-guessed every decision and sought approval for the smallest choices.

 

"Thank you," he said, meaning it. "You didn't need to trouble yourself."

 

"It's no trouble." She settled into the chair across from him, one hand unconsciously resting on her belly. "How are you feeling? Your back looked... troublesome this morning."

 

So she had noticed. The observation warmed him more than it should have.

 

"Orywle says it's healing well," he lied smoothly. No need to burden her with his worries, especially in her condition.

 

Alicent's eyes sharpened slightly, and for a moment he had the uncomfortable feeling that she could see right through his casual dismissal. But she only nodded and said, "That's good to hear."

 

They sat in companionable silence while he ate, and Viserys found himself studying his wife's face. She looked well—better than well, really. The pregnancy suited her, brought color to her cheeks and a glow to her skin that made her seem younger than her years.

 

"The children are well?" he asked, more to fill the silence than from any real concern. If something was wrong, he would have heard about it by now.

 

"Very well. Aegon's been practicing his sums with remarkable dedication, and Aemond has begun learning his letters." Her smile was soft, proud. "Helaena has been helping me plan the nursery arrangements for the baby, and Daeron..." She laughed. "Daeron has decided he's going to be the baby's protector. He's been practicing his fierce faces."

 

The warmth in her voice when she spoke of their children was unmistakable. This wasn't duty or obligation—this was genuine joy, deep satisfaction in their happiness and growth.

 

When had she ever spoken of him with such warmth? Such obvious delight?

 

"And you?" he asked. "How are you feeling? You seem... tired lately."

 

"I'm well," she said simply. "Just the normal aches and inconveniences of carrying a child. Nothing to worry about."

 

As if any of this was normal. As if queens regularly tended their own children and kings regularly felt like strangers in their own households.

 

"Alicent," he began, then stopped, unsure how to voice what he was thinking. How did one tell his wife that he missed the way she used to need him? That he felt somehow diminished by her newfound strength?

 

"Yes?"

 

"Nothing," he said finally. "Just... I'm glad you're happy."

 

And he was. Despite his petulance, despite his confused sense of displacement, he was genuinely glad to see her thriving. She deserved happiness, deserved to feel confident and capable and valued.

 

He only wished her happiness didn't somehow make him feel so... unnecessary.

 

"I should return to the children," she said, rising with the careful grace of a woman well along in her pregnancy. "Daeron will be waking from his nap soon, and he gets fussy if I'm not there."

 

Of course he does, Viserys thought, but kept the observation to himself.

 

"Of course," he said instead. "Thank you for the meal. And for... checking on me."

 

She paused at the door, looking back at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. For a moment, it seemed as if she might say something more, something important.

 

But then the moment passed, and she was gone, leaving him alone with his meal and his increasingly uncomfortable thoughts.

 

Viserys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, sat in his empty chambers and wondered when he had become so thoroughly irrelevant in his own life. Outside his window, he could hear the distant sound of children's laughter—his children, no doubt being entertained by their remarkable mother.

 

He should go join them. Should make himself part of their joy instead of sitting here nursing his wounded pride like some neglected child.

 

Instead, he turned back to his meal and tried not to think about how quiet the room felt without her in it.

 

__________

 

Larys

Larys made his way through the corridors of the Red Keep, his walking stick tapping softly against the stone, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. That had been... illuminating. Far more so than he'd expected when he'd arranged this little visit under the pretense of discussing the previous night's dinner incident.

 

The woman he'd just left was not Queen Alicent Hightower. Oh, she wore Alicent's face perfectly, knew all the right details, even carried herself in Alicent's body with practiced ease. But the mind behind those brown eyes was something else entirely. Someone else entirely.

 

The question was: what was he going to do about it?

 

Larys paused in an empty alcove, ostensibly to adjust his grip on his walking stick, but really to savor the moment. For years before her "accident," he'd been so carefully, so patiently breaking down the real Alicent's defenses. It had been delicious work, the kind of long-term project that required both skill and dedication.

 

She'd been perfect for it, really. Young, isolated, desperately insecure beneath her royal facade. Married to a king who barely noticed her existence, tormented by a stepdaughter who seemed determined to make her life miserable, and surrounded by courtiers who saw her as little more than a broodmare for Targaryen heirs.

 

He'd started slowly, of course. Gentle conversations during those precious windows when her brutish guardian Ser Criston was occupied elsewhere. Unlike that sword-swinging fool, Larys understood the value of patience, of observation, of finding exactly the right pressure points to apply at exactly the right moments.

 

"Your Grace seems troubled today. Perhaps you'd find it... soothing to remove your shoes? I find bare feet help one think more clearly."

 

Such a simple request, the first time. Justified by his own clubfoot, his supposed understanding of foot pain and discomfort. She'd been hesitant, embarrassed, but she'd complied. And in that moment of compliance, that small surrender of dignity, he'd felt the familiar thrill that had nothing to do with any base physical desire.

 

It was about power. Pure, perfect power over another human being. The ability to make someone do something they didn't want to do, simply because he'd asked. Because he'd positioned himself as someone whose requests couldn't be refused without consequences.

 

The real Alicent had never understood that distinction. She'd assumed, in her limited way, that his requests were rooted in some sort of sexual perversion. She'd endured them with the resigned disgust of a woman who believed all men were ultimately base creatures driven by their appetites.

 

She'd never grasped the truth: that her humiliation was the point. Her discomfort, her reluctant compliance, her growing awareness that she was trapped in a dynamic she couldn't escape without losing his valuable counsel—that was what fed him. The knowledge that he could reduce a queen to a nervous girl removing her shoes on command, that he could make her complicit in her own degradation.

 

It had taken years to build to that point, of course. Years of careful grooming, of alternating kindness with subtle cruelty, of making himself indispensable while simultaneously making her more and more dependent on his approval. He'd studied her reactions, mapped her insecurities, learned exactly which words would make her doubt herself and which would make her grateful for his guidance.

 

By the time he'd begun making his more... unconventional requests, she'd been so thoroughly conditioned that resistance had become nearly impossible. She'd known the requests were wrong, had hated every moment of deference, but she'd also known that refusing him meant losing the only person in the Red Keep who seemed to understand her position.

 

It had been beautiful, in its way. A masterwork of psychological manipulation that had taken a proud young queen and transformed her into something malleable, controllable, useful. He'd been so close to completing the process, to creating a perfect instrument of his will who would still believe she was making her own choices.

 

And then the accident had ruined everything.

 

No—not ruined. Changed.Because the woman he'd just spoken with was something far more interesting than his carefully broken queen would ever have been.

 

This one had seen through his philosophical probing immediately. Had recognized the threat implicit in his offers of friendship. Had managed her responses with the skill of someone who understood exactly what game they were playing and exactly how dangerous her opponent was.

 

There would be no removing shoes with this one. No gradual conditioning, no slow erosion of dignity and self-respect. She was too aware, too intelligent, too fundamentally different from the woman he'd spent years molding.

 

But that didn't mean she was beyond his reach. It simply meant he needed to find new pressure points, new vulnerabilities, new ways to establish the power dynamic he craved.

 

He felt slighted that he wasn't mentioned. It was an emotion he rarely felt but then what should he expect from the fools she surrounded herself with and from what he heard, more was coming to join this act she called her household. A household she planned to use to strengthen Aegon's claim to the throne. It means that her fear for her children's lives was increased.

 

Fear was useful. Fear could be cultivated, shaped, directed. He'd used the real Alicent's fear of court isolation to make her dependent on him. 

 

But it would require a different approach entirely. No more gradual grooming—this one would see through that immediately. No more positioning himself as her only friend—she was too self-possessed to believe she needed his particular brand of friendship.

 

No, this would require something more like... negotiation. A partnership built on mutual benefit and carefully balanced threats. She had something he wanted—access to the highest levels of power, the ability to influence royal decisions.

 

The old dynamic had been about breaking her down, reshaping her into an image of himself—intelligent, manipulative, willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve her goals. This new dynamic would have to be about... collaboration. Two predators circling each other, testing boundaries, seeking advantage without destroying the delicate balance that kept them both safe.

 

It was almost disappointing, really. The slow corruption of the real Alicent had been such satisfying work, like crafting a fine piece of art or training a particularly stubborn animal. There had been genuine artistry in the way he'd gradually eroded her self-respect while making her grateful for the privilege.

 

This woman would require cruder methods. More direct threats, clearer negotiations, explicit acknowledgments of the power he held over her. Less elegant, perhaps, but potentially more immediately profitable.

 

And there was something to be said for having an opponent who could actually challenge him. The real Alicent had been like playing chess against a child—satisfying in its way, but ultimately limited by her inability to truly understand the game. This replacement might actually prove capable of worthwhile moves, interesting strategies, genuine intellectual engagement.

 

Larys resumed his walk, his mind already working through possibilities. He would need to be careful, of course. This new Alicent was clearly more dangerous than her predecessor, more capable of recognizing and responding to threats. But she was also more isolated, in her way—cut off from whatever history and relationships the real Alicent had built, forced to navigate court politics without the benefit of years of gradual learning.

 

She would make mistakes. And when she did, he would be there to help her understand just how valuable his friendship could be. And how costly his enmity is.

 

The game had changed, but it was far from over. If anything, it had just become infinitely more interesting.

 

Everyone had vulnerabilities. Everyone had fears. Everyone had something they couldn't afford to lose.

 

He just needed to figure out what this impossible woman's weaknesses were, and then begin the delicate work of exploiting them.

 

After all, he'd built one Queen Alicent Hightower from scratch. How hard could it be to rebuild another?

 

---

 

Larys made his way to the solar where his father held court, his walking stick echoing against stone as he considered the delicate conversation ahead.

 

Lord Lyonel Strong sat behind the great oak desk, reviewing correspondence with the methodical attention that had made him such an effective, if uninspiring, Hand. At fifty-two, his father was still a handsome man—tall where Larys was slight, strong where Larys was twisted, straightforward where Larys was... complex.

 

"Larys." His father looked up with genuine warmth. "Good. I wanted to speak with you about the household arrangements for next month's feast day."

 

Such mundane concerns. Larys settled into his chair and arranged his features into appropriate attentiveness while his mind wandered to more interesting matters. His father was a good man—honest, dutiful, beloved by his small folk and respected by his peers. All qualities that made him profoundly predictable and, therefore, ultimately boring.

 

The solar door opened to admit Harwin, fresh from his duties with Princess Rhaenyra's household. At twenty-eight, Larys's older brother had grown into everything their father could have wished for in an heir—tall, strong, honorable to a fault. He was also, in Larys's considered opinion, a complete fool.

 

"Father, Larys." Harwin nodded to both of them, settling his considerable frame into a chair that creaked under his weight. "Sorry I'm late. The Princess's boys were... energetic during their lessons."

 

The Princess's boys. Such careful phrasing, though everyone with eyes could see the truth written in those features. 

 

"How are young Jacaerys and Lucerys?" their father asked with genuine interest. Lord Lyonel had always been fond of children, even ones whose parentage was somewhat... questionable.

 

"Growing quickly. Jace is becoming quite the little dragon lord—already talking about when he'll be old enough to fly properly. And Luke..." Harwin's smile was soft with unmistakable paternal pride. "Luke is curious about everything. Always asking questions, always getting into mischief."

 

Paternal pride. For bastards who could never bear his name, could never inherit his lands, could never publicly acknowledge him as their father. It would have been tragic if it weren't so pathetically short-sighted.

 

"And the Queen?" Larys asked casually. "I understand she's been... welcoming to the boys lately."

 

Harwin's expression brightened considerably. "Remarkably so. She includes them in everything she does with her own children—meals, stories, even visits to the dragonpit. Yesterday she helped Jace practice his High Valyrian while little Luke played with Prince Daeron. It's... kind of her."

 

 Such a simple word for such complex maneuvering. The new Alicent was clearly building alliances, making herself indispensable to Rhaenyra's children in ways that would pay dividends later. It was actually quite clever, assuming she understood the long-term implications of such gestures.

 

"The Queen has always been good with children," their father observed diplomatically.

 

"She has," Harwin agreed, then hesitated. "Though... she seems different lately. More confident, perhaps. More... present. As if she's finally comfortable in her role."

 

Different. There was that word again. Even Harwin, for all his limitations, had noticed the transformation. Of course, Harwin was too honest to suspect the truth, too straightforward to imagine the impossibility Larys was beginning to understand.

 

"Motherhood suits her," Larys said smoothly. "Each child seems to bring out new strengths."

 

"Indeed." Harwin's smile was genuine. "She asked after my own daughters yesterday. Wanted to know their ages, their interests. Said she'd like to meet them someday."

 

 Larys felt a familiar flash of contempt for his brother's situation. Two legitimate children languishing at Harrenhal while their father played house with his royal whore and her bastards. It was almost poetic in its stupidity.

 

"How are Lianne and Zia?" their father asked, echoing the Queen's supposed interest. "It's been too long since we've had word from Harrenhal."

 

Harwin's expression flickered—just for a moment, but Larys caught it. Guilt, perhaps. Or worry.

 

"They're well," Harwin said carefully. "Growing strong. Lianne is becoming quite accomplished with her needlework, and little Zia has her mother's musical talents."

 

Eleyna Mallister, the wife Harwin had abandoned in all but name for his royal obsession. Larys had visited Harrenhal just two months ago, ostensibly on estate business but really to assess the situation for himself.

 

What he'd found had been... illuminating.

 

Eleyna Strong née Mallister had once been the perfect noble wife—soft-spoken, dutiful, devoted to her absent husband despite his obvious neglect. The type of woman who made excuses for her husband's prolonged absences, who raised his daughters with stories of their heroic father serving the crown, who waited patiently for visits that came less and less frequently.

 

That woman was gone. In her place was something harder, more bitter, more dangerous. The transformation had been gradual—years of lonely nights, unanswered letters, and whispered rumors about her husband's true duties in King's Landing had slowly eroded her sweetness until only resentment remained.

 

"He has a wife and daughters here," she'd told Larys during their private conversation, her voice tight with barely controlled fury. "But apparently we're less important than playing nursemaid to bastards who can never acknowledge him."

 

She'd been drinking more than was proper for a lady of her station, Larys had noticed. And talking more freely than was wise. About her husband's neglect, about the rumors surrounding Princess Rhaenyra, about how poorly the Strong name was served by such divided loyalties.

 

A woman scorned was indeed dangerous—particularly one with legitimate grievances and growing desperation. Eleyna Strong was becoming a problem that would eventually require... management.

 

"Give them my regards when next you write," their father was saying to Harwin. "Perhaps we might visit soon. It's been too long since I've seen my granddaughters."

 

"Of course," Harwin replied, but Larys caught the slight tightness around his eyes. When had Harwin last written to his wife? When had he last seen his legitimate children? 

 

The irony was delicious. Here was Harwin, praising the Queen's kindness to bastard children while his own daughters grew up barely knowing their father. Playing the devoted guardian to princes who couldn't publicly claim him while neglecting the family that bore his name.

 

"Well," their father said, rising from his desk, "I should review these grain reports before the evening meal. Larys, that matter we discussed yesterday—have you given it more thought?"

 

"Indeed, Father. I believe the situation is well in hand."

 

Such careful words for such complex truths. The situation was many things—fascinating, dangerous, profitable—but "well in hand" was not among them. Not yet.

 

As they parted ways, Larys found himself thinking not about his father's mundane concerns or even his brother's romantic foolishness, but about the various threads of vulnerability that surrounded them all. Harwin's divided loyalties. Eleyna's growing bitterness. The Queen's personality change.

 

So many pressure points. So many opportunities for the right person to apply exactly the right amount of force at exactly the right moment.

 

The game was indeed becoming more interesting by the day.

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

(I will slowly post the fancast each of the OCs as the story progresses)

Yasemin Allen as Beth Hightower

Naomi Watts as Marie Marbrand

Kaitlyn Dever as Ophelia Willise

 

Come talk to me on TUMBLR and give me fancast suggestions for Myriah, Uncle Septon Martyn and basement dweller Great Uncle Emerick (the lore for him is crazy lol).

Chapter 12: The Royal Flush

Notes:

Just a filler chapter!

 

 

It took me a week to realise that my solar had become the busiest place in the entire Keep. It became so busy that Talya basically started an appointment system. It seemed that everyone had a new grievance or something that needed to be fixed. Even servants were coming from the King's Household with requests and maybe it was the hormones, but I was being too accommodating. On top of that I began redecorating. I couldn't believe it took me this long to realise what was on the Tapestries that hung around the Keep. It wasn't that I was a prude but it was basically porn and it would sure give the children a complex. And from hearing the previous escapades of my brother-in-law and even Viserys himself, yeah it was best that it was taken down.

 

"Your Grace," Talya announced from the doorway, consulting the leather-bound ledger she'd taken to carrying everywhere. "Ser Laenor Velaryon requests an audience. He says it's... urgent domestic matter regarding Prince Lucerys."

 

I looked up from the fabric samples Marie had spread across my desk—we were choosing new tapestries that depicted flowers and dragons rather than ancient Valyrian lords having their way with various conquered peoples and dragons. "Domestic matter?"

 

"Those were his exact words, Your Grace. He seemed..." She paused, searching for the right word. "Flustered."

 

Interesting. In my limited interactions with Laenor, he'd always struck me as unflappable. What could possibly have him flustered about a two-year-old?

 

"Send him in."

 

Laenor entered looking distinctly uncomfortable, his usual easy confidence replaced by something approaching desperation. His hair was disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it, and there was a suspicious stain on his doublet that looked suspiciously like—

 

Oh. Oh no.

 

"Your Grace," he said, executing a perfect bow despite his obvious distress. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I... we have a problem."

 

"Please, sit." I gestured to the chair across from my desk, trying to keep my expression neutral. "What seems to be troubling you?"

 

He perched on the edge of the seat like a man ready to flee. "It's Luke. Lucerys. The Princess says you've been... helping with his training. His..." He winced. "Pot training."

 

The way he said it, like the words physically pained him, almost made me smile. Here was a man who could face down dragons and pirates, brought low by toddler bathroom habits.

 

"I have been helping, yes. He's made remarkable progress."

 

"That's just it!" Laenor leaned forward, desperation creeping into his voice. "He's perfect when he's with you. Uses the pot, asks when he needs to go, even wipes his own—" He caught himself, cheeks flushing. "Forgive me, Your Grace. This is hardly—"

 

"Ser Laenor." I held up a hand. "I have four children of my own, with a fifth on the way. Trust me, there is nothing about bodily functions that shocks me anymore. Continue."

 

He took a shaky breath. "When he's here, with you and your children, he's a perfect little gentleman. But the moment—the moment—he's back with us?" Laenor gestured helplessly. "It's as if he's forgotten everything. Yesterday alone he soiled himself three times. Three times! And each time, when we ask why he didn't use the pot, do you know what he says?"

 

"I'm afraid to ask."

 

"'Only for Queen Mama.'" Laenor's voice was flat with defeat.

 

I blinked. "Queen Mama?"

 

"That's what he calls you. And somehow he's gotten it into his little head that potty training only applies when Queen Mama is around." His expression was somewhere between admiration and complete bewilderment. "The servants are at their wit's end, Rhaenyra is beside herself, and I..." He gestured at the stain on his doublet. "I may never recover from this morning's incident."

 

Despite myself, I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing. "I see the problem. Luke has learned the skill, but he hasn't—"

 

"How?" Laenor interrupted, staring at me like I'd just performed magic. "How do you see anything? How do you know what to do about... about any of this? I've never heard anyone speak so..." He searched for words. "So specifically about children's behavior."

 

Good question. It seemed like I was picking up a lot of things, maybe a career change to child psychology would do good when I returned. Then everyone would think I'm mad.

 

"Four children teach you a great deal," I said carefully. "Trial and error, mostly. Plus my aunt Marie raised six—"

 

"Six children." Laenor's voice was faint. "Gods preserve us all."

 

"The solution is actually quite simple, though it will require some coordination."

 

"Anything." He leaned forward eagerly. "I'll do anything. Rhaenyra is ready to call in maesters, and honestly, so am I."

 

"No maesters necessary. What we need is consistency. Luke needs to see that the same rules apply everywhere, with everyone." I leaned back, already planning. "Tomorrow, bring him here during his usual time. I'll demonstrate the routine with my children present, then you'll take him to use the pot in your chambers while I supervise. We'll gradually reduce my presence until he understands—"

 

"That actually sounds like it might work," Laenor said, wonder in his voice.

 

"It will work. We'll also need Rhaenyra to use the exact same language and routine. No baby talk, no different commands. If I say 'time to use the pot,' she needs to say exactly the same thing."

 

"I'll make sure she understands." He paused, shaking his head. "Your Grace, where did you learn all this? I've commanded ships, fought in a war, and none of it prepared me for a two-year-old with... selective bathroom habits."

 

I smiled. "Children are logical, Ser Laenor. Their logic just operates on different premises than ours. Once you understand their reasoning, most behavioral issues become manageable."

 

"You make it sound so..." He gestured vaguely.

 

"Straightforward?"

 

"Logical."

 

He stood, looking more hopeful than when he'd arrived. "Thank you, Your Grace. Truly. I was beginning to think we'd be dealing with this until he was old enough for knighthood."

 

"Give it a week of consistency, and you'll see improvement. Two weeks, and he'll have it completely."

 

Laenor paused at the door. "Your Grace? The Princess was... hesitant to ask for help. She felt it might seem like..." He trailed off uncomfortably.

 

"Inadequate mothering," I finished gently.

 

"Yes."

 

"Please tell the Princess that every parent faces these challenges. There's no shame in asking for guidance." I smiled. "We're all just trying to do our best."

 

His relief was palpable. "I'll tell her. And Your Grace? Thank you for not laughing me out of the room."

 

After he left, I marveled at how my day had gone from choosing tapestries to solving potty training logistics. This was definitely not the kind of royal duty they covered in the history books.

 

"Talya," I called. "What's next?"

 

She consulted her ledger with practiced efficiency. "The head cook wants to discuss menu changes, and after that, Ser Steffon requested time to discuss... household security arrangements."

 

I sighed. At this rate, I was going to need a bigger solar.

 

---

 

The next morning found me in the guest chambers with Marie and a small army of servants carrying linens and furniture. The apartments I'd selected for my incoming ladies needed significant attention after sitting unused for years.

 

"This chamber will suit Beth perfectly," Marie said, watching servants arrange furniture. "Close enough for easy access, but far enough for privacy. And look at that morning light—excellent for needlework."

 

I nodded, examining the fresh tapestries being hung. "What about the others?"

 

"Lady Rosalind overlooking the gardens—fitting for a Fossoway, don't you think? She'll love watching the apple trees bloom." Marie glanced at her notes. "Lady Melyssa near the training yards. That girl has always been spirited."

 

"She'll want to watch the knights practice," I agreed.

 

"Exactly. And your aunt Amanda..."

 

"Has very specific requirements about light and breezes," I finished with a smile. "The corner chamber?"

 

"Perfect dual-facing windows. She may be family, but twenty years as mistress of her own household means she'll expect certain standards."

 

I moved to examine the nursery preparations. "And the baby's space?"

 

"Coming along beautifully," Ophelia called out from behind a screen. "Wet nurse quarters are ready, and we've positioned everything for easy night feedings."

 

"The seamstresses finished the first batch of clothing too," Marie added. "Court-appropriate, but with individual touches. Can't have them looking like they're wearing uniforms."

 

"And security?"

 

"Ser Criston is handling it personally."

 

As if summoned, Criston appeared in the doorway. "Your Grace, might we discuss the children's... additional arrangements?"

 

Right. The companions. I followed him to a quieter alcove where Marie, Talya, and Ophelia were waiting.

 

"We need to address the children's social development," I began. "They're spending too much time with only family or in lessons. They need peers."

 

Criston nodded. "I've been making inquiries. Several possibilities."

 

"The key," Marie interjected, "is balance. Loyal families, but not so ambitious they'll use their children as political pawns."

 

"Agreed. What about ages?" The baby kicked sharply, and I shifted. "We need coverage for everyone."

 

Talya consulted her notes. "Prince Aegon needs companions around eight or nine. Prince Aemond would benefit from six to seven-year-olds. Princess Helaena should have peers her age, maybe slightly younger ones she can guide. And Prince Daeron needs playmates close to three."

 

"And we should consider personalities," I added. "Aegon needs intellectual challenge without authority competition. Aemond needs confidence-builders. Helaena needs patient, gentle souls who won't be frightened by her…..pets"

 

Little girls were squeamish at that age and I didn't need Helaena isolating herself because others didn't share or were afraid of her interest.

 

Ophelia grinned. “Especially Manny the cricket and Lilly the spider”

 

"Those would be the ones, yes. And Daeron just needs children who can keep up with his energy."

 

Criston looked overwhelmed. "In my experience, children tend to sort these things out themselves."

 

"They do," I agreed. "But they sort them out better with appropriate options. We're not arranging friendships—we're providing suitable pools of potential friends."

 

"Like... controlled interaction?" Talya asked, trying to follow my reasoning.

 

"Exactly. Expanding their world gradually, with oversight." I paused. "Plus, these companions will likely become important in their adult lives. Childhood friendships could shape political alliances decades from now."

 

Marie nodded approvingly. "Spoken like a true queen. What families are we considering?"

 

Criston straightened. "For Princess Helaena, the Velaryon girls. Aurore is eleven—old enough for gentle guidance. Her sister Shaera at nine would be closer to a peer. They're Ser Laenor's cousins, daughters of Ser Vaemond. Well-mannered, intelligent."

 

"Politically astute too," I mused. "Strengthens ties with Driftmark. What of their temperaments?"

 

"Patient, thoughtful. Aurore has a reputation for kindness to younger children. Shaera is quite a reader and is curious —she might appreciate Princess Helaena's... unique hobbies." added Aunt Marie, “I am in contact with Valaena, the girl's Aunt and she constantly sings their praises. I was about to suggest the girls but it seems Ser Cole had the same thought,”

 

"And young Lady Maris Baratheon," Talya said "Only four, but she's Lady Melyssa's niece. The Caron connection makes her family twice-loyal."

 

"A four-year-old for Helaena?" I raised an eyebrow.

 

"For both Princess Helaena and Prince Daeron," Ophelia interjected. "The girl is remarkably clever, and having a younger companion might help Princess Helaena develop nurturing instincts. Plus I heard the young lady also share the fascination with animals like the Princess"

 

I could have hugged and kissed all of them. Helaena was a peculiar child and many people found her off putting and the only ones who seemed to have patience with her was her brothers and siblings — and these days especially with Aegon sword lessons becoming more serious, they want to hear his stories or go to his chambers, leaving her lonesome.

 

"And for the boys?"

 

Criston grew more serious. "For Prince Aegon, Lukas Tyrell—thirteen, heir to Highgarden. Old enough for deference, close enough for genuine companionship. The Tyrells have always been... flexible, so a personal connection could prove valuable."

 

"Temperament?"

 

"Intelligent, well-educated, not overly ambitious. Understands protocol but won't make Prince Aegon feel overwhelmed "

 

Aegon was proved to have fits of melancholy especially when he felt overlooked. Words of affirmation were definitely his love language.

 

I nodded. "And Aemond?"

 

"Myles Dondarrion," Talya said, consulting notes. "Ten years old—six-year advantage for an older brother figure. Lady Melyssa's son, heir to Blackhaven. Dondarrions are raised on tales of honor and courage."

 

"Family connection, martial tradition, proper age gap for mentorship," I mused. "I like it."

 

"For Prince Daeron, along with young Lady Maris, Dorian Ashford," Criston continued. "Five to Daeron's two—old enough to lead play but young enough to enjoy toddler games. Your cousin through Lady Myriah. Ashfords are steady, reliable."

 

"Steady is exactly what Daeron needs." I considered the spread. "Leon Estermont?"

 

"Eight years old," Marie added. "Could work with Prince Aemond as another older companion. Second son, less pressure. Unquestionable loyalty, and island stories to share."

 

"And Martin Reyne," Ophelia said with a grin. "Seven, second son of Lord Reyne. Nephew to both Lannister twins through his mother. Perfect for Prince Aemond—old enough to look up to, young enough for play."

 

"So we'd have the Reach, Stormlands, Westerlands..." I calculated. "The Velaryon girls give us sea ties. Excellent geographic and political coverage."

 

Maybe when the children were older, they could get more companions from the North or the Vale. It was important that they learn about all people and their various cultures.

 

"More than that," Criston said thoughtfully, and I noticed how much more he was speaking than usual. "These children will grow up together, form lasting bonds. When they're adults ruling their lands, they'll have personal relationships with your children beyond mere politics."

 

"Exactly the point. We're building the next generation's network."

 

The three of them gave me confused looks before I realised that I used a word that they didn’t know. It was coming more of a common occurrence and although they were free to vice their opinions around me, the societal hierarchy still prevented them from really saying what they wanted to say. Thank God!

 

The silence that followed was broken by Marie clearing her throat. "Ser Criston... that may be the most you've spoken in a single conversation since I've been at court."

 

Ophelia snorted. "I was thinking the same thing. Usually we get grunts and nods."

 

Talya looked confused, but I caught Criston's eye and saw faint color in his cheeks. Our afternoon corridor conversation—when I'd challenged him about serving a person instead of worshipping an ideal.

 

"Perhaps," I said diplomatically, "Ser Criston simply needed the right topic. Children's welfare warrants thorough discussion."

 

The grateful look he gave me held understanding. He was still processing what it meant to see me as a real person rather than a perfect ideal.

 

"Indeed," he said quietly. "The children's happiness... it matters more than I previously considered."

 

Marie raised an eyebrow at his tone, but said nothing. Ophelia grinned like she'd uncovered a secret.

 

"Well then," I said, moving things along, "shall we begin extending invitations?”

 

Notes:

Gwayne arriving in the Red Keep:

Viserys last chapter:

Laenor when Luke refuse to use the pot:

Y'all in the comments with Harwin and Larys:

(You guys were going in on Harwin)

But anyways I posted the Cersei Reincarnted into Alicent body fic HERE.

Also come speak to me on TUMBLR.

I'll be answering every and all ask tomorrow. Ask me about anything!