Chapter Text
Rhaenyra dives. Faster and faster. Driving forward. To reach a state of nothing. To feel only the air, Syrax beneath her, thrumming within her. To make her mind an echoing, white blank. For her mind has become very clouded these past moons. A vice of anxiety around her throat. A portent of upheaval for her future gnawing at every thought.
Her Father is very ill, there are few who can reach him in his stupor of pain and sedation. Harwin is on campaign and it will be moons before he is able to return. She can only hope he will do so intact, safe. Laenor. Laenor tries. He is her staunchest ally and dearest friend, there is no doubt. But there is a distance yet between them, his lingering grief never healed. Their union its source in many ways.
She is alone. It has never been so stark just how isolated she has become in the place that is meant to be her home.
But that is not true exactly. There were years before her marriage that were arguably worse. The years after her Father’s betrothal and wedding to the one person who had meant the most. That isolation was incomparable. But also fueled by anger and a sense of righteous indignation. It had been easier to cling to those thorny feelings. Now her solitude is merely hollow, sprawling. Tinged occasionally by anger but more than anything else a vast expanse of uncertainty. An empty field that stretches and stretches, on and on before her. A storm just visible on the horizon.
If her father does not recover. It is unthinkable. To lose him is too great a sorrow to face.
And she is not ready. Her position too precarious. She must find a way to stave off her fate. Even for just a little while. To shore up her defences and her allies. To ensure the security of her bloodline. There must be a way before she takes her rightful place.
She leans into Syrax, shifts her hips and tugs the reigns just so. To pull up. To not crash into the rocks. Not yet.
***
Alicent swipes a cool, wet rag over the King’s brow. She takes soft muslin to clean the thick white saliva drying at the corners of his mouth. Drips broth over his cracked lips and releases a sigh of relief when he manages to swallow instead of sputtering and spewing like so many times before.
Viserys is unwell. There are murmurs everywhere but just how dire his condition is no one but the Small Council and a handful of Maesters truly know. It was a gradual deterioration until it wasn’t. He has had a fever and debilitating abdominal pain for nearly a moon’s turn now. He has not gotten worse exactly but he barely eats and cannot leave his bed. He is withering away. It will take time but it cannot go on like this forever.
Alicent’s mind churns constantly over what may happen if he does not recover. Aegon is but six. Her Father still so far from Court. How likely are the lords to support the claim of such a young boy when there is an adult with so many dragons at her disposal already named heir?
What will Rhaenyra do to her children? She could name Aegon as her heir until she sires one of her own. That is Alicent’s best hope but what after?
The sword, the sword, the sword.
It echoes within her. Rhaenyra will put her children to the sword. Or lock them away in a dark cell. Or a series of careful accidents will befall them one by one.
She tries to push the thoughts away. There is so much to do. Viserys is not dying. He cannot be. Not yet. She can build up her allies. Build a contingency plan to spirit her children to Oldtown if necessary. That is the most important thing. Their safety above all else. She will continue her duties, see to the care of her husband. But she will also ensure a means of escape if the worst should come to pass.
She is startled from her contemplation by the scrape of the door behind her. Rhaenyra stands in the frame.
“My apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean to disturb you. I thought you would be in the Sept at this time.”
Alicent narrows her eyes. She would ordinarily have left for the Sept by now but Viserys required additional attention this morning and so she was delayed. She feels disquieted that Rhaenyra is aware of her daily comings and goings.
“I am tending to my husband, as is my role, Princess,” Alicent says simply, though there is an edge of defensiveness.
Rhaenyra nods, shuffling to the other side of the bed and grabbing her father’s hand loosely. There is a pleasant smell surrounding her that manages to cut through the stagnant air. Citrus and smoke. Like Rhaenyra has come from her bath after riding. It is familiar, overwhelming Alicent’s senses. She gently blinks, quietly forcing air out her nose.
“How is he this morning?” Rhaenyra ventures.
“No better but no worse.” Alicent is terse. If Rhaenyra wishes for more detail she may consult the Maesters. “I will call for a Maester so I may go to the Sept and pray for the return of his health.”
“I can stay with him,” Rhaenyra says, eyes lingering sadly on her Father’s face for a moment before turning to Alicent.
Alicent does not hold her gaze, looking down at her own hands where they grip each other tightly. “As you will.”
Alicent stands and strides for the door. Before she goes, she looks back at Rhaenyra. Viserys’ hand still in hers. Anguish on her face. Alicent clenches her jaw and exits.
***
An irritated buzz drifts throughout the chamber. The Small Council has been debating the need for additional coin and men to be sent south to properly defend against the continuing attacks from the Dornish pretenders. A series of self-proclaimed princelings and their small forces all along the Dornish Marches have become an increasingly dire thorn in the Crown’s side. The losses have not been so heavy but the Crown’s men have made slow progress in soundly pushing back the invaders. Prince Qoren has been of no help. Ser Harwin along with a number of other seasoned knights from the Crownlands, the Reach, and the Riverlands were sent down, helping to lead the fighting for nearly four moons. This morning the Council received a missive by raven seeking further assistance to help speed their efforts.
“You cannot expect us to throw coin at every grievance that arrives from the Marches, Lord Hand. I know your son is reliable in his accounts of the difficulties they face but there must be a way for them to make do with the resources they have already been allocated. Truly, how is it that such battleworn men cannot stomp out these Dornish intruders and their lowly ilk? And why is it that the Marcherlords could not contain them in the first place? Westerlords would never tolerate such incursions,” Tyland Lannister gripes.
“I seem to recall the Westerlords seeking aid from the Crown not five years ago in dealing with Ironborn raids in your family’s territory, Ser Tyland. Is your memory so short?” Rhaenyra challenges him, the line of her lips thin.
Tyland glowers, but manages to keep his tone even in reply. “We may have sought men but given the financial contributions of my house and of the West overall to the Crown’s coffers such expenses were incurred by the West, if indirectly. Just as they will be incurred by the West if more resources are sent South. Neither the Stormlords nor the Marcherlords contribute enough resources of their own for this cause.”
“The Realm is one, Ser Tyland,” Rhaenyra parries. “All resources for the whole. We cannot appear weak by allowing a protracted fight to persist at our border. That will only encourage more pretenders to try to test us, spreading the fight over a greater distance. Better to act swiftly and forcefully to bring an end to it before they get the chance.”
The Queen inserts herself. “Princess, while I understand your reasoning we have already provided seasoned fighters and coin beyond what is normal for such skirmishes. Ser Tyland is right, the Stormlords are not taking suitable responsibility in defending this boundary. They have grown complacent and what’s more they are not meeting their obligations with regards to recruiting.”
Lord Beesbury concurs. “Nor are they providing sufficient records of accounting to explain their shortfalls in recent tax collection. Only Horn Hill has provided a surplus over previous years payments and though also defenders of the Marches, they are technically under the Reach’s purview,” he notes.
Rhaenyra bristles, disappointed by Beesbury. He is usually eager to support her but she supposes he is ought to chafe when it comes to the lords not fulfilling their duties to the Crown’s purse.
She tries again to distinguish the issue. “This is not an isolated Stormlands problem. This is a threat to the Realm as a whole.”
Alicent responds, her tone entirely patronising. “Princess, while I sympathise with your desire to bring this fighting to an end sooner rather than late, to return our brave fighters to their homes-”
Rhaenyra cuts her off. “Your brother Gwayne has been recently elevated to Captain within the Oldtown City Watch, has he not? For his lauded abilities in similar skirmishes with bandits. And yet I believe he currently sits at home. Has the Hightower sent any of their bannermen to the Marches, Your Grace?”
Rhaenyra watches Alicent’s eyes blaze, just for a moment, before the mask of tranquillity returns. “My brother has been defending the people of Oldtown and the Reach writ large from that continuing rash of bandit attacks you just mentioned. On the Roseroad and throughout the region. But if he is called to the Marches he will serve with honour.”
Rhaenyra readies a biting retort but is thwarted.
“I have heard enough,” Lord Lyonel breaks in. “We shall send a response indicating that there will be no increase in resources provided at this time. It will take longer but I have no doubt the forces already in place will restore peace in the region. We shall also send reminders to the Marcherlords of the consequences of their recent financial shortfalls and encourage them to increase their efforts to conscript men from their own lands. The King is never eager to overextend Crown resources where it can be avoided. We can avoid it here. Moreover, we have been in this chamber for long enough today. We should adjourn.”
Rhaenyra bites the inside of her cheek but does not object. She ignores the looks of satisfaction on the faces of Tyland and the Queen as they rise to exit from the chamber. Lord Lyonel begins to stand from his seat at the head of the table as well.
“Lord Hand, might I have a word?” Rhaenyra asks.
Lyonel sighs but slumps back down in his chair. “By all means, Princess.”
Rhaenyra waits until the rest of the Council has filed out of the room. “At this rate the fighting will go on for many moons longer than is truly necessary. I am no grand strategist but even I can see that this entire endeavour could be over well before the harvest if we sent more men. Not even so many. My Great-Grandfather did not hesitate to put down Dornish rebellion when it boiled over during his reign.”
“Princess, the circumstances of that war were rather different than those at play here. Moreover, the Stormlords, and in particular the Marcherlords, are not fulfilling their duties to the Crown. We cannot set a precedent rewarding such failures anymore than we already have. I do not relish requiring my son to continue this campaign for any longer than necessary but sacrifices must be made if the authority of the Crown is to be maintained. So long as the risk of deeper incursion remains low, the commanders must make do and the Marcherlords must compensate for any shortfalls. There is a lesson in hardship that they must learn.”
“And yet Ser Harwin and the men sent from the territories surrounding the Stormlands must also needlessly suffer that hardship simply because they are better suited to the task of leadership and military strategy,” Rhaenyra bites out.
“As is the lot of a knight,” Lyonel says kindly. “I am aware of your…fondness for my son. Such closeness is only natural between a sworn shield and the subject of their protection. However, you might take this opportunity, Princess, to reflect on whether the association between you and my son should continue once he returns. For both your sakes.”
Rhaenyra is no fool. She is all too aware of the whispers that have surrounded her and Harwin for the last three years. She had not, however, expected the Lord Hand to ever address them, even obliquely. It must be a source of great embarrassment for him. She does not know what to say.
“If that is all Princess, I am scheduled to take my dinner with the Commander of the City Watch very shortly.”
“That is all, Lord Hand,” Rhaenyra says quietly, eyes now pointed out the window, unfocused.
He pats her hand and leaves her alone in the chamber.
***
Aemond sits quietly in Alicent’s lap, cheek snuggled into her chest as she stares at the fire in the hearth. Helaena is on the floor, entranced by the images on the pages of a book recently gifted by her grandfather. Aegon has been sent to bed early for pinching his brother.
They are no longer squalling babes but a certain uneasiness in caring for her children has never abated. It has been the least challenging with Aemond. He welcomes her affection but does not beg for it. Though he is but two he is obedient, caring, observant. He rarely fusses.
Alicent aches for Helaena to let her give her comfort, affection, to no avail. She is so intelligent and so distant. Always digging in the garden for horrifying creatures. Always gently muttering fanciful or dark words that none can decipher. A true mystery to her mother.
Aegon acts out almost constantly. Desperate for her attention, her love, not knowing how to get it. She does not know how to give it. She loves him and it is not his fault but he is a living, breathing reminder of all that she has lost. Him more so than the others. She cannot say why it is so but it is so.
None of them truly know their father and it is possible they never will. They are too young but more so, Viserys has no need for these other children. Once Viserys lost interest in Aegon following the boy’s second nameday, there was no hope that he might concern himself with any of them. Their well-being, upbringing, interests.
No, for Viserys only sees Rhaenyra. His perfect daughter who continues to sully herself and the Crown by openly bedding a man who is not her husband. Who blatantly seeks to expend Crown resources so that this man might more quickly return to her bed. Who despite almost four years of marriage has as yet failed to produce an heir. She is Aemma’s daughter and that is all that matters to the King.
Alicent drinks from her goblet and smooths Aemond’s hair from his face. She stews for another half candlemark before calling for the nursemaid to put her children in their beds.
***
When Rhaenyra returns to her empty chambers she notices a series of papers on her writing desk, undoubtedly deposited by her lady, Elinda. She unfurls the sealed letter on top and instantly recognizes the messy hand.
Though they have never met in person, Rhaenyra first became acquainted with Maester Gerardys of Dragonstone when seeking to have a series of Old Valyrian tomes shipped to King’s Landing in advance of her father’s nameday two years prior. They have undertaken a consistent correspondence since that time and she has grown fond of the man and his more progressive approach to scientific application and historical study. She has been anticipating his most recent letter for some weeks.
Her Royal Highness the Princess of Dragonstone,
I send you warm tidings as well as my earnest hope that His Majesty’s health has improved since our last correspondence. I pray the courier I sent has made the sea voyage to reach you and that the papers he carried are intact.
The first set of papers detail a course of treatment as well as accounts of treated subjects, which I believe will be of great help in addressing the King’s current condition. Over the course of my study in this area, I have observed worse symptoms and mortality rates among the dragonseeds who reside on Dragonstone as compared to others struck by the same malady. I believe this is also the source of the ailment currently dogging His Grace, the King. Whether it is due to Valyrian vulnerability or Targaryen blood specifically I could not say but my treatment of these people has been successful. Accordingly, I hope the Grand Maester will consider this outlined course of treatment.
The second set of papers has been provided by the High Priest. As you requested, I have reviewed their contents and I can see no harm which might come from undertaking the actions they detail, though I must express some scepticism as to their likelihood of success. Still, the next lunar eclipse will occur within the second sennight of this moon if you wish to proceed. Another eclipse is likely to follow five to six moons thereafter, should this letter fail to reach you in time.
I am ever at your service,
Maester Gerardys of Dragonstone
It is too late to deliver the medical papers to the Grand Maester and even if she were to wake him he will need time to review. But it is positive news. From her brief once over, Gerardys’ notes detail miraculous and relatively swift recoveries for those he has treated. She will bring the papers to the Grand Maester first thing on the morrow.
She focuses her attention next on the papers prepared by the Valyrian High Priest. They encompass a detailed set of instructions as well as a long list of potentially difficult to source ingredients. Based on Gerardys’ timeline they likely have a week before the eclipse. She must make preparations, the most important being getting Laenor to agree.
***
A gentle breeze drifts in from the open window. The night is cool, the sun having dipped below the horizon not long before. Alicent sits at her writing desk reviewing a letter from the Riverlands. She has taken on more and more responsibilities of the Crown over the last years, particularly now that Viserys is indisposed. Such duties include responding to the correspondence of the various wardens, lords paramount, and other houses of note.
Grover Tully has sent a letter with a hamfisted proposal of a betrothal between Helaena and his very newly born great-grandson, Kermit. If he were cogent, Viserys would no doubt brush it off as Tully doing what any man would; harmlessly seeking the Crown’s favour. But Viserys is not aware enough of the goings on at this time to even express his dispassion. Alicent sees Tully’s tactless attempt for what it is. The notion of betrothing a princess of four to a squalling infant is insulting at worst and preposterous at best. She begins to compose a response, courteously, subtly, expressing her view when there is a knock at the door.
“What is it?” She calls, more perturbed than she intends.
“The Princess Rhaenyra seeks an audience, Your Grace,” Ser Criston Cole replies stiffly through the door.
Alicent sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. Given Rhaenyra’s bold and entirely unnecessary antagonism of the previous council meeting she would like to refuse her. But it is unlike Rhaenyra to seek her out in this way. It is not something she would subject herself to if it could be avoided. Curiosity gets the better of Alicent.
“Allow her to enter,” she instructs.
Criston opens the door and Rhaenyra steps through.
“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra greets stoically after the door is closed behind her. “Thank you for-”
Alicent raises a finger to indicate she needs a moment. She continues looking down, finishing writing a sentence in her letter. She hears Rhaenyra let out a soft scoff.
“Princess, what brings you to my chambers?” Alicent asks, finally lifting her head.
“I am here to discuss a rather delicate matter, Your Grace. I’m slightly at a loss for how to begin.”
Alicent doubts that. If Rhaenyra is here seeking private counsel, it is calculated. She will have considered her words very carefully in advance.
“Well, I assure you I will keep this conversation between us.” Depending on the contents of the conversation of course.
Rhaenyra hums and then licks her lips. “Undoubtedly. I’m sure you are aware of certain rumours circulating about Court. Rumours about me, all base in nature. In my efforts to root out these treasonous lies I came across information about a certain garrulous party. I do not feel this person began such rumours but they are complicit in spreading them. I am here to provide you with their name.”
“An accusation?” Alicent asks. She has been careful. Has someone else been less so?
“I would not characterise it exactly as such. A reasonable inference which might result in an accusation.”
Alicent resists the urge to roll her eyes. Must Rhaenyra dance around her point?
“Please speak on it, Princess.”
“There is a piece of particularly scurrilous fiction making the rounds which alleges a series of lewd acts undertaken in my efforts to become with child,” Rhaenyra says tactfully, though her displeasure is clear.
Alicent understands the reference. It is based in truth - at least to the extent that Rhaenyra has committed adultery, of that Alicent is certain - but it has gotten rather out of hand with each telling. The most recent version suggests that Rhaenyra makes regular, brazen visits down to the barracks of the Goldcloaks seeking a partner or partners, individually or concurrently, who might aid her in her predicament given Ser Laenor’s inability to meet his husbandly duties and give her an heir. Alicent neither initiated such tales within her circle nor explicitly repeated them but she admittedly has also not made any attempt to put an end to them when her ladies gossip so openly in her presence.
“I was not aware of this,” Alicent offers, her effort not entirely convincing.
“Of course.” Rhaenyra smiles tightly. “I bring it to your attention because this story was repeated by one of the attendant’s to Lady Marietta Redwyne. Her serving girl in fact.”
Seven Hells. Marietta. Foolish girl. Young but that is no excuse to speak so freely in mixed company.
Alicent lets out a slow breath from her nose, schooling her features. “I see. Did this serving girl name the person from whom she had heard this gossip?”
“She indirectly implicated Lady Marietta, Your Grace.”
“Indirectly?” Alicent folds her hands in front of her, raising a brow.
“She would not name her source when confronted but had presently come from serving Lady Marietta her breakfast when she was overheard telling another of the servants that she had just heard the gossip. One need not subject the girl to a confessor to put two and two together,” Rhaenyra explains, her face unperturbed, words self-assured.
“If you are so certain of Lady Marietta’s guilt, why bring this to my attention at all? You have effectively suggested she has committed treason. Would that not warrant her being thrown in the black cells?” Alicent asks haughtily.
“She is your lady, under your purview. I would not deign to overstep in such a way. Moreover, she is merely a young girl who may not know better. I leave it to you how you would address it.”
And no doubt Rhaenyra would not wish to bring greater, public attention to the rumours. Better to be rid of the girl quietly, to let the reasons be whispered instead of spoken plainly. Let her dismissal serve as an understated warning to the other ambitious ladies of Court of the consequences of their ill-considered striving.
“That is most judicious of you, Princess,” Alicent says tightly. “I will speak to her and have the truth of it. If it is as you say, she will be sent home, as she deserves.”
Under some pretence. And her father and house - with its sizable fleet historically loyal to the Hightower - likely to take it as a severe affront. But what else can she do?
“My sincere thanks, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“If there is nothing else Princess, I must return to my-”
“There is one other matter,” Rhaenyra blurts, cutting Alicent off.
Alicent purses her lips, sighing. “Please go on.”
Rhaenyra hesitates. Twists the ring on her middle finger. A gesture Alicent has not seen in some time. Rhaenyra is nervous.
Rhaenyra takes a breath and continues. “My father’s condition worsens. I worry…I feel there is more that I- that we could do for him. There is a maester on Dragonstone, Maester Gerardys, with whom I have been corresponding for a number of years. He has sent papers which outline an alternative course of treatment. Maester Mellos is resistant despite the written accounts of success. I do not think he has even read them in full. If he did I am certain he would agree they are worth pursuing and carry little to no risk of worsening my father’s condition. Instead he plies my father with more and more Milk of the Poppy.”
“The Milk eases his pain,” Alicent states somewhat lamely.
“And clouds his mind and judgement!” Rhaenyra just short of snaps, catching herself, looking almost regretful at her outburst. She settles. “I only mean to say that my father is already bedridden. He should not also be continuously unconscious. Especially not if there is a method to treat him.”
Alicent tilts her head. “What is it you think I can do?”
“I would ask you to speak to Mellos, to urge him to at least read the materials Maester Gerardys has provided and consider the treatment outlined therein.”
“Why would the Grand Maester be receptive to me and not you?”
“You confer regularly with Mellos already regarding my father’s health.”
“That does not mean I would recommend a course of treatment. I am no more expert than you,” Alicent insists.
“That isn’t true,” Rhaenyra asserts, as if it is obvious. “You are my father’s primary caregiver. You observe and report his symptoms. You give him his medicine and administer any additional treatment Mellos directs. You are far more expert than I."
Alicent is quietly astonished by this observation from Rhaenyra. That Rhaenyra has noticed Alicent’s efforts at all.
Rhaenyra elaborates. “And you are the Queen. He dismisses me but he would not dare do the same to you. Please.”
Alicent is not certain how to feel. She should be satisfied that Rhaenyra is practically begging. But mostly she feels off kilter at Rhaenyra having validated her expertise and her authority so openly. That she is seeking Alicent’s aid seemingly sincerely.
“Maester Mellos is already in possession of these papers?” Alicent asks.
“Yes, I provided them to him days ago.”
“I will request that he read them.”
Mellos is sufficiently competent to review the material and determine if he thinks the treatment is a risk to Viserys. And though she trusts Rhaenyra not at all, she is still certain Rhaenyra would not do something to try and harm her father. She loves him too much despite everything.
Alicent watches Rhaenyra’s face briefly light in gratitude as she softly says “Thank you, Alicent.”
Alicent swallows thickly.
“I must resume my duties now. Goodnight Princess,” she coolly dismisses Rhaenyra.
Rhaenyra nods slowly, returning to formality “Goodnight, Your Grace.”
***
“I am afraid I have heard the same account, Your Grace, and I can confirm its veracity. Lady Marietta has been extraordinarily loose-lipped around a number of servants, not just her own. The chain of her tales and accompanying embellishments stretches fairly long.” Larys Strong is grave of voice though Alicent sees a slight glimmer of delight in his eyes.
She had invited him to dine with her shortly after learning that Mellos - attending to a difficult surgery of a courtier with gout - would not be able to join her for their nightly discussion regarding Viserys’ health and continuing decline. She has called on Larys to consult on the Redwyne matter instead.
“A reputation as a gossip is one thing but her brazenness is difficult to overlook.” Alicent sighs into her wine before taking a long drink.
“She is rather young. Would it not be sufficient to speak with her?” Larys offers.
“I fear it is too late for that. I learned of Lady Marietta’s lack of discretion from Princess Rhaenyra directly.”
Larys raises his eyebrows as if surprised. Alicent suspects however that he already knew this. She is keenly aware that he monitors her visitors as well as her comings and goings.
She continues. “I will have to send the girl away, though I hope not forever. It is a pity as she has come to fully embrace her other duties here and the other ladies adore her. More importantly her family will be extremely displeased. They have been so grateful for her position given her elder brother’s…misfortune.”
“Indeed.” Larys’ face remains still, a thin quiver just barely pulling at his lips in neither smile nor frown.
Gillad Redwyne, heir to the Arbor, had been maimed in a wheelhouse collison during his first year as a squire. His inability to pursue knighthood due to his injuries as well as the resulting visible disfiguration had caused Lord Redwyne to keep his son from Court. Alicent thought it wasteful to hide the young man away out of some unnecessary sense of ignominy. He was still heir to a significant keep, fleet, and fortune. Moreover, many indicated the young man had a shrewd mind for business strategy. Under his guidance the production and sale of Arbor Gold had nearly doubled in two years, nearly matching the distribution of Arbor Red.
She wonders if Larys might relate to this clever young man. But perhaps not. Presumptuous really of her to think so. Larys is a second son and his foot was malformed from birth. But also his father never seemed ashamed of him. Lord Lyonel had brought him to Court and, recognizing his gifts, helped him make a path for himself.
She does not dwell too long on the topic, carrying on smoothly. “Regardless, her dismissal will have to wait at least a sennight, as Lord Redwyne is set to pay a rather large export duty before the end of this moon. We would not want this to delay that payment.”
“A wise timeline, Your Grace.”
She considers a moment, then gives him an assignment. “Perhaps you could provide me with a list of those servants who you identify as most responsible for fanning the flames of this gossip. It will be necessary to reassign or even remove those who serve at the Crown’s pleasure. We won’t be able to dictate the fates of those who serve particular houses unfortunately, but we can discreetly make our displeasure known to their masters.”
“You wish to quash this tale altogether?” Larys asks, eyebrows lifted.
“Is that so surprising?” She replies officiously. “This story has gotten entirely out of hand. It openly maligns the named heir to the Iron Throne. It is my duty to ensure the stability of the Crown in any way I am able and this story, regardless of whatever grains of truth from which it sprang, has become so bloated as to be a threat. Particularly given my husband’s current health.”
She does not say that her inability to control her own ladies and the stable of servants she oversees reflects quite badly on her. (She altogether ignores the distant whisper in the back of her mind that sings her desire; how she craves Rhaenyra’s gratitude.)
“How does the King fare, Your Grace?” Larys asks almost sheepishly.
“No better but no worse. If he can manage to eat more and get his strength up…” She trails off.
“I will do as you bid, My Queen. And I will do even more to stomp out this particular piece of gossip if that is your desire,” Larys says obsequiously.
“Thank you, Larys, I have no doubt you will utilise your gifts to their fullest potential.”
They finish their meal, Larys updating her on the various other happenings at Court, with a particular emphasis on events behind closed doors.
***
Rhaenyra enters her solar, latching the door behind her. She smiles as she spots Laenor sitting by the fire reading through the papers that she had tucked into a book and given him yesterday morning.
“Hello Husband. I’m glad to see you are honouring my request.” She joins him on the settee, reaching for his glass of wine to drink deeply.
“I’ve read them three times now. These… ingredients and instructions are all rather bizarre and dramatic. This potion calls for Red Clover which is simple enough but Chasteberry doesn’t sound especially fecund. And the rites must be done under the light of a ‘blood moon?’ Truly?”
“I know, it’s exceedingly elaborate. But yes, during a lunar eclipse. We should expect it on the morrow as the moon has almost fully waxed. We won’t have another opportunity for at least five more moons. If it fails the first go round we can make a second attempt to determine its efficacy. But if it is successful we needn’t worry ourselves so much in the future as we’ll have the option.”
“I still don’t see how any attempt is likely to be successful. It’s not as if we have not made efforts before. Seems a lot of ancient Valyrian mysticism and nonsense to me.”
Rhaenyra nods, sighing. “I can’t say I disagree, entirely. But should we not at least try? We have tried so many other ways. Please Laenor. The whole purpose of the ritual is to aid two willing, loving parties to have a child. I think neither of us will take much pleasure in it but I dare say we love one another and we are both willing, desperate even, to have a child.”
At least that is what Rhaenyra tells herself. Pushes down the doubts, the desire to shirk this particular aspect of her duty. Because in order to secure her position she must have an heir. Her father will get well. He must. But she also cannot risk it. She can feel the weight of the words whispered around Court. That she is infertile. Unfit to be the heir when she cannot produce one herself. That the ailments which hampered her mother have been passed on to her but worse.
She of course has no way of knowing if that is to be her fate as well. She has taken moon tea as a precaution each time she’s laid with Harwin up to this point. Previous attempts with Laenor were absolute debacles. Mysticism and nonsense it may be but if this ritual could make it possible to sire a child with Laenor they must try.
Laenor sighs, looks fondly but sadly at her. “I suppose it would not hurt. Though, it feels slightly underhanded that we are attempting this while Ser Harwin is away and unaware, dear wife.”
“Harwin will understand.” Even if it hurts him, he will understand, as he always does. He has expressed his desire to give her a child in quieter moments. She has on more than one occasion considered it, considered not taking the tea after. But that is a last resort, one that would inherently place a target on any child resulting.
Laenor does not look convinced but he voices no further scepticism. “As you will it. Do we have the various ingredients on this extensive and odd list?”
“I have gathered them, yes. You need only come to my bed tomorrow night and drink the wine. I ask that you refrain from drinking too much other wine or spirits prior, however. It may not matter but that has been an issue in our previous attempts,” she teases.
He rolls his eyes. “Drink was not the cause of my previous failures but I imagine it did not help. I will arrive sober as a Silent Sister.”
“Thank you Laenor.” She knocks her shoulder into his.
“You needn’t thank me. This is for both our benefit.” He reaches to squeeze her forearm. He then purses his lips and wrinkles his nose. “But must I really drink your blood?”
Rhaenyra sighs in fond chagrin. “Just a drop or so. It will be mixed with the wine so you will not taste it. If we had been married in the Valyrian way you would have had to drink it then.”
“Yes, but you would have had to drink mine as well, which seems more fair to me.”
“You are not the vessel to carry the child, Laenor. Unless you’ve been hiding a womb from me these last years?”
They chuckle together before turning the discussion to the events of their respective days.
***
Alicent has found her time entirely occupied all day by courtiers, disputes among the servants, and Aegon insisting she be present for his lesson in the yard; he screeched and screeched until she was finally sent for. Apart from her routine of caring for Viserys in the morning, she is not able to return to his side until the children have been put to bed after supper. Grand Maester Mellos is already attending to Viserys when she enters the King’s chambers.
The air feels thick, clouded by smoke rising from a burning pomander of herbs on a metal dish. They do only a little to cover the smell of foetid sickness. The Grand Maester bows his head in recognition of her entrance.
“How is he this evening, Grand Maester?” Alicent asks softly.
“The same I fear, Your Grace. His colour is a little better but the fever is worse. He seemed quite restless when I first entered but I have given him another dram of the Milk. He will rest easy tonight.”
She observes Viserys, the slow, ragged breath in and out of his chest. He looks just as pallid as ever nevermind what Mellos says about his colour. And clammy, the sheen of sweat on his face aglow in the firelight of the braziers. He is slipping further away. She must do something to alter his condition.
“Grand Maester I have been informed that you are in possession of papers detailing a potential course of treatment as outlined by a Maester Gerardys from Dragonstone,” she says rather imperiously.
The Grand Maester huffs out a long breath. “I am, Your Grace. I see that the Crown Princess has been lobbying you as well as I. It is fairly unconventional what the Maester from Dragonstone proposes.”
“So you have read the papers?” Alicent asks evenly.
Mellos pauses. “I…have reviewed them briefly. But I intend do so more thoroughly. I have asked Maester Orwyle to do so as well.”
“I have no doubt you will go to every effort to determine whether there are viable means of making His Grace well once more. I thank you for your fastidiousness and your urgency in this matter, Grand Maester.” He nods solemnly, but she notices how his chest puffs out at her words. Mellos is nothing if not susceptible to flattery. So long as it causes him to act how she wishes, she will not hesitate to provide the approval he favours.
She excuses herself. “As he is already asleep, I shall take my leave to let him rest without disruption. Goodnight, Grand Maester.”
“Goodnight, Your Grace.”
Alicent escapes the King’s chamber and is crossing to her own when she is startled, flinching, by the sound of scraping on the stone. She turns to find Larys Strong.
“My apologies, Your Grace. I did not intend to cause you fright.” Larys drawls.
“Of that I am certain, my lord. What brings you to the Royal Apartments at this late hour?”
Larys looks around and approaches slowly, invading her personage more than she would prefer. He speaks just above a whisper, “I had hoped to speak with you, My Queen. I have news of a sensitive nature that I thought best to bring you directly.”
“It is rather late, Larys.”
She does not wish to invite him into her chambers. If he is approaching her now his information is no doubt useful and she is eager to hear what he has to say, but given the hour it would be unseemly to allow him in alone. Then again he is of little threat and unlikely to be perceived as a paramour.
“I promise it will take but a moment, I shan't even need to sit down to relay it.”
She nods tightly and leads him into her chambers. Once the door is shut she walks a few paces from him, hands folded in front of her awaiting his word.
He lingers not too far from the door, speaks so that she can just hear him but so as not to be heard by anyone outside in the coridor. “I am sorry to inform you of some unfortunate news regarding Lady Marietta. She was discovered by Septa Imalda late this afternoon in possession of a portion of moon tea. A potential scandal to say the least but one I have already made efforts to contain and I will continue to do so. Her father however has been made aware and I believe he will shortly seek your leave to remove Lady Marietta from Court. Immediately.”
Alicent bites the side of her tongue in fury. Marietta is far more fool than Alicent had realised. Had her mother taught her nothing?
“Who else knows of this?”
“You, I, the Septa, and Lord Redwyne. However, the tea must have been brewed by someone. I am seeking that source now. The dangers of amateurly brewed moon tea can be horrifically severe. We would not want it to continue circulating around the Keep.” Larys’ lips twitch. Almost as if he is suppressing a smile. She averts her gaze from him, trying to hide her distaste.
“Somewhat odd circumstances,” he continues. “Why she would seek to drink the tea right before her lessons with the Septa I’ve no idea. But regardless, in my searching for the brewer it became clear that Lady Marietta’s indiscretion may result from a flirtation with a squire to Ser Qarl Correy, one of Ser Laenor’s new men recently come over from Driftmark.”
A squire who serves in Ser Laenor’s circle?
Damn Rhaenyra. She is responsible for the moon tea, Alicent is sure of it. The timing is too conspicuous.
“This squire,” Larys goes on, “might also be sought out and sent away from Court if you so desire it. I fear, however, that if they are both banished, those who are aware of their dalliance - of which I believe there are a few now - will draw their own conclusions as to the reason.”
Alicent’s response is harsh, said through a tight jaw. “Her sudden disappearance from court will raise such gossip regardless if her relations with this boy are already known.”
Rhaenyra would have known that. Would have known that sending the girl home so suddenly - without allowing the Queen time to carefully plan it - would cause the girl as well as Alicent disgrace. It is truly low.
Fury clouds Alicent’s mind but she settles, projecting an outward appearance of control. “I thank you for your assistance and your continued discretion in this matter. As you say, the squire shall remain so as to minimise the attention brought to this mess. Please do what you can to turn the tide of the rumour mill regarding the reasons for Lady Marietta returning to her home.”
“I will do all that I can.” He continues to stand there, looking at her impassively.
“Goodnight, Larys,” she dismisses him.
“Goodnight, Your Grace.” Larys bows ever so slightly and leaves the room.
Alicent begins to pace from the hearth to the settee, back and forth. Was it not enough that Lady Marietta would be dismissed for her lack of decorum in gossiping? Must she be humiliated and declared unmarriageable to the whole of the Court? This was done to rile Alicent, Marietta a mere casualty. A Queen’s lady soiling her maidenhood, exposed for all to see. A reflection of the Queen herself.
Alicent finds herself stalking swiftly out of her chambers, ordering Criston to stay near her children. She has no need of him, the Holdfast already secured for the night as it is, a number of household guards within earshot if some emergency arises. And she wishes to minimise the witnesses to what is sure to be an unholy paroxysm once she reaches her destination.
***
Laenor is late. He had gone hawking with his new companion as a means to remove any lingering performance jitters. But he should have returned long ago, well before the moonrise. She is torn between worry and irritation. It is not the first time he has failed to show up for a scheduled attempt at siring an heir. But he knows how important this is. That they will have to wait at least another five moons to try again, most likely longer.
She has already drunk her portion of the ritual mixture in anticipation of his arrival but it has been three quarters of a candlemark hence and he is still not here. She fears the eclipse will wane. Where is he?
The door to her chambers is thrown open, slamming shut just as quickly. She turns to greet Laenor only to be met by the burning eyes of the Queen.
“Did you prostrate yourself before me yesterday just to get your way regarding the King’s treatment or did you wish to relish the surprise of my subsequent humiliation? Or perhaps both.” Alicent demands.
“I- what? I do not know what you speak of, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra replies utterly mystified by the apparent accusation.
“I find that very unlikely,” Alicent spits out. “I speak of Lady Marietta.”
“What precisely of Lady Marietta, Your Grace?” Rhaenyra asks, sincere in her ignorance.
Alicent shakes her head and turns to the dining table, placing her hands flat on its surface with her back to Rhaenyra. She inhales as if trying to calm herself. Rhaenyra eyes the full goblet of wine and herbs in front of her, concerned Alicent might knock it over in her boiling rage.
“Do you deny sending moon tea to her door just as a Septa was arriving for her history lessons?” Alicent’s tone is severe, like she is barely keeping herself from shouting.
“I most certainly do deny that, Your Grace. I did nothing of the kind.”
Alicent scoffs. “Very convincing, Princess. I had not even had an opportunity to discuss your accusation with her but now her father intends to send her home. And all will know the reason why. How clever of you.”
“Alicent, I did not entrap this girl. What purpose would I have in doing so when you already agreed to quietly address my complaint?”
Rhaenyra moves closer, can now see Alicent in profile and watches her bite the inside of her cheek.
“What purpose indeed? She is a girl of ten and five. A sweet girl, if naive. This is vindictive even for you,” She says lowly, dripping with contempt.
Alicent reaches for the full goblet of wine in front of her.
“You should not drink that-!” Rhaenyra tries in a panic but it is too late, stepping forward. Alicent has taken a large gulp from the wine. She wrinkles her nose, likely in reaction to its extreme astringency but she swallows it.
“What in the Seven did I just drink?”
“Erm. Medicinal wine. For Laenor’s…inflammation.” Rhaenyra quickly, shabbily fibs.
Alicent looks wary. “Should I be concerned that I will experience some sort of effect from this concoction?”
Rhaenyra pauses. Surely not. The literature the High Priest provided was quite explicit that one would only ever feel the brew’s more passionate enhancements if he or she were a willing and desirous party. Moreover, it said nothing of its consumption by two women. She can’t imagine that it will do much of anything. And a true pity that it should go to waste. Perhaps she can mix more for Laenor if he ever returns this night.
“I shouldn’t think so. Herbs, somewhat uncommon but harmless. Helpful actually,” Rhaenyra manages, her voice a shade higher than usual. She need not mention the very small amount of her own blood within the brew.
Alicent shakes off her distraction and returns to her purpose, fuming once more. “You had no right to destroy that girl’s prospects.”
Alicent’s face is a bright rosy, rage; beautiful in its intensity. Rhaenyra flexes her fingers and licks her lips. She blinks rapidly to clear the thought, to focus on her defence. “I know you will not believe me, as you never do, but I swear to you Alicent, I did not send moon tea to this girl. I would not do that.”
Alicent fully looks at her then. A hard, searching look. But also a spark of something heated beyond her anger. Rhaenyra feels exposed but also an ember at the base of her abdomen. Like something unfurling, calling her to close the distance, fan the flame. She begins to babble, deflecting from her internal stirring. “It’s rather warm in here, is it not? Are you well, you look quite flushed all of a sudden-”
She stops as Alicent swiftly steps closer to her, mere inches between them now. Rhaenyra can feel Alicent’s breath on her face as Alicent bites out, “I am perfectly well. I am simply resigned to the fact you have once again demonstrated that any hope I might hold to bridge the gulf between us will always be spoiled by your treachery and deceit.”
Rhaenyra breathes hard at the proximity. Steps even closer. She does not know why, but she wants to. Craves it. Her usual stony restraint and goading spitefulness when dealing with a furious, self-righteous Queen Alicent having slipped away, leaving only the gnawing want underneath. A feeling that she has rarely acknowledged over these last years though it has been there all along. She feels its force course through her fiercely, unchallenged for the first time in a long time.
“You still wish to reconcile with me?” Rhaenyra whispers in astonishment.
Alicent squeezes her eyes shut, exhaling shakily, but she does not move away.
“That is not- do you not see- Oh, Seven Hells.” Alicent lets out a groan of vexation and then lurches forward capturing Rhaenyra’s lips in a bruising kiss.
Before Rhaenyra can fully comprehend what is happening she is already kissing Alicent back. She wraps her arms around Alicent’s waist, humming at the feeling of Alicent’s body pressed to hers even with layers of cloth between them. Alicent digs her fingers into Rhaenyra’s neck, trying to maintain the upper hand as they push and pull at one another.
Rhaenyra swipes her tongue along the seam of Alicent’s lips and Alicent opens her mouth to immediately give entry, tongues swirling and melding in sync, making Rhaenyra’s stomach tumble. Alicent retreats slightly to nip at Rhaenyra’s bottom lip and Rhaenyra returns the gesture, biting down. Alicent groans out at the contact and in her haste to reconnect their lips fully, Rhaenyra nicks the tender skin between her teeth. Alicent lets out a short high breath and they break apart for a moment. As their eyes meet Rhaenyra can see that Alicent’s pupils are blown. She looks down to Alicent’s lips to see the vibrant blush of red liquid beaded there. She dips her head back in to lick at the crimson stain. The taste is metallic and sharp. Alicent whimpers and ardently buries her hand in Rhaenyra’s hair to seal their lips once more.
Rhaenyra begins to shift them away from the table, pulling gently, but as Alicent catches on she pushes at Rhaenyra more harshly, moving her hands from her hair to her shoulders, gripping. Though Rhaenyra had sought the bedchamber, she feels her back come into contact with the cool stone of the nearby wall through her shift and dressing gown. Alicent breaks the kiss only to move her lips to Rhaenyra’s neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Rhaenyra hums at the sensation, the swift sting quickly soothed by Alicent’s eager tongue.
Rhaenyra removes her hands from Alicent’s waist, one to grasp at her rear, the other slowly trailing up to caress Alicent’s chest. Alicent arches at Rhaenyra’s touch, pulling her head back, eyes fluttering shut before opening to connect with Rhaenyra’s. Alicent covers Rhaenyra’s hand with her own, encouraging her to knead and tease the supple breast through the silk of her dress. As they press their foreheads together, they begin to roll their hips into one another. Alicent’s face displays an open and frantic want. She is so beautiful Rhaenyra can hardly stand it.
Alicent squeezes her hand over Rhaenyra’s and then drags it down Rhaenyra’s body. Rhaenyra nods her head vigorously as Alicent reaches the apex of her thighs. Alicent slips her hand into the dressing gown allowing it to fall open and cups Rhaenyra through her shift. Rhaenyra moans and bucks her hips. The fabric drags through the wet that has rapidly collected there. Rhaenyra hears Alicent’s breath hitch.
Rhaenyra shifts her arms to let the dressing gown drop to the floor and then places her hand over Alicent’s to pull it up and under the shift, asking, “Please.”
Alicent is quick to oblige. They both shudder as Alicent’s fingers glide through Rhaenyra’s slick folds, Rhaenyra keening forward to mutter hotly against Alicent’s mouth, “Oh Seven fucking hells, Alicent”
Alicent is not tentative. It is surprising but also feels exactly right in this moment of feverish pursuit and desire. She traces two fingers up and down Rhaenyra’s slit, before focusing and circling at the bundle of nerves at the top, following Rhaenyra’s direction. When she slips her fingers down once more she stops, lingering at Rhaenyra’s opening. She looks in Rhaenyra’s eyes seeking permission. Rhaenyra nods desperately. As Alicent slides her fingers past Rhaenyra’s entrance, Rhaenyra lets out a sonorous moan. She feels a burst of heat fill her chest. Like something was missing but has now reclaimed its rightful place.
Alicent begins to pump her wrist slowly in and out, dragging perfectly. Rhaenyra whines with each stretching thrust, grabbing harshly at Alicent’s bottom. Alicent closes her eyes and resumes rocking her pelvis into Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra shifts her thigh to give her better purchase to grind down. Alicent whimpers at the contact, her hips matching the rhythm of her fingers in and out, grasping harshly with her other hand at the flimsy fabric at Rhaenyra’s shoulder, ripping it in the process.
Rhaenyra is racing towards her peak, cannot comprehend how quickly it is going to consume her. Alicent’s breath is ragged but her hand is unwavering in its purpose, driving faster and faster. Rhaenyra nuzzles her nose against Alicent’s to draw her eyes open, to hold her gaze. They are locked on one another. It is overwhelming, astonishing. She is surrounded by Alicent, can feel her everywhere. The mounting tension in her belly pulls to a tight band, desperate to snap.
Rhaenyra husks out words she has felt and longed to say for years,“Issa jorrāelagon, kostilus.”
Alicent groans in response, snapping her pelvis into Rhaenyra’s thigh and curling her fingers perfectly within. Rhaenyra squeezes her eyes shut as she tumbles over the edge. A rush of pleasure spreads over every inch of her body, the rapture intensified as Alicent peaks simultaneously, as they arch against one another.
The waves of feeling stretch and stretch until finally fading into a gentle tingling beneath Rhaenyra’s skin. She slumps forward, forehead resting on Alicent’s shoulder. Alicent continues to hold her close, chest rising and falling with heavy breath, fingers trailing absently up Rhaenyra’s back.
Rhaenyra turns her head to press a light kiss against Alicent’s neck. She did not know it would break the spell.
She feels Alicent stiffen and suddenly she is no longer being held. The coolness of the air hits her and with it the reality of what they have just done. She feels slightly dumbstruck but it is nowhere near the look of pure panic she sees on Alicent’s ghost-white face. Rhaenyra’s instinct is to try to calm her, to reach for her.
But Alicent steps back, fiercely shaking her head. She turns and runs from the room
Rhaenyra can do nothing but stare after her.