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Father tells her to wear her mother’s dress.
They’ve been adjusted ― mostly ― to better fit Alicent’s body, tight on her hips, pronouncing the swell of her breasts. Alicent hates how exposed she feels in it, hates the sight of her exposed cleavage, hates how she looks like a wrapped up trophy for leering gazes.
Father tells her to comfort the King in his loss ― bids her to offer him solace from Queen Aemma’s absence.
Drapped in her late mother’s jewelry, Alicent feels like a farse, a court jester doomed to failure. She knows father means nothing of it, that he hopes her presence soothes the ache of a loss none of them can do much about, but she still wishes he went about it another way. Staring at her reflection upon the simple wall mirror placed in her chambers ― at the behest of Rhaenyra herself, a few years back ―, Alicent can’t help but dread the sight she makes.
A little girl playing woman grown, is what she looks like: exposes shoulders, breasts flaunted for anyone who might look, not even the heavy book clutched against her stomach makes up for looking like a lady of the night, and whatever courage Alicent might’ve mustered up for the sake of making her father proud shrivels up and dies at the pit of her stomach.
A dutiful daughter would not question her father’s orders. A pious daughter would hold her head high and leave her quarters with pride, knowing she’ll make him proud. Alicent only stares at herself, her mother’s gown, the bloodied nailbeds as she clutches the book tighter.
She wonders if Rhaenyra has someone to comfort her, too ― if her father has perhaps ordered someone else to go and comfort the Princess, offer her solace from her mother’s death, if only for a moment. Shouldn’t that have been her, instead? Alicent, who’s Rhaenyra’s best friend. Alicent, who loves her so. Shouldn’t she be the one comforting the Princess, rather than attempting to comfort the King?
A dutiful daughter would not question her father’s orders. When Alicent leaves her quarters, making her way to the King’s rooms, her heart weighs heavy with guilty. When her mother had died, Alicent had wished for a kind of comfort no one in her life had been able to offer ― the kind of comfort her father isn’t familiar with, the kind of comfort none of her brothers knew how to give. If Alicent is to comfort the King, who will be there to comfort Rhaenyra? There are no other girls at court who have endeared themselves to the Princess, and Alicent―
Alicent cannot leave her all alone. Doesn’t want to. A gentle King he may be, but Viserys is not the one Alicent desires to comfort after the Queen’s passing ― nor does she believe it to be her duty, although her father’s orders were clear.
The thought that her action is unbecoming of a maiden strikes her as she finds her way to the King’s rooms.
Alicent stops.
Unchaperoned, wearing a woman grown’s dress.
Bedecked in jewelry, like a trophy for leering gazes.
A lady of the night.
Alicent turns around, heart in her throat, and runs.
May the Father judge you justly. May the Mother give you mercy.
Daemon, infamously dubbed Lord Flea Bottom, is known for his bloodthirsty nature, and Alicent’s father has never had a single word of praise to tell about him. She’s heard that he is a whoremonger attempting to seixe the throne, that he’s someone she should never aim to please, that any resemblance of attention given to her by the Prince of Targaryen blood should be immediately rebuffed, for his interest is not something Alicent should aim to keep.
The Rogue Prince is defiant and cruel and everything a respectable Lady should avoid getting involved with. He’s a deviant, faithless man with no morals and no honor, and the one person Alicent should never, ever approach on her own.
Tonight, she cannot bring herself to heed her father’s warnings. Was he not the one to send her to a widowed man’s quarters in her mother’s dress? Was he not the one to request her to comfort the King, as if there’s anything Alicent could say or do to help a man grieve? No. Tonight, Alicent clutches the story book to her bosom, desperate for the comfort its weight brings, and begs the Mother for mercy, prays for tha Father for justice.
The Rogue Prince is harder to find than the King, and Alicent should expect nothing less.
She looks for him, still. She was raised in the Red Keep, allowed in almost every crevice and room by the nature of her friendship with Princess Rhaenyra alone; she knows her way around these halls, as they’re the only home she’s ever known, the only one she can remember. The familiarity of it should bring her some modicum of comfort, for it means she gets to hide away from prying eyes and courtiers, easily escaping what she knows would be cruel judgment from people who would never understand.
It’s no surprise her father ordered her to go to the King’s rooms on her own. It’s no surprise Alicent had been naive enough to obey.
It matters not that she didn’t go through with it. It matters not that her intention had never been to tempt ruination in the first place. By letting herself be led by her duty as her father’s daughter, Alicent let herself risk everything her faith stands for, everything she believes in.
The Targaryen Prince is on his way out of the Keep, expression closed off, mouth a thin line of distaste that only turns sharper the moment he finds Alicent in his way, wide-eyed and out of breath.
She tries a curtsy and almost trips over herself. Shame burns hotter under her skin.
“Prince Daemon.”
He gives her no sign of being heard, no glance or acknowledgement. Humiliation builds over Alicent’s chest at the swift dismissal, the clear sign he’s not willing to entertain her not even for a second, the utter lack of respect she’s shown. Alicent is no royalty, she has no noble blood to call upon nor any title other than being the daughter of a second son who somehow worked his way up into becoming Hand of the King, but she knows she’s deserving of politeness if nothing else.
The Rogue Prince has never given her the time of the day, nothing other than the briefest of nods when Rhaenyra is around, and Alicent knows he will not listen.
She breathes out, shaky.
“My lord father has ordered me to comfort the King.”
The Rogue Prince stops, and Alicent finds the words pouring out of her mouth, desperate now that she has even a modicum of his attention.
“He gave me my mother’s dresses and told me to go alone, and I know it is my duty to obey, but I―” can’t gets stuck in her throat with the full force of realizing what that would entitle.
Rhaenyra is her friend ― her best friend. What does it say about Alicent that she heard her father’s orders and didn’t even question them, that she allowed herself to wear her mother’s dress, her jewelry, that she’s still wearing them? Daemon’s expression, when he turns to her, is thunderous ― full of disdain and scorn, eyeing her from head to toe as if she were dirt stuck under his shoes, his distaste for her presence as clear as his anger.
“What kind of comfort is someone like you expected to offer, when my good sister’s blood hasn’t even been washed away from the bedsheets?”
Shame floods Alicent’s face, for she has no answer to that ― nothing that wouldn’t come out as an excuse, no matter the fact she hasn’t done anything, no matter the fact she wasn’t planning on doing anything. She can’t help but feel she should’ve heeded her father’s warnings rather than Rhaenyra’s defenses of her uncle, should’ve known he’s an unreasonable man with a temper to rival that of a dragon rather than assume Rhaenyra’s tales of a loving uncle were true, that Alicent could just seek him out and ask for help.
“I― I can’t do it.”
And, when the Prince’s face twists in an ugly sneer, ready to lash out, Alicent lowers her head, looks away.
“Rhaenyra is my best friend.”
The mention of his niece is enough to stop whatever vitriol the Rogue Prince might’ve been willing to throw her way. Alicent sees him hesitate, body going still, and can’t help the small hope that lodges itself in her chest, threatening to make itself at home. Daemon might despise her father, might not care about her or whether or not she feels comfortable around him, but he loves Rhaenyra ― always did, will always do, spoiled and cared for her through her entire life. If he’ll care about nothing else, he’ll care about her.
“And now you think of that?”
The accusation of it is not lost on Alicent, whose shame threatens to eat her alive. Whatever anger might’ve tried rising up her throat is swiftly doused with cold water at the reminder she’s still wearing her mother’s dress, the jewelry, holding the book high against her chest so she’ll hide herself from the world.
“I didn’t do anything!” it sounds weak, but it’s the only defense she has.
Not yet, anyway. How could she? Rhaenyra― Rhaenyra deserves better than that.
“And that’s the only reason your head’s still where it is right now.” there’s a brief edge of mockery in Daemon’s voice, and Alicent’s wide eyes rise up to meet his.
The Rogue Prince is not lying, Alicent realizes. Had she come to him in an attempt to beg for forgiveness, or anything other than declaring her loyalty to his niece ― Daemon would’ve killed her, not an ounce of regret in his body. Alicent should be out of her mind with fear, now. The mere thought of it should terrify her.
Guilt eases in her chest, instead.
“Please, help me.” she asks, begs, really. “I don’t think my father will stop.”
Would he, if she were to ask? Alicent doesn’t think so. It’s her duty to obey him, but his order goes against everything she’s ever been taught ― against everything her faith demands of her, everything her mother ever told her. Would the Seven forgive her for her transgressions, were she to obey her father while forsaking their every teaching? Alicent doesn’t know.
When the Prince looks at her, all Alicent sees is the danger her father always warned her about.
For once in her life, Alicent is not afraid.
May the Warrior give you strength. May the Smith give you light.
Alicent wants to wait and find a way to fix everything, to try and avoid breaking Rhaenyra’s heart, but Daemon laughs to her face.
“You think daddy dearest is going to give you that much time?” it’s not mockery, Alicent knows, Daemon’s hatred of her father bleeding into his every word, but it feels like it. “The moment he realizes you came to me for help, you’re done for.”
Alicent wants to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, that her father is a better man than Daemon can ever hope to be ― but the words shrivel and die on her tongue, full of bitterness at the realization she’ll sound like a spoilt, naive child, speaking of matters she knows nothing about.
Why would a better man send his maiden daughter unchaperoned to a King’s bedroom?
Alicent lowers her head and allows herself to be guided to Rhaenyra’s quarters, heart panicked and hurting.
She’s never been denied entrance, and this time is no different.
“Alicent.” and then Rhaenyra’s expression turns confused. “Kepus?”
Alicent has never tried hiding her mistrust of Rhaenyra’s uncle ― has made it clear his presence alone causes her discomfort, though she’s never spoken of it out loud. Rhaenyra defends her uncle like she does with everything she loves, full of fire and anger, but she’s never given Alicent grief over this, preferring to avoid the topic altogether. They’ve always made it work, and now―
Now Alicent has to trust him, whether she wants it or not.
“Rhaenyra.” Alicent breathes out, chest filled with guilt.
Daemon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Your little friend has something to share.”
Confusion and worry bleeding into her expression, Rhaenyra beckons them inside, and the sound of the door as it closes behind them reminds Alicent of the bells tolling after a day of prayer.
Is it not her duty to obey? Obey the father, obey the mother. Her loyalty is to be given to family, first, above all else. Her father, whose orders led her to a grieving man’s rooms. Her father, who gave her a dead woman’s dress and jewelry. To be pious and rightful, is what her septa taught her. Dutiful, loyal, truthful. What kind of comfort can Alicent offer to a King? Her best friend’s father, at that. A kingdom he might rule, but Viserys I is and always will be Rhaenyra’s sire. And isn’t Rhaenyra the one to whom Alicent swore loyalty, first? Back when they were just little girls running about in Queen Aemma’s garden, delighted and full of life, promising to be by each other’s side always and forever. Alicent held up the promise, but not when it mattered the most. While Rhaenyra grieved her dead mother and the brother she lost in the King’s attempts at getting himself an heir, Alicent let herself be dressed in a gown that didn’t fit her, meant for a woman grown, with jewels she should’ve never been allowed to touch before becoming a married woman herself.
This is her chance at redemption, if nothing else. The Seven gave her a second chance, a chance to make up for the wrongs she didn’t mean to make. To be dutiful, and righteous, and right. This is what her mother taught her, and this is what Alicent will hold on to, no matter how arduous.
Alicent draws her shoulders high, pulling at the skin near her nails, and tells Rhaenyra the truth.
The entirety of it.
May the Maiden lend you courage. May the Crone guide you.
Alicent will tell no soul of it, later.
She will tell no one of Rhaenyra’s anger, nor her pain. She’ll tell no one of how Rhaenyra cries, and Alicent cries with her. There’s no betrayal to be fought over, but there could be, and the both of them know it. Alicent might’ve lost a Queen, but Rhaenyra lost her mother. Alicent’s heart wishes to believe her father had the best of the intentions by sending her to the King, but that’s hard to believe in when her mother’s jewels itch against her throat. Alicent’s never had anything as precious, never wore anything as expensive.
Daemon watches, and, when Rhaenyra’s done raging, Daemon plans.
A part of Alicent wishes she could stop him. A part of Alicent wants to help him. She’s torn between her duty to her Princess and her duty to her father, and so she does neither, too terrified of making the wrong choice, too upset for her own hesitation. She’d known, on a certain level, what seeking out the Rogue Prince for help would entitle. She had known he has no mercy to offer, that there’s nothing in him willing to offer her father an inch of mercy, an inch of doubt ― their long-standing rivalry has been there for as long as she can remember, and Daemon hates him just as much as he’s hated.
Alicent will have to learn to live with her choices, one way or another. Rhaenyra holds her hand, and promises to never leave her side.
(Rhaenyra’s always been better at keeping promises than Alicent, it feels like.)
Once they have a plan, the three of them together seek the King.
May the Stranger turn his gaze away from you.
Alicent Hightower marries King Viserys I as soon as the mourning period for Queen Aemma is over.
She’s been a big comfort to him during his mourning, is what he tells her father, and he’d like to keep her by his side. Alicent’s father puffs up with pride, delighted at what he perceives to be a plan coming along, and it’s his insistence at reminding her the importance of having a child ― a
son,
an heir ― as soon as possible that cements in her head the likelihood that he had been prepared to sacrifice her for his ambitions.
All of Alicent’s dreams of a dashing knight and motherhood, scattered to the winds for the sake of her father’s pride.
Not this time, she thinks, when the King refuses the bedding ceremony, to every Lord’s surprise and confusion. (He promised her he would not touch her, and he keeps to his word. Alicent gets the Queen’s wing, where Rhaenyra makes camp at during the night to keep her company, while Daemon escorts the King back to his own quarters. If Alicent cries, no one deems it necessary to comment on it. If she hides into Rhaenyra’s embrace like a little kid seeking solace, Rhaenyra will never tell a soul.)
Not ever again, she promises herself, cloaked in Targaryen red in her best friend’s wedding to the Rogue Prince, much to her father’s incandescent rage. (He’ll never again raise his hand to her, never again belittle or upset her. There’s a Queen’s crown upon her head, the promise of freedom of this farse and freedom to find herself a match as soon as Daemon digs deep enough to figure out what had been her father’s plans, and Alicent clings to both with all the desperation and courage she has. The beacon at the hightower will never glow green ― she’ll make sure of it.)
Alicent has picked her side, and she’ll stick to it.
And may the Seven Who Are One light your way.