Work Text:
At the end of her life, Alicent was filled with regret and hatred. She had been dutiful and perhaps too ambitious. Yet she still firmly believed she had walked the only path she could the moment Viserys decided to wed her – the moment she bore him a son – three sons and a daughter. None he loved as he did his firstborn. None he shielded as he did Rhaenyra, blind to all her faults and insults.
Aegon had been his first healthy living son. His elder brother Baelor had been named heir, even if only for a day.
She often thought, if only Daemon had not uttered those words, perhaps her son would have been given his rightful place. If only.
When the Stranger finally, mercifully, came for her – she hoped to see her children and grandchildren. She hoped to finally be unburdened of all of the misery and loneliness – of all the horrors she had seen come to unfold – all the ambitious men to replace those that came before them. Capable and incompetent alike.
Aegon III ruled now, with Velaryon vipers circling him – their final victory killing her last living grandchild, replacing her with their kin. No trace of Alicent’s direct bloodline lived. In the end, the Blacks had prevailed after all.
And in truth, with her final breaths, she wondered – if only Queen Aemma had lived, surely none of this would have happened. Dragons would still roam the sky.
And perhaps, she would have been allowed to remain a carefree maiden for a while longer. Perhaps, she would have been permitted to marry a kind man. Perhaps, she could have been happy and her children safe. Preferably far away from King’s Landing. From Viserys. From Rhaenyra. From dragons and vipers.
If only and perhaps.
The Gods looked on and on and on. And when the living world continued to fall and newly reborn dragons and all those capable of hatching and flying them did as well – they looked back and back and back.
If only Dragons had not danced and died out. If only all the dragons of this era lived and produced more hatchlings that would grow to the size of the likes of Vhagar and Balerion. If only so many children of House Targaryen hadn’t perished – preventing from more dragonriders being born.
Perhaps the Song of Ice and Fire would have ended on a happier, more triumphant note.
Perhaps and if only.
But unlike a very mortal Alicent Hightower – they had magic and did as they had done before.
They interfered.
Alicent woke up, unexpectedly, once more young and free. Not surrounded by her children and grandchildren – but by grief, ghosts and monsters of the past. The past that Alicent could not endure to become the future again. If the Gods were jesting, Alicent would not give them the satisfaction of flinching and neither would she willingly endure all she had before once more. Queen Aemma still lived and there was not yet a mention of that fateful pregnancy. The past was apparently not yet written and therefor the ink wasn’t dry. Alicent intended to write another chapter for herself entirely.
Rhaenyra still loved her in her own selfish and capricious way, not a hint of hatred in her gaze when she looked at Alicent – but the callousness was already there, her sense of superiority and lack of accountability or common sense. She was already in place as an unofficial lady-in-waiting. She was the only one, something she hadn’t understood in her first life when she was her actual age and not in the years that followed as she aged and became Queen.
There lay power with choosing the right ladies to surround yourself with. Through their Houses, their relations, their future husbands, their future children. It simply was another political dance. Rhaenyra of old had always sneered at the politicking of it all. She was a princess and thus above them all. They should bow to her, why should she take a care if she insulted a Lord Paramount or a daughter of a loyal bannerman. Why did it matter if she forgot her histories or could not recognize a House by banner alone. The Realm’s Delight had no need for such inconveniences. And Alicent had aided and abetted her, whispering answers, Houses, smoothing over ruffled feathers. What had it gained her. Dying alone, mocked and maligned.
It grated at her constantly. Now she saw it clearly. Even now, she was to be Rhaenyra’s loyal companion – treated as a coveted pet only she could embrace. She might have woken up in the body of a young maiden, but she had a soul that screamed at everything she endured. And being in Rhaenyra’s presence, expected to act like a clipped songbird that only wished for its master’s eyes and attention, it was too much.
Alicent was perhaps too harsh for this younger version of her once best friend – but she lived a lifetime of hardship, sacrifice and duty – only to see all her children perish – all of her grandchildren be murdered. To spend the end of her life locked in a tower, as the world moved on – and hers remained shattered.
She didn’t have it in her anymore to wait hours when the princess went flying. She didn’t have it in her to smooth over stung feelings of courtiers as Rhaenyra flitted through life without considering the impact of her words and opinions. She didn’t have it in her to cover up Rhaenyra skipping lessons, avoiding responsibilities or hiding in the Godswood. She didn’t have it in her to pretend this was not a ruthless world, and she an unwilling player in the Game of Thrones. This time, she wouldn’t let her father mold her into a pawn – she would play by her own rules and navigate – and hopefully remain a minor player.
So Alicent pivoted and gained a place amongst the Queen’s ladies instead of Rhaenyra’s companion. She advised that the princess would benefit more from a few younger cousins she had, perhaps some other young ladies as well. Alicent postulated she would prefer serving the Queen, so she may learn all she could and eventually marry as well as a daughter of a second son could expect – even if he were Hand. A lesser bannerman would do. As long as she had safety and surety.
Though, some ambitious part of Alicent wondered if perhaps she could do a bit better. Jason Lannister had always been handsome – even if he did not have the brains his brother Tyland did. Yet he had squired for her uncle when they were little, and they had been friends as only children could be. And she still remembered their unwavering loyalty to her cause – to her son’s. She could do worse than a Lord Paramount.
It could be a King instead.
She broke her own vow of remaining a small player, even though she didn’t do it consciously. Serving the Queen, and being favored – as she was quite accomplished to the shock of many – to the dismay of those who hadn’t lived as she did – a lifetime longer as Queen herself then not.
Queen Aemma was all that was kindness and grace – and Alicent pitied her more than anyone else at court. She had been in her position – only more successful in birthing children – in birthing sons, and they lost all who they were for the whims of men. She didn’t know whose fate was kinder in the end. She wished neither of them should bear what men consigned them to.
And so, when the Queen began to look more pale and wane than usual – she calculated and knew.
When Alicent brought her a discrete cup of moontea, Alicent received a look of pure shock and surprise. There was a heated moment that passed between them, where nothing was said and yet more than a sentiment that no words could ever contain was shared amongst two women, who lived in the world of men and their fleeting mercy.
Alicent herself was still surprised at her own actions, but no more so then when the Queen decidedly drank the tea down with a near silent sob that could have been born of regret or absolution.
Together, they had committed treason. Alicent felt no remorse. The King deserved no sons – not at her expense and not at this bird of a Queen, beaten down and shackled to a lifetime of sacrifice and no true choices. Was it any wonder she had acted. An embittered Alicent had once thought herself more worthy of being Queen – more successful – more political. Had she not been just as much a powerless victim in the end. She knew better now.
Queen Aemma’s hands trembled as Alicent recovered the cup to dispose of the evidence. Alicent steadfastly squeezed her hands around the Queen’s shaking hands. She squeezed them more firmly as she shook her head as the Queen opened her mouth. Alicent held her gaze fiercely. She brought a finger to her mouth as if to hush her, then looked at the walls and cupped her ear. The Queen looked at her – a sense of confusion then fear, relief and finally disgust all pass over her face.
They were still prisoners in this gilded cage. It would not do to alert their captor that they were actually aware of their imprisonment. It made evading them so much more difficult.
She stood and curtsied.
"My Queen.”
The King grew more and more irate with a lack of a confirmed pregnancy. She had to think of him as the King, not Viserys, because Alicent couldn’t think of him like that and remain sane. Any sense of goodwill died when all her children and grandchildren did. It galled her. To see him demand and prod and impose on Queen Aemma – all for a boy child – all for a son. A son – three – he did not cherish when they were born of her womb. She did not blame Queen Aemma, but she did blame the King.
In her first life she had firmly believed it was because they were not of Aemma. Now, seeing the frustration and tired gaze of the Queen after yet another fruitless examination by the Grand Maester on the King’s order – she wondered. Perhaps it was the act of actually ordering her cut open himself, perhaps if the Queen had died in natural childbirth – he would have named Alicent’s own Aegon as heir. Perhaps not. It was rage inducing to say the least.
The King always liked to be the tragic hero of his own story – the victim that withstood obstacles, the chosen heir by the Realm. A King who had to make impossible choices, who was the unconventional gracious monarch to his daughter – pious in the religion that was Rhaenyra. Something even more galling, for the King hardly spent any time with her. So focused on a non-existent son, he ignored the child he had and pestered his wife for the ones she did not carry in her womb – berated her for the ones she lost before. Alicent tried not to dwell on it, for that was the way of true madness. And yet, it ached – like a rotten tooth one couldn’t help but prod.
Court was tense. As the King and his own favorites started to speculate that the Queen was perhaps being reckless – that she was eating too little – too much – the wrong things – the wrong tinctures – the wrong routines. And of course it would be the Queen and never the King who was to blame. He wasn’t wrong, in the sense that Alicent faithfully kept bringing Queen Aemma her regular dose of moontea. None could argue that, though tired and irate, the Queen had never been more healthy if still weaker than anyone would like.
At least, she no longer had her very life and strength drained from her from carrying babe upon babe. Not that she would have lived to see the last one be born. Queen Aemma didn’t know it herself, but she was living on stolen time. Time that Alicent had stolen for her at the expense of a boy that would not live beyond a day. Alicent didn’t feel guilty. The child would have struggled and died, his mother before him. Better for the mother to live and the child not even be a whisper in the halls of court. Though other whispers now lingered. Of barrenness and the King’s ire.
Alicent wondered if perhaps Queen Aemma would be strong enough to carry a child to term now, but Alicent still kept bringing the Queen tea without question – and the Queen never hesitated in drinking it. Their own rebellion. The more the King dared address it, the more determined the swig Queen Aemma took. Who was Alicent to take away one of the few choices the Queen could make – treason it technically may be.
She knew the Queen’s ladies were somewhat being scrutinized by now, but she had learned from her past life – from players like her father and Larys Strong. She was also a well-known pious maiden that prayed diligently to the Seven. A Hightower that preached duty and obedience. It was laughable that she would be the one helping the Queen to keep from conceiving – from aborting – let alone being the one to actually bring her the tea herself. No one could connect it to her if they ever dare think the Queen was doing just that, though she liked to think she remained diligent nonetheless.
There had always been a rogue player at court, though. And even though she had kept far and wide from him. It still blindsided her that he was the one to finally catch her in the act, when leaving the Queen after having drunken the tea.
She did not see him coming, as she was dragged into a dark corner in the side corridor she used when carrying the cup – in truth, she should have calculated in the incalculable. Daemon Targaryen always was a thorn in anyone’s plans. She had thought he would be happy carousing the city, secure in his place as heir – dreaming of his future Valyrian bride and niece, while neglecting the Vale wife he spurned. Why would he concern himself with his good-sister’s empty womb, when it was so advantageous to him.
She had a dagger at his throat as he had a hand on her waist and a hand on the basket of yarn she used to hide the cup of moontea. Her chest heaved. Surprise as well as something else that flitted through his gaze, making him step back – his hands raised. She lowered her blade and after a moment, slid it into a barely noticeable seam.
Cautiously, he reached inside her basket. There was little she could do. She couldn’t kill a prince of the realm quite yet and certainly not so close to the Queen’s quarters. When he found the clay cup, his eyes flickered once more. He sniffed it then looked at her. She raised her head defiantly and squared her jaw. His eyebrow raised, but he didn’t call for guards. He didn’t threaten her or alluded to blackmail. He merely slipped it back beneath the yarn.
Alicent exhaled noisily then nodded. Daemon just nodded as well. A moment passed, before she curtsied.
“My prince.”
She left him in the darkness. He wouldn’t betray her. Her actions ensured he would remain heir, after all.
A tourney was organized. A smaller one than the one for the King’s supposed heir – but the King did so love his feasts and his boasting displays of his supposed peaceful reign. There was a silent, growing rift between the now two dragonriding Houses for one. House Velaryon had two dragons. Alicent knew in a few years, it would have three. Vhagar, Meleys and Seasmoke. She wondered at the idiocy of the King, not forbidding any further dragons being claimed. House Targaryen had two. Caraxes and Syrax. If ever there were to be an issue, the odds did not favor the House of the Dragon itself. Ironic, but true.
Alicent had changed the game, however. Prince Daemon was still heir. Queen Aemma still lived. And Lady Laena was but a slip of a dragonless girl of eleven – not a threat, yet.
Cheers erupted around the nobles and smallfolk as Prince Daemon Targaryen rode to the royal box – where the King, Queen and Princess resided, as well as Alicent as the Queen’s favored lady-in-waiting, as well as being the daughter of the Hand.
She should have anticipated Daemon asking for her favor. She had not. She granted it to him though and wished him the best of luck. Rhaenyra had looked at her betrayed, but the Queen intervened as her daughter tried to ask Alicent what the meaning of this was. No doubt she had been secure the Prince was riding towards them for her own favor. Alicent had thought that likely as well.
Something had changed though. She had changed. And she had changed the Game, in favor for Daemon. Rhaenyra might be an almost pure Valyrian dragonrider, but it was Alicent who was ensuring his ascension as King. Apparently, she changed more than she intended to. Perhaps she was always destined to circle or be circled by dragons, but this time – she would not go quietly. She had fire in her as well and it was green.
He won, of course he did. Ser Criston was not present. Perhaps because it was a smaller tourney, with lesser winnings – perhaps because any of the changes she had wrought, had more impact beyond the ripples she herself was witness to. It did not matter, truly. He died, and she buried all of him deep inside.
Daemon crowned her Queen of love and beauty. Rhaenyra had stormed off midway through the feast, when Daemon asked to dance with him for the second time. The King was oblivious to anything but making merry. Not the fact that his daughter left. Not the fact that his Queen barely managed to keep up a merry appearance for the courtiers and peace of the Realm. Not the fact that her father had a gleam in his eyes, she knew far too well. When the dance ended, Daemon kissed the back of her hand and bowed, before leading her back to her seat – to her father. Daemon, historically having a legendary hatred of her father, markedly did not antagonize him now. There were small mercies to be had, after all.
“Otto, I bring you your daughter. A jewel to your House.”
Her father tilted his head. Daemon turned to her and she couldn’t help but blush at the fire in his eyes. It was a startling development. Alicent didn’t quite know how she felt about it, but she did know she did not hate it. He both was and was not the man that brought her much fear and eventually grief as well as pain – but she wondered. Fleetingly, she realized – in her former lifetime, she really had become a worthy player. If law and decency did not prevail, perhaps other measures might.
“My lady.” He spoke before departing. She watched him go, towards the royal dais. To the King, who welcomed him as Daemon leant in to whisper small platitudes. A play of mummers for the King. Another lady approached, a Frey, addressing the Queen – before turning to Daemon. She did not hear what was said. Yet it was obvious she was dismissed. Prince Daemon looked indifferent and the lady retreated – a sheen to her eyes and a ruddy complexion. She shot Alicent a harsh look. She was a beauty, but Alicent knew her to be simpering and cloying. Perhaps she had thought to seek the favor of the prince, only to be rebuffed quite openly and knowing prince Daemon, rudely.
Alicent only raised an eyebrow at the display, before turning to her father. He was looking at her as if he did not recognize the person she had become.
“What are you doing, daughter?” Otto asked, his tone even. She thought about it for a moment, before realizing what she was actually doing – even if she had promised herself to try and stay away as much of it as possible. She acknowledged silently, she had been lying to herself.
“Playing the Game of Thrones, father.” She admitted.
“I would not have your reputation sullied, because you fell for the affections of a married man – a rogue at that.”
She sipped her wine and whispered. “Married, for now.”
His eyes took on another gleam. “Alicent.”
“Worry not, father. I am not interested in becoming another notch in Daemon’s bedframe. Heir to the throne or not.”
Her father leant back. She glanced around the hall – courtiers dancing and making merry – servants flitting about – and the two of them in their own cocoon.
“It is a pity Lady Rhea will bear him no children. To think, if Prince Daemon had issue – a son, the King would be less pressed to harry the Queen into having another child. After all, the heir would have an heir.”
Otto said nothing for a moment then just nodded, eyes gleaming. They went back to enjoying the feast. When she caught the Queen’s eye, she raised her cup and Queen Aemma inclined her head and smiled, then raised her cup in return. She heard her father’s shocked inhaled breath, though did not look at him as she spoke.
“The Queen is quite fond of me and I of her, father – in truth, at times we converse as I would imagine only sisters do.”
Alicent knew her father well. In later days and weeks, she often caught him looking at her. He looked proud, she thought. And greedy. Always so very greedy.
Her father did as he always would He sniffed out power and molded the world. Alicent really did learn it at his knee, though before she refused to admit it. She had no blinders left to obscure who she really was, now. She had returned to life and changed the world. A part of her still longed to see this farce of a world burn to the ground. If there was one thing prince Daemon was good at, it was breathing fire down upon his enemies.
And slowly but surely she realized that she would not mind it, if in this life, his flames were meant for her.
Two moons later, word reached the Red Keep. Lady Rhea Royce had died, attacked by a mountain clan while hawking. Alicent locked eyes with her father. A corner of her mouth quirked up. He always did act fast. Otto did not say anything. In this keep, the walls had ears.
“I will join the Queen and offer my condolences on the loss of her good-sister.”
Her father stood and kissed her forehead.
“My dutiful daughter.”
Prince Daemon was to fly to the Runestone in an hour’s time and could not be reasoned with, the Queen informed her with a pointed look. Alicent nodded and left her. She took a carriage to the dragonpit. He was still Daemon, after all. It would not do to upset the board she helped create with impulsiveness. She sighed. It was her fate to manage members of House Targaryen, but sometimes she hoped they would have the sense the Gods should have instilled in those capable of riding dragons.
He was startled by her appearance. She watched him from a distance. She had less fear of dragons at this point of her life then she did before – but Caraxes was a large dragon, and wholly unfamiliar to her – in either life.
“My lady?”
She looked at him, sharp and calculating. Something passed over his face and Alicent knew he was on the edge of being prickled. She exhaled and softened her appearance.
“Do not fly to Runestone.” She pleaded.
A sneer threatened to form and she clasped his hands in what could only be described an intimate and forward manner. He raised an eyebrow. She held his gaze before squeezing his hands gently.
“Runestone is not your birthright. You would threaten what is, should you appear grasping – willing to ignore laws and custom.”
Daemon looked at her shocked, at what she was openly implying. It was what he wanted though. The very reason he had not betrayed what she and the Queen were doing – why he had sought her favour.
“Go the Eeyrie. Pronounce to the Vale court your support for the next male Royce heir, since you have no issue of your own with your departed late wife. Ask to attend her burial and be respectful of the rites of First Men. The Seven rule much of Westeros, but the Houses that follow the Old Gods are still many and prideful. Respect for their religion and ways will gain you their support. First Men Houses often intermarry and House Royce has many close relations over several of the kingdoms.”
Daemon’s eyes took on a gleam. So similar yet different to her father. She squeezed his hands once more. At least the prince looked open to her suggestion, which ironically was more courtesy than her father had given her in her previous life at this age.
“Acknowledge there was no love lost between the two of you, but that she was still your wife. Offer to burn the mountain clan that did it, by leave of the Lady of the Vale and House Royce – that you wished you could have done it immediately, but acknowledge that though you are heir to the throne, in this matter – the Lady of the Vale should have a say if dragonfire should burn her lands and woods or not.”
“And should she give me leave?” Daemon asked mockingly – as if Alicent did not know what she was saying. As if she did not comprehend the lives that would be lost. The devastation dragonfire could bring. She knew all too well what would come if it, should Jeyne Arryn take Daemon up on his offer.
She smiled. It was hard and vicious and cruel. Daemon looked surprised. She took a green embroidered handkerchief – linen and sturdy – and tied it around the prince’s wrist. She met his eyes.
“When House Hightower goes to war, the lighthouse burns the colour green.”
Daemon looked at the cloth for a moment.
“You would have no problem with me burning men, women and children – my lady?”
“You are a dragon, my prince. While you might not have loved your first wife, she was still yours.”
They locked eyes for a moment. “They have stolen from a dragon’s hoard and think there won’t be retribution. They must think the dragon is weak or afraid. Uninterested at best. Perhaps, it is time to remind them, what dragons do when mere men seek to steal what is not theirs to take.”
Daemon kissed her hand.
“My lady, you are quite a revelation.”
She tilted her head. “I too have fire in me, prince Daemon. Green, like wildfire. Different from yours, but that does not mean it will not burn the world to the ground if need be.”
“As I am starting to realize.” He smirked.
Alicent watched him leave. She watched until she could no longer see the red dragon in the sky. She returned to court and her father. She cannot do it alone, but it was she who held the strings she allowed her father to tug before. There was no guarantee, and Alicent wondered if she would not be better off indulging Jason Lannister’s affections. She would not mind being Lady of the West. She would not mind being Queen again one day – or mother of the next King. She attended her own Queen dutifully and skillfully.
“Did you see Daemon off, Lady Alicent?” Queen Aemma asked interestedly, while drinking wine.
“I did and gave him some advice.” Alicent said pointedly. “I hope he heeds it.”
“The Gods know he could do with someone with a good head on her shoulders.”
She smiled. Queen Aemma saw more than Alicent realized in a previous life. And in this life, Alicent was her firm ally – and in return, the Queen was hers.
“I think tea in the afternoon would be lovely, no? I do prefer the brew you make over any other.”
“Of course my Queen, tea it shall be.”