Chapter Text
December 24, 1979
On the eve of Christmastide, two noteworthy events happened in Alicent Hightower's seventeen-year long life: the arrival of Daemon Targaryen following his discharge of service from the army, and the capital entering a two-month long quarantine, imposed by martial law, following an outbreak of smallpox.
The thunderous knocks arrived within the first hour of Christmas Eve. Alicent was the last to go to sleep. Aemma had gone to bed hours ago, Viserys not long after. Rhaenyra resisted being put to sleep before ten, but once she finished her mug of peppermint hot chocolate and brushed her teeth, she promptly fell asleep tucked under her blanket. Alicent, in an apartment where she was the sole occupant awake, finished doing the dishes and her laundry. Just as she was putting away her clothes in her wardrobe, there was a pounding on the front door. She checked the time on her way out, ten past twelve in the morning. She fixed her scarf over her auburn curls and peeked through the peephole. In the semi-dark corridor stood a tall man in his mid-twenties. His blue denim jacket was lined with faux sherpa. Tousled silver hair ran past his shoulders. The scowl in his purple eyes ended with laugh lines at the corners. Handsome, very dashing, but a man of obstinacy and fire, no doubt, much unlike her host family. Aemma was one of the kindest women she had ever met, and Viserys' generosity competed with his wife's. Only Rhaenyra had much spark and spunk inside her, and thus took up most of Alicent's working hours minding her. This man, whoever he was, had to be related to the Targaryens. But who was he and why was he here in the middle of the night?
He pounded on the door again. “Open up! Open the fucking door, Viserys!” The noise prompted one of the neighbors to open their door and yell at him to shut the fuck up and that people were trying to sleep. In response, the silver-haired man shot off his own fiery replies, filled with slurs, to the point the neighbor's wife had to pull back her husband inside, lest the two men gouge each other's eyes out.
Alicent glanced back at the hallway that led towards the bedrooms. It seemed Viserys and Aemma weren't awake yet. But what she dreaded more was Rhaenyra waking up, because once the nine-year-old was up, it was difficult to coax her back to sleep. Alicent was lucky the girl rarely had nightmares, or else her life as an au pair in a foreign country would've turned more laborious.
“Viserys, I swear to God, I'll kick this fucking door off its hinges if you don't open it!”
Alicent hesitantly tugged back the door chain, and was immediately assailed by the smell of cheap alcohol and musky sweat, one funky and the other sharp enough to claw up her nostrils and into her brain. She balked but didn't step away. “Yes?” she asked in a timid voice.
The man scowled. “You're not Aemma. Who the fuck are you?”
Alicent blinked. “I should be asking you the same question, sir. Who are you? Why are you disturbing my hosts in the middle of the night? Don't you know that the city is under strict quarantine? The martial law is on.”
“That's why I fucking came here. To my fucking brother. Who are you?”
“I'm their au pair, Alicent Hightower.”
The man blinked, as if trying to wave off the stupor inside his head. “Hightower?” Before Alicent could offer her father's name, the man snarled. “Otto Hightower’s daughter?!”
“Yes, he's my father. Who are...” Then, she paused. He said this was his brother's apartment. Did that mean... “Are you Captain Daemon Targaryen?”
As if something she said had stank, the man crinkled his nose. “Was a captain. Now, I am no longer, thanks to your snake of a father. They let me go.”
Alicent didn't know how to respond. In the past thirteen months while she lived with the Targaryens as their au pair, she often heard the name Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen, Daemon Targaryen in this household, and never once did his name bring any good news. Either the messy annulment with his wife, Rhea Royce; or his scandalous affair with a high-end prostitute, Mysaria; or his controversial activities as an army captain deployed in the far-flung hinterlands of the northern province. He never once let his older brother and family live in peace, always embroiled in one stint after another. Often, Viserys ranted to his family and Alicent during mealtimes, either angry or defeated. “My brother never got to have our mother for long. Our father was either aloof with our upbringing, or tied nooses around our necks whenever he was present in mind. This didn't go well with Daemon, and he exhibits the worst of our family.” He was the black sheep and was either unaware of his reputation, or aware and proud.
“I'm sorry to hear that, sir,” Alicent offered.
As if the sincerity of her words had pricked his stupor, he shook out of it. “Fuck them. Fuck all of them. Fuck your father. Now, let me in, or I'll break down this fucking door.”
Confused about the part about her father, Alicent cast another look down the corridor, praying for an intervention. Viserys and Aemma were either still asleep, or awake but hesitant, and so lingering behind. They had always been so good to her, even little Rhaenyra, who was the same age as her youngest brother, Gwayne (may God rest his soul in peace). Whenever Alicent was mocked by the other mothers at the playground for not being able to speak in their tongue well, they laughed behind her back. Rhaenyra would scold the adults, making them either ashamed of their actions, or complain to Aemma about Alicent allowing Rhaenyra to act disrespectfully towards her elders. Sometimes, Aemma did scold Rhaenyra for going too far. But most of the time, Aemma supported Alicent and shamed the bully mums in public. And Viserys? Every time he flew to North America for work, he’d bring back for her a dozen tins of Ovaltine, for her nightcaps. He even gave her the guest bedroom to sleep in, not the servants' quarter, which could be accessed through a separate staircase from the building’s back door. Because to the Targaryens, Alicent was family, and she saw them that way too.
Determined to preserve their peace, Alicent stood straighter, thrust up her chin, and looked the prodigal brother in the eye. “My apologies, sir, but I'm afraid I cannot let you in. Mr. Targaryen didn’t tell me that his brother might visit, and I have no proof that you are who you claim to be. You could be a murderer. A criminal. Until you show me some ID, I can't let you in.”
The man clenched his teeth, the purple in his eyes almost black. “Let me in, Hightower whore.”
That hurt, but Alicent wouldn't budge. “Kindly leave, sir.”
“Let me in!”
“No!”
It all happened at the same time. Aemma called her name from down the corridor. Alicent was about to turn her head, when the door was shoved open, the wood hitting Alicent on the nose. The metal latch bumped into her button nose, one of her facial features that the mothers in the playground were jealous of because of how perfectly, femininely sculpted it was, according to Rhaenyra. Alicent stumbled back as the scoundrel shoved his way in. He didn't stop at only injuring her nose. No, no. He went so far as to pin her against the wall. His arm over her collarbones stabbed into her flesh the gold and sterling silver crucifix that Alicent always wore. His other fingers splayed across her stomach.
“My nose!” Alicent cried out, as blood oozed down her nostril.
The scoundrel grinned like a madman. “I told you to let. Me. In.”
“DAEMON!”
At long last, Viserys intervened. At the sound of his voice, Daemon turned away from Alicent and down the corridor. His brother, heavily pregnant sister-in-law, and little niece stared at him, mouth agape, except for Viserys whose teeth were clenched, hands fisted by his sides, and his eyes two purple balls of fire.
“Let Alicent go. Now!” he roared.
Daemon did as told. Alicent stumbled away from the disgraced soldier and into Aemma's waiting arms. Her nose hurt, a lot, but she refused to let any tear fall. She wouldn't let that bastard get the satisfaction of seeing her broken.
Aemma, ever the gentle Aemma, rubbed her arm and checked her nose. “Is it broken, my dear? Does it feel broken?”
Alicent tentatively pressed her nose. Thank God, it didn't, or else they'd have to violate the quarantine. Viserys, though a government official, would still need a travel permit to drive Alicent to the hospital.
Aemma and Rhaenyra gently guided her to the drawing room. Alicent tilted her head back over the back of a sofa, streaks of blood drying on her pastel shirt. Aemma sent Rhaenyra to fetch the first-aid kit. From the foyer, the three of them heard Viserys screaming at Daemon for what he did to his teenaged au pair, as well as his front door and their mental peace.
“I had nowhere else to go, brother...” was the quiet reply Daemon gave. “They deliberately waited until the day before the quarantine to cut me loose. I hitchhiked and freighthopped across the countryside the whole day to reach the damn city.”
Alicent scoffed. Aemma agreed with her and coaxed a wad of cotton up Alicent's nose. “Breathe through your mouth, love.”
After some more scolding from Viserys, Daemon followed his brother into the apartment, a large duffle bag in his arms and a rucksack on his back. He sat on the sofa opposite Alicent and scowled at her. “You coddle your maids too much, Aemma.”
Before Alicent could reply, Rhaenyra piped up. “She's no maid! She's Alicent.”
Everyone else smiled. “Thank you, princess,” Alicent said to the little girl, who beamed at her.
“She isn't our maid, Daemon. She's our au pair,” Aemma said.
Daemon snorted. “Glorious name for a nanny.”
“Are you familiar with the concept of shutting up, sir?” Alicent muttered.
Daemon glared but said nothing for a minute. Aemma changed the cotton wad up Alicent's nose, the first one soaked with blood. “See what you did,” Aemma chided him. “The poor girl is bleeding. We're lucky you didn't break her nose.”
“She'll live. She's the daughter of Otto Hightower, isn't she?” He leaned back, his arms spread over the back of the sofa. “No, it's Reverend Father Otto Hightower, military chaplain with a stick up his ass.”
“Daemon!” both Viserys and Aemma cried out.
Alicent blinked. “How do you know my father?”
His face darkened. “That prissy bastard caused my discharge. He testified against me at the martial court.”
“And you lashed out at the poor girl for what her father did?” Viserys said. “She's not responsible for his actions, Daemon, nor does she deserve your unfair bias. Apologize to her for what you did.”
Daemon frowned. “Not even if hell freezes over.”
“If you don't make amends, you're not welcome here.”
“You're going to throw out your brother, your own blood, for this sanctimonious slut? She and her family don't deserve to be in our country. Our home. We welcomed their kind as refugees and look how they're taking over the economy! Her father is now a fucking chaplain for the fucking army.”
“He deserves every bit of it,” Viserys retorted. “Alicent is a good girl. She would've taken the veil if it weren't for our grandfather's last wish.”
Daemon blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Aemma replaced the second wad of cotton up Alicent's nose, and was relieved that less blood stained it now. “Jaehaerys had leprosy at the end...”
“I know that! Also that he admitted himself to a leper house.”
“Well, Alicent was volunteering there, cooking their food, cleaning the dirty dishes and laundry, scrubbing their floors and bedpans, and sometimes, bathing some elderly patients. One of them was our grandfather,” Brigadier General Jaehaerys Targaryen, “and he became much fond of her. During his last days, whenever he wasn’t lucid, he would sometimes mistake her for Aunt Saera.”
“The most comely girl we’ve ever met.” Aemma smiled and grazed Alicent’s cheek, which warmed under her touch.
“We used to talk about books we read together before he lost his fingers,” Alicent softly reminisced. “I'd use his library card to borrow on his behalf every week and read out to him as he rested after lunch and dinner. His favorite was Doctor Zhivago. Before he died, he asked me to sing a hymn for him.” She couldn’t help but pull on her cuticles. “He specifically asked for the troparion of Kassiani, because she’s the only woman whose music appears in the Byzantine liturgy.”
Aemma tugged and thus, ceased Alicent’s habit of “self-mutilation”, as she liked to call it. “She received a letter from him after his funeral. He begged her not to take the vows. And she listened.”
“It was his deathbed wish. How can I not fulfill it?” Alicent murmured, her shoulders hunched.
“He sent us letters too.”
“Both of you?” Daemon asked his brother.
“Grandsire wanted us to take her in once she turned seventeen. Her brothers were dead in that civil war and her father was already ordained. Her mother died from TB shortly after Alicent began to volunteer at the soup kitchens and leper houses. Grandfather wanted her to live comfortably until she got her maturity diploma. He wanted her to do more in life than being married to Jesus Christ. We'd have loved to take her in,” Viserys glanced at Alicent with clear paternal fondness, something he never cast upon Daemon, to his dismay, “but she wouldn't live with us as a charity case. Her Hightower pride won't allow it. So, she applied to become our au pair. That's how she's here. That's why,” Viserys coldly looked at Daemon, “she's family. And you'll do well to treat her the same way. Now, apologize.”
Daemon reluctantly turned to her, the purple of his gaze less menacing. He gazed at her big doe eyes for a long time, another feature that was the cause of envy at the playground, and said two words next. “Sorry, Hightower.”
“You can do better than that paltry apology,” Viserys said.
“It's okay, sir.” Alicent sat up, a third cotton wad plugged up her nose, no longer bleeding. “Apology accepted.”
With a maternal smile, Aemma squeezed her hand. Rhaenyra hung onto her other arm. Viserys offered her his own apology on behalf of his brother. Only Daemon glowered at her, another person envious of the affection the Targaryens had for her.
“I'm not sleeping in the drawing room, brother,” Daemon laid out his first demand the moment Alicent entered the kitchen to heat up leftover supper for him. “I crossed hundreds of miles in the cold. I need a proper bed.” Aemma and Viserys shared a worried look. Catching this, Daemon scoffed. “What, don't you have any guest bedroom?”
Aemma sneaked a glance at Alicent's back, who was setting down heated leftovers on the dining table: cabbage soup, cucumber salad, pork loin breaded cutlet, and milk strudel (the last two dishes Alicent had abstained from, since the Nativity Fast forbade consumption of meat and dairy).
“The maid fucking sleeps in the guest bedroom?” Daemon barked.
“Lower your voice,” Viserys spoke through gritted teeth. “Alicent is not our maid. I told you, she's family. And she deserves the comfort.”
“Where will I sleep then, in the fucking servant's quarter?” When his brother and sister-in-law didn't respond, he growled. “Don't you fucking dare!”
Alicent set the table, while silence lingered in the drawing room. When she announced that supper was ready, Daemon stalked towards the dining table and angrily pulled out a chair for himself. After serving him the food, Alicent herded Rhaenyra to her room, while Viserys and Aemma tried to convince Daemon to act reasonably. From Rhaenyra's bedroom down the corridor, they could hear the three locked in a duel, the prize being the occupancy of the guest bedroom.
“You can sleep in my room if you want,” Rhaenyra said.
Alicent was touched by the offer, since Rhaenyra was awfully territorial about her space. “Thank you, princess, but I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“You move too much in your sleep. You also snore and drool.”
She pouted and crossed her arms. “Don't pretend you're perfect. You talk and walk in your sleep. Mum had to steer you back to your room many times!”
Alicent tucked the blanket around Rhaenyra's form. “All the more reasons I have to sleep in my own room, princess.”
“There's no wood burner in the servants' quarter.” She sounded genuinely worried. “You'll freeze!”
“I'll borrow some extra blankets from the airing cupboard. How’s that now?”
Rhaenyra sighed and went to sleep. Outside, Aemma and Viserys waited for her. One glance at the sheepish look they gave and Alicent realized, Daemon Targaryen had won the battle.
“I'm so sorry, child.” Aemma wrung her hands.
Alicent gave them a thin-lipped smile while she picked at her cuticles. “It's okay, ma'am. Family comes first.”
Aemma took her hands in her own. “And you are our family, truly...”
“But not blood family.” Daemon leaned against the wall behind the couple, a cruel smirk on his lips. “You know what they say. Blood is thicker than water.”
It took everything in her not to scratch off that handsome lopsided smile. Alicent focused on a hole in the wainscoting, one that a mouse family made long ago, according to Aemma. The ever patient Aemma, who gave her the motherly love Alicent lost the day Alyrie Florent died. She remembered her mother's process of reining in her emotions and not explode. Inhale deeply, keep it in for three seconds, then exhale. She walked up to the man, now the tallest in this household of five, taller than Viserys, and looked up at him. “I believe the full form of that saying would be the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”
Aemma beamed behind her, proud like a mother. “Such a well-read girl our Alicent is.”
Bolstered by Aemma’s words, Alicent continued, despite the intense glare the disgraced captain sent her way. “Love is patient and kind... Love does not envy or boast... It is not arrogant or rude... It does not insist on its own way... It is not irritable or resentful... It does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth... Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” She shivered from the intense way he gazed at her, confused but intrigued. “I love Mr. and Mrs. Targaryen, as I love my parents. I love Rhaenyra as I loved my youngest brother, Gwayne, may he rest in peace. And they all love you. So, I'll try my best to love you as well, Captain Targaryen. Because that's what a family does. They're my family, and you're their family, so that makes us family too.” The next part hurt to say out loud, especially because it'd make the wastrel smug to see her defeated, but she wouldn't admit defeat. “While you finish your meal, sir, I'll move my things from the guest bedroom...”
“Into the servants' quarter...” he supplied.
“...into the servants' quarter...”
“...because that's what you are, Alicent Hightower.” He loomed over her, his hands on his thighs so that their eyes were on the same level. “You are the help, not a family member, and in the servants' quarter you deserve to sleep.”
Alicent's eyes itched, heavy with unshed tears that she refused to release, not in front of this man. He reminded her of the hostile mothers at the playground who refused to accept her because she was a refugee, because her country was now ruled by politicians who would slaughter her people for their religious beliefs, and so she could never return to her homeland. He reminded her of the male neighbors, who would whistle and catcall whenever she was alone and their wives weren't around. He reminded her of the youth gangs in front of the supermarkets who would spit on her, snatch off her scarf, kick off her groceries, and tell her to go back to her own country. He reminded her of the Roman Catholic priest at the neighborhood church who refused to offer her the Eucharist because she was Eastern Orthodox and thus, not a member of their denomination, and both churches didn’t offer the Eucharist to any outsider, even though they were all Christians and so, part of the same flock herded by the Shepherd that was our Lord, Jesus Christ. He reminded her of the bullies at school who would smear muck on her face, throw sand or spit or both on her lunch, poke at her eyes, pull on her hair, and punch her nose to diminish her beauty. Alicent knew she was beautiful, and they hated her for it. A beautiful outcast, despised and desired until nothing of her remains was remotely human.
She gulped down all she felt, all of which peeked through her big brown eyes, crystal clear to Daemon who was renowned for being keen-eyed and thus he easily caught the tempest of emotions inside her. He smirked at her agony, at her defeat.
Alicent sniffled but didn't cry. “A man who is kind benefits himself, but a cruel man hurts himself.” She looked at him. “One day, someone will break your heart irreparably, sir. It’s inevitable. I hope, for your sake, you'll receive the kindness you didn't give me tonight... Also, I’ll draw you a bath. You sorely need it.” She passed him, leaving him to be ambushed by Aemma and Viserys furthermore. After she drew him a warm, scented bath in the adjoining bathroom, she quietly gathered her belongings from the guest bedroom and headed for the servants' quarter next to the kitchen. She cleaned the table once the food was gone. She diligently washed the dishes, dried them one by one, and turned off the lights in the kitchen.
The servants' quarter was half the space the guest bedroom was. Alicent placed all her clothes in the wardrobe, brushed her teeth, and changed her clothes. She sat on her new bed and finally, finally, freed the tears. Not once did she let out a sound. Her brother, Gwayne, used to worry over this.
“You stomach every pain, sister,” he used to say. “Always the quiet, long suffering mouse. Don't gulp down your pain to not hurt those around you. If someone hurts you, they deserve to be hurt back.” Gwayne Hightower, seven years younger than her, seven years more wisdom in him.
Their mother disagreed with his sentiment. “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you,” she would quote from the Bible, at which Gwayne would roll his eyes, never patient enough to sit still for any of the divine liturgy, let alone practice what was preached in the holy book.
They were gone now. All of them. Only she and her father remained. Otto telephoned once a day every day, in the afternoon when lunch hour was over, and Aemma and Rhaenyra would take naps. Viserys would still be at his office. Alicent would have a quiet house to herself and use it to catch up on her homework or library reading, or experimenting on a new recipe. She loved cooking, a therapeutic experience, and Aemma indulged her wishes with an all-expanse paid shopping spree to the supermarket. Rhaenyra would polish off anything Alicent made, even the dishes that contained her least favorite vegetables. Alicent loved them! She loved them all, her new family. They never neglected her, and always respected her opinions and fulfilled her every need. Heaven would fall apart the day Alicent relinquished her love for this family to a lout like Daemon Targaryen.
Her head hurt. She decided to warm some milk before sleep. Whenever a tension headache appeared, a cup of warm milk with Ovaltine worked wonders for her. No sugar, simply milk with Ovaltine. The kitchen was just next-door. Nobody was awake at this hour, so Alicent felt no need to cover her hair with a scarf or put a robe over her nightgown, a hand-me-down from Aemma that was loose on her in all the places. She was so used to the apartment, she didn't need to switch on the light, not even when she lit the stove, poured milk in a pot, heated it up, then served it in her mug with a spoonful of Ovaltine. She was halfway through the nightcap when she felt someone breathing down her neck. Swallowing her mouthful without choking on it and thus alerting whoever it was behind her, Alicent quietly put down her mug and turned around.
Daemon grabbed the back of her neck and kissed her.