Chapter Text
She grew up with her, in a sense.
For as long as she can remember, Alicent’s life has been peripherally and perpetually shadowed by Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. A celebrity as much as a monarch, Rhaenyra has been everywhere in Alicent’s life without ever truly being present— on television screens, front pages of tabloids at the corner stores, grainy footage from balcony waves and boarding school scuffles.
She grew up with her, but to Alicent, Rhaenyra Targaryen has never felt real; a celebrity before a person, a headline in designer sunglasses, et cetera, et cetera.
And, for the most part, that was all she would be.
Because the world, for all its modern trappings— the high-speed trains and computers and the budding nature of cellphones— remained staggeringly archaic when it comes to matters of the Crown. A fact that became even more apparent when Rhaenyra Targaryen—the eldest daughter of King Viserys I and the late Queen Aemma— had her succession immediately wiped off the board by the birth of her brother Baelon not three years later. The line of inheritance, by decree, still passed cleanly through the male bloodline, regardless of order of birth.
It didn’t matter that Rhaenyra was firstborn, or that Queen Aemma was the one who gave her life to the realm by bearing Baelon. The moment he arrived, the future was his and his alone.
There had been a brief, half-hearted public debate about reform, of course, which was the only real-if-flaccid indicator of any semblance of progress. Editorials were published, opinion polls taken. The phrase “firstborn rights” trended in the media and public zeitgeist for three days. But the Council never took it seriously, and Viserys never pushed, because the truth was that most people liked their monarchs like they liked their fairy tales: traditional, simple, easy to follow—
"A king is easier to sell," Otto had said. "Looks better in state portraits."
— And a king certainly looked better than Rhaenyra, who, from a young age, seemed to insist upon her own complication. She refused to curtsy, constantly looked bored, and was reportedly moody and impossible to control. Still; if she resented being passed over, she never said so.
Not when Baelon was officially named Prince Regent. Not even when the news ran a split-screen of their photos with the headline:
The Prince and the Problem.
There were rumours that she’d called parliament a den of limp-dicked sycophants before she was legally allowed to drink, that she rode motorcycles at inhuman speeds along the highways with her twin bodyguards—
Because Rhaenyra Targaryen was the kind of person who had actual twin brothers as bodyguards—
— And that she was the kind of person who would call the Prime Minister of Qohor a “boring little man” on a hot mic without apologizing for it when it was aired on national television.
While Alicent Hightower— daughter of the Head of the Global Council— went to university, Rhaenyra Targaryen was getting escorted out of a film festival premiere for throwing wine at her (rumoured) ex-girlfriend’s new fiancée.
(“Girlfriend!” Otto had exclaimed when retelling the story to Alicent’s mother. “As in female partner!”
“I understood perfectly well, dear.”)
While Alicent was doing mock summits and crisis simulations, learning how to mediate ceasefires and navigate constitutional law, Rhaenyra Targaryen was getting photographed climbing onto a palace roof at three in the morning with her cousins.
So on.
So forth.
(“King Viserys has never had much of a sense of discipline when it comes to his daughter,” Otto had once said. “Alicent, dear— put on another pot, won’t you?” )
Still, Rhaenyra Targaryen never muddled the dream of the court for Alicent, who would sometimes daydream of royal banquets and galas with the ballrooms and beautiful dresses and that grand sense of occasion. Even when her father spoke with disdain about the wasteful optics of royal tradition, Alicent would find herself poring over the photographs in the papers he brought home— notice the way brooches were pinned, how champagne flutes were held, remembered the names of designers, the subtext buried in seating charts—
(“There’s a reason Daemon Targaryen is sitting at that table,” Otto had once muttered to her. “And it certainly isn’t for apolitical reasons.”
“What does apolitical mean, father?”
“It means no one at that table is ever just there to eat.”
Which wasn’t even close to the correct definition, as Alicent would find out later that night through her dictionary.)
She admired them, in her own small way. The women especially, queens and princesses and heirs apparent, with their beautiful outfits and poise and articulate ways of speech. Rhaenyra Targaryen was no exception.
Alicent was of two minds about the princess; she knew, in the way that daughters of powerful men were meant to know, that Rhaenyra Targaryen was the antithesis of how Alicent was to behave—
But she also found herself hungering for her, in a way.
Not her, of course, but the freedom that Rhaenyra seemed to have. The audacity of being looked at without once flinching.
And what else was Alicent to feel, watching someone her age holding the attention of a room of thousands as a birthright, not ever apologizing for the wide swathes of space she would take up? When that someone was someone like Rhaenyra Targaryen—
Who was the kind of beautiful in that elusive and pre-verbal way, like certain songs or storms, which were all simply the opinions of the public, of course.
***
The Global Council was not built for such pageantry.
Formed in the aftermath of the Summer Wars nearly a century earlier, it was established as a neutral, supranational body; part peacekeeping force, part regulatory board, part ceremonial watchdog over transitions of power across the recognized kingdoms. No army of its own, no monarch it pledged fealty to. Networks upon networks of treaties and diplomatic levers that could stall embargoes, withhold foreign aid, with a charter that promised neutrality and pragmatism.
Officially, the Council existed to promote global cooperation and ensure the peaceful transfer of power in all sovereign nations.
Unofficially, it existed to make sure nothing— or no one— destabilized the order too much.
When monarchs died, when parliaments collapsed, or when a line of succession blurred just enough to cause panic, the Council would send delegates; people who knew the difference between law and precedent, how to move between them.
The Global Council brought order in a world that insisted upon its own chaos.
And from the time she was old enough to sit quietly through a meeting, shadowing her father– who had become the 11th Head of the Council when she was only two years old– Alicent Hightower had known she was meant to be part of it.
So, she worked. She studied. She rubbed shoulders. She rarely slept.
And then, Alicent became the second-youngest delegate in the Council’s history.
An inevitable path with her last name. Undeniably a child of nepotism, yes, but she’d worked so hard for it that by the time her nomination was confirmed, no one could call it something as simple as a favour aloud.
Her first year was relatively quiet, but quietly successful. An impressive feat, in this world she now lived in.
She chaired a subcommittee on border disputes between Yunkai and Lannisport and resolved it in under six weeks, rewrote the environmental refugee intake protocols for the Northern Territories after the spring floods.
By the end of her third year, Alicent earned herself three commendations and once even earned a nod of approval from the High Envoy of Dorne (who, according to office legend, hadn’t nodded at anyone in twelve years).
No one was calling it a favour, by then.
Even fewer were thinking it.
***
This is why, when King Viserys Targaryen I passes away, it comes as no surprise that Alicent is the one sent to Valyria to oversee the succession of his eldest son Prince Baelon, as part of a diplomatic rotation agreed upon by the Global Council and Valyria’s Parliament to ensure a smooth transition and maintain international confidence.
A simple enough assignment at face value, but a significant one, because Valyria has the distinction of being one of the oldest and richest kingdoms in the world— making it the most politically volatile.
It’s a kingdom that trades on history as much as it does on policy; public sentiment shifts like the weather, and private interests run deep. Its ports connect half the continent, its banks hold the debts of five other nations, and its military is massive and quietly expanding.
In other words:
If a succession were to falter, it would not be so simple as a domestic issue; it would be a crisis with a ripple effect that could hit trade corridors, currency markets, energy reserves, and border security in half a dozen regions.
In other, other words:
It’s wildly, unfathomably important that stability is maintained.
So, they send Alicent Hightower, because she is the daughter of Otto Hightower— the eleventh Head of the Global Council— and a known quantity. It’s Alicent and not Otto, because Alicent is a signal of respect without overreach; sending Otto himself might be seen as patronizing, as though the Council didn’t trust Valyria to manage its own affairs without the top brass overseeing it. Alicent, on the other hand, has the experience credentialed, is just junior enough to avoid causing offence, and— not least of all— wields the weighty Hightower name.
(“A diplomatic olive branch with a beautiful, pedigreed cherry on top,” Alric Tullis had heartily and patronizingly said.
Years of education and experience, Alicent had thought while smiling politely at him. And still, here I am— reduced to nothing but an appendage for my father. )
***
Alicent arrives in Valyria the day of King Viserys Targaryen I’s funeral.
Her time there is meant to be peaceful, as it has been for decades before it— ceremonial, really. The Council’s role is to observe, to confirm that things are moving according to charter: a clean oath, a formal procession, a coronation that reassures everyone and placates the press.
Still, it’s busy, as these things tend to be. Alicent’s initial days are spent in back-to-back briefings with parliamentary liaisons and legal advisors, reviewing old treaties and newer amendments, sitting through endless rehearsals of protocol; what flags fly when, who bows to whom, the correct order of signatures on ceremonial decrees.
Alicent finds herself enjoying her time in Valyria. Giddy, even, sometimes. She isn’t naive enough to express this out loud, of course, but there’s something so undeniably intoxicating about the place. The architecture alone is positively absurd, impossibly ancient, with bridges that pre-date the creation of half the world’s maps. Everything about Valyria seems to operate on a scale that makes other capitals— including Oldtown— feel like stage sets.
She stays in a high-ceilinged suite in the Diplomatic Quarter, drinks darjeeling tea or cardamom coffee every morning, attends briefings in marble halls, and floats through palace receptions where no one ever lets her glass go empty.
Some nights, she, in her mind, pretends she is as much a resident here as the princesses who grew up in these gold-trimmed corridors. That she, too, belongs in a city where everything seems to glow around the edges; she walks the palace grounds at night and memorizes the names of the fountains and the towers. She lets the wind off the bay nearby ripple through her hair when she stands on the terrace of the suite.
Watches candlelight flickering behind stained glass windows in the buildings nearby.
***
And then, of course—
There’s Princess Rhaenyra.
Their first introduction had been uneventful on paper; just a general formal greeting at a reception before the funeral on Alicent’s second night. Alicent had been just one in a crowd of dozens being addressed by Prince Baelon and Princess Rhaenyra.
“Welcome to Valyria,” Rhaenyra had said to the crowd, wearing high-waisted black trousers, a silk blouse the colour of ash roses, sleeves half-unbuttoned and collar askew. She had no jewelry on except a single signet ring on her pinky finger.
Alicent had noticed how bored she looked; how much more beautiful she was in person, all fiery eyes and euphonious voice.
They don't speak, because they don't really have to, even though Alicent itches for it, a little. But there is no reason, and the unspoken rule around royalty is to not speak to them unless spoken to. Alicent’s main point of contact is Prince Baelon and his advisors, and for the most part, her role keeps her close to the centre of succession logistics— as in, not Rhaenyra.
Still, Alicent keeps seeing her—at press briefings, in the gallery chambers, across the wide lawns at palace events— and it becomes increasingly difficult not to watch her, because Rhaenyra Targaryen carries herself like someone who's grown up incredibly important and never stopped being slightly amused by it all.
But she isn't snobbish like Alicent had expected. Confident and assured to the point of arrogance, yes, but not contemptuous. The press and her father had painted a picture of a petulant brat— spoiled, reckless, positively allergic to any and all sense of responsibility.
But the woman Alicent keeps seeing isn't that; and she sees her often.
Alicent keeps stealing glances.
Sometimes, she swears that Rhaenyra is looking, first.
***
The funeral and official mourning period for Viserys Targaryen I pass while Alicent is there. Everything is going according to plan.
Prince Baelon is a modest and rather plain young man; perfect for the throne. Groomed for the throne. Dull, by all accounts. He married an equally modest and plain woman named Lady Elora, whose greatest public contribution to date had been a well-received speech at a climate summit and an uncomfortable televised interview about equestrian therapy.
They make sense together, which is to say: they inspire no brow-raising headlines. They photograph well. They say the right things. Baelon, for all his lack of charisma, has been dependable—he shows up on time, wears the suits and the ceremonial outfits without complaint, shakes the hands. He reads from cue cards and never improvises.
Dull. They're dull.
But dull is safe and reliable, in this world; dull is the way to avoid wars, recessions— even famine, in the case of the early kings who mistook flair for foresight and pageantry for policy. Dull means that level heads would continue to prevail with tenuous alliances and fragile treaties intact.
In all of Alicent’s meetings and interactions with him, the prince is nothing but courteous, collaborative, earnest without being naive. After all, he's spent the better part of a decade doing what heirs are supposed to do: studying constitutional law, attending global summits on his father’s behalf, shaking hands at funerals and weddings and never saying anything that could be misquoted.
The coronation is scheduled, the itinerary confirmed.
Everything is well and truly in place.
And then, four days before the coronation, on an otherwise peaceful Tuesday—
Prince Baelon Targaryen and his wife are killed.
***
Alicent isn’t even supposed to be at this particular event, but she's covering for an ill colleague for what was to be a rather dull evening for the dull-in-a-great-way prince — a ribbon-cutting ceremony with a few speeches and a local string quartet.
She’s touching up her lipstick in the bathroom mirror when Rhaenyra Targaryen steps out of one of the stalls behind her; Alicent does a double take, blinks, wonders if she’s somehow gone into the wrong bathroom because there is absolutely no way that Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen is in this bathroom, the public one, the one that everyone else here uses.
Alicent’s still staring, lipstick halfway up to her mouth, when Rhaenyra approaches at the sink beside her and washes her hands, wearing black slacks and a sleeveless, flowing black top. That signet ring on her pinky flashes in the light. Alicent, realizing she’s staring, flushes and quickly gathers herself and caps her lipstick, puts it back in her purse.
“Your grace,” she says softly, gently tilting her chin down in deference.
Rhaenyra flicks her hands under the tap before turning it off, getting one of the hand-towels neatly folded and wiping casually before tossing it into the laundry bin.
“You’re with the Council,” Rhaenyra says, not looking at Alicent initially.
Alicent blinks. “I am,” she says. “My name is Alicent Hightower.”
Rhaenyra hums, seems to absent-mindedly check her hair in the mirror, brushing a strand of hair off to the side. “You were at the luncheon last week.”
“I was.”
Rhaenyra lowers her hand, and then finally looks at Alicent through the mirror.
“You looked a little like you wanted to set yourself on fire.”
Alicent opens her mouth, then closes it, taken aback at the sudden jest before remembering this is Rhaenyra Targaryen in front of her; irreverent, not one bit concerned with the custom pleasantries of the court.
(“The problem with the court,” Rhaenyra had once drawled in a television interview years back, “is that they’d rather choke on decorum than actually say what they mean. May the gods forbid.”
Alicent only remembers that one because it had gotten her banned from two diplomatic luncheons and, for a brief while, cost her a sponsorship with the Royal Exchange. Her father also had come home so furious that he locked himself in his office for four hours straight.)
With this, Alicent attempts to meet Rhaenyra where she is.
“I... didn’t realize I was being watched,” she says as casually as possible, feeling a little like she might be sick if she doesn’t append your grace to the statement immediately but biting it back anyway.
“You were,” Rhaenyra remarks coolly. She turns to Alicent, who tears her gaze from the mirror to the real Rhaenyra beside her. “You have been.”
Alicent feels her heart pound and her throat catch and doesn’t know how to reorient herself in this moment; this one where Rhaenyra Targaryen is not just a real person, but actively speaking to Alicent, still with that mild air of boredom about her.
And Alicent finds herself wanting to rid Rhaenyra entirely of that bored expression— wants, irrationally, to make her interested.
“…Is that so?” Alicent asks.
“It’s so.”
“Might I ask why?” Alicent pauses. Then, testing the slightest bit of cheek, a small downward turn of the chin: “Your grace.”
That gets a glimmer of amusement or something similar in Rhaenyra’s eyes, which are even more beautiful up close like this.
“I notice bored people. It’s a hobby, of sorts.”
Alicent swallows, tries to maintain her air of impassivity. “Some hobby.”
“Some hobby,” Rhaenyra repeats in concession, the corner of her lip twitching up into a brief, beguiled smile. She leans slightly back against the counter, arms loosely crossed. “Besides— you’re the only one in this entire delegation who hasn’t tried to corner me about Baelon.”
Alicent’s brows lift, surprised. “I was under the impression we weren’t supposed to speak to you at all.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t seem to have stopped the rest of your colleagues,” Rhaenyra says dryly. Alicent winces slightly in secondhand embarrassment. Rhaenyra fiddles with the ring on her pinky. “So— I was curious.”
“About?”
“You, leaving me alone. Were you being smart, or just shy?”
Alicent tilts her chin upwards, heart still racing. “Professional.”
“Same thing,” Rhaenyra replies easily. “Sometimes.”
Alicent huffs a quiet breath of laughter through her nose, trying not to let her nerves show.
“I suppose… I didn’t see the point.”
Rhaenyra raises a brow. “Ouch.”
Alicent shrugs, though she feels a slight spike of anxiety at the notion that she’s insulted the princess. Monarchies aren’t what they used to be; it’s not as though anyone’s getting their tongues cut out for a sideways comment here and there. But public perception, as Alicent very well knows, matters deeply, still.
She’s halfway to apologizing when she notices that Rhaenyra’s now smiling softly, genuinely, looking sincerely amused.
Eventually, Alicent settles for, “I only meant… that I don’t have any interest in approaching someone who’s made it clear she wants to be left alone.”
Rhaenyra hums. “That is what I said,” she says, pushing off the counter now, standing a little closer. “But I didn’t say I meant it, did I?”
There’s a pause that feels a little charged, a little off-axis in a way Alicent feels somewhere low in her gut, and she’s imagining it, she’s sure she is.
“…You should come find me after the ribbon thing,” Rhaenyra says, filling the silence for them both. She tilts her head, gives Alicent another one of her appraising looks that has Alicent feeling a little like she’s burning from the inside out with each inch Rhaenyra looks at. “I could show you where they keep the real wine.”
Alicent swallows. Her mouth feels dry, which is ridiculous, because it’s just an invitation to drink wine, not— anything else. She doesn’t answer right away, suddenly aware of how loud her pulse feels, how warm her chest feels beneath her dress. She reaches to adjust the strap of her bag, though it hasn’t slipped.
“I don’t— I don’t drink much,” she offers, which is absolutely not true, but seems like the safest way to hold ground. Alicent wonders to herself if Rhaenyra sees her as an equal, or just another delegate playing suits, here for Rhaenyra to toy with. She really can’t tell which; the obscurity of it thrills her, a little, despite herself.
Rhaenyra smiles faintly. “Neither do I. That’s why it’s hidden.” Then, before Alicent can parse that entirely, she adds, “But you could come anyway—”
And then, there’s a sound—
Low at first, like a groan in the foundation— then, violently, violently loud.
The mirror shatters before Alicent even realizes what’s happening. A force tears through the room like a battering ram. She doesn’t have time to scream. One second she’s standing there with her bag half-slipping off her shoulder, the next she’s airborne, slammed backwards into the tile wall like a rag-doll.
The world tilts and she’s faintly aware of tiles cracking, the sink beside her fracturing, everything turning into white noise and heat and impact and she hears someone—
Herself, it’s herself—
Choking on dust that’s suddenly and thickly filled the air. There’s a sharp tang of something chemical, and she can’t see anything at first. Her ears are ringing.
Somewhere nearby, someone’s coughing. A body shifts, groans.
Rhaenyra.
Alicent blinks hard, once, twice, vision still swimming. Her left elbow screams when she moves, but she gets her hand beneath her enough to push up slightly, disoriented and dizzy.
“Princess—” she coughs, her voice hoarse, throat coated in grit. No response. Alicent starts to panic as she scrambles to her knees. “Your grace—?”
“I can hear you,” Rhaenyra rasps, coughing. “I’m alright.”
Alicent lets out a slight breath of relief; dazed, she looks around to see that the bathroom has been rendered unrecognizable, and underneath it all—
Screaming, somewhere outside.
Suddenly, two men burst into the bathroom— twins. Rhaenyra’s bodyguards, firearms at the ready.
“Princess!” one of them shouts, holstering, his voice distorted by the ringing in Alicent’s ears.
Rhaenyra flinches as one of the guards kneels beside her, checking quickly for injuries. The other sweeps the perimeter— what’s left of it— then barks something into a comms unit clipped to his shoulder. His mouth is moving, but the words sound far away, underwater.
“I’m– I’m fine,” Rhaenyra says, though her voice is rough, and she’s not fully upright. There’s blood on her temple— Alicent can see it now, a thin red trail disappearing into her hairline. She gestures towards Alicent. “Her— check on her—”
The guard turns to Alicent without hesitation, crossing the shattered tiles in two strides. He crouches down beside her, panicked eyes raking quickly over her—dirt-smeared cheeks, torn hem, the way she’s cradling her elbow. Alicent releases it because she’s certain it’s not broken, and doesn’t want them to fuss or think she’s overreacting and taking attention from the princess, who— she’s bleeding, what’s happening, what’s happened, why are people screaming, am I dead—
“Ma’am, my name is Arryk Cargyll. That’s Erryk Cargyll. Can you walk?”
Faintly, Alicent wonders if she’s misheard him, because there’s no way they both have the exact same name—
“…I think so,” Alicent says, blinking, still not fully aware of what’s going on. She tries to push herself upright, but her knees buckle before she gets halfway up. The guard catches her, one hand under her arm, the other steadying her back.
“We need to go,” the other twin says, already helping a shocked Rhaenyra to her feet. “There might be more devices.”
Rhaenyra shakes him off just slightly, wincing as she stands. “Where— where is Baelon?”
The bodyguards look at each other. Alicent’s stomach drops.
Rhaenyra straightens. “Where is my brother?!”
There’s another long pause— a really bad one.
“We— we don’t know,” the other twin—Erryk, presumably—says, turning back to the princess. His voice is tight. “We lost visuals during the blast. West atrium... was the epicenter.”
Rhaenyra goes still, shakes her head furiously. “No— no, no—he was— he was supposed to cut the ribbon there—”
Arryk, from Alicent’s side, speaks urgently. “Your grace, we have to go—”
“No— we have to go get him,” Rhaenyra says, panicked now. “We have to go save him—”
“Your grace,” Erryk says, stepping into her path, “we have men already moving in. We’ll find him.”
After a moment, Rhaenyra, eyes wide and wet, nods. Erryk speaks into his comms again and gives Arryk a nod.
“With me, ma’am,” Arryk says, gently ushering Alicent forward. “Hurry.”
They start moving.
The hallway is carnage— smoke curls from broken fixtures, the chandeliers in the atrium have fallen, and every step made echoes over cracked marble and wet ash. Somewhere ahead, someone is crying.
Erryk seems to be rapid-scanning their surroundings.
“Princess,” he says. “We’ll have to move you to the containment suite.”
Rhaenyra stops walking. “No. I’m not going— not without Baelon—”
“It’s protocol,” Erryk cuts in. “You know this. Lockdown’s already been triggered. We need to go now.”
Rhaenyra looks like she might argue again, but she glances at Alicent instead—still clutching her arm, walking alongside Arryk.
“She’s not on the list,” Erryk says, following her gaze. “She goes to the muster point.”
Rhaenyra bristles. “She's with me.”
“All due respect, your grace, she’s not you.” Erryk gives Alicent an apologetic glance. “No offence meant. I can escort you.”
Alicent doesn’t respond.
For a moment, Rhaenyra just stares at him. Then she turns to Alicent, and it’s the first time either of them has fully looked at the other since the explosion.
“Go with him,” Rhaenyra says softly.
Alicent swallows. “I— I don’t even know what’s just happened—”
“I’ll find you later,” Rhaenyra says. “I promise.”
And that, somehow, for some reason, brings a modicum of comfort to Alicent; enough to move her feet. Erryk nods once and starts leading her again.
Rhaenyra doesn’t look away until they round the corner.
***
Alicent is sitting on a folding chair near the muster point, wrapped in a shock blanket that smells like smoke. Her elbow is throbbing in time with her heartbeat. There’s a medical tent nearby, but every cot is already full.
She hears the commotion her father makes before she sees him, and then—
“Alicent!”
Otto is striding across the muster point with a grim sort of purpose. When he spots her, seated and dust-streaked, Alicent sees his face soften in a way she isn’t sure she’s ever quite seen before before he’s steeling himself and crossing the remaining distance with a speed that almost startles her.
“Alicent,” he says again, softer now, voice still strained with worry. He crouches slightly beside her chair. His hand reaches out, cups her chin for a second before moving to her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she says, but her voice catches. “I—my elbow’s banged up, but I’m—”
“What in the gods’ name were you doing here?”
There it is. She barely has time to process the shift; the concern to abject fury, now that he knows she’s alive and safe.
“I—” she shakes her head. “Blackwood caught the flu, he— he couldn’t make it, so I went in his place.”
“Blackwood,” Otto repeats under his breath, nose in a snarl. “The lazy bastard— I thought you’d died —”
“What’s happened, father?” Alicent asks, slightly desperate now. “I mean— is it true? That it was an attack? And— and the prince? Is he—” she trails off.
Otto hesitates, and that alone is answer enough— but then he says it anyway, because he knows better than to leave anything open to interpretation.
“Yes.”
Alicent’s stomach flips. She feels suddenly hollow and cold despite the blanket draped over her shoulders.
“They found him and Princess Elora just after the first sweep,” Otto goes on. “Atrium took the brunt of the force. Structural collapse, secondary fire. He was under the east arch. The boy was nearly unrecognizable. Neither of them made it.”
“…Oh,” Alicent whispers, because it’s all she can think to say.
Otto looks away for a moment, jaw clenched, appearing to collect himself before he looks back to Alicent— all business, now.
“There’ll be a statement,” he says. “We’re coordinating with the Crown already. No one’s officially confirmed anything yet— just leaks, but it’s spreading. Which is why I need you to think very carefully before you open your mouth to anyone.”
Alicent blinks. “I haven’t spoken to anyone—”
“Good,” Otto says. “Keep it that way.”
She frowns faintly. “Was it— who could have done this, father?”
Otto looks down at the ground in what appears to be despair for a moment before sighing and shaking his head, steeling himself.
“…We don’t speculate,” he says. “Not out loud."
“But—”
“I said no.” Otto looks Alicent directly in the eyes. “You are not a journalist. You are not a detective. You are not even a witness, do you understand me?”
Alicent bristles. “But I was there—”
“And you will say nothing unless asked,” Otto cuts in. “And even then, only what the Council agrees upon.”
She swallows. “There— there were guards—two of them came in after—”
“I know who they are. The Cargyll twins. They’re being debriefed now. That’s not your concern.” Otto straightens up, eyes looking over her again. “Gods. If anything had happened to you—”
“You would’ve replaced me,” she says, dryly, too tired to regret saying it.
Otto’s expression hardens. “Don’t be cruel.”
Alicent doesn’t respond. She’s staring out over the crowd now—emergency lights casting long shadows, people crying into phones or sitting shellshocked on the curb. Somewhere, a medic is yelling for more gauze.
“The princess?” she asks.
“Minor head injury, as far as I know,” he mutters, looking down at his phone before tucking it in his breast pocket. “Now— if anyone asks—press, inquiry, Crown—you keep your answers simple. Civil exchange. Wrong place, wrong time. You know how this works.”
“I know how this works,” she echoes, flatly.
“Good,” Otto says. “Then you’ll also know I need you off this site immediately. I’ll send Criston to collect you. Go home. Say nothing. And for the love of the Seven— don’t talk to anyone until I’ve cleared it.”
And then— without so much as an I'm glad you're alright, Alicent— Otto is turning and leaving.
***
The reports come flooding in.
Prince Baelon’s death remains unconfirmed to the public— Alicent watches channel after channel repeat the same vague headline— Explosion at Royal Engagement, Casualties Unclear.
Some outlets show drone footage of the shattered atrium roof, while others zoom in on bloodied shoes by the security cordon. One particularly grotesque feed cuts to an eyewitness, sobbing in a medic’s arms, claiming they’d seen someone “crushed flat under the beam, like a doll.”
At that point, Alicent turns the volume down low for fear of getting sick.
The suite is far too quiet like this, but she's no other choice.
Her elbow’s been wrapped in a sling and she’s still showered twice, but she still smells chemical smoke in her hair, and her ears are still ringing. So, because Alicent has never known what else to do with herself in times of crisis—
She starts thinking about crisis control.
There’s a protocol for this; of course there is. She’s read it—memorized it, even, in one of those endless preparatory briefings Otto made her sit through when she was first appointed. In the event of incapacitation or death of a named royal heir at a public function… There’s a whole playbook.
Alicent inhales slowly through her nose, calms herself—
Because this is what she can see coming, even through the smoke and wreckage; a scramble to reframe the narrative, a mourning period followed by immediate rebranding, palace press teams combing through Rhaenyra’s old speeches, trying to find the most stately clip possible. Photos from five years ago where she’s shaking hands with international dignitaries instead of flipping off photographers. Every incident of dissent in Council sessions will be rewritten as passion. Every time she broke protocol will become visionary leadership.
Alicent doesn’t know if Rhaenyra will resist it, but that’s only secondary to the one problem Alicent becomes acutely and wildly aware of—
Will the world be ready for someone like Rhaenyra Targaryen to be queen?
Because Alicent isn’t so sure, herself.
Baelon was the heir who looked the part and played the part, Viserys Targaryen part two — the press liked him and the Crown trusted him and the Council did, too, and now, he’s gone, and Rhaenyra is what’s left; brilliant, polarizing, wholly unpredictable.
She gets up, too restless to sit still. Paces the living room once, then twice.
Her sling itches.
Alicent thinks about Rhaenyra— how she looked in the moments after the blast. Blood down one temple, standing tall anyway, refusing evacuation, refusing containment.
A queen, Alicent thinks—
Then, uneasily:
Not the kind they’ll accept.
***
It’s late when it’s finally announced. Insultingly, Alicent doesn’t hear it from her father or from the Council; she hears it from the television that’s been on since she arrived. A breaking banner flashes across the bottom of the screen—
PRINCE BAELON TARGARYEN DEAD IN VALYRIA BLAST— MULTIPLE CASUALTIES
— And an anchor’s face is grave as she recites the press release that has gone out.
“…A tragic and unprecedented loss for the Crown and the realm. The High Parliament, in coordination with the royal family, has issued a formal statement acknowledging the death of Prince Baelon Targaryen, and confirming that discussions around the line of succession are already underway.”
They don’t say Rhaenyra’s name; Alicent is surprised before she isn’t.
Of course they won’t name Rhaenyra right away— Rhaenyra is a woman, and the last woman to sit the throne did so during a war centuries ago that half the realm still refuses to speak about.
Alicent watches the anchor stumble, clearly dodging the subject, pivoting instead to coverage of the memorial site—flowers already piling against the palace gates, candles lit under rainproof tarps.
Not a single mention of Rhaenyra.
Even in tragedy, they erase her.
Then, Alicent’s hotel phone rings.
It’s her father, who doesn’t bother with preamble.
“You’ve seen it?” he says.
“Yes.”
“The Council is already circling,” he says, weary. Alicent wonders when the last time was that they had a conversation that wasn’t about work. She really can't remember.
“What are they thinking?” she asks.
“Half of them want to delay proceedings until public opinion stabilizes. The other half want to force a decision before it can.”
“And you?”
Silence. A long sigh.
“I want what’s best for the realm,” Otto says. “And that means someone capable of making sure things do not continue to spiral.”
“And... Princess Rhaenyra?”
Another silence; Alicent swears she can hear a light scoff on the other end.
“The Council’s role will be critical in the coming months,” he says without answering the question. “Ensuring that whomever is chosen for succession is ready.” He pauses. “And worthy.”
Alicent leans her back against the wall, eyes weary but still watching the television, where the memorial footage has given way to archival clips of Baelon and his family—
A clip from a tour abroad, with a young and smiling Baelon shaking hands with foreign dignitaries while Rhaenyra walks slightly behind him, laughing when he whispers something to her. A family portrait of Viserys, Baelon and Rhaenyra, where they’re both mere children. Another from their teenage years, the two of them sitting side-by-side in the royal box at a championship match, both of them laughing again among themselves.
They look so young. They seem so human, suddenly.
“What do you need me to do?” Alicent asks eventually.
“Observe,” Otto says. “Listen. You stayed close to the Prince— do the same now, with her.”
Alicent frowns. “Listen for what?"
A pause. Then, coolly—
“Cracks.”
Alicent says nothing, because she still doesn't quite understand.
“The princess is…passionate,” Otto says, which is his preferred euphemism for uncontrollable or ungovernable. “She’ll likely want to make statements. May say things she shouldn’t. Push too hard, too fast.”
“…And you want me to stop her?” Alicent asks, balking. “I’m a diplomat, father, not a royal advisor—”
“No, Alicent—I want you to know,” Otto interrupts. “I need someone in the room who can tell me if she’s fit for this, if she’s ready.” He pauses. “If she’s dangerous.”
Another long silence passes between them.
“She just lost her brother,” Alicent says softly. “And— and her father.”
“The realm may lose much more if we get this wrong,” Otto says, his voice bereft of emotion.
There’s another pause; Alicent’s so tired that she doesn’t know what else to say.
Otto speaks, again. “You’re exhausted. Rest, for now. You’ll likely be called in tomorrow. You’ll be needed, either way.”
He hangs up without waiting for a reply. And Alicent doesn’t know what she wants, or what she expected, but it’s something like comfort— something about how she’s just survived a terrorist attack, about how she’d seen body parts scattered across the tiles.
On the television, the anchor transitions into a panel of commentators; a constitutional historian talks in theoreticals about crisis protocol, while a former interior minister speculates on public trust. And no one speaks about the grief, or Rhaenyra’s name, and—
There’s a knock on the door. Alicent’s first reaction is one of mild terror— it could be anyone, right now, in the aftermath of the explosion and in her heightened state of mind.
(She’s not sure what would be worse; a man with a gun, or her father.)
Regardless, she crosses the room, peers through the peephole, and does a double-take.
It’s Rhaenyra— with the twins flanking behind.
Alicent opens the door, feeling direly underdressed in a silk camisole and the matching robe she’d barely tied before answering— a purchase she’d made last-minute before coming here, because a pyjama set felt far too common for a palace.
Rhaenyra stands there— no longer wearing the same clothes, but still dressed up. There's a thin strip of gauze taped to her head. She’s changed into black; nothing elaborate, but formal enough to signal mourning, pressed trousers with a high-necked silk blouse, blazer shoulders squared and sharp; Alicent vaguely thinks of things like armour and royalty and this— this is the queen.
“…Your grace,” Alicent says, quickly tying her robe around her. “I— I wasn’t expecting—”
“I did promise to check in,” Rhaenyra says, and there’s a tired timbre in her voice that disarms Alicent entirely.
Still, she doesn’t move. “Are you alright?”
“May I come in?”
Alicent, completely at a loss for words and so conscious of her own body that she feels her skin prickling, nods and steps aside; Rhaenyra turns to the twins and gives them a small nod, and the two of them take up post just outside the door as she steps in.
The door remains ajar.
Inside, she looks around Alicent’s room, and Alicent, in a panic, does a sweep to make sure the place is at least somewhat tidied; she slowly shifts to straighten the stack of papers on the desk which are already straightened, but just a little bit too askew, maybe, so she sort of nudges them a little and —
“He had food poisoning, there,” Rhaenyra remarks. Alicent blinks and looks to Rhaenyra, and then where Rhaenyra’s looking, which is her television, which shows Baelon at an event waving and smiling.
“...You wouldn’t know it,” Alicent says softly.
“I poked him in his stomach after the speech,” Rhaenyra says, smiling a little. “He got sick all over his shoes.”
“Gods above.”
Rhaenyra shrugs. “They were ugly shoes.”
Alicent doesn’t have a response to that, because she’s not about to do something insane like agree with insulting a dead prince’s shoes— even if Rhaenyra was the one who said it first. She wrings her hands together.
“Is there— is there something I can do for you, your grace?”
“You don’t have to call me that here,” Rhaenyra muses, still watching the screen.
“…Rhaenyra,” Alicent says hesitantly, and it feels wrong, foreign, like she’s calling a teacher by their first name.
“There we go,” Rhaenyra says kindly, looking at Alicent, eyes weary but watchful, still. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Alicent tries to hold the eye contact, but it slips— she glances away, toward the desk again, then the door, and realizes she’s marking the exits, so she stops, picks at her cuticles, but then stops immediately when Rhaenyra’s eyes move to watch, and the silence stretches, but it’s not the same silence Alicent is used to with her father— where she feels watched, where she’s expected to wait for him.
The television plays on in the background. Rhaenyra just stands there, a few feet away from Alicent, hands loosely clasped in front of her. Her mouth is pressed in a slight line and Alicent gets the distinct sense that she might be holding something in, much like Alicent. Something wants to break the surface tension, but neither of them are familiar enough to do it.
Eventually, Rhaenyra clears her throat. “Well,” she says lightly. “Consider yourself checked in on.”
Alicent blinks. “Right. Yes. Thank you.”
Rhaenyra watches her for a beat and then nods once, short. That’s that.
She’s halfway to the door before Alicent steps forward.
“If I may—”
Rhaenyra stops, turns, curiosity in her eyes. Alicent waits, and Rhaenyra frowns before realizing—
“You can speak without my permission,” Rhaenyra says, bemused. “I’m not a headmistress.” She pauses. “Or a queen, for that matter.”
Alicent presses her lips together, and she’s speaking without thinking, which is something that almost never happens to her but has now happened multiple times with Rhaenyra— “Not yet.”
Rhaenyra huffs out a breath. “Not ever, if they get their way.”
Alicent doesn’t remember what she meant to say for a brief moment because she’s so caught up in how close in proximity she is to Rhaenyra right now. She shifts a little on her feet, crosses her arms.
“Thank you,” Alicent says finally. “For coming. Despite— I mean— it’s awful, what’s happened. I’m very, truly sorry.”
At this, Rhaenyra visibly softens, and her brow furrows slightly in a way that almost indicates a slight sense of devastation, which is something Alicent is decidedly not prepared for. But instead of her face changing entirely, Rhaenyra just schools herself— not fast enough for that expression to not be burned into Alicent’s mind, but still fast. She dips her head slightly, a quiet nod.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “He was— he was a good brother.” She pauses. “I’m sorry you got caught up in it.”
Alicent doesn’t know what to say to that; certainly not what she’s thinking, which is I keep seeing it when I close my eyes, or I haven’t really stopped shaking slightly since, or even just I’m terrified of what’s going to happen next— but she doesn’t. She just gives a reflexive nod in response.
Rhaenyra watches her for another moment in that weighty way, the one where Alicent feels scrutinized, but not aggressively so. Studied, maybe.
“Right,” Rhaenyra says, stepping back. “Rest well, Alicent.”
She slips out before Alicent can answer, and the door closes with a soft click behind her, and the room feels colder suddenly. And Alicent, as she stands there, wonders if she should have said more, because Rhaenyra looked a little like someone who needed someone to try. Alicent sits on the edge of the bed, robe still half-tied, and stares at the beautiful marble floors until the conversation fades entirely.
Alicent turns the television off and lies back in her bed.
When she closes her eyes, she sees buildings crumbling, golden crowns—
Rhaenyra’s face.