Chapter Text
The scent of old stone and fading roses clung to the Red Keep, a perfume of stagnation that chafed against Rhaenyra Targaryen’s spirit. At four-and-ten, she was all sharp edges and restless energy, a fledgling dragon trapped in a gilded cage. The alpha within her, a coiled, simmering presence just beneath her skin, had yet to roar to life in the way the maesters promised it would. No rut. No primal drive. Just this constant, gnawing feeling of inadequacy.
It made her impatient. It made her angry.
She stalked through the gardens, her boots scuffing against the gravel path. The only softness in her world, the only balm to her fractious soul, was currently seated on a marble bench, bathed in the gentle afternoon sun.
Alicent Hightower.
At eight-and-ten, Alicent was the picture of composed grace, the perfect omega courtier. Her auburn hair was meticulously braided, her gown of baby blue immaculate. She had come to the Red Keep when she was eight and had been part of Queen Aemma’s retinue. However, since she was two-and-ten, she has acted mostly as Rhaenyra’s companion and young caretaker. She had held Rhaenyra’s hand through childhood nightmares, had soothed her fevers, and had been a constant, gentle presence.
But Rhaenyra didn’t want a gentle presence anymore. She dreamed of more. A look, a touch, a scent that wasn’t just the placid, soothing omega sweetness Alicent projected, but one that spiked with a heat meant only for her.
“You are brooding again, Princess,” Alicent said, her voice as soft as velvet. She didn’t look up from the embroidery hoop in her lap, a scene of a serene stag in the woods taking shape under her skilled fingers.
“I have reason to brood,” Rhaenyra countered, coming to stand over her. She cast a long shadow, her alpha build—taller, broader in the shoulder than most girls her age—dwarfing Alicent’s slighter frame. “The Stepstones fester with Crabfeeder’s filth, and my father does nothing. He sits on his throne, polishing his models, while pirates and sellswords choke our trade routes.”
“The King has the realm’s peace to consider,” Alicent replied, her tone ever reasonable, ever dutiful. It was a tone that sometimes made Rhaenyra want to shake her. “War is not a game, Rhaenyra.”
“I know it is not a game!” The words came out sharper than intended, laced with an alpha’s command that made Alicent’s fingers still for a fraction of a second. Rhaenyra saw the subtle flinch and immediately felt a pang of guilt. She gentled her voice, kneeling before the bench so she could look up into Alicent’s face. “I know it is not. But neither is sitting here, useless, while others bleed. I am my father’s heir. Should I not be learning to protect his realm?”
Alicent finally met her gaze, her brown eyes full of a concern that felt… maternal. That was the problem. It was always maternal. “You are still a young pup, but your time will come, Rhaenyra.”
“When?” Rhaenyra’s voice was a desperate whisper. “When I have my rut? What if it never comes, Alicent? What if I am nothing but a broken shame for my parents?” The admission was torn from her, a raw, shameful thing. She looked away, her focus dropping to the intricate stitching on Alicent’s cuff.
Alicent’s hand, soft and warm, came to rest on her cheek. The contact was electric, sending a jolt straight through Rhaenyra. For a moment, she dared to hope, to imagine that touch trailing lower, that scent blooming for her…
But Alicent’s touch was filled with a sort of maternal care. “You are not broken, Rhaenyra. You are perfect. You are just… impatient.”
The moment was shattered. Rhaenyra pulled back, the familiar frustration rising like bile. She was impatient for everything: for her body to obey her will, for her father to see her as more than a placeholder, for Alicent to look at her and see a woman, an alpha, not the child she once coddled.
Her thoughts turned to her mother, Queen Aemma, swollen with a child that seemed to be sapping the very life from her. Rhaenyra saw the pain in her mother’s eyes, the strain on her face, and a terrible, selfish part of her whispered that it was her fault. That her failure to present as a true alpha was a disappointment that weighed on the Queen, contributing to her suffering.
The news from the Stepstones felt like a call to arms. A purpose. A way to prove herself not just to the realm, but to her father, to Alicent… to herself.
A scheme started to form and wouldn't leave her mind all day. Later, as the sun went down, Rhaenyra, up in the sky with Syrax, finally made up her mind. She knew exactly what she needed to do to prove herself.
That night, she found Alicent in her chambers, brushing out her long hair before the fire.
“I am leaving,” Rhaenyra announced, her voice low and firm.
Alicent turned, the brush pausing in mid-stroke. “Leaving? To where?”
“Dragonstone. And then the Stepstones.” Rhaenyra squared her shoulders, embracing the alpha confidence she so often had to fake. “I will not sit idle any longer. I have sent a raven to Daemon. He will meet me. The Velaryons will see the sense in an alliance. We will cut out this rot ourselves.”
Horror dawned on Alicent’s lovely features. She stood, the brush clattering to the floor. “Rhaenyra, no! You cannot! It is too dangerous. The King would never allow it!”
“The King does not need to allow it. He does not need to know.” Rhaenyra stepped closer, the scent of Alicent’s panic—a sharp, citrusy note cutting through her usual honeyed warmth—making her own instincts flare. The urge to protect, to dominate, to claim warred with her determination to leave. “I am telling you because… because I could not bear to disappear without you knowing.”
“This is madness,” Alicent pleaded, her hands fluttering nervously before clasping together. “What of your mother? She is in no state for such a shock. Rhaenyra, please. Think of her.”
The words struck a nerve, but Rhaenyra had already built walls around her guilt. “This is for her, too. For the future she and my father have built. I will not let it crumble because of pirates.” She reached out, capturing one of Alicent’s fluttering hands. She brought it to her lips, pressing a fierce, desperate kiss to her knuckles. Alicent gasped, trying to pull away, but Rhaenyra held fast. “Do not fear for me. Syrax and I were made for more than this gilded prison.”
“You are a princess, not a sellsword!” Alicent cried, her omega scent spiking again with distress, a plea for calm, for submission. “Please, Rhaenyra. Do not do this.”
But Rhaenyra was already pulling away, the decision etched into her very bones. The alpha in her, silent and dormant in so many ways, had finally found a direction for its fury. “Goodbye, Alicent.”
She slipped from the room, leaving the omega standing alone, the ghost of a kiss on her hand and the scent of a rebellious alpha lingering in the air.
As Rhaenyra mounted Syrax under the cover of darkness, the great golden dragon humming with anticipation, she felt a surge of rightness. This was her path. She would return a hero, a true alpha, and then Alicent would have to see her as she was.
She did not look back.
She did not see the frantic messenger rushing into the Queen’s chambers hours later.
She did not hear Queen Aemma’s cry of anguish upon learning her only child had flown to war.
She did not feel the terrible, chain-reaction shock that ran through the Red Keep, triggering the Queen’s labor weeks too early.
As Rhaenyra soared toward Dragonstone and destiny, the blood began to flow in the birthing bed. And in the world she left behind, the first stone of her dark and glorious empire was laid in tragedy, and the first seed of Alicent’s conflicted heart was sown in betrayal and fear.