Chapter 1: Cast
Chapter Text
Alicent Hightower, 79 AC
He is a boy, aye, but the boy is the father to the man, and bastards are monstrous by nature.
Daemon Targaryen, 81 AC
I won't stop at nothing, until I crown you with my grandmother's crown, and name you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You've been my queen for years, the realm must know you as such too.
Chapter 2: Butterfly Effect
Notes:
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(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
97 AC
Alicent sat beside Princess Gael Targaryen in the Queen’s garden, where the air was heavy with the perfume of late-spring roses and the soft buzzing of bees.
The princess bent over her work, tongue caught between her teeth as she tried once again to perfect the three-headed dragon she stitched upon a square of fine white silk. Alicent’s own needle moved more surely, threading blossoms of pale pink and green leaves across a handkerchief meant for her mother. It was delicate work, demanding patience and steadiness, and she possessed both in abundance.
At eight and ten namedays, Lady Alicent Hightower had dwelt at court for so long that the Red Keep felt more her home than Oldtown ever had. Her father, Ser Otto Hightower, had first come to King’s Landing to serve as aide to Prince Aemon Targaryen, the old king’s Master of Laws and heir. When that prince perished upon Tarth by the scorpion’s bolt that ended in his throat, Ser Otto had taken his seat upon the council as Master of Laws.
From that moment, the Hightowers’ place in the capital was fixed as firmly as the red-washed stones of Maegor’s Holdfast. Alicent had grown amongst courtiers and dragons, her girlhood shaped by the whispers of lords and the roar of the queer Valyrian descent family.
Ever since she had been old enough to understand her station, she knew what was expected of her: that she should wed a lord or a prince, bear his children, and ensure his legacy and through it, the Hightower name. It was the rhythm of noblewoman’s life, one she had been prepared to take head on when the right suitor would prove worthy of her hand.
A small gasp broke her reverie.
“I have pricked my finger again,” Gael murmured, lifting her hand to show a bead of crimson welling upon the pale pad of her finger.
Alicent’s posture did not waver, her back remained straight as a spear shaft. Beneath her golden headdress, her hair was hidden by a pearlescent veil that shimmered faintly in the dappled sun. Her gown was of Hightower green, its skirts sewn with tiny pearls said to have come from the shores of Tarth, the same island where Prince Aemon had met his death.
“Mayhap you should not let your mind wander so, Princess,” the lady said softly, her tone more gentle than chiding.
Gael smiled, shy as a child caught in some harmless mischief. “I try, you know I do, Alicent.”
“You have done well,” Alicent replied, glancing down only long enough to note that the dragon upon the princess’s cloth was beginning, at last, to resemble the sigil it sought to imitate. “I like your embroidery, the color is vibrant.”
“Truly?” Gael looked up at her with those kind, violet eyes that marked the blood of Old Valyria.
“The stitches are no longer crooked, Princess, you have come far in your lessons,” Alicent commented, her own needle still moving though she did not watch it.
The princess flushed prettily. “Call me Gael, Alicent. There is no one here to hear it. You’re my friend, you need not hold titles with me.”
“If only it were so,” Alicent murmured, her gaze straying past the low hedge that bordered the garden. “It seems your nephew is here.”
Gael turned, frowning, and indeed saw Prince Daemon striding toward them, sunlight glancing off the silver of his hair. He was scarcely a year her junior, yet she was his aunt, a truth that ever seemed to amuse him.
The young prince’s purple-violet eyes sparkled with mischief as he approached, the heel of his boot striking the flagstones with cocky confidence. He was wearing a black doublet, the sleeves of his tunic peeking red blood, his breeches as dark as his boots, the Valyrian sword Dark Sister at his hip.
Both rose and dipped into curtsies. Alicent’s blue eyes moved to the hilt of his sword, remembering how he had been knighted at the tourney King Jaehaerys threw for his nameday.
The Prince had asked for her favor and won the jousts and melee. He had been pestering her ever since how much luck her favor brought him. Apparently, it enhanced his prowess even between the sheets of Flea Bottom.
“Nephew, how kind of you to join us. ‘Tis a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Daemon chuckled under his breath and swept a mocking bow. “Aunt, believe me, I had little choice,” his smirk turned toward the lady beside her. His tone was mocking. “And Lady Alicent, you look most splendid today. I wonder, what is your secret, my lady, that you are ever so breathtaking? I beg of you, allow the lords at court to draw breath for once in your presence since you always seem to steal it away.”
Gael’s cheeks pinkened at the forwardness of his words, yet her eyes slid curiously toward Alicent to see how she would answer.
“You are too kind, my prince. For bestowing such generous words upon me, I fear I have no answer for your question, save that the Gods, in their mercy, saw fit to fashion me thus, to take men’s breath away, as you so gallantly say,” she dipped her head, already acostumed to his ever antics.
His eyes danced with mirth. He took her offered hand, the embroidery forgotten on the bench, and bent to press his lips lightly against her knuckles.
“A dangerous confession, my lady,” he murmured against her skin. “To claim such power so boldly, yet I find I believe you. It seems The Seven have created such a lovely creature, even a Targaryen has no chance but to gawk,” he winked at her.
Gael laughed softly, uncertain whether to be scandalized or charmed. Alicent withdrew her hand with a composure that hid the quickening of her pulse, hoping her face did not heat up.
“The prince jests. He spends too much time among the poor company of those in Flea Bottom, who mistake impertinence for wit,” the Hightower girl added.
“Perhaps,” Daemon answered, eyes glinting at the blue-eyed girl, “or perhaps the women of Oldtown have mistaken dullness for virtue.”
Before Alicent could lose her patience before the purple-eyed wraith who had so easily unsettled her calm, a shadow of white crossed the garden path. A Kingsguard knight in bright armor bowed low, the red three-headed dragon glimmering upon his breastplate.
“Princess, Prince, my lady,” he said, voice gravel through the slit of his helm. “I beg pardon for the intrusion. Prince Daemon, your father, Prince Baelon, commands your presence in the solar of the Tower of the Hand.”
Daemon turned, one pale brow arched in irritation. “Whatever for?”
“He did not share the cause with me, my prince, only that you are to attend him at once.”
The Rogue’s gaze swept the man from helm to heel, his annoyance plain. What now does he want of me? he thought.
Rumours had a way of reaching his father’s ear faster than dragon-flame reached the sky, no doubt some whisperer had carried tales of his more exuberant doings with the six maiden daughters of that nobleman from Volantis. The nobleman came to speak of his grievances, of the growing alliance of Lys, Myr and Tyrosh.
Daemon’s jaw tightened. “Very well. Tell him I shall come shortly.”
“I cannot, my prince. He required your presence immediately.”
For a heartbeat, Daemon said nothing, his hand strayed to the hilt of Dark Sister, thumb brushing the cold metal of the pommel.
“My prince, ser, if you will excuse us. The princess and I must attend our lessons with Septa Morelle. I bid you good day.”
Alicent curtsied, Gael echoing her movement, both gathering their embroidery baskets with practiced grace. As they passed, Daemon’s eyes followed them. Alicent did not falter, but she looked back once, her face as unreadable. His lips twisted in a sneer at the sight.
The Rogue let out a low breath between his teeth. “Jaehossas sȳris sātās,” Gods be good, he muttered.
“Your father waits, my prince,” the Kingsguard reminded him gently.
“Yes, yes, I heard you.” With a huff he walked from the garden, his long strides forcing the white knight to hurry after. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as he passed, sensing the temper that walked beside him. His boots rang hard upon the stones as he climbed the winding stair to the Tower of the Hand.
At the topmost chamber, he rapped once upon the heavy oak door and entered without waiting leave. The air within smelled of parchment, candlewax, and ink.
Prince Baelon sat behind a carved desk strewn with ledgers and maps, his great hands turning the pages of an account book. The silver in his hair caught the morning light, and his eyes, so like Daemon’s, lifted to fix upon his son.
“You sent for me, Father?” the Rogue asked, remaining standing.
“Sit down.”
Daemon dropped into the chair opposite, drumming his fingers upon the armrest, the impatience of youth plain. His father closed the ledger with deliberate care and leaned back.
“How old are you, Daemon?”
“What sort of question is that? Have you forgotten my age already?” he frowned, irritated.
“I have not,” Baelon sighed, “though there are times I wish I could forget many things, chief among them the report that has reached my ears this morning.”
The young prince’s expression flickered, but he said nothing.
Baelon continued, voice low but edged. “Word rides swifter than ravens in this court. I am told that my son has been... entertaining the daughters of visiting envoys as though they were mummers on a feast day. That my son has claimed six maidenheads in one night. That you, have received a salacious moniker, the Blood Dragon. It does not take much imagination to understand what that moniker means.”
“That is court gossip, Father.” Daemon’s smile was thin. “You should not credit every whisper, they always try to mock us because we are dragons and they are not.”
Baelon’s gaze did not waver. “Look me in the eye and tell me you were abed in your own chambers three nights past.”
Silence hung between them, broken only by the tick of a brazier cooling. At length Daemon looked aside. His father sighed and passed a hand over his face.
“Seven hells, boy. If my father, hears of this, do you know what might follow? He has little patience left for talk of impropriety within the family, and less still when the tongues wag about his grandson.”
Daemon shrugged. “Grandfather will hear what he wishes, as ever.”
“That is no answer,” Baelon snapped, then mastered himself. “You are a Targaryen, and with that name comes a measure of fire that must be governed, not loosed upon every passing fancy. You think it naught but mischief, yet every jest of yours becomes another blot upon our house.”
Daemon said nothing, looking at the floor.
Baelon’s tone softened. “I know the dragon’s blood runs hot in you, you have it from me and from your mother both. But there is more to being a prince than swordplay and charm. There is duty. There is the name we bear.”
“Duty,” the young man repeated, almost mocking the word. “A fine word, father. And what duty do you set before me this time?”
Baelon’s sigh was long. “Duty is the chain that binds us all, however heavy, however ill it fits. We may chafe against it, but it will not break for our comfort.” His gaze hardened on his son. “You have come of an age to wed, Daemon. It can be delayed no longer.”
“I have no wish to be married.”
“Be that as it may, you must,” Baelon returned. “Now more than ever. I will not have some tavern tale rise against you again, nor a bastard to stain our line.”
Daemon gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Fret not, father. I always see to the proper remedies. The apothecaries grow rich on my courtesy.”
“How accomplished I feel now that my son serves his whores moon tea,” Baelon said dryly, the sarcasm cutting through the solar. He leaned forward. “Listen to me. I know well you have been vocal about your wishes, too vocal, and I know where your heart tends to wander. But you will hear me, and you will hear me clearly.”
Something in his father’s tone made Daemon’s frown deepen.
“There is reason to believe,” Baelon said slowly, “that your continual presence in Lady Alicent’s company will rouse tongues that ought not wag. The girl is comely, and you, well, you are my son. I will not see her honour dragged through court gossip because you cannot bridle your baser needs.”
“She wishes,” Daemon gave a short snort.
“Do not make jests, I have already sent word to quiet the talk. If the King hears even half of what I have heard, he will have you married before the next moon’s turn.”
“To whom?” Daemon demanded.
“To Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone.”
The name struck him like a thrown gauntlet. “Lady? You call that a lady? She stands as tall as I do, Seven Hells, her shoulders could bear the weight of a knight. That is no woman, that is a man in silks!”
“She is a lady of the Vale,” Baelon replied, temper beginning to show through the measured calm. “And she is of ancient blood, worthy of our house.”
“A sheep! And we already have Aemma from the Vale, why do we need to tie our blood with them again?” Daemon burst out. “The Vale is full of those ugly sheeps, and she is one. I swear, Father, she-”
“She does not cower before you,” Baelon interrupted. “That alone is enough to earn your scorn.”
“I’d sooner take a man to my bed than lie beside her,” Daemon said flatly.
Baelon pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a heartbeat. “You are being difficult.”
“I am being truthful.”
“It matters not. Truth or not, your behaviour these past weeks has given the King ample cause to demand a match that might tether you. And Runestone would gladly see a Targaryen Prince as husband to their lady.”
Daemon’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “So this is my reward: a mountain wife to keep me penned. How generous grandsire is.”
Baelon ignored the barb. “There is… another path, perhaps.”
That stayed the younger man’s fury for an instant. His eyes glittered, curious despite himself. “Another path? Can I wed Gael, then?”
Baelon frowned. “Why Gael? You scarce tolerate her company, and I must all but command you to spend time with her.”
“Because she is the blood of the dragon,” Daemon said quickly. “Viserys has a Targaryen wife, why should I not?”
“The King and Queen have not granted her leave to wed. Until they do, she is bound to court. You cannot marry her.”
Daemon slumped back in the chair, his boots scraping the stone. “Then who remains? Another giantess from the Vale? Perhaps betroth me to Vaemond Velaryon, if the aim is only to vex me.”
Baelon’s brows drew together. “You already are-”
“Betrothed to Vaemond?” Daemon asked with a sly smile.
“Betrothed,” Baelon corrected heavily.
“What?” Daemon surged upright. “To whom? Without my knowledge? What jest is this, some trap laid by my dear father to tame the wild son?”
Baelon met his outrage without flinching. “It is no trap. The arrangement was spoken between me, my father and the lady’s father. The King himself would see peace between the houses of Oldtown and Dragonstone. A union of fire and faith, he called it.”
The room seemed to narrow around Daemon. “Oldtown,” he repeated, voice low. “Do not tell me-”
Baelon’s silence was answer enough.
For the first time that morning Daemon was still. The anger that had coloured every word drained from his face, replaced by something uncertain, unreadable. “The Hightower girl,” he said at last, the words more a statement than a question. “Lady Alicent.”
Baelon inclined his head. “Aye. The King believes it will quiet the talk that stirs between you, and bind our restless blood to steadier stock. Her father is willing, and the High Septon himself would give the match his blessing.”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse what the High Septon says. You would have me wed a Hightower girl to keep the tongues of courtiers still?”
“I would have you wed to steady yourself,” Baelon answered. “The girl is clever, well-bred, and not without beauty. She might temper you.”
Daemon’s laugh was soft and dangerous. “Temper me? Or tame me? Mayhap I am too much for the beloved court of grandsire, ship me to Oldtown so I can rot there.”
“No one wishes to see you rot in Oldtown, or anywhere else for that matter. You will have your freedom. You may dwell where it pleases you, at court, at Dragonstone, or wherever your restless heart takes you. And if it suits your fancy, you may even visit your future lady wife’s city. The Hightowers will welcome you, I am certain.”
Daemon gave a bitter laugh. “You wed me to a daughter of a second son? Is that the height of Targaryen honour now? Tell me, father, have you even asked the King leave for me to marry Gael?”
Baelon’s eyes flickered. “To what end? You have never shown true affection for my sister, and you well know the King and Queen are protective of her. The matter would lead only to scorn.”
“A wonder,” Daemon muttered darkly, “that they guard the one child left to them after ruining so many of their brood.”
The words struck like a lash. Baelon’s jaw tightened, the veins at his temple throbbing. “You will hold your tongue. This is no jest to twist into your cruel amusements. You know not what it means to rule a realm, to bear the weight of oaths and lives upon your shoulders. You think the world a dais for your pleasure because you have never known the price of command.”
“I never will,” Daemon said bitterly, his hands clenching, knowing that as a second son he was set to inherit nothing.
Baelon’s anger gave way to a sigh, long and tired. “Must you always fight me, boy? Gods, I am trying, truly, to find a way for you to live a contented life. You could have peace, if you would but take it.”
“Peace?” the young Targaryen rose sharply from his chair, the screech echoing. “How am I to live a content life, father? You wed out of love. Uncle Aemon wed out of love. The King himself married for love. Even my stammering, bookish brother was given a Targaryen bride as though marrying a Valyrian girl were his birthright and I-I am to be the mockery of court the Targaryen, forced to take a bloody Andal for wife!” His voice rose with every word until the chamber seemed to tremble with it. “Where is this happiness you speak of? Where is this peace when the one thing that could bring it to me, you keep from my reach?”
Baelon’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You think Gael would bring you happiness? Tell me, when have you ever shown an ounce of joy in her company? She is a gentle girl, too tender for your kind of fire.”
Daemon’s mouth twisted. “Aemma is tender as well.”
“But Viserys,” Baelon said sharply, rising to his feet, “is soft of manner, patient, and mild. He tempers her, as she tempers him. You are not your brother, Daemon, that is not a bad thing. But Gael is not for you, and I will not see her made a widow in all but name.”
The Rogue’s chest rose and fell with the force of his fury. “I was mother’s favourite,” he said, voice hoarse now, almost breaking. “Had she lived, she would have stood for me. Not like you. You-” his voice caught, then spilled over with venom. “You killed her! And now you dare speak to me of duty? You should have waited longer before putting another child in her belly.”
The silence that followed was thick and poisonous. For an instant even Daemon seemed to realize what he had said. His breath faltered, but the words could not be recalled once loosed.
He turned to go, half-blinded by the shame of it, when a hand seized his shoulder from behind, iron-hard and unrelenting. He struggled, instinct driving him to resist, but Baelon’s strength was that of a man who had spent his life on dragonback and in wars.
The scuffle was brief, desperate, and brutal; within moments Daemon found himself on the cold stone floor, his father above him, one forearm pressed firmly across his throat.
“Enough,” Baelon’s voice was calm but commanding. “You will cease your thrashing. You will breathe. You will stand when I bid it. Then you will walk back to your chair and act as a prince of the realm should act.”
The young one glared up at him, purple-violet eyes burning with defiance. The air left his lungs in shallow bursts, the heat of fury giving way to helplessness.
Baelon leaned closer, his face drawn but steady. “If you utter another word without leave,” he said quietly, “I will send for Lord Royce this very hour. You will be wed to the Vale lady within a fortnight, and you will thank me for the mercy of it.”
Daemon saw red for a heartbeat, all sound drowned beneath the rush of blood in his ears. For a moment he thought to strike, to shove his father off him, to prove that he was no child to be mastered. Yet something in Baelon’s gaze, a sorrow that he has seen many times when Alyssa was mentioned, broke the will within him. The fight drained from his limbs, leaving only the hollow ache of defeat.
When Baelon at last released him, he extended a hand, an offer of peace that Daemon could not bring himself to take. He rose and brushed past it, his gaze fixed on the floor. His pride, his very breath, felt heavy as molten lead.
The Prince of Dragonstone brushed the creases from his tunic, the silence between them thick, then lowered himself once more into his chair. For a long moment he simply studied his son - this restless, coiled shadow of himself - until the quiet pressed too heavily to bear.
“A betrothal was set some time ago, son. You were not told, for I had hoped to wait until you were ready to hear it without railing at the world. But it was done after you first began showing… interest, if that word suits, in Lady Alicent.”
Daemon’s gaze did not lift from the flagstones. His jaw worked, but no words came.
“You may not like her. That much I know. Yet she is the very model of a lady’s grace, well bred, well mannered, devout, and dutiful. Queen Alysanne herself holds her in affection and trusts her to attend upon Princess Gael. Few young women at court are so spoken of, and fewer still could bear the brunt of your mockery as she has, and still curtsey with dignity. She has met your temper with poise, your sharp tongue with composure. That is no small strength.”
Daemon said nothing, though the faintest flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes, disbelief, perhaps, or resentment that even his insults could not rattle the girl.
Baelon folded his hands upon the table. “You will wed her in three moons turn. In that time, you will show the King and the court that you are capable of gentility, that you can at least feign affection well enough to make the match seem a union of hearts, not of convenience. I know you prize the purity of Valyrian blood above all else, but there are no suitable brides of our lineage left. You will not wed some simpering fool from Claw Isle. You will wed Lady Alicent Hightower, and you will do so honourably. Do you understand me?”
Daemon gave a single curt nod, the movement mechanical, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Baelon exhaled, the sound almost a groan. “You will see, in time, that marriage is not the chain you think it. It is no prison, unless you make it one. There is solace in companionship, in sharing the burden of days. And you-” he fixed his son with a gaze both stern and sad. “Your blood burns too hot, boy. It will destroy you if left unchecked. A wife may brighten up your days. I will not have the court whispering that my son is a creature of lust and whatever else they say, earning himself some foolish moniker like the Blood Dragon.”
Daemon’s lips twitched, and for a moment his teeth sank into his lower lip until he tasted copper. The taste grounded him, reminded him he still lived, still had choices, even if all of them had been taken from him.
I will have to fuck a Hightower, now. Father has been spending too much time with that cunt Otto, the Rogue mused.
Baelon’s voice softened. “If your mother were here to see the things you’ve done, to hear the things said of you, do you think she would approve?”
The question cut deeper than a Valyrian sword. Daemon’s eyes squeezed shut, his throat working soundlessly. For all his defiance, there were still words that could strike true, mother, chief among them.
I don’t think I can ever make her proud, he wished to say.
After a time, Baelon said, “You may speak.”
“Daor.”
“Then you will find this union fruitful,” Baelon replied. “It is not only for you, but for the realm. The King sees in it a bridge, between crown and faith, between us and the Starry Sept. The Citadel watches with wary eyes. Oldtown’s loyalty is precious, and this marriage will strengthen it. In time, you will understand the wisdom of it.”
Daemon gave no answer. The light from the window cast a bar of pale gold across his face, dividing it neatly between shadow and sun.
Poor Lady Alicent, she will have a quarrelsome husband but in time, my son will settle, men always do, the Prince of Dragonstone mused.
Baelon studied him a moment longer. “Have you any questions?”
Daemon shook his head, slow and silent.
“Then you may go, son. And try, for the love of all the Gods, to stay out of trouble until the ceremony.”
Daemon rose. He stood still for a heartbeat, then bowed stiffly. “Lord Father,” he said, the words formal, almost brittle. He made for the door, his steps echoing across the chamber, but stopped just short of the threshold. Without turning back, he spoke in a low, almost broken voice.
“I did not mean it,” he said. “I know how much you loved her.”
And then he was gone.
Baelon sat for a long while, unmoving, his gaze lingering on the space where his son had stood. Slowly, he closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands.
Daemon had always been the most difficult of his children, his temper quick, his passions quicker. Even as a babe, he had bitten when he was angry, clawed when restrained. As a youth, he had thrown himself headlong into the lists, half for praise, half for fury. No joust could sate him, no melee satisfy him long. Yet Baelon loved him fiercely, even as he despaired of him.
The boy had his mother’s spirit, bright and reckless as a dragon, and her death had carved something hollow in them both. He was but a little boy of three when she passed. Daemon scarcely remembered her and Baelon could not forget her. His son had her laughter, her stubbornness, her way of defying the world even when it broke her.
The bluntness, that was Baelon’s own gift to him, one he wished he had not passed down.
He reached again for the ledger that lay forgotten upon the desk, the neat rows of numbers blurring before his eyes. The crown’s vaults were fuller than they had been in years, Alysanne’s reforms had seen to that, but gold could not buy peace within his own house. He bent his head to the work nonetheless, as though figures on parchment might offer distraction from the echo of his son’s words.
An hour passed, then another. Outside, the day waned. Shadows grew long across the floor, and the last of the sunlight bled red across the floor like spilled wine. Baelon was still at his desk when the piercing shrill of a dragon’s cry, so clear and sharp that it rattled the tower. It rose once, twice, and then the distinctive clicking rumble that could belong to none but Caraxes followed, reverberating across the Keep.
Baelon leaned back in his chair and let out a low chuckle “Of course,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head. “He went flying.”
Alicent entered her father’s solar with her usual quiet grace, her hands folded before her, her head bowed in the deference drilled into her since girlhood. “Lord Father,” she said, curtseying, “you summoned me.”
Otto Hightower, Master of Laws, looked up from the small dining table near the window where a rich meal had been laid out.
“I did. Do take a seat, my daughter.”
Alicent obeyed, smoothing her skirts as she approached. She sensed a heaviness in her father’s voice, the kind that always came before an announcement that would alter her course in life. She felt the urge to bite her bottom lip, to fidget with her sleeve, but she had long ago learned to master such betrayals of composure.
“Sister!” came a bright voice. Gwayne, her younger brother by two years, was already near as tall as their father, with the same cool blue eyes and blonde hair that marked their bloodline. “Let me help you to your seat.”
Alicent smiled faintly, grateful for the small kindness. “Thank you, Gwayne.”
He pulled out the chair beside their mother, Lady Alerye Redwyne, whose soft beauty had not dimmed with age, her manner ever gentle. Alerye looked up from her needlework and smiled at her daughter. “I have heard you spend more time with Princess Gael of late, during your lessons,” she said.
Alicent inclined her head modestly. “Yes, mother. We have spent a tad more time with our septa. The Princess has her own way of learning. She likes her stories more than her sums.”
Her mother’s smile deepened with fondness. “That sounds like Gael indeed.”
Otto exchanged a brief, wordless look with his lady wife, a look that said much, though nothing was spoken aloud.
Servants entered then, plating roasted capon glazed in honey, stewed pears, and bread still warm from the ovens. The family dined in polite quiet, the only sounds those of knife and fork, the faint clinking of goblets.
Alicent ate little. She had seen that look before between her parents. It heralded something decided.
When the dishes were cleared and the servants dismissed, Otto folded his hands before him, his eyes steady upon his daughter.
“I have news. It concerns you, Alicent.”
Alicent looked up, wiping her mouth carefully with her napkin. Her heart fluttered once, hard and fast, before falling still. She waited, her expression mild.
Otto drew in a slow breath. “I have spoken at length with Prince Baelon, and by the grace of the Seven and the wisdom of His Majesty, I have secured for you a suitor worthy of your name and our house. A union that shall bind us closer to the royal line.” He paused, as though tasting the words. “You will wed, in three moons’ time, the youngest son of Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon Targaryen.”
Alicent’s fingers tightened imperceptibly upon her lap. Under the table, she pinched the tender flesh of her wrist until pain steadied her pulse. Her head dipped in the perfect motion of modest gratitude.
“That is joyous news,” she said softly. “I thank you, father.”
The silence that followed was broken, most unhelpfully, by Gwayne. “But he is debauched!” he blurted, face flushed with youthful outrage.
“Silence!” Otto’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. He turned to his son, eyes flashing. “You do not speak out of turn, boy. And you will mind your tongue. Prince Daemon is a prince of the blood, brother to the heir apparent. You will not speak ill of him in my presence or any man’s.”
Gwayne bristled, muttering, “But all of court knows-”
“Enough! Every man has his faults,” he said sharply, though the pause that followed was long enough to betray that he knew Daemon’s faults were legion. “Some more… visible than others. But your sister will do her duty, and she will do it exceedingly well. You are too young to understand the workings of power, Gwayne. Our name will ascend through her. Do you think these walls are built on prayer alone? The Hightowers must climb, and to climb, one must sometimes tread on rough stone.”
Gwayne looked down at his plate, chastened. Alerye looked at the table.
Alicent’s gaze fell to her own hands. Her throat felt tight, though she smiled still, the small, perfect curve of lips she had learned to wear since childhood.
Otto continued, his tone softer now, but no less firm. “Prince Daemon is fierce, yes. Rash. But he is also of the blood. Once Viserys ascends the Iron Throne, their children will be near kin. Through this union, our family will be bound to the very heart of the realm.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with conviction. “Do you understand how long I have laboured, how carefully I have worked to raise our house? To see a Hightower sit the Iron Throne is a triumph greater than any my forebears have known. This match, Alicent, is the key to it all.”
Alicent nodded faintly, though the words washed over her like the sea against stone. She took short breaths not to let tears fall.
Lady Alerye, ever gentler than her husband, reached for her daughter’s hand. “What do you think of the match, my sweet?” she asked softly, as though her question could change the tide.
Alicent looked up into her mother’s kind eyes, and smiled, the careful, courtly smile that showed neither teeth nor truth.
“I believe it is a good match, Mother. I thank my father for his wisdom. I will do my duty and be content. I shall manage the Prince’s household and, in time, become a mother.”
Alerye’s smile faltered, her eyes growing distant. Everyone at that table knew Daemon’s reputation. The Rogue Prince,the Blood Dragon, they whispered already in the corridors.
“Contentment,” Alerye murmured at last, stroking her daughter’s hand, “is a rare blessing, my love. I pray the Gods grant you more than that.”
Alicent bowed her head.
Lady Alerye lay upon her side of the vast bed, her gaze fixed upon the carved canopy above. The candlelight barely shed enough light over the space, just as he liked it. The chamber still held the warmth of shared company, yet her thoughts were cold and heavy.
A thin sheen of perspiration dampened her brow, and she passed a hand over it wearily.
If she had ever believed, even for a heartbeat, that her husband was pleased with the match he had struck for their daughter, the fury in which he had come to her that night had proven otherwise. Otto Hightower was not a man easily undone, yet his passion had burned not with joy but with the sharp, angry light of necessity.
She knew him too well to mistake one for the other.
With a soft sigh, Alerye pushed herself up and rose, pulling the nightgown past her hips as she moved toward the small table by the hearth. A decanter of Arbor Red sat waiting, the deep wine catching the low glow of the fire. She poured two goblets, one for herself, one for her husband, and carried them back to the bed.
“I thought you would be content,” she said quietly, offering him a goblet. “Content, at last, that our daughter is to be united with the Targaryen line.”
Otto accepted the wine but did not drink. He sat up, leaning back against the pillows, his expression shadowed by thought, his tunic opened at the throat where his light chest hair was damp. “If only that were so,” he murmured. “But there was no other way. I have turned every stone, spoken with Baelon till my tongue near cracked with reason. Implied, if that is the fit word, that he might need a queen. Yet that man-” he shook his head, words failing him for once.
Alerye took a slow sip from her goblet, tasting the tartness upon her tongue before setting it aside. She slipped back beneath the sheets beside him, her presence calm beside his storm.
For all his coldness, Otto had always come to her when he needed quiet. It was one of the few ways she could soothe him, his dutiful visits, as she sometimes called them in her heart.
“He loved his wife,” she said softly.
Otto scoffed, a sound rare from him, reserved only for moments of deepest vexation. “A man ought to know his duty, love or not,” he said flatly.
Alerye’s lips curving in a small, crooked smile. “If I were to perish, would you remarry?”
He did not meet her gaze. “We are not speaking of me,” his voice was clipped. “And you will not speak such words again.”
She inclined her head in silence. It was not fear that stilled her tongue, but long habit. Otto did not abide morbid talk, nor any conversation that pricked too close to the soft flesh beneath his armour of ambition. She lay back, eyes tracing the canopy once more.
“It is unfortunate,” she said after a time, her tone gentler. “For I know Prince Baelon to be a man of temperance and long patience, he would have been a fine suitor and he will make a finer king. Whereas Prince Daemon…” she hesitated, choosing her words with care. “He is not like his father. I fear what my poor daughter may have to endure at his hands. I’ve heard so many tales of his, um, adventures.”
"She will not be the first woman to endure her husband. Nor the last. ’Tis the way of our world. Women bear, men rule, and all play their parts as the Gods decree.”
A spark of quiet sadness passed through Alerye’s eyes. She turned onto her side, facing him. “Then I shall pray that she bears quickly. A babe often softens even the proudest of men.”
Her husband made a low sound, half thought, half agreement. “A boy,” he said at length. “Strong, and of Targaryen blood. Such a son could one day wed Princess Rhaenyra, so a Hightower Queen can sit that throne.”
Alerye nodded. “A miracle that Lady Aemma survived this last confinement. The lady's health was so fragile. Yet she bore a healthy babe in the end.”
Otto’s mouth twisted faintly, though not quite into a smile. “I would call it luck,” he said dryly.
Alerye glanced sidelong at him, as she had done for many years when he spoke thus. There were times when Otto’s words carried a strange chill, as though his thoughts moved along darker paths than hers ever dared.
She had learned long ago not to prod when his tone took that shape.
“I will try to prepare her as best I can,” Alerye murmured after a moment, her fingers worrying at the embroidered edge of the sheet. “For what lies ahead. I shall teach her the keeping of a household fit for a prince, the proper way to speak and stand at court. And once Lady Aemma is permitted to rise from her bed, I shall bring Alicent to attend her. There she might learn what it is to be a wife in truth.”
“Our daughter should have the babe at Oldtown,” Otto said abruptly, his mind already at work.
Alerye looked at him in surprise. “Oldtown?”
“Aye. The air would do her good. Maester Orwan has tended to her ever since she was a child, ensuring she was in exceptional health. I will speak with Prince Baelon about it on the morrow.”
She inclined her head, as though to yield to the inevitable. “Mayhap you are right.”
They fell into silence, the kind that grows not from comfort but from exhaustion. The chamber had cooled, and the fire burned low in the hearth. Otto drained the last of his wine, set the goblet aside, and rose, drawing his robe about his shoulders.
“Goodnight, Alerye,” he said simply after he put out the fire and the last candles.
“Goodnight, lord husband.”
He left then, his step measured and soft as he went back through the adjoining corridor to his own bedchamber.
Notes:
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Chapter 3: The Marriage of Fire and Faith
Notes:
High Valyrian in bold.
So we have a pre-wedding, wedding ceremony and the bedding. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Prince Daemon Targaryen stood before the mirror in his chamber, watching three page boys tug and straighten the layers of his attire. He had been in a foul mood all morning and the young cunts attending him only irritated him further.
Each morning since I claimed Caraxes I go out flying, but today I have to spend it cooped up in a Sept, he thought.
Their small hands worked quickly, fastening clasps and smoothing folds of costly leather he scarcely noticed. He had long since stopped caring for the names of such attendants, new ones were assigned to him each moon turn, as few could keep pace with his humors.
They dressed him in a sleeveless brocade coat of fine black leather, the clasps shaped into dragon heads, each linked by a heavy chain of beaten gold. The leather shimmered faintly, the pattern pressed into it mimicking scales.
Beneath it, he wore a tunic of the deepest crimson and breeches black as dragonglass, tucked neatly into high boots of polished leather. The scent of oil and steel clung faintly to him, Dark Sister and his Valyrian dagger at his hip.
His silver-white hair had been brushed until it shone, half gathered and tied back with a band of silver. On his fingers glinted a number of rings, and upon his smallest finger rested his signet: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
The prince regarded his reflection with mild disdain. His father would have said he looked every inch the Targaryen Prince, his grandmother that he looked every inch a husband. Daemon thought he looked every inch a caged dragon, polished and tamed for the spectacle of others.
The sound of armored footsteps interrupted his thoughts. The guard opened the door and announced in a clear voice: “Her Grace, Queen Alysanne.”
Daemon turned sharply, surprised. His grandmother entered the chamber slowly, leaning upon her silver-headed cane. Her honey-colored curls, had faded to near white, yet her eyes gleamed with the same lively light that had made her beloved throughout the realm.
She wore a gown of soft purple velvet trimmed with white fur, and the warmth of her smile filled the room.
“My, my,” she said in her soft yet stern voice, “the ladies at court shall weep when you say your vows before the septon.”
Daemon’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. He hurried forward, bowing low before her. “My Queen,” he said, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles before fetching a chair.
“Ever chivalrous,” Alysanne chuckled as she sat. “Lady Alicent is indeed fortunate to have such a prince for her lord husband.”
At that, his mouth tightened despite himself. The old queen caught it at once, for nothing escaped her. Her gaze sharpened with fond amusement, as if she were watching a child pout over a stolen sweet.
“Out with it,” she said briskly, rapping her cane against the floor once. “Come now, I know that look. What grievance troubles you this hour? I am too old for riddles.”
Daemon hesitated, his pride warring with the knowledge that he could not hide what he felt from her. He shrugged lightly, the gesture careless, defiant.
Alysanne tsked. “Princes do not shrug, child. Bring a chair and sit before me. Use your words. And you three, leave us,” the three pages could not have walked out of there faster after they bowed.
The Rogue obeyed his elder, fetching another chair and lowering himself opposite her with reluctant grace. For a long while, he stared at the floor, tracing the veins in the stone with his eyes.
“Well?” she pressed.
He lifted his gaze at last, his voice quiet but edged. “If you had spoken to grandsire, if you had asked him to grant Gael’s hand to me-”
The Queen raised a hand, silencing him before the words could gather force. “Grandson,” she said firmly, “how many times must I tell you? Your aunt will not be pushed into marriage before her twentieth nameday, and even then only if she herself desires it.”
Daemon’s tone softened, almost pleading. “I could have waited, Your Grace.”
Alysanne smiled faintly, though her eyes were sad. “I am certain you could, for all your restless heart. But you must learn, Daemon, that patience is not idleness. The Gods will not grant you every wish simply because you would burn for it. Lady Alicent is a girl of fine character and impeccable manner, well-bred, well-tutored, and well regarded by all who know her.”
He said nothing, though his fist clenched.
“She is of an age to bear children,” the Queen went on, “and her match with you strengthens the ties that bind House Targaryen to Oldtown, to the Citadel, and to the Faith. It is a good and prudent union.”
At that, Daemon’s temper stirred. His voice came out low and bitter. “Do not trouble yourself, Your Grace. My father has sung her virtues long enough to turn the Small Council deaf. If my father deemed her so precious, he ought to have wed her himself.”
The Queen’s brows rose at his insolence, but her tone remained calm. “Do not be impertinent, Daemon. Prince Baelon has done right by you, though you fail to see it.”
Daemon’s jaw clenched, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. “She is of Andal blood,” he said at last, every word laced with disdain. “And that is not good enough for me. I am the blood of the dragon!”
“Your mother was of Valyrian blood, true, but we are in short supply of such Targaryen-blooded women as you must know,” said Alysanne, her tone sharpening. “Lady Alicent has blonde hair and blue eyes, in the candlelight, blue can appear a different shade. You’ll make do. From what I hear, she is the better option compared to Lady Rhea Rhoyce.”
He turned his gaze aside, saying nothing. Of course, my father told on me, speaking of that tall man who deemed himself a lady of Runestone, he thought.
Alysanne leaned back, her lined hands clasping the head of her cane. “You will do your duty, and you will find that a wife of wit, will serve you better than what you think. Lady Alicent is no fool, thank the Seven for that. And she is comely, on that much we can agree.”
Daemon rose, his face a mask of composure, though his pulse beat fast beneath it. “The hour grows late,” he said curtly. “I must prepare for the procession to the sept. I've yet to put on my light armor.”
The Queen sighed, shaking her head slowly. “You are your mother’s son indeed, too much fire, too little grace. Yet you will learn, as she did, that pride makes a poor shield against duty.”
He bowed deeply, more from respect than agreement. “Your Grace,” he murmured, then turned toward the door to call for his squire.
“Foolish boy,” she said under her breath, “you will see her soon enough and curse your own words before the moon turns twice.”
Alicent smoothed an invisible crease upon her gown, though there was none to find. The fabric, fine silk from across the Narrow Sea, a gift from her godfather Baelon, caught the morning light filtering through the windows of her chamber. It was gold brocade set against pale green, the cuffs and hem trimmed with Myrish lace.
The gown had been commissioned from the most expensive dressmaker in King’s Landing, her mother Alerye, supervised the work of the dressmaker, ensuring every thread bespoke the wealth and taste of House Hightower. Embroidered with gold thread, the sleeves long and trailing, the bodice modest yet finely cut to flatter her slender form.
Beneath her hands the silk was cool, but her palms were warm and damp. She tried to keep her breath steady, though each inhale seemed shallower than the last.
As much as she wished to remain indifferent, she could not help the nervous flutter that seized her. The flutter was not only fear, though fear there was, but also the weight of what awaited her.
In a few short hours, she would be bound before Gods and men to Prince Daemon Targaryen: one of the most dangerous and ill-tempered men in Westeros, if the whispers were to be believed.
A man of striking beauty, yes, and valor enough to be sung of by bards; yet behind those songs lay darker tales. A prince who believed himself forged of fire, a God made flesh, untouchable and untamed.
He had a dragon, Caraxes, whose shrieks could curdle the blood of seasoned knights, and he wielded Dark Sister, the blade once borne by Queen Visenya herself. None had bested him in the lists since he was a boy of three and ten, and fewer still had dared challenge his temper thereafter. Those who did always suffered grave wounds.
Yet now, the Gods decreed she must raise her eyes to him as his wife.
But this was no trial, simply the duty of every lady wife, to get to know her lord husband, to defer before him, to bear his children and lessen his burdens, to run his household and ensure that his days are better.
The only issue was that she never knew for sure when the prince mocked her or spoke the truth, but she realized that acting like a true lady, always seemed to confuse him.
He has felt a harlot’s touch, but he knows nothing of the kind and soothing touch of a lady’s wife, she mused.
Her mother’s voice drew her from her thoughts.
“Well,” said her mother, with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, her gown a shade of burgundy, “I know we must depart soon, but before we do, I wished to speak with you about an important part of your wedding, one that your Septa Morelle has taught you in your lessons. But a septa has no knowledge of what truly goes on behind closed doors, when a husband and wife proceed with their duties.”
Alicent turned to her and nodded. Her mother’s tone was unusually hesitant. The older woman moved toward her slowly, her gown whispering over the floor.
She dismissed the two handmaids who had been arranging the train, and when the door closed behind them, a hush settled upon the chamber.
Alerye gestured gently toward the cushioned bench beside the hearth. “Come, my sweet,” she said, her voice softer now. “Let us sit.”
Only then did Alicent understand what was to be discussed. Her throat tightened, and she forced her hands into her lap to keep the image of a perfect lady, her back straight.
Her mother seemed uneasy, smoothing her skirts more than was needed.
“Your wedding night,” Alerye began after a pause, “is the moment that seals the union between husband and wife. A marriage unconsummated is… well, it is no true marriage at all, in the eyes of the Faith.” She gave a weak, apologetic smile, as though she too wished to escape the conversation. “If the act is not properly done, it can be grounds for annulment, or worse, shame upon both your house and his. It is not my wish to frighten you, but you must understand that this duty must be fulfilled as the Gods intend.”
Alicent swallowed hard. Her mouth felt dry as parchment. “I understand, mother,” she murmured, though in truth she did not. Not when it came to him.
She had been lectured in the shyly veiled words of septas who spoke of wifely duty, obedience, and the sanctity of the union, yet none of those words explained what it was to lie with a man like Daemon Targaryen.
Her mother continued, her cheeks coloring faintly. “Men, in general, have more… experience in such matters. It is their nature to follow their baser urges. You must allow your husband to take the lead. Do not resist him, and do not anger him. I am certain he will be… kind, since this is your first time.” She looked down then, fidgeting with the ring on her finger. “Perchance, as a piece of womanly advice, do you recall that small vial of oil I gifted you moons ago? The one I told you to use sparingly, only a few drops upon your elbows and knees?”
Alicent nodded, recalling the phial of amber liquid that had no smell, but it spread pleasingly over the skin.
“That oil,” Alerye said carefully, “is not for your elbows, nor your knees. It is a special blend known to… ease your duty. It is to be used when you prepare for your husband’s embrace. A few drops will ensure you are not injured during your wifely duties.”
“Do you think he will hurt me?”
Her mother gave an embarrassed little laugh, not quite meeting her gaze. “I cannot say, my love. Men are strange creatures when passion takes them. And your prince-” she hesitated, lowering her voice. “Your prince is said to have certain appetites. Rumors, perhaps, spread by those who envy him. Yet I would rather you be cautious. I merely wish to spare you from too much… discomfort.”
Alicent pressed her lips together. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. This has been the fate of many ladies, I would not be the first, there is naught to fear, she thought.
“But do not fret,” Alerye added quickly, reaching to pat her daughter’s hand. “Tomorrow morning, I shall come to visit you and bring something for the aches. A warm draught with honey and crushed willowbark. It will soothe you. And in time, you will find that such duties grow less unpleasant, even comforting, once affection takes root.”
“The aches,” Alicent repeated with a small frown. “I don’t believe Septa Morelle ever spoke of such aches after one’s duty.”
Her mother smiled sadly. “Oh, yes, well, the aches. I know it sounds coarse, but it is the truth of marriage. We women are made to endure what men do not even think to notice. But the Gods are not cruel, they grant us the gift of children, and for that, the pain is made worthwhile.”
Silence fell between them. Alicent stared into the hearth, where only the faintest embers glowed from the morning fire. She imagined herself standing in the Great Sept, before the Seven, her hand in his, Daemon’s hand, large and calloused from swordplay, the veins standing out against the pale skin.
In time, he will find my touch and presence soothing. I will make sure, I will give him sons, and our eldest will sit the Iron Throne if Aemma cannot bear other children, she thought with a small smile.
Her mother rose then, smoothing her gown again, forcing brightness into her tone. “Now, let us not delay, child. Your lord father is waiting in the courtyard, and we must not keep the king’s party waiting. The procession to the sept will begin soon.”
Alicent nodded faintly, to herself. The gown whispered as she moved, heavy with embroidery. Alerye lifted the veil and gently placed it over her daughter’s head. The world dimmed behind it, and through the veil’s delicate weave, everything seemed distant, softened: her mother’s face, the glimmer of sunlight, the shapes of the furniture.
Alerye’s hand lingered on her arm. “You are radiant, my love,” she said softly, though her voice trembled. “Your father will be proud, and the realm will look upon you with envy. You will leave your prince breathless.”
“Thank you, mother, I hope I will make our family proud.”
They left the chamber together, mother and daughter, stepping into the corridor lined with guards and servants who bowed as they passed.
The air upon Visenya’s Hill was sweet with incense and heavy with the scent of crushed petals. The city had gathered in multitudes, all pressing close along the marble steps that led to the Great Sept. A sea of faces turned upward, their cries and cheers echoing against the pale stone.
Some shouted blessings upon the king and his blood, others chanted the name of the Prince of the City. The Seven’s bells tolled above, their deep song rolling down to the harbor, mingling with the cries of gulls and the distant roar of waves against the docks.
From within the wheelhouse, Alicent could hear the voices swell and break like surf against the shore. Her heart thrummed in her chest, a bird trapped behind her ribs. Her hands lay folded in her lap, gloved in silk, she was joyous for her wedding ceremony, as any maiden was for her nuptials.
The motion of the wheelhouse stopped, and the door opened, and sunlight poured in. A guard bowed low, but before he could offer his hand, a familiar voice spoke.
“Come, sister,” said Gwayne Hightower, smiling too broadly for her liking. He looked every inch the young lord, tall and proud, with the same fine blue eyes as their mother, though not yet tempered by age or wisdom. He helped their mother, then reached in and helped Alicent descend the steps.
As her heeled slippers touched the marble, the crowd erupted in fresh cheers. Banners bearing the white tower of Oldtown fluttered beside the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Alicent lifted her chin slightly.
Gwayne leaned closer, whispering as they began to ascend the steps. “Nervous?”
Alicent gave him a glance.
He grinned, ever the gossip. “I’ve heard the prince fought with his father and grandsire this very morning. The blood of the dragon runs hot, it seems.”
“Why?”
“Oh,” Gwayne said with relish, “apparently he wished to come to the Sept upon his dragon, and the king forbade it. It’s said His Grace swore before the council that if Daemon dared to appear astride Caraxes, the ceremony would be halted, and you would be wed to another instead and the prince sent to the Wall.”
Alicent sighed at her brother’s antics. “You choose very poorly the moments to make japes, brother.”
He chuckled, unbothered. “Merely trying to ease your nerves. Think of it, imagine him descending from the sky on Caraxes’ back, the septons running for cover. It would have been a wedding to remember.”
“Enough,” she said softly, though her lips trembled with the faintest hint of a smile she did not feel. He meant well, in his boyish way.
At the top of the steps, they passed through the open great doors. Beyond them lay the vast and echoing hall of the Great Sept, all marble and gold, sunlight streaming through tall windows painted with the likeness of the Seven.
Her brother bowed low and stepped aside to take his place among their kin beyond the other set of doors.
Her father was waiting at the end of the aisle, resplendent in robes of green trimmed with gold. He extended his arm to her without a word. She took it, her hand light upon his sleeve.
Otto bent his head slightly toward her as they began to walk. “Remember, daughter, today you are the face of House Hightower. Every word, every movement, must honor our name. Keep your chin up, and walk as if you are already a princess.”
Alicent said nothing. If only he wishes to bestow such a title upon me, she mused. As per custom, it was the husband who had the power to make such a request to the king, and if he did, then she could style herself as: Alicent Hightower, Princess of Daemon.
Their footsteps echoed with it, each one carrying her closer to the dais, to the prince who would be her husband.
She felt the eyes of the court upon her, hundreds of them. Whispers followed her steps, a tide of admiration and curiosity. Some voices murmured of her beauty, others of her youth, others still of the prince’s temper.
To the left stood her kin, her brother and mother, Lady Alerye, their faces proud; her cousins and uncles from Oldtown; knights of House Redwyne and lords sworn to Hightower. To the right, arrayed in black and crimson, stood the royal family. King Jaehaerys sat beneath the Seven’s window, aged but stately still, his long white beard brushed by his shaking hand. At his side, Queen Alysanne, serene and radiant in her years, though her eyes, when they fell upon Alicent, softened.
Next to them stood Prince Baelon, tall and proud, his face brightened with a smile, and beside him Prince Viserys and his wife, Lady Aemma Arryn, pale but smiling faintly. Poor woman, the birthing bed had been cursed for her, she looks like a ghost, she mused. Princess Rhaenys with Corlys Velaryon, and the rest of the Velaryon kin, were present, along with their daughter Laena, little Laenor who was only three namedays old, was left with his wetnurses as Rhaenyra was.
And at the head of the hall, waiting upon the marble dais where the Septon stood, was Prince Daemon.
He was arrayed in the full splendor of his house. His armor gleamed black as a raven’s wing, the black steel etched with dragon scales that caught the light and shimmered red. A greatcloak of black and crimson hung from his shoulders, fastened with a clasp wrought in the shape of a dragon’s head. The hilt of Dark Sister rose behind his hip, its pommel glinting faintly.
Even his hair, brushed and bound in a half-knot at the back of his head, gleamed like liquid silver in the sunlight. He stood straight as a sword, his gaze fixed forward, proud and untouched by humility.
If she could see his eyes through the veil, she did not dare. The air around him seemed to hum with quiet menace, like heat above a forge.
When they reached the foot of the dais, Otto released her arm and kissed her veiled cheek. She turned to face the Septon, and the hall fell into reverent silence.
“Lords and ladies, from every corner of the realm, we gather here beneath the eyes of Gods and men to witness the union of two souls, bound for eternity. Who gives away this young maiden to be wed?”
“Ser Otto of House Hightower,” boomed her father’s gravelly voice.
“And who will take this young maid as wife?”
“Prince Daemon of House Targaryen.”
“Prince Daemon, you may take the lady and bring her before the Gods.”
He stepped forward. His movements were graceful as a cat’s as he descended, though there was something coiled beneath them, something dangerous.
He stopped before her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of leather and the tang of steel. Her took her by the hand and walked up to the high dais. The Septon’s voice rose, deep and sonorous, calling upon the Seven to bless the union that would bind House Targaryen and House Hightower.
Alicent lowered her gaze, as custom demanded. Through the gauze of her veil she saw his hands, long-fingered, ringed in gold.
“You may lift the veil,” said the Septon.
Daemon obeyed. For the briefest moment, the world seemed to still.
The veil slid back, and she found herself looking into his face without barrier. His eyes were that queer shade of purple-violet. They held hers, unflinching, and though his lips curved faintly in that signature smirk of his, there was little mirth in it. She could not make what he thought and it troubled her.
A man easy to read was easy to please. And she could not read him.
The Septon began the rites. She had been cloaked in his Targaryen cloak, the weight of it heavy on her shoulders and then their hands had been tied by ribbon.
His words echoed through the Sept, the same vows spoken for centuries, invoking the Seven: Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger. He spoke of duty and unity, of love and faith, of the sacred bond that no man might undo.
When it came time for the vows, Daemon’s voice rang out. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger,” he said, the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth, “I pledge my life and honor to you, and take you as my lady wife.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. King Jaehaerys looked around and everyone shushed.
When her turn came, Alicent’s lips trembled once, but her voice, when it emerged, was clear and soft. “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. Before Gods and men, I take you as my lord and husband, and pledge my faith, body and soul to House Targaryen and to you.”
The Septon raised his arms and declared: “Let it be known that Prince Daemon of House Targaryen and Lady Alicent of House Hightower are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”
When the blessing was complete, Daemon leaned forward, brushing his lips to hers, a kiss of formality. She had thought he would cause a stir with his debauchery but he had been exceptionally chivalrous.
The Sept erupted in applause. Bells pealed above them once more.
Alicent lowered her eyes. Around her, the world was a blur of color and sound, her mother’s tearful smile, her father’s proud nod, accompanied by that of her uncle, Gwayne’s loud clapping. Daemon turned to her once more and offered his bent arm, his expression unreadable. She took it, and together they descended the steps as the great doors opened wide.
Outside, the cheers of the crowd roared anew, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very hill beneath them. Flower petals rained down, red and white and gold.
Daemon did not know how much wine he had drunk. The goblets had kept refilling themselves, or so it had seemed as he had continuously asked for more, and every toast had blurred into the next.
By the time he found himself standing half-dressed in what he believed to be his chamber, he could scarcely recall whose laughter had followed him down the corridor, nor who had bade him goodnight.
“Iksis bisa ñuha tistālion iā ñuha ābrazȳrys's tistālion?” is it my chamber or my wife’s chamber, he muttered in High Valyrian, squinting at the canopy bed before him.
When did my bloody bed curtains change to soft green? he scrunched his nose in distaste.
He had let the noble ladies tug at his clothes, never one to shy away from a soft palm and he had a grave urge to fuck a tight cunt.
“Gods, I can’t even go to the Street of Silk,” he murmured.
The air smelled faintly of citrus and almond, of clean linens and the oil that noble ladies favored. Somewhere in the fog of his thoughts, Daemon realized it must be her bedchamber. His bride’s. The thought made him snort.
“I am a man wedded,” he let out a bark of laughter.
From the bed, Alicent watched her now husband speak in the Old Tongue, not understanding his Valyrian, as he spoke with an accent.
The study of that language was already difficult, since Maesters did not know the intricacies of the language as a Targaryen did. And her husband spoke as if he had been born during the times of Old Valyria.
He was laughing and muttering to himself, standing in nothing but his smallclothes and boots.
The Rogue tried to remember the end of the feast. His father’s voice came to him first, scolding, warning that the King himself would end the revel if Daemon caused another scene.
Then his cousin Rhaenys, with her quiet, cutting counsel about duty and heirs. Then the blur of music and silver plates, the gleam of torches and the endless cups of wine. The sea-tinted jests of Lord Corlys.
He had danced, once with his Hightower wife, once with her mother, once with Rhaenys, who had smiled at him as if she already knew his temper would undo him before dawn.
“Duty,” he grumbled, staggering as his boots caught the edge of a carpet. The next instant, his shoulder struck one of the bedposts. He steadied himself, growling, “Blasted carpet.”
Alicent watched with an irregular breath as he struggled to hold himself right.
He bent to pull off one boot, then the other, nearly losing his balance in the process. The room swayed, slow and dizzy. He rubbed a hand down his face, feeling the heat beneath his skin. “Wine,” he muttered, as if summoning it.
There, on a small table beside the hearth, a decanter glimmered ruby in the firelight. He made a crooked path toward it, catching himself on the furniture twice before reaching it. His hand found the handle and he poured straight into his mouth, the wine spilling over his chin and down his chest.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was there.
Even in that haze, instinct whispered of another presence. His hand went automatically to his belt, and cursed under his breath when it met only bare skin. Where in the Seven Hells was Dark Sister?
He could not remember what had happened with the blade or his dagger. Ah, yes, my father told me I should have no need of bearing steel, and he made me leave it in my chamber, he recalled. He turned, squinting through the candlelight.
A woman sat at the edge of the bed, her figure still and slender in the pale fabric of her nightgown. For a moment, she was only a shape in the dimness, then the light caught her hair, glinting like silver gold.
Alicent.
Daemon let out a short, sharp snort that was half amusement, half disbelief. “Ah,” he said, voice thick with drink. “Lady wife. What a vision you are.”
He lifted the decanter in mock salute and drank again before crossing toward her, his steps unsteady but somehow graceful still.
“Ready for us to do our duty?” he drawled.
“I don’t understand you, my prince,” she stared into his eyes, thinking she knew how confident he was in his bareness, only wearing his smallclothes and stockings that reached his knees.
“Don’t understand? Hasn’t my beloved father praised your cunning? Were your wits only for him or do you wish to provoke my ire?” his lips curled in a sneer.
“My prince, I don’t know High Valyrian.”
He blinked a few times until he remembered. “My apologies, I revert to my tongue when I’m in my cups,” he winked at her. “The King will want the sheets, I’ve been told. As if I were some green boy incapable of proving himself. I’ve done this more times than-” He hiccuped and waved a hand. “Never mind that.”
He extended the decanter toward her. “Drink.”
Alicent hesitated. Her hands, folded in her lap, were white at the knuckles. She looked up at him through lowered lashes, and then, perhaps remembering her mother’s words, perhaps fearing refusal more, she took it.
Daemon tilted the vessel for her, too far. The wine rushed fast, and she coughed, eyes squeezing shut. He laughed and patted her back with a heavy hand.
“There,” he said, voice almost kind for a heartbeat. “It will help you… relax.”
Alicent looked up at him, not with anger, not yet, but with a mixture of confusion and dread. She had seen men drunk before, during feasts at Oldtown, here at the Red Keep, but never one who seemed so alive within his own chaos.
Daemon caught her look and scoffed, offended. “What? Do you think I’d be so dishonorable as to take you against your will? I’m generous, you should ask my whores.”
He turned away, muttering something she couldn’t catch, and then looked back. “Lay down,” he said finally, his tone a command and not a request. “Let’s get this over with.”
For a moment she didn’t move, her heart hammering so hard she thought he must hear it. Then, slowly, she obeyed, sitting back upon the white sheets, her hands trembling at her sides.
He stumbled, almost falling face on the bed, but his arms thankfully still worked. Without much thought of this probably being her first time seeing a man naked, he began kissing her neck, and he straddled one of her legs. His one hand grabbed at her small teat, they weren’t that big but firm in his hand.
His hips bucked, and he grabbed the fabric of her nightgown, pulling it over her hips. The Rogue was painfully hard already. He held his weight on one elbow while he sucked purple flowers on the skin of her throat. Daemon’s hand moved to her cunny and he began drawing circles at her opening, the wink fluttering frantically.
He found her slick, but not the wetness that a cunt provided but rather it felt oily. He chuckled on her skin and he rasped in her ear: “Your mother must think me a monster, if she thought I would break her daughter without preparing her. Do not fret, my lady, I was born to go against everyone’s beliefs. Open your legs more. Yes, just like that. You smell so nice,” he nibbled at her earlobe.
She had her eyes screwed shut as she felt his index finger dipping inside of her, gently, his thumb now working on her pearl, a place she did not know could elicit such strange tremors from her. Her abdomen shook slightly as she furrowed her brow in confusion, the sensation foreign, yet it was... making her warm and tingly. Is this proper? Alicent thought.
"Breathe, otherwise you won't relax," his voice was strained as he humped her leg. She thought she would perish from the mortification. Alicent only managed a nod as her body grew accustomed to his ministrations, her hips starting to slowly move in tandem with his finger.
"I will insert another finger, tell me if you hurt," he said as he withdrew his index finger and seconds later, he pushed two fingers inside of her slowly, stretching her for him. She nodded absently.
She felt something was bound to happen when he began moving his fingers faster, the heel of his hand then pressed to her little nub as the beckoning motion became frantic.
“Let go for me, don’t hold back, scream if you wish,” he whispered in her ear, his hair falling all over her face, and she pushed it with one hand that now rested at the back of his neck.
Alicent drew repeatedly sharp breaths as she clawed at the sheets, he body twisting, hips undulating against him palm before like a bow string, all the pent-up tension was released in a loud squeak.
Her eyes shot open and looked at him, confused and embarrassed. “I-I apologize.”
"That was your peak my lady, no need to apologize," he grinned at her. “I’m not done yet.”
Daemon settled on his forearms on each side of her head, the face of his wife peering up at him between half-lidded eyes, confusion and lust swimming in her blue eyes. She may not know this, he thought, but she wants me.
The Rogue settled finally between her thighs and tugged at his breeches, taking himself by the base.
He tapped his cock against her opening, the slick gathered there smeared over the blunt head.
"Look at me," he whispered while his free hand guided himself in the tight wet clutch of her cunny, walls fluttering around him as a form of greeting or rejection.
Her eyebrows knitted and he leaned over to kiss her there, the kind form of affection relaxing the spooked lady. Tears welled up in her eyes, pale lashes clustered with the proof of her innocence, the dragon kissing the path some tears made down her face.
"My brave lady," he cooed, his voice carrying a lilt of mock.
Daemon groaned and his hips twitched momentarily, not wishing to move too much, not until she asked or begged, and he had no wish to reach his peak so fast. He would not make a fool of himself.
“Relax now, my lady.” He ground his hips and she mewled like a kitten, her hands now raking through his silver tresses, as he gently rocked both of them.
Her husband was in no hurry, slowly guiding his hips to rub on her pelvis, sparks of delicious sensations shooting down her legs, making the inexperienced girl meet his hips, a call of nature that she knew nothing of yet her body was equipped with the necessary notions.
Daemon languidly moved atop of her, his movements slow and lazy.
The room filled with a variation of moans and groans, the bed creaking softly under their weight, perspiration on their skin.
"Mhm, so good for me," he groaned in her ear, his temple pressed to hers.
The slow rock and grind, was torturous, and the Rogue Prince took pity on her, knowing that one peak was more than what a maiden could suffer. She will be sore tomorrow, he thought with a smile. The fluttering pink walls, brought him to spend his seed, hips twitching at the intensity of it.
Daemon did not drop his weight on her, resting still on his forearms while they tried to calm their breaths.
Gods what a delight maidens are, to hear them squeal in pleasure for the first time, confused and sated of the bodily arts that their Septas never speak of, he huffed, kissing her cheek.
"How is my sweet feeling?" he murmurs, nose brushing against hers.
"I... uh... I feel very... well," she whispered.
“Good, I’ll, I need to bring the sheets to the Maester,” he murmured as he rose, slipping out of her.
He saw her wince and a feeling of pity curled in his chest. Daemon groaned at the foreign sensation, he rarely cared for how others felt. His purple-violet eyes watched his spend mix with a little blood and he couldn’t resist a small smile.
“Turn over,” he grumbled, tugging her nightgown past her hips. He ripped with his bare hands the part of the sheet where their joining stained the pristine white. He put himself back into his breeches, frowning as he walked away barefoot, forgetting about his boots.
Outside of her chamber stood the Grand Maester Mellos, Baleon and Otto.
“Here, old man, mayhap you’ll break an arrow,” he threw the sheet in the direction of the old cunt and he turned to walk towards his chambers.
Otto closed his eyes and sighed. This scoundrel is now my goodson, he thought.
“Daemon, that is no way to-”
“Lord father, ser, old man, I need sleep after the strenuous activity. Farewell,” he made a mock bow, turned on his heel and left, swaying on his feet.
“Where are your boots?” Baelon asked, passing a hand over his face.
“Like I bloody know,” yelled back Daemon as he turned around a corner and disappeared.
Baelon turned to Mellos. “Thank you, that is all Grand Maester.”
“An outstanding consummation, I will present it to the king in the morn. Prince Baelon, Ser Otto, I bid you a good rest,” he bowed and shuffled away.
Baelon looked at the Hightower. “Well, I will assure you that the prince will be reminded of his courtesies. You and your family are most welcome at our morning meal,” he chuckled. “Ah, the vitality of the youth. You remember how it is to be young? So careless and full of life, those days are past for us it seems.”
Otto kept the sour from his face. As long as he fathers a boy, I've no further need of that scoundrel; he can philander all he wants, the Hightower thought.
“Of course I do, it seems like a faraway dream. I thank you, Prince Baelon, for the honor you bestowed upon me, we will attend with our hearts full of joy.”
“You may call me Baelon, we're family now,” he clapped Otto’s shoulder.
He had to stop his body from clenching. “Of course, Baelon. I bid you farewell.”
“You too, Otto,” the Prince of Dragonstone nodded at him and walked away.
The Hightower let out a breath through his nose. Blasted purple-eyed wraiths.
Notes:
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Chapter 4: Fertility and Schemes of the Reach
Notes:
Well, we have a new character introduced here and I hope he gives you the evils.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A few moons had passed since the wedding, enough that the novelty of the ceremony had faded and the court had settled once more into its familiar rhythm, a rhythm built not of music or prayer, but of whispers, false smiles, and the endless circling of those who hungered for proximity to the Iron Throne.
At King Jaehaerys’s court, lust for gold, for flesh, and for power were the three pillars upon which every ambition rested. Old and young alike danced the same ancient steps, some with more grace than others, all hoping to be noticed by those whose favor could raise or ruin them.
Alicent, now Princess of Daemon, discovered that her new life held little rest. She and her mother, Lady Alerye Redwyne, had spent the noon with the Queen’s court in the gardens, where gentle sunlight fell upon marble benches and the scent of blooming lilacs softened the sharp perfume of noble ladies.
Princess Gael was in attendance as well, quiet as ever, her hands folded in her lap as if she might hide behind them. Many sought the Good Queen Alysanne’s counsel on matters ranging from household disputes to the governance of their family lands, and Alicent, seated dutifully beside the queen, wrote down every piece of wisdom she heard.
Lady Aemma was not present, still sickly after giving birth to Princess Rhaenyra.
The Good Queen’s knowledge seemed boundless and effortlessly dispensed. Alicent watched her with a growing admiration that was half reverence and half envy. In time, she thought, I shall be wiser than the Good Queen. They will call me the Good Lady Alicent.
It warmed her, that ambition, as if she carried a small flame beneath her ribs.
When the Queen’s court had at last adjourned, each lady leaving to prepare her family’s evening or to wait upon her lord husband, Alicent quietly asked her mother for a moment of her time. Alerye agreed at once, and together they walked through the path to Maegor’s Holdfast until they reached Alicent’s chamber.
Inside, the torches had been recently lit, their flames steady. Alicent poured her mother a glass of water and added two slices of lemon and one of orange, Oldtown’s custom, which lingered still in their habits, before taking her seat beside her at the small table near the hearth.
Alicent sat ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap.
“Lady Mother, when… when did you know you were with child?”
Alerye paused mid-sip, her brows knitting. Her gaze dropped immediately, instinctively, to her daughter’s midsection.
“Well, there are many ways one knows. My sweet,” she murmured, “have you had any symptoms yet? A soreness of the bosom, tiredness, any sort of nausea?”
Alicent exhaled, her shoulders softening as she shook her head. “I am not certain, Mother. Though I have been more sore and tired, ever since marrying Prince Daemon.” Her cheeks warmed despite herself. “He is quite thorough in his duties.”
That brought an unmistakable blush to Alerye’s face.
“He has not hurt you, has he?” she asked quickly, worry tightening her voice.
Alicent’s expression gentled. “No,” she said, surprising herself with the truth of it. “He has been kind to me. Though one might wonder where he finds all that energy. I suppose it is the blood of the dragon.”
Alerye let out a breath, relieved. “I suppose so.” She set down her cup with measured grace. “But tell me, have you asked the maester to examine you?”
Alicent shook her head. “No but I have felt this sensation in my tummy. As though…” she hesitated, unsure whether the words would sound foolish aloud.
Alerye leaned forward, eyes widening. “A flutter?” she whispered. “As if a butterfly were trapped inside your belly?”
Alicent nodded. “Just so. Only once, but it startled me. Shall I call for the maester?”
Alerye gasped softly, her hand rising to cover her mouth. Tears glimmered in her eyes before one slipped free. “Oh, my sweet girl,” she murmured, voice thick with emotion. “If you have felt that, then the seed has taken root and begun to quicken. Oh, Alicent, congratulations.”
She reached across the small space between them and gathered Alicent into her arms. The girl melted into the embrace, inhaling the familiar warmth of lavender that always clung to her mother’s skin.
“The maester has yet to confirm it,” Alicent reminded her gently, though her heart hammered with something dangerously like hope.
“I know,” Alerye replied, kissing both her daughter’s cheeks. “But if you have felt the flutter, then that is a sign the Gods grant to only a fortunate few. It means the babe grows strong. Oh, you have done so well, my sweet.”
Alicent smiled, radiant in her victory. She had thought herself prepared for this moment, yet hearing the words aloud, a babe, made her throat tighten.
Alerye rose abruptly, smoothing her skirts. “Wait here,” she said, trembling with excitement. “I will summon Maester Orwan at once.”
Maester Orwan had arrived with the Hightower family when they came from Oldtown, a tall, reed-thin man with many links around his chain, mild eyes, and a mind sharp enough to measure a man’s ailments before he spoke a word. He had tended Alicent since childhood, easing her fevers, soothing her sleepless nights with draughts of lemon balm.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the spired roofs of the Red Keep and the towers glowed in hues of orange and rose, Alicent prepared for her husband’s arrival with usual care.
For their private supper, she had ordered a spread of Daemon’s favorite dishes, foods she had learned he favored through careful observation, for he never told her anything directly unless she nearly pulled him by the tongue.
Rabbit meat roasted until tender, served with a red sauce made from fresh tomatoes brought up from the fertile lands of the Reach. Thick loaves of bread, buttered and toasted until their edges crackled beneath one’s teeth. Baked vegetables, carrots, greens, potatoes, all drizzled in oil.
A capon stuffed with turnips, mint and oranges. A ham glazed with spices from Pentos, adorned with caramelized slices of pear that glistened under the candlelight. She knew he did not relish sweets, yet she had asked the cooks to prepare a few miniature sour-cherry tarts the way they did in Oldtown, brushed lightly with lemon juice. Enough to tempt him, should he be in the mood.
And of course, Arbor Red, the only wine he drank without complaint.
Alicent sat alone before the hearth, serene in appearance though her thoughts tripped over themselves like frightened mice. She had dismissed the servants so she could give Daemon the news herself, without prying eyes or tongues eager to wag.
Maester Orwan had confirmed her suspicions; she carried a child. She and her mother had wept softly, joy trembling between them like a note on a harp string. Even the maester had smiled, a rare expression on his learned features.
Her father would be informed by now, for Alerye had promised as much, but Alicent had resolved to let Daemon choose when to announce the pregnancy to the court. It felt only right that the father should be the one to declare it.
Before each meal, at the maester’s insistence, her trusted Oldtown servants brought her a warm concoction. The taste was strange, sharp at first, then mellow, settling warmly in her stomach. It steadied her, soothed the roiling nausea that had begun to coil beneath her ribs. She was grateful for it.
The door to her chamber opened with Daemon’s habitual force, as though he were not entering a room, but storming a tournament's lists. His brows were furrowed, his expression dark, though not displeased. His purple-violet eyes swept over her, lingering for the briefest moment, and then a crooked smirk tugged at his lips.
“Lady wife,” he drawled, peeling off his gloves and throwing them haphazardly on a side table.
Alicent rose and curtsied. “Lord husband. I’ve arranged for supper. All the dishes you enjoy.”
Daemon huffed, that strange sound that lived between annoyance and amusement, though she saw the faintest flush creep across his cheekbones.
“How many times must I tell you? You need not curtsy before me. At least not here. At court, you may do all the things your daddy-dearest commands.” His tone held an edge, but a lazy one, the kind softened by wine or an oddly placid mood.
He dropped into his seat, stretching his legs beneath the table with an elegance that had no room for such posture. For a moment, he merely looked at the roasted meats, the vegetables, the glistening ham, humming, clearly pleased despite his stubborn desire to appear otherwise.
Before serving himself, however, he reached for her plate.
Alicent sighed, warmed as he placed half a stuffed capon upon it, then spooned a generous portion of vegetables, precisely as she liked them. His movements were rough but attentive, as though he had learned her preferences by accident and simply remembered.
For all the blood of the dragon you remind everyone you have, you seem to remember what the blood of Oldtown likes to eat, she mused.
Alicent allowed herself a small jest, hoping to coax him into a gentler mood. “One would think you are trying to fatten me up.”
Daemon barked a laugh, the sound unrestrained and boyish.
“Am not,” he retorted, leaning back in his chair after he piled his own plate with food. “But with the arse your Gods gave you, if it gets fatter, then I will be the luckiest man in Westeros.”
“Daemon, manners!” she hissed, heat rushing to her cheeks.
He smirked, piercing her with that insolent, wicked gaze that had driven half the court mad and terrified the other half.
“Why? There’s no one here but you and me, sweet wife.” He tore a hunk of bread from the loaf, then pointed at her with it. “Besides, if you married me expecting courtly graces, you wed the wrong prince.”
Alicent swallowed, unsure whether to smile or scold him again. She searched for the right moment, the right phrasing, the right breath with which to deliver the news that had been fluttering in her chest like a caged bird all afternoon.
But before she could even ask how his day had fared, she noticed Daemon practically inhaling his supper. She often marveled-silently, of course-at how he consumed such vast quantities of food and yet remained so impossibly lean, all muscles and sinew.
She supposed it came from all his exertions, whether in the courtyard with blade in hand or in the bedchamber where he moved with that same relentless, scorching energy.
Heat rose to her cheeks at the thought, betraying her. She despised how easily he made her blush. No doubt she would have to rise early again tomorrow, kneel before the Mother in the Sept, and pray for forgiveness. It felt the least she could do when sharing her days, and nights, with such a sinful man.
A bark of laughter snapped her from her thoughts. The Rogue had caught the faint narrowing of her eyes and mistook it for indignation.
“Temper, temper,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “I’ve only just begun my supper. We’ve time yet for the more pleasurable activities.”
Alicent straightened, willing her blush to fade, and abruptly changed the subject. “How was your day?”
I wanted to strangle your father, but other than that, it was good, Daemon wanted to say. Mayhap one day I will have the pleasure of doing so.
He only shrugged, stabbing a slice of pear with more force than was necessary. “‘Twas fine.”
That single word told Alicent enough. Something or someone had angered him. Probably my father, she thought. And when Daemon Targaryen simmered like that, she knew wisely not to pry. She smiled instead, though one of her hands clenched more tightly in her lap.
“If you enjoyed tonight’s meal,” she said gently, “I shall have it prepared exactly the same each night, or if you desire changes, you need only tell me.”
Daemon rolled his eyes in a manner that would have seemed childish on any other man but on him appeared almost deliberate.
“Jaehossas sȳris sātās,” Gods be good, he said. “What did I do to deserve such an attentive wife? Whatever you do is fine by me, but no fish. Or lamprey pie. If I ever see that monstrosity upon my table, I’ll toss it straight into the corridor.”
Alicent gave a polite nod. “Of course.”
They ate in silence for a few moments, the crackle of the hearth filling the chamber. Daemon lifted his goblet for a long swig of wine, then paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her over the rim.
“You’ve barely touched your food,” he observed. “Do you not like it?”
Alicent set her fork down, her heart thudding. Now. She inhaled softly. “I do like it but I had something to tell you.”
Daemon’s gaze darkened as if she told him she would slay Caraxes. He did not lower his cup. He merely stared over the rim, his expression unreadable, save for the slight flare of suspicion.
“I spoke with Maester Orwan today,” she continued, folding her hands together atop her skirt. “I had him summoned to check on my health.”
Daemon made a dismissive gesture with his free hand, a silent And? Why should that concern me? His brows lifted as he waited for her to finish.
Alicent steadied her breath while he drank from his goblet.
“He has confirmed I am with child.”
Daemon choked. Wine spluttered from his lips and he coughed violently, doubling over with such force that she startled. Alicent shot to her feet, reaching to pat his back, but he swatted her hand away, not harshly, but with a clumsy indignation.
“I’m fine!” he croaked in a squeaky, wholly unprincely voice. He coughed again, one hand braced on the table, the other clutching the goblet as though it had betrayed him. Alicent lingered beside him, uncertainty pressing at her chest.
Have I displeased him? Was he unhappy with the thought of becoming a father?
Daemon looked up at her at last, truly looked, and reached for her hand. His fingers, warm and calloused, wrapped around hers.
“So soon?” he breathed, awe softening each syllable. “Is he sure?”
Alicent nodded, placing her free hand gently over the slight curve of her stomach, not yet visible to any but herself. “Yes. I have had many symptoms, nausea, queasiness, tiredness, you need not worry about the ailments of a woman. But most importantly, I felt the flutter.”
Daemon’s eyes widened with something akin to awe. “You’ve felt it?”
He stared at her midsection with wonder that stripped him, for once, of mockery and arrogance. Then, with a hesitation she never thought to witness from him, he reached forward and touched her belly, light as a whisper, careful as though she were made of fine crystal.
Alicent nodded again, her voice gentle.
“It was faint… but it is there.” A smile bloomed on her lips at the Targaryen before her, who was suddenly so fearful of touching her.
Daemon looked up at her, then rose from his seat with sudden purpose. One hand cupped her jaw as he leaned in, and he kissed her, not with the heat he unleashed in their bed, but so softly it sent a shiver down her spine. When he pulled back, he leaned his forehead on hers, his breath warm. They stayed silent for a few heartbeats, both their eyes closed.
“The Gods have granted me an attentive,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to her lips, “and a fertile wife, it seems. I’m most fortunate.”
He chuckled against her mouth, the sound low and almost disbelieving. His hand slid around her waist, the other still resting, possessively and protectively, over her belly.
Daemon had been altogether too excited the previous night, near feral with joy, and he had tired his poor wife with a vigor that had nothing to do with wine and everything to do with the raging fire in his blood. After fucking his fill he had been too tired to go back to his chamber, so he slept beside her but rose earlier, making sure not to disturb her and informed her maids to wake her up after the sun rose.
The Rogue Prince had never imagined he would be a father so soon, never imagined the Fourteen Flames would bless his bed so swiftly. The thought alone made a foolish grin tug at his mouth as he strode through the corridor of the Red Keep, a near skip in his step. His hips felt lighter than they had in moons.
Alicent’s hand lay gently in the crook of his proffered arm, delicate and warm through the fabric of his sleeve. Daemon leaned close, his nose brushing against her temple, savoring the shy color that rose there. He inhaled the scent of oranges and almonds.
“Are you feeling well, my lady?” he whispered, voice a low purr.
Alicent looked up at him with that adorable look in her eyes, that rivaled that of her father when he did something unbefitting of a prince, but somehow hers did not bother him so.
“I do, lord husband. Thank you for asking.”
Daemon hummed, pleased, and winked at her as they approached the king’s apartments. The Kingsguard straightened at their approach, helms gleaming, and pushed open the heavy doors so the wedded pair could enter.
Inside, the royal family gathered at a long table for their morning meal. King Jaehaerys sat at its head, deep in quiet conversation with Prince Baelon. Queen Alysanne spoke with Lady Alerye, the two women leaning toward one another companionably. Otto Hightower sat, silent and watchful as a hawk upon its perch. Across the table, Viserys murmured soft words to his wife Aemma, who looked pale still. The birthing bed had drained her cruelly, and even after four moons, her strength had not fully returned. Gael, sitting next to her mother, shyly looked between the queen and Alerye, while Gwayne simply stared at his empty plate.
King Jaehaerys lifted his gaze, his voice warm with mild chiding.
“Look who it is, my beloved grandson. Mayhaps we ought to have skipped breaking our fast and gone straight to supper.”
Alicent curtseyed with perfect grace and greeted each member of the family. Daemon, ever less formal, offered a bow that was more rakish than respectful.
He pulled out her chair with uncommon courtesy and eased her into it, looping a lock of her pale hair around his finger in a gesture that made her blush and made Otto stiffen.
You just can’t help yourself but act like a scoundrel, thought the father of Alicent with squinted eyes.
Daemon grinned like a dragon.
“Apologies, Your Grace. I overslept.”
The Rogue threw a pointed wink toward his father, who looked back with an expression that spoke clearly: I am far too old for your antics, boy.
Daemon dropped his hand and took his own seat. “Grandmother. Goodmother Alerye. Aemma. Seven Hells, we have no shortage of lovely women at our table.” He slid his gaze to his wife, mischief alive in his purple-violet eyes. “Though none so lovely as my lady wife.”
“Prince Daemon,” Alicent hissed under her breath.
Queen Alysanne chuckled, delighted.
“Ah, young love. Allow him to woo you, child. A husband is permitted to praise his wife above all others.”
She shared a conspiratorial look with Jaehaerys, who offered her a small but tender smile. Lady Alerye smiled at them both while Otto sipped on his water.
Daemon then greeted the Master of Laws with barely half a mouthful of courtesy, before turning far more cheerfully toward Baelon and Viserys. And as always, Viserys eagerly steered the morning’s conversation toward some unremarkable tale or observation. Daemon listened with one ear, more invested in quietly nudging food onto Alicent’s plate, baked sausages, crisp greens, a generous helping of carrots.
She swatted his hand away once, but he only smirked and did it again.
Prince Baelon watched his son with a faint smile softening the usual stress set of his features. Insolent as Daemon remained, there was an ease around Alicent that had not existed before. Perhaps the marriage had tempered him, at least a little.
Baelon turned to Otto once a servant poured fresh tea.
“Do we know whether the Citadel will send the brown-necked raven soon?”
“Not yet,” Otto replied, cutting a piece of boiled egg. “It seems we still have months, perhaps years, of spring ahead.”
Baelon hummed thoughtfully.
Jaehaerys nodded, voice solemn. “Let us hope for a shorter winter once summer ends. The longer the summer, the longer the winter.”
The brown-necked raven, the traditional herald of summer, would be sent by the Citadel when the great season was declared. Its arrival was always met with a strange mingling of joy and dread, promise and omen.
“The weather has been kind. Even if it is only spring, the gardens have bloomed early, and it brings such fresh air to the Keep,” Viserys added cheerfully, in that soft, eager way of his.
Aemma nodded meekly beside him, though her wan face and trembling hands showed she scarcely had strength enough even to swallow her watered wine.
Daemon’s eyes flicked to his brother, and he scowled into his cup, wondering for the thousandth time who in Seven Hells Viserys took after.
Who bloody cares about flowers? he thought bitterly. He speaks like an old septa or some shy maiden trapped forever in a tower.
Alicent, composed and courtly as ever, answered in a tone so ladylike it made Daemon want to roll his eyes.
“Springs are well welcomed, for the weather is neither too dry nor too hot to cause discomfort. And it prepares the earth so that cereals, fruits, and vegetables may grow accordingly.”
“Indeed. In the Reach, spring is celebrated even more than summer, for it symbolizes vitality and rebirth,” Otto nodded approvingly.
Daemon only chewed, unimpressed, though his lips curled faintly. Of course the Hightowers would prattle on about rebirth. Never met a lot more obsessed with propriety and bloody symbolism.
Jaehaerys spoke then, sagely, “And soon the entire realm will profit from the fertile lands of the Reach.”
That, at least, gave Daemon a perfect opening.
He smirked, set down his knife, and rose from his chair with goblet in hand.
“Speaking of how fertile the Reach is, I have an announcement to make.”
Both the king and Baelon gave him a wary, identical look, the look of men long accustomed to Daemon’s chaotic declarations, while Otto Hightower nearly rolled his eyes to the Seven.
Watch him make a spectacle of himself, the Master of Laws thought.
“As you all well know, I take my duties very seriously,” the Rogue began, watching everyone’s reaction.
Jaehaerys’s brows rose. Baelon exhaled through his nose as if bracing himself. Otto’s mouth twitched, no doubt fighting the urge to scoff aloud.
“Indeed brother,” added Viserys sarcastically and Daemon gave him a sharp look.
Even so, he continued, delighted with himself, “So it is my pleasure to inform you that House Targaryen will soon welcome a new member.”
Every head eyes fixed on him. Daemon let the anticipation thrum, then turned his gaze pointedly toward Otto.
“Your first grandchild. You ought to feel proud, Otto.” He said proud as if it were an insult. He said Otto as though it were a curse.
A muscle ticked in Otto’s jaw, but his voice came out smooth. “I am most proud, Daemon.”
Gwayne, ever unable to contain himself, clapped loudly. “Oh, sister, what wonderful news! And I shall be an uncle! I will protect your child with my life and shall be the greatest uncle the realm has seen.” The young man’s declaration made Alerye smile while Daemon rolled his eyes. Gwayne was the same age as Daemon, but had the same personality traits of a leaf.
“I am proud of you both. May the Gods watch over Alicent and her babe,” Baelon smiled warmly, genuine pride shining in his violet eyes.
King Jaehaerys lifted his goblet, his voice carrying across the small dining hall, regal and sure.
“To the health of Lady Alicent.”
“Hear, hear,” Daemon echoed, sitting down only after the toast was done and taking a long, pleased swallow from his cup.
Gael, seated shyly near Queen Alysanne, offered a timid smile. “Congratulations, Daemon. And to you, Alicent. I know you will make a fine mother.”
Alicent returned her smile with warmth. “Thank you, Gael. My child will be most fortunate to have you as an aunt.”
Viserys added his congratulations, as gentle as always, and Aemma managed to felicitate them both, though she refrained from further comment.
Alysanne, radiant with grandmotherly joy, clasped her hands together.
“Well, I am overjoyed to know I shall soon have another great-grandchild.”
Daemon, basking in attention, raised his goblet again with a roguish grin. “What can I say, Grandmother? The potency of the Targaryen seed.”
Alysanne closed her eyes as though silently asking the Seven for patience. Jaehaerys fixed Daemon with a withering look sharp enough to cut steel. Baelon sighed into his cup, a long-suffering sound.
But Daemon only smirked wider, utterly unrepentant, his hand drifting beneath the table to find Alicent’s thigh, his fingertips brushing lightly as if to remind himself that the future within her was real.
98 AC, early May
Lord Hobert Hightower sat comfortably in his solar atop the towering height of the Hightower itself, the pale morning sun spilling across the carved oak of his desk.
He viewed the order of the day with a studious patience, first finishing with the ledger of coins, long columns of coin tallies, trade tariffs, and grain purchases, before turning to the small stack of raven-scrolls set aside for his private attention.
Those from the capital were always the dearest to him, and he broke the seal of his younger brother Otto’s raven with the practiced ease of long habit.
His eyes moved across the neat script, and his lips pursed in immediate displeasure. It seemed that somehow Princess Rhaenyra, that stubborn little whelp of Viserys, was a healthy child still, already past her first year by a moon, and lively as any babe the Gods ever made.
A miracle, he thought.
Hobert exhaled sharply through his nose. A disappointment, surely, though there was no undoing it. It was only a girl Prince Viserys had sired, and no daughter had yet sat the Iron Throne. Still, her survival irked him. Every child that survived from Viserys’ line was another stone placed upon the path that led away from Hightower ambition. From having his blood on the throne.
A commotion outside drew his attention, a thunderous shriek that rattled the very crystal panes of his window, the screams of servants, followed by the unmistakable roar of displaced air.
Hobert pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. The accursed Prince Daemon had once again landed that monstrous wyrm of his in the castle’s courtyard.
The Rogue Prince had complained often, and loudly, that the Hightower was poorly built for the landing of dragons. He raged in earshot of every servant, claiming Oldtown was nothing but a rock thrust into the middle of the Whispering Sound. Utter nonsense, Hobert thought irritably.
Oldtown perched where the Honeywine widened toward the sea, and no architect would redesign centuries of faithful stone simply to accommodate Daemon Targaryen’s whims. Yet he had no choice but to somehow, arrange for a part of the courtyard to be devoid of any activity so that beast of his can land.
Still, the shrieking became a familiar occurrence, the dragonlord whistling for his beast at all hours, even at the dead of night, eager to take another flight over the nearby lands.
Hobert rubbed his temple and forced his attention back to Otto’s letter, his eyes moving to the final lines.
At last, something worth smiling over.
It seemed that Queen Aemma had once again produced a stillborn babe, lost after only a few moons of being announced. Hobert’s grin was thin and sharp, lacking any hint of sorrow.
This was no tragedy to him. It was opportunity. With Viserys’ line faltering, and Rhaenyra but a girl, the child Alicent carried-if the Gods granted it to be a boy-could one day wed the princess and bind the crown to Oldtown. That boy would become king.
After all, Princess Rhaenys herself had been passed over for Baelon, the brother of Prince Aemon. The precedent was there, clear as day. The realm favored men, the traditions favored the male progeniture.
He rose from his seat and crossed to the hearth, tossing Otto’s letter into the fire. He watched the parchment curl into itself, blackening and crumbling to ash, the wax seal melting in a slow, viscous drip. Once it had turned fully to dust, he returned to his desk and took up his quill, beginning his reply.
For all the chaos Prince Daemon was creating here in Oldtown, storming across the courtyard like a man possessed, bellowing at servants, stirring the knights into fits of thinly veiled disdain, matters in King’s Landing seemed to progress smoothly.
And more importantly, House Hightower had gained something priceless: a dragon.
Hobert had never before laid eyes upon such a creature until Daemon landed Caraxes in the yard. The beast’s elongated, serpentine neck, its blood-red scales and eerie clicking growls had nearly made Hobert faint outright. Queer and terrifying, yet magnificent.
The power such a monster bestowed upon a family was undeniable. Even the sight of its shadow passing overhead made retainers think twice before challenging Hightower interests.
And to think, the king had once intended to give Caraxes to the Vale. Madness, Hobert thought. Utter madness.
Thankfully, Otto had seen to it that Baelon reconsidered. His brother had a way of guiding a man’s thoughts, steering them toward the correct conclusion, one that served the Hightowers.
And now their dear Alicent, that sweet and dutiful girl, had won the notice, and the seed, of that tempestuous prince.
Soon she would be nearing her labors, and Maester Orwan, dutiful and precise, took exceptional care of her. Hobert trusted him. Orwan had his family for years, and was loyal to the Hightower cause, ensuring Alicent had all she needed to remain strong and healthy for the delivery.
Better to oversee her here than from afar. At the Red Keep, too many eyes watched, too many tongues wagged, and Alicent’s lack of confinement might have raised suspicion. Here, surrounded by a loyal household, all would proceed as Hobert wished.
Finishing his reply, he sealed the scroll with green wax and pressed the Hightower sigil into it with a firm hand.
“Summon the maester,” he called to the guardsman outside his solar. “This raven must go to King’s Landing at once.”
Notes:
Well, well, well. What are our thoughts on Hobert? A scheming type of man, huh? It seems that the Hightowers fancy themselves a king, with their blood, sitting the Iron Throne. And they are surely working their asses off to make that happen.
To clear something up, the Grand Maester, does not actively poison children, after they are born because the chances of one passing infancy is small, even with the help of the Maester. As a HEADCANON, the groundwork laid before the child is born, aka how the mother is taken care of during the pregnancy, is what makes the child will be healthy but not even that assures it, but of course, it is a plus.
Another thing, is the famous Maester conspiracy. Is the Citadel trying to end the Targ line? Are we surprised if they are? Does that mean, the Citadel is actively working against the Targ line, in hopes the Targs marry into other houses, so their power over the dragons can disappear over time? Well, that's for us to find out in future chapters.
Join my discord if you would like to chat about this fic or any of the other fics in real time: https://discord.gg/3saUHrZqye
Chapter 5: Fertility and Schemes of the Reach II
Notes:
I know Daemon's hairstyle changes, but in my headcanon, he has long hair, but you can each imagine whichever hair you like. It's just that I needed young-faced Daemon so I'm terrorizing each photo of Matt Smith with blonde hair haha!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Oldtown, 98 AC-July
Daemon had been pacing the corridor outside the birthing chamber from the very moment Alicent’s labor pains began. Two maesters were inside with her, one of them being Orwan, along with a handful of midwives, servants rushing in and out with bundles of linen, bowls of steaming water, and Gods knew what other implements.
Every time the door creaked open, he paused, heart hammering, only to see another servant dart past him. He hated that his hands shook each time he heard her scream.
Somewhere below, drifting faintly up the long spiraling shaft of the tower, he could hear the minstrels still playing in the great hall. Hobert Hightower had thrown a feast, a full feast, for the birth of the babe.
As if Daemon should be drinking and dancing while Alicent was fighting to bring forth their child. The stupidity of these reachmen has no end. Not that Viserys was ever by his wife’s side, but father had always been by my mother’s side, or so Viserys said, he thought.
Lady Alerye, Alicent’s mother, was inside the chamber as well. That, at least, he did not begrudge. But what Daemon could not fathom was why Gwayne had seen fit to accompany them to Oldtown instead of remaining in King’s Landing with Otto. Gwayne prattled and fretted, fluttering about like some anxious bird.
Daemon never suffered Gwayne well, but today the boy’s presence grated upon every raw nerve he possessed. If anyone so much as breathed wrong near the Targaryen, he felt certain he would run Dark Sister through their throat without a second thought.
He knew that outside the Hightower, Caraxes was terrorizing everyone with his shrills, mirroring his rider’s own distress.
Another scream tore through the heavy wooden door, raw and agonized, and Daemon froze as if struck. A shudder passed through him, unbidden, dragging up the blurred image of his mother lying utterly still upon her bed, his father kneeling over her lifeless form. And little Aegon, the babe who had never lived past infancy. He remembered his father weeping.
Daemon Targaryen would never speak it aloud, not for a crown, not even for his life, but he was afraid. He’d never been afraid.
Not when Meleys had nearly scorched him to bone.
Not when Caraxes had thrown him from the saddle during one of their earliest flights, when the dragon shook the Rogue off himself and took off into the sky while Daemon glared at the Wyrm.
Not even when his father had beaten him with a cane for setting part of Maegor’s Holdfast alight all because some miserly noblewoman denied him the simple pleasure of watching her bathe.
None of those fears compared to this.
The birthing bed was the one battlefield where he was powerless. Where no sword or flame could protect what was his.
I can’t protect her, he thought bitterly, eyes locked on the chamber door. Not in there.
Across from him, seated on a bench, Gwayne bounced his leg nervously, attempting a smile. The young man wore a doublet of green and gold and brown britches, his hair combed back. He looked a lot like Alerye, but he got the dark blonde hair from Otto.
“My sister is a woman of strength,” Gwayne offered, voice trembling. “You know, we Hightowers have always borne healthy babes. I have two more younger brothers, actually, Garlan and George. You see, Garlan is squiring for the heir of Highgarden, and little George is-”
“An insufferable cunt like you? Shut your trap.”
“I only thought we could, um, ease the tension by talking?” Gwayne blinked rapidly, then attempted a weak laugh.
Daemon sneered. “Another word from that Hightower mouth, and I will make you hold Dark Sister in your teeth. Tip down.”
Gwayne paled, swallowed, and wisely said nothing more as he now started bouncing both his legs.
And he is the same age as me, he mused.
Daemon resumed pacing, shoulders tight, hands pressed to his hips as though bracing against an unseen storm. His gaze never once left the door.
Suddenly, a booming voice echoed down the hall, belonging to Lord Hobert Hightower.
Of course, the Rogue rolled his eyes.
“My Prince,” Lord Hobert called as he approached, his heavy steps betraying the wine he had clearly enjoyed at his own feast. “You are missing the best part of the evening! A play about the Reach is just about to begin. About how we’ve become the pride of these lands!”
Daemon turned to him slowly. “Precisely what I have always dreamed of seeing.”
Gwayne brightened idiotically. “Really?”
Hobert closed his eyes for a brief moment, clearly wondering-not for the first time-how his brother’s son had grown into such a hopeless dullard. But he redirected his attention to Daemon.
“Come, My Prince. You will be informed the moment your lady wife gives birth. She is in capable hands.”
“I will not move an inch from here,” Daemon snapped, “until the ordeal is over.”
Hobert hummed, lips twitching in a small smile. “It will take time.”
“Then so be it.”
Daemon turned his back on him, resuming his relentless pacing, the torches casting restless shadows across the stone as the screams behind the door tore at him anew. Lord Hobert took his leave shortly after.
Not much more time had passed, when the door creaked open. A woman scarcely reaching his chest, plump-cheeked and rosy, stepped out with her hands folded before her apron and a broad, beaming smile upon her cherubic face.
“My prince,” the midwife said, breathless with excitement, “would you care to meet your babe?”
Daemon moved to her at once, as if pulled by an invisible chain. “How is Alicent? Is she well? This was fast-how-?” he could only recall the grueling labor of Aemma when she gave birth to his little niece.
The woman lifted her palms in gentle reassurance. “Your lady wife is well, my prince. Tired, of course, but she is in good hands and being tended to with the utmost care. The labor was swifter than most. The babe was in a hurry to greet the world.” She smiled deeper. “Would you like to meet your son?”
Daemon blinked, once, twice, as though unable to grasp the meaning of her words. He did not even realize that she had said son. His feet were already moving. He brushed past her, scarcely hearing or seeing anything around him, his focus narrowing down to a single frantic point.
“Alicent?” he called the moment he crossed into the chamber, calling her name as though a dozen Alicents might be waiting for him there, as if one might answer and not the other.
The birthing chamber was well lit, candles casting a warm amber glow over basins of water and strewn linens stained with the toils of birth. The air was thick with heat, herbs, sweat, and the faint iron tang of blood.
Maesters whispered to one another, midwives bustled in tight formation, and Lady Alerye stood near the far wall murmuring a prayer of thanks to the Mother.
And on one of the birthing beds, there were two made up, though only one bore its precious burden, his wife.
Daemon made for her in a straight line, heedless of those who had to scramble out of his path. His heart thundered like Caraxes’ wings upon takeoff.
Though her face had lost some of its color, though a faint sheen of perspiration still clung to her brow, her eyes were alight with joy. Someone had plaited her hair neatly down her shoulders, changed her into a fresh gown, and draped soft furs over her legs.
She looked tired but she was alive, sound, and warm. And already she was more composed than he had ever seen Aemma after she gave birth. Her lips curved into a small but radiant smile.
Daemon reached her side in an instant, lowering himself so swiftly that he nearly stumbled. His hand found her forehead, sweeping aside a stray lock; his other cupped her cheek with a gentleness that would have startled any man who knew him only as the Rogue Prince.
“How are you feeling?” he whispered, his voice strangely hoarse.
Alicent’s smile softened. “Tired,” she admitted, “but it was worth it.”
Daemon parted his lips, but no words came. His throat felt constricted. Instead he leaned down and pressed the lightest of pecks to her lips.
On her lips he murmured, “If anyone dares trouble you, if any soul in this tower even thinks to vex you during your recovery, you have but to tell me, and I shall deal with them.”
Alicent let out a chuckle, but winced as the motion tugged at sore muscles. “Ah… Daemon, you are not supposed to make me laugh just yet.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “My apologies, then. I shall endeavor to remain solemn and silent like my beloved goodfather Otto.” That earned him a roll of eyes from the usually composed and ladylike Alicent.
A soft clearing of a throat drew their attention. Maester Orwan approached.
“Prince Daemon,” he said with a kindly smile, “would you care to hold your son?”
The prince’s head jerked toward the maester so swiftly that Orwan took a step back. Then the Rogue turned back to Alicent, shock written plain upon his face.
“My son?” he repeated, as though the words were in some foreign tongue.
Alicent nodded, her smile turning serene and proud. “Yes, Daemon. Our son. He was eager to meet his father. He scarcely gave the midwives time to prepare.”
“Our son,” he echoed like a fool. For a moment, Daemon could only stare at her and then at the small, fur-wrapped bundle the maester held. Something inside him cracked open, something he had not known was sealed so tightly.
He extended his hands and the maester placed the bundled infant into his arms with practiced care, adjusting Daemon’s hold ever so slightly. The weight settled, heavier than he expected.
“He’s-” Daemon blinked again. “He’s heavy.”
Alicent hummed. “A big boy.”
Daemon looked at her, then down at the bundle, still scarcely believing the thing was real.
He held the baby the way he remembered holding Viserys’s daughter Rhaenyra a year past, but this, this was different. This was not a niece, not some pleasant familial duty. This was his.
His flesh, his blood, his heir. A piece of himself and of Alicent combined. He reached with trembling fingers and shifted aside the soft cloth covering the infant’s face.
The first thing he saw was pale skin, luminous, soft, Valyrian coloring. Then tufts of silver hair, glistening faintly. And then, as the babe stirred, small eyelids fluttered open.
Daemon’s breath caught. One eye was violet and the other green.
His mother’s eyes.
Daemon felt his own eyes sting, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall before an audience of half a dozen midwives, Alicent’s mother and two maesters.
A thin, indignant cry burst from the infant’s lips as Daemon brushed a thumb down his cheek. A fierce, startled sound, outraged at being disturbed.
Daemon let out a wet chuckle. His legs suddenly felt unreliable, and he sank onto the edge of the bed before they could betray him completely.
Alicent’s fingertips glided up and down his arm. He turned to her, overwhelmed in a way he had not known a man could be.
“He has my mother’s eyes,” he murmured, voice barely audible.
Alicent nodded gently. “I know.”
She reached toward the infant, brushing her own fingers over his tiny fist, which clenched and unclenched in sleepiness. Daemon shifted closer, instinctively bringing their son nearer to her as though the three of them belonged in one circle, not parted.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her brow, lingering long enough that his breath warmed her skin.
“Kirimvose,” thank you, he whispered, words so quiet that only she could hear them.
She did not respond aloud. She did not need to. That was one of the words she knew in High Valyrian. Her eyes glistened faintly as she watched him, Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, cradle his newborn son with a tenderness most would swear him incapable of.
King’s Landing
It was early morning, the sky a pale, milky grey that heralded another cool spring day, when Maester Mellos knocked upon the door of the Hand’s private solar.
Baelon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, was already awake, he had never been a man to enjoy long slumbers, especially after his wife passed away years ago. He sat at his writing desk reviewing petitions that had come from the Crownlands when the old grand maester bowed his head and extended a parchment with the three-headed dragon, seal cracked.
“A raven from Oldtown, my prince,” Mellos announced with a small tilt of lips.
Baelon did not need to be told twice who had sent it. Daemon wrote to him only when forced or when moved. And more often than not, any raven from that accursed tower in the Whispering Sound spilled out flames in black ink. Daemon detested Oldtown, and seldom refrained from reminding his father of that fact.
The Prince of Dragonstone exhaled wearily and unrolled the scroll as the grand maester left.
He expected a tirade. Complaints. Grievances. A list of offenses committed by House Hightower, real or imagined. Yet as the parchment unfurled, his eyes caught the first line and he stilled.
Then he read slowly again and again. Word by elegant word, for Daemon’s penmanship was startlingly graceful, considering the boy had never had patience for anything.
And Baelon’s face softened.
“A hearty and hale baby boy,” Daemon wrote. “Born swiftly, loudly, and greedily, with lungs that rattled the rafters and appetite enough for a grown man. Alicent is recovering well.”
Baelon’s throat tightened. He reread the next sentence three times.
“The babe bears the eyes of my mother.”
The heir to the Iron Throne set the parchment down and closed his eyes.
“Alyssa,” he whispered into the empty room, his voice fracturing. “If you are near me still, if your spirit lingers at my side as I pray it does… your grandchild inherited your eyes.”
He lifted the parchment again with hands that trembled faintly. The next portion read more like Daemon’s usual rambling pride:
“He is heavier than little Rhaenyra, twice as loud when angered, thrice as hungry, and blessedly not fussy all the time, merely when he is hungry or needs a change of his cloths. A fine boy. A boy true of Valyrian blood, with silver-white hair.”
Baelon chuckled in spite of himself. But the line that followed struck deep, struck true, struck so sharply that Baelon had to sit back, staring at it as though the letters themselves breathed.
“I have named him Baelon, after you, sire. Mayhap one day he will be as brave as you.”
The Prince of Dragonstone had to blink a few times to will his emotions away. Then a sound escaped him, a quiet, incredulous huff that might have been a laugh, but tremored like a sob.
“Blasted boy,” he ran a hand over his face. “You certainly know how to make an old man weep.”
He looked up toward the ceiling, toward the sky hidden by stone and timber.
“Our sons will be fine,” he murmured, half to himself, half to the memory of the woman he loved still. “They will be fine, Alyssa. He is a father now. He is wed, he will be fine, Alicent will manage him just fine.”
A strange warmth swelled in his chest, heavy and light all at once. Pride, gratitude, fear, love, all tangled together. Daemon was a tempest, a dragon unbridled, but even fire bowed to something. And now, his son had bowed to the idea of legacy.
Baelon took a long breath, folded the letter with meticulous care, and set it aside as if it were the most precious treasure in Westeros.
Later that day, Baelon dined in the solar of the Tower of the Hand with Otto Hightower, Master of Laws. The chamber was warm, the hearth crackling, and the midday meal laid out neatly: roasted capon dressed with herbs, fresh-baked bread, cheese from the Reach, and a decanter of Arbor Gold, sent from the Arbor, courtesy of Lady Alerye.
Baelon wiped his mouth with a linen cloth.
“I suppose,” he began, “that you too, received a raven from Oldtown?”
The Master of Laws, who had been cutting a piece of capon with his usual measured precision, inclined his head. His face remained inscrutable, but something in the faint lift of his brows betrayed emotion. With Otto Hightower, one never knew what that meant.
“Indeed,” Otto said. “Great news. It seems my daughter has delivered a healthy heir for Prince Daemon.” As if I needed to hear that the child looks positively Targaryen, the Hightower thought bitterly.
Baelon huffed a quiet laugh. “Aye. And do you know what he named the boy?”
Otto paused only long enough to swallow his bite before giving another small nod. “I do. Quite appropriate, to name the first boy as his grandsire.”
“I never thought Daemon would be sentimental. Seven Hells, I thought he barely knew what the word meant. Yet he names his firstborn son after me.” His smile crooked into something both fond and exasperated. “It is almost as if he is softening me up for some mad request.”
Otto reached for his wine, swirling it thoughtfully. Changing the location of the Hightower, it seems, he mused. “A family changes a man, Baelon. No matter how hot-headed, no matter how temperamental. Even those who swear never to change… find themselves altered when given something small and fragile to protect.”
Baelon arched a brow. “You speak from experience?”
Otto allowed himself the faintest twitch of a smile. “I have four children. I know a thing or two about how fatherhood reshapes a man’s priorities,” and how hard one has to work to climb his way to the Iron Throne. At least the purple-eyed wretch was good for something, siring a boy, he mused.
Baelon grunted appreciatively. “Well, I shall not hold out hope for him to be wholly reformed. The Gods know Daemon is presently itching to saddle Alicent and the babe to Caraxes and fly straight back to King’s Landing.” He shook his head, lips curling. “If I know my son, he is probably arguing with a Maester Orwan about it even as we speak.”
Otto said nothing, only cut another piece of meat and chewed slowly, contemplatively. My brother has said as much, but it seems the wretch is afraid of putting his wife in peril, so he will have to wait half a year before visiting King’s Landing, enough time to have him accept my youngest son to squire for him, he thought.
They ate in companionable silence for a few breaths, the clatter of utensils the only sound.
Otto cleared his throat. “I take it His Grace was joyous at the news?”
“Aye. Overjoyed as he can be. As was my mother. Another great-grandchild for them, the first boy. It eases their hearts to know the family continues to grow.” He paused, his tone lowering. “A pity Viserys has had no luck so far for a boy. The Gods have not been kind to him.”
Otto dabbed the corners of his mouth with a cloth before speaking in a dry tone.
“We can never know the will of the Gods, Baelon.”
“Aye,” the Prince of Dragonstone murmured, wondering why the Gods were so cruel sometimes. “But I have told him that he must allow Aemma time to recover from the last stillbirth. The birthing bed is an unforgiving battlefield for a woman. No army bleeds so much as mothers do in war with their own bodies.”
Otto’s mouth tightened, whether in agreement or discomfort was unclear.
“I am certain the maesters tend to Lady Aemma with utmost care,” unless another miracle happens as it did with the little Princess, the Master of Laws thought bitterly.
“Perhaps,” Baelon allowed. “Yet Viserys is stubborn. Once he sets his mind upon something, no power in the realm can dissuade him. For such a calm young man, he sometimes is as stubborn as his younger brother. I shall speak with the Grand Maester as well. Aemma deserves rest.”
Otto inclined his head once more. “A prudent course.” He licked his teeth behind closed lips before sipping on his wine.
Oldtown
A full moon had waxed and waned since the birth of young Baelon Targaryen. Alicent had regained much of her strength, her color restored, her figure steadied, though she still moved a touch more slowly than she once had. She knew it was a matter of time, her mother said so.
Yet no matter how hale she looked, Daemon hovered about her like an overlarge, overprotective hen guarding its lone chick. If she so much as rose from a chair, he was at her elbow helping her up. If she took a step, he was already calculating the distance to the nearest seat in case she tired. And if she breathed too sharply, Seven help anyone in the vicinity that did not help her when he was not present.
Alicent walked now with her hand resting lightly in the crook of his bent arm as they ascended one of the innumerable staircases of the Hightower.
“Lord husband,” she chided softly, a laugh in her voice, “I am not made of glass. I can walk at a normal pace.”
Daemon snorted, tightening his arm. “The maester said not to strain yourself. Given that you can walk now without pains, it means he knows what he is doing.”
“Walking is hardly-”
“And furthermore,” Daemon interrupted, as if her protests were air, “how is it that your bloody uncle does not employ that winch-and-pulley system the Lannisters have at Casterly Rock? The whole tower could be made easier by it.”
Alicent blinked, slowing a fraction. “Winch-and-pulley system? What is that?”
Daemon made a dismissive but animated gesture. “A contrivance for moving between floors without climbing endless stairs, especially if you’re wounded or injured. At Casterly Rock they devised a shaft through the stone, a narrow well, you see,” he made a movement with his hands, ”into which a wooden box is lowered and raised. A man steps inside, signals, and a team of strong men haul the ropes and pulleys. And the box rises.”
Alicent tilted her head, intrigued. “Truly? Such a thing exists?”
“Kessa,” yes, Daemon said, puffing with the importance of the knowledge. “Ingenious, really. A marvel of woodwork and engineering.”
“And how came you to learn of this?” she asked, lips curving knowingly.
“Reading,” the Rogue scoffed.
Alicent laughed softly. He looked sideways at her.
“I know,” she said, “you spend a great deal of time in the library but I wished to know what you have been reading.”
Daemon’s smirk was instantaneous. “Books.”
She laughed again, more fully, and he looked almost victorious at having drawn such a sound from her.
“You enjoy teasing me,” she accused lightly.
“Very much,” he replied without shame.
Up they climbed, the stones cool beneath their feet, torches set into the wall flickering warm light across their faces.
“The maester said you must not tire yourself,” Daemon resumed, falling back into fretfulness, “and walking up and down these blasted steps would weary anyone, especially you.”
Alicent patted his arm. “Do not fret, lord husband. The maester advised me not to strain myself, but he also said that gentle walks would help me recover. And I feel stronger each day.”
Daemon huffed, unsatisfied. “Your uncle ought to install that system at once.”
“Then I shall inform him of it. Mayhap he will take your suggestion,” Alicent smiled.
He stopped for one heartbeat, staring at her with a look that denoted his surprise at hearing that she agreed with his thoughts instead of opposing him.
How much I’ve worried, wondering how I would be able to please you so I can win your unwavering loyalty, and it was laughably too simple, offer you access to my body which was also pleasing for me, being a dutiful lady wife, and making you do my bidding using your words, she mused.
“Are you trying to woo me?” he asked with mock suspicion, a smirk curling his lips.
Alicent pursed her lips primly. “If showing you the appreciation you deserve is considered wooing, then you have a very odd notion of it.”
Daemon frowned. “No, no, I meant-ah, never mind,” he exhaled heavily. “We are here. Gods save me, how I loathe these dinners.”
The doors ahead were thrown open by two Hightower guards, their green tabards stark in the torchlight, and Daemon escorted Alicent inside the antechamber. From there, they passed into the solar proper, where Lord Hobert Hightower awaited with his lady wife, Lady Alerye, several cousins, and two uncles whose names Daemon always forgot.
Hobert’s face brightened as though twin suns had risen. He clapped his hands.
“Ah! Here is the Targaryen couple! Come-come, sit. Tonight we have fresh pheasant, and many other dishes favored in the Crownlands. A feast most worthy!”
Daemon’s expression soured instantly, but he said nothing as he guided Alicent to her seat. Once she was settled, he dropped into the chair beside her with something like a growl.
“Pheasant,” he muttered under his breath, as though naming an ancient enemy.
Alicent leaned toward him, whispering conspiratorially, “I know it is not your favorite, husband. That is why there is also rabbit, and glazed ham, and capon.”
Daemon’s head snapped up, eyes scanning the laden table until he spotted the rabbit, smothered in herbs, steaming richly. His entire posture shifted with relief, almost boyish.
She smiled at him. I’ve no reason to worry, she mused.
The servants began to plate the dishes. Silver platters were carried forth, knives flashed, and in moments their plates were filled.
Daemon fell upon the rabbit with enthusiasm, though he maintained enough decorum not to devour it like a sellsword fresh from the battlefield.
Alicent ate more delicately, as was her nature, smiling faintly each time his hand inched closer to her chair, as though ensuring she remained within reach, his fingers gripping the skirts of the gown before releasing it and holding cutlery.
Hobert raised his cup. “To the health of your son, Prince Daemon. And to your swift recovery, niece. And to House Targaryen and House Hightower.”
The table echoed with murmured agreements and lifted goblets.
“Hear, hear!” said Leonard Hightower, the uncle of Hobert and Otto.
Alicent inclined her head gracefully. “You are kind, uncle. We are most grateful for your hospitality.”
The prince grunted his acknowledgment, though whether gratitude or impatience animated the sound was unclear.
Conversation soon flowed around the table, courteous, though the Rogue often leaned toward Alicent to whisper commentary under his breath.
“That cousin of yours speaks like he swallowed a flagpole,” he murmured once.
Alicent hid her smile behind her goblet.
A few breaths later, when another relative launched into a detailed account of Oldtown’s trade routes, Daemon leaned in again. “Does he ever stop speaking? I think I am growing older with every word that leaves his mouth.”
“Be polite,” Alicent placed her hand upon his forearm, a soft admonishment.
“I am being polite,” he retorted in a whisper. “Or do you see me leaping across the table to silence him with Dark Sister?”
She stifled a laugh, shaking her head.
Later, as the meal wore on, Lady Alerye asked after the babe.
“He sleeps well,” Alicent replied warmly. “Rarely fusses. He takes after his father in appetite, it seems.”
Daemon lifted his head with smug satisfaction, winking at her.
“And in stubbornness,” Alicent added with a gleam in her blue eyes.
The Rogue’s smugness faltered. “I am not stubborn.”
Alicent arched a brow. “You insisted upon carrying me up that last flight of steps when I told you I could walk.”
“That was me doing my duty as your lord husband, protecting you,” Daemon shot back, spearing another bite of rabbit.
Alicent’s mother smiled knowingly, and Hobert chuckled.
“Marital affection becomes you both,” Hobert said. “It gladdens my heart to see it.”
Daemon’s jaw worked as though he wished to argue but then he looked at Alicent. Saw her kind smile. Her calm eyes and melodic voice. The way she rested her hand close to his on the table, not touching but near enough that he felt her warmth.
Later that eve, when the torches in the Hightower’s long corridors burned low and the sea-winds moaned against the stone, Daemon found himself,as he oft did, descending the familiar steps to Alicent’s chambers.
He had developed the habit of seeking her company when monotony struck him, when the castle felt too still, when Caraxes dozed restlessly somewhere and no flight could cure his unrest.
He could not lie with her yet, for her moons of cleansing was not done, but he found comfort in her voice, its gentle cadence smoothing the rougher edges of his mind. She never questioned him overmuch, never pestered him with trivialities, and never recoiled when his temper sparked.
But this night proved unlike the others.
Daemon paced before the bed like a caged dragon, hands flexing, jaw clenching and unclenching.
“I will bloody not,” he grit out. “This,” he pointed his forefinger at her, “this stinks of Otto and his ceaseless schemes. Have your brother squire for me? Me? A fourth son of a second son squiring to a prince of the blood because your father cannot have enough of his Hightower blood meddle with the Targaryen one? What’s next, your father becoming a mistress to the heir of the Iron Throne? I’d think him bold enough to bend if it meant pleasing the Prince of Dragonstone and slithering his way into the royal family himself!” He scoffed, throwing his hands up. “What am I, the sudden caregiver of every blasted Hightower littered through Oldtown? As if marrying one weren’t burden enough!”
The words tore out of him before sense could catch them and he froze. His spine stiffened. And he realized, too late, what he had said.
It was no burden marrying you, but being related through marriage to the cunttower makes my blood boil, he mused.
He thanked the Gods he had his back to her. Heat rose beneath his collar, an unfamiliar, unwelcome thing. His eyes darted swiftly toward the door, his whole body coiling instinctively, prepared to flee the mortifying moment as he had fled a thousand uncomfortable truths.
But Alicent spoke before he could take a single step. Her sigh was soft, weary from the long day, but her voice retained that calm sweetness he had come to crave.
“I know that our marriage was arranged,” she said gently, “and that it was no love match. But I do hope I shall honor you by giving you more heirs in the future and continue my duties as your wife, easing your burdens and pleasing you as best I may.” She paused, her tone growing softer still. “I know I am not the lady wife you wished for. But that does not mean we cannot make the best of what we have, Daemon.”
The Rogue stood still as carved stone. Her words did not wound him as he had expected. She’s always been nice to me. In them was neither accusation nor bitterness, but quiet acceptance. Strange, he thought, how that calmed him and unsettled him in equal measure.
Slowly, as if every movement were an effort against his own pride, he turned to face her. He swallowed, searching for words as his eyes avoided hers.
Alicent sat propped among cushions, her hair about her shoulders, her night-robe pale pink in the firelight. Her eyes, affectionate and patient, were fixed upon him.
His hands flexed at his sides, looking to his left and right. “That was not what I meant to say-”
“I know,” she murmured, offering him a faint, tired smile. “And I am aware that though I carry no Valyrian blood, your son does. He looks positively Targaryen.”
That drew an unwilling, genuine smile from him. Purple-violet met steady blue.
Alicent continued quietly, “But the way you have treated my brother George reflects poorly on you.”
Daemon’s expression darkened instantly. “He pissed his breeches when he saw Caraxes. His very blood proved his weakness.”
Alicent’s brow softened, but her gaze did not. “Am I also weak? Is your son weak if he shares my blood?”
“No,” his eyes widened in affront.
“Yet you call my brother weak. Which, by extension, paints me as weak.”
“I did not-were you not listening?” Daemon snapped, confusion tightening his tone.
“When you treat my family with such vitriol, it becomes a mirror to the realm of how you treat me. Even if you show me kindness, others will draw conclusions from what they witness.”
Daemon scowled. “You want me to care for the opinions of others?” He never spent a single moment thinking about anyone else, besides his father, mother, brother and now her and their babe.
She shook her head. “I want us to appear a united front. No matter your distaste for my blood, perception matters. I know your father has taught you this.”
He grunted-part frustration, part reluctant acknowledgment-and moved toward her. She is not wrong, as loathsome as I am of being kind to any of her kin beside herself. I want everyone to know she is given the attention and respect for her station. She is my wife. The mother of my child.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he sagged forward slightly, his elbows braced upon his thighs. The firelight cast reddish gleams through the silver of his hair.
“I do not dislike you,” he muttered, staring at some point on the floor. “It is the other Hightowers I bloody hate. And who pisses his pants when they meet a dragon? You’ve had more courage than that boy, and you’re a lady. Next time I’ll look in his pants lest he is no boy at all,” he scoffed.
Alicent’s expression warmed, and she reached out, her small hand finding his. “That gladdens me more than you know, that I am not displeasing you. But can you be more considerate with my brother… for the sake of our family? I’m not asking you to be kind to him mayhap ignore him more.”
Daemon sighed sharply and kicked at an invisible object on the rug with the tip of his boot. “I suppose I can.”
Alicent’s fingers tightened around his hand in a grateful squeeze.
“Good,” she murmured. “Now are you in the mood to continue our lessons in High Valyrian?”
His eyes lit instantly, all frustration forgotten. He dropped her hand, before kissing her knuckles, and sprang to his feet, striding to the low table where the books lay stacked. He seized the topmost one, the well-worn volume they had pored over the previous night.
As he walked he took off his boots and threw them on the floor haphazardly. Then, without ceremony, he flung himself upon the bed beside her, landing with enough force to make the mattress bounce.
Alicent laughed, one hand bracing herself. “Daemon,” she chided him.
He smirked triumphantly, flipping open the book. “While you have a good memory, sweet wife,” he announced, “your pronunciation is utterly dreadful.”
Alicent giggled, her cheeks warming. “Then I’m most fortunate, for you are the most knowledgeable .”
“All these praises, lady wife,” Daemon said with relish, opening the tome to the page they left. “You say the words as though you’re in a hurry. High Valyrian is meant to be spoken with an intonation, for it is the tongue of the Gods, and Gods are always listened. You must roll your r’s more, allow your tongue to truly pronounce the words with impact, not efficiency. Alright, where were we? Ah, yes, the Centrury of Blood, about Gaemon’s the Glorious. Now repeat after me-”
She did so but he was not pleased by her pronunciation, so she did it five more times.
“Better,” he conceded grudgingly, though the corners of his eyes crinkled in unmistakable fondness. “Passable. Only slightly offensive to the ears. Now repeat after me-”
Alicent flushed with pride as she listened to him. I sometimes worry to much, she though as the dragon lay beside her content.
For a long time they worked thus, side by side, shoulders brushing, breath mingling as they argued and laughed and repeated phrases that had belonged to dragonlords. At last Alicent’s eyelids drooped, her voice growing soft with fatigue.
Daemon closed the book with a decisive snap. “Enough. You are exhausted. It seems I’m doing the opposite of what your master says, Seven Hells.”
She blinked at him, smiling. “Husband-”
“Daor, I will not have you tiring yourself.”
He tucked the blankets around her with surprising care, smoothing the edge near her shoulder. She watched him, her blue eyes trained on him.
“Good night, Daemon,” she whispered.
He paused, looking at her for a long moment, long enough that she wondered if he’d speak at all.
Then, quietly, he murmured, “Good night, byka Hightower.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead before putting out all the candles and the hearth, then leaving the chamber.
She smiled, at the endearment term he started using ever since giving birth to their son Baelon: little Hightower.
Notes:
For everyone thinking that Hobert would die so easily, you're not ready to see the alliance that Daemon will build with the entire Reach.
Join my discord if you would like to chat about this fic or any of the other fics in real time: https://discord.gg/3saUHrZqye
Chapter 6: From Oldtown to the Red Keep
Notes:
Otto really is thinking he has it all worked out, and I admire him for his seriousness and thoughtful planning, but he could not be more wrong. I think he would never believe Viserys would be headstrong enough in one aspect in his entire life, and that moment would ruin all the laid-out plans. And we are getting closer to the death fiasco, so enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bitterbridge, February or March, 99 AC, after the brown-necked raven announced summer season
Six moons had passed since Alicent delivered little Baelon into the world, and the time had fled with the swiftness of an arrow loosed from a strong bow.
The babe had grown from a tiny, wriggling bundle scarcely larger than his father’s hand, though he was heavy, into a sturdier, rosy-cheeked child who cooed and grasped with surprising strength.
With his seventh moon approaching, it was time, so Daemon declared, to return to King’s Landing and present the boy before court, before king and queen, and before whatever prying eyes the capital possessed.
After a long journey from Oldtown, they camped that night past Bitterbridge, the procession settling in the meadow where the tall grasses swayed like slow waves beneath the setting sun.
A great tent had been erected for the family, its canvas gleaming red and black in the fading light. Inside, the air smelled of warm spices and roasted meats and whatever the cooks had prepared for the family. Daemon, Alicent, Gwayne, Lady Alerye, and young George sat upon cushioned seats around a table while servants moved about silently, pouring wine and bringing in dishes.
Daemon tore into his rabbit pie with his usual lack of decorum, his mood already soured from the long day.
“We are staying in King’s Landing for the foreseeable future,” he declared flatly, stabbing another piece. “The Gods know I have run out of patience for traveling. I forgot how bloody far Oldtown is from the capital.”
Alicent, seated gracefully beside him, ate her baked trout and turnips with slow, careful motions, mindful not to drip the thick brown sauce upon her gown.
“But you have been traveling dragonback,” she said mildly. “I thought you would enjoy it. It is quite sunny these days.”
Daemon snorted. “Too sunny. Blindingly so. The sun blinds me. I sweat more than a whore does in a brothel when night approaches.”
“Prince Daemon,” Lady Alerye said sharply, her brows raising, “I beg you to be mindful of your tongue around children.”
Daemon’s eyes flicked to her, then to little George seated stiffly beside Gwayne. Gwayne ate his meal silently, already aware that the prince did not like him.
Even if George looked at his older brother, he found no help there. The boy froze midway through chewing on a piece of carrot. Daemon narrowed his eyes menacingly, leaning just enough that the candlelight cast a sinister glow across his face.
“Repeat what I say,” he told the boy in a quiet, dangerous tone, “and I will have you cleaning the droppings of Caraxes until your hands turn raw. Understood?”
George nodded vigorously, eyes wide as plates, the carrot lodged comically between his teeth. Alicent cast him a gentle smile, trying to ease the poor boy’s terror, and George relaxed only the slightest bit after the Rogue turned his attention back to his food.
“And don’t you dare piss yourself again,” murmured Daemon. Alicent sighed.
“I know my youngest is as dutiful as his sister,” Alerye said, attempting to regain some pleasantness. “I believe he has been excelling in all his activities?”
Daemon merely grunted, which could have meant anything, from slight approval to utter disdain. Alicent, sensing the thin stretch of his patience, slid her hand onto his thigh beneath the table, a subtle reminder to restrain himself. She felt the rigid tension in him, the coiled readiness to snap at the slightest provocation.
She smiled brightly, changing the subject with a deftness born of necessity. “I cannot believe half a year has passed already. Time flies swiftly, especially with a babe. Little Baelon was once dwarfed by your hand, and now he has grown so big.”
Daemon’s expression softened the smallest degree. “Aye,” he hummed. “And he likes flying. Whenever he meets Caraxes, he cannot stop kicking his chubby legs and arms.”
Alicent brightened. “That he does. He loves watching you take off upon Caraxes, or seeing you circle high above the procession.”
Daemon’s head turned fully toward her. “Truly?”
Alicent nodded, her cheeks warming with memory of her sturdy baby that shrieked every time he saw Caraxes.
“I hold him up to the small window, and he watches you with great fascination, cooing and flapping his little arms as if he were a dragon himself. I believe he knows it is you who is up there in the sky.”
Daemon’s hand slipped beneath the table and found hers, his fingers squeezed her hand, a warmth spreading across his palm.
“Then on the morrow,” he declared, “I shall take him flying again.”
Lady Alerye nearly dropped her spoon. “Flying again? But-but he is so small!”
Daemon turned slowly toward her, his gaze narrowing as if he were regarding a particularly slow-witted stablehand.
“My mother Alyssa, took me flying a fortnight after birthing me. Little Baelon is now seven moons old. He is more than old enough.”
“But-” Alerye began, paling.
“Mother, matters are different for Targaryen children,” Alicent interjected. “Mine is no ordinary babe, he has the blood of the dragon. They enjoy flying.” Then, with a pointed, almost playful look toward Daemon, she added, “And I believe my lord husband has chided me enough about keeping his child on the ground.”
“I recall merely telling you that he needs to fly.” The prince’s building ire melted into surprised amusement as he looked at her, then rolled his eyes dramatically.
Alicent giggled. “I recall you calling him a worm because he stayed on the ground while you flew upon Caraxes.”
“I would never call my son that,” Daemon huffed indignantly.
Alicent arched a brow. “Who knew that at your age your memory would begin failing you, selectively, at that?”
Daemon squinted his eyes at her. She squinted back. It became a silent battle of narrowed eyes and suppressed smiles.
Then Daemon barked out a laugh. “Fine. Fine. I might have said it. But for all it matters, I said it in the common tongue, so he did not understand a single thing.”
Alicent nodded primly. “He does not understand us still, I assure you. But I agree with you about the flying.”
Daemon, satisfied, resumed eating with renewed fervor.
Across the table, Alerye exchanged a troubled glance with Alicent. And Alicent, feeling her mother’s gaze, looked back with a small warning tilt of her head, as if saying do not provoke him further.
She knew all too well that Daemon, when angered, was like a dragon shaken awake, difficult to calm, impossible to control, and dangerous to any who stood in his path.
Their long journey was at last drawing toward its end. The banners of Oldtown and House Targaryen fluttered wearily behind the procession, dust-cloaked and faded by long roads.
Before them stretched the Roseroad’s final length where it intersected with the Kingsroad, and beyond its winding, sun-baked trail lay King’s Landing, only half a day’s ride away now. The captains spoke of it with relief, and even the horses seemed to carry themselves with a fresh anticipation, as though they knew the stables of the capital awaited.
Little Baelon, however, had been crying since the first blink of dawn. His wails had risen and ebbed like the tide, sometimes sharp and furious, sometimes soft and pitiful.
Now, as the sun climbed steadily above them, the babe had exhausted his tears and resorted to chewing upon his small fist, hiccupping softly while staring up toward the sky.
Whenever the clouds parted enough for him to glimpse the passing shadow of the Blood Wyrm, he let out soft babbles of longing. His mother had tried to soothe him but she knew what he wished for, so she had asked one of the guards to give the signal for the Targaryen Prince to land Caraxes.
Alicent stood outside the carriage now, in a gown of deep burgundy velvet with a fitted and structured bodice and a low square neckline, gold embroidery decorating the neckline and bodice, and also the floor-length outer sleeves. Her headdress held a veil covering her blonde hair.
She swayed gently with her son in her arms, her eyes lifted toward the horizon. The wind tugged at her veil, and the road dust clung faintly to the hem of her gown. She had felt her heart sink earlier when she spied Daemon soaring far above upon Caraxes, so high the dragon looked like nothing more than a crimson streak across the heavens.
The babe, in contrast, had been overjoyed, reaching his tiny arms toward the sky as though he might pluck his father from it.
Even she had, on rare occasions, been taken up on Caraxes by Daemon’s insistence. Those flights had been brief, and they had unsettled her deeply.
It was no small thing, to be trapped between two of the most unpredictable creatures in Westeros: Daemon Targaryen and the Blood Wyrm.
Yet her husband delighted in those moments, his wild laughter lost in the winds, his arm firm around her waist, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke in High Valyrian to her. And despite her fear, despite the cruel winds that tore at her cloak and hair, she had found herself returning his smile once or twice, if only because his joy was so brilliant it cast its warmth upon her as well.
Now, at the very front of the procession where Caraxes awaited, Daemon approached upon his great black stallion. She saw him from afar, hair wild from the wind, a smile tugging at his mouth before he even reached them. The great beast beneath him snorted, tossing its mane, and Daemon reined him in just a few paces from where Alicent stood.
He dismounted in one smooth motion, his purple-violet eyes alight with joy.
At the sight of his father, little Baelon let out a delighted squeal, kicking his legs and flailing his arms with such vigor that Alicent feared he would tumble from her grasp. The babe’s face lit as though the very sun had descended to greet him, and he began to babble a stream of joyous nonsense, gasping and squeaking all at once.
Daemon’s laughter cut across the dusty road like a warm breeze.
“Easy there, little terror,” he said in his accented voice, sweeping the babe from Alicent’s arms with practiced ease. “You’ve had enough of this blasted dust and mud, hm? Want to go flying?”
Little Baelon squealed so loudly that even the guards at the rear of the procession chuckled under their breaths. The babe grabbed at Daemon’s collar with his tiny fists, as though already readying himself to launch into the sky.
Daemon kissed the crown of his son’s silver tufted head. It was such a gentle, tender gesture that Alicent’s knees went weak beneath her. She felt lightheaded from the unguarded warmth in her husband’s expression, a softness she was certain few in Westeros would ever believe existed.
If there were two things her husband loved, were his dragon and his son. She felt it was not important to mention the third activity, but she was thankful even for that, because said activity made her a mother to a beautiful babe.
“Mayhap use some furs this time?” she asked as best she could in High Valyrian, even now struggling to keep up with the accent of the old tongue, though her tone bore no reprimand.
Daemon rolled his eyes, though a smile tugged at his mouth. “Very well. If it will spare me your fretting.”
The wetnurse hurried over, her cheeks flushed from the babe’s earlier screaming fits. With cautious hands, she strapped little Baelon securely against Daemon’s chest. Thick furs were tucked beneath the bindings so the cold winds would not bite at the baby’s skin. Daemon watched her work with a sharp eye, lifting a pale brow only when she stepped back.
“He’s been changed and fed?”
The plump woman bobbed her head rapidly. “Aye, my prince. He shall be fine for a time.”
She spoke so quickly, and with such nervousness, that Alicent felt a twinge of pity for her. If only she had regard for anyone’s feelings. As long as he never directs such vitriol at me, I could not care less for the rest, the Hightower lady mused.
Daemon turned back to his wife. “Try not to fuss overmuch.”
Alicent clasped her hands primly before her. “I shall try,” she answered softly, though the concern in her eyes betrayed her.
The Rogue smirked in that familiar devilish manner. “You’re getting better. We are almost there, just a few hours more,” he said in High Valyrian before switching to common tongue. “And I, for one, am in dire need of a long bath and a good toss in the sheets.”
“Prince Daemon!” Alicent hissed under her breath, mortified that he changed language only to say such a debauched thing.
“What?” he replied, entirely unbothered. “How do you think we made this one? By praying?” He tapped Baelon lightly on the foot. “Though now that I say it,” he went on, his grin widening, “I might try it whilst you pray. Mayhap that will prove more effective. It’s past time I had you on your knees.”
Alicent pressed her lips and closed her eyes for a moment, suppressing a groan. She glanced desperately around. Her mother, seated within the carriage just behind her, had gone beet-red and looked seconds from fainting. Gwayne had turned away, shoulders stiff with awkwardness. Even the stable boys pretended sudden fascination with the horses’ hooves.
“Do not be so callous,” Alicent whispered.
Daemon shrugged. “You are proper enough for both of us.”
She gave him a look of exasperation, one he had grown far too fond of provoking, and he laughed, adjusting the furs around their son.
Caraxes gave a low, rumbling growl from the road ahead, his wings twitching in impatience. The beast’s eyes, burning bright as molten coals, fixed upon Daemon as though demanding Are we flying or not?
Daemon mounted his stallion again with his son strapped securely to his chest.
“We shall see you before the gates,” he said, giving Alicent a nod that carried far more meaning than his careless tone betrayed.
Alicent reached up, brushing her fingers lightly against Baelon’s cheek. “Fly safe,” she murmured.
Daemon only smirked, clicking his tongue to set his stallion in motion. “When have I ever flown otherwise?”
Alicent watched him ride toward Caraxes. The dragon lowered himself, wings folding as though in welcome, and Daemon climbed up with a fluid ease that made her heart tighten with a strange mix of fear and pride.
She held her breath as Caraxes launched into the sky, while the babe, she was sure even if she could not hear him, squealed with delight.
And Alicent could not help but smile.
Before their procession ever reached the city walls, Daemon proved-yet again-that he heeded counsel only when it pleased him. Alicent had expected, with dwindling hope, that her husband might land Caraxes upon the kingsroad outside the River Gate, return their son to her arms, and only then return to his mount.
That did not happen.
Little Baelon had been in the air nigh on two hours, and the babe had not fed since then. Which meant he would soon start crying in hunger. Every instinct within her strained to give chase, yet she knew that to send a guard out, to appear frantic before everyone, would serve no one, least of all her son.
So she steeled herself. She forced her jaw to release its hold, smoothed her expression, and folded her hands as though carved from calm itself.
Her mother fretted at her side. “The prince should have stopped before the gates to return the child to the wetnurse.”
“Yes, mother, he should have. But he did not. Let us pray that little Baelon is not so hungry as we fear. He is safe, he is with his father.”
“But the prince-”
“Accusing my lord husband would bring us naught but nasty looks mother, you know so. Let us just wait for his return to the Red Keep and I shall speak with him then,” she had no patience now for her mother chiding her for her husband’s actions.
She gripped the edge of the bench so tightly that her knuckles whitened like marble.
Gwayne, ever foolish, piped in with a trembling attempt at optimism. “Mayhap he won’t be, sister. The boy likes flying. He might have forgotten all about eating.”
Alicent did not look at him. “Father will not approve of you sitting in the carriage with us rather than riding a horse, you know so.”
“I am not a boy anymore. I may do whatever I wish,” Gwayne straightened, bristling as if her words had been a blade.
“As you say,” Alicent replied, knowing their father won’t appreciate it. Especially since George was riding his own palfrey.
The rest of the way was quiet save for the steady beat of hooves and the creak of harnesses. The walls of King’s Landing rose before them, familiar and unwelcome all at once, and soon the carriage rolled through the Red Keep’s great inner courtyard, where the banners of House Targaryen billowed in the cool wind.
Alicent stepped down with Gwayne’s offered hand. She swept her skirts into place and cast her gaze across the courtyard in search of her husband but it was another she spotted first.
Prince Baelon stood near the Great Hall, the household and small council behind. He looked every inch the Targaryen Prince, tall and slender, the built of her goodfather resembling that of her lord husband, a lithe yet powerful man, with silver her and a smile as warm as summer.
Viserys on the other hand, did not have the Valyrian look, and he was no handsome man, though he had a kind face.
Alicent dipped into a graceful curtsy, just like her mother. “Prince Baelon. Prince Viserys.” Her brothers bowed and greeted him too.
“Lady Alerye. Lady Alicent,” he answered, taking her hand with fatherly affection and kissing her gloved knuckles. “It gladdens me to see you again. Motherhood becomes you.” His eyes softened. “Now, where is little Baelon?”
“My lord husband has seen fit to carry him straight to the Dragonpit,” Alicent’s smile did not falter.
“Typical of my brother, always up to some mischief,” chuckled Viserys.
Baelon’s fond expression soured at once. “Did he now?” He exhaled through his nose. “Of course, he would do something like that. Fret not. I have already dispatched guards to the Dragonpit. They will see him and the babe returned swiftly.”
As Baelon turned to greet the rest of her family, Alicent felt her pulse thrumming like a struck harp-string. Servants of the keep hurried forth, welcoming the Lady Hightower with murmured courtesies, taking their respective turns.
Otto Hightower himself strode from the gathered members, offering a stiff inclination of his head toward his daughter and wife, but fixing his son Gwayne with a look of such disapproval that Gwayne shrank half an inch into his boots. George had somehow avoided his eyes.
Alicent attempted a smile for her father, but the Master of Laws only said, “We will speak later,” in that clipped tone of his that carried every inch of a scolding sermon. As if I can rein Daemon in with every breath I have, she mused bitterly.
She felt a rush of dread, knowing that she might have failed at producing the image of family she wished for. This return to court was meant to show unity. She prayed Daemon would, at the very least, arrive without further spectacle.
The Rogue appeared moments later atop a panting chestnut gelding who seemed moments from collapsing. He rode with flushed cheeks, hair whipped wild by the wind and strapped to his chest, screaming as though the world had wronged him personally, was little Baelon.
Daemon slowed only enough not to trample the guards, pulling the gelding to an abrupt halt before his lady wife, a young stableboy rushing to take the reins.
The moment the Rogue swung down from the lathered horse, the babe’s cry rose even higher, sharp as a falcon’s screech against stone. Daemon strode swiftly toward the carriage.
The smirk upon his face remained, until he drew close enough to see the disappointment in Alicent’s eyes.
“Ah, there you are brother, and little Baelon,” clapped Viserys.
“Seven hells,” the Rogue muttered, adjusting the bindings. “You would think he were being flayed alive, not simply hungry.”
“Lord Husband! He needed to be times ago!”
Daemon blinked at her, genuinely perplexed. “He was fine in the air.”
“You’ve taken him upon your dragon?” gasped Viserys scandalized, which earned him a strange look from his father.
“The babe is seven moons, your mother took you upon Meleys a fortnight after your birth,” added Baelon.
“He needs to be fed,” Alicent said composed.
Daemon’s brows drew together, not in anger, but something far rarer for him, in uncertainty. “He did not cry until we landed,” he offered, as though this absolved him.
“Children always cry, so does Rhaenyra. All the time,” chuckled Viserys. Otto looked sideways at the eldest son of Baelon.
The look Alicent and his father gave him, let the Rogue know that they both knew he was lying.
“Handle my son, he is hungry,” Alicent commanded briskly.
“At once, milady,” the wetnurse answered, plump hands already darting forward. Another nurse moved with her, and together they unfastened the bindings that secured the babe against Daemon’s chest.
The moment the straps loosened, Baelon kicked his tiny feet and wailed afresh, as though offended to be removed yet equally offended to have remained so long in discomfort.
The wetnurse lifted him. “Oh, my poor little prince,” she murmured, rocking him gently as she hurried into the carriage to settle him at her large breast.
Alicent inhaled slowly, though her nostrils flared with the force of restraint. She wished-Gods, how she wished-to strike Daemon across his smug, beautiful face. The urge rose hot and violent, like steam trapped beneath a pot’s lid. But she merely folded her hands, smoothing the trembling from her fingers.
Daemon, damn him, offered her a sheepish smile. A crooked, apologetic, entirely unrepentant smile. The Seven take you, you made us look like fools, she mused.
She ignored him and turned toward the carriage, focusing all her being upon the small babe, which made contented sounds while nursing.
“You cannot stop yourself from mischief, not even now, hm?” Baelon said as he clapped his son on the back.
Daemon shrugged, feigning innocence. “He likes flying. But I suppose he grew hungry.”
“Suppose,” Baelon repeated, unimpressed. “Mayhap next time take him upon a shorter flight and not give his mother a fright.”
The Rogue’s head snapped up. “Alicent never feared for him. I know how to care for mine own child.”
Alicent turned then, a perfect courtly smile ringing her lips. “I thank you, goodfather, for your worries. But my lord husband speaks true, he knows well how to care for our son. Mayhap this once he has let time slip away before he knew it. Right, my lord husband?”
The look she bestowed him was sweet as honey and sharp as broken glass.
Daemon frowned. For though she defended his honor with her words, her eyes scolded him with the gentility of a mother and the precision of a Valyrian dagger.
“Yes,” he muttered at last, shoulders dropping faintly. “Quite right.”
Otto passed a hand over his mouth to hide his scowl, while Gwayne and George smiled.
Prince Baelon chuckled beneath his breath, though he did not linger on the amusement.
“Forgive me, Lady Alicent, but you are right to tend to the babe. The journey has been long. Do not trouble yourself to present him to the family yet. Would it please you to bring little Baelon before us at supper, so you all may have time to rest beforehand?”
Alicent’s relief softened her whole posture. “I would be grateful for such grace. Once he is fed and rested, it shall be my joy.”
“A sensible idea, My Prince,” said Otto, inclining his head.
Baelon smiled broadly at Otto, then looked at the others. “We waited seven moons to meet the little Baelon, we can wait a few hours more. Go, all of you. Rest, wash the dust from your bones. We shall speak more in the evening.”
“Good, I’ll make sure to bring Rhaenyra too. And maybe Aemma will feel better by then to attend,” added Viserys.
Daemon clapped his father’s shoulder, then embraced him, a brief but genuine show of affection that warmed the older prince’s features. Viserys was too eager to hug his little brother and he did much to the Rogue’s displeasure. But as soon as Daemon turned to Otto, the warmth froze to frost.
“Ser Otto,” Daemon said dryly.
“Prince Daemon,” Otto returned, equally stiff.
They bowed with the politeness of two men imagining each other’s funerals.
The Rogue wasted no more breath upon his goodfather and instead strode toward Alicent, who stood near the carriage door, half-turned to listen for her babe’s cries.
Otto squinted his eyes at the pair, noticing how Daemon lowered his head and talked to her in the old tongue. He refrained scoffing, watching how the scoundrel touched the fabric of Alicent’s skirts in a manner that was almost childish.
“Ready to go?” he asked her, voice softening with an attempt at charm as he tilted his head.
“Kessa,” she replied, not bothering to mask the clipped edge of her tone. “Just after little Baelon finishes.”
Daemon leaned closer, whispering with smug audacity, “You seem angry.”
Alicent shifted her gaze to him, her words barely spoken with the accuracy she had been taught. “My child has been starved and crying for Gods know how long. Let us not speak of it now.”
Daemon smirked. “It was not that long.”
“It was long enough,” Alicent countered at once, “for his whimpers to turn into cries.”
He rolled his eyes, spreading his hands. “You are making it sound like treason. He will be fine, Alicent.”
The Hightower met his gaze fully then, the calm in her eyes more chilling than fury. “You promised me you would stop before the gates. And you did not.”
Daemon’s mouth closed. He looked toward the carriage where the babe’s cries had ceased. Then he looked back at Alicent, something unspoken flickering across his face, guilt, perhaps, or the recognition that he had wounded her trust in a way greater than he’d intended.
He stepped closer, lowering his head until his breath warmed her cheek. “I did not do it on purpose,” he said quietly, his purple-violet eyes searching hers.
Not even an apology you can muster, she thought.
Alicent remained very still, her hands clasped so tightly before her.
Daemon watched her a moment longer, his eyes searching hers. She did not pull away, yet neither did she lean toward him. He reached out hesitantly, uncharacteristically so, and brushed the back of his fingers along the inside of her wrist. A silent apology. A plea for a truce. Alicent did not pull away. But neither did she turn her hand to meet his.
“Let us return to the Keep,” she said in common tongue.
Daemon nodded, stepping back to offer her his bent arm, his pride bent if only for a fraction as the wetnurse had covered the babe, patting it on the back lightly as she climbed out of the carriage.
And together, they walked toward Maegor’s Holdfast.
Otto Hightower rubbed a weary hand over his face, the scratch of his palm against his beard the only sound in the otherwise silent solar. Before him lay a ledger bound in dark calfskin, its pages filled with neat columns of ink. His own script.
Several scrolls lay unfurled beside it, their seals broken, their ribbons tossed into a neat pile aside. He had spent the last moon transcribing the laws of inheritance into a single volume he could keep close at hand, for knowledge was leverage, and leverage was life at court.
The quill twitched between his fingers as he paused over a clause regarding claims through the female line. His eyes squinted as he read the clause once more.
A knock sounded on the door and he knew who would be there.
Otto straightened, sliding the quill into its holder. “Enter.”
The door opened, and Alicent stepped within. She dipped into a graceful curtsy, the gesture of a dutiful daughter trained since girlhood. Otto watched her closely, noting the faint shadows under her eyes, the careful serenity on her face.
She had always been skilled at smoothing her features into calmness. A pity it did little to comfort him now. Not after the show the blasted prince put on in the middle of the courtyard for all to see. She came to stand near the chair opposite his, his desk separating them.
“Daughter,” Otto began, folding his hands atop the ledger. “I see you have managed little and less all those moons in Oldtown. How comes it that the prince still behaves like a reckless fool, and not as he ought, a prince of his station?”
“Father-” Alicent clasped her hands before her waist.
Otto raised one hand sharply. “I have no wish to hear excuses. Nearly a year you spent in Oldtown with that wraith, and still you cannot manage him, Alicent? Still his impulses rule him? Still his whims run wild? Your duty is to rein him in and from what I’ve witnessed this mid-day in the courtyard, I see that nothing has changed.”
Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin, pale ribbon. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft but steady.
“I cannot command my lord husband.”
“You can and you must,” Otto snapped. “A prince he may be, but he is a husband as well, and you his wife. Influence him. Make him bend to your will. The realm looks upon both of you, and what did they see today? A babe taken skyward on that monstrous wyrm until he cried himself raw, while the mother fretted helplessly upon the ground. Have I taught you nothing?”
Alicent merely blinked, lowering her gaze to the table’s carved edge.
“As a lady wife,” she said carefully, “it is my duty to uphold my lord husband’s decisions, no matter what others may think. My lord husband took his son to fly because he believes-knows-that Targaryen babes bear dragon’s blood, and flying strengthens the bond between sire and child.”
Otto scoffed at the idiocy of her words. I sent her to Oldtown to bring that scoundrel to heel, and now she speaks of dragons and bonds and communicates with him in High Valyrian. Seven save me, the opposite has happened, he thought.
Alicent continued. “Little Baelon grew hungry, that is all. And my lord husband was attentive-appallingly attentive-to bring him back swiftly. I have no cause to shame him for that.”
Attentive as a bull in a china shop, he mused.
Her gaze rose then, steady, blue eyes meeting his brown ones. Though her voice remained mild, there was steel beneath it. He heard it plainly.
“Now, father. I must return to my lord husband and ensure our household is prepared for the evening meal. I’ve many duties left for the day. With your leave.”
She curtsied. And without waiting for his permission, she turned and walked toward the door.
Otto stared after her, speechless.
Her hand reached the latch but she paused. Turning her head slightly, she spoke over her shoulder.
“I will not inform my lord husband of your summons. He would be displeased to know I have not taken my well-deserved rest.”
Then she opened the door and stepped through, closing it quietly behind her.
For a long moment Otto sat in stillness, his eyes squinted at the door as if it held answers. She threatened me, he mused.
Then he exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing at his forehead until the skin reddened beneath his fingers. Every plan he had so carefully tended seemed to fray the moment Daemon wed Alicent.
If only Baelon had agreed to wed Alicent, my daughter would be Queen and her children could wed those of Viserys. Her boy would wed Rhaenyra and rule as King. Now I have that cur as a goodson, and if Viserys fails to sire a male heir, only then can my grandson become king. Thankfully, drastic measures are of my competence, he mused.
Hobert had sworn to him that the wild prince’s behavior softened around Alicent, that Daemon’s sharp tongue and hot temper dulled in her presence. But today’s events were a stark contrast to that pleasant picture.
“Cursed prince,” Otto muttered to himself. “Purple-eyed menace. A terror on two legs.”
He leaned back in his chair, their earlier conversation replaying in his mind.
She had defended Daemon.
His stomach tightened. Hobert had also claimed that Daemon had grown protective of her. That he treated her with a strange, fierce regard. That he shielded her, in his own brash and gruff manner. Otto had taken those accounts with a pinch of salt.
But the way she looked when she entered, and the way she left, gave him pause.
He did not like pause.
With a groan, he reopened the ledger, dipping his quill back into the inkwell with more force than required. “All of this,” he muttered to the silent room, “will pay off one day. Thanks to the Seven, Daemon will never be king. The Gods have spared us that calamity.”
His quill continued scratching until it struck him. He could not help but scoff in amusement, shaking his head. My dutiful girl, managing to command your lord husband against me will bear you no fruit, but I will steer you in the right direction.
Daemon and Alicent walked in silence, their steps echoing softly along the stone corridor. A hush hung between them, neither icy nor warm, but something in between, something that left Daemon more baffled than he cared to admit.
He knew well that she was angry with him, she had every right to be. He had promised to stop before the River Gate and hand over little Baelon, yet he had not. He had thought an hour more in the skies would make no difference to a babe of Targaryen blood. But as the shrill cries still rang faintly in his ears, he knew well enough that it had mattered greatly.
The wetnurse followed at a respectful distance, Baelon nestled against her shoulder, cooing faintly now that his belly was full once more and he was well rested. His mismatched eyes blinked with drowsy interest at the vaulted ceilings of the Maegor’s Holdfast.
As they approached the King’s apartments, Alicent finally spoke.
“You should present him,” she said softly, her gaze forward, her tone even. “To your father and grandparents.”
Daemon nodded without a word, almost bracing for the scolding that had not yet come. Her silence unsettled him far more than her vitriol would have.
A Kingsguard knight opened the tall oaken doors, and they entered. Passing through the antechamber and into the solar, they found nearly the entire royal household assembled.
King Jaehaerys glanced up. “Finally,” he said, though not unkindly. “You are on time.”
Daemon gave a short chuckle, and Alicent smiled, dipping into a curtsy while he bowed.
Queen Alysanne clapped her hands delightedly. “You two look splendid! Alicent, motherhood becomes you. You look radiant.”
“I thank you, Your Grace,” Alicent replied with a graceful incline of her head.
“Oh, but it is my great-grandson I wish to see,” Alysanne exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly.
Daemon turned to the wetnurse and gently lifted the babe from her arms. Baelon smacked his lips sleepily, then blinked at his father. With a half-smile, Daemon brought him forward.
Alysanne motioned to Alicent with warm insistence. “Sit, my dear, sit. It will be some time before we move to the dining hall. Now-oh, is this him? Gods be good-”
She reached for the babe, and Daemon carefully relinquished him. The moment little Baelon was in her arms, Alysanne’s eyes shone, and tears slipped freely down her wrinkled cheeks. The babe stared up at her, delighted by her silver hair and gleaming jewels, and cooed as he tried to grab her necklace.
Daemon felt his throat tighten as he watched her tremble with joy, though he schooled his face to indifference.
The rest of the family was present, Viserys, Aemma and Princess Gael, next to the Hightowers: Otto, Alerye, Gwayne and George. Rhaenyra was in the nursery being taken care of by her nurses.
Prince Baelon, his father, stepped beside Queen Alysanne, peering down at the babe who gurgled and gnawed upon his fist now. A watery chuckle escaped Baelon’s lips.
“He has Alyssa’s eyes,” he murmured.
Even King Jaehaerys paused at that, clearing his throat as though something pained him.
“What is all this weeping?” he grumbled, rising from his chair with slow but determined movement. “Let me see the boy.”
Alysanne lifted the babe toward him with the reverence one might reserve for a holy relic. Jaehaerys took his great-grandson into his arms, and though his hands were age-worn, they were steady as stone.
He looked upon the child, and even the great King of his era could not mask the emotion that flickered across his face. He blinked a few times, pressing his lips in a fine line.
“My first great-grandson,” he murmured. “A fine boy. You have both done well. Congratulations.”
His gaze moved between Alicent and Daemon, and the Rogue could not help but lift his chin, pride swelling in his chest. The lady wife of Daemon was also filled with pride, thankful that they had all forgotten the earlier incident.
“Allow me to hold him too, Father,” Prince Baelon said quietly.
Jaehaerys nodded, passing the child into the arms of his son.
Baelon looked down at the bundled babe, smiling warmly. “He is a sturdy boy.”
“Kessa. Good stock of Valyrian blood,” Daemon smirked.
The gathered Targaryens laughed, the sound bright and warm in the solar. Otto merely watched, not daring to interrupt to say that it was his blood too that also produced such a creature, but alas, there were more important things at hand than staking claims over blood.
Viserys approached then, clapping a hand lightly upon Daemon’s back. “You have done your duty, brother.”
Daemon rolled his eyes in mock irritation. “It was no burden.” Then, with a crooked grin, he added, “Quite pleasant, in fact.”
He shot a wink to Alicent, who sat beside her father. Otto Hightower watched the exchange with an unreadable face, his assessing eyes flicking between Daemon and Viserys as though searching for some hidden weakness in their speech, their stance, their smiles.
He does not look very pleased, the Master of Laws thought as he stared at Viserys.
Alicent kept her composure perfectly, a gentle expression resting upon her features, though the tension in her shoulders had eased ever so slightly.
Baelon turned to look at his sister Gael. “Would you like to hold him?”
She nodded eagerly and got up, heat rising to her cheeks as she felt everyone’s gaze on her. “Oh, he will be a handsome lad one day.” Little Baelon cooed at her, grabbing a lock of her hair and pulling. The princess smiled.
Daemon followed Alicent into her chambers, his steps slow, like a man approaching unfamiliar ground. The servants she had brought from Oldtown no longer so much as blinked when he crossed her threshold; they were well accustomed to finding the Rogue Prince sprawled across her chairs, rifling through her books, or stretched lazily upon her rug before the hearth.
He began to spend more time in her chamber than his. Tonight was no different, save for the knot in Daemon’s gut. He unbuckled his belt, and put Dark Sister and his Valyrian dagger on the table. He shook off his leather long coat, and took off his tunic, leaving only his undertunic that was tucked into his black breeches.
He moved directly to the hearth and lowered himself into one of the cushioned chairs, legs stretched out carelessly before him. From the corner of his eye, he watched his wife step behind the carved wooden screen to change. Her silhouette moved softly behind the panel, along with that of her maids.
She had not scolded him. Not once. Daemon frowned at the flames. The lack of fury unsettled him far more than fury ever could. Fury he could deal with. This he could not.
A moment later she dismissed her maids, and emerged in a long, pale nightgown, flimsy, soft, the fabric brushing her ankles like whispering mist. She was all serenity, as though her day had not been marred by a crying infant and a reckless husband. His purple eyes roamed over her figue, which had changed little after one birth. He clenched and unclenched his hands.
She crossed to the table, where a decanter of Arbor Red waited, and poured a goblet. Then she returned to him and offered it.
Daemon took it silently, sipping. The wine warmed his throat, though irritation prickled beneath his skin.
Trying, awkwardly, to jest, he asked, “Is it poisoned?”
Alicent seated herself in the cushioned armchair beside him without so much as a blink. “Why would it be?”
Daemon shrugged, looking at the fire. “Thought you’d be angry with me after what happened today.”
“I am sure you did not act with ill intent.”
Daemon scoffed. “And that is it? You do not care?” His voice was sharper than he intended, but her composure grated against something raw in him.
She tilted her head, her long blonde hair sliding like liquid gold over her shoulder. It reached her lower back, well past, truth be told. He knew precisely how long it was. He had seen it loose and unbound, and had it wrapped around his fist.
“You wish for me to do something,” Alicent said softly. “I suppose?”
“Kessa,” Daemon snapped. “Yell. Scream. Gods, act as though it meant something. You behave as if what I did was of no consequence.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Has your father told you to butter me up? To keep me content? To avoid my temper?”
“You give far too much credit to my father,” she lifted her hand to examine her nails in a quiet, unbothered manner that infuriated him further. Daemon looked at her hands than back at her.
“My father,” she said calmly, “would be the first to tell me to chide you, to make you act your station and what you ought to do. But as I have said, you did nothing out of malice. It happens. And now you know to be more careful because this is our child.”
Daemon shifted uncomfortably, the wine no longer warming him. He wished she had screamed at him. Fury he understood. Fury he could fight. This gentle disillusionment regarding his actions today? He did not know what to do with it.
“You did disappoint me a bit.”
Daemon threw back the last of his wine. “Well, get in line. You are not the first.”
“But that does not mean you cannot be more responsible in the future.”
He glared at her then, huffing like an ill-tempered stallion. Alicent rose from her seat and stepped between his legs, bending slightly to reach his face. She cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his clean-shaven skin.
Daemon froze, his purple-violet eyes searching hers.
“I know Targaryens are no mere men,” she murmured, “and so is your son. But he is a babe, at least for now, you must think ahead. Will he be hungry? Need his nap? Need to be changed? These things must be considered.”
Daemon blinked, eyes confused. She went on.
“It is not only the crying,” she said, reverting to common tongue as she struggle to make her point in High Valyrian, her thumb brushing his cheek. “It is what follows after. Did you know little Baelon cannot sleep once he has cried too much? He whimpers until he is too exhausted to hold his head upright. And his stomach becomes upset from crying so long, and then he cries again from the pain.” She tilted her head. “Did you know any of this?”
Daemon swallowed and shook his head slowly.
Alicent’s expression softened into something warm, something that reached into him far deeper than scolding ever could.
“You are a good father, Daemon,” she said gently. “You only need to pay a little more attention. That is all.”
Her hand slipped from his cheek to his shoulder, squeezing lightly.
“Do not heed what others say,” she added. “Not my father. Not the court. Not the gossips. Only be a tad more be mindful. For our son. For me.”
Daemon stared at her, utterly disarmed, his chest tight with something unfamiliar and unwelcome and strangely comforting all at once.
But this, her quiet understanding, her steady affection, her refusal to play the game as others did, left him defenseless.
And he did not hate it.
“I shall do better,” he whispered.
Notes:
Also what do we think about an AU, of F&B(or HOTD for those who did not read the books)+Grey's Anatomy, a Dalicent story in a Modern Westeros? Hot and steamy surgeons, it will not be super canon compliant, but it will be a short cute story. Who doesn't love Grey's Anatomy, right?
Join my discord if you would like to chat about this fic or any of the other fics in real time: https://discord.gg/3saUHrZqye
Chapter 7: Summer on the Stranger's Cloak
Notes:
Thank you for all the comments, the kudos and for all your theories, I love to read your insight about my fic.
High Valyrian in bold.
I'd like to make you alert, and to write down all the times Viserys just proves, again and again, how incompetent he will be as a king and how slowly, he will turn away from his brother.
And to clear everything up, Alicent is 2 years older than Daemon, but since my ability to use AI is that of a peanut, then I use whatever pictures I find of Matt, so keep that in mind while reading! Tnx
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
King’s Landing, eighth moon of the year 99 AC (this means baby Baelon is 1 year and 3 months old, and Baelon is a precocious child)
Six moons had passed since Prince Daemon, his wife, and their infant son took residence in King’s Landing.
Little Baelon’s first nameday had passed three moons ago, and the feast had been grand, with the entire Targaryen family celebrating the name day of the first boy born into the family in the past decade.
Alicent felt the weeks slip like silk between her fingers. Her life had transformed with a quiet swiftness she scarcely recognized, no longer merely the daughter of the Master of Laws, she was Prince Daemon’s lady wife, mistress of his household, ruler of every domestic thing that touched his life.
Her duties were many, and she bore them with the serene diligence her mother and grandmother taught her. She oversaw every detail: that Daemon’s meals were prepared at the exact hour he preferred; that his chamber, though usually untouched, was kept immaculate should he choose to use it; that his horse was fed, brushed, when he was not riding; that his desk never lacked parchment, fresh quills, or ink, that wax for his seals was always in supply.
She commanded their servants to ensure his clothing smelled of soap and cloves. She ensured his boots were always polished to a sheen, even when servants trembled at the thought of his temper.
And though she would never admit it aloud, she took satisfaction in the quiet pride her prince husband showed. He would come to her chamber at the end of each day, toss his gloves aside, and say, with a sultry smile, “You run my life better than I do.”
It was queer, she knew, for a lord husband to spend his nights in his lady wife’s chamber after their duty was fulfilled. Most highborn men kept to their own beds as was per custom.
Yet Daemon returned to her bed each night with the certainty of a tide drawn to a moon it could not refuse. Even now, Daemon’s own chamber remained more a storage for his cloaks and dust than a living space, he used hers, ate in hers, sulked in hers, bathed in hers.
Especially bathed in hers.
Alicent flushed as she recalled that particular habit. Daemon had found endless reasons to reduce waste, sharing bath water with her, only for the water to slosh noisily over the sides when he thrusted inside of her earnestly, his breath warm against her ear, whispering praises that made her cunny flutter and her skin catch fire.
Always, it ended with them breathless, tangled in the steaming bath, and afterward quietly washing each other once the water had cooled.
On the morning of the queen’s court, held in the upper gardens where the breeze carried the scent of lemon blossoms and mint, Alicent found her thoughts drifting from her duties.
Good Queen Alysanne sat enthroned upon a cushioned chair beneath a flowering trellis, her white hair braided with summer-blue ribbons. She presided over the ladies with patient wisdom as they gathered to seek counsel and gossip in equal measure.
Alicent sat near her mother, Lady Alerye Redwyne, listening the way a scholar listens to a learned master.
Her gaze wandered only once and it landed upon Princess Gael.
Something was amiss. The young princess, sweet and soft of manner though neither clever nor particularly perceptive, sat pale yet somehow flushed in intervals, her eyes darting as though she feared being called upon. She pushed her meal, little honey-cakes, around her plate without taking a bite.
Alicent frowned. It was unlike Gael to turn from sweets.
Her mother’s voice drew her attention back.
“Your Grace,” Alerye said with her graceful bow of the head, “it seems the Gods have blessed us with summer far earlier than expected.”
Alysanne hummed thoughtfully. “A blessing, yes, though not without its shadows. Sudden heat is a cruel friend to the fields. Many crops may wither if not tended with care.”
“True, Your Grace,” Lady Alerye agreed. “The farmers shall feel the worst of it.”
Alicent listened with the quiet absorption that had become her gift: the way the queen’s tone shifted when she gave advice; the way she weighed her words; the way she guided the conversation with gentleness rather than force.
Alicent admired her deeply and hoped someday, by the Seven’s grace, to become such a woman, or far better.
When court finally dispersed, the ladies departing in clusters of silk and chattering laughter, Alicent and her mother parted ways. Alerye went off smiling with several cousins of the Reach who had arrived for Baelon’s passed nameday celebrations. Alicent, meanwhile, felt a gentle tug on her sleeve.
It was Gael. The princess linked their arms, her grip fragile as a sparrow’s perch.
“Would you, uh, would you take tea with me, Alicent?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alicent mustered her softest smile, summoning patience for the princess’s endless, scattered fancies. “Of course, Gael. Lead the way.”
They walked the corridors in uneasy silence. Gael kept glancing behind them, as though expecting someone to leap from the shadows and scold her for something. Alicent’s brows knitted together, Gael was no stranger to nerves, but this was different, more distressed.
When they finally reached the princess’s chambers, a pair of timid handmaids hurried to prepare tea. Gael motioned Alicent to the embroidered settee near the window. Sunlight pooled on the cushions like liquid gold.
Gael sat opposite her, fingers twisting in her lap. Somehow the princess mustered courage and dismissed the handmaids.
Alicent, seeing her agitation grow, leaned forward slightly after they were left alone and their tea was served.
“Gael is aught amiss? You seem troubled.”
The Princess’s eyes darted up, wide and frightened.
“Um,” she whispered. “Alicent… is it true-is it true that a kiss can make you bear a child?”
Alicent blinked various times. What have you done? thought the Hightower.
“Tell me, Gael. Why do you fear such a thing? Has someone frightened you?” she decided to ignore the idiotic question of the princess.
Gael hesitated, then shook her head violently. “No. No one frightened me. I only… I only heard from a maid that if a man kisses you…” She trailed off, mortified. “I did not know. I still do not know.”
She can’t even lie, thought Alicent. She breathed out gently, gathering her composure, laying a hand on one of Gael’s. “If you have questions about such matters, you must not fear asking them. I will not shame you for it. We’re friends, remember?”
Gael looked up at her with wide, earnest eyes. “Then… would you tell me? Please?”
Daemon had not left Alicent ignorant of the truths of coupling, nor had marriage spared her the realities of a wife’s knowledge. She exhaled slowly.
“I shall tell you what is proper for you to know. But first, Gael tell me the truth. Why are you so frightened today?”
Gael’s fingers trembled in hers. She whispered, barely audible, “Because I fear I have done something terribly wrong.”
“Tell me,” she said gently, “and I shall help you however I can.”
The daughter of King Jaehaerys the Wise and Good Queen Alysanne, sat beside her twisting her fingers into a hopeless knot, her cheeks blotched red, her eyes fluttering between shame, fear, and some girlish shyness that made the entire matter more dire.
Alicent could scarcely fathom how such simple-mindedness had been born from the blood of two of the realm’s most cunning rulers since the Conqueror.
Still, she kept her face perfectly blank, as she had been taught in Oldtown: let no one read your emotions, not even a flutter of the lashes.
Gael spoke in halting whispers, recounting how the trouble began. “It happened during little Baelon’s feast,” she started, her small voice trembling, “when I asked for a singer to sing a few songs for me. He was very lovely,” Gael continued, her lips curling shyly. “He sang beautifully, such voice! And he praised my hair… and my gown, and he composed a little bard for me. He called me Gael the Gentle.”
Alicent nearly winced. Poets were the most dangerous creatures in the Seven Kingdoms, silver tongues with no coin and no conscience.
“And then…?” Alicent pressed softly.
Gael twisted in her seat, her pale fingers worrying the embroidery of her skirts. “We walked. He wanted to show me a part of the gardens, one of the quiet ones, with the little marble nymph. You know it.”
Alicent did. The quiet gardens were beloved by courting couples and mischief-makers alike. She knew because one afternoon Daemon had taken her there, pushed her behind a statue, lifted her skirts and had rutted into her with an urgency she had never felt before.
He had turned pink, realizing that she had not peaked, but he did something more horrendous, kneeling before her and putting his mouth… there. Alicent still felt embarrassment whenever recalling the moment, though her husband had been more than pleased.
Gael swallowed. “I told him I could not kiss him. Mother always said that a kiss could make babes in the belly, and I am not wed.”
Alicent kept her expression smooth as still water, though inside her thoughts shrieked. Seven Save me… she truly believes it. She truly thinks that a kiss is what makes a child.
“And what did the singer say?”
Gael’s blush deepened until it looked like fever. “He said…” She trailed off, mortified. “He said there were other ways to kiss. Ways that were safe. That only couples who truly kiss, mouths to mouths, make children. And I believed him because that’s what my mother said to me too.”
Alicent’s breath left her slowly, carefully, so the princess would not see how sharp it was. He fucked her, she realized then.
“He said our hips could kiss,” Gael whispered, shrinking into herself like a frightened dove. “That it was nothing wicked, only a different sort of kiss.”
Alicent stared at her for a heartbeat, then forced herself to breathe. The princess had no comprehension. No sense of reality. No sense of danger. No understanding of what that bard had wanted of her body.
“And what happened next?” she asked with a sweet smile.
Gael looked at her lap, mortification dripping from every word. “He showed me. And it felt… it felt warm. And… nice. He said it was only a special kiss. A way to show affection without… without making a child. He, uh, he said that he loved me, that he would pour his love in me and he did. Um, it was strange but nice, I felt it, it was a sort of a… like um, the white drizzle of cream sugar the cook pours over honey cakes that makes them sticky? Like that… he, uh, he said it was his love.”
Alicent nearly pressed a hand to her brow. As Gael spoke, the truth unfolded before her like a grim tapestry, the bard had coaxed the princess into coupling, spilled inside of her, and she had not even known what was being done to her. How could this be the child of Jaehaerys the Conciliator?
“Did he pour his love inside of you or outside on your gown?”
“Um, inside, he said that I could feel it and I did, it was, his love was coming out of me. He said that that was the proof of his feelings for me.”
Alicent felt the need to scream at the stupidity of the girl in front of her. The Seven are punishing these incestuous abominations for their strange ways, she thought.
“He told me,” Gael whispered, “that he must return to the Riverlands. His cousin’s wedding, you see. But he will return for me.”
Alicent had to gather every ounce of her will not to let her lip curl in disgust. The man would never return. He had taken advantage of a royal maid with the mind of a pebble from the Red Keep’s courtyard, and he would flee as fast as horses could carry him.
Still, Alicent smiled gently. “I am glad, that you told me. Have you spoken of this to your mother?”
Gael shook her head, eyes wide. “No. Mother would not understand.”
Oh, she would understand all too well, Alicent thought grimly. And she would weep. And then she would rage. If the king finds out, you will be sent to the become a Septa or worse.
“Have you felt different of late?” Alicent asked slowly.
Gael chewed her lip. “A little. I feel sick sometimes. Or tired. The Grand Maester said it is only the summer heat.”
“And have you told him about the love?”
“No.”
“And have you had your moonsblood?”
Gael flushed scarlet. “I… I flowered moons ago…”
“And since then?”
Gael shook her head. “Not recently, it has been some time. But I am glad for it! It must be the heat, as the Grand Maester said. I did not wish to tell him. It is embarrassing.”
Alicent inhaled. The girl was pregnant. The princess of the realm was with child and did not even grasp how it had come to be. A bastard. She had been seduced and used by a bard who vanished with the dawn.
“This will be our secret,” she said quietly. “But you must promise me one thing.”
Gael nodded eagerly, relieved to be guided.
“Until you are wed,” Alicent continued, “you must not kiss,” she swallowed her distaste, “in any way, any man. Ever again. Do you understand?”
Gael nodded, though her cheeks glowed. “I know… but it felt nice,” she admitted shyly.
Alicent pressed her lips together. Oh, I know how nice it feels, my husband insists on kissing me each night. “Some things which feel nice are sinful, Gael.” And bastards are monstrous. She rose from the settee, smoothing her skirts. “Now I must depart, I take luncheon with my husband, and little Baelon needs attending. We shall speak more on this tomorrow, if you wish.”
Gael brightened, as if nothing grave had been confessed at all. “Yes! I would like that. Thank you, Alicent.”
She flung her arms around Alicent in a girlish hug, and Alicent endured it with a faint, tolerant smile, though she rolled her eyes, something the princess could not see. When they parted, she curtseyed and quit the chamber.
That eve, when the sun had already slipped behind Maegor’s Holdfast and left the chambers bathed in the soft amber glow of torches, Alicent sat across from her husband in the solar of her chambers.
Daemon ate little at first, though he drank well enough, his purple-violet eyes never left her face. “What troubles you, wife?”
Alicent lifted her gaze slowly, her expression placid as the surface of a still lake. “Nothing, merely the usual events of the day.”
Daemon scoffed. “It seems we’ve equally had a shite day. My father has been plaguing me again, harping on and on about learning how to guide the realm, how to be Hand.” He stabbed a piece of baked capon in fresh herbs and butter with unnecessary force. “As though I desire to be cooped in the Tower of the Hand for the rest of my days, scratching at parchment while the world turns beyond my window.”
Alicent hummed lightly. “Well, your father has reason for it.”
Daemon’s scowl deepened, his fork clattering against the plate. “How you love giving my father reason. Mayhaps you ought to have wed him instead,” he bit out.
Alicent did not flinch nor widen her eyes, she merely levelled him a dry, unimpressed stare. The prince exhaled sharply and shifted in his seat.
“I did not mean that,” he muttered. “But could you, for once, cease siding with him?”
“I fear that shall never happen,” Alicent answered plainly, reaching for her goblet. “Your father is a most cunning man. You know I do not suffer fools, much like you. In that, we agree. And we should also agree that Prince Baelon knows best.”
The Rogue rolled his eyes skyward but bit back further retort. His irritation softened slightly when Alicent reached across the table and placed her hand over his. He turned his palm upward to catch her fingers.
“Daemon,” she said gently, “your father is preparing you for what must come. When Viserys ascends the Iron Throne, who do you believe he shall name Hand? You, his brother. Were Prince Aemon still among the living, your father Prince Baelon would have been Hand. Thus he prepares you now, coaxing you to read matters beyond the glories of Old Valyria, or the tales of dragonlords, easing you into the duties that must one day be yours.”
“It will be years yet until that day,” he shifted uncomfortably, shoulders tense beneath his black doublet.
Alicent patted his hand with calm. “Indeed. But preparation is the wisest path for all things in life.”
Daemon’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “You speak such wise words.” He paused, smirking. “I am thankful I wed a woman older than I.” The way he said it, one might believe she was twenty decades his senior.
“I am but two namedays older than you,” she replied flatly.
Daemon gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Two namedays! A lifetime.”
Alicent pursed her lips and swatted his arm lightly. He yelped with an exaggerated ouch. “And you mistreat me,” he declared. “You are a vile creature.”
“Behave,” she ordered, though she was amused by his antics.
Daemon chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “Very well. But for the injury you inflicted upon my noble person, I shall demand my husbandly rights tonight.”
Alicent gave him the same unimpressed, weary look she gave him when he pestered her with nonsense. “When do you not ask for your rights?”
Daemon shrugged carelessly. “Perhaps I simply enjoy saying it. Cannot have others believing you a sinful woman when you lie so willingly beneath me every night.”
“Enough,” she chided gently. “Stop talking and eat.”
Inside his lady wife’s bedchamber, after they had supped and retired for the night, Daemon watched her as a starving man watches bread. There was something in her calm that unraveled him in ways steel and fire never could. She had spoken to him gently, chastened him without raising her voice, and it maddened him more than any shouting could have.
Shouting, he understood. Gentleness was a blade he had never learned to parry. Her thumb brushed his cheek. A small thing. A maddening thing.
He swallowed hard, his eyes not leaving hers as she stood between his legs, Daemon sitting on the edge of the bed. “You confound me.”
“How so?” she tilted her head, the cream color of her nightgown favoring her pale skin.
“Because… Gods, Alicent, you should hate me. You should scold me until my ears ring. You should not look at me like that.” He grasped her wrist, but not harshly, almost in supplication. “You speak softly and it cuts deeper for it.”
A faint smile curved her lips, knowing, too knowing. “Would you prefer harshness?” she raised a blonde eyebrow as she spoke the words in his mother tongue.
“Kessa. Daor. Kessa. Daor.” His voice was hoarse, confused even. “I, uh, I like… I-”
Her gaze softened further, and Daemon felt something inside him collapse like a breached wall and his throat closed off.
I like that you don’t hate me, he wished to say. I like that you don’t think me a plague like the rest does, I’m always loyal to my family and you and my son are a part of that family, and I would give my very last breath for you both.
He pressed his forehead to her stomach, his hands sliding around her waist as though his fingers were starved for the shape of her. Alicent let out a quiet breath, the kind that warmed the crown of his head, and threaded her hand into his hair.
He closed his eyes.
There it was: peace. Rare and terrifying for him. He did not deserve peace, that was never his lot. Yet she is my peace, she creates it, how does she manage to do that I do not know, yet I yearn for it, he mused.
“Daemon,” she whispered, fingers trailing the side of his face, urging him to look up. “You are not alone in this. You have me and your son.”
I know, and I thank the Fourteen Flames for it. He lifted his gaze. Her eyes held no censure, no fear, only that maddening, unbearable gentleness. It filled his chest until he could not breathe.
“You consume me,” he confessed before he could stop himself. “You are in my thoughts from the moment I rise to the moment I fall asleep. I have charged into lists with less fear than I feel when you look disappointed.”
The faintest breath of laughter escaped her, not mocking, but soft and fond. “You’re speaking nonsense,” she breathed out. Alicent knew him well enough to read between the lines.
“You’ve bewitched me,” he said, hands traveling to her hips, his thumbs rubbing over her hipbones. “I know you did.”
Alicent’s giggle made him smile. She bent slightly so their faces aligned, her nose brushing his. Her breath mingled with his, light as silk, warm as wine.
“Mine dragon,” she murmured seductively.
He kissed her then, not with the hungry force he showed the world, but reverently, a confession more than a claim. Her lips parted beneath his, answering him with unexpected fierceness, her fingers tightening in the hair at the base of his neck.
Daemon inhaled sharply against her mouth, as though her kiss alone stole his breath. His hands slid up her spine, drawing her gently into his lap. She came willingly, settling against him, her riding up her thighs, her warmth searing through the thin fabric between them.
The Rogue felt her pebbled nipples brushing against his bare chest and his cock stirred in his breeches. He broke from her lips only to kiss the line of her jaw, the tender place beneath her ear, the hollow where her pulse fluttered quick as a trapped bird. Alicent exhaled shakily, her fingers sliding from his hair to curl against the back of his neck. He was already bucking up his hips.
“Daemon.”
“Say it again,” he whispered against her skin, as he guided her hips to grind on his hardness.
She moaned just as he liked. “Daemon.”
His name on her tongue undid him entirely.
His mouth captured hers once more, this time his tongue roughly parting her lips as he tasted hers. Alicent’s hand traced the line of his throat, the ridge of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, as though she tried to make sure he was real.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers.
“You have ruined me, little Hightower,” he said quietly. “I think of nothing but you.”
Her only response was another delightful giggle.
Daemon stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms only to lay her on the bed, his lithe body covering hers. He did not bother himself with taking off his tunic, merely gathering it past his hips so he could tug on his cock while his mouth left purple flowers along her neck anc collarbones.
I hope you can see how well you’ve trained your daughter, Otto, she is the most obedient thing I’ve ever met, the Rogue thought with a chuckle.
“What’s so amusing?” she gasped.
“How I cannot seem to have enough of you,” he groaned, pushing his tongue once more in her mouth as his fingers touched her dripping core.
With his hands now on her hips, he moved them further up the bed so he could settle between her parted thighs. Daemon bent and kissed her again, claiming her mouth while his cock ground against her wet slit, the obscene sound of her arousal spurring him even more.
She wound her arms around his neck while one of his hands grabbed her left thigh to spread her further, accommodating his hips so he could plunge home.
In a swift snap of his hips he buried himself in her tight channel. Alicent's breath hitched, her nails scratching his clothed back while he bottomed out inside of her, both of them moaning at the sensation.
Between a few more sloppy kissed and his hands turning to her fleshy backside to grope her, his pace picked up, the pressure in her cunny too much to bear any sort of pleasure she always felt. For some reason, even if she felt slightly uncomfortable she could not turn him away, for she enjoyed the sensation.
"Relax your cunt. Go on. Be my good little Higtower- ah, there you go."
She had not realized how tense she was until she relaxed her body as he ordered, his slide now easier as she felt her walls tremble around him.
Her prince husband was a master in the sheets, his public bone grinding into her pearl making her shout.
His mouth was slightly ajar, wet lips pressing at the pulse in her neck while his body plunged into hers mercilessly. She felt a tension in her lower belly, ready to snap at any point and her husband grunted when she began moving her hips to meet his thrusts, blindly searching for release.
"Daemon!" she shouted, her hands clawing at his waist.
After the push and pull of his cock inside her sensitive channel, Alicent came undone, clutching at her husband's back while he continued to fuck her through her pleasure, his weight adding an edge to her peak, limbs trembling from exertion.
She gulped loudly, oversensitivity making her want to close her legs and expel him, which made Daemon see stars behind his eyes, at the tight grip around his member.
"Be my good lady wife and hold on for me," he breathed in her ear. "You're doing so well little Hightower, so well, just a little more, hm?" his hips started losing their rhythm as he neared his completion, sweat coating his tunic as she ran her hands up and down his back, whining and writhing under him.
With one sharp thrust, he stilled, his cock pulsing spend inside of her, coating the sore walls and offering an ointment for her raw passage. A pearly white gift for her pink warmth.
The Prince withdrew himself and dragged both their bodies to the headboard, plopping on the pillow with a heavy sigh.
Alicent lay curled against her prince husband’s chest. His arm was slung about her waist possessively, fingertips idly tracing the curve of her hip as though reminding himself she was his.
Her head rested over his heart, rising and falling beneath her cheek. Her fingers absently wound through the coarse silver hair on his chest, the patch available due to the large v cut of his tunic, tugging lightly at a curl. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, throwing warm light over their tangled limbs.
Alicent let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Tell me true, what lies have you told maidens to coax them into your bed?”
Daemon snorted, rolling his eyes toward the carved canopy above them. “Too many to count. Too many to recall.”
“Liar,” she said simply.
He smacked her backside, making her gasp. “And why,” he growled playfully, “must you question me on such things?”
Alicent lifted her head from his chest and looked at him. She slid her hand over the line of his jaw, feeling the prickle of where his shave had begun to roughen.
“Curiosity,” she answered evenly. “And perhaps a desire to understand what sort of man I have wed.”
Daemon’s hand curved around her thigh, pulling her closer until she was nearly atop him again. “You know me well enough,” he fondled her rear as an impish smirk stretched his lips. “I’m depraved beyond compare. Why do you think they called me the Blood Dragon.”
“You’re despicable.”
He arched a brow. “Is that why you were moaning like a harlot earlier as I fed you my cock?”
Alicent sighed at his crude words and decided to change topics.
“There’s something I meant to tell you.”
He tilted his head, the way Caraxes would do when seeing her approach him, and it marveled how rider and mouth were so alike.
Prince Baelon, seated at his heavy oaken desk in the solar of the Tower of the Hand, rubbed his forehead with both hands as though hoping the pressure might stave off the storm brewing behind his temples.
What he wanted to do-truly wanted-was clout his second-born son upon the ear, for Daemon was, as ever, proving himself the most vexing creature under the Seven Heavens.
He is still young, Baelon told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. He will steady in time. Gods be good, he must.
But even as he thought it, doubt gnawed at him.
Daemon was seated before him, slouched more like, looking both sullen and irritated, hair plaited in one braid over his right shoulder, dressed from head to toe in Targaryen black, expression that of a boy dragged from warm blankets far too early.
His father stared at him, disbelief simmering.
“Imagine my surprise,” Baelon began in a low, dangerous tone, “when I sent guards to fetch you, only for them to report that you were not in your chambers-again-and then forced to wait outside Lady Alicent’s door until you deigned to bless me with your presence. Does it take you so long to have your hair braided?”
He asked it dryly, though in truth he knew Daemon’s habit well. The entire court whispered of the prince sharing his young wife’s bed every night as if he had never owned chambers of his own. It was strange, yes, but Baelon had chosen to see affection in it.
What harm in a prince loving his wife? Did I not adopt the same queer custom with my own wife?
Daemon stretched his legs out, crossing them lazily at the ankle, utterly unbothered by his father’s ire. “What can I say? I need a quick fuck in the morning to be in a decent mood.”
Baelon gave him a scolding look. “Do you speak with that same mouth to my grandson?”
“No, unlike others, I know when to speak of certain topics,” his son smirked.
“Apparently you do not,” Baelon shot back, “for all you have done these past moons is complain. About Oldtown, about Alicent’s kin, about Lord Harold and your squire, about the heat, the cold, the dust in the corridors, your quills being too pointed, your boots too stiff, your responsibilities too dull, everything under the sun. Your brother Viserys has lost two children in this span, two stillborn babes, and he does not complain half so much as you.”
“’Tis not my fault,” his youngest bit out, shoulders tensing as if preparing for war.
Baelon sighed heavily, the sound of a man stretched thin. “I know. And what I meant to say, Daemon, is that you ought not complain of everything. You are fortunate, blessed even. Your wife and child are healthy. You are hale and whole. You can live wherever you wish, here, at court or Oldtown, you can travel with your lady wife if your heart wishes, because there are no duties holding you rooted here. Far better than what your life would have been had you remained tied to Lady Rhea.”
Daemon grunted, which Baelon felt was as much agreement as he might get from him this early in the morn.
He glanced down at the ledger before him, intending and hoping, to turn their conversation toward the accounts, the keep expenditures, the movements of coin and grain. Daemon needed training, and Baelon meant to force him through it even if it gave him white hairs before his years.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Daemon beat him to it.
“There is something you should know.”
Baelon looked up sharply. “What?”
Daemon’s expression shifted. Hesitation, perhaps. Or distaste. He pressed his lips together, exhaled slowly, and straightened in his chair.
“It is about Gael.”
Baelon’s frown deepened instantly. “What about her?”
“She… may be with child,” his son seemed almost reluctant now, his eyes avoiding those of his father.
Baelon felt his heart drop to his boots. “Daemon,” he said slowly, dread thickening his voice, “what did you do?”
Daemon recoiled as if slapped. “Nothing!” His indignation rang loud in the solar. “I have not taken another woman to my bed since I wed Alicent. Not one. ’Tis not me.” He threw his hands up. “I thank you for your unshakeable belief in your son. It seems I’m not like your precious Viserys.”
Baelon dragged a hand over his face. “Spit out what you have to say, boy. I have no strength for your theatrics this morn.”
Daemon glowered but leaned forward. “Gael told Alicent about some wretched singer who fooled her into, well-” He rolled his eyes. “Into kissing him with her hips.”
Baelon blinked. “What?”
“He bedded her, father,” Daemon snapped. “The girl had not the faintest idea she was being bedded. She lacks the wits of a sparrow. According to Alicent, Gael has missed her moonsblood and has symptoms of being with child.”
Baelon closed his eyes, pain slicing through him like a blade. “Gods be good.”
Daemon folded his arms, impatience in every line of him. “Anyway,” he said brusquely, “give me the ledger you wished me to study. I’ll look through it.”
Baelon’s eyes flew open. “Now you choose to listen? Now?”
Daemon stood and strode toward the desk. “If you believed I could be unfaithful to my lady wife, and worse, that I could bed your sister, then I may as well prove my worth and be the scholar you always wished.”
“Daemon, wait-” Baelon began, rising to his feet. “I did not-”
But Daemon was already gone, sweeping from the solar with long, purposeful strides, the ledger tucked beneath his arm. The door shut with a heavy thud.
Baelon stood motionless for several breaths, staring at the empty threshold where his son had been. He sank slowly back into his chair, rubbing both hands over his weary face.
Chaos. Always chaos.
Why could our family not know peace for even a single moon? A single week? A single day? he thought.
The weight of impending scandal pressed upon him like a mountain. Gael, poor, sweet, simple Gael, pregnant out of wedlock. The court would be merciless. Jaehaerys and Alysanne would be livid. The singer must be found or silenced.
The truth must be hidden or explained. And gods help them all if word slipped to the Faith, who still watched every Targaryen misstep after Saera’s disgrace.
And on top of this storm, his own son felt wronged, felt accused, felt wounded by the mere thought that Baelon might believe him capable of such depravity. It seems I’m doing everything wrong these days.
Jaehaerys the Conciliator, greatest king Westeros had known since the Conquest, watched in silence as his son Baelon poured himself a second goblet of wine, not watered wine, but the strong red from the arbor that left the tongue warm and the mind dulled.
He noted the heaviness in Baelon’s shoulders, the pinched furrow between his brows, the way he drank not for taste but for solace. Trouble clung to him like a damp cloak.
They sat together in the king’s solar, before the great hearth. The flames crackled and spat, throwing orange light upon the woven tapestries depicting The Conquest, their dancing glow painting both father and son in flickering gold.
Normally, this chamber saw gentle talk, memories of old journeys, of dear Queen Alysanne, of the brood of children who had once run through the corridors like a river of silver hair and bright laughter. Though he believed those times to have gone past, with his grandsons having more children, he believed those times would soon be back.
Jaehaerys sighed deeply. “I have been king for many long years. Years in which I curbed the Faith, soothed the wounds of the realm, and forged peace where chaos had once reigned. I have built something-kept something-that I might pass down untarnished to my children. Yet I never learned the art of reading minds.” His gaze rested on Baelon. “So tell me, what burdens you, son?”
Baelon let out a short, humorless chuckle. “If you did possess that ability, father, I would that I had inherited it.”
Jaehaerys scoffed lightly. “We mortals yearn for too many things. Powers we ought not wield, wisdom we are not ready for.”
Baelon looked down at his goblet before speaking again. “There is… something I meant to tell you.”
Something in his tone tightened the king’s spine. Jaehaerys knew that sound well. Years of rulership, of war, of rebellion, had sharpened his sense for approaching storms. His jaw tightened the faintest measure.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
Baelon rubbed at his forehead. A small gesture, but one that did not escape the king.
Jaehaerys exhaled sharply through his nose. “Did Viserys do something foolish? Have I not told the boy to be patient with Aemma? He is eager for a son, yes, but a womb must take its time. Bedding the poor girl day and night will not hasten the Gods. Look at Daemon, he had been more patient and we both know he lacks it.”
Baelon shook his head with a faint smile. “No, that is not it.”
“I do not enjoy guessing,” Jaehaerys said firmly.
Baelon nodded, swallowing. “It is about Gael.”
Immediately, dread pooled in the king’s belly. His youngest daughter, sweet, innocent, simple-minded Gael, was the most fragile of his brood. She was Alysanne’s darling, the child of late years and fading strength, beloved by all. Trouble touching her was trouble that touched the entire family.
“What about her?” Jaehaerys asked, voice quieter now.
Baelon looked him in the eye. “Promise me you will assess this matter carefully.”
The King bristled. “I did not live this long for my sons to instruct me on judgment. Speak plainly, boy.”
Baelon drew in a slow breath. “A few moons past, at little Baelon’s nameday feast, Gael met a singer. She fell for him. And, he professed his love for her and-”
Jaehaerys raised a hand sharply, rising from his chair before the rest of the tale could spill forth. He turned toward the hearth, staring into the flames with a rigid back. He did not need to hear more.
He had seen this pattern before, through his other daughter, through the women of court, through the reckless songsters and silver-tongued men who drifted through the Keep like the plague. Though Saera was not one to fall for foolishness, she was the perpetrator of mischief. I suppose one thing is as bad as the other, he mused.
His worst fear settled heavily upon his shoulders. “Did he rape her?” Jaehaerys asked flatly.
“Not that I know of,” Baelon replied quickly. “Gael had no idea what was being done to her. She believes it was love.”
Jaehaerys closed his eyes. A greater tragedy than violence was innocence twisted into folly.
“And how did this come to light?” he asked.
“Gael told Alicent,” Baelon answered. “And Alicent told Daemon. I heard it from him this morn.”
Jaehaerys nodded slowly, staring into the flames. It seems that from my children and grandchildren, Baelon and Daemon had been more apt, the latter starting to listen to his wife. Viserys is a blubbering fool who acts like a breeding stallion when he ought not to. Rhaenys was still plagued by bitterness after being overpassed as heir, but fyre would sooner light his pyre before he let the Velaryons tains the Iron Throne with their blood. And Corlys is a proud man.
A long silence stretched between them.
Baelon, thinking it best to press gently, tried, “Father, please, allow Gael to wed-”
“Wed?” Jaehaerys whirled around, fury crackling off him like heat from the hearth. “Wed? Wed whom? That faithless wretch of a singer? A lord or a knight? And for what? So she may birth a bastard beneath our roof? So that bastard, grown to manhood years hence, might claim right to the Iron Throne your sons and grandsons shall inherit? Have you lost your wits?”
Baelon said nothing, lips tightening.
Jaehaerys strode toward him. “Do you think this is about love? About some girlish fancy or the whims of your own heart, or your mother’s? It is not. The crown cannot-will not-permit the stain of bastardy within our line.”
Baelon opened his mouth, but the king cut him off.
“Not because the Faith would howl,” Jaehaerys said bitterly. “Let them howl. I care naught for septons in their starry halls. But bastards…” His eyes burned with a terrible knowledge, the kind born from decades upon the throne. “Baelon, bastards are seeds of ruin. Maybe not today. Maybe not in your life, nor in mine. But one day, one ill harvest, one weak king, one season of discord, and that bastard’s blood will rise up claiming right. And the realm will split. Targaryen against Targaryen. Fire against fire. Do you not see? All we built, all we strove for during years of peace, would crumble into dust because we spared one child born out of wedlock.”
He raked a hand through his silver beard in weary frustration. “The Seven are not sending me these torments. Nay, it is the Fourteen Flames of accursed Valyria testing the last strength of my bones.” He stared past Baelon as though looking at ghosts. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “I wonder what would have become of us if Aegon the Conqueror had remained upon Dragonstone.” He sighed. “Perhaps the Fourteen wished that path for us.”
But he shook himself back to the present, jaw firming. Jaehaerys Targaryen did not dwell long in hopeless thoughts.
He met Baelon’s eyes again. “Summon the Grand Maester. Now. And tell this to no one.”
Baelon rose from his chair. “But mother-”
“Have you grown deaf?” Jaehaerys barked. “No one. This matter will be handled quietly and swiftly.” He leveled a stern gaze at his son. “Do you understand me?”
Baelon’s jaw flexed, grief and obedience warring behind his eyes. At last, he nodded. Without another word, bowed his head, and strode from the solar, the heavy door closing behind him with a mournful groan.
Left alone, Jaehaerys let out a long, slow breath.
He walked back to his chair, a chair he had occupied for more years than some men lived, and sank into it as though into deep water. His hands, once steady enough to hold a sword, trembled faintly now. He stared into the fire, seeing not the logs but the fragile threads binding his family.
Threads that frayed more each year.
A week had passed since Daemon had unburdened himself to his father about Gael’s folly with the singer, and in that span the princess had grown ever more reclusive. She did not break her fast with them, nor sup in the evenings, nor walk the gardens with Alysanne and Alerye as was her wont.
Her absence had been lightly excused at first, a sickly humored maid, a faintness brought by the heat, the soft vapors of a girl too sheltered, yet each morn the seat Queen Alysanne’s right hand remained bare, and Alicent, who sat opposite, could not look upon that empty place without wondering what could have transpired.
On the eighth morn, the royal family gathered at table. Silver dishes steamed with honeyed porridge, sausages, baked capon pie, various fruits cut into perfect cubes, flagons of apple and peach juice, buttery bread, milk bread and little sweet pies. Yet it was the silence that weighed upon them.
One chair stood stark and untouched.
“Where is Gael?” King Jaehaerys narrowed his pale eyes at it.
Baelon sipped his watered wine, avoiding his father’s gaze. “Perhaps breaking her fast in her chambers. She has been unwell as you well know.”
Jaehaerys pinned him with a cold stare. “Have you not summoned her? You know I expect the family to break our fasts together.”
“Jaehaerys, please. The girl… has been through enough, ” Alysanne set down her fork with a sigh.
He leveled her with a look. The king barked. “ Ser Ryam!”
The Lord Commander stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Fetch the princess Gael at once.”
Ryam inclined his head and withdrew.
No one spoke. The only noises were Viserys chewing too loudly and the occasional clink of cutlery. Aemma also had little to no appetite, and the Rogue had the decency to always eat elegantly, unlike his older brother who continued stuffing his face with small sausages. Alicent felt Daemon’s knee brush hers beneath the table and she looked at him. He offered her a small smile, and they resumed picking at their food.
Minutes dragged, each slower than the last.
At length Ser Ryam returned, unnaturally pale, his jaw clenched, breath short as if he had run.
“Your Grace…” he said hoarsely, “the princess is not in her chambers.”
“Where is she?” Jaehaerys frowned.
“Not there, nor with her maids, none of whom know where she has gone. We searched all of Maegor’s Holdfast.”
Alysanne’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming with dread.
Daemon looked sharply between his grandparents, then to Alicent. She leaned toward him, whispering low so only he could hear: “Go. Look for her.”
Daemon nodded, rose at once, and bowed. “Grant me leave, grandsire. She may have wandered into some alcove for solitude. I shall fetch her back.”
Alysanne’s voice trembled. “Go, Daemon, please.”
He strode out with a small bow, passing by Ryam.
No sooner had he left than Baelon stood as well. “I will search with him. Viserys, come.”
“Hmpf?” Viserys mumbled with a mouthful of sausage, then choked, sputtering. Baelon thumped his back until the morsel came free.
Viserys blinked watery eyes, gulped air, and nodded. “Right. Searching.”
“Be careful,” Aemma whispered and Viserys nodded.
Alicent kept her expression neutral, though inwardly she felt a cold coil of fear settle beneath her breastbone. Gael rarely wandered any place, and even less, leaving Maegor’s Holdfast alone.
Daemon’s boots struck the stones of Maegor’s Holdfast with sharp, purposeful sound. He tore through the Queen’s Garden first, his eyes sweeping for any glimpse of pale silk or a nervous maid. Nothing. He checked the Maidenvault, empty. He questioned the guards at the East Gate, the servants who swept the galleries, the septa who lingered by the library.
No one had seen Gael.
Unease pooled sharp in his gut. He knew that girl’s timorous nature, she cried when she split a nail, trembled when Caraxes roared from across the bay. Gael wandering alone was odd enough. Gael wandering unseen was near unthinkable.
He crossed the second yard, then the third, then he went back again, driven by a prickling instinct that pulled him toward the outer walls, toward the towers overlooking the Blackwater. A wind swept in from the bay, carrying the smell of salt and the faint cry of gulls. Daemon’s steps slowed.
Ahead rose the White Sword Tower. Beside it, the steep stair that snaked up to the battlements.
He mounted the steps two at a time. At the top, he paused. The wind whipped his cloak around him. From here the view stretched far, the Blackwater Bay sprawling beyond, the ships like scattered toys on the green water.
“Gael?” His voice carried, but only the gulls answered.
He strode along the battlements, peering over the crenellations. No slight form hid in shadow. No pale-haired princess stood wringing her hands. Yet something felt wrong. A wrongness he could neither name nor shake.
He approached the northernmost corner overlooking a patch of green within the inner ward. He leaned forward and a heap of white caught his eye.
Daemon jerked back as though scalded.
His throat worked, but no sound came. He turned and descended the stairs, fast, too fast, nearly bounding down them four at a time. His breath hitched though he was no man to lose breath. He crossed the yard in long strides, seized a horse by the mane, unsaddled, and mounted without thought.
The stablehands called after him, but Daemon did not hear. He rode hard toward the outer greensward beyond the Keep’s shadow. Grass bent under hoofbeats. The wind tore at his hair. His heart pounded a grim as he galloped through the Hook, past Fishermonger Square and through the River Gate, and looped around following the outer walls. When he reached the spot he had marked from above, he dismounted, boots sinking slightly in the dew-soft ground.
There, in the grass, lay the still body of his aunt, blood nurturing the soil from her cracked head.
“Fourteen save us…” he muttered, though he was not a pious man.
He did not shout for guards. There was no need, when the Stranger had already been there. So he took off his long cloak, and put it over her frail body, wrapping her as if she were a babe. He frowned, lifting her over his shoulder. He demanded his horse to kneel on it’s front legs, and the stallion did as bidden, sensing death in the air, so disobedience was out of question.
He mounted again, slower this time, and turned his horse back toward the Red Keep.
The gold cloaks recognized him at once, though their faces twisted with confusion when they saw he carried no saddle, only that bundle held close as one might cradle a child. The Commander of the City Watch himself hurried forth to unbar the inner bronze gate, bowing low, though his eyes lingered upon Daemon’s arms with a question he did not dare utter.
The Rogue said nothing, for words seemed a feeble thing, useless in the face of what he carried. He pressed his heels to the horse’s flanks and ascended the narrow lane toward the serpentine steps.
Once there, he dismounted stiffly, ignoring the stable boy who came running to take the reins. With the cloak still in his arms, he climbed the steps, slowly now, for each pace felt heavier than the last.
The wind followed him into Maegor’s Holdfast, slipping beneath doors and through torch sconces, whispering against the stone as if bearing tidings on its breath. Daemon strode into the passage that led to Gael’s chambers, where a lone guard stood near the archway, shifting uncomfortably as if he sensed some ill in the air.
Daemon fixed him with a hard look.
“Summon the king,” he said, his voice low but carrying its own command. “Now. ’Tis important.”
The guard straightened instantly, eyes widening. “At once, My Prince.” He turned and sprinted down the corridor, boots echoing with each step.
Daemon entered Gael’s chamber alone.
He had been here only a handful of times in his life, for Gael preferred her soft little world of songs and embroidery, her quiet corners and her harmless fancies.
The solar bore her nature plainly: ribbons folded neatly upon the table, a half-finished tapestry stretched upon its frame, the soft scents of lavender water wafting from an open vial. A book of poems lay on a cushioned chair, as though she had left it but moments before.
Yet now the space felt hollow, as though the girl’s spirit had been drawn out of it, leaving nothing but pale shadows behind.
The Rogue did not dare enter her bedchamber. He set the bundle gently upon the settee and stepped back, not daring to uncover it. The very thought made his stomach twist.
Footsteps sounded beyond the door. The guard’s voice murmured an announcement, and then King Jaehaerys entered, his face set in a grim resolve Daemon had rarely seen.
Queen Alysanne followed close behind, leaning upon her carved cane, though she hardly seemed aware of it; she pushed forward with a mother’s urgency, her breath sharp, her cheeks pale with dread.
“Where is my girl?” she asked as soon as she entered, her voice thin and trembling. “Daemon, you found her? Tell me, tell me you found her.”
“I did.” The second son of Baelon said and the King pressed his lips looking at the settee.
“Thank you, my sweet boy.” She reached toward him with a trembling smile, as though clinging to hope by sheer force of will.
But Daemon only looked to Jaehaerys, and the shake of his head was slight yet devastating.
Alysanne froze, her hand still half-extended. Her pale eyes darted between husband and grandson.
“What?” she whispered. “What is this? Why do you look so? Where is Gael?”
Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of all his usual bravado.
“Your Grace,” he said to her, “there was nothing I could do.”
Alysanne backed away a step, shaking her head furiously. “No… no, not my sweet girl. Daor.” Her voice cracked, returning to High Valyrian, and she clutched her cane with both hands, as though the world itself had tilted beneath her.
Daemon moved to her side, reaching to guide her to a chair, but she pulled away sharply.
“Daor,” she said again, breath coming in short bursts. “I wish to see her. I must see her.”
Jaehaerys closed his eyes and turned away from the settee. Daemon swallowed hard as he helped her near the cloaked shape. He bent, lifting only the very edge of the cloak’s corner, revealing just enough for Alysanne to glimpse what lay beneath.
The queen’s knees buckled.
She let out a sound that did not seem human, not a wail nor a cry, but something softer and far more broken, the sound of a heart cleaving in two. She collapsed onto the cushioned settee beside the bundle, pressing a hand over her mouth as sobs tore out of her.
Daemon remained beside her, his hand hovering helplessly above her shoulder but not daring to touch unless she allowed it.
Jaehaerys stood rigid as stone, his face a mask carved of grief and fury intermingled. His eyes did not touch the cloaked figure, for the old king seemed to fear the breaking of his restraint. Instead he began giving orders.
Time seemed to stretch thin as thread around them.
When at last Alysanne could cry no more, when she lay slumped over the coverlet in exhausted sorrow, Daemon stepped back quietly and left the room.
He did not remember walking through the corridors. He moved as though in a dream, as though the world had dulled around him.
Only when he reached the familiar carved door of Alicent’s chamber did he pause. He breathed once, twice, gathering the remnants of himself, then pushed inside.
The room was warm, scented faintly with oranges and bitter almonds. My wife’s scent. A small fire crackled in the hearth. His son, little Baelon, toddled along the low table, clinging to its edge with fat fingers, a bright red stuffed dragon squeezed under his arm.
His mismatched eyes were alight with delight, and a string of babbled words spilled from his lips as he waddled along his chosen path.
Alicent rose at once when she saw Daemon. “Valzȳrys,” she breathed, reading the sorrow etched into his features.
The Rogue managed a weak smile. “Ābrazȳrys.”
Little Baelon shrieked when he saw him, waving his dragon in the air. “Kepa!”
Daemon could not help but grin. He strode forward, scooping the boy up in one swift motion and tossing him gently into the air. Baelon squealed with laughter, his little legs kicking, his tiny fingers gripping Daemon’s collar.
“How fares my brave boy, hm?” Daemon asked, kissing the boy’s cheek.
Baelon giggled and pointed toward the window. “I wan' Calaxes!”
Daemon lifted a brow. “Caraxes is sleeping, my little dragon. Tomorrow.”
Baelon’s face screwed into a frown. “Daor.”
Daemon laughed softly, the sound thin but genuine. He kissed the boy again, then set him down carefully. The toddler toddled off immediately toward the settee where Daemon tossed the stuffed red dragon. Baelon shrieked with delight and climbed deftly onto the settee, plopping onto his bottom as he claimed his toy triumphantly.
Alicent watched them with a small, gentle smile. “You are very mean to your son.”
“Am I now?” Daemon murmured, stepping closer to her.
He leaned down and kissed her softly. His hands rose to cup her face, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones, as though the simple touch could anchor him.
“What news of Gael?” Alicent looked into his eyes, searching.
“None that brings comfort,” Daemon shut his eyes briefly, then shook his head.
Alicent’s lips parted with a quiet exhale. She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and leaned her head against his chest. Daemon held her close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
They stood like that in the quiet of the solar, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound. Little Baelon’s laughter echoed faintly around them as he clutched his red dragon and smacked it against the cushions with gleeful abandon.
“Caraxes, Caraxes,” the little boy chanted.
Alicent closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of Daemon, leather, smoke, the faintest hint of cloves from the oils she ensured scented his clothing. She felt the tension in him drawn taut beneath the weight of a sorrow he did not yet know how to voice.
She whispered, “I am sorry.”
Daemon did not answer immediately. His hand stroked absently through her long hair, and his breathing steadied.
“She was only a girl.”
Alicent tightened her hold around him. “And the world was never kind to gentle souls.”
He bowed his head, resting his forehead atop hers.
Notes:
From 99 AC to 120 AC, we roughly know that it is summer, because canonicaly Gael is said to have died of summer fever.
I think Jaehaerys made a good point, because a king knows what he talks about and he knows, that soon or late, when you let a loose end untied, it will unravel the whole tapestry. Let that sink in.
I'm not sure if everyone understood from the little tiny bits from this chapter, but Jaehaerys ordered the Grand Maester to give Gael moontea, to get rid of the child and the singer was caught and executed (quietly).
Also, anyone else likes Bloodraven? Because I think, I've managed to get a new man, besides Daemon and Tywin, so who knows... maybe we will have a fic with Bloodraven too next year.
Join my discord if you would like to chat about this fic or any of the other fics in real time: https://discord.gg/3saUHrZqye
Chapter 8: You Made a Home of Me
Chapter Text
King’s Landing, ninth moon of the year 99 AC
If there was one thing Otto Hightower found himself loathing beyond reason, it was that his first grandson bore the unmistakable stamp of Prince Daemon so plainly that no amount of time or prayer seemed able to soften it.
From the moment the boy had drawn breath, his hair had shone pale as moonlit silver, his daughter and brother had informed him via letters, not the honeyed gold Otto had once hoped might assert itself with the passing of moons.
Each moon that followed only deepened the insult. The child’s hair did not darken, it only grew brighter, finer, and more Valyrian, as though the blood of Oldtown had been swallowed whole by the dragon’s seed.
And swallowed it did, he thought with an unsatisfied scowl.
Otto had watched the boy with a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with affection. Though he was proud his daughter managed to produce a son, for it meant he will be king once the eldest son of Baelon passed away, and this son would wed Princess Rhaenyra; he disliked how much the boy took after his father.
Little Baelon’s eyes, those mismatched eyes so prized among the royal family, were a constant reminder that Daemon’s presence could not be diluted, not by duty, not by marriage, not even by time.
At moments, Otto thought bitterly that it was as if Daemon had birthed the babe himself, so complete was the likeness. And the boy inherited the scoundrel’s mother’s mismatched eyes, he mused. The little Baelon’s small mouth set in the same stubborn line when displeased, his hands clenched with the same restless energy when his father would not take him on his dragon.
Though the Gods did take pity on the Master of Laws, the boy was of a lesser temper than his cousin Rhaenyra, and could be persuaded into quietness.
It angered Otto beyond measure, for if the child grew not only into his father’s looks but also into his father’s temper and recklessness, then the work set before him would be long, arduous, and thankless.
Dragons, Otto knew, were never tamed by force alone; they required careful handling, patience, and, above all, leverage. And leverage was a thing he was ever seeking.
He had advised, sensibly he thought, that little Baelon share a nursery with his cousin Rhaenya, Viserys’ daughter, that the children might grow accustomed to one another from the cradle.
Familiarity bred bonds, and bonds bred influence. Yet even this small scheme had been thwarted by circumstance.
The girl cried day and night, as infants were wont to do, but her wails were relentless, piercing, and enough to disturb Baelon’s rest, though she was one year older than the boy.
Alicent, protective and newly firm in her convictions, had ordered the boy moved to a separate nursery, attended by nurses of her own choosing.
Otto had not protested openly. He had learned, of late, that open protest served him poorly where his daughter was concerned.
What vexed him further, what gnawed at him like a rat behind the walls, was Daemon’s habit of strapping the child to his chest and taking him flying upon Caraxes, as though the sky itself were a cradle fit for an infant. And then the Hand and the King did the same, taking the little boy upon the wings of their beasts.
Almost every morning, the wretched prince did so, heedless of the looks cast by courtiers or the muttered prayers of septons. Otto had watched it more than once from a window, his mouth set in a thin line, as the great Blood Wyrm took to the air with rider and child alike.
Madness, Otto thought. Sheer, unbridled madness.
Yet he could not deny what his own eyes had seen in recent sennights. After his last conversation with Alicent, a conversation that had left him cold and proud in equal measure, he had witnessed, not once but twice, his daughter calming Daemon from the brink of some reckless impulse.
A word, a look, the lightest touch upon his arm, and the Rogue Prince had stilled, had listened. Alicent had assured Otto, in no uncertain terms, that she could steer her husband if she so said a word.
He had ruminated her words, pleased enough to accept the assurance. Now, he was not so certain whether that pleased him at all, if she could also steer the wretch against her very own father.
The court, meanwhile, was awash with grief. The passing of Princess Gael had cast a pall over the Red Keep, though the official tale spoke of Summer Fever, sudden and cruel. Otto knew better. His daughter knew better. And Daemon, who had found the girl, knew better than any. The truth, that Gael had taken her own life after losing a bastard babe, was buried beneath layers of silence and royal decree.
Otto scoffed inwardly whenever his thoughts strayed there. Simple-minded girl, he thought with no small measure of disdain. A gentle girl, but gentleness without sense was a liability, not a virtue. In a family like the Targaryens, such weakness was a death sentence.
Just like his son was a thorn in his side.
Gwayne Hightower had grown into his manhood with an enthusiasm Otto found deeply inconvenient. The boy, now a man in his own right, had developed a taste for attention, and worse, for indulgence.
The Master of Laws had been forced more than once to smooth matters over with coin and carefully chosen words, compensating fathers whose daughters’ honour had been lightly treated and easily bought back. Moon tea had flowed freely at Otto’s expense, and at that of his brother Hobert’s, whose patience was wearing thin.
It galled Otto that such foolishness should cost him gold, reputation, and time, all for the sake of a son who seemed determined to squander every advantage set before him.
With these thoughts heavy upon him, Otto walked the stone path of the courtyard, his hands clasped behind his back. He was bound for the Small Council chamber, where matters of coin, trade, and order awaited him, matters he understood and controlled. The sky above was clear, the sun bright, yet Otto felt no warmth from it.
As he neared the set of gates leading to the first courtyard where the Chamber was, his sharp eye caught sight of Gwayne standing with a lady beneath the shade of a tree. She was young, prettily dressed, her posture shy yet inviting. Gwayne leaned in too close, his expression too easy, his manner too familiar.
Otto ground his jaw and changed course at once.
“Forgive me for interrupting, mine son,” he said coolly as he approached, his gaze flicking to the lady, “and my lady. I must have a few words with my son, if you would excuse us.”
The lady flushed deeply, dipping into a hurried curtsy. “Of course, my lord, ser.” She withdrew at once, her steps quick and light, as though eager to escape scrutiny.
The moment she was out of earshot, Otto’s hand came down sharply upon the back of Gwayne’s head, not hard enough to wound, but enough to sting.
“Have you no shame?” Otto hissed. “How much money and moon tea must I pour over your whores before you learn restraint?”
Gwayne straightened, his cheeks flushed with more than embarrassment. “I am a man grown,” he protested, lifting his chin.
“Which means you are grown enough to be wed and to produce sons of your own. And if I so much as catch you philandering again, I will drag you into a sept myself and have you wed to your cousin Bethany,” Otto stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous calm.
“But Bethany is-”
“Quiet,” Otto snapped. “Since you are so eager to show your prowess in befriending others, then you shall be useful elsewhere. Befriend Prince Daemon.”
Gwayne’s eyes darted about the courtyard as if seeking rescue from the stones themselves. “But he hates me, father.”
Otto regarded him steadily, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he spoke.
“Then make certain he loves you more than he does his wife, son.”
He adjusted his tunic, smoothing its front as though nothing of consequence had been said, and turned on his heel. Without another glance back, Otto Hightower walked away, leaving his son standing beneath the tree, pale and uncertain.
Gwayne felt sweat prickle along the back of his neck long before he reached the library. The words his father had spoken clung to him like damp wool, heavy and suffocating, each step he took echoing Otto’s command in his mind.
Befriend Prince Daemon. Make him love you more than he does his wife. The very thought sat ill with him, for there were easier ways to spite one’s father than throwing oneself into the jaws of a dragon.
How could a prince love me? Such a queer thought. Is my father so eager to get rid of me? he thought with a frown marring his young face. He was eight and ten, not five namedays.
He resented how his father sought to pull his strings still, as though Gwayne were a green boy barely loosed from his nurse’s teat, rather than a knight, sworn and blooded, of an age to do as he pleased.
He had tasted freedom of late, and found it intoxicating. The warmth of a woman’s body, the softness of her skin beneath his hands, the way desire could quiet every other thought, these were pleasures he had no wish to relinquish.
Yet Otto spoke of duty and marriage, of Bethany Hightower, dull as dirt and twice as tedious, a girl with empty eyes and no thought in her head at all.
Alicent had never liked Bethany. That alone was enough for Gwayne to despise the notion.
He paused before the heavy oak doors of the library, drew in a breath, and pushed them open.
The familiar scent of parchment and dust washed over him, a sharp contrast to the sunlit courtyard he had left behind. The library stretched wide and deep, rows upon rows of shelves rising like silent sentinels, their spines marked with the accumulated wisdom of decades and centuries.
Gwayne walked slowly, his boots quiet upon the carpeted floor, glancing from left to right. He knew Daemon’s habits well enough by reputation.
If the prince sought respite from the court, he came here, not to the histories of Westeros, but to the tales of Old Valyria, to dragonlords and lost empires.
Gwayne headed that way at once, only to find the shelves filled with books, but the prince nowhere to be seen. His sister had mentioned that, beside dragonriding, Daemon loved most to read.
Gwayne had believed it folly, yet whenever he visited his sister’s chambers, and broke bread with her in the solar, there was always a large stack of books on one table far from the hearth.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, frustration mounting. Turning down another aisle, he found himself near the far edge of the library, where few ever ventured.
Here stood a small square of space between the shelves, furnished with four long tables and plain wooden chairs. It was a place for scholars and solitary readers, those who wished time to read in peace.
Yet something was amiss.
No guards lingered here, though they were usually present to tend the candles and ensure no flame was left to threaten the books. Upon one of the tables lay several volumes opened and abandoned, pages marked, a chair shoved back as though its occupant had risen in haste.
Gwayne frowned. He turned, intending to leave, when cold steel kissed the back of his neck.
“Are you following me, Hightower?” the voice was low, amused, and edged with danger.
Gwayne stiffened, his heart lurching into his throat. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands. “M-my Prince,” he stammered, recognizing his goodbrother’s voice, “I am not, I swear it. I only wished to seek your counsel. C-Can I turn around?”
A pause stretched, long enough for Gwayne’s palms to grow slick.
“Can you?” Daemon replied, mockery thick in his tone.
Gwayne swallowed and turned inch by inch. His eyes dropped at once to the blade hovering near his shoulder, Dark Sister, unmistakable in its slender, deadly grace. He forced a smile, thin and nervous.
“My Prince,” he said weakly, “you look, uh, dashing today.”
Daemon’s lips curled humorless. He sheathed the sword in one smooth motion and brushed past Gwayne as though he were no more than furniture. We’re of the same age, yet he is taller than me and his figure had filled to the proportions of the dragonlords of old, lithe but deadly, he thought sourly.
“Your sister said much the same, but she sucked my cock, so unless you plan on doing the same, make yourself scarce.”
Gwayne grimaced, heat flooding his face. My poor sister, having to be the wife of such a debauched creature, he thought with pity.
“My sister does that? Gods be good,” he blurted before sense caught up with him. “That is such a debasing act for a lady of her station. And no, I-”
Daemon dropped into a chair, boots propped upon the table, reclaiming his book. He grunted.
“No, she’s too pious for that. But one of these days she’ll wake with something to suck in her mouth. Now go, before I relieve your sister of another brother.”
“You killed George?” Gwayne blinked, his heart lurching in his chest. I don’t have my sword with me and even if I did, the prince would make quick work of me with his Valyrian steel.
“I wish. I told him to fuck off. The boy has no mind of his own. I see you fare little better,” Daemon snorted.
Gwayne shifted his weight, unease gnawing at him, yet he did not retreat. He cleared his throat.
“Well, uh, I actually needed your help.”
Daemon looked up then, purple-violet eyes sharp and dangerous. “And what am I? The Mother?” He scoffed. “Fuck off before I feed you to Caraxes. And I will tell him to chew you slowly.”
Gwayne chewed at his bottom lip, nerves fraying, until Daemon’s gaze darkened, murder glinting there. The words tumbled out of him in a rush.
“I want to piss off my father.”
Slowly, the Rogue tilted his head, studying Gwayne with newfound interest. His lips pursed, then curved into something like a smile. He set the book aside and leaned forward.
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” he said with a smirk. “I do so enjoy ruining that cunt’s day.”
Gwayne exhaled, relief mingling with anticipation. He disliked the crass way the prince spoke, but at least for a second, he stopped threatening to kill him. He gestured awkwardly to a chair. The Rogue rolled his eyes and waved a hand, granting permission. Gwayne sat.
“I need you,” he said haltingly, “to take me to a pleasure house,” color crept up Gwayne’s neck.
Daemon stared at him, unimpressed. “And?” he said flatly, eyebrows raised. He leaned back in pure disinterest. “You don’t know your way around Flea Bottom?”
“It is not that,” Gwayne hurried to explain. “I know where they are. I simply, my father hears of everything. I need it to be seen. Known. I need it to reach his ears in a way that will truly vex him.”
“A shite plan. Did he send you here?” Daemon huffed impatiently, a sharp sound of disdain.
“No. No, my prince, he did not.” Gwayne straightened at once, shaking his head too quickly.
Daemon narrowed his eyes. “Then speak. You waste my time.”
Gwayne swallowed, then let out a breath. “I have been, uh, a bit indiscreet with a few ladies. Nothing untoward, nothing that would shame my house, well it kind of did since-”
“If Otto Cunttower is involved, then it shames the house by virtue alone.” Daemon snorted.
Gwayne grimaced. “My father discovered as much, or suspects it. He threatened me. Said that if I do not cease my philandering, he will have me wed to my cousin.”
“Bethany,” Daemon’s mouth twisted.
“Yes,” Gwayne said miserably. “You recall her?”
“Fat, dumb Bethany,” Daemon replied without hesitation.
“That one,” Gwayne winced.
Daemon leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “So what is it you want for: to be caught or not?”
“Not.”
“And now you wish my help to keep your cock wet without your father noticing. Have I the right of it?”
Gwayne flushed, but nodded. “I do not wish to be leashed. I want to live as I please. You have done so for years, before you wed my sister. You moved unseen, untouched by consequence. Hopefully-”
“Hopefully what?” Daemon cut in sharply.
“Hopefully, you have remained loyal to her.” Gwayne hesitated, then lifted his gaze.
Daemon barked out a laugh. “Oh, your sister has one hell of an arse, I’ll tell you that, very shapely, you’d think she’s all a stick because she has no teats, but the Gods have blessed her with an ample behind and shapely thighs. I would not trade a hundred whores for her.”
“I did not wish to know that,” Gwayne recoiled, face twisting.
“Then next time,” Daemon sneered, “shut your trap.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unease. Gwayne shifted in his seat, fingers twisting together. “So?” he ventured at last.
“So?” Daemon echoed.
“Will you help me?”
“And how, pray tell, does this piss your father off?” Daemon tilted his head.
Gwayne gestured vaguely. “If he has no proof, then he cannot force me to wed Bethany. If I am careful, discreet-”
Daemon hummed, thoughtful. He reached for the books scattered across the table, snapping them shut with decisive finality. “Tonight, I’ll show you what it is to be a real man,” he said. “If you have the stones.”
“I do.”
“Fine,” he said at last, rising. “But first, I need to meet the king.”
“Y-you’ll tell His Grace?” Gwayne blanched, rising as well.
Daemon thrust the books into Gwayne’s arms with enough force to stagger him.
“No, you dolt,” he snapped. “I’ll visit the king because your sister spends her hours there, with little Baelon.” He paused, something softer flickering briefly across the Rogue’s face. “My grandsire loves that child with all his heart. Took him upon Vermithor this morn, as proud as if he’d conquered Dorne himself.”
“Oh. Well. Little Baelon is a most precocious child. Alicent told me he knows the verses of a Valyrian song?” Gwayne exhaled in relief.
Daemon smiled then, a genuine thing, unguarded. “He does. Hāros Bartossi. He can speak the first two verses well enough-why am I telling you this?” he scowled. “Put the books back and come meet me.”
“Where?” Gwayne asked, scrambling after him.
The Rogue glanced over his shoulder. “Are you always this daft? Outside the king’s apartments.”
“You’ll tell my sister?” Gwayne nodded, then hesitated.
Daemon stopped short and turned. “Of course I will. If word reaches her that I’ve been seen in Flea Bottom, she will bar her cunt and never let me touch her again.” He smirked, slow and wicked. “And there is no place I love more than the one between your sister’s thighs.”
He winked and sauntered away, silver hair catching the light. Gwayne made a strangled sound and turned back to the shelves, replacing the books with shaking hands.
The second son of Baelon the Brave entered the king’s solar upon quiet feet, the heavy door closing behind him with a muted thud.
At once the warmth of the chamber settled upon him, not only from the hearth where embers glowed, but from the scene itself, so gentle and unguarded that it struck him harder than any rebuke ever had.
Jaehaerys sat in a high-backed chair near the fire, a book resting open upon his knee. Little Baelon was perched upon his great-grandsire’s lap, stout legs dangling, his small arms wrapped about a red plush dragon that looked much the worse for being gnawed and dragged across half the Keep.
The child’s eyes, Alyssa’s mismatched eyes, were trained upon the old king’s face with such devotion that Daemon felt something tighten in his chest. His son wore a tiny doublet, of gold and red, red stockings and tiny boots that had been discarded on the floor from the looks of it.
Jaehaerys read in a steady voice, softened by age yet rich with command. He spoke of dragons and laws alike, of old Valyria and the customs of Westeros, weaving tales and rules together as though they were one and the same.
Little Baelon listened as though each word were meant solely for him.
Nearby, Alicent sat upon a cushioned chair, embroidery laid carefully across her lap. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, silver needle flashing as it passed through fabric.
She looked peaceful, composed, the light catching in her hair and turning it almost silver. From time to time she glanced up, her gaze lingering on her son and the king, a small, private smile curving her lips.
Ever since Queen Alysanne had chosen to remain upon Dragonstone after Gael’s death, the Red Keep had felt subtly altered, as though a pillar had been removed and all the air shifted in response.
Daemon had sworn, more than once, that he would visit his grandmother. Yet a moon had passed, and still he had not mounted Caraxes for the journey. Each time he thought to go, he found himself lingering instead, by Alicent’s side, by Baelon’s cradle, by the familiar rhythm of his days.
I am growing softer, he thought, the realization scraping against his pride.
The sound he made, a low grunt, carried further than he intended.
Baelon’s head snapped up at once. “Kepa!” the boy squealed, the word still clumsy upon his tongue but unmistakable in its meaning. He squirmed in Jaehaerys’ lap, little feet kicking, dragon plushie clutched tight against his chest.
“Your Grace, Lady Wife,” he bowed, then opened his arms. “Ñuha Baelon,” he said warmly, crossing the room in long strides. Daemon smiled despite himself.
“He has been most attentive, I dare say he listens better than half my council.” Jaehaerys chuckled as Daemon reached them.
The Rogue scooped the boy up with ease, lifting him high and tossing him gently into the air once, twice. Baelon shrieked with delight, his laughter bright and ringing, before Daemon caught him again and pressed him firmly to his chest.
“And are you enjoying your grandsire’s reading?” Daemon murmured, brushing his nose against the child’s hair.
Little Baelon babbled happily and buried his face into the crook of his father’s neck.
“He does,” Jaehaerys said. “Anything to do with dragons holds him fast. Yet I have lately begun reading him the laws of Westeros, in the common tongue. He seems no less interested.”
The Rogue raised a brow, glancing down at his son. “A scholar, are you now?” he asked, tickling Baelon’s side.
The boy dissolved into giggles, clutching at Daemon’s sleeve with sticky fingers.
“Tell me, grandsire, who does he prefer? Vermithor or Vhagar?”
Jaehaerys scoffed softly, amusement lighting his lined face. “Your father insists it is Vhagar. But I would wager Vermithor holds the advantage. The dragon always purrs when I bring the boy near their snouts, and Vermithor seems most patient of all.”
“I pray Prince Baelon never hears that. Your father would take grievous offense, lord husband.” Alicent chuckled lightly without looking up from her work.
“He would indeed.” Daemon snorted. He shifted Baelon in his arms, then glanced at Jaehaerys. “I am here to speak with Alicent for a moment, if I may. Shall I leave the boy in your care?”
Jaehaerys nodded readily. “Of course. Set him down, he fancies climbing.”
The prince lowered Baelon to the floor. At once the child toddled toward Jaehaerys, dragon plushie dragging behind him, and clambered back up onto the old king’s lap with determined little grunts.
Daemon watched for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then turned to Alicent.
“May we talk?” he murmured.
She looked up at him then, her expression softening. The smile she gave him was small, tender, and it warmed him more than he cared to admit.
They moved toward a quieter corner of the solar, away from the hearth and the low murmur of Jaehaerys’ voice. Daemon took her hand without thinking, fingers lacing through hers.
“Do not raise your voice,” he whispered, leaning close. “But I need to take Gwayne to a pleasure house.”
Alicent closed her eyes and sighed, a sound caught somewhere between patience and long-suffering. When she opened them again, her gaze was scolding.
“What?” her whisper made him chew on his bottom lip, thankful that his father, in his good mind, matched him with her. She was a pious lady, but one thing she loathed was infidelity. And he had been most faithful to her, though her anger aroused him.
Daemon leaned closer still, his mouth near her ear. “Your father has been pressing him about marrying that fat and daft cousin of yours.”
“Bethany,” Alicent said flatly.
The Rogue nodded, his lips tracing the patch of skin accessible to him. “That one.” He squeezed her hand, lowering his voice further. “Your brother is a man grown. He wants the taste of flesh. I will show him Flea Bottom, ensure he learns discretion. Nothing more.”
“You must show him?” Alicent drew her head back, eyes flashing.
“Yes. Only to show him,” he smirked, leaned in again and brushed his nose lightly against her temple.
She withdrew her hand at once. “Good,” her voice was cool. “For if you dare touch another woman and bring shame upon me, you will find yourself bedding me twice a month only, just enough to ensure an heir, and naught more.”
“Fret not. I’ve no wish to be parted from your bed,” Daemon laughed under his breath.
“If I smell whore upon you, you may as well move your belongings back to your own chambers,” she fixed him with a look he enjoyed too much.
Then she turned and walked away, hips swaying beneath her gown with conscious grace. Daemon watched her go, jaw tightening as he suppressed a groan. Gods be damned, he thought, she knows exactly what she does to me.
Later, as he left the king’s solar, Daemon’s mood had shifted into something darker, into unadulterated need.
He found Gwayne waiting where he had been told, fidgeting like a boy rather than the knight he claimed to be.
“We leave at dusk,” Daemon bit out. “Dress plainly. No sigils.”
“Thank you, My Prince,” Gwayne nodded too eagerly.
“Do not thank me yet. You will learn quickly, or you will regret ever asking.”
As they parted to prepare, Daemon found his thoughts drifting back to the solar, to Baelon’s laughter, to Alicent’s steady presence, to the old king’s voice reading laws as though they were lullabies.
He had spent much of his life fleeing expectation, scorning duty, mocking order. Yet now, unbidden, it had found him all the same.
And he feared, faintly, that he no longer wished to escape it.
Alicent lay upon the bed, the silk sheets cool and smooth beneath her oiled skin, scents of oranges and almonds clinging to her, a small mercy against the weight of the summer heat.
The shutters stood ajar, allowing what little breeze there was to wander in from the Blackwater, though it carried with it the dull, oppressive warmth of the season rather than any true relief.
The chamber smelled faintly of rosemary and sage, bundles hung deliberately along the walls and near the hearth, their presence both precaution and comfort.
The Summer Fever had settled over King’s Landing like a curse. It stalked the narrow streets and crowded hovels beyond the Red Keep, sparing neither lowborn nor merchant, and the court had retreated inward like a wounded beast.
Those who coughed, who burned with heat or complained of aching limbs, were sent away at once, quarantined beyond the castle walls lest the sickness find purchase among the nobility and royal blood alike.
Alicent had been relentless in her caution. She scarcely left the Keep now, and when she did, it was only to the royal sept or the king’s solar, never without ensuring that those around her were hale.
She had reasoned with Daemon until her voice grew tired, but he had only bristled, pacing and scowling, muttering that the blood of the dragon did not sicken, that his line was forged in fire and could not be felled by a common fever.
She had told him that dragons or no, flesh was flesh, and even if he cared nothing for himself, he ought to care for their son. At that, he had stilled, though not without protest.
Even so, he had gone, cloaked and impatient, mere moments before, leaving the echo of his boots ringing in her ears.
Now, alone, Alicent let out a long breath.
Her hand drifted, unbidden, to the gentle swell of her belly. It was still slight enough to be concealed beneath loose gowns and careful posture, easily dismissed as the softness of good living.
She had allowed that misapprehension to persist, using the Summer Fever as her shield, remaining mostly within her chambers where fewer eyes lingered.
Daemon, for his part, had noticed the change and praised it with a candor that was entirely his own. He had remarked, once with a crooked grin, that she was finally eating as she ought, that her body was better for it.
She had scolded him gently for his words then, though a small smile had betrayed her fondness.
He was a man of temper and contradictions, her husband. Fierce and reckless, yet oddly attentive in ways that mattered.
Though she had always been lithe, he had long favored the fullness of her hips, the curve of her form, praising what she herself had once been self-conscious of.
It was a queer thing, to be seen so wholly and desired for it.
Lost in her thoughts, Alicent did not at first hear the subtle shuffle behind the panel set into the wall, the hidden door that allowed for quiet passage between chambers. It was only when a shadow crossed the floor that she stirred.
She turned her head and saw him standing there, half-lit by torchlight.
“Back so soon from your endeavours,” her voice was dry, though relief flickered beneath it.
Daemon grunted in reply, already shrugging out of his cloak. He tossed it carelessly onto the balcony beyond the shutters and doors, followed shortly by his boots, which struck the stone with dull thuds. He moved with the restless energy of a man dissatisfied.
“Your brother is a weak cunt,” he muttered.
“Why?” Alicent propped herself slightly on one elbow, arching a brow.
Daemon avoided her gaze as he crossed to the washstand, plunging his hands into the basin of water. He scrubbed them briskly, as though seeking to rid himself of irritation rather than grime.
“He would not go, not now, with this fever about.”
“I find that wise,” she could not help the small smile that touched her lips. Fear crept into your heart, thinking of our little boy sick, she gathered.
He huffed, water dripping from his fingers as he straightened and wiped them on a clean cloth. “He fears too much.”
“Or values his health,” she countered mildly.
“He is weak,” Daemon scoffed and began shedding his tunic and breeches, leaving them in a careless heap as he crossed the room bare-footed.
She raised an eyebrow higher.
He flopped down beside her on the bed with a sigh. “Fine,” he conceded. “Perhaps he should fear it. Hightowers are not known for surviving such things.”
She reached out then, resting her hand upon the firm plane of his stomach, feeling the steady warmth of him beneath her palm and the coarse hair tingling her skin.
“And you? Have no regard for yourself at all? You returned because he refused?”
Daemon looked affronted. “I do not heed the words of Andals,” he began, then faltered. His expression shifted, some of the fire ebbing. “I…I thought on what you said,” he admitted. “I have no wish to endanger little Baelon.”
Her fingers stilled, then resumed their gentle press. True to his character, he ended up saying something to ruin the night. “If you’re in want of squeezing something, my cock is just below-” she did not let him finish as she smacked his abdomen and put her hand on her lap.
He snorted and shifted closer. “Your brother required release all the same,” he continued carelessly. “I gave him the name of a servant, one who knows her craft.”
Alicent’s eyes narrowed. “A servant you know?”
Daemon glanced sidelong at her, lips twitching. “Long ago,” he said lightly. Then he leaned closer, pressing his body against hers, his forehead near her temple, his half-hard appendage pressed to her clothed hip. “Now I know only you. And I know you quite well,” he licked the shell of her ear.
She smiled, victorious, though she schooled her tone. “You do not.”
He frowned at that.
Before he could retort, she caught his hand and guided it gently to her belly, pressing his palm against the subtle curve there.
For a long moment, he said nothing. His fingers spread slightly, as though afraid to move too much, afraid to disturb something sacred. The bravado drained from his expression, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.
“There,” she murmured, switching to High Valyrian, knowing how much he prized it. “That is why I worry.”
Daemon swallowed. He shifted then, turning slightly so that he faced her more fully. One arm came under her head, drawing her closer, careful of her belly, as though instinct guided him more than thought. His forehead rested against hers.
“I do not fear sickness,” he said quietly. “But I fear loss.”
She closed her eyes at that, her free hand coming up to cradle his cheek.
“You have made a home of me,” he said against her hair, a tinge of vulnerability in his tone. “I was never meant for such a thing.”
She smiled, eyes still closed. “You think so low of yourself sometimes, I’ve no idea why. You’re a wonderful father and husband. How many ladies can boast that their husband only seeks relief only with their lady wife? How many ladies can boast that their husband is a dragon rider? A good swordsman and wielder of Dark Sister? Where is that vanity I love, hm?”
He snorted softly, though her words were like a balm to his heart. “It dwindled but for a moment.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him closer. “Then do not doubt yourself, as long as you are honorable and attentive towards your family, your son, and myself, I care not if you put the realm to torch.”
“What would your lordly father say?” he asked amused, while his hand rubbed circles on her belly, already thinking of the future. I will be a father once more, he thought with a small smile.
“Fuck Otto,” she murmured. For once, Daemon Targaryen did not argue, merely nodding his assent.
"That's my little Hightower," he kissed her cheek.
Notes:
As much as you can say you hate Otto for his canonical actions, and the conspiracy of Oldtown against the Targaryen line, you have to admit this man is hilarious by being himself and having Daemon as his son-in-law.
In canon, Bethany Hightower is the daughter of Ormund Hightower, but in my fic she is a cousin of Alicent and her brothers.
Prepare for a time jump!
Join my discord if you would like to chat about this fic or any of the other fics in real time: https://discord.gg/3saUHrZqye
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