Chapter Text
112 AC
Alicent Hightower cannot remember a time when the Red Keep wasn’t home.
She has walked its stone halls for years, knows the winding twists of its corridors, the quiet corners where shadows linger, and every echoing stair that leads from courtyard to tower. Along with her House, she has served the royal family faithfully, fulfilling her duties as Princess Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting with quiet diligence.
One would think her years at Rhaenyra’s side would have accustomed her to being in the presence of dragons.
And yet, when Syrax descends from the skies, her vast golden wings casting long shadows over the Dragonpit, her screech splitting the air, Alicent cannot help the sliver of trepidation that coils in her gut.
Magnificent creatures though dragons may be, living emblems of House Targaryen and the power it commands, only a fool would forget that such beasts can swallow a goat—or even a cow—whole, to say nothing of the fire they breathe.
And, of course, Rhaenyra would like her to climb atop one and fly.
“I believe I’m quite content as a spectator, thank you,” Alicent says, eyeing Syrax as the dragon lets out another shriek.
“You say that, yes—but you have absolutely no idea what you’re missing out on,” Rhaenyra says, climbing into the carriage after her. She swipes loose strands from her face, silver hair slipping free of its braids, cheeks flushed pink as the carriage begins to rattle down from Rhaeny’s Hill toward the Red Keep.
“The wind, the clouds, the view,” she sighs dreamily, before fixing Alicent with an imploring look. “If you’re afraid of falling, Syrax would never let that happen. She’s the most darling of dragons in the pit, and I promise we won’t be in the skies for long. You’d barely have time to blink before you’re back on solid ground.”
Alicent smiles despite herself, a small, indulgent curve of her lips as she shakes her head. “As glorious as that all sounds, have you forgotten that I’m dreadfully afraid of heights?”
Rhaenyra pulls a face. “You’re a Hightower. How can you be afraid of heights?”
Having her feet planted firmly on brick and stone is a stark contrast to clinging to a flying beast in the air, but Alicent isn’t about to argue. The princess has always been stubborn. Offering any opposing remark would only invite a debate that could last hours.
“I just am.”
“I suppose that is why you were not born a dragonlord,” Rhaenyra remarks with a grin. “I cannot imagine a life without Syrax—unable to fly, unable to be free in the skies.”
“If that were so,” Alicent says pertly, arching a brow, “you’d actually be on time for meetings of the Small Council—”
Rhaenyra snickers, and Alicent allows herself a small smile at her reaction before continuing, “—but ultimately, you’d still be a princess, with your respective duties and responsibilities… though I believe you’d still find a way to turn even that into an adventure.”
The princess’s smile fades, and she slumps against her seat, her riding leathers creaking with the movement. “Duty,” she mutters listlessly, glancing out of the shuttered windows. “Is that all I’m ever to do?”
Alicent’s brows knit as she considers the princess’s words. Born the daughter of a second son of the main branch of House Hightower, with a father who serves as Hand of the King, duty has been—and will always be—the sum of her world.
To imagine a life not shaped by it is… unfathomable.
She more than understands Rhaenyra’s position. A princess long accustomed to having her way—her father too occupied with matters of the realm, her mother largely confined to the birthing bed. Now, with her obligations drawing near, she baulks at the sudden curbing of the freedom she had enjoyed throughout her adolescence.
In her role as Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting—and as her dearest friend—it is Alicent’s responsibility to guide her.
“We all have a part to play, Rhaenyra,” she says softly, taking her hands in hers. “Duty may feel burdensome, but it’s what steadies us. Keeps us from losing our way.”
The princess sighs, exasperated. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand. Let’s not talk about it—I’ll be hearing it enough as it is,” she mutters, her voice heavy with weariness.
True enough, the moment they enter the queen’s chambers, Queen Aemma spares no time reminding her only child of her obligations in the birthing bed, the value their royal wombs hold, and that every labour she endures in childbirth is service to the realm.
From her corner in the room, Alicent does not miss the growing impatience and dissatisfaction barely concealed on Rhaenyra’s face with every word spoken.
It doesn’t take long before the princess reaches her limit. She offers her curt excuses and turns to leave, and just as Alicent is about to follow her out, the Queen’s mellow voice stops them both.
“Alicent, dear,” Queen Aemma calls gently, “would you mind staying for a little longer? It has been so dreadfully quiet of late.”
Rhaenyra frowns. “I can stay, mother—”
“Nonsense.” The Queen waves her off with a tired smile. “Aren’t you a cupbearer at a meeting of the Small Council? Alicent can keep me company.” Her Arryn blue eyes soften as they settle on her. “Won’t you, dear?”
Alicent inclines her head at once. “Certainly, your Grace.”
Satisfied, Queen Aemma shoos her daughter away. Rhaenyra lingers only long enough to cast them a sceptical glance before darting from the chamber, skirts whispering against the floor.
When they are alone at last, save for the quiet attendants moving about their respective tasks, Alicent crosses the room and takes the seat beside the Queen.
“Would you like me to read to you, My Queen?” she asks softly.
Queen Aemma’s face is pale, almost ghostly, even by Targaryen standards. Purple crescents shadow her eyes, a testament to sleepless nights and sorrow long endured. Her hair clings in stringy, damp strands, her features haggard, the soft lines sharpened by relentless exhaustion—the result of stillborn after stillborn, each lost babe draining a little more of her life.
And yet, despite it all, she remains gentle, warm, and kind—the Mother of the Realm. Her presence, even ragged and tired, radiates care and authority in equal measure.
Alicent’s thoughts drift briefly to the child the Queen carries now. She hopes with all her heart that this babe is the son the King has long desired, the heir who might secure the Targaryen line and ease some of the weight that has pressed on the royal household for so many years.
“No, no.” Queen Aemma sighs tiredly, setting her fan upon the table at her side. “I only wished to ask after my daughter. I try my best to impress upon her how important her role is as a daughter of the realm, yet I fear my own struggles have only made her shy away from it.” Her gaze settles on Alicent, searching but gentle. “You are of age. I am sure you understand.”
Alicent nods quietly, listening intently.
“Once the Lord Hand finds you a suitable match, I have no doubt you will do your duty well,” the Queen continues, as though stating something long agreed upon. “In any case, how has my darling girl been?” Aemma’s mouth curves with fond worry. “Has she been fretting herself into knots over this babe and me?”
Alicent hesitates.
“She has, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, My Queen.”
The Queen’s smile turns rueful. She looks out through the window for a long moment before returning her gaze to Alicent.
“I am glad she has you, at least, to confide in,” Aemma says quietly. “The two of you have always been close. Almost like sisters.” Her eyes drift back to the view beyond the glass, distant and wistful. “I have always wished to give Rhaenyra siblings. Many brothers and sisters.” A pause. “But with how things have turned out… well.”
Alicent leans forward slightly. “The Seven have seen fit to bless you with this child, Your Grace,” she offers gently. “Surely that must count for something.”
Queen Aemma shakes her head, then looks at her fully. “Truth be told, I do not know if this babe will take. And should something go awry, and I am no longer here…” Her voice does not falter, though it softens. “Promise me you will watch over Rhaenyra. Be at her side, should she require it. Dear as my girl is, she does not have many true friends she can count on.”
Alicent bites her lip. Over the years, Queen Aemma has always been kind to her. In many ways, she has been a guiding presence, near enough to a mother in the absence of one that Alicent lost a few years ago. The very idea that she might be gone has never truly occurred to her, and yet it sends a pang of unease through her all the same.
She doesn’t want to entertain the thought, but under Aemma’s steady gaze, Alicent finds herself nodding, slow and solemn.
“I promise, Your Grace.”
A brilliant smile lights the Queen’s face, lending her an almost ethereal radiance. “Good. Now, tell me, what is the latest gossip from court?”
To the Queen’s delight, Alicent narrates some scandalous whispers she’s overheard from the chambermaids—that Lady Elinor is rumoured to be hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress.
And yet, despite the laughter and lightness of the moment, Alicent can’t deny the small, lingering tightness in her chest.
The crowd’s raucous cheers for the commencement of the Heir’s Tournament shake the air, deafening in their fervour.
Up in the royal box, Alicent can barely hear herself think over the uproar—the thunderous clapping, the stamping of feet. Below, the grounds are alive with spectacle: food stalls laden with sweets and roasted meats, mummers performing acrobatic feats, puppet shows entertaining children, and banners fluttering in every direction. King Viserys has evidently spared no expense to celebrate the arrival of his long-awaited heir.
And through the hubbub of the tourney, with its sheer scale and grandeur, it would be easy to forget that above in Maegor’s Holdfast, Queen Aemma is in labour.
Alicent would usually have no qualms about enjoying the spectacle, indulging in the sights and sounds of the day. Yet the Queen’s recent words linger in her mind, casting a slight pall over the festivities.
Still, the excitement proves infectious. Soon enough, she loses herself in the tourney: the clash of steel as dashing knights test their mettle, the flourish of their armour in the sun, the impressive mounts of the competitors, and the small, whispered gossip Rhaenyra provides between bouts. She allows herself to be drawn in, for a time, by the pageantry and the thrill of the fights.
Until the drums sound, the black and red banners of House Targaryen snap in the wind, and Daemon Targaryen rides into the fray, drawing every gaze in the grounds to him.
Alicent glances at Rhaenyra.
The Realm’s Delight sits up straighter, fingers brushing the chain draped around her throat—a gift, Alicent knows for a fact, that is from Daemon. A bright smile lights her face, and under the sun, her braided and coiled hair gleams like molten silver. Her shadowed violet eyes shine like amethyst stones at the sight of her beloved uncle, alight with joy and mischief. She claps and cheers, completely caught up in the spectacle, radiant in a way that draws every gaze—even from the royal box.
Alicent’s gaze settles on the prince, deftly steering his black steed with exaggerated grace. He is outfitted in armour emblazoned with Targaryen regalia, a haughty smirk curving across his mouth as he basks in the crowd’s adoration.
She purses her lips.
Since she was a child, Alicent has been brought up in the ways of the Seven. She has learnt of the Father’s justice, the Mother’s protection, the Warrior’s courage, the Smith’s strength, the Maiden’s innocence, the Crone’s wisdom, and the Stranger’s peace.
And Daemon Targaryen—youngest brother of the King, the Rogue Prince, the Lord of Flea Bottom—is the very antithesis of all the Seven’s teachings.
He may be a prince, second in line to the throne, a fearsome dragonlord who rides Caraxes, one of the few battle-tested dragons left in the realm. With the blood of Old Valyria running through his veins, all silver and amethyst, Daemon is undeniably handsome—dashing, even—and his mastery of the blade leaves little doubt as to why the bards favour him so readily.
And yet.
He is unpredictable, infamous for his temper and his fondness for violence—a man who never shies away from a fight and scarcely recognises restraint. The blood of the dragon, they call it. A whoremonger. A provocation wrought in flesh. As dangerous as he is captivating.
To spend even an hour alone in his presence would only invite ruin.
If only Rhaenyra could see that.
She takes another glance at her dearest friend, who all but beams at the sight of her uncle, cheeks flushed, bright as any maiden in love.
Alicent keeps her reaction carefully schooled. She has served as the Princess’s side for years, but she doubts she will ever truly understand Rhaenyra’s attachment to the Rogue Prince.
“For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!”
At that, Alicent’s attention snaps forward, just in time to see her brother square off against the Prince himself. Her stomach churns, and she stills her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to fist her fingers in her dress. Everyone knows there is no love lost between the Prince and her lord father.
Nor does she miss the sly glance Daemon levels toward the royal box before he charges forward.
Hooves thunder. Steel rings against steel. She holds her breath through the clash, only releasing it when—by some small miracle—Gwayne manages to survive the first bout, even coming close to unseating the Prince.
She should have known Daemon would never forgive such a slight.
A scream almost tears out of her throat when Gwayne is flung off his horse, landing on the ground with a sickening crack.
Only when she sees her brother writhing on the ground, struggling to rise to his feet before attendants and guards rush to his aid, does Alicent sag back into her seat, relief surging through her. Thank the Seven.
“Nicely done, uncle,” Rhaenyra calls lightly, stepping forward as Daemon approaches the royal box.
Unsurprisingly, Prince Daemon wears an expression of absolute smug triumph. “Thank you, Princess.” Then, his gaze shifts to Alicent, the beginnings of a mocking smile curving across his mouth. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent,” he drawls lazily. “Having your favour would all but assure it.”
She knows full well this is nothing more than a ploy to infuriate her father: first, by unseating his son from the joust through unsporting means, then by attempting to flirt with his daughter.
Still, Alicent can’t help the tiniest flutter of butterflies in her belly. It isn’t every day a prince asks for her favour at a tourney—especially one as notorious as the Rogue Prince.
Fighting the beginnings of a smile, she turns, picking up her wreath—only to falter under the hard, disapproving stare of her father. The Hand wields paternal disdain with ease. It’s written in the harsh furrow of his brows, the slight narrowing of his eyes, and the tense set of his jaw.
Something inside her shrivels up.
Composure slipping, Alicent woodenly drops her laurel onto Daemon’s lance, barely registering the way he holds it suggestively between his thighs—or the faint pursing of Rhaenyra’s mouth.
She returns to her seat, hands clasped tightly on her lap.
The rest of the tourney passes in a haze, almost like a distant dream, even as the spectacle turns ugly—blood spilt, heads cracked, guts strewn across the field. She barely even notes the unexpected result of the Prince yielding to the common-born Stormlander in the melee.
And it is only when Queen Aemma is announced dead that Alicent realises she’s picked her nails bloody.
The weather is bleak.
The sky hangs low and heavy, clouds dark and unyielding, as if the world itself mourns the Queen’s passing, lashing out at the Seven for taking even the son she had died to bear.
Prince Baelon.
Grief seeps into everything, into every street, every hall, every heart across the realm. Queen Aemma had been beloved—for her gentleness, her kindness, her steadfast devotion to duty.
Alicent remembers the pyre, the flames climbing skyward, the dazed, grief-stricken countenance of King Viserys, and the quiver of Rhaenyra’s bottom lip, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed as she commanded Syrax to light the fire. Even Daemon, for all his faults, had been grimly silent.
The Red Keep itself feels hollow without her. Its halls lie under a shadow of gloom, servants moving silently through their tasks with bowed heads and ashen faces. The stones themselves seem to remember the absence, cold and unwelcoming.
Days pass.
With Rhaenyra intent on shutting herself away in her rooms to mourn in solitude, Alicent finds herself increasingly in her father’s company, having her meals with him in his study in the Tower of the Hand.
Tonight is no different.
As it is, Prince Daemon Targaryen is all her father can talk about over dinner. He rants in that measured voice of his, railing against the King’s stubbornness in matters of succession. With the Queen dead, along with Prince Baelon, Prince Daemon is unquestionably the heir to the Iron Throne.
And that is not something to be taken lightly, according to her father.
“He is not fit to be king,” Otto hisses waspishly. “No doubt he’d turn the Red Keep into a pleasure den the moment the crown sits on his brow. Why can’t the King, in all of his limited wisdom, see that?”
As befitting a lady of her station, Alicent keeps her eyes on her plate, knowing silence is safest when her father is in one of his moods.
Soon enough, his tirade loses momentum, and he turns to her. “How is Rhaenyra?”
Alicent meets his gaze. “She lost her mother.”
Otto makes a noncommittal sound. “Yes, the Queen was well-loved by all.” He steeples his hands together, studying her. “I found myself thinking of your own mother today.” His eyes roam over her, and there, in the depths of his dark gaze, something calculative gleams.
Alicent swallows thickly and, beneath the table, picks at her nail beds. “How is His Grace?”
“Very low,” her father intones, voice smooth, coiling around her like a snake. “Which is why I thought… perhaps you might go to him this evening. Offer him some… comfort.”
“In his chambers?” she asks, disbelief colouring her tone.
The look her father gives her makes her stomach lurch.
Her nail catches and tears, a hot sting rising along her fingertip.
“I… I wouldn’t know what to say,” she stammers.
“It doesn’t matter. He’ll be glad to have a visitor, don’t you think?”
Alicent bows her head. “If it pleases you, father,” she says, stilted and careful.
Otto’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It does.”
Mechanically, she rises and moves toward the doors—only to halt when her father adds, low and deliberate, “You might wear one of your mother’s dresses.”
A command, veiled as a suggestion.
What can Alicent do but obey?
After all, hadn’t the Seven preached that she should be dutiful? To obey her father in all things—and, later, her lord husband?
Dressed in one of her mother’s black silk gowns, the neckline dipping low and sweeping across her shoulders, the waist cinched tight, Alicent clutches a thick tome of Westerosi history against her chest as she hesitantly makes her way toward the King’s chambers. Each step feels heavier than the last, her stomach twisting with unease.
Her heart hammers, her fingers tightening around the book. Something akin to guilt twists in her chest, sharp and insistent. It doesn’t feel right—this task, this dress, the weight of her father’s expectations pressing down on her. With every step, the insidious sense of wrongness grows, and she wonders whether the Seven themselves would approve of what she is about to do.
Of course, there is nothing truly wrong in reading to the King, offering company to a grieving man.
But Alicent is no naive maiden, skilled only in embroidery and household affairs. She understands, deep down, what her father is asking of her—the desires and weaknesses he seeks to exploit.
In cruder terms, as the Lord of Flea Bottom might put it, Ser Otto is whoring his only daughter out to a freshly widowed king.
Her fingers dig into the leather cover of the tome.
By now, Alicent has reached the hallway leading to the King’s chambers, and unbidden, Aemma’s last spoken words come to her: her trust in Alicent, that she would care for Rhaenyra, be there for her if she were gone.
A shuddering breath leaves her.
What would Rhaenyra think if she found out Alicent had visited her father in this fashion?
Alicent squeezes her eyes shut. Till now, she can still recall with great acuity the utter devastation on her friend’s face upon learning of her mother’s unfortunate fate in the birthing bed.
Her feet come to a hesitant stop.
Within the confines of her ribs, her heart pounds unsteadily.
The very thought of disobeying her father, of facing his wrath, terrifies her to the bone—she, raised to be a dutiful daughter, to obey without question, and one day, a dutiful wife, bound to the same rigid expectations.
Yet the gnawing pit in her belly will not ease.
Queen Aemma’s gentle smile comes to her, followed swiftly by Rhaenyra’s tear-stained face, her broken sobs echoing in her ears—and just like that, the path before her is suddenly, unmistakably clear.
Forgive me, father, for my disobedience.
Alicent presses her lips together. Slowly, she backs away, then breaks into a run, retracing her steps in the direction she came from.
She’s not too late—at least, not as long as no one sees her.
But just as Alicent dares to hope that she might return to her chambers unseen, she rounds a corner—and crashes into someone. The tome slips from her grasp as her chest and shoulders collide with theirs. Stumbling backwards, her breath catches in her throat, panic prickling along every nerve.
“Now, what do we have here?”
The familiar drawl makes her freeze.
With trepidation, Alicent raises her gaze—and her heart drops to her stomach. Daemon Targaryen looms over her, eyes narrowed, lips curved in suspicion.