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They lie under their Red Keep tree, in Rhaenyra’s private garden—in what feels like their private garden, the two of them alone. It is spring, an especially bright and giving season, and the flowers bloom; Rhaenyra’s head is on her lap, and Alicent can hardly believe her luck as she plays with her golden Targaryen hair. Rhaenyra’s pretending to read a book, but Alicent sees how her eyes flitter all over the place, jumping like a jousting horse.
She thinks it’s obvious to everyone that they’ve traded kisses and perhaps more, and oh, how Alicent wants more; she knows they’re all oblivious, too absorbed in their own power games. Alicent wants no part of them. She knows this is but a moment in time, that as a Hightower, she will one day be beckoned to contend with reality; the time is not yet ripe, though, and Alicent hopes it will remain unripe forever. There is peace and there are flowers and there is bread in the smallfolk’s bellies.
How fortunate that, being two girls of a similar age, they’re allowed to spend all their time together completely unmonitored. Every morning, Alicent helps with Rhaenyra’s corsets, buttoning and unbuttoning and tying and untying; Rhaenyra always lets her fingers linger.
“What am I to you, Rhaenyra?” Alicent asks now, as Rhaenyra rises, cups Alicent’s face, kisses her brazenly. Alicent shuts her eyes, loses herself in how Rhaenyra pushes her against the tree; the smell of roses will always bring her back to this moment, she’s certain, for as long as she lives.
“Rhaenyra,” Alicent tries again, as they come up for air, but Rhaenyra presses a finger to her lips. “Shh. We can never tell.”
Her words still echo as Alicent falls asleep later that night. In her own bed. Alone.