The day had been agonizingly long.
The Small Council meeting had drained every last reserve of strength Alicent Hightower possessed, leaving her hollow and raw.
And to think—for one brief, foolish moment, she had believed things might actually go well.
“Daeron has arrived in Oldtown?” she’d asked Ser Criston that morning, her stomach twisted into knots.
Her sworn shield had come to her chambers at daybreak, a raven’s scroll clutched in his gloved hand, the Hightower seal gleaming red against the parchment.
“Yes, my queen,” the Kingsguard replied, extending the letter with a reverent bow.
Alicent’s fingers trembled as she took it, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She unfolded the parchment with desperate haste, and there it was: her father’s crisp, familiar handwriting.
A wave of elation washed through her chest, so fierce it almost stole her breath.
“Lord Hobert’s knights have taken charge of the young princeling,” she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper.
“He will be squiring for your eldest cousin, Ormund.”
Alicent allowed herself a small, fragile smile.
“I’m sure he’s thrilled.
Daeron was always so eager to be a warrior.”
Her sweet boy.
Her youngest.
He had liked nothing half so much as trailing after the Kingsguard, tugging at their white cloaks and pleading with them—with those big, earnest eyes—to show him how to swing a sword.
He would make a fine knight.
She knew it with every fiber of her being.
She clutched the paper harder, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of her father’s signature.
No tender words of concern.
No well-wishes.
No declaration of support or longing for his grandson.
Just cold, efficient script, as if he were arranging a shipment of grain rather than the fate of her child.
“If I may, my Queen,” Ser Criston began uneasily, his dark eyes fixed on the floor.
“It is a good thing.
The Prince will do well in Oldtown.
He will be surrounded by family, by those who share your blood and your values.”
Alicent nodded, casting the scroll aside onto her vanity.
“He will.
I know it.” She paused, halting mid-stride to gaze out the window.
Below, the splendor of the Red Keep sprawled beneath her, bathed in the golden glow of morning light.
The towers rose like pale fingers reaching for the sky, and for a moment, she could almost pretend everything was as it should be.
“But reason cannot quell a mother’s grief,” she continued, her voice catching.
She cast a look at the knight over her shoulder, wrapping her arms about herself so tightly her knuckles went white.
It was all she could do not to savage her fingers, to tear at her nailbeds the way she always did when the anxiety became too much.
He had scarce turned six.
It was only yesterday that he was a babe at my breast, warm and small and wholly mine.
And now he’s been torn from my embrace.” She paused, forcing the burning tears from her eyes.
“I should have refused.
I should have stood my ground.”
Ser Criston shifted in place, his armor clanging softly—a sound that had become as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.
“You did the right thing, my Queen.
The prince is in a place where he is surrounded by friends and allies who share your values.
He will be protected.
You could not say the same if the Princess had gotten her way.”
Alicent swallowed hard, her skin prickling with that familiar, uncomfortable heat—the one that always crept over her whenever someone broached the subject of her stepdaughter.
Her throat tightened.
“Gods,” she breathed, shaking her head.
“It always comes back to Rhaenyra.”
And it did, didn’t it?
It always did.
Every trial, every tribulation, every fresh wound that festered in her heart—they all led back to the same source.
This had all been her doing.
Ever since Daemon had flown to the Vale to petition Lady Jeyne for Runestone, the Arryns had harbored a simmering resentment toward the throne.
Though Daemon had not directly threatened anyone—not in so many words—he had levied veiled insult after veiled insult against everyone he encountered.
Even Lady Jeyne herself.
Alicent had heard it whispered that, after she’d laughed at his petition, he’d called her a shriveled cunt to her face.
It was grounds enough to start a war.
But, as was typical of her godbrother, Daemon had departed just as the chaos was set to reach a fever pitch.
He’d flown straight for Driftmark, where he unceremoniously dueled and killed the son of the Sea Lord of Braavos, then claimed Laena Velaryon’s hand in marriage.
It was an insult that nearly undid her poor husband.
The match had occurred without Viserys’s leave, just as he was trying to seize control of his fractious house after the disastrous wedding feast.
Still, it had occurred not a month after Rhea Royce’s passing.
The common folk already whispered that Daemon had had a hand in his late wife’s death.
With this match, he’d just about confirmed it.
Gerold Royce was ready to seek his vengeance and drag the whole of the Vale with him.
Daemon’s departure for Essos had placated him somewhat.
But neither the Arryns nor the Royces forgot the slight, despite Viserys’s best efforts to appease them with reduced levies.
Nine years on, and they still complained about increasing tax rates and did everything they could to stall exports of wool and stone to the capital.
It was Rhaenyra who had suggested the solution to finally end the grudge.
“It is Targaryen blood the Lady Jeyne demands.
So we shall give it to her,” she had announced during a Small Council meeting.
All the members had turned to her with pointed looks.
“We should send her one of our own for fostering.
Daemon has painted a rather poor image of the men of House Targaryen.
But your sons can correct that, my King.
Show her what true scions of Old Valyria are like.”
As always, Viserys had listened to his daughter with rapt attention.
Alicent’s ears had rung with a deafening roar.
“A most excellent idea, my girl,” he had announced, a jovial smile blossoming on his withered lips.
It was remarkable how much he lit up whenever she opened her mouth to speak.
As if she were the mother herself, come to rain blessings upon them all.
“I’m certain the Lady Jeyne would love having Aegon at the Vale.
She’s always been so keen to have a dragonrider at her side.”
“Princes Aemond or Daeron could do well at Runestone,” Lord Beesbury had chimed in, for once up to speed on the subject.
“The Royces come from a long line of renowned warriors.
They would be squiring for some of the finest knights in the realm.”
“No,” Alicent had forced out curtly, her eyes locked on the old Master of Coin.
His flappy chin jiggled as he gazed at her, open-mouthed with surprise.
“I will not be sending my sons to the Vale.”
Everyone in the Small Council chamber had turned to her.
When her gaze pivoted to Rhaenyra, she was already staring her down.
The smoky purple of her irises swirled like freshly bloomed lilacs.
Oh, how she’d once admired those eyes.
They had been so full of kindness and loyalty—for her dear childhood friend.
Now, they only radiated with indifference.
And fire.
Always fire.
“Their place is here,” she had announced, straightening her back.
“In King’s Landing.
With their family.”
“Surely, my Queen,” Rhaenyra had continued, fiddling with the septarion placed before her, “it would be a good thing for the princes to see more of the realm.”
“Indeed it would,” Viserys had announced, shifting in his seat so that he leaned closer to his daughter.
Drawing the battle lines.
Alicent had ripped at her nailbeds.
“Aegon could certainly benefit from a bit of discipline.
And Aemond… well.
Perhaps Runestone could help him forget all this dragon-claiming business.
Get him to assert himself as a warrior.
Daeron already wants to be a knight, so this is truly a dream for him.”
“Yes, it would,” her voice had wavered.
She’d immediately cleared her throat.
“But I can’t help but feel like the gesture would not land as well as you might hope.
The slight Prince Daemon has caused Lady Jeyne is quite serious.
I think only someone of her blood could make her forgive it.
So perhaps Prince Jacaerys might be a better fit.”
She had relished the way Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened.
“Prince Jacaerys is heir to the Iron Throne,” she had fired back, her voice low and dangerous.
“His duty is to remain in King’s Landing so that he may learn to rule.”
“Part of ruling is also knowing the land you mean to govern.
The best way to learn of it is to see it yourself.” Alicent had replied, flaring her shoulders.
Now it was Rhaenyra’s turn to sink into her seat.
“Jace is seven.
He needs to first learn the names of the lands before he marches off to see them.”
“My sons are not much older.”
“But they are still older than Jacaerys,” Viserys had added, arching a pale brow at her.
A ghost of a smile had appeared on Rhaenyra’s lips.
Grand Maester Orwyle had bowed his head.
Alicent had wanted to scream.
“And they are not heirs to the throne,” her husband had continued, his voice soft, almost fatherly.
As if she were a child he was scolding.
Alicent had ceased picking her fingers and balled her hands into fists.
*No.
You will not have this victory.*
She’d already had far too many.
“No.
They will not go.”
“Alicent…” Viserys had sighed, shrugging his shoulders.
That one gesture had incensed her beyond reason.
“We will speak no more of this.”
They had spoken more of it, of course.
Though her royal husband had tried to move on to different matters, the mood in the chamber had shifted irrevocably.
In the end, he couldn’t bear the sour atmosphere and had dismissed the council early, pleading tiredness and “a need to consult my queen.” He had allowed her the privacy of his chambers before he began needling her over it again.
“The proposal is a good one, my Queen,” he had insisted, reclining against his pillows.
The flames of the hearth fire cast dark shadows across his face, making his skin appear whiter than parchment.
His complexion had gone a shade paler again.
If the corruption spreading through his body worsened, he would soon be whiter than a ghost.
“Our boys would do so well at the Vale.
And the gesture would do much and more to correct our past mistakes.”
“Your brother’s mistakes, you mean,” she had fired back, twiddling with her fingers.
The voice in her head was screaming now, demanding she tear open her nailbeds to let out her frustration.
She gritted her teeth and released a shaky breath.
No.
She had sworn the day she’d saved Ser Criston’s life to do away with that weakness.
“It was Daemon who insulted the Arryns and Royces.
It is his duty to seek their forgiveness and set things right.”
Her husband had chortled, locking his eyes on the flames.
Though the laugh was light, there was little joy in Viserys’s hollowed face.
There seldom was whenever anyone spoke of his younger brother.
“Daemon?
He’s just as likely to burn the Vale to ashes as he is to treat with them.
Besides, he is half a world away.”
“Yes.
Escaped across the Narrow Sea to leave you to pick up the pieces.” She had retorted.
His jaw tightened.
“What should I have done then, pray tell?
Had him executed?
Exile was enough.”
Alicent had leaned against a chair, squeezing the backrest so hard her fingers ached.
*His love for him will be the death of us all.*
No matter how deeply Daemon cut him, Viserys always seemed so quick to grant him forgiveness.
Even now, nine years after he’d decreed Daemon was to never set foot in his court again, he still grieved for him.
Alicent was certain that if Daemon returned, Viserys would welcome him with open arms—even if it meant the rest of his family would suffer.
*If he even thinks of me and mine as family.*
Unless he needed her to tend to him, he often forgot she or their children were even there.
“I’m certain the punishment has been quite hard on him,” she had continued, her voice dripping with barely concealed venom.
“He must be so distraught, lounging in Pentos with Lady Laena and their children, having the Prince indulge their every whim.
” Viserys had ground his teeth so hard she could have sworn he meant to shatter them.
“Regardless of all the ills he has caused, he is still my brother.
And I am pleased he has finally managed to find happiness.”
“Yes,” she had forced out, the dry scent of woodsmoke and clay permeating the chambers making her head swim.
The hearth fire seemed unbearably hot.
“While our children are forced to mend his wrongs.”
“You make it seem as if I would be sending them to the Wall.” Viserys had narrowed his eyes.
Alicent wished she could shake him.
“The Vale is a good place for them.
They will be safe and well cared for.
It will certainly be a good opportunity for them to learn some independence.”
She had stared at him, the warmth fleeing from her fingers.
“Your meaning?”
The hearth fire had made the faded, smoky purple of his irises come alive.
“Alicent, come now.
Our Aegon is three and ten.
Near a man grown.
Yet you still hover over him like a shadow.”
“He needs me.
He needs my guidance.”
The way he had chortled made her stomach clench.
“I agree.
He needs guidance.
But not from you.
The boy is too willful and reckless to be reined in by your gentle heart.” He had pressed his fingers to his temple.
“What he needs is a firm hand to teach him some discipline and restraint.”
The Queen had almost seized one of his little dragon models and pelted him with it.
*He dares to question my mothering?*
He had been doing nothing except ignoring Aegon since the day he was born.
“And that hand should be yours, not some Arryn lord’s half a world away.” She had paused, so incensed her head was swimming.
“Are you truly going to blame me for how he is?
Everything he’s ever done, every silly jest or cruel taunt, he’s done for the love he has for you.”
“Me?” The way he had blinked at her almost made her believe he couldn’t comprehend what she was saying.
Perhaps he truly didn’t.
“Of course.
Ever since he was a little boy, he’s been desperate for your approval.
If you send him away now, he will just become more resentful.”
She had expected him to wave his hand and dismiss her, as he always did whenever she broached the subject of their reckless, eldest son.
Instead, he had grumbled and averted his gaze.
Ignoring her, as was custom.
“And Aemond?
What of him?
Surely you can’t possibly claim he is unsuited?”
Alicent had tsked, whirling away to hide her face.
*Aemond is too well suited.*
Her second son was as dutiful as Aegon was reckless, as eager to please as his elder brother was to rebel.
He wanted nothing more than to prove himself as a prince of the blood.
More to himself than to anyone else.
“And cause the Arryns an even greater insult?
The Lady Jeyne wants dragonriders to protect the Vale—she always has.
If you send her the only son of ours who hasn’t claimed a dragon, she will take that as a slight,” she had retorted.
Never before had she been more grateful that the egg placed in Aemond’s cradle hadn’t hatched.
“Daeron, then,” Viserys’s voice had grown sterner.
“He will go.”
“No.
He cannot.” She had paused, her mind reeling for an excuse.
“I already promised he would go squire at Oldtown.”
The lie had unfurled easily.
Bolstered by her fear and desperation, she had concocted a tale about how, during her brother’s last visit to King’s Landing, she’d promised to send Daeron to her family for fostering.
Her uncle Hobert had later sent a letter, agreeing to the proposal.
No such letter existed, of course, but Alicent wagered she could say she had misplaced it.
She wagered she could convince Maester Orwyle to back her claim.
Viserys had been displeased.
As averse to conflict as her husband was, he could also be immensely fickle, especially when slighted.
It incensed him that she would dare make arrangements with her brother without his leave.
Alicent had tried to explain herself and begged his forgiveness—she had even attempted to stoke his guilt by claiming that Daeron’s fostering was a boon to her father, to make up for him losing his position as Hand.
The mention of Otto Hightower had hurt her husband, she could tell.
But it was still not enough to soothe his anger.
Alicent knew she had no choice but to follow through with sending Daeron away.
If she did not, not only would her story be revealed as false, but Rhaenyra might end up persuading Viserys to send all of Alicent’s children away.
*She’ll even get him to ship off Helaena to Dorne.*
It was small wonder Viserys had said she and Daemon were two sides of the same coin.
Both of them would do anything to cut down any threat to their power.
And so it came to pass that in two dozen moon turns, her sweet baby boy had ridden through the Red Keep’s gates, bound for the Reach.
Though a lavish royal escort had been sent with him, along with his cobalt blue she-dragon Tessarion, fear—sharper than any blade—had slashed through Alicent’s heart.
“She’s robbed me of one son,” she commented absently, the words escaping before she could stop them.
The soft clang of Ser Criston’s armor reminded her that he was still there, still watching, still waiting.
“Must I live in fear now, dreading the day she decides to take another?
All while she prances around the Red Keep, openly flaunting her pair of…”
The words caught in her throat, and she whirled around to face the white knight.
Ser Criston’s dark eyes were as wide as figs.
Alicent clutched her chest.
“Forgive me, I… I misspoke.
I—”
“Those who speak the truth can never misspeak,” Ser Criston allowed.
He drew a step nearer, the stream of sunlight making his black hair gleam like freshly mined onyx.
“We know what those children are.
The whole realm knows.
Yet His Grace the King continues to turn a blind eye to the Princess’s indiscretions.”
Alicent chortled, unable to stop herself.
She could feel her cheeks grow hot.
No one ever dared speak so openly about this, and to hear Ser Criston be so frank filled her with such profound relief.
*He is the only righteous man left to me.*
“Rhaenyra could rip my husband’s heart out and stomp on it, and he would still defend her with his dying breath.
There is nothing she can do to make him denounce her.” She paused, her stomach in knots.
“Sometimes I wonder why I keep fighting at all.”
The black dread crept out of her then, sending gooseflesh sprouting across her skin—it had become her constant companion these last nine years.
Ever since she’d realized exactly who her dear friend was.
*Deceitful.
Self-serving.
Spiteful.*
A traitor who had betrayed her trust for a vicious lie.
*The only friend you had.
The only one you loved.*
“For truth, my Queen,” Ser Criston offered, his voice low and steady.
“For justice.
And all that is good and pure and right.”
She smiled, hugging herself tighter.
“Oh, my dear sir, don’t you know?
Those things do not matter here.
Not in my husband’s court.”
To think she’d once believed Viserys was a righteous king.
Kind and just, ready to do what was best for the realm even if he chafed under the weight of responsibility.
She had thought herself fortunate to have such a husband.
Though she might not have loved him as a woman loves a man, it had comforted her to know that she could count on him to stand up for what she believed in.
For the truth.
*How silly I had been.*
Kind as Viserys was, he was just as self-serving as the rest of his family.
The moment anything threatened Daemon or Rhaenyra, he would discard everything in favor of protecting them—even if it meant hurting others to do it.
*You have no one but yourself.*
“It matters to me.” Ser Criston drew nearer, fire burning in every fine line of his face—the face that was a mirror image of all the brave knights from the stories of old.
“It was Your Grace that saved my life, all those years ago.
If not for you interceding on my behalf with the Small Council, I would have been sent to the Wall, or worse.
I must believe that the Mother above would not disregard such kindness.”
The hand resting on his sword pommel twitched.
Almost on instinct, Alicent moved to reach out to hers.
*No.
It would not be right.*
He was her sworn protector.
The feelings he had for her could not be anything other than of the purest kind.
“Even if it does not matter to the King, it matters to the Gods,” he continued, the stoic hardness returning to his face.
Alicent held his gaze.
The dread within her simmered, morphing into quiet resentment.
“The Seven see all, Ser Criston,” she said, tasting bitterness on her tongue.
“In the end, they will give everyone what they are due.”