The girl was trembling, her small body wracked with sobs that seemed to echo off the stone walls of Alicent’s solar.
The Queen stood in the confines of her private chambers, her hands clasped together at the front of her gown.
The Small Council session had left her utterly drained, her mind churning with the weight of political maneuvering and endless petitions.
And news of Rhaenyra’s arrival had served as the killing blow, driving a spike of dread through her heart.
Yet the gods somehow thought she had not suffered enough.
They had sent this fresh torment to test her, to push her to the very brink of her endurance.
“I have brought her here immediately.
She has seen no one else, Your Grace,” Talya whispered, her voice grave with the weight of the revelation.
Alicent regarded the girl, a lump forming in her throat.
Each sob that escaped her lips was like a stab to the heart, a reminder of all the injustices that women were forced to endure in this world.
The Queen’s hands itched to reach out, to offer comfort, but she held herself back, waiting.
“Leave us,” she commanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil within.
The sound of brisk footsteps, followed by the soft click of the door latch, bade the Queen to step closer.
She studied the girl before her, taking in the tear-streaked face and the trembling hands that clutched at the fabric of her simple gown.
“Come, sweetling.” Gingerly, she took the girl by the shoulders and made her stand.
“What is your name?”
The girl’s lip trembled, and she wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.
She was young, so terribly young, with a plump figure and a childlike face that spoke of innocence barely touched by the cruelties of the world.
Alicent judged her to be no older than six and ten, barely more than a child herself.
Somehow, that filled her with relief.
At least she was not a child in the truest sense.
That she would have never been able to stomach.
“Dyanna if it…
if it please Your Grace,” she stuttered, her blue eyes as wide as figs, filled with a terror that seemed to consume her entirely.
“Dyanna.
Such a pretty name,” the Queen smiled, though the expression did not reach her eyes.
“I understand you found yourself in some trouble?”
Those impossibly wide eyes somehow went wider, and she choked out a sob that seemed to tear itself from the very depths of her soul.
“I was…
I was fetching the Prince his wine and I put it on the table and when I turned I…
I did not see him…” Another sob wracked her frame, and she began vigorously shaking her head, her blonde hair flying about her face.
“I asked him to stop.
I did.
Truly.
Please, you must believe me.”
The tears came then in earnest, and she coughed up air, her entire body trembling with the effort of containing her grief.
Alicent could not bear it.
Rushing forward, she seized the poor thing into an embrace, holding her close as her sobs resonated through the Queen’s chest.
Each shuddering breath made Alicent’s own heart ache with grief and anger.
Anger most of all.
“Thank you for telling me, Dyanna,” she whispered softly into the girl’s wispy blonde hair, her voice thick with emotion.
“I know it was not your fault.”
Breaking apart, she cupped the girl’s cheeks in her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze.
The terror pouring out of her face was enough to make the Queen ill, a stark reminder of all the horrors that lurked beneath the gilded surface of court life.
“I believe you,” Alicent said, her voice firm with conviction.
“You…
you do?” Dyanna blinked, her sobs going quiet as confusion flickered across her features.
Again, Alicent allowed herself to smile, her hand gently wiping away the girl’s tears with a tenderness she rarely showed anyone.
“Yes.”
A woman’s lot in life is to suffer the evils of men.
Her mother had told her that once, in the quiet moments before sleep, when the world seemed softer and more forgiving.
It was not until she had passed, and Alicent found herself suffering the embraces of a decrepit man twice her age, that she understood what her mother had truly meant.
The weight of that understanding pressed down on her now, heavy and suffocating.
I must ease her pain.
That is what the Mother charged other women to do.
It was the sacred duty of all women to protect one another from the cruelties of the world.
“But I worry what others might believe,” Alicent continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
The soft, tender look of relief on Dyanna’s face vanished in an instant, replaced by fresh terror.
It was easy to bend her will then, to guide her toward the only course of action that would protect them both.
No one had witnessed what had transpired between her and Aegon.
It would be his word against hers.
They would call her a wanton who had tried to seduce the Prince and make him break his marriage vows.
She would be banished to the Street of Silk, branded a whore for as long as she lived.
By the end, the girl was sputtering, half a breath away from falling to her knees to beg.
“I would never dream of telling anyone!” she cried, her voice cracking with desperation.
Alicent cocked her head at her, studying her with cold calculation.
“I know you will not.”
For half a breath, she thought the girl would not accept the coin.
Her face had gone slack as Alicent had thrust the purse her way, her red eyes dimming further when Talya entered the chamber, a steaming cup in hand.
“It is best to be certain,” Alicent said, offering her the drink.
Dyanna’s blue eyes narrowed, and she blinked at the Queen like a child seeking comfort, seeking the embrace and understanding of a fellow woman.
Alicent offered her naught but a terse glare, her expression hardening.
The girl’s face dropped in a heartbeat, and then she downed the cup in one swallow, her throat working as she forced the liquid down.
Alicent charged Talya to escort her out of the Keep through the back gate.
“Find passage for her outside the city.
As far away from here as possible,” she had instructed, bile rising in her throat.
That girl could travel from Pentos to Lorath, across the Dothraki sea, all the way to Asshai by the Shadow and beyond.
She would never be able to escape the horror of what had happened to her, what her wretched son had done.
Alicent would never escape it either.
The memory would haunt her for the rest of her days, a constant reminder of her failure.
The Mother would punish her for this, she was certain.
Aegon had already committed enough sins to send them to the deepest hells five times over.
He had drunk and debauched, spent frivolously, and dishonored his marriage vows more times than she could count.
But the one solace she had always taken was the fact that all the others had been willing.
He had never sunk this low before.
She halted mid-stride, her mind alight with terrible realization.
Of course he had.
She had just chosen not to see it.
Naturally, when she sought him in his chambers, he was gone.
The bed stood pristine, evidence of a night spent sleeping elsewhere.
She did not know why she went to Helaena’s chamber.
It was the last place Aegon would be.
In fact, Alicent prayed to the gods that he would not be there.
“He has gone away, I think.
To the city,” Helaena had told her, her voice distant and dreamy as always.
Her darling girl sat on the cushioned settee, doing needlework while her babes played at her feet.
Alicent drew nearer, kneeling to be at eye level with the twins.
Neither Jaehaerys nor Jaehaera said a word to her, seemingly engrossed in slamming their wooden dragons together.
The sight of them, so innocent and absorbed in their play, filled Alicent with a sweet sadness that made her chest ache.
“Did he come here at all?” Alicent asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Once,” Helaena replied, her eyes never leaving her needlework.
The Queen rose to look at her, dread pooling in her gut.
“Did he…”
Helaena stabbed the needle into her tambour frame, her eyes averted.
The way her shoulders slumped was all the answer Alicent needed.
“Oh, my dearest love, forgive me,” she rushed to her side, to sit by her on the cushions.
She had hardly extended her hand to offer a comforting touch when Helaena swatted it away with a force that surprised her.
“Have you seen Dyanna?
She was supposed to dress the children.”
Alicent trailed her nailbeds nervously, the familiar gesture of anxiety that she could not seem to break.
She had hardly managed to open her mouth to begin explaining when Helaena lowered the tambour frame, her eyes meeting her mother’s with an expression of weary resignation.
“He has done it again,” the words were a declaration, not a question.
“You should get someone older next time.”
“I do not think age is the issue,” Alicent replied, her voice hollow.
“I know,” Helaena offered, her voice airy and detached.
“But she will have a better chance at defending herself.
When you are small and young, it is harder to fight back.”
Her words wormed their way under Alicent’s skin, to bite at her heart.
She attempted to caress her daughter one more time, her hands aching for a touch that would bridge the chasm between them.
To her undying relief, her girl leaned in, stiffly letting her brush her fingers against her cheek.
She will never forgive me.
Not that Alicent could forgive herself.
She had raged against it from the moment her father had suggested the match.
“Helaena is my only daughter.
Do you think I would ever allow such a vile depravity to be done to her?
I would rather pluck mine own eyes out.”
“Would you have the King wed her to Jacaerys then?” Otto Hightower had reasoned, his voice maddeningly even.
He was always like that, calm and collected whenever he meant to plot some terrible scheme.
In that moment, Alicent wished she had never called him to retake his position as Hand.
“It is tradition,” he continued, as if that excused everything.
“It is a sin.
A perversion.”
Her father barreled right over her, the serene look never once leaving his face.
“House Targaryen has wed brother to sister for hundreds of years.
It is as much a symbol of their power as the dragons are.” He paused, taking her hands into his.
The way he squeezed her fingers made sickness pool in her gut.
“It would do much to enshrine Aegon’s legitimacy as the rightful heir.
It may turn your stomach as it does mine, but it needs to be done.
Elsewise, the King will betroth her to Jacaerys.”
His lips pursed as he eyed her over the bridge of his nose.
Alicent wrenched free of his grasp, her hands trembling with the force of her anger.
He was right, of course.
Ever since his precious girl had fled to Dragonstone, Viserys had been despondent.
He had eschewed court life and sat confined in his chambers, brooding on how best to rid Rhaenyra’s whelps of the taint of bastardy.
Alicent knew he meant to make it against the law to question their birth, but she knew that was only a half measure.
The easiest way to secure their position would be marriage, and she would rather be damned than see any of her babes dishonored by bastards.
She reasoned it would be best to betroth her children to great lords.
But her husband valued the wellbeing of his grandchildren over her own, and would swiftly break her plans in favor of securing their future.
If she meant to protect them, she needed to appeal to the tradition he so cherished.
He was not pleased.
But after Rhaenyra’s wild girl had carved out Aemond’s eye, he quietly accepted it, to Alicent’s relief.
Nevertheless, her small victory was worth naught.
Not when her darling girl suffered.
She had not understood.
Not even when the seamstresses fussed over her to fit her wedding gown, not even when the King had led her before the Septon to exchange vows with her own brother.
Alicent’s father had insisted they organize a lavish wedding feast as a means to signal to their supporters.
On this, Alicent steadfastly refused to indulge him.
Her little girl was distressed by large gatherings, and she could not bear to cause her more hurt by parading her before the whole realm.
The modest wedding feast they had thrown had been pain enough.
Wrapped in a ghastly sack of jewels, silks, and lace, Helaena had sat on the dais beside her drunken husband, rocking back and forth while her hand tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves.
When the bedding came, Alicent thought she would scream and cower under the table, but the rowdy lords did not grant her the mercy of escape.
She had warned Aegon not to touch her.
“She is your sister,” she had hissed at him.
The very thought of what was meant to transpire left her dizzy with sickness.
“You are to do naught to her save sleep by her side.
She is too young.
She is not ready.”
Drunk as he was, she had thought Aegon had understood.
He had been just as repulsed by their union as she was, and Alicent hoped he would be keen to postpone their wedding night for a later date.
She had underestimated the darkness lurking in his heart.
It was Talya who had told her, about the screams that had come from her girl’s chambers in the dead of night.
When the servants found bloodied sheets in her bed on the morrow, Alicent collapsed.
She had wished to kill him then, to drag him out into the courtyard and drive a sword through his wretched heart.
Her father had stayed her hand.
It was their duty, he had reasoned.
They needed to consummate the marriage and produce heirs, just as she had done with Viserys.
It mattered little to her.
What is duty, if it destroys those we love?
Her girl had refused to speak of it to her ever again.
But she recognized the forlorn gaze Helaena carried on her face, blank and listless and devoid of life.
It was a mirror to the same gaze Alicent had borne ever since she had first lain on her back, with her legs parted.
The gods curse me.
She had served them faithfully, upheld every custom, said every prayer.
Yet when she looked about, she saw naught but misery.
A lecherous son wedded to his own sister.
Two grandchildren with twelve fingers on their hands, who seldom spoke, hardly laughed, and never looked at her.
I was to be their champion.
To uphold what is good.
What is right.
Yet in that moment, Alicent Hightower felt as if it was her own cause that was what was wrong.
She went to meet Rhaenyra on the morrow.
The business with Dyanna had left her so drained that it took her the better part of the day to regain her strength.
However, just as she was preparing herself to face her foe, Talya brought her the most glorious news she could have ever received.
Her husband had spurned her.
At last, after years spent revering her as the Mother come to life, he had put her in her place.
The vindication Alicent felt left her so breathless that she almost knocked back half a pitcher of Arbor gold in celebration.
Her faith renewed, quashing any doubts she had previously held.
The gods were with her again at last, and she would do their will, as intended.
She decided to let Rhaenyra stew.
The advantage was hers, and Alicent meant to milk it for all its worth.
Retiring for the night, she slept sweeter than she had in years, and rose on the morrow ready for war.
She chose a green gown, of course.
Inlaid with lacework, silver thread, and whalebone padding, the bodice resembled armor more than a corset.
Alicent relished the way the fabric squeezed her waist, forcing her to keep her back straight and her chest out.
With her hair braided and pinned at the top of her head, she marched to Rhaenyra’s old apartments, Ser Criston trailing after her like a faithful hound.
She was pleased to find her only half awake.
“Princess Rhaenyra,” she pushed open the door, casually strolling inside.
“And Prince Jacaerys.
It has been so long since we were granted the joy of your presence.”
The fork Rhaenyra had been clutching clattered onto the plate, and she pushed herself out of her chair, her breakfast forgotten.
She was still bundled in her smite house robe, her long silver hair tied into a loose braid.
Alicent resisted smirking when she noticed how thickened her waist had become.
Childbirth had at last taken its toll on her, and her belly protruded beneath her fabrics, almost as heavy as her breasts.
At last, Alicent could feel glad of all the days she had spent denying herself food to correct the damage birthing children had dealt her figure.
“Not nearly long enough to merit a greeting upon our arrival,” her son spat, his jaw squared with barely contained fury.
Alicent blinked at him, stunned.
It was as if Harwin Strong had returned from the dead.
The boy had grown monstrous, half a head taller than his mother, with a broad chest and well-muscled arms.
Brown curls framed his long face, and if he grew a beard, Alicent thought he could comfortably go to Harrenhal to stake a claim to Lord Larys’s inheritance.
“You must forgive me.
Other matters occupied my attention.” She relished the way Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened at the dismissal.
“But I had Ser Criston bid you mine and the King’s message.
Which you disregarded.”
Her white knight stirred beside her.
When she cast a look at him, she half expected to glimpse that same lustful rage burning in his dark eyes that he only got whenever he was face to face with her.
To her relief, she spied nothing but disgusted resentment.
“If the good Ser informed you of that, then surely he also told you that we do not come as a family, but as petitioners,” Rhaenyra spat, her arms seizing the front of her house robes.
The Old Law.” She smiled, enjoying the game.
“If my knowledge serves me, it only applies to the claimant.
Not their extended family.”
The way Jacaerys gaped at her, she thought the beast meant to launch himself at her to seize her by the throat.
“And to my knowledge, the claimant is entitled to representatives.”
The Queen pursed her lips, considering.
“Of course.
And your daughter is most welcome to name you as such when she comes to plead her case.
But for the time being, I fear you cannot remain.”
Rhaenyra’s nostrils flared, but her son was quicker.
“Only the King can formally evict us from court.”
“And he has.
Years ago.
But it seems you are intent on disregarding his commands.
So I have come to issue them one last time.”
The silence that followed the proclamation could cut worse than steel.
Rhaenyra eyed her, her purple eyes alight with fury.
“You are not the King,” she growled at last.
Alicent lifted her head higher, her chin jutting out with defiance.
“No, I am the Queen.
And I have the right to express my lord husband’s will and wisdom while he is indisposed.”
The chortle Rhaenyra released made Alicent’s skin prickle with annoyance.
Even defeated, she dared act insolent.
“And how does he express his wisdom to you, exactly?
In blinks and wheezes?”
“The King’s condition has worsened since you saw him last,” she fired back, incensed.
She would not suffer accusations of mishandling Viserys’s health, not when she had spent years acting as his nursemaid.
“It is at the advice of the Maesters that we…”
“Ah yes, the Maesters.” Rhaenyra barreled over her.
Leaving the table, she drew closer, her face twisted into a scowl.
“It is they who keep him addled on milk of the poppy while the Hightowers warm his throne.”
Heat surged into her head.
Alicent almost leapt to seize the dinner knife off the table, to reopen the scar on her arm.
“Rhaenyra, if you saw him without it, you would not be saying such things.”
“Yes, I am certain it is a great mercy to keep him confined to his bed.”
Gritting her teeth, Alicent blew a breath, forcing herself to remain calm.
“Yes, it is.
So is me forgiving your vile insinuations and bidding you a peaceful farewell.”
She allowed the words to linger just long enough before drawing closer.
The purple of her iris was just as vibrant as it had been in their girlhood, but there was no warmth in it now.
Only cold calculation.
“Please, I beseech you.
You are not welcome here.
Leave for Dragonstone at once, and no further grief may be caused.
You do not wish to repeat your husband’s mistakes.”
Just as she had thought, the mention of Daemon bid Rhaenyra to stumble back.
Alicent balled her fists, pressing her advantage.
“Where is the Prince, I wonder?”
Strained silence was her answer.
At last, Rhaenyra gritted her teeth.
“He is away.
On a sensitive diplomatic mission.”
How she resisted chuckling was beyond her.
The lie was so deliciously plain to see.
Larys had long ago brought her whispering from his little rats at Dragonstone of Daemon’s quarrel with his wife and subsequent departure.
No one had seen the Prince for months, and Vaemond’s declaration had not bid him to return to defend her.
She is alone.
At last, there was no one at her side to give her reprieve, to grant her special privileges not afforded others.
She had to stand alone with her sins, so the gods could pass righteous judgment on her.
The thought almost made Alicent weep for joy.
“Good.
You need not be burdened by his hot temper.
I shall have Ser Criston arrange an escort to take you from the Keep to the docks where you can sail home.”
“What, we are leaving?” a child’s voice sounded.
It was then that Alicent chose to acknowledge the two boys still seated at the breakfast table.
The taller, lanky one was plainly the infant Joffrey, all grown now.
His soft brown curls and pug nose were a mirror of his elder brother.
But the boy beside him was unfamiliar.
No older than five, he sat clinging to Joffrey like a kitten, his eyes downcast.
His eyes were what first drew Alicent’s attention.
They were a deep, smoky purple, ringed with pale lashes that fluttered against his pudgy cheeks.
A shock of fine silver hair framed his cherub face, and when he pursed his lips, she could see Daemon’s smirk.
Aegon.
This must be Aegon.
The son she and her dearest uncle had birthed shortly after they had wed.
Barring the deliberate name choice, the boy was plainly a Valyrian, his parentage unquestioned.
However, rather than working in Rhaenyra’s favor, it only served to contrast her other two plain-featured sons.
The jests write themselves.
“Hush, Joffrey,” Jacaerys warned, his nostrils flaring.
Hulking as he was, the boy could easily pass for a bull.
“My father will not allow this,” Rhaenyra reasoned, but there was no conviction in her voice.
“He has, and you must follow through with it,” Alicent announced, her voice thick with elation.
“Dress yourselves and gather your things.
Your escort will be waiting in…”
The sound of the door latch bid her pause.
She whirled on her feet, just in time to glimpse two figures stumble inside.
“Lord Casswell, I beseech you to cease this nonsense immediately,” her father’s face was twisted in a scowl as he stared daggers down at his interlocutor.
The aged Lord Casswell seemed to return his glare in kind, at last uncovering his spine.
“You will pardon me, My Lord Hand, if I do not.
I have a message for the Princess.” His squinty eyes narrowed at her.
“From her father, the King.”
Alicent’s gut dropped.
Chills racing down her spine, she accosted the foolish man, seizing the parchment he was clutching in his fleshy fingers.
The words she read made her ears ring.
“What is it?
Hand me the letter.”
Alicent crushed the paper before Rhaenyra could rush to take it from her hands.
“It seems the King has decided to allow you to remain.”
She refused to look at her face.
She could not bear to see that smug, triumphant grin again.
If she did, she would pitch her, Lord Casswell, and whichever fool had granted him entry to her husband’s chambers through the tallest window in the Red Keep.
“As petitioners,” her Lord father clarified, his eyes narrowed with displeasure.
Alicent lashed him with a look.
His attempts to soften this blow were futile.
What did it matter if Viserys allowed her to stay as a petitioner?
She would still be here, under his nose, ready to spin her web and worm her way back into his good graces.
Just as she always did.
“Good, then the matter is settled,” a faraway voice said.
It was most like Jacaerys.
“And you may get out of my mother’s chambers.”
Silence followed the declaration, as one by one, her father and Lord Casswell shuffled out.
Alicent was the last to leave, her muscles trembling with weakness.
Why?
Why have you forsaken me?
If the Mother heard her call, she did not give an answer.