Chapter Text
Mounted knights garbed in well-worn armor sat astride horses of every hue and temperament. The white of the Kingsguard, the gold of the Gold Cloaks, and the peacock of colors worn by lords and knights of the varied high houses stood out in sharp contrast to the green fields that spanned the outside of Kingslanding and the gray cobblestone of the road.
Only House Royce and House Strong seemed to be dressed for a hunt in muted, earth tones that would blend with the forest. From afar Alicent could see Lady Royce eye the various lords with thin-lipped disdain and sharp hand movements to her closest companion, Ser Gerald Royce. That was not a woman thrilled to have her hunt waylaid.
The king sat astride a mare like a man expertly trained to sit a saddle, but commanded the horse in a flippant manner that no true knight or dragon rider would allow. The horse wandered where it willed and Viserys allowed it its head. He laughed jovially with lord and servant alike. This was the venue where the king thrived—not the council chamber. The fast, rambling small talk exchanged in a good-natured manner.
Eventually, the king's horses plodded over to Alicent’s side. The king offered Alicent a warm smile and a tilt of the head in greeting. Alicent’s hands tightened on the saddle acutely aware of how poorly she looked sat on such a creature. Small folk would look far more regal and skilled than Alicent herself. They did not spend their childhood in a cell. The vicious reminder caused a pulse of pain, as well as a re-centering. She had survived that; she could...
The silver mare she sat astride startled and almost unseated Alicent when it plodded forward, long neck reaching for stalks of grass and flowers that popped between the edges of the stones that formed the Kingsroad. Few stalks of grass broke the smooth, exact line of stone that trailed from the Red Keep into the distant horizon.
Alicent shifted uneasily acutely aware of the hard leather bulging into the soft flesh of her thighs and backside in a manner that would bruise before the day ended.
“My lady!” The king exclaimed in a volume that halted all other conversation. The man surged forward uselessly, but his mount drifted just out of reach questing for a stalk of grass of its own.
The sound of horseshoes on cobblestone boomed and Ser Arryk’s gauntlet-clad arm grasped Alicent’s shoulder to stabilize her.
“Thank you, Ser Arryk, your grace.” The words came out a weak airy thread from fright.
The plod of another pair of hooves hurried forward. Alicent looked to the left and relaxed as her brother plodded forward Knight-Master at his heels. “We are fortunate that the Kingsroad is stable enough ground—it would take far more for a horse to unseat the girl,” a knight dressed in light chain armor, a jerkin embellished with the burgundy grape of House Redwyne. Her brother followed behind on his own horse, dressed in a similar fashion, but with the Hightower sigil across his chest. “You're grace, well met and I thank you for this invitation. A boy should not conclude his knighthood without facing a boar in combat. I believe you've met, my squire, Gerald Hightower.”
Gerald gave as much of a bow as could be granted from atop a horse. “You're grace,” her brother rumbled, but his eyes barely held the king's before sweeping over her form. Dark eyes rested on her cheek where the bruise still smarted and it took all of her will not to reach up and brush against the area.
“Then he must! Boy, stay close to me.” Viserys leaned forward and gestured with his injured hand, unselfconscious of the advertising his marred hand. His voice dropped and he ventured onward as if revealing a great truth that must not be known. “My Hand insists I kill a beast every hunt. Stay close and I will grant you the honor.”
Gerald looked to his knightmaster, who nodded. “We are, as always, your humble servants, King Viserys. Gerald will comport himself well.” The tone of the knight's voice remained even, but the expression in his eyes promised punishment if her brother did not behave as a squire must.
“Yes, Ser Julian, King Viserys. Nothing would make me happier.”
“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.” With each word, the king's gaze began to wander until it landed on where Lady Royce and Ser Harwin conversed together as the various servants swirled around them with last-minute preparation. The king put in an effort for once to begin to guide his horse forward to converse with the pair in a jovial tone that rang over the preparations and surely gave warning to the nearest beasts of the hunt that would soon commence.
Her brother nodded at her before urging his horse to follow the king. Ser Julian Redwyne lingered, green eyes watched the pair advance before turning to Alicent.
“Lady Alicent you are looking fine this day,” Ser Julian remarked, his gaze lingered on her in a way that made her want to flee. “Still a shy little thing, I see. I've been telling my men the rumors are the highest form of folly, my lady.”
Alicent's smile became a sharp, brittle slash. “I am fortunate to have someone who spreads and dissuades rumors all in the same breath, Ser Julian. We are grateful for your continued patronage of my brother. The good-brother of a king is expected to be far more.”
Julian squinted at her as a bemused expression took root. “I do believe...” What the man believed, she would never find out as his expression evened out even more men spilled from the city's gates onto the cramped roadway.
The Velaryons and their retinue had arrived. Laenor Velaryon did not stand at its head. No, that honor was left to knights whom Alicent did not recognize. Auburn-haired Joffrey Lonmoth stood in his horse's stirrups and looked skyward, arm raised to shield his eyes from the noon-day sun.
As if on cue, a dragon screech ripped through the air. Birds took flight in all directions. The dragon lazily snapped at them as they scattered around him. The sound of distant cursing drifted downward.
Julian let out a disgusted huff. “I don't foresee anyone, let alone your brother, wetting their blade with blood, my lady.”
“There are worse matters than a wasted hunt, good Ser.”
Julian looked askance at her and chuckled. “Your mother said that oft enough. You have her look, girl. Her spirit as well, by the looks of it.” That squint arose once more and he leaned toward her. “And here I thought it had been beaten out of you. You have the eyes of a squire given to the worst-tempered Knight Master.”
“I—” Alicent scanned the man's face in search of a memory. Craggy, weathered skin, thinning blond locks that possessed not even a hint of a curl, and more scars than most knights possessed in these relatively peaceful times. She could almost see a younger version of the man sitting beside her mother a time or two all those years ago.
“I fostered at House Fossoway for a time; took a liking to it and spent your mother's youth as a knight of House Fossoway. House Redwyne is overrun with knights, not of the direct line.” The man leaned forward close enough for Ser Arryke to urge his horse forward to interfere if trouble arose. Those green eyes flitted between the lady and her guard before continuing as he had been. “No other master would have taken the boy for the pittance Lord Hightower gave the boy.” The man looked as if he wished to say more, but the screech of a dragon arose from overhead again. He looked up and shuddered as the white, lithe beast circled downward onto a free patch of ground on a distant hill.
Ser Julian bowed once and circled his horse to retreat. Alicent turned her gaze to the train of servants, knights, ladies, and the king began to plod off the Kingsroad onto a nearby beaten-down hunter's path that hugged the very edge of the Kingswood. She even spotted Larys Strong sat astride a horse, club foot artfully hidden by a longer than required trouser leg that could and would be folded up when he began his limping walk.
As the sharp-toothed, long-limbed hounds sniffed at the ground eager to catch their quarry, the youngest Strong boy plodded forward. Alicent prodded her horse forward too late to avoid the dark-eyed boy's gaze. She willed the boy to continue onward, but he veered to the side. “My lady, a fine day for a hunt...or so I've been told by Lady Royce.” Dark eyes cut to where the lady in question stood. The woman crowded daringly into Ser Harwin's space, trapping the man between her body and the side of his stallion. The man had eyes for no other even as the king stood a few steps away in deep conversation with Lord Strong. “It seems Rhaenyra did not need to urge my dear brother to wed after all. Who would have thought that Daemon's bronze lady would be the dame to ensnare my brother.”
Alicent's gaze returned to Larys. “A betrothal has been signed then?”
“I heard she bedded him and proposed all in the same day.”
That had Alicent choking in shock. The hacking coughs shook her chest and tears rose in her eyes.
“A scandal that will unseat your own in time, my lady. A present, for you, in thanks for a favor granted unasked.” The man's words dripped from his lips silky smooth as honey.
“What...” He could not have meant what he implied. He would not betray his brother so...he had the air of a man talking of the weather and not a scandal that would ensnare his soon-to-be goodsister. “Do not pity her, Alicent. She knows what she courts, what she dares. Enjoy the freedom...so few are granted that.”
“No,” Alicent murmured. “They aren't. Not that.” Lady Royce's words returned to her. You would do well to mask your unease with the boy. Those types can sense that. Alicent faired poorly when she strove to play the boy. He could read her like a book; give him what he wants. A favor for a favor.
“If you could hold your tongue about my favor to Rhaenyra, I would be in your debt.”
Larys tongue darted out quickly to wet his lips before retreating once more. He tapped a finger against the cane that had been strapped along the side of the saddle. No assurance came, no promise, instead another riddle. “There are plots afoot, my lady. Merely a warning from an ally. Nothing concrete I fear, just whispers of whispers of a plan—not the shape of it.” He waved one palm lazily through the air. Larys midnight eyes dropped to where Alicent's hands shook around the reigns before turning away dismissively. Those piercing orbs turned to Ser Arryk and he raised his voice so the knight could hear his words. “Good Ser, you do the Father's work, protecting our future Queen.” He gave a bow deeper than it should be and then kicked his horse's flank to urge him onward. The horse neighed in distress at the rough treatment. He paid the creature no mind as he urged the slim creature to join a small cluster of maesters procured as emergency healers for the hunt. The dark-skinned, slim man almost melded into the group if not for his finely detailed clothes.
Ser Arryk frowned after the lord, long blond hair tied into a tight bun and white cape draped over his horse's back. “Remain close, my lady.” He seemed too calm to have heard Larys cryptic warning. What did a boy know of plans and plots? Larys seemed the type to create the illusion of drama to draw the eye, to predict a threat, a catastrophe to claim credit for the prediction. Schemes to engender goodwill with the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She would not take the boy's bait.
Alicent urged her horse onward onto the hunting path. She rode alone for a time, as alone as she could be surrounded by gossiping nobles and frantic servants. The sounds of bird song and the chitter of small tree dwellers that should lay just beyond the path did not accompany the trip. No, this day the roar of a dragon overhead, as well as the sound of a few hundred feet and loud human voices scared off any game large or small.
The solitude was broken by a small boy scurrying through the lines of people on foot. He panted as he ground to a halt. Mussed brown hair, tanned skin, and earth tones revealed him to be one of Lady Royce's retinue. “Lady Alicent,” the boy called. He executed a clumsy bow. He squeaked as a horseman in Lannister red almost rode over the boy. Ser Arryk lunged forward and snagged the boy by his collar and heaved him over the saddle like a sack of grain.
She thought he might whine about the indignity of the move, but when he lifted his head the grin revealed more than a few lost teeth. “Lady Royce has a message.” The boy seemed to be fit to burst to deliver it but did all he could to contain the urge to spill the news without the proper courtesies. The boy's feet wiggled enthusiastically in the air, and Ser Arryk grunted and caught the boy's leg around the ankle. “Keep it upright, or you'll lose a leg, boy.”
The enthusiastic bob of the head sent dusky curls tumbling over a dirt-stained forehead and answered the warning, as did the enthusiastic jerk of legs in smaller movements.
“Let us hear it then,” Alicent requested.
“Lady Royce says,” the boy began before adopting a higher-pitched fairly good mimic of his lady's voice. “I did not arrange this hunt to baby a king and the wrong Hightower. Lady Alicent will join us at the front of the procession.”
“Ser Arryk?” Lady Alicent questioned. She was not averse to joining Lady Royce, but she saw no need to crush nobles and servants under her horse's hooves to do so. Ser Arryk grabbed the boy by the back of his jerkin again and lowered him to the ground. “Lead the way, boy.”
The boy nodded enthusiastically and began to lead the pair through happily demanding they move on the behalf of Lady Royce and Lady Alicent. Scraps of words reached her ears as she passed: grumbled complaints, more than a few slurs, and even her own name a time or two. The entire voyage her mind kept returning to Larys's dark prediction. Lies and fabrications, she told herself. A Charleton's words.
No one, blessedly, was trampled underfoot, although it was a near miss on more than one occasion. Her journey took them to where the party would make camp for the night, in a hollow at the very bottom of a hill. Her horse nickered and shook as the dragon's roar echoed over the land. In the far distance, smoke and flame trailed from the ground to the sky. Dragonkeepers with their long poles circled the dragon in a long loop.
“To prevent drunken lords, overeager boys, or women without brains from being roasted. How long has it been, Titus, since the last incident?” ”
Alicent startled visibly at the unknown voice so close, gloved hands strangling the horse's reigns. The horse tense already from the nearby dragon jolted upwards. The next happened quickly—legs slipping from the saddle, horse darting onward, and the ground meeting her back in a jolt that drove the air from her lungs. Dazed Alicent stared skyward. It was a blue sky with naught but the flimsiest whisper of a cloud. A perfect day for flying, or so Rhaenyra would say. Alicent would have to remember to tell her friend, she disagreed on that front.
The sun was blocked by the long, elegant lines of a mare's head. The lips curled back as it lipped at the grass next to Alicent's prone hand. She let her head turn to the left. “Back off, remove yourself from my charge,” her kingsgaurd ordered.
The horse brayed its displeasure as its head was jerked to the side, and it was forced to walk a few strides away. Just as soon as the horse left her vision, the mussed face of the messenger boy peered down at her. “Sometimes aft'a a fall, I like to nap as well. Ser Gerald doesn't let me. Up you go, he always says.”
“Gerald's not a Ser.”
“Not your Gerald; Gerald Royce, my uncle. The best fighter in the Vale.” Even Alicent dazed as she seemed to be could hear the pride in that particular claim. The notion of two Gerald's didn't quite fit in her mind at the moment. Best not to think on that too much, she decided.
“What is this? Titus, son.”
“The dragon startled Lady Alicent's horse.” The sound of feet hitting the ground followed, only to grind to a halt a moment later. “I am merely attempting to aid the lady, Ser Erryk, is it?”
No answer came to that question. The twins, in Alicent's slim experience, rarely corrected lords and ladies when mistaken for each other. Why offer a correction to people who mattered little to the life of a Kingsguard? Alicent was about to make the correction herself—identity, names they mattered—but the drive was halted by the messenger boy's enthusiastic wiggling above her.
"I can help, Lady Alicent.” The boy chimed. He halted suddenly, straightened up, puffed out his chest, and drawled in a deep rumbling voice, “Up you go.” He reached out, grasped her around the left bicep, and pulled at her arm with a grunt. Alicent used the momentum to sit. The world did not swivel and swirl as it had on other occasions. No, she just felt a tad out of breath and a lot embarrassed. The boy leaned over her, lungs exhaling and inhaling mightily. Small hands brushed his curly bangs away from his brow. “You're heavier than the training weights!”
A snicker followed the words and then a clearing of a throat. “Enough, Marcus, Titus. Go, tell the men that the king has found a location to make a temporary camp. I expect my tent to be set up before the hunt or any merriment occurs.”
“It will be done, father.”
“Of course, Lord Peake.”
Larys Strong's words of a plot afoot caused her to tense and gave her extra incentive to find her feet. The breaches, thank the gods, made the process of scrambling to her feet far easier than a skirt allowed. No fabric to become tangled in or to trap her in a kneeling position if not handled with care. Once standing, she swallowed, settled her expression into a serene mask, and turned to greet the lord with a curtsy. Alicent flushed as her hands reached for skirts that she did not possess.
Lord Unwin Peake sat his stallion with ease, brown locks framed a wide brow, and a well-groomed mustache and beard shielded his pale face from the sun. He had the look of a stern man, a warrior, a lord. “Lord Peake, I had heard you were in Kingslanding.”
“My daughter, Lady Myriel, spoke of you and Lady Hightower.”
“My aunt does not deal with change or surprises well, Lord Peake. If Lady Peake called on her, I am sure she and your daughter will be welcomed.”
“Lady Peake does her duty at home, as a wife should.” The words were inflectionless, dead. They reminded them of her own father reciting the many scriptures of the Faith he had spoken over and over again until they almost lost all meaning. The lord lost no time, left no time for her to answer, and merely continued onward, “Lady Alicent, I do believe they are setting up a tent for the ladies to take refreshments and mingle. House Peake would be honored to escort you and the boy.”
“Gareth Royce,” the boy chimed in.
“Lead the way, boy.” The boy nodded and took off at a sprint down the slightly sloping terrain. Alicent herself would need to walk the distance. First Ser Arryk and then Lord Unwin dismounted. Lord Unwin led the horse and Alicent joined the lord to stroll at her side, consciously aware of the space between herself and her kingsgaurd. Too much space.
Lord Unwin left her at the entrance of the lady's pavilion as promised with a sharp, cold goodbye. It felt odd to be treated as what she was—the insignificant daughter of a second-son, albeit one that had risen high—rather than a king's betrothed. If she walked through that door, she'd no doubt be treated as an almost Queen-Consort, but the day slipped away and she would not waste the free time allotted her by Lady Hightower. The luncheons, the tea time, the sewing gathering would begin anew in two days' time, for now, she possessed a larger degree of freedom.
Alicent turned away and walked briskly toward where the smoke rose from the ground to the horizon in the distance. Ser Arryk followed without a word of caution or complaint.
It had been too many days since she'd seen and talked to Laenor Velaryon. The thought of the silver-haired squire led her mind back to begging her brother to fetch the boy. Shame slithered through her at the weakness, but pleasure too. She'd never quite formed a connection with anyone as quickly, as deeply as Laenor.
The flat ground covered with nobles and lavish tents gave way to choppier, rougher empty ground. The only men in the distance were the bald, leathery-skinned dragonkeepers. The man stood with their backs to Alicent, facing one of the most dangerous creatures in the Westlands—in the world, really—the dragon.
The closest Dragonkeeper turned smoothly, and his upraised staff with two large prongs swung downward and hovered threateningly a few paces from Alicent's chest. “Be gone. No lord or lady, by order of the king, is allowed past the Dragonkeepers. Turn away, or you will be taken to be guarded with the others until the Gold Cloaks can claim them.”
The smooth head tilted sharply to the side where a group of young boys and a sole drunken lord huddled under the stern gaze of two Dragonkeepers. “A wise plan,” Alicent murmured. Alicent doubted the king or her father had ordered it implemented of their own volition. Both men were too busy worrying over their own ambitions and concerns to safeguard noble children or drunken second-sons. “I wished to speak to Lord Laenor,” Alicent requested.
The dragonkeeper relaxed the staff and it drifted downward for a moment before he returned it to a resting position against the leather shirt she wore. The wood rested against a patch of skin that had been partially melted by dragon fire. “Lord Laenor is within, my lady.”
“I can wait,” Alicent assured.
The dragonkeeper's frown deepened. He muttered a few words that she'd heard from Daemon's mouth a time or two...some kind of curse. When he next spoke, it was with forced calm. “Dragons are not men; Seasmoke has your scent even now.” The implication of danger present even beyond the line of men caused Alicent to shudder involuntarily.
“I would be in your debt if you told, Lord Laenor I await him.”
The guard grunted and his hands nervously fiddled with the waxy bit of skin on his neck. The contemplation on the man's brow meant he was on the verge of success. Just a slight push and she'd have her way. “I've noticed that the Dragon Pit gets a pittance of the money that it should in my recent visits. That you have been underfunded, undermanned.”
“That is known,” the dragonkeeper rumbled. “The head of the Dragon Pit has talked of the matter with Prince Daemon.”
“Prince Daemon is not well-liked by the King's Counsel.” Alicent returned. She in truth was no more than a little girl wedding the king to those men, but she did have the King's ear. And in truth, the idea of any upjumped lord bullying their way into the Dragon Pit and stealing dragon eggs left her deeply uneasy.
The dragonkeeper turned and gestured sharply to the boy who stood a few paces away. The boy wore dragonkeeper garb to fit him loosely—an apprentice perhaps. The man rattled off an order in High Valyrian. The apprentice's eyebrows scrunched and he shuffled uneasily almost losing his staff in the process. The older dragonkeeper sighed and rattled off an order to fetch Lord Laenor in the Common Tongue.
Laenor Velaryon arrived not long after; Joffrey Lonmouth strode at the lord's side almost in lockstep.
“Lady Alicent,” Lonmouth called, in greeting. The man's smile was eager, and charming. “You're not the type I'd expect to attempt to bribe her way to Laenor's dread of a dragon. Fear not, we will smuggle you in.”
The Dragonkeeper's hands tightened on his staff and he looked as if he wished to curse once more in High Valyrian. He would hold his tongue before one of Valyrian descent; still, it was best not to push the matter. “I fear you will have us both under the stern watch of the Dragonkeepers,” Alicent returned. “We would miss the hunt, no doubt.”
“She uncovered my plot, Laenor. “
The reference to a plot caused Alicent's expression to waver and that sense if unease to return. Gods take Larys Strong for setting my mind in a maelstrom.
Laenor grunted.
“Whatever shall we do now?” Joffrey drawled. He waited a beat for Laenor to answer, but the boy merely shrugged.
“I suppose we have no choice but to tromp through the woods for hours on end, scaring off all the game and causing a nuisance with every step we take.”
Amusement thrummed through the worry. “I fear that the other lords already plan to fill that role and they will have Lady Royce's wrath to face down for their incompetence.”
"Come, Lady Alicent, I fear I must warn the good lady of my plot, so she can bar me from attending this farce.”
“Our knightmaster will have you completing drills from sundown to sunup if you fail to attend for the next few fortnights” Laenor warned. There was a tense thread that sharpened Laenor's tone and made his violet eyes seem wide and wild.
Joffrey's stride staggered and his head of auburn locks fell across his brow with the force of his head's motion. “I jest, Laenor.” The other man's name escaped in a soft caress; the type used for an endearment rather than a name. Alicent averted her eyes to give the pair a modicum of privacy.
Soft words were exchanged that Alicent strained not to hear as the squabble ended. Rhaenyra's good-natured teasing of the pair's relationship played through her mind. They were closer, far closer than they seemed. For the first time, Alicent wondered how close. As close as she wished to be with Rhaenyra?
“Lady Alicent, I fear I must check in with my knight-master. I will be sewn to the man's side for this hunt.” Joffrey stopped his stride long enough to give an elegant bow.
“Good luck, Joffrey Lonmouth.”
“Luck? For a hunt of this shape and form?” The man's eyes trailed over the spoiled lordlings that rarely had the poor fortune of wandering outdoors in the elements, over the servants who franticly skittered from place to place and would be conducting most of the hunting this day, and to the dogs that snuffled at the earth at all of the wonderful new scents. “I fear I am a poor squire if I do not comport myself far better than most without luck.”
And with that, Joffrey Lonmouth strolled away with a swagger that usually only the cockiest of the great lords possessed. When Alicent looked to Laenor, the man's gaze remained glued to his departing friend's form.
“I had hoped Lady Velaryon would return by now,” Alicent remarked. She could not even in the open with her kingsgaurd at her back linger with Laenor for overly long.
“Mother sent a messenger on foot. The Eyrie has been beset by storms for the past week. She did not wish to chance the journey to the Red Keep with my sister.”
“It will be good to have the Master of Ships return to court. My father has been complaining incessantly about the shifting political ties of the court in recent days.”
Laenor finally tore his gaze away from his friend's backside to meet her eyes. “I will inform my mother of you and your father's concerns of late.” The man really studies her face for a moment. Those eyes settled on the area of her cheek caked with makeup. “Is all well, Lady Alicent?”
“Well enough, my lord.” The dismissal fell from her lips with a bit of unease. “I grow weary of the rumors that abound, but that is the lot of a life at the Red Keep.”
Laenor's lips twisted in a distaste. “I have heard; The few men who dared speak them of my house were reprimanded. We are to be kin in the coming months.”
“I appreciate the effort, Laenor. I fear you fight to hold back the tides.”
“The sea is as much my heritage as the dragons, but yes, that might be beyond even me. If...I can help in any manner, speak it. I made a promise I intend to keep.”
“I can offer even less than you, but if you ever have a need I will be here,” Alicent promised in return. “And Laenor, stay safe,” Alicent ordered. “Hunts can be a dangerous affair—even royal ones.”
“As you command,” Laenor returned. The man bowed and seemed to take her order in a suitably grave manner before he departed. Sole male heirs were often instilled in them the importance of safety and vigilance. She could only hope that Princess Rhaenys instilled that caution in her child.
Alicent had a few hours to wander the camp with Ser Arryk at her back. Lords and ladies flocked to her to offer their warmest welcome, their most ardent exclamations of their devotion and their well-wishes, and their most delicately probing questions.
She met the questions, the exclamations, and the invasions of her personal life with quiet, demure dignity. The more probing questions, she acted the fool, eyes wide, stuttering out confused questions, and politely giving an excuse to vacate the exchange. By the end of the few hours, she felt she might have been better off in the lady's pavilion.
When the time came to depart for the hunt, Alicent followed the sounds of the occasional yip and bark of the hounds to the very edge of the Kingswood. She found Lady Royce attending to the horse that had bucked Alicent from its back. She became acutely aware of the slight stiffness in her back she'd been doggedly pushing past the last few hours.
“It seems you misplaced your horse. My cousin, Gerald, found the mare wandering toward where the dragon slumbers.” Lady Royce let the arm holding the brush fall to her side and shifted far enough to make eye contact.
“She decided to continue her journey without me. I was not fast enough to disagree with her,” Alicent admitted, with a small degree of sheepishness.
Rhea snorted. “Toss you, did she?”
Alicent merely shrugged, unwilling to outright admit that indignity.
Rhea patted the horse on a strong shoulder, “Well she's ready to throw you once more.” The woman tossed the reigns to Gareth Royce who nodded enthusiastically at his head of house as if she'd rattled off a stream of orders.
The Lady of Runestone left the boy to his vigil and waved at Alicent to follow as she strolled to the very edge of the forest. Skilled eyes scanned the trees and the ground for a long moment, before she let out a sigh. “I don't know why I bother. The hunt-master and his apprentices have been scouring the Kingswood for easy game for the last few hours. The location of the hunt, as well as the animal, has already been decided.” The words were more of a grumbled complaint than the lady would give in any other company.
“A safe hunt for the king then?” The thought put Alicent at ease.
Rhea nodded, a sharp tilt of her chin. The woman walked a few feet into the forest and hunched over a scuff in the dirt. Leather-clad fingers set at the very edge of it and dark eyes skittered over the earth for the next marking, and the next. Alicent watched the lady set a path that the unknown creature took with her eyes.
“A deer?” Alicent asked.
“A boar,” Rhea returned. “It would be wiser if we hunted a deer this day. The realm does not need a king, grown soft with ruling, to face down a wild boar—even tied as it will be.” The lady straightened and brushed her gloved hands together to shed the dirt from the soft leather.
“Surely, the hunt-master will opt for safer game?”
“Nature does not often offer the luxury of choice, Lady Alicent. You would know that more than most.”
Alicent blinked at the twist in the conversation. What did that imply? Her marriage to the king? Her friendship with Rhaenyra? Her sojourn with the Silent Sisters?
“Princess Rhaenyra gushes like a girl lost in the throes of a first crush when she speaks of you, Lady Alicent. I had thought I'd need to caution you to be more discrete. There are matters that a Queen-Consort cannot allow to be known. Matters that Princess Rhaenyra can weather that you cannot.”
The pair stood close enough and Lady Royce spoke soft enough that Alicent herself had to strain to hear. “I fear I do not know of what you speak, Lady Royce.” The words that left Alicent's lips came out weak, and shaky.
“Good, remember those words and become used to saying them and meaning it. Women have died for less. The Faith—”
“I do not need to be lectured on the Faith of the Seven.” Those words were sharp and echoed through the forest in too open of a manner. Unease ate at her. She did not want to think of, to hear of the Faith of the Seven. Not this day when her back had begun to ache and Larys words ate at her.
The woman studied her with a sharp, cold gaze that showed not even a hint of remorse. “Then I will not this day; Rhaenyra will find allies at Runestone or High Garden or the Eyrie. Allies who understand the importance of discretion. Allies who can recommend guards and ladies-in-waiting that have the right mindset.”
“And what do you wish for this favor?”
“This is not a favor. It's proactive protection of my kin, of my line. The Faith threatens all we have laid the foundation for. House Hightower threatens all that I have worked to protect. You are a dangerous ally to have, Alicent Hightower. And yet, you are the best one I have been given, so I do what I must.”
The words sat between them in tense silence save for the distant chatter. Alicent did not know whether to be flattered or enraged; she settled for tired, so very tired. She would never be a good enough Hightower, but to many, she'd never be anything more than that very thing. “I would be happy to review any names you put forth.” The men and women would likely report to Lady Royce and her allies, but that seemed a safer prospect than plants of House Hightower.
“Come, I will compile a list of candidates before I leave Kingslanding. In the meantime, we have a hunt to attend.”
Lady Royce brushed past Alicent with a smooth twist of her leather boots on the earth, a long slide, and a return to a normal walk without losing more than a moment of time. Alicent's gaze focused on the scuffed earth. The bold remnants the lady left behind. For someone who cared for discretion, she lived her life boldly, brazenly drew attention in her own way, and hot-headedly pursued what she desired.
In many ways, the lady lived the life that Daemon Targaryen might have lived if he wasn't a prince with a dragon to escalate his escapades. Alicent doubted that Rhea would appreciate the comparison. Alicent met Ser Arryk at the tree line. The knight nodded and fell into step with her once more.
Rhea hustled forward. Gareth practically skipped in place as he watched lords and ladies mount hoses around him. Alicent's gaze scanned the crowd. Otto Hightower towered over most other men. The king stood beside him. Gerald Hightower stood not far behind. The king and the Hand of the King conversed with a smaller, haggard-looking man. The hunt-master, Alicent figured.
The lady of House Hightower's hands fell to skirts that she did not wear, flushed in annoyance at her own idiocy, and hustled forward. Lady Royce passed her the reigns to the horse. “We will see each other again after the hunt.”
“You plan to veer off course,” Alicent guessed.
Lady Royce shrugged. “It would be in poor taste to return with game that will overshadow the king's efforts. I will wander through the woods wishing I could hunt.” The words were dry, not meant in jest.
“I would hope that Rhaenyra would develop half of your tact.” Once again, Larys words returned to her of danger and plots, and even more so about the rumors that were already festering, but the contentious, confusing conversation they recently had still roiled her stomach into knots. “Be careful, Lady Royce.”
“Fear not, my lady. I have been on many a hunt in my time. I am not one to take petty, dangerous risks.” And with that Lady Royce walked away with Gareth at her heels happily chirping about the hunt to come.
Alicent slid into place beside her brother. Gerald nodded at her and gave a weak smile. “The hunt-master found game to hunt?”
Gerald nodded and grinned. “A boar. I've never killed a boar before.”
Rhea Royce's words of caution about the danger of boars sat uneasily in her gut. It took effort to maintain her serene stance as her brother practically vibrated with excitement. “You've never killed anything save for a rabbit and a few pheasants before,” Alicent returned. “I am happy for you.” She did not mean to be so solemn, so grave.
“I know.” The single phrase said so much. I see that you're trying. I love you.I see you.
The movement felt too charged to linger on surrounded by eager eyes as they were. “Tell me how this hunt works.” The question prompted an enthusiastic answer that continued long after the long train of lords and ladies wandered into the Kingswood.
Not all that started on the journey made it to the clearing where the hunt-masters men waited with the boar. The majority of the ladies of the court peeled off first complaining of fright, or cold, or boredom. Laenor Velaryon and Joffrey Lonmouth offered in a suitably reluctant manner to escort the ladies back to the safety of the camp.
Lady Royce, Ser Harwin, and many other knights and lords wandered off next into the forest to scout for the presence of game to hunt on the morrow. The king released them with an enthusiastic thanks for their willingness to sacrifice the experience of watching his successful hunt. The words landed in a manner that had the various lords and ladies still present chuckling freely—all save for Lord Unwin who looked on with disapproval.
I know how much of a farce this is, King Viserys seemed to say.
Fools, all of you, Lord Unwin seemed to silently return.
More lords and ladies wandered off once the king gave his goodwill until all that remained were a little more than half-a-dozen guards from various houses, a few kingsgaurds, and the hunt-masters men. One Hightower guard rode at Alicent's side. Ser Arryk had been temporarily re-assigned to gaurd the king in this time of heightened risk. One of the few lords that remained was Lord Unwin Peake, whose retinue (two guards, his son, and his son's friend) rode just behind Alicent and her brother. One of the few knights that remained was Ser Julian Redwyne, her brother's knight-master.
The boar’s screams of rage could be heard well before they arrived at their destination. The clearing where the boar waited was as open as could be found in the midst of the Kingswood. Six men who looked mussed and ruffled, hair a-fly, clothes and skin covered in dirt and twigs, and muscles straining against the boars thrashing.
The party dismounted their horses, handed over the reins to a few of the guards to attend to, and crowded around the outskirts of the clearing.
Alicent found herself circling around the edge until she stood close enough to see, but not close enough to be in immediate danger. The guard shuffled in front of her partially blocking her view. Alicent shuffled to the side and her brother's determined expression came into view. The hunt-master blocked the king from her sight, he held a long spear in front of him and spent long, never-ending moments coaching the king and the squire on how to properly kill the boar.
The boar growled and threw its skull, the sharp tusks ripped threateningly through the air. One of the greener boys yelped and fumbled with the leash.
“Hold,” The hunt-master whipped around and roared the word. “Hold.”
The boy startled by the sudden command lost control of the leash entirely. Chaos ensued as the boar seeing weakness thrust itself away from the weakened end of the two lines. Screams of Protect the King roared out. Men of all colors rushed toward their monarch.
Over the commotion, she could hear the words, “For the Hand” ring through the clearing. Her brother, closest to the king, yelled out something unintelligible before he lunged forward to push the king to the side with his left hand and unsheath his sword with his right.
It was not the boar he turned toward, but the oncoming men. The guttural gasp came next as the blade met leather and metal vambrace. The blade must be sharp enough to cut through that. The pain such a wound would have caused did not phase her brother. He pushed onward, sword flashing with the deadly strength of a young noble and the skill of a squire nearly trained. The blade took off the would-be assassin's head with a stroke. The body gurgled blood and then tumbled to the trampled grass.
Her brother's name spilled from her lips and she darted forward, desperate to be sure the wound would not kill, to do something. Gareld turned, red spilling from a wound in his forearm. He still stood though...he still stood.
The scream of a boar startled Alicent away from her brother. It stood square in front of her, eyes blown, tusks covered in blood, and a squealing roar spilling between barred teeth. Alicent realized in that moment that the guard that had been assigned to her had wandered off to protect the king. The boar charged.
Alicent threw herself away, her feet skidded and lodged into a meandering root underfoot. She tried to drag herself away, but her ankle smarted with each jostle against the earth. The ground trembled...or was it Alicent herself? She closed her eyes and bowed her head. I spent my life at the feet of a Weirwood Tree, played amongst its roots, a death at the roots of another tree seemed fitting...poetic in a way. Her only regret, Rhaenyra, always Rhaenyra.
No, not yet. Alicent rolled to the side. The tip of one of the boar's tusks dragged across her shoulder as it passed. The boar circled around for another pass. She could vaguely hear cries of protect the king over her own panicked thoughts. The trunk of the tree prevented any further escape.
Hooves tore at the ground before it charged forward once more. A sharp rock lay right out of reach. Sizable enough to be a weapon. Fingers scrambled against the dirt.
Gerald's muscled form charged into her vision, sword held like a spear.
The scream froze in her chest with a ferocity that shook and hurt. Not the good kind of hurt. Not the kind of hurt that caused a fission of relief in the roiling storm of her life. Not the kind of hurt that spreads lies through her veins into her skull.
The sword found a home in the boar's eye. The boar's tusk found a home in her brother's gut. The force of the boar's momentum caused the tusks to yank a vicious trail. Alicent ducked into the earth instinctively. Boar and man tumbled over her huddled form. It was a desperate hiccuping gasp, more guttural whines, that Alicent heard next.
She could not recall if asked later the desperate scramble on a lame ankle to her brother's side. The boar crushed him from chest to knee. She did not bother to move the beast. The entrail wrapped around the boar's horn told the picture of her brother's fate clearly. “Alicent, I kept my promise...”
“Yes,” Alicent said, the word came out mangled, but she did not sob. He needs me. Alicent pried the sword from her brother's hand and stripped off her own glove between her teeth. The bite of her teeth against her finger barely registered. She took his hand in her own. “I'll find you the prettiest girl to wed.”
A laugh huffed from his lips. “The richest,” he corrected, before groaning.
“The richest,” she promised.
Men arrived then. Ser Julian broke apart and fell to his feet at his squire's side. Words were exchanged then. All Alicent could focus on was her brother's face, free from blood, from scuffs, with the barest remnant of bruises from his hard days training. The flash of a dagger jolted her.
Julian Redwyne wielded the dagger-like he never wished to touch one again in his life. “Talk to him girl, distract him.”
And so, Alicent did, even as she wished to cry and weep she talked of happier days as her mother's oldest friend delivered a killing blow, a mercy cut. Her voice twisted mid-sentence into a dry sob. No tears came. She clung to her brother's lifeless hand for a moment longer before releasing it. She moved through the world in a fog for some time after.
By the end of the following day, the tales of how Alicent Hightower clung to her dying brother's hand, how she had to be ripped away from him, and how she screamed like death itself had come for her became the talk of court. Alicent could not find it in her to care. Larys words, his warning mocked her over and over and over again.
She did not truly come to herself once more until she sat at the base of the Weirwood Tree in the Red Keep once more. This time when she cut her hand it was with a knife intentionally. Alicent Hightower did not believe in the gods—Old or New—but that did not matter. Blood was an important part of Targaryen ceremonies she knew that much. It seemed right to make such a sacrifice to seal a vow.
No one, nothing, will ever steal anyone from me again.
The blood from her palm dripped onto the white roots of the Weirwood tree. For a moment, she felt strong, powerful and then the moment turned and all that remained to her was a young, tortured girl who could barely function most days. The salty tears mixed with the blood on the Weirwood. She cried quiet sobs against the harsh bark of the Weirwood, her assigned Kingsgaurd a silent sentinal.