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“Queen Alicent, upon seeing the wretched wound on Aemond’s face, demanded the eye of Lucerys Velaryon. “’Tis a fair exchange,” she said. “He can choose which eye to keep; a privilege he did not grant my son.” King Viserys sought to calm his wife’s temper. The eye was lost, yes, but Aemond was still hale and healthy. Alicent sought retribution, arguing that a prince of the realm had been maimed.

Her retribution did not come to fruition. Princess Rhaenyra, enraged by her half-brother calling her children bastards, demanded he be questioned sharply and learn where such slander had arisen. Viserys asked Aemond the truth of it, then Aegon, once his brother named his eldest son. “Everyone knows, Father,” said Aegon. “Just look at them.”

What happened next, according to Septon Eustace’s account, Aegon’s own words, was calamity. Alicent, furious that Aemond had not received justice, came at Rhaenyra with a knife. Aemond, sensing his mother’s anger after the knife was wrestled from her person, reassured her, “Do not mourn me, Mother. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

Whatever was said between them was not specified; however, the Princess turned pale as milk. Some say that Alicent cursed Rhaenyra that fateful night. What little amity Viserys built between the blacks and the greens was destroyed, and the seeds of war were sown, blossoming into the Dance of Dragons. Yet, once the Dance ended and the dust settled, House Targaryen moved forward once more, marching away from their bloody past - until the past caught up with them.

High Septon Corwyn writes of Alicent Hightower and her children’s arrival in the Red Keep, eighty years after Driftmark, “Alicent, distraught by her children’s misfortune, wished to cease future bloodshed.” The marriage between Alicent Hightower and Baelor “Breakspear” Targaryen,  heir to the Iron Throne and the eldest son of King Daeron II and his Dornish wife, Myriah Martell, occurred a mere moon after her miraculous return. Whether Alicent Hightower was blessed by the gods or cursed, this historian cannot say. I only seek to write the truth.”

- Fire & Blood, Being a History of Targaryen Kings in Westeros: The Twice Over Queen, by Archmaester Gyldalyn. 

i. 

Daeron was blissfully, miraculously drunk.

It had taken enough strongwine to know his stomach would twist and turn in agony on the morrow, but the morrow would come later, for the now was infinitely sweeter. Daeron had not felt so unencumbered since he was a child. How he hoped, how he prayed, to be left alone in oblivion. Daeron drank, and drank, and thought, teary-eyed, of his mother, and what she would think if she could see him now.

Last night, he had dreamt again. A woman clad in green and gold wept for her son, cradling his headless body in her arms. A woman with the same silver-gold hair, intricately braided, screamed as a gnawing maw consumed her. A man on the Iron Throne, the left side of his ruined face staring directly at Daeron. Queen Helaena, Princess Rhaenyra, King Aegon II; the destruction of dragon power left the Targaryens bereft, asunder in the Dance’s ashes.

The Dance had not haunted him for some time, not since he had first learnt Targaryen history. Blood and Cheese, and poor Queen Helaena, lurked in the passageways of Maegor’s holdfast. Daeron felt cold when he passed through, as though their specters watched him from the walls.

A twinkling star shot across the sky, a shock of red, like juice running from a burst blood orange. Daeron looked up, shrinking it between his fingers until all he could see was the faintest red glow, smeared by his hand. “It’s for luck,” he told Egg once. What could you do with all that luck if you caught a star? Daeron wondered. Mayhaps such luck would change his life.

Alas, his luck was not to last. Moments later, the star changed, warping as the void devoured him. Daeron thought, frantic, not again, pleasepleaseplease, not again.

“My son has lost an eye,” Alicent Hightower cried out. Her face drawn in sorrow and in rage, her red hair askew. The silver glint of a knife, Rhaenyra hissing in pain, blood running down the blade -

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?”

In his mind, Daeron heard, clear as a ringing bell: Your duty will be better served elsewhere.

A scream, a sigh, a murmur.

Come, the voice urged. Come back. You have fire in your veins – a fire House Targaryen needs.

“She is a dead queen,” Daeron said. “Mother to a monster, stepmother to a tyrant. Why her?”

The voice crooned, Foolish child. The gods demand it.

“Which gods?”

All of them.

Unease pickled his stomach. Sudden vertigo made Daeron’s eyesight swim, his breath catch within his chest. “Why do the gods demand it?”

That is not for you to know. She will return, her children alongside her. Bind them in blood.

“In blood? What the fuck do you mean, in blood?!”

Laughter rippled through his mind. You will know when she arrives.

Daeron returned to reality in an instant, a brutal sensation akin to falling off a cliff. He tried not to vomit. Insects buzzed outside, the wind whispering, Daeron, you dreamt again. Againagainagain.

Fuck, he needed more wine. The pitcher of Arbor Gold, sweet as summertime kisses, lay empty, tilted to the side. He had knocked it over.

His feet unsteady, torch shadow swinging to and fro, Daeron made the slow, familiar creep to the kitchens. He avoided the passageways. No need to tempt ghosts. Another pitcher ought to do the trick; ghosts did not exist if you drowned them in drink.

“Mother,” a boy’s voice whispered. “Mother, what's happening?" 

Daeron froze.

"Who's there?" 

Fuck fuck fuck no –

A nightmare, brought on by a dream.

My dreams come true.

The torch fell, his grip slackened by sweat. It hit the floor with a startled clang.

“Who’s there?” the woman called. There was a hint of fear in her voice now. “Show yourself.”

Daeron slunk into the shadows, his heart beating frantically against his ribcage.

“Mother,” the boy said. “What’s happening?”

“Show yourself,” the woman repeated.

Fuck, Daeron thought. Fuck me bloody.

He stood, unsteadily, and thought of what words he could offer to a woman ripped out of time. Nothing came to mind.

“Who are you?” Alicent Hightower’s eyes were wide, her mouth trembling with alarm. She was precisely as he had seen her in his dream. “What are you doing here?”

“I dreamt of you,” Daeron said, and promptly vomited at her feet.

Aemond’s eye was lost.

Lost was not a sufficient word. "Lost" happened to a necklace or a sock. No, Alicent decided, his eye had been taken, gouged out by Lucerys Waters.

She had been too rash, demanding an eye for an eye. Vengeance loosened her tongue, and Alicent wished to slake it with righteous punishment. “Do not let your temper cloud your judgement." How could she not?

“Aemond has lost an eye.” Viserys’ rage had not taken root when he saw the mangled ruin of Aemond’s face, nor when she sought the justice owed to her boy. Viserys’ white-hot fury, a stark contrast to his usual demeanor, was directed towards Aegon. Aemond named him under duress, yet it didn't matter. With unparalleled ferocity, her husband did not defend his other children. Instead, he tore into them to satiate the whims of his most beloved child: Rhaenyra.

The blood of the dragon ran hot. Alicent’s resentment ran hotter. Viserys would do nothing for Aemond, and everything for Rhaenyra and her bastard brood. The difference set her teeth on edge. Her husband, who had wanted a son so badly he carved out Aemma Arryn’s womb, did not even lift a finger to protect the sons Alicent had given him. Three healthy sons, one beautiful daughter - what did it matter if they were not Rhaenyra? Had she Targaryen blood, Viserys would have given her justice.

“The boy is Alicent’s blood. She seeks to put him on the throne.”

Better a Targaryen than a Waters, Alicent thought viciously. Viserys had not visited Aemond since the attack, mayhaps out of shame, or guilt, or anger. Alicent cared not for the reason. Aemond fought between life and death, his fever climbing higher despite diluted milk of poppy Alicent poured into his mouth. In his haze, he forgot her presence and called out “Mama,” like he had done when he was very small.

‘I’m here,” said Alicent. She pressed a desperate kiss to his forehead, then another, and another, murmuring repeatedly, “I’m here.”

“You must rest, my queen.” Criston’s white cloak rustled across the floor. He did not touch her, but if he could, she thought he would rest a reassuring hand on her shoulder. 

“I will rest once Aemond’s fever breaks.”

“That could be days. I will stand watch. You must rest.”

“His father has already abandoned him. I will not leave him, Ser Criston.”

Criston went silent. She knew him well enough to discern he could not voice what he truly thought. Her faithful sworn shield, wielded as a weapon when he should have remained sheathed. He would have to become a weapon again, stronger than steel, after tonight.

“Goodnight, Ser Criston.”

“Goodnight, my queen.” His dark eyes trailed to Aemond’s sleeping form. “Aemond will survive, Your Grace. Of that, I’m certain.”

“He may survive, but he will not be whole.”

“He need not be whole. He has Vhagar.”

“I would rather him have the eye,” said Alicent, embittered. She did not know if Aemond truly thought his eye to be fair trade, or if the joy of having his own dragon removed all discontent. In her mind, she heard her father’s voice: We have Vhagar. Better us than the Blacks. And what a dragon Vhagar was. An advantage to be certain, but was she worth the price? Mayhaps such a price would happily be paid without a second thought, had one of Rhaenyra’s bastards or Daemon’s daughters claimed her, she thought.

Aemond tossed and turned, tugging at his blankets. “Mama,” he called again.   

“I’m here.” Her hand rested upon his far too warm forehead.

“Ser Criston, watch my son. I require a cold cloth.” Alicent stood, tearing a strip of shift. Her dress - a deep, dark blue-green that resembled black, signifying her mourning - rode up to the back of her knees. Criston coughed, averting his eyes. “I will be back shortly.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Driftmark’s empty corridors made Alicent think of the Hightower, of how she and Gwayne would race through passages and down the stairs, never quite reaching the stone hidden beneath. As a child, the thought of it sitting below her feet, oily and black, powered by strange, dangerous magic, had caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up. House Hightower contained the blood of First Men and Andals, and a trace of something different, darker, and unable to be named. I should have brought a torch, thought Alicent. Even my shadow appears ominous.

A specter flashed out of the corner of her eye. Helaena. Her unbrushed silver-gold hair glinted in the dim, orange glow, her wet shift clinging to her hips and thighs. Had she gone swimming at this time of night?

“Helaena!”

“Everything will change,” her daughter whispered. Her glassy eyes observed everything and nothing at all.

Alicent grasped her shoulders, giving her a shake. “Helaena, you must wake up.”

“I’m not the only one who dreams.” She pointed a finger, “He does as well, Mother. He sees us.”

The blood in Alicent’s veins turned to ice. “Who does?” She shook her again, “Helaena, who sees us?”

“Daeron,” Helaena murmured.

“Daeron is in Oldtown,” Alicent soothed. “He is safe.” Helaena went limp in her arms, her chest rising and falling in gentle breaths, and Alicent thought of how small she was as a babe, how she fell asleep on her breast - a tiny, delicate, precious thing. To carry her was more of a struggle now, but it was one Alicent would gladly bear.

Her shift was cold to the touch, awash with the scent of salt and ocean air. Alicent took the strip of shift, balled tight within her fist, and placed it against Helaena’s covered legs, watching as seawater greedily soaked it full. Once she walked back to Helaena's room, she would wake her, provide a clean shift and towel, and return to Aemond. She had not been gone too long; surely, Aemond’s condition had not changed.

A rustling sound caught her attention. Alicent tensed and slowly turned, thinking, please, don’t be a rat. A peculiar sight greeted her eyes. Driftmark’s corridors were both longer and wider, and the tile beneath her feet had changed to a pale gold color. Two oak and bronze doorways stood to the right and left.

The Great Hall, her mind supplied. Alicent turned around, no longer faced with Driftmark, but the passageways of the Red Keep. Helaena still rested in her arms, but where were her sons?

“By the gods,” she breathed. “Aegon! Aemond!”

They appeared beside her, as though summoned by her will alone, and with them was Daeron. This, Alicent realized, with a growing sense of panic, was not natural. Reality as she knew it had shifted.  

“Mother,” Aegon said. He held Daeron’s hand, cradling Aemond with his other arm. His eyes grew wide. “Mother, what’s happening?”

Helaena's eyes opened. Dreamily, she said, "Mother, you can put me down now. We're here." 

Alicent held Aemond against her shoulder, wrapping her arm around his waist to best support him, and held Daeron's small hand in her own. "Get behind me. All of you." 

Another rustle.

“Who’s there?”

A clang echoed against stone.

“Who’s there?” Alicent called. She heard a thin tremble of fear in her voice. “Show yourself.”

“Mother,” Aegon said again, alarmed. “What’s happening?”

Someone waited in the shadows; she could see their shoes. “Show yourself." 

The man who stepped out was thin, sallow-faced, and dusty-haired. A patchwork beard did him no favors in hiding his soft chin. A ratcatcher? No, his clothes, while stained, were too fine, embroidered with red and black thread. The Targaryen sigil sown into his cuffs stared at her. A cutthroat, then, dressed like a member of the royal family. Daemon sent him to kill my boy, Alicent thought wildly.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” She needed a knife. No, she needed Ser Criston. “Ser Criston,” she called out. “Ser Criston!” 

He did not appear. Her heart dropped into her stomach. She was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

The man’s amethyst eyes glinted in the dim torchlight. His mouth opened to call for another assailant, and Alicent stepped forward, wondering if she could kill him with her hands.

“I dreamt of you,” he said, before he retched and the scent of his sick met her nose. He stood back up from where he had bent over at the waist, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand.

Aegon made a disgruntled sound. “That’s disgusting.”  

“I drank too much strongwine,” the man muttered. He spat to remove the last traces of vomit from his mouth. Alicent’s stomach turned. “Fuck me bloody.”

“Watch your mouth around a Princess of the realm, you cur. My daughter does not need to hear such language from a cutthroat.”

He laughed. “A cur and cutthroat? You truly think me to be so crass?” He lurched forward, eyeing her dress, and remarked, “You wore black? I thought you wore green.”

Aegon's fists clenched. “Why the fuck are you talking about my mother’s dress?”

Alicent lifted her shoulders, looked down at him, and hissed, with as much indignation as she could muster, “Where is my husband? I demand to see him.”

“You,” the man slurred, “are a long way from home, Alicent.”

“My mother is your queen,” Aegon snarled. “Treat her with respect.”

He gave a queer half-smile. “Your mother was a queen. She is not my queen.”

He’s utterly mad. “And who is your queen?”

He squinted into the doorway. “Father, there appears to be a situation, but I have it well in hand.”

“Gods above, Daeron. How many fucking times have I told you not to vomit in the Great Hall?” His beard did not mask deep pox marks on the left side of his face, nor the severe expression present. He caught sight of Alicent then, his sallow complexion turning paler, his gaze roving over Helaena, Daeron, and Aegon. Upon seeing Aemond, he turned the color of sour milk.

He sees us, Helaena had said. Daeron. 

Aegon’s voice sounded reedy and boyish despite his anger. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Daeron’s father shot back.

“Aegon, second of his name. You would do well to remember me.”

His mouth opened, then closed, giving him the appearance of a gaping fish. His face grew red, whether in anger or embarrassment, Alicent couldn't tell. “And I’m the High Septon. Aegon, second of his name? Is that who you’re pretending to be, Blackfyre bastard?”

Alicent snapped, "How dare you call my son a bastard?! He is the eldest trueborn son of the king." 

Aegon’s mouth hung agape. “Pretending? I am Aegon, second of his name, son of Viserys. Maybe you’ve drunk too much and hit your fucking head."

He eyed her contemptuously. "I suppose you mean to tell me you're Alicent Hightower?"

"You will address me as Your Grace," said Alicent, cold as ice. 

His face darkened as he drew closer. "I will address you as I wish, pretender bitch."

The shock of such language made her go still, swiftly replaced by burgeoning anger. "How dare you?" Alicent hissed. "I am Queen." 

"Queen of bastards, mayhaps. The only woman I will address as 'Your Grace' is my mother, Queen Myriah Martell. You know as well as I that Alicent Hightower has been dead for seventy years." 

The world slowed to a still.

Alicent saw herself outside of her body, a ghost lingering at the edges of existence. Aegon made an obscene gesture, then aimed a punch at his mouth, only to be met by a swift dodge. 

"Aegon!" Helaena gasped.

Daeron cried out, his little face scrunched into a sob, "Mama!" 

Alicent held him tighter. Aemond had not even stirred. "Shush, sweetling. Mama's here." 

"What the fuck do you mean by that? My mother isn’t dead, look at her! Whatever horsepiss you and your son drank tonight –"

“Horsepiss? I’ll have you know it was Arbor Gold, a fine wine.”

Daeron’s father snarled, “Shut up, will you?" He turned to Alicent. “When did Daemon Blackfyre die?" 

“Who?" 

"Gods be good. Are you so addled that you cannot remember your husband?" 

"My husband's name is Viserys. The only Daemon I know is Daemon Targaryen, my goodbrother. He rides Caraxes." 

She had said the wrong thing. He spat, "Go back to whatever gods-foresaken hell you've climbed out of. Caraxes? You must be jesting. There are no more dragons." 

Alicent’s tongue felt heavy inside her mouth. "What?" 

Aegon trembled. "You lie," he said, enraged. 

"What year is it?" asked Daeron, suddenly. He swayed to and fro. Alicent wondered if he intended to vomit again. 

"The year?" 

“Yes, the year.” He raised an eyebrow at Aegon: get on with it.

Aegon scoffed. "Year one hundred and twenty-six, after the Conquest." 

Daeron’s dreamy gaze sharpened, a stark contrast to his father, who turned pale again. “Like I said. You are far from home.”

“What year is it?” Alicent asked. Then, when no one answered, “Tell me the year! Tell me the year, damn you!”  

As if he were performing last rites, Daeron said, his words final and absolute: “Two hundred and six.”

ii.

Myriah, despite her love for her husband, had no love for his House. Nymeria fled the Freehold with her ten thousand ships, and Dorne had retained its independence against the dragonlords until twenty years ago. Marriage bound Dorne, not Fire and Blood.

House Targaryen’s customs, wedding brother to sister to preserve the purity of their blood, had rankled her. When the dragons died, doomed by the bloody Dance and rendering the Targaryens moot, her grandmother said, “The sisterfuckers received their due. They flaunt themselves above the realm, thinking themselves closer to gods than men. But even a god can bleed, and now that they’re men, they’re crowmeat.”

Daeron, the Young Dragon, had wished to conquer her people, and like the Targaryens before him, had died for it. Myriah, upon meeting her husband, yet another Daeron, found him as pale as a fishbelly. His silver hair and purple eyes added to his alien appearance. He was horribly earnest, stumbling over his words, and when she gave him an indulgent smile, he blushed so furiously that she could not help but find it charming. Daeron adapted Dornish norms with ease. During their wedding night, he had yielded to her whims. It thrilled her as much as when he demonstrated he was the blood of the dragon, taking her without regard for propriety.

She sat up, her thighs sore from their lovemaking. “We’re getting too old for this.”

Daeron’s eyes crinkled. “You look as beautiful as the day I married you. If anyone is old, it is me.”

“Your silver hair does not show your age. My hair is greying.”

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “As I said, you’re beautiful. Lie back down, my love. The day has yet to greet us.”

The day did not greet them. Rather, Maekar’s voice bellowed through the door, “Mother, Father.”

“Maekar?”

She pictured her youngest gritting his teeth. "There is a situation. It cannot wait until morning. Baelor awaits us in the Great Hall." 

“What sort of situation?” Daeron stood, slipping on his clothes. At Myriah’s rolling eyes, he gave her a look that clearly said, "We should determine the situation for ourselves."

Huffing, Myriah grabbed her dress and robe.

“The woman damn near clawed my eyes out when I attempted to remove her from her children.”

Daeron raised an eyebrow. “What woman?” 

 “See for yourself.”

The woman crowded her four children behind her, each silver of hair and purple of eye. Her hair flowed down her shoulders, gleaming like copper. It did little to detract from the crazed expression in her eyes. Grief appeared across her features once she saw Daeron. “You’re not my husband.”

Baelor stepped forward. She stepped back. He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Who is your husband, my lady?”

She refused to answer and instead spat, “You are not going to lay a hand on my children.”

“Your children will not come to harm.” To Maekar, Myriah said, “Bring bread and salt. Son, who is she?”

“Your son needs a maester,” Maekar hissed at her. 

“You expect me to leave Aemond with the likes of you?”

The One-Eye, Myriah thought. Why had she named her child after him? She had to be a madwoman, taken in by Daemon Blackfyre’s charisma, convinced of her self-importance. Three sons and a daughter. Were they named Aegon, Daeron, or Helaena?

“Mother,” said her daughter, wincing in pain. “Mother, you’re hurting me.”

Daeron inhaled. “The boy has one eye,” he said, in Rhonyish.

She let go of her daughter’s wrist, swaying. Grief swam across her face once more. “It truly is two hundred and six. This is no dream.”

Daeron’s hand gripped hers tightly. Myriah suppressed a yelp. “What year do you last remember?”

“One hundred and twenty-six. We were on Driftmark.” Her eyes were unfocused. “I went to put Helaena to bed. Aemond’s fever had not broken. I turned, and then, I was here.”

One hundred and twenty-six. Driftmark. The night the Dance’s sown seeds were reaped.

A chill ran down Myriah’s spine.

“My lady,” said Daeron, carefully, “what is your name?”

Her gaze focused, sharpening into awareness. Intelligent brown eyes gleamed, and Myriah saw a glimpse of the queen she had been eighty years prior. “Alicent Hightower.”

At the small council table, Alicent Hightower ate bread and salt akin to a woman starved, not a queen. Aemond ‘One Eye,’ rider of Vhagar, kinslayer, destroyer of the Riverlands - blinked groggily. A hot flash of fury filled Myriah as he reached to touch his stitches, his face crumpling in pain. History justifiably painted him as a reviled Targaryen, a monster in a man’s flesh. Now, he was a boy of ten, adrift and lost in a dragonless world. Alicent’s other children, Helaena, Daeron, and Aegon, sat beside her in mute shock.

Her children had driven her to anger, to tears, and on more than one occasion, to several glasses of orange strongwine, but to have someone lay a hand upon any of them, much less cut out their eye? Had it been her, Driftmark would have become a tomb.

Daeron shared her opinion. He offered a maester to treat Aemond. Alicent relented, exhaustion present in the lines of her face. Maekar oversaw preparations of the Holdfast, offering to handle everything with a gruff, “I’ll ensure preparation of the guest chambers. You and Father must decide what to do next.” Baelor will be there too, went unspoken.

She resembles a cat, Baelor thought. A cat that hisses and raises its fur whenever you threaten what it holds dear. He could not stop looking at her. Such behavior was not becoming of a prince, much less the Hand of the King. Her hair, auburn and dark honey and reddish gold, like roses in Highgarden, like blood on freshly fallen snow, hid her face.

In his mind’s eye, Jena’s hair, decorated with golden thread, arranged by the Silent Sisters as they buried her, slipped through Baelor’s fingers. She always evaded his attempts to hold onto her.

His throat tightened.

“Your Grace,” he said, awkwardly.

Her weary eyes met his. “I am Queen no longer. ‘My lady’ will suit your purposes just fine.”

“My lady, the hour is late. Do you wish to rest? Your children are undoubtedly tired.”

Alicent looked down, her face solemn and sad. Baelor thought of the Mother’s statue at the Great Sept, of the downcast tilt of her mouth, the pensive slant of her eyes. “Darlings,” she said, “I will join you shortly. I must discuss what’s to happen with King Daeron and Queen Myriah.”

“Mother,” little Daeron said. “Don’t leave.”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You will be fine.” She glared at his father: You will not harm my children.

Aegon, her eldest, stared at nothing at all. He let himself be led away without protest, holding his brother’s hand, and Baelor wondered what became of his fury. Helaena followed, a silent specter, and as she passed, she regarded him with eyes too old for her face.

“My lady, do you wish for wine?”

“Enough,” Alicent Hightower said. “Tell me what is to become of my family.” There was an edge to her voice. She straightened her shoulders, leveled her gaze. Whatever fear she may have felt did not show in the queenly way she held herself.

Father said, “You will stay in the Holdfast. Aemond’s fever may break in the morning, so we will arrange for a room to be set up.”

“Your children are welcome to stay for as long as needed. I swear to you, my lady, that we will not harm your family.” Baelor felt his mother’s gaze upon him, a silent admonishment: as long as needed does not solve this problem.

“Is my family not yours?”

Father shifted visibly. “My lady, mayhaps this conversation can occur in the morning.”

“Daeron,” Mother hissed. In Rhoynish, her accent was stronger, “Must you give her a history lesson?”

“Her fate is already written,” Father replied. “Better she learns from us what happened than from a book.”

Prince Baelor, Heir to the Iron Throne, looked at her once more, and Alicent fought the urge to shift beneath his gaze.  He had his mother’s looks despite his Targaryen blood, save for one purple eye. Was Dornish succession now the law of the land? Targaryen blood - special, sacred, pure – diluted to mere drops. Her children, too Andalian, no matter the purple of their eyes, the silver-gold of their hair, had more Targaryen blood in their veins than Baelor. But what did blood matter now that there were no dragons?

Daemon and Rhaenyra would be horrified. Rhaenyra, who considered her half-siblings too thin-blooded despite her own Arryn blood. Daemon, who had referred to Aegon as a half-breed whelp. They would be apocalyptic, especially without their dragons. Alicent felt a keen sense of pity and no small amount of sympathy for her children’s loss, but a small, eager part of her entertained how, if Rhaenyra were here, her face would turn puce, the consequences of her actions catching up with her like dogs hunting a fox. You can’t outrun them, no matter how many tongues you cut.

“My lady,” said King Daeron, cutting off her thoughts. He implored, “You will want wine for this conversation. Surely, you wish to know what happened to you and your children.”

“Daeron,” Myriah Martell hissed.

“Father, must we –“ Baelor stopped at the expression on Daeron’s face.

“Yes, I wish to know. Tell me." 

Daeron's eyes – so much like her husband’s when he entered a fit of melancholy - were unbearably sad. “There was a war once Viserys, first of his name, died. A war of succession, between Rhaenyra and Aegon, henceforth known as the Dance with Dragons.”

Alicent half-feared such an outcome. “Rhaenyra would do anything to obtain the throne, regardless of her wanton behavior. I knew my husband would not change his mind regarding succession. The dragons were destroyed during this Dance, then.”

“They were. My great uncle, Aegon, third of his name, didn't speak much of your son, Aegon, nor of Aegon’s daughter by your daughter Helaena, Jaehaera.”

Aegon and Helaena had wedded in the tradition of House Targaryen. A Targaryen bride, fit for a Targaryen prince, the singers would have sung. She knew Viserys intended to betroth them after she rejected Rhaenyra’s offer, but to learn Aegon sired a child upon his sister made her stomach turn.

“My grandfather, Viserys II, son of Rhaenyra by Daemon, had called Jaehaera sweet and simpleminded. She did not deserve her fate.”

“Her fate?” A growing terror pierced her. “What do you mean?”

 “Jaehaera died a girl of ten. She was the last of Aegon’s line.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Alicent found that as she spoke, her fingers felt like wood, her body cold and stiff as a corpse.

“My lady –"

“What do you mean?” she cried out. “The last of Aegon's line? Do you mean to tell me that during the war, my children –" her breath caught, “my children died?”

Her insides churned. “No,” she heard herself say, very far away, “no. This cannot be. My children are healthy and hale. You saw them for yourselves. They’re not dead.”

She pictured their bodies, arranged by the Silent Sisters. The blood in her veins, colder than the sea lapping at Driftmark’s shores, boiled over with rage. Alicent strode across the table, uncaring of propriety. “Tell me how.”

“I do not think it wise.”

“Tell. Me. How.”

Daeron looked at her with pity. Had she been in her right mind, Alicent would have spat at him.

Dispassionately, as though he was reciting a historical text, he said, “Aegon ruled for two years before his death by poisoning. He had killed Rhaenyra then, ordering Sunfyre to eat her in front of her son by Daemon, Aegon the Younger. Aemond died fighting above the Gods Eye. He and Daemon killed one another before tumbling into the water, along with Vhagar and Caraxes. Daeron died at the Second Battle of Tumbleton.” He had not mentioned Helaena.  

Oh gods. She felt faint.

“Father,” Baelor warned.

“What happened to my daughter?” Alicent demanded. Her voice sounded strange to her ears.

“My lady, I do not say this lightly. It's a tale of woe."

"Tell me." 

After some deliberation, Daeron sighed. "Much led to the Dance, some of which you've already experienced. The turning point occurred shortly after your husband's death. Lucerys was killed by Aemond when they visited Storm’s End to seek Borros Baratheon’s support. Your son sought vengeance for his eye, and Vhagar ensured it.”

He swallowed. “Rather than target Aemond, Daemon hired two assassins, Blood and Cheese, to enter the Tower of the Hand through secret passageways. He demanded a son for a son. They targeted Helaena’s children: the twins Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, both six years of age, and her youngest, Maelor, a babe of two. They forced her to choose which son would be killed. Helaena offered her life. It mattered not. Jaehaera’s innocence and all the lives of her children were put into question, and Helaena chose Maelor. Perhaps, she thought, because he was the youngest, he would not remember anything, and it would be quick. Instead, Blood and Cheese killed Jaehaerys, cutting off his head.”

Alicent’s eyes welled with tears. “What else?” she asked, the question escaping her lips like a fragile thread.  

“She went mad from grief. When Rhaenyra captured King’s Landing, Jaehaera and Maelor were sent to Storms End and Oldtown to be kept safe. Maelor left with Ser Rickard Throne as his protector. They stopped in Bitterbridge at an inn, where it was discovered that Maelor was not Ser Rickard’s son, but Aegon’s. Rhaenyra had put a bounty on him. Ser Rickard acted in haste, but he was killed by crossbow men. A mob set upon them. They sought to turn Maelor in and obtain the bounty. He –“ Daeron did not look at her. His voice wavered. “He was torn apart. Helaena threw herself from the Tower of Hand upon receiving his head. Jaehaera followed her mother three years later.”

Silence reigned absolute.

Alicent’s legs trembled. She heard herself let out a low wail, a mixture of disgust and horror, and steadied herself on the table. Tears threatened to fall over the edge of her nose onto carved wood.

Wordlessly, Baelor held out a handkerchief. She did not take it.

Sometime after – Alicent could not tell how much had passed - she asked, “What became of me?”

“You were imprisoned in your chambers. When the Winter Fever came, you welcomed its mercy. You said you wished to see your children again.”

Gods above, her children.

She wiped her eyes. “I wish to see my children, Your Grace.”

Baelor escorted her through the Holdfast. Every shadow made her flinch. He soothed, as though she were a spooked horse, “It’s only the light, my lady.”

“What is dark, but an absence of light?” Alicent murmured.

Before the entrance to her chambers, Alicent saw the sleeping forms of her children across the hall.

“My lady,” Baelor said. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She looked at him, at the kindness present on his face, and hated him for it.

“I wish to go to bed.”

He said nothing in response. Alicent stepped into her chambers, removing her dress. The torn edges of her shift greeted her from a lifetime ago. Baelor’s handkerchief lay on the floor. He had slipped it into her sleeve.

Another low, wounded sound escaped her. Alicent laughed – hysterical and shrill. Then, she screamed, and when her throat grew too sore to carry on, she wept.

After her fit subsided, she watched over Aemond. The maester – a fat man with a weasel-like face, and thin, greying hair – watched her. “My lady,” he said, “do you not wish to get some rest?”

“I will once Aemond’s fever breaks.” A herb poultice covered his swollen cheek, meant to bring down excess swelling. The wound would scar, but a scar could be covered. An infection could grow inside his eyesocket, spreading to his brain. Alicent prayed to the Mother, Please let my son live. Please.

His fever broke at the hour of the wolf, the night sky dark as pitch.

“He needs rest,” the maester admonished. “As do you, my lady. It has been a long day.”

That it had, indeed. Sleep claimed her, but no pleasant dreams awaited. Aegon’s ruined face and Aemond’s gaping eyesocket stared into her. Helaena held her children, the hole in her throat making it impossible to speak, yet Alicent heard her voice just the same. Why would you do this to me, Mother?

“You did this to us, Mother,” Daeron said, a lance hole where his heart used to be.

“You sacrificed us to slake your ambition,” Aemond said.  

Aegon sneered, “You are no mother of mine.”

I only ever wanted to keep you safe, Alicent wanted to say. I didn't know this would happen. I’m sorry. She opened her mouth. No sound came out. Her lips were sewn shut by green thread.

They drew closer, their mouths open, teeth longer, sharper. Helaena bit into her throat. The pain made Alicent scream uselessly. You will match us, Mother. All you have done will be forgotten, devoured.

Her children swarmed her, biting, ripping, tearing. Flesh and blood hung from their maws. Aemond’s hands, long-fingered and wetted by blood, grabbed her face. “An eye for an eye, Mother. You demanded it so.” His finger hovered over her left eye, then he reached down to pluck it out.

Alicent awoke, her chest heaving. It’s only a nightmare, she told herself. Aegon’s face swam behind her eyes. She jolted out of bed, not bothering to wash her face or brush her hair. Her dress lay on the floor, and before Alicent could stop, she tossed it in through the window, watching it fall in an unceremonious heap on the muddy ground below. She did not wish to see the color green ever again.

The maester blinked at the state of her. Her torn shift rode up, exposing more of her legs. “My son, how does he fare?”

“Do you wish for me to call a maid, my lady?”

“Tell me of my son,” Alicent repeated.

“He’s resting now. He needs light fare, clear broth, tea, buttered toast until he can eat something more substantial.” His eyes flickered to the floor, then back to her face. “You must forgive me, my lady. You’re not what I expected.”

Irritation swelled. “Does everyone in the Keep know of my circumstances?”

“Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms may know at this rate. The King ordered no one to come in nor go out, but loose tongues will waggle. I would not be surprised if everyone arrives at the Keep in a fortnight intent on seeing you and your family.” He cleared his throat. “Queen Myriah ordered that you’re not to be disturbed unless necessary. You may take your meals here until you feel ready to leave the Holdfast.”

If she could, Alicent would never leave. Somehow, she had not cried this morning, her endless supply of tears finally running dry. I cannot allow myself to be paralyzed by grief. Still, grief loomed, heavy, oppressive, suffocating, until she wanted to lie in bed and stare at nothing at all, letting the days blur together.

Aegon grumbled, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Mother?”

“I’m here.”

Any signs of befuddlement rapidly cleared as his face dropped in dismay. He bolted out of bed, clad in only his smallclothes. “Aegon!”

She turned to the maester, narrowing her eyes. “Watch over my children.”

She took off after Aegon. "My lady," a Kingsguard - she didn't know his name - called out, his footsteps thundering as he sought to keep up with her. Alicent ran across the Keep, uncaring of who witnessed her. She had travelled through time; the sight of her in a thin shift paled in comparison. Aegon was surprisingly quick-footed. Alicent forced herself to keep up with him. “Aegon!” she called again, as he dodged a servant, turning into another corridor. To the left, then the right, then out of the passageway.

The dragonpit.

Just as Alicent caught up with him, Aegon suddenly stopped. The dragonpit, or rather, what remained of it, was visible from atop Rhaenys’ Hill. No longer did it impose or gleam; instead, blackened char sunk deep into the ground.

Aegon stared out at it, then sank to his knees. “Sunfyre called to me,” he said, his voice morose. “I dreamt of him.”

He looked up at her, his eyes flooding with tears. “Who am I without him?”

Alicent held out her hand, wishing she could comfort him. “You are my son.”

Aegon shoved it away. Mud flecked off his knees and lower legs onto the ground as he trudged forward, unseeing, uncaring.

Word of her flight through the Keep spread quickly, and after breaking fast with a cup of broth, Myriah Martell sent her dressmaker, the Yronwood-born Jeyne Uller, to Alicent’s chambers. Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron waited across the hall. Aemond drifted between sleep and consciousness. “I wish to be with my children,” said Alicent, attempting to refuse her services. 

“The Queen has sent several of her entourage to keep watch. Worry not, my lady. They are within your line of sight.”

Jeyne Uller was a handsome woman of middle age, with golden hair and blue eyes. She had a sharp, beaky nose, giving her the impression of a hawk. The awe previously present in her gaze faded; calculating appraisement remained. “You had another dress, yes? Surely you didn’t greet the Queen in a shift alone.”

“I did.”

“Whatever happened to it?”

 Alicent flushed in embarrassment. “I threw it out. I do not wish to see the color green again.”

“A shame. Green would look so lovely with your hair.” She appraised Alicent again, leaving her feeling rather like a prized cow in a butcher’s shop. “A light pink would suit your complexion, but it may emphasize youthfulness excessively. I think a dark blue, with silver and gold threaded through, would suit you. Grey may work, yet the shade must not wash you out.” She paced. “A deep plum, perhaps. Yes, that could work.”  

Alicent eyed the bustles of fabric behind her. “The blue,” she said, “and the purple. Pink is too childish.”  

Jeyne nodded. “A fine choice.” She held out a pale blue dress. “This belonged to Queen Myriah’s good-sister, Princess Daenerys. It should fit you for the time being.” It had a lower neckline and curved in at the waist a great deal more than dresses had eighty years ago, but Alicent was in no position to be picky. She slipped it on, grateful for an increased coverage of her body. 

“Your kirtles should be brown. A warm shade, of course, to bring out your eyes and hair. How do you feel about red?”

She had worn red during the early days of her marriage to Viserys. Alicent thought the color had suited her then. “Wouldn’t red clash with my hair?”

“A dark red would enhance it,” Jeyne said. “Hold up your arms. I need to take your measurements.” She was brusquely pragmatic, a trait that Alicent found herself appreciating. Above Jeyne’s moving hands, she saw Helaena and Aegon’s heads bent together. Whatever they discussed left Aegon’s face red and teary.

She moved to walk towards him. Jeyne let out a tutting sound. “Don’t move. I’m almost done.”

“My son needs me.”

Jeyne looked at her then, silent understanding in her eyes. “Allow me to take one more measurement, then, I shall leave you be.”

Alicent fought the urge to snap at her. Jeyne was of a higher rank, and it would do her no favors to behave in such a manner. She needed to integrate herself into the royal household. But how? As Queen, she managed her household, from the steward to chamber maids, supplied with those loyal to her. She arranged banquets, weddings, and tourneys. Myriah Martell handled such tasks now. What was there left for her to do?

“Do you wish for me to take your daughter’s measurements?”

“Helaena does not like to sit still for so long. May I be excused, Lady Jeyne?”

“You may. I’ll have a few dresses for you in a sennight.”

Queen Myriah’s maids dipped their heads and scurried outside. Evidently, the Queen valued discretion and privacy, intending to keep her promise. Alicent would need to show her gratitude.

Looking upon Aegon’s tearstreaked cheeks, Alicent wanted to kiss his brow, to take him into her arms. She settled for pressing her hand to his jaw, cradling his face. “Aegon.”

There was no life in his voice. “We’re stuck here, aren’t we?”

Alicent swallowed. “It appears that way for the time being.”

Daeron toddled over. He, too, had been crying. “Mama, I want to go home!”

“I know, dearest.”

“I want to see Uncle Gwayne, Mama.” He broke off with a hiccupping sob. Alicent pressed him close.

“Shh, shh,” she said, unsure if she was comforting Aegon, Daeron, or herself. “Everything will be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“What can you do?” Aegon asked, dully. “What can any of us do?”

Alicent had no answer for him and held him tighter. His tears soaked her neck. Behind him, Aemond stirred, taking in the Holdfast’s chambers. “How did we get here?”

“I know not. Mayhaps it was the gods.”

Aemond’s face crumpled. He breathed, “I cannot feel Vhagar. Mother, where are we?”

 “It’s not where, but when,” Aegon muttered.

Agog, he blinked. “When? What do you mean by ‘when’?”

Alicent let go of Aegon and took his hand. “Aemond, how much do you remember of last night, after … the incident?”  

He reached to touch his bandage, wincing in pain. “Aegon was yelling at the man who called you a ‘pretender bitch.’ I heard him. You kept asking, ‘What year is it?’ Mother, what did you mean by that?”

“It appears,” Alicent said, as delicately as she could manage, “that we have left our time behind.”

Aegon snorted. A mean smile played at the edges of his lips. “What Mother means to say is that we’ve wound up in year two hundred and six, little brother.”

Aemond shook his head, back and forth. “No, you’re lying.”

“And why would I lie about something like this?”

“Aegon,” Alicent warned.

Aemond’s voice trembled. “Because you’re cruel.”

“I’m cruel?” Aegon scoffed. “What’s cruel is this fucked-up jape. We have no dragons, Aemond. House Targaryen has no dragons. We’re stuck here, eighty years in the future, without any way of returning home.”

Aemond blinked rapidly. He appeared on the verge of tears.

“Enough.” Her voice lashed like a whip. “Aegon, there is no need to be so cruel.”

Aegon turned a blotchy red. “You have no dragon, Mother. You don’t understand anything at all.”

He is grieving, she told herself. There was truth to what he said. Alicent had never cared for dragons, but that did not lessen the sting of his words any less.

“We must stick together. If we are to survive this, we do so as a family. You cannot lash out at one another. Do you understand me?”

Aemond’s eye regarded hers. “Will we ever go home?”

“I do not know.”

He let out a shuddering breath, his chest expanding and inhaling. His eye flooded with tears, prickles that grew and spread until his face turned red. Alicent held him close, murmuring nonsensical endearments and promises she could not keep. Daeron joined her in holding him, as did Helaena. Aegon stared at the ground.

“Aegon,” she said, after Aemond’s cries had subsided, and he fell back into sleep. “You mustn’t treat him so. He has lost an eye.”

“I would lose my eye if I could have Sunfyre here.”

Alicent thought of slapping him. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his chin, forcing his head upwards. “Don't ever say something like that again.”

Silence followed. Finally, he looked up at her. “What happened to us?”

Gods above, he was a boy of ten-and-three. He did not deserve to be burdened with such knowledge of his fate. Alicent thought of Sunfyre’s gaping maw devouring her former friend, of Aegon’s desire for blood and vengeance, something he had gotten from her. Mayhaps all his cruelty came from her, and her alone.

“We will get through this," she said instead. 

“How?”

Alicent wished she knew. Aegon’s ruined face swam behind her eyelids again as she blinked, his mouth open and wide. Look at what you’ve done to me, Mother. Look at me. Sunfyre’s golden corpse lay behind him. His laughter turned to sobs. Mother, he cried, sounding more like a boy of five than a man grown. Mother.

“Mother?”

She steadied herself. “We will get through this." Aegon scoffed - the sound breaking into a sob - and Alicent knew she had failed to convince him or herself.

The Tower of the Hand contains far too many stairs, Baelor thought. He ceased his grumbling at twenty, resigned to the fact that the honor of being Hand of the King, complete with private chambers, resulted in a great multitude of steps to go up and down. Alicent Hightower’s father, Lord Otto Hightower, was King Viserys’ I Hand, and Baelor wondered if he also complained of the pain in his legs, walking up and down and up and down.

Father and Mother had argued the rest of the night over what exactly to do with Alicent Hightower and her children. Mother thought it best to send them to Dorne once Aemond recovered. Father thought it best to have them stay in the Keep. “There are already too Targaryens,” was Mother’s parting remark. Baelor privately agreed.

Alicent had not come out of the Holdfast, beyond her chasing Aegon four days prior. From his vantage point, Baelor saw her run towards Rhaenys’ Hill, her shift riding up, displaying the slender curves of her thighs. He turned his eyes away abruptly, yet the image of her long, pale legs and heaving chest lingered. He felt like a boy of four-and-ten, peeping at a beautiful woman behind shadows, and admonished himself. She was beautiful, but what of it? Jena had been beautiful as well.  

At least I’m no ingrate. Once the shock of her sudden arrival had somewhat worn off, Maekar whispered, half-horrified, “I called her a pretender bitch.”

Baelor blinked. “You did what?”

Through gritted teeth, Maekar said, “She just showed up in the middle of the Great Hall, with four silver-haired brats. What else was I supposed to think?”

“You called,” said Baelor, slowly, “former queen Alicent Hightower a 'pretender bitch?'”

Maekar’s expression turned dour. Baelor, still reeling from the strange turn his night had taken, burst into laughter. “Yes, yes,” Maekar snapped, “I imagine this is very amusing to you.”

“Amusing? This is fucking insane.” His breath caught as the fit subsided. Baelor groaned. “Why would the gods do this?”

“To torment us, no doubt.” Maekar, whose piety consisted of going to the Great Sept when required, had no love of any gods. They had not saved Dyanna, and for that, he saw no reason to worship. “You know word will spread throughout the kingdom, if it hasn’t already.”

“I know.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

“That, I don’t know.”  

The Kingsguard rotated around the Holdfast, ensuring that no one, royalty or otherwise, was to bother Alicent and her children. They also served as a good deterrent for any fearmonger or curious soul. Despite his father’s orders that the rookery remain untouched, the oily black wings of a raven had already taken flight at the hour of the nightingale, and with it, an official declaration that the gods had brought back Aegon, second of his name, to life. 

Time was of the essence, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. Baelor cursed. He had paced and paced, thinking and thinking, until he settled on a solution. A hastily rushed, unenviable solution, but a solution, nonetheless.

Maekar couldn’t do it, not while grieving Dyanna. Aenys had no such desires, and Rhaegal wouldn’t understand the gravity of his situation. It would have to be him.

Baelor prayed, casting his eyes to the Seven Heavens above, please, forgive me, Jena. I see no other way.

He drained the last dregs of wine and replenished his cup. He had not drunk a glass so quickly in some time. Jena’s voice whispered in his ears, low and unintelligible. He could never make out what she said. Baelor supposed that at this point, it didn’t matter. This was the only way to ensure Aegon didn’t become a puppet king, nor that Alicent’s famed ambition would lead her to seek the throne a second time. An unfair assessment, he knew, but it was better to have her as an ally than an enemy.

He made the long, familiar creep down the stairs and into the Great Hall. His father and mother sat at the small council table, their heads bent together. Baelor cleared his throat.

“I believe I have a solution.”

Mother’s head snapped up. “Truly?”

“Yes. Lady Alicent must be present. It is her answer that is most important.”

Father’s pensive gaze fell upon him. I know what you intend. He gave Baelor a slight nod. “Duskendale.”

“Your Grace?”

“Escort Lady Alicent to the Great Hall. Our discussion is of the utmost importance.”

Mother frowned. “She will not leave her children.”

“She will tonight,” Father said. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, much like Baelor had often given to Jena. He wondered if Alicent would allow him to do that as well, then pushed the thought out of his mind as she appeared through the doors. She wore another of Aunt Daenerys’ dresses. The color – a light heather - suited her exceptionally well.

Alicent curtsied. “Your Grace.” Baelor caught a flicker of fear in her eyes, hidden away with a polite smile.

“Lady Alicent. I know it is late. I hope the meeting will not take too long.”

“Of course.”

Father hesitated. “It concerns your children.”

My children. They intend to put them to the sword. Two rival claims cannot exist at once, thought Alicent. She had been a fool; the shock of her arriving in the future had overwhelmed her rational sense. No longer. She would beg. She would plead. And above all else, she would fight.

Alicent sank to her knees. Her voice wobbled. “Please, I beg of you. Do not hurt them. They are sweet children.” She fought the urge to cry, and instead, said, desperately, “Please. I will do whatever you wish, just don’t hurt them.”

Baeloar appeared aghast. “Lady Alicent, please rise. My father misspoke. He has an unfortunate habit of it. No harm will come to your children. You are our guest.”

She stood back up, her knees still trembling, and gave a bow of genuflection. “What is to become of my children?”

“You have no qualms about your fate?” asked Myriah Martell.

Alicent bristled at the thought of being sent from her children. Reluctantly, she set aside the snarling, roaring part of her that sought blood, and told herself, I must keep them safe.  “I will accept whatever fate you deem acceptable, so long as they are safe.” Would she be sent to Oldtown? The Citadel would greet her first, tall and proud, adorned with stone lions that guarded its secrets. Mayhaps, she would see the High Tower, and marvel at how much had changed. The Faith would take her, or a motherhouse. 

Myriah nodded, seemingly satisfied.

Baelor's voice filled the room, rich and deep. “Father, who is to say that Oldtown would not aid their Hightower kin now that Aegon, second of his name, has returned? If the children of the King Viserys I by Lady Alicent appeared in the Red Keep, as though the gods plucked them from the Seven Heavens above, who is to say their dragons cannot follow? It would be folly to assume otherwise. You know most what appeasement brings. You gave Daemon Blackfyre land, a wife that your father wished to be his bride, and war broke out regardless. There will always be lords who seek their own gain above the good of the realm, and a boy of three-and-ten is a useful puppet." He raised an eyebrow. "My lady, you have familiarized yourself with the Blackfyre Rebellions, have you not?" 

That she had. The night was dark, her sleep full of terrors. To not lose her mind completely, Alicent read, and read, and read, starting with the Dance, up until the present. The reign of Aegon, fourth of his name, and all his bastards, left a bitter taste in her mouth. Not unlike Rhaenyra's Strong Boys. Daemon Blackfyre, Baelor's bastard half-uncle, had written in neat penmanship: Daenerys is mine. Why Daeron insists on giving her to that Dornish cunt, I know not. Surely, he knows the blood of the dragon thins, and we must strengthen it further. She soured, feeling ill at ease in Daenerys' dress. 

"I have, my prince." 

He turned to his father. “The Reach and the Marshlands sought to supplement you with Daemon Blackfyre, on account of my appearance— too Martell, not Targaryen enough to be heir. I took Jena,” the name stumbled out of Baelor’s mouth, “as my wife to quell any whispers of rebellion and satisfy the marsher lords. Perhaps a similar arrangement could be reached now.”

“Baelor,” Myriah said, voice low, “you intend to take another wife?”

“I intend to do what is best for the realm. Lady Alicent and her children cannot go into exile, nor can they remain sitting ducks for any lord or Blackfyre supporter to claim. There are too many potential Targaryen heirs already, but to send her to Oldtown and legitimize her children as Hightowers would only encourage discontent. They have the Targaryen look, they have the blood, and by all laws of the realm, Aegon was Viserys' heir. The Dance may have occurred seventy years ago, but the wounds of succession are fresh. To best dissolve a succession crisis, one must bind two claims in blood." 

He looked at Alicent directly, and she fought the urge to spit insults at him. A Targaryen bride, fit for a Targaryen prince. How dare he use Heleana to prop up his legitimacy? His dark hair, his dark eyes, not Targaryen enough indeed. To suggest her daughter, her girl, would bed this man, bleed for him. No, she wouldn’t allow it.

"Do you intend to purify your blood with a Targaryen bride? To quell any whispers of another rebellion regarding your appearance by wedding my daughter? She is a girl of one-and-ten!" Alicent leaned forward. "You will never lay a hand on her, lest you wish for me to cut it off.”

The room grew still. Daeron’s lips clenched. Myriah's eyes flashed. Baelor remained unmoored, his brow furrowed. He looked at her anew.

“You mistake me. I have no taste for children. Lady Alicent, let me be clear: it is not your daughter I plan to marry. It is you.”

“Me?”

Myriah stilled. "Surely you're jesting. Baelor, what folly is this?”

“It’s not folly, Mother. It’s for the good of the realm. We’re in a mire. Our House has grown, yes, but we cannot simply send Lady Alicent and her children away. Should the dragons come back, it’s best to have them on our side, not the Blackfyres.”

She turned stone, immovable and uncompromising, her frown deepening as she spoke, “And what of the children? Where should they fall in the line of succession? If she must marry, why not Maekar?”

“Maekar still grieves Dyanna. The boy, Aemond, has lost an eye. You know Aerion would delight in tormenting him. Maekar will not lift a finger to protect his children against hers.”

“And you would?”

“My sons are men,” Baelor said, evenly. “Valarr is my heir, and, gods willing, will have a son of his own. Neither he nor Matarys will act in childish resentment towards their future stepsiblings.”

“What of the children to come from this union?” asked Daeron. “Should you have a brood of sons and muddy succession further, you will truly be in a mire.”

“Should Lady Alicent agree to my proposal, any children born from our union will follow Valarr and Matarys, provided they do not have living heirs of their own.”

Alicent wet her lips, her heart caught in her throat. "And my children? Where do they fall?”

“Your children will be last in line, behind Maekar’s and their future children,” intoned Daeron. “They cannot be near the throne, no matter your proximity.”

Heat ran from her ears to the bottom of her neck. Alicent felt as though she had been scolded. Jerkily, she nodded in acquiescence. Aegon would not be king, would never be king, but he would be safe. They would all be safe. “I understand.”

Myriah's keen, dark eyes were trained on her husband. “Is it not incest?” 

Daeron took his wife’s hand. “Aegon II’s line was extinguished. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism has allowed House Targaryen to wed brother to sister since the Conquest. Alicent and her children are far enough removed that no issue should arise. Do you wish for me to consult the High Septon, beloved?”

“Your house’s traditions are queer,” she muttered. “Yes, do consult Corwyn.”

“Father, am I to take your agreement?”

“Aye.” Daeron sighed again, “Myriah, my love. What do you think?”

Alicent watched, half envious, as Myriah squeezed her husband’s hand. Fourteen years she had been Viserys’ queen, and not once did he ask her opinion as though it was equal to his.

Myriah said, “Baelor, I hope you know what you’re doing.” She turned to Daeron, “When do you intend for the wedding to take place?”

“Within a moon." 

Alicent let out a strangled sound. “A moon?  What of the mourning period?”

“Your husband has been dead for seventy years," said Daeron, now immovable and made of stone. His tone brooked no judgment. 

“My husband was alive when I saw him last!” She then softened her tone, aiming to soothe, “I know much time has passed, but must this wedding occur in haste? A six-moon mourning period would allow everyone to come to terms with what has happened.”

“Within six moons, your son may be propped up to be a puppet. A moon is what I will allow, my lady. It is best to wrest the narrative into our hands.”

“Lady Alicent.” Baelor’s eyes met hers again, one Dornish brown, one Targaryen purple. Their sheer strangeness should have been off-putting, but somehow, they complemented his face more than the pure purple of her children. “You are the deciding factor in all of this.”

“You act as though I have a choice." 

Baelor smiled at her ruefully. The solemn set of his mouth suited him nowhere near as well as joviality. For the good of the realm, Alicent thought. I must protect my children.

She squared her shoulders. She was of Oldtown, a woman of the Faith. She had married a Targaryen before and would do so again.

Even Alicent was surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “Very well, Prince Baelor, I’ll marry you.”

iii.

“Is she comely?” Matarys asked.

“Does it matter?” Valarr replied.

“Believe me, it matters. Father, when can we see them?”

Valarr had taken the news of his upcoming marriage well, stating, with his usual reserve, “It is a feasible match.” Matarys, upon realizing his new wife-to-be was Queen Dowager during the bloody Dance and his new stepsiblings none other than King Aegon II, his sister-wife, Queen Helaena, and Princes Aemond “One Eye” and Daeron the Daring, had pestered Baelor so fiercely his head ached.

“I will invite them to dinner, a sennight from tonight. You are to be on your best behavior. This means no pestering, Matarys.”

“How else am I to know them? Or learn about their dragons? The One Eye surely has stories to tell about Vhagar.”  

“The One Eye has just lost his eye. You needn’t refer to Prince Aemond in such a manner.” Valarr’s chastisement made Matarys look to the floor. He inherited that particular trait from Jena, who could, and had, given Baelor a tongue lashing so thorough he had no desire to go near her for the rest of the night. In his mind’s eye, Jena laughed, her head thrown back. Only you would get into such a situation, my love.

“Father?”

“Yes?” His voice sounded thick to his own ears.

Valarr regarded him with concern. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” Baelor looked at his boys, Valarr with his brown, silver-streaked hair and the one purple eye they shared, and Matarys, who looked so much like Jena. When he was born, and Jena lay cold, Baelor could not bear to look at him. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. The will of the gods is unknowable, but they have returned Lady Alicent and her children to us, thus putting them under my protection. They have nowhere else to go. You need not love your stepsiblings, nor Lady Alicent, but you must treat them with some amity. I will not tolerate our House forming factions, not when we have faced the Blackfyres and may do so once more. Do you understand me?”

Valarr and Matarys' voices, solemn in unison, matched the taciturn expression on their faces. “Yes, Father.”

Baelor wished to draw them close, as he had done when they were little, and as Alicent did with her children. Valarr, eight-and-ten, was a man grown, and Matarys nearly as well, despite his antics. Surely, they had outgrown such childish notions, yet the desire to embrace his boys and protect them, shielding them from all harm, filled his chest once more. He wondered if Alicent felt similarly, if that was why she held her children close, despite their varying temperaments. He thought of how best to handle Aegon’s hostility, Helaena’s shyness, Aemond’s solemn reserve, and Daeron’s enthusiasm. His head throbbed again.

“Good,” Baelor said. “The hour grows late. Go now, both of you.”  

Valarr lingered near the entrance to his chambers once Matarys bounded away. The look in Matarys’ eyes was distinctly puppy-like as he attempted to wheedle his way into catching a glimpse of Alicent.

“Valarr, what is it?”

“Father,” his eldest slid his gaze to the floor before looking back up, “I know you miss Mother. I do as well. Mayhaps this marriage will do you well. You deserve to be happy.”

Surprise overtook him. Did Valarr truly think him discontent? “I am happy. Whatever gave you the impression otherwise?”

Valarr’s smile didn’t meet his eyes. “Happier, then.” He dipped his head. “Goodnight, father. Sleep well.”

Maekar came at the hour of the owl, when the candles turned to pools of wax. Baelor had sat with the unexpected revelation that Valarr found him in need of contentment for longer than he wanted to admit, and by the time he finished stewing in his thoughts, his brother’s presence was almost welcome.

“Why the fuck did I hear from Mother that you’re to marry Alicent Hightower?” Maekar thundered. His chest heaved. Judging by his disheveled hair and flushed cheeks, he had worked himself up into a rage.

“It’s for the good of the realm.”

“She said herself she’s married!”

“Viserys, first of his name, has been dead for over seventy years.”

“As was she! You may sprout for the good of the realm if you wish, but don’t lie to me, brother; the possibility of the dragons coming back is part of your reasoning as well.” Bitterness rendered Maekar’s tone sharp as a blade.

“Did you wish to change my mind and convince her to marry you instead?”

“What I wish is for our family to be left alone from yet another succession crisis. You marry her, and every lord in the seven kingdoms will want to marry her brood, if only for the prospect to claim a dragon of their own.”

Baelor eyed him. “The dragons coming back is not guaranteed. Mother surely also mentioned Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron would be put behind yours and their children.”

Maekar’s lips bore into a snarl. “You think that’s enough to stop them? Our House is weak. One look at Aegon, second of his name, would only strengthen those who already oppose your future rule.”

“And what would you do, Maekar? Marry Alicent Hightower and care for her children? You did call her a pretender bitch, which I doubt she will forget. Furthermore, ten children are more difficult to manage than six. Although, given your attention is taken up by Aerion, I cannot help but wonder if your other children would suffer much more than they already do now.”

He regretted his words the moment they left his mouth.

Hurt flashed across Maekar's face. “You’ve gone too far. I do not need to be reminded of my son’s failings. You think because you have two sons, you know everything there is to know about raising children. Perhaps your impending marriage will change your viewpoint. The One Eye was notoriously cruel. At least my son has not burnt the Riverlands to ash.”

Your son would burn the Riverlands to ash if he had a dragon, thought Baelor. He did not voice this. Aerion was as beautiful as he was mad, and Maekar, sensing the corruption in his son’s veins, had tried to temper it. It was unfair of Baelor to criticize his brother for his nephew’s behavior when he had not given the boy his due.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, brother,” Maekar said. His tone, usually caustic, surrendered to exhaustion.

“I do as well.” The sting of his earlier words made Baelor wish to soften their interaction, leading him to admit, “Valarr has thought me unhappy. He said he wished for the marriage to do me well.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes.”

Maeker’s eyes gleamed. “Alicent Hightower is comely enough to keep your discontent at bay. Her hair is the color of autumn leaves, and her waist is as thin as a candle. Not to mention her eyes. Doe-like is the best descriptor, don’t you agree?”

“Do not speak of her so," said Baelor, his voice weary. 

“It’s not only me, brother. It’s a common sentiment in the Keep.” He leaned forward, propping himself up by his elbows on Baelor’s desk. “Do you think her to be as comely as her portrait?”

“More so,” Baelor muttered.

“Gods, that portrait,” Maekar mused. “You used to stare at it often. Once we were old enough, I wondered if you pleasured yourself to it.”

Incredulous, Baelor stared at him. “It contains her children and grandchildren. Why do you think I would do such a thing?”

Maekar shrugged.

The portrait, commissioned by Aegon III for his first wife, the little queen Jaehaera, showed her family before the Dance. Her twin Jaehaerys stood next to her, little Maelor between the two of them. Aegon and Helaena sat behind the twins, clad in green and gold, with matching pearl-lead ruffled collars. Aemond looked straight ahead to the left, his sapphire eye smirking. Daeron, to the right, smiled with cheerful affability. Alicent Hightower stood behind Aegon, her hand on his shoulder. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders, and the seven-pointed star rested between her collarbones. Her eyes, the color of dark wood, stared at him, as if to say: “Look at me.”

How could he not?

Why Aegon III, or his brother, Viserys II, never removed the portrait remained a mystery. Guilt over Jaehaera’s sudden death may have strayed Aegon III’s hand towards compassion. Whatever the reason, it remained within the Red Keep hidden behind portraits of Baelor’s grandfather and his children, true and baseborn. Father, in a fit of rage, had them removed and burned once he became king, muttering about the quagmire of his father’s lechery and the fate of the realm. Daeron II was still the blood of the dragon, no matter his gentle ways. Had he exposed his temper, perhaps, he would have been taken seriously.

Baelor had been four-and-ten then, convinced he was a man, too occupied with the thrill of war on the horizon. “Look,” he recalled his father saying, “come closer. We had dragons once. King Aegon, second of his name, rode Sunfyre, considered the most beautiful dragon in the realm, for his golden scales. Queen Helaena rode Dreamfyre, the she-dragon once ridden by Princess Rhaena. Prince Aemond rode Vhagar, the last of the Conqueror’s dragons, and Prince Daeron, Tessarion, the Blue Queen.”

There had been something wistful in his father’s eyes then, an unquelled longing that made Baelor uncomfortable to witness. Did he wish to have a dragon to prove himself a real, trueborn son, not a bastard legitimized on Aegon IV’s deathbed? Had he a dragon, then Daemon Blackfyre would be ousted as a pretender, but if Daemon had one as well, it would only support him as Aegon IV’s favored son, fated to rule the realm. Baelor had admired his half-uncle, who, despite being the same age, was as muscular as the Warrior himself, with true Targaryen looks. He had never ill-treated Baelor, yet a certain derision appeared in his eyes when he heard the words “Baelor Targaryen.” Why are you the Targaryen, and not me? You don’t have the look at all.

“Princess Rhaenyra rode Syrax, and her uncle-husband, Prince Daemon, Caraxes the Red Wyrm. All that power, gone in an instant.” Father reached out to touch Maelor’s smile, brushing his fingers against the guileless grin, before drawing back as though he had been burnt. “Such a tragedy. Sister against brother. Uncle against nephew. Perhaps the dragons were always meant to leave us, and this is our penance for killing them indiscriminately.”

“Father, why are you telling me this?”

He met Baelor’s gaze, and longing hardened into steel. He looked suddenly older, the lines in his face pronounced. “There are whispers that I seek to turn the rest of Westeros into Dorne. I married your mother because Dorne needed to be drawn into the fold. I brought in Dornish courtiers, took on Dornish customs, not to alienate but to integrate. The dragonlords are despised in Dorne, and for good reason. Still, the law of the land must be followed. Westeros is not Dorne, no matter what rumors you may hear.”

Father’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Favoritism is not unexpected amongst parents. I could live with being my father’s unfavored son, an afterthought, had he not treated my half-brother with such joviality. He made it clear who he expected to be heir, for all Daemon’s bastardy. It was that very desire which led him to replace me, dishonoring my mother. Surely, I was not his son, meek-mannered and bookish as I was. The gods declared my mother innocent of committing adultery, yet, even under their decree, he suspected I was not of his blood. King Viserys, first of his name, favored his daughter Rhaenyra so fiercely that he neglected his sons. In Dorne, Rhaenyra would have inherited without fuss. But to have three trueborn brothers in the line of succession and rule as heir? The price the Iron Throne demands is steep. There will always be those who doubt your rule.”

“Grandfather was cruel,” Baelor said, for lack of anything else to say.

“He was, yes.” Long-held pain bled to the surface, and then, his father sighed, grasping his shoulders. “You will have to fight twice as hard as I did to gain the respect of half the lords. They do not trust you. They think you're too Martell to be a Targaryen.”

“Do you regret that I look like Mother?”

“No,” Father said. “I only regret the treatment you’ll endure because of it. You must prove them wrong.”

“Do you think I’ll be a good king?”

Father gave him a bittersweet smile. “I think you’ll be a great king.”

Alicent Hightower’s eyes followed him as he left. 

He visited the portrait a fortnight after, and then again, and again. Baelor could not say why, not even to himself, yet it pulled at him. Maekar had declared him bewitched by beauty. Perchance he was, but something nonetheless drew him to Alicent Hightower, very much the same way it did now. The woman in the portrait, now a woman of flesh, blood, and bone, was to be his wife in under a moon's time. 

Baelor ran his hands through his hair. He had not truly lain with a woman since Jena’s death, and the thought both unnerved and excited him. Jena would understand, a small voice said. She didn’t intend to leave you lonely forever. Intended or not, Jena was gone, and Alicent was here.

As dusk turned to dawn, the first streaks of sunlight above a blood-orange sunrise illuminating the day to come, Baelor wondered if he was doing the right thing, or if the right thing even existed at all.

Myriah Martell sent spiced tea, brewed from her personal stash, to break fast. “A gift from my brother before my wedding to remind me of home,” she had said. “Do your children have any favorite dishes?”

The scent of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves filled the air, steam dancing between teacups. Alicent looked at the cup in her hands. A bright silver of orange peel poked out shyly from dark liquid, rendered viscous with honey. She took a sip, more to have something to do with her hands than anything else.

Aemond had not drunk his tea; instead, he cradled it between his hands. Alicent wondered if he could see well enough to move the cup to his mouth for a drink, and despair washed over her once more. “What’s to happen to us? Are we still Targaryens?” His lips set in a thin line.

Aegon, Helaena, and Daeron went still. Aemond had voiced the question on their minds. How best to answer? Alicent thought. Especially as Aemond finally claimed a dragon, becoming a Targaryen in his own right, and now, in this new, strange time, there are no dragons left.

She decided to go with the truth. “You are Targaryens, but you will be at the end of the line in terms of succession, below Prince Maekar, King Daeron’s fourth son, and his children, and his children’s children. There are already too many potential Targaryen heirs. I didn't want to put you in further danger.” 

“And you, Mother? What’s to become of you? Will you still be queen?” 

“Not for a long while, gods willing.” Best out with the rest of it. “I’m to remarry. Prince Baelor has asked for my hand, and I accepted.”

“Remarry?” Aegon and Aemond’s aghast voices reached her ears in unison. “Why?”

“To keep you safe. You are my priority, all of you.” She smoothed Aegon’s hair off his forehead, taking him, Daeron, and Aemond into her arms. For Heleana, who never enjoyed unexpected touches of affection, she smiled with more merriment than she felt. "I sought to go to Oldtown and live a quiet life, betroth you to lords and ladies of the Reach, but should someone wish to use any of you for their nefarious designs, I would have no way to protect you. Prince Baelor offered the path with the least amount of bloodshed. He is just and kind, and he has promised to treat you as he does his children.” Alicent hoped the lie would bear fruit.

“Truly?” asked Aemond, the question muffled into the curve of her neck.

“Truly.”

“But you don’t love him,” Daeron stated, with all the childlike disdain a boy of six could muster. “You’re supposed to marry someone you love, as you did with father.”

Aegon snorted.

“When I first saw your father, it was not love at first sight, the type you hear in a song. I grew to love him in time.”

“Do you think it will be the same for Baelor?” Daeron asked.

“Prince Baelor,” Alicent corrected. “And I hope it to be the case.”

Aegon grasped her hands. “You needn’t do this, mother. Surely, we can find a way back.”

“Aegon,” she said, more tenderly than she had talked to him in years. “It must be done.”

“But what if he were to hurt you?”

“He would not hurt me. As I said, he is kind.” Baelor may not have cared for her the same way he did his late wife, but he wouldn’t hurt her. Mayhaps, he would consider her opinions regarding a future match between Aegon and a girl of minor nobility, born of the Westerlands, or Riverlands, or even Dorne. Dorne would not be her preference, but he was of age for a betrothal to be arranged, and an heiress would provide him the security she could not.

How queer to know the Targaryens now married out, not in. Alicent would need to become accustomed to their new ways. Was High Valyrian still used in court? Or had Rhoynish taken its place? She had always been a stronger reader and writer of High Valyrian than an orator, her Reach accent overpowering delicate enunciations. Alicent knew she could be understood, yet the words that sounded so fluid in Rhaenyra’s voice became a mixture of Andalic common tongue and High Valyrian, akin to the coarse dialect spoken by smallfolk on Dragonstone, in hers. Rhaenyra used to find it amusing. Viserys told her not to speak at all, for fear she would mangle his forefather’s tongue. Alicent had not said a word since.

What, she wondered, was her husband thinking? His wife and children disappeared overnight. Would he be frantic? Would he assume her father, his Hand, had taken them to Oldtown as a final stand against multiple offenses? Alicent’s chest clenched. Otto Hightower was long dead, but he was alive days ago. He had taken her into his arms.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a plain-faced maid carrying a tray of food. Alarmingly, her stomach growled in anticipation. “Your Grace, Princes, Princess.” Her eyes widened once she glimpsed Aemond’s face, the red, irritated stitching forever rendering his left eye shut.

“By the gods, you’re –" she swallowed at Alicent’s expression. The freckles smattering her cheeks darkened as she blushed. “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace. I meant no harm by it, I swear. It’s just, you’re Queen Alicent.”  

“Lady Alicent now,” Alicent said. “I rule no longer.”

“Apologies, milady.” She set the tray down. A hearty fare: cured sausages with fennel and goat cheese, eggs fried in butter, red apples and golden pears, complete with golden bread and orange cheese encased in a red rind. Smaller, fried sausages sat to the side, flecked with garlic and hot Dornish dragon peppers. Alicent could smell heat and spice from the end of the table. Baelor favored Dornish cuisine, and she wondered if she would have to grow accustomed to that as well.  

“Must we say prayers before we eat?” Aemond asked, ever the dutiful son.

“Fuck the gods,” said Aegon. “I’m hungry.”

“Aegon!” Alicent hissed. To Aemond, she said, “I believe the gods would understand in this instance. You ought to pray twice tonight, your … injury permitting. Are you certain you don’t wish to stay abed? I could have the maester bring you milk of the poppy.”

Aemond shook his head, frowning. “No, Mother. I wish to eat.”

“Of course.” Alicent moved to get him an egg, cured sausage, and sliced an apple. She started to cut the egg into bite-sized pieces, only to have Aemond protest, “Mother, I can do it.”

“Aemond, let me –“

He grabbed hold of the knife, heedless of her words.

“Aemond!”

“Perhaps it’s best if he does it,” Baelor called from the doorway. “I will make sure Aemond doesn’t injure himself.”

Alicent curtsied. “Prince Baelor, I did not know you intended to break fast with us. Please, sit.” She looked at Aegon and hissed, “Stand up.”

Aegon did, hurriedly stuffing the rest of an egg into his mouth. Runny orange yolk dripped onto his collar. Helaena stood as well and grabbed a Dornish sausage, taking a bite as she curtsied.

“Helaena, darling, you can eat after Prince Baelor joins us.”

“’S good,” Helaena said, muffled by the sausage.

“Those are my favorites as well. You have good taste, Princess.” Baelor sat next to Aemond. “You must forgive me, my lady. I already broke fast. I wished to see how you and the children are settling in.”

Alicent glanced at him, then turned to Aemond’s hand holding the knife. “We’re as well as can be expected.”

“You’re to marry Mother,” Daeron announced. “Does that mean you’re my new father?”

Baelor smiled. “It appears so.”

Aemond glared up at him.  “Why do you need to marry her? My mother’s done nothing wrong. We didn’t choose to come here.”

Baelor looked directly into Aemond’s eye. He did not seem repulsed by the wound covering the left half of his face. “I need to marry your mother to ensure no one with ill intent takes advantage of you or your siblings. Had your mother married a Reachman, Oldtown would have been an option, but she married Viserys Targaryen, first of his name. You are Targaryens. Already, there are whispers of Aegon, second of his name, born again to deliver the realm from instability.”

“And if I were to play no part in these whispers? If I were to declare I had no desire for usurpation, would you leave us be? You are Heir to the Iron Throne, surely, you can do something." Aegon had not shouted, not yet, but the blood of the dragon ran hot. Prince Baelor’s Dornish blood will not temper the blood of the dragon, but instead, increases the heat, she thought.

Surprisingly, he did not rise to Aegon’s provocation. “No matter your desire, there will be those who seek to use you. That is the nature of royalty. Too many claims lead to conflict. Your claim may be seen as the strongest, regardless of how many years have passed.”

“Then let me sign a decree and be done with it. I have no desire to usurp your throne. I was never declared heir to my father. What makes people think I wish to be heir now?”

“By the mere virtue of your coming back to life, seventy years from where you took your last breath. You have the Conqueror's name, you have his blood, and should Sunfyre return to you, you have your dragon. The gods sent you here for a reason.”

“Fuck the gods!” Aegon yelled. Alicent closed her eyes, praying to the Mother for strength. “And fuck your reasons. You wish to marry my mother, and you wish to reintegrate me and my brothers and sister back into our own House for your own designs, undoubtedly, to marry us off to one another –"

“Aegon,” Alicent warned. Daeron looked at her, alarmed. Helaena covered her ears. Aemond hissed, “Aegon, shut up,” in Valyrian, rougher than usual.

“You’re not my father,” Aegon spat. “You’ll never be my father. Tell me, Prince Baelor, did you grow lonely after the death of your wife? Is that why you wish to marry my mother and take her bed?  Her hair is nearly the right shade –"

“Aegon! Enough!” Alicent's hand rose, determined to shut him up with a slap, its path led astray by Baelor’s fingers wrapping around her wrist.

“Listen to your mother,” he said lowly, a current of irritation beneath. “I did not come here to start a fight. I understand your anger.” At this, Aegon scoffed. “I do. If I were in your place, I would be just as angry as you are. However, this is the position we are in. There are two paths forward, one for peace and one for war. I seek peace. Is that the path you seek?”

“The path I seek does not matter. I have no choice.” He glared, insolent even in this. “Promise me you will not hurt my mother.”

“Aegon, please, stop this.”

 “I promise.”

“Should you hurt her –"

“I will not,” said Baelor. “I swear to you, on the Seven, I will not harm your mother before or during our marriage. I will swear the same upon the Seven-Pointed Star should you wish it. Are those terms acceptable?”

Aegon gave a short nod.

“Good.” He let go of her wrist. “Aemond, do you wish for me to aid you in using your knife? I won’t cut your food for you, but I will lay my hand atop yours and guide your hand beneath mine.”

Aemond muttered, “Fine,” beneath his breath. Alicent watched as Aegon sank back into his seat, not meeting her eye, as Helaena grabbed another Dornish sausage, as Daeron bit into his apple, and as Baelor’s hand – the same one that had grabbed her wrist – guided Aemond’s and provided enough pressure to cut. He had a scar on his ring finger, running from the knuckle to the base. His hands looked like those of a soldier, not a prince, but their grip was gentle, delicate.

“Lady Alicent,” Baelor said, once they had all eaten, “might I speak to you for a moment?”

“Certainly, my prince.” She stood, following him outside the doorway. “I must apologize about Aegon. I know he is upset, but he had no right to say such ignominies."

“It’s alright. I was not lying when I said I would feel similarly.” He frowned, “His remark about Jena was made in anger, but I do not wish you to think I married you based on superficial similarities alone. Your hair has nothing to do with it.”

“Oh.” Did this mean he did not find her comely at all? “I understand.”

He stepped closer. Alicent wondered if he intended to touch her again. It was improper for a betrothed couple to spend time alone, in such proximity - yet another custom changed with time. She had been married, as had he. There was no scandal of a broken maidenhead here.

“I believe it would be best if you met my sons and if we all dined together.”

Alicent had not expected that. “Will you sons accept?”

His lips curved at the corners. “Matarys has pestered me with nothing but questions since your arrival. He acts more like a boy of six, not a nearly grown man of five-and-ten. Valarr is curious as well, despite his more reserved demeanor. I can assure you they will treat you with respect.”

“As my children have not treated you. Aegon is nearly a man grown. He ought not be prone to such childish behavior.”

“Your eldest is three-and-ten, your youngest six. If they had adjusted to everything in less than a sennight, that truly would be unexpected. I, a man of six-and-thirty, would be overwhelmed to wake up and find everything and everyone I knew gone. I cannot expect them to move on so easily when I would not.”

Emboldened by his answer, Alicent asked, “Prince Baelor, why are you being so kind to me and mine?”

“You have suffered much, my lady. I do not know you well, nor do you know me, yet, I think we should start our marriage with amity, not animosity.” With that, he stepped back to take leave, and Alicent stepped back to return to her children.

“Lady Alicent.”

“Yes?”

His throat worked. “I do not mean to be forward, but you have, here – “ Baelor reached out to coax a flyaway strand of her hair behind her ear.

Alicent stilled.

He appeared embarrassed by the action. “The color of your dress suits you. I bid you a good day.”

“And I bid you one as well, my prince.” Alicent turned back, willing any flush of red from her cheeks. It would be of no use to suffer questions.

Yet, throughout the day and into the evening, the warmth of his touch lingered.

iv. 

The sept had changed since she had visited last; one of the many things that had changed since Alicent’s time. Myriah and Daeron had allowed her this small mercy, for there was no sept at the Keep, only a godswood from before the time of the Andals. It peered out at her, weirdwood sap running down the trees, red as blood. Alicent fought the urge to shudder at the thought of the weirdwoods reaching for her, their branches long and slender and horrible. The dream, in half-remembered fragments, came back to her, surrounded by weirdwoods, a man with a wine-colored birthmark in the shape of a raven, saying, "Open your eye." 

Atop Visenya’s Hill rested a great, towering structure, the seven-pointed star staring out at King's Landing’s debauchery. Stained glass windows decorated each tower, crystals rising to the Seven Heavens above, alit in the faintest glow of sunrise. Alicent longed for the smaller sept she had taken Aegon to as a child, and then Aemond, once Aegon voiced his dislike. This sept, while undeniably beautiful, appeared intimidating, too grand and lavish. Oldtown’s Starry Sept paled in comparison. Lighting – Ser Willem Wylde’s horse, a tall, black beast, was as docile as a kitten when she stepped off onto the steps leading to the entrance of the Sept of Baelor.

The Seven did not honor vanity, she thought, and promptly banished the thought from her mind. It would become her sept, for she was to be married here in a fortnight.

Wylde, upon determining the empty sept did not contain assassins, nor a loose-tongued septa or septon, bade her to come forward. Alicent knelt to light a candle for the dead, but the task overwhelmed her. So many dead. Her father, her children, her grandchildren, Rhaenys, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Daemon – the list went on. She looked to the seven faces of God. Their stone eyes, cold and all-knowing, looked down upon her, like a child would an ant. Their judgment prickled. Do you think yourself above the gods, Alicent Hightower?

Alicent hit a candle for the crone, shut her eyes, and prayed.

Please, give me the wisdom to survive this and guide my children forward. They did not deserve this. Please, please, please.  

Next, the Mother. Mother above, forgive me. I didn't know so many would die, I swear it. I did what I thought was right. Please, tell me how to set it right now.

Alicent fiddled with Myriah’s prayer beads, her cuticles worn red from picking. Viserys had not liked the habit. Baelor would undoubtedly dislike it as well.

“My Lady,” Wylde murmured, pitching his voice to a whisper, “the first hour of worship is upon us. Should you be accosted, the King and Queen will be wroth.”

“I understand. Might I have a moment longer?”

He nodded, stepping back. The Maiden’s serene repose provided a stark contrast to her shaking hands. Alicent had not visited her in some time, not since before Rhaenyra had wed Laenor. The night of her first wedding, she prayed to be a girl for a moment longer, for on the morrow, she was to become a wedded and bedded woman.

I am no maiden, but I am to be married again to a man I scarcely know. He is kind. I wish for him to continue to be kind.

“My lady,” said Wylde again, more insistently. Alicent stood, taking leave before worshippers streamed in. From her vantage point atop Lighting, highborn and lowborn mingled, all stripped bare before the gods.

“Do you think the gods cruel?” she asked.

“I think the gods unknowable, my lady,” Wylde answered. “My father often said, ‘The only cruelty is of our own making.’”

“I wonder what your father would say if he were faced with the enormity of the royal house burdened by loss of power.”

Wylde looked over at her, thinking. He said nothing else, and for that, Alicent was grateful. The thought lingered inside her mind, an unvoiced question: What of the cruelty of my own making, born of my flesh and blood?

The Red Keep appeared differently in the light of day. Familiar, pale red stone stretched as far as the eye could see, yet it was older, wearier. Alicent sought her way to Maegor’s holdfast, past the Kitchen Keep, through the winding corridors and passageways, a turn to the right -

A boy stood in the middle of the hall, staring at her. He looked to be of similar age to Daeron, his silver hair curling behind his ears, shorn just above the chin – a pageboy’s cut. In his arms, he held a grey cat who blinked contentedly at her master, giving Alicent a lazy once-over, before letting out a loud purr as he scratched beneath her chin.

“Hello.”

He continued to stare. He was far too young to be Aenys or Rhaegal, and Baelor’s sons were eight-and-ten and five-and-ten. One of Maekar’s boys, she realized. 

“Hello,” Alicent tried again, this time in Valyrian. “My name is Alicent Hightower. What is your name?” The words sounded like a rusted door hinge opening for the first time after many years closed. Internally, she winced.

He peered up at her.“I did not know you spoke High Valyrian, Aunt. My name is Aegon, fifth of his name. You have an Aegon already, so you may call me Aeg.”

“I’m not your aunt yet.”

“You will be,” Aeg said. “The entire Keep will be abuzz with wedding preparations. I’ve never been to a wedding before.” He brightened, “Is your Aegon to be there?”

“Yes, he is, along with the rest of my children.”

Now, Aeg stood on his toes, nearly bursting with excitement. The cat gave a disgruntled meow. “Can I meet them? Please? I wish to know about Sunfyre and Dreamfyre and Vhagar, and what it was like to fly. Father said my egg would not hatch, but I think it would be grand if it did. Then, we could all share a dragon. But I would not abandon Silverwing. She gets jealous easily.”  

“Silverwing?”

He held out the cat. “Her fur, see?”

Alicent did see. Silverwing’s fur was a silver-grey, and her eyes pale blue, standing out against her face like gleaming, river-smooth stones. “An apt name,” she said.

“Aerion, my brother, thought it foolish. He asked me if I knew so little of dragons that a cat would suffice.” Aeg curled in on himself then, holding Silverwing to his chest. “He threw Vhagar down a well, you see. He said he meant to teach me a lesson. But Vhagar never harmed anyone! She was sweet.”

“Your brother threw your cat down a well?” Alicent asked, so stunned by his admission she did not think to voice it in High Valyrian. Aeg nodded. “Did he face any punishment?”

“No,” Aeg muttered, embittered. “He’s Father’s favorite.”

He resembled her Aegon then. Aegon had been around the same age when he realized his nameday gifts were lacking compared to Jacaerys' and Rhaenyra's, on the rare occasions she came to the Keep to celebrate. Alicent had tried to make it up to him. A beautiful foal, or Myrish sunglass on a golden chain to wear around his neck. Once, for his two-and-tenth nameday, a book of the Hightower history, containing an illustrated depiction of Uthor, King of the Hightower long before the Targaryens and their dragons came to Westeros, standing above the dragon he’d slain. A blasphemous image - one that House Targaryen would have struck down, had Viserys known Alicent possessed it – and Aegon said, disdainfully, “You and Father got me this, truly? There’s no need for this falsehood any longer, Mother. Father would have no idea what to gift me if the gods themselves told him.”

“Aunt,” asked Aeg, “do you wish to pet her?” Alicent did not correct him.

Alicent reached to scratch Silverwing beneath her chin, met by a vibrating purr that rumbled through her sleek frame. “Aemond always had a fondness for cats. He wouldn’t admit it, for the only beast a Targaryen is taught to love is a dragon, but he would sneak them sweetmeats when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

“Did you feed any cats?”

“I did, once.” When she and Rhaenyra were very young, younger than Aeg, they snuck away from their minders and into the pavilion, letting any cat that came near lick their fingers and snatch any spare morsel of beef, hidden in the folds of their dresses. Her father had found them giggling, his face in a perpetual frown of displeasure, yet even he ran his long, thin fingers behind the ears of a black kitten, the barest crack of a smile appearing as the kitten batted at his hand.

“Do you know if Aemond wishes to meet Silverwing?”

“You would need to ask him. Not now,” Alicent said, eyeing him as he bounced on his toes, Silverwing hissing at the sudden movement. He looked ready to jump out of his skin. “You must ensure that your father has permitted you. And even if he has, Aemond may not wish to meet you until the wedding.”

 “I understand, Aunt.” The expression on Aeg’s face changed; now, he appeared abashed. “Uncle Baelor is here. He will be wroth that I’ve accosted you so. Goodbye, Aunt Alicent.”

True to his word, Baelor waited behind them both. Alicent curtsied. Aeg sought to leave, shrinking beneath his uncle’s gaze. “Aegon,” Baelor chided, “Lady Alicent is a busy woman. Tell me you did not pester her with incessant questioning.”

“No, Uncle. I let her pet Silverwing. Aunt Alicent likes cats as well.”

Baelor regarded Silverwing, kneeling to scratch behind her ears. “After the Good Queen’s mount? A fine name for such a beauty as she.” His eyes caught Alicent’s then, and he gave her a slight nod. “My Lady.”

“Prince Baelor.”  

“Run along. Your aunt and I have much to discuss.” Aeg scampered away, relief practically emanating from his body. His narrow shoulders no longer slouched.

“You must forgive me, my lady. I did not know you spoke High Valyrian.”

Alicent fought the urge to pick at her fingers. “I am not as good a speaker as my children. It was the language of the court in my day. Has that since changed?”

“Only somewhat.” Baelor’s High Valyrian was rich, full, dignified - much like his voice when he spoke Common Tongue. “Most lords prefer to conduct business in Common, so as not to be excluded. I cannot blame them, for my own Valyrian is somewhat coarse compared to Valyrian spoken in days of old.”

“Coarse? Truly? I think your Valyrian is better than mine.”

“And why is that?”

Alicent could not stop a bitter grimace from tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Viserys told me my accent was too thick, that my attempts were no better than a child’s, yet even a child could be taught not to speak so coarsely. I sound like a Reachwoman through and through.”

Baelor went silent, saying nothing, as they walked into Maegar’s Holdfast. A troubled expression crossed his face. For what reason, Alicent was uncertain. Finally, he looked at her and said, “I think your Valyrian is better than you believe it to be, my lady. You have knowledge of the grammar, and your accent is slight, nearly unnoticeable, save for certain words. If anything, you sound too formal.”

“Too formal?”

“Yes. You remind me of my grandmother. She had a queenly way with words.”

Did he mean to mock her? Alicent craned her neck to peer up at him. His eyes appeared sincere. Perhaps he meant what he said.

She switched to Common. “What of Rhoynish? Is it not required to learn your mother’s tongue?”

Baelor laughed. The sound came out strained. “Should it be required to learn Rhoynish at court, then Daemon Blackfyre will have been vindicated that House Targaryen is now too Dornish. Valarr and Matarys do not speak it. Nor do my siblings. Only I do, before Mother realized the danger of a Dornish-looking heir.”

For all he looked of Dorne, he had King Daeron’s eyes and nose, she realized. The shape was the same, as was the color of that one eye. The slope of his chin and high cheekbones belonged to Myriah Martell. Aegon, despite his coloring, took after her in his face. As did Helaena, in the shape of her mouth and curve of her brow. Even Aemond’s freckles resembled Gwayne’s. In her mind’s eye, Gwayne smiled, his face ruddy and kissed by the sun.

“Do you not have business this morning?” Alicent asked. “I do not wish to keep you.”

“Fear not, my lady, I have some time to spare. Aemond may need my aid with his knife again.”

Alicent could not stop staring. “You’re certain? I can help Aemond.”

“Aemond may find it difficult to accept your help.”

Aghast, she looked into his face. It was perfectly placid and unmoored, almost conciliatory. She snapped, “I am his mother.”

“Men often find it hard to accept help from their mothers, especially in times of need. I mean no offense, Lady Alicent. I only think Aemond would prefer not to show his struggle in front of you.”

“I am his mother,” Alicent repeated, this time somewhat uncertain.

Baelor’s words proved to be true. Once they broke fast, her children freshly bathed and sleepy-eyed, Aemond accepted his aid again, albeit begrudgingly. Aegon stared at the floor, or at his food – never at her - stewing in anger. Heleana consumed three Dornish sausages. Daeron chatted merrily, “Mother, did you know that Baelor fought against Daemon Blackfyre?”

“Prince Baelor,” Alicent corrected. “Yes, darling, I did. Did he tell you about it?”

“It’s a song.” Off-key, he sang, “The country was in peril, the anvil was a rock, the hammer smashed the bastard –“

Alicent’s hands flew to her mouth. “Daeron!”

“With his giant veiny –“ 

 “Daeron! Stop it this very instant!”  

Aegon laughed aloud. Aemond rolled his eye, and Helaena looked over at her, trying to discern why Aegon was laughing so hard.

“Daeron.” Baelor’s lips twitched upwards. He, too, was trying not to laugh, she noticed. “You needn’t repeat such a song in front of your mother.”

“But you were the hammer, and Uncle Maekar was the anvil,” Daeron protested. “You destroyed Daemon Blackfyre’s forces for good.”

“We did, although for good is an optimistic description. There will always be men who seek undeserved power. Daemon Blackfyre and his ilk are but one of many.”

Alicent controlled her voice with forcible cheer to mask her shock. “Daeron, mayhaps we should speak on another subject.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Baelor clasped his hands together, as if to pray. She wondered if he kept to the Seven as well. Dorne, despite its customs, was home to the Andals and their seven-faced god before and after Nymeria’s conquest.

He looked at her children. “I have a request to make of you. My children, Valarr and Matarys, wish to meet you before the wedding. There will be dinner three nights from now, and I wish to know if you have any favorite dishes.”

“Dinner?” Aegon asked, surly as only a boy of three-and-ten could be. He let out a dry laugh, “I don't care, so long as there is wine.”

“Aegon,” Alicent hissed. Her son raised an eyebrow. His cup, already half empty, taunted, Arbor Gold swirling along the edges, threatening to spill over. The sun has barely risen, she despaired. When exactly he had become such a lecher, Alicent knew not, only that it had happened under her watch.

“I wish to try crusted lamb with lemon and honey, and chicken with hot peppers,” said Helaena.

Baelor’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. Helaena’s tastes could be queer. Her recent fondness for Dornish cuisine appeared to have little impact on her stomach; still, Alicent made a note to tell Baelor not to have the chicken be too hot.

“Honey cakes,” Daeron injected, “with pomegranates and oranges!”

Aemond sat, contemplating. “Fish,” he said, “packed with herbs and charred.”

An unexpected choice. Aemond tended to take after her, preferring Reach cuisine. He often requested simple fare: mincemeat pie, roasted chicken with parsnips, fresh grapes, apple tarts.  “I thought you didn’t care for fish,” Alicent said.

Aemond swallowed. “I had it at Driftmark. Vhagar and I flew, and I had not eaten, so we stopped near the seaside port.”  

Alicent envisioned portmen looking up in awe as Vhagar’s wings blocked the moon, darkening the sky to an even deeper, inky black. Aemond, sliding off Vhagar, basking in the glory of his dragon, and ordering fish. He undoubtedly paid too much for it, dropping a silver stag into the weathered hand of a fisherman, and leaving atop Vhagar as quickly as he arrived. It was the last time her boy would be so carefree.

Oh, Aemond, thought Alicent, despairing once more. I had no idea.

“Mother?” asked Daeron, “What is your favorite dish?”

She had loved honey cakes once. “I wish to fly across the Narrow Sea with you, and eat only cake,” Rhaenyra said, in her mind’s eye, smiling. After her marriage, she ate whatever Viserys did, though not nearly as many sweets or as large a portion. It was her duty as queen to remain slim as she could be. A king could be fat, and wise, and beloved, but a fat queen would be gluttonous, slothful. During her pregnancy with Aemond, Viserys had remarked, “Should you continue to eat so, mayhaps you’ll be considered fat and merry and not me.” He smiled then, an attempt to soothe the sting. Alicent subsisted on soup alone after.

“I do not have one.”

Baelor now spoke. “Truly? The cooks can make whatever you wish.”

“I will eat whatever you eat,” Alicent said. “I only ask you to make it less heavily spiced.”

“If you’re certain.” An unidentifiable emotion crossed Baelor’s face, a flicker so quick that Alicent wondered if it had been a trick of the eye, before the lines of his face smoothed. He was calm, always so incredibly calm, that one might think he had no passion at all, despite his Dornish and Targaryen blood.

“Aegon, you have no desire for anything, save for wine?”

“Arbor Gold,” Aegon muttered, deep in his second cup. “Not Dornish Red. I wish for strongwine as well. Those are my preferences, Prince Baelor.” Even the title was full of disdain.

“No strongwine,” Baelor said. Aegon’s head shot up, a retort fast on his lips. “You’re a boy of three-and-ten. You do not need to get drunk.”

Aegon’s tone turned derisive as he asked, “Do you intend to cut me off from wine completely?”

“You’ve had two glasses well before midday. Your mother may be more permissive with you due to these circumstances, but you are still a boy. One glass of wine at dinner should suffice.”

Her son stood and took leave, slamming the door shut behind him. It echoed with a loud bang, and Alicent heard Aegon’s feet stomp across the Holdfast's floors. Would he go to the kitchens in search of more wine?

“Forgive Aegon, Prince Baelor. I don’t understand why he’s behaving as he is.” Aegon’s antagonism reminded her uncomfortably of Rhaenyra, the sudden cold cruelty which her once-friend showed upon Alicent’s coronation as Viserys’ queen. “Gwyn." The maid's plain face emerged from the shadows, her freckles standing out against pale skin. “I must tend to my son. If the rest of my children are done, clear this off.”

Turning to Aemond, Alicent stroked his cheek. “I will be back in time for the Maester’s visit. Do not hesitate to send a servant if you need anything.”

His tone sullen, Aemond asked, “Am I to stay abed today?” 

“Just until the Maester arrives. If he believes you to be well enough, I can arrange for us to see the tapestries. Does that suit you?”

He nodded, trying not to seem too eager.

“My lady." Baelor extended his hand, “Shall we?”

Indeed, Aegon was in the kitchens, drinking yet another cup. Fury overtook her better judgment, and Alicent slapped it out of his hands. Wine spilled onto the floor, red rivulets running towards her feet. Servants scattered like rats.

“Prince Baelor, might I have a private word with my son?”

He left, stepping outside, right before the entranceway. Alicent felt his eyes on her back.

“Aegon.”

Aegon refused to look up.

“Aegon!”

“What?” he snapped.

“Must you behave childishly? Prince Baelor has been nothing but kind to us, far kinder than anyone else in his place would have. Why do you treat him so?”

Aegon’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I do not need him to be kind to me. He is not my father. He oversteps.”

Alicent looked at her boy, at his shaking hands, his red and worried fingertips. “Oversteps? Whatever do you mean?”

“He has no need to tell me what to do.”

She scoffed. “I rather think he does. Since we have been here, Aegon, you have treated our hosts with disdain."

“Baelor is not my family,” Aegon hissed.

“No one is saying he is! Aegon, I know he is not your father, but you must show him a modicum of respect. Dear heart, please. Tell me what is wrong, truly.” Alicent hesitated. “Is it Sunfyre?”  

Aegon looked at her then. His eyes were bright. “Why should I? It’s not as if you care.”  

Floored, Alicent stared at him. “Not as if I – Aegon. Aegon, please. What’s gotten into you?”

He pushed past her, his shoulder knocking hers, and gave Baelor a bow. “Prince Baelor,” Aegon intoned, “please accept my apology. I will see you and yours at dinner. I promise to be on my best behavior. By your leave, my prince.” His eyes were still red. Do not speak of this further.

“Go on, Aegon.”

Alicent could not stop her mouth from trembling. She had been hard on him, pushing him too hastily, too far, yet he had known of her love for him. Or so she thought.

“My lady, are you alright?”

She pushed Aegon’s words aside. “I’m fine, Prince Baelor." Her shoes were soaked. The hem of her dress was wet with wine, pale violet dyed a blotchy crimson. A ruinous stain spread through the fabric like blood.

“You stepped through wine,” Baelor murmured.

“It was my fault. I knocked the cup from Aegon’s hand. I did not notice he drank so often.”

Quietly, Baelor said, “Daeron drinks more than your son. For what reasons, I know not, but whatever torments him so is only silenced by wine. Aegon is dealing with his own difficulties and reaches for the drink to calm himself. I will send a maester to examine him. This appears to be a problem of the mind.”

“My father thought those who relied too heavily on drink were weak of will. I did not know such reliance could be another issue.” Guilt coursed through her. Alicent heard Aegon’s voice once more: Why should I? It’s not as if you care.

Baelor’s eyes were distant. He did not look at her. “I relied on wine after the war. Daemon Blackfyre was dead, and I was alive, but the screams of the dying made it impossible to sleep. I heard them every night. Jena and I had been married for six moons then, and my screaming would wake her. Many dead lived behind my eyelids, all of them eager, hungry. One Dornish boy, Matarys' age, had been crushed beneath his horse. I left him to die. I did not even grant him the privilege of a swift death.”

He swallowed, rasped, “Strongwine silenced those ghosts. One glass a day to start. Then, two. They were louder now. If two glasses could not work, why not try three? Or four?”

“What made you stop?” asked Alicent, her voice barely audible.

“I refused to be a wastrel of a father. My children and my wife needed me. The kingdom needed me.”  He said no more on the subject, his eyes suddenly glassy, before settling back to alertness.

“You’ll track wine on the floor if you walk, my lady. Do you permit me to carry you?”

“You’re certain?”

Baelor gave her a half-smile. “We are to be wed. I doubt it will be considered improper. May I?”

Alicent nodded. One arm swept beneath her knees, scooping her against his chest. She dangled, half-worried he would drop her, but his arms were strong and steady. He smelled of cedar. Her stomach flipped pleasantly.

Dark red ran from her shoes. “Forgive me if I get wine on your clothing, my prince.”

“No harm has been done, my lady. Clothing can always be washed. Red and black should mask any stains.”

He carried her through a stone passageway. “A shortcut to the Holdfast,” Baelor explained. “I thought you may wish to remove your clothing as quickly as possible.”

Baelor set her down at the doorway of her chambers. He called out, “Draw a bath for Lady Alicent. Wash her dress in cold water with vinegar.”

Alicent looked over at him. “Vinegar?”

“It removes the stain, my mother says. She has yet to lead me wrong about anything.” He knelt to examine the damage, and Alicent was acutely aware of one maid eyeing him in curiosity before turning her gaze to the floor. “Your feet, my lady.”

“My what?”

“I will remove your shoes.”

“Your hands will get dirty,” said Alicent.

“My hands can be washed. It’s only wine.” A strange sense of anticipation filled Alicent as he gazed up at her, his hands grasping her right foot and peeling off her shoe. The left foot followed. “Your shoes may be ruined beyond repair, I’m afraid.”

“I thank you, my prince.” Her feet were tacky with wine; the flesh darkened to a deep purple color.

“You’re hurt,” Baelor murmured. “You have a cut on your left foot.”

“It must have been a stone.” Come to think of it, her left foot did hurt.

“A rag,” directed Baelor. A maid put one into his hand, sudsy with orange-and-olive oil soap. Alicent watched, her heart in her throat, as he gently, carefully, washed it clean.

Something in her chest fluttered. “You need not do that, my prince. There is no need for you to kneel in front of me.”

“You are to be my wife,” Baelor repeated, simply. He said something else Alicent did not understand, the words rolling off his tongue like liquid honey, too quiet for Alicent to hear. Rhoynish. His eyes twinkled, crinkling at the corners when he refused to repeat it in Common or Valyrian at her urging.

He stood. “The kingdom calls. I must leave you now, my lady.”  

“I understand, my prince.”

Dimly, Alicent heard whispers behind her as a maid led her to her bath. The girl had deft hands, oiling her hair and combing knots out with her gentle fingers. “What is your name?”

“Rose, milady,” she said, her Reach accent prominent. "I hail from Honeyholt." 

Honeyholt, home to House Beesbury. Alicent pictured jars of honey, ranging from dark amber to light gold, lining the streets, children eating it with their fingers until they grew sick. It was something she had thought as a child: Honeyholt, home of the bees and their honey.

She leaned back, letting Rose rinse her hair. “You have fine fingers.”  

“Thank you, milady.”

Rose hummed a tune under her breath, the tune unfamiliar. “Milady, do you wish to lean upright? I’ll wash your back.”

“Thank you, Rose.” The stone, coarse as it was, scraped down her back, removing any grime and dry skin in a swift motion. The sensation was heavenly. Alicent scrubbed herself with the same orange-and-olive oil soap that Baelor had used on her feet. A queer, floating sensation rendered her legs difficult to lift. She thought of Baelor looking up at her, of the expression on his face, and she was grateful her red face could be attributed to the heat of the bath.

Rose helped her into her robe and shift after she dried off. “Do you need help with your dress, milady?”

Jeyne Uller awaited outside her chambers. “Lady Alicent,” she said, seemingly unfazed by Alicent’s appearance. She eyed her up and down. “You’re clean. That’s good.”

Alicent collected herself. “Rose, please tell Gwyn I will be there shortly. Lady Jeyne has delivered my dresses.”

Rose nodded, setting off across the hall, where Gwyn and her children awaited.

“I have four dresses for you,” Jeyne said. “Two resemble a Reach style, and one a Dornish style. In a sennight, I will return for your wedding dress fitting. Does that suit you, my lady?”

“It does,” said Alicent. Jeyne waved her hands with an uncharacteristic flourish, revealing four dresses. The blue and purple fabric she picked out had been transformed into the cut for a Reachwoman, with wide, long sleeves, a modest neckline just below the collarbone, and gold and silver threaded through. The waist cinched. At her look, Jeyne said, flippant as ever, “You may as well show off the waist the gods have given you.”

The Dornish style dress was black silk, dark as the hour of the wolf. The neckline plunged to the center of her chest, with golden beads sewn on each side. Golden suns and silver moons were embroidered along the hem. It exposed her shoulders, her arms, her chest. This is a dress you wear for your husband, it seemed to say. For his eyes only.

The final dress, a deep carmine bordering on crimson, caught her eye. Alicent reached out to touch it, soft velvet rustling between her fingers. “If you wear this, my lady, the prince wouldn’t dare look at anyone else.” Jeyne smiled at Alicent. Her eyes gleamed, satisfied with a job well done. “I’d say it would please him most thoroughly.”

The neckline was low. She looked, observing the bodice sewn inside the chest, meant to enhance her breasts, pushing them up and together for his view. Alicent flushed. She could not wear this.

“Thank you, Lady Jeyne.”

“If only all women had your build,” said Jeyne, somewhat wistful. “You are a pleasure to dress. I’m certain the prince will agree.”

Alicent settled on the blue - a dark navy that could be mistaken for black upon first glance. It fit like a glove.

She hurried to her children’s chambers. Another maester – a thin, older man with a grandfatherly disposition – greeted her with a bow. “My lady.”

“Maester,” she said, wishing she knew his name. He took pity on her.

“My name is Yromwell, my lady. I serve Prince Baelor.”

Aemond lay on his back. Helaena, Aegon, and Daeron sat to the side of his bed, crowded into each other like sardines. Aegon did not look at her.

Yromwell’s eyes widened. “Prince Aemond. I am Maester Yromwell. Would you sit up for me, please?”

Aemond did. He blinked his eye, wincing as Yromwell gently pressed his fingers to the red, swollen mess of his cheek. “No infection,” he muttered. He reached into his robes, pulling out a skin of milk of the poppy, and another, essence of nightshade.

“My prince, the stitches will need to be removed to reduce any swelling that may impact your face and brain. Do you wish for me to do so now? If so, do you wish to be awake?”

Aemond looked over at her. Alicent gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You may proceed, Maester Yromwell.”

“Do you wish to be awake?” he repeated. “There’s no shame in wishing to sleep during the procedure. It may hurt.”

“I would like to stay awake,” said Aemond, his voice steady. He added, “Mother, you do not need to watch this.”

As if Alicent would leave. She sat beside him, next to Helaena. Yromwell pulled out a silver needle, which glinted in the light, and dabbed wine on it. “To prevent any infection from entering,” he explained. “My prince, close your other eye. Do not move.”

Aemond stilled, closing his eye. Yromwell held the needle with steady hands, winding it through the thread, and tugged. The thread snapped. Slowly, he continued, removing each stitch until all had been done. It would scar, but he would live, and to Alicent, that was the most important thing of all.

He handed Aemond milk of the poppy and encouraged him to take a drink.

“I will apply a salve. You need to apply this to your cheek and eyebrow twice a day, when you wake up and when you go to bed over the course of the next moon.” He produced a silver canister. The salve was green, the scent of olive oil, lavender, rosemary, mint, and ginger pungent. “It will reduce redness and inflammation. For your eye, do not touch it. Use hot water to clean any crust and take care not to apply the salve to it. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Alicent would ensure he followed Yromwell’s instructions to a tee. Yromwell reached into his bag, pulling out a black cotton eyepatch. “Once the salve has dried, try this on, my prince. Let me know if I need to adjust it to fit you properly.”

The salve made Aemond’s face appear even redder, highlighting the warped, stretched skin of his cheek. Would the left side of his face align with the right again? He slipped on the eyepatch. It hid most of the scarring and swelling.

“You look like a pirate,” Daeron said. Aemond gave him a half-smile, half-grimace in response.

Yromwell tilted his head. “My lady, a private word?”

Alicent followed him to the Holdfast’s center. “Prince Aemond’s eye has healed remarkably well. There will be scarring, yet the salve should keep that to a minimum. What I wish to discuss with you, Lady Alicent, is his coordination and balance. He needs a companion to help him walk, along with other tasks - eating, drinking. Prince Baelor sends his apologies that he will not be able to help your son every time he needs it. As such, the prince offers the service of his youngest son, Matarys, if you and Aemond wish. There is also Prince Maekar’s youngest son, Aegon. Or, if you prefer someone from the Reach to act as a groom, Prince Baelor has a list of candidates.”

“I will need to discuss with Aemond,” Alicent said, somewhat stunned by the amount of effort Baelor put into ensuring Aemond’s well-being: a daunting task she had not even begun to tackle.

“Of course, my lady.” Yromwell bowed again. “I will come by tomorrow, and the day after.”

“Maester, Aemond is starting to feel constrained in the Holdfast. I mean no offense to our hosts, nor does he, but I thought an outing could be beneficial. Just to the tapestries,” she added quickly, noticing the irritated expression on his face.

“You will help him walk?”

“Of course,” Alicent answered, miffed.

He regarded her. “He mustn’t overexert himself, my lady. He is still healing. The tapestries are close enough that, should he begin to experience pain, he can return to rest.”

“Thank you, Maester Yromwell.”

Alicent thought of Aeg. His chatter could pull Aemond out of his melancholy. He was a sweet child.  She struggled to picture Aeg picking Aemond up when he fell or Aeg making sure he didn’t injure himself. Aemond was both larger and heavier than him. Matarys was older, though, five-and-ten, and perhaps he would physically aid Aemond.

There was the option of a Reachman. The Tyrells and Hightowers were presumably no longer at each other’s throats, provided enough time had passed to no longer view House Tyrell as upstarts. The Florents, her mother's kin, were an option, yet every Florent Alicent had known was crafty as a fox and equally untrustworthy. Floris the Fox had quite the influence. The Peakes were not an option. Unwin Peake's name appeared time and time again. He was, more often than not, associated with Jaehaera's death. A part of her knew it was unfair to judge an entire house based on the actions of one man, but on this matter, she would not be swayed. Surely, Baelor would understand. From what she knew of him, he most likely would not consider a Peake for the same reason. 

Ser Donnel of Duskdale trailed her and her children as they walked to the tapestries. He kept a keen eye on Aemond, who clutched Alicent's arm. He tugged at her sleeve and pointed, "Mother, I wish to see that one." 

Alicent turned to where he pointed. The woman sat proudly atop her dragon, a sword hanging from her hip, her braids woven into an intricate hairstyle - the same hairstyle that Alicent once did for Rhaenyra, before everything. Visenya atop Vhagar. No wonder Aemond wished to see it. She walked forward. Aemond - perhaps sensing he would know what the tapestry displayed when he could see it clearly - asked, "May I see her alone, Mother?" His eye glinted. With hope or sorrow, she couldn't tell. 

He had already lost so much. "Ser Donnel?" 

"My lady?" 

"Will you escort Aemond to the tapestry?" 

Ser Donnel nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. He held out his arm. "My prince." 

Aegon studied a magnificent tapestry in the center. A woman with dark, curling locks and skin the color of burnished terracotta stared off into the distance, her amber eyes caught by something unseen. Flames smoked and rose above her body, enveloping everything they touched. The sea splashed behind her, foaming, snarling, hungry for whatever fire devoured. Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. 

Helaena and Daeron stood together, examining a tapestry of a hollowed man. His beard ran to his waist. A crown of flowers rested atop his head. In his hand, he held the Seven-Pointed Star. Baelor the Blessed. The same man Baelor was named after, though her husband-to-be lacked such intense piety. All of Oldtown lacked in piety compared to him.

Alicent let herself wander, taking in rich reds and oranges, soft blues and greens, observing everything and nothing at all, until the portrait caught her eye. A younger Baelor stood next to a woman. She immediately recognized her as his late wife, Jena Dondarrian.

Alicent had heard whispers of her, but never an outright description, beyond the similarities of their hair. Her hair had a ginger undertone, unlike Alicent's darker red. Her heart-shaped face smiled. The freckles on her cheeks and nose were the same color as her hair. Her blue eyes, deep as the sea, glowed merrily. Baelor's fond expression went unnoticed as she studied the babe in her arms, his face obscured. They looked every bit the happy family. 

"My prince," Duskendale said, cutting Alicent's thoughts to halt. There was a hint of warning in his voice. "Your father will be displeased." 

"Let me deal with my father, Duskendale," the man said. He lounged against a wall, lazy as a cat toying with a mouse. His hair was short, sheared at the edges, and his lidded lilac eyes took in the sights disdainfully. "I wish to become acquainted with my new family."

His bow mocked. "Lady Alicent, I am Aerion, son of Maekar."  

Aerion, Aeg's brother, who threw Vhagar down a well. Aerion, Maekar's favorite. 

"Well met, my prince," Alicent said. She did not curtsy as protocol demanded, and Aerion's lips curved upwards at the corners. She had been caught. 

"Your father's a right cunt," Aegon said. 

"Aegon!" Alicent turned to him, then back to Aerion. Helaena covered Daeron's ears. Through gritted teeth, she uttered, "My prince, I must apologize for my son's behavior. I know not what has gotten into him as of late." 

Aerion let out a booming laugh. The facsimile of merriment crossed his face. His eyes were cold. "No need to apologize, my lady. My father did insult you most egregiously." He turned to face Aegon, "You must be Aegon, second of his name." 

"I am."

"I expected you to be taller. Most of your paintings depicted you as quite tall, with a gut to match." 

Aegon flushed. He crossed his hands over his stomach. Aerion noticed the action. A certain, vivacious glee emanated from him; he had gotten under Aegon's skin. "Worry not, Aegon. My brother has a problem with wine as well." 

Indignant, Aegon shot back, "At least I haven't vomited in the Great Hall." 

"Not yet, you haven't." 

Alicent forced herself to remain calm. Any reaction would only goad him further. "My prince, do you wish to discuss something?" 

"I do, my lady." He walked to Jena Dondarrian's portrait, his eyebrow quirked. He intended to make her follow.

Seething, Alicent did. 

"This was painted after Uncle defeated Daemon Blackfyre. You know the story of the Hammer and the Anvil, I assume." 

"I do." 

"There were also rumors that my uncle expressed similar domestic prowess. You know the song, don't you?" 

"My prince, what is your point?" 

Aerion shifted closer. "Before the Doom, red-haired women were thought to bring luck. Kissed by the same fire that powered the might of Valyria. If one took maidenhood during the Bloodmoon and cut a lock of her hair, his magic could have such power and such reach beyond imagination. Every sorcerer would be envious.” His hand reached out, as if to touch her. Alicent could not restrain her flinch. 

Something covetous entered his eyes, a gleaming want that set Alicent’s teeth on edge. She pondered how many red-haired women had been slain and sacrificed by the Freehold. “I wonder how much luck you’ll bring us, my lady.” His gaze drifted towards Helaena. “I must admit, silver is equally appealing.”

Alicent’s blood ran cold. Aerion turned back to her. “Worry not, Aunt. I have no taste for children.” His eyes ran up and down the length of her body. She fought the urge to cover herself. “Why would I when there are more … exotic platters to sample?”

He’s mad, she thought. “You find me exotic? My family has been on these shores since Valyria consisted of sheep herders and will be here long after you leave. If anyone is exotic, nephew, it is you.”

Strangely, he was unbothered by the insinuation. A queer, small smile spread across his face. “You are a challenge.”

Alicent straightened her shoulders, putting every ounce of queenly steel into her voice and posture. "You speak of me as though I'm part of some game." 

His head tilted to the side. From this angle, he looked like a cat peering down at a mouse. "Everyone is part of the game, Lady Alicent. I intend to win it."  Then, he dipped his head in farewell, intent on having the last word. “Goodbye, Aunt. I’ll see you at the wedding.”

Once he had left, Alicent exhaled. She grabbed Helaena’s wrist. “You are not to be alone with Aerion.”

“Mother,” Helaena protested, tugging it away.

“If he comes to you, if he so much as breathes in your direction, you must tell me." 

"What were you two whispering about?" 

"Nothing," Alicent said. Her heart pounded.

She was suddenly, viciously grateful that she was not marrying Maekar.

"It was nothing at all." Judging by the look Helaena gave her, she did not believe that for an instant. Neither did Alicent. She thought of Viserys, of how he would summon her, of how she grew to flinch at the sound of his voice. Unsettled, she said, "We're going back to the Holdfast." Aegon did not protest; he knew better than to argue. 

Alicent wondered if Rose had thrown out her hot bath water. She needed to scrub herself clean and wash away Aerion's gaze. She thought of an egg, cracking and shifting under the heat. What a useless thought. Heat would do nothing. All the dragon eggs had turned to stone. 

v.

The red dress, or the purple? Her frazzled reflection stared back at her from the mirror, and Alicent caught sight of her bloodied cuticles. “You mustn’t pick,” her septa had said, her disapproval clear. “You are to be Queen. Every habit will be scrutinized. You must smile, you must nod, and above all, don’t show your nervousness.”

Alicent was nervous. All her queenly methods of suppressing emotion fled her body, as she paced and paced. Aegon fought with more hostility than normal, resisting his bath like a boy of five. He opted to wear black velvet, without trims and furnishings. “Consider it beneficial that I show up to this dinner at all,” he challenged. Alicent acquiesced, guilt coursing through her at his lingering words: Why should I? It’s not as if you care.

Daeron and Aemond were easier to handle, thank the gods. Daeron settled on a doublet of black and red, and Aemond, rich blue velvet and leather boots, with a golden buckle. Helaena wore an orange silk dress, inlaid with red stripes. It hid much of her shoulders and collarbone, and Alicent wondered if it would need to be taken out to accommodate her shape as she grew. One-and-ten, not yet a woman, she told herself. She’s still a child.

You were four-and-ten when you were wedded and bedded, a small voice said. Alicent ignored it.

The red dress was tighter than she expected. Jeyne Uller’s saucy smile replayed in her mind’s eye, glinting with satisfaction. She thought of her father. The same glint had been present, despite his gentle tone: Mayhaps you might wear one of your mother’s dresses. She had been a girl, playing at being a woman. Now, Alicent felt she was an old woman, playing at being a girl. Red was inappropriate. She would wear something else.

Her hair shone like burnished copper and reddish gold. Rose’s gentle fingers and oil had tamed the curls into sleek, defined ringlets. Alicent looked at her reflection; the carmine dress draped over her body, and squared her shoulders. Her breasts were still full, albeit small. Her waist was still thin. You will please him if you wear this.

“My lady,” called Rose. “Are you ready?”

She had no jewelry. Alicent slipped on her shoes, ensuring that the hemline hid any wine stains.  

“You look beautiful, my lady.”

“Thank you, Rose.”

Aemond’s eye widened. “You look beautiful, Mother.” Helaena and Daeron echoed the sentiment. Aegon said nothing. Alicent tried not to feel hurt by his lack of response and set out for the Tower of the Hand, her children following behind.

Valarr watched as his father paced. He donned Baelor Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne, Prince of Dragonstone, impassive and immovable, save for the brief, nervous twitches of his fingers. He wore black velvet embroidered with scarlet thread, the three heads of the dragon standing out proud against the dark backdrop. He straightened, looking at Matarys, then Valarr, a silent proclamation: don’t you dare do anything uncouth.  

Valarr tampered down a flicker of irritation. Matarys deserved such sentiments more than he. For all his brother’s squalling about being a second son, he experienced a certain amount of freedom Valarr lacked.

A servant knocked on the door. Father startled. He inhaled deeply.

“My prince, Lady Alicent and her children have arrived.”

“Let them in,” Father said.

Alicent Hightower entered, the hem of her dress rustling across stone. Her eyes, brown and round like a doe’s, lowered as she curtsied. Auburn curls spilled down her shoulders, so similar to Matarys’, to his mother’s. His breath caught, and for a split second, Jena Dondarrian stared out of her face. She vanished as quickly as she came.

Matarys stared, his mouth agog. Valarr elbowed him. “Do not,” he hissed under his breath, “make any comments.”

“Gods above,” Matarys whispered, sounding dazed. “I now see why Lyenol Hightower was so enamored with Lady Sam.”

Valarr gave his foot a quick stomp, relishing in his hissed, “fuck,” disguised as a cough. Father eyed them both. “You best be jesting.” Had he been alone, Matarys would have also received a slap upside the head.

“It’s a jest,” Matarys muttered. “It’s only a jest.”

“Good.”

Aegon, second of his name, scowled. It gave his face a sour, rat-like appearance. He was a boy of ten-and-three, not a vengeful king of four-and-twenty, and Valarr gave him a nod. He rolled his eyes. Helaena, unlike her brother, smiled beatifically, her apple-like cheeks scrunching up. Aemond ‘One-Eye’s eyepatch covered half of his face, but what remained uncovered glared out at him. Daeron gave a bow, tripping over his feet, ready to fall until Alicent grabbed his hand. She curtsied again, this time directed towards Father.

“Lady Alicent. These are my sons, Valarr and Matarys.” Father’s voice, rich with pride, broke the silence like stones rippling through a river.

“A pleasure,” she responded, softly. “I assume you already know my children.”

“Yes,” Valarr said.

“Please, my lady,” Father said, pulling out her chair. “Sit.”

Alicent sat between her husband-to-be and her son. She glanced at Valarr, who took after his father. Matarys, his mother, the late Jena Dondarrian. Did he see his mother when he saw her? Gooseflesh pebbled her arms.  

Baelor gestured with two fingers. Was he monitoring for her to come closer? No, that wasn't it. Servants brought forth food.

Crusted lamb shank, shining from a honey glaze, greeted her first. Charred fish - halibut, judging by the white, creamy flesh – was packed with herbs and slathered with butter and lemon. A whole chicken rested atop fried dragon peppers, which crackled with little pops. Pitchers of steaming hot wine and chilled Arbor Gold sat to the side. Golden-brown loaves of bread rested next to each dish, along with a little bowl of olive oil and salt. The oil shone a deep green, smelling of herbs, bright and fresh. A small pitcher of iced milk, sweetened with honey, sat before Matarys’, across from Daeron. In the center lay another chicken, the meat a peculiar shade of yellow.

Baelor gestured again. Four black silk boxes with velvet trim were placed in front of her children, each one embroidered with their name in red thread. “Here,” he said. “I know this is not the same thing as having your dragons, but I hope you feel that you can keep a piece of them close to your heart.” Alicent watched as Helaena, Daeron, and Aemond reached for their boxes, and as Aegon eyed his. His fingers reached out hesitantly, as though he expected it to disappear into thin air.

He opened it. Atop red velvet rested a locket upon a golden chain; its matching golden outside gleamed. Inside hid the real treasure. A small portrait of Sunfyre, his wings outstretched, greeted him. Even his scales were intricately detailed and shaded. Aegon let out a forlorn sound, muffled by his hand. Alicent thought it might have been a sob.

She heard Aemond and Daeron gasp. Helaena said nothing, even as her eyes filled with tears.  

Ashamed, Alicent said, “My prince, I did not know you intended to exchange gifts. I would have bought a gift for you and yours.”

“I wanted to do this for you, my lady. It did not take long to paint. I only hope their likeliness is well depicted.”

“It’s perfect,” Aegon murmured. It was the first courtesy he extended to Baelor. Alicent saw Baelor blink, a glimpse of surprise crossing his face.  

“You painted them?” asked Aemond. His voice came out thick. 

“I did. Do you find Vhagar acceptable?”

Aemond nodded in response.

“I have one more gift for you, Aemond. Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, I will give you yours at the wedding.”

Curious, Aemond peered at him. He pulled out a slim book, clad in black leather, threaded with twine. Symeon Star-Eyes, the title read, in silver-threaded lettering. “Have you heard of Symeon Star-Eyes, Aemond?”

“No,” her son said.

Baelor gave him a small smile. “It’s an old legend, from the Age of Heroes. Symeon, a gallant knight, lost both his eyes during battle. He replaced them with sapphires and continued to fight for justice. His blindness did not impact him. Rumor has it that Symeon fought better with his sapphire eyes, which allowed him to see beyond and sense when an enemy was about to strike his blow. If you wish, I will read it to you.”

Aemond regarded his book, then took it, tucking it into his lap beneath his napkin. “Thank you, Prince Baelor.”

He was so good with him, she realized. Alicent blinked away water at the corner of her eyes, her heart aching.

Valarr gave her a look. He had the same two colored eyes and weighted gaze as his father. Alicent flushed. She had been caught staring.

"My prince, you honor us with your generosity." 

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "I wanted to do it for you and yours. It was no hardship." 

Her heart pounded. I wanted to do it for you, he said, as though it was that simple. As though she were a mere woman, and he a man. 

"Thank you," she said, surprised by the fervor in her voice. Her children followed, a low murmur of "Thank you, Prince Baelor."

His head dipped in acknowledgement. “My lady, your plate.”

Protocol dictated that those of the highest rank were served first. Did he intend to serve her? "My prince -" Alicent started. 

"I insist." Baelor put a leg of chicken atop her plate. The meat was yellowed from saffron – a million little red threads - the golden-brown crust flecked with black pepper and garlic. The sauce, heavy with olive oil, pooled into a pile of honey-roasted parsnips and carrots. A corner of crusty bread tantalized invitingly. “You must forgive me, Lady Alicent. I asked the cooks to make it less spiced, yet if it is not to your taste, there is pigeon pie in the kitchen. You only need to say the word.”

She envisioned tender, stewed pigeon and pearl onions, dripping with gravy, encased in a golden, flaky crust. Alicent took a sip of her wine. Dornish red, flavored with cinnamon and cloves and honey, served piping hot, burned pleasantly as she swallowed. Her mouth watered. How best to eat that much food? There was no need to be so gluttonous, but a larger part of her starved.  

His gaze dropped to her hands. Alicent fought the urge to squirm beneath it. “Were we in Dorne, you would use your hands to eat.”

Baelor’s hands - the same pair that had painted such lovely portraits for her children, because he wished to make them content - tore a piece of bread, his fingers tearing meat off the bone. He used the bread to soak up the sauce, then grabbed a parsnip. “Here,” he said, holding it to her mouth. “Eat.”

“My prince?”

“Eat,” he murmured. A terrible gentleness entered his eyes. In the Reach, handfeeding occurred at a wedding, signifying that a husband and wife chose to feed and care for one another. Alicent thought of pomegranates, of how she had envisioned her husband would feed her the seeds to improve her fertility and bind them together. In Dorne, such customs were undoubtedly different.

She ignored a flicker of disappointment, feeling altogether too old for wishing. Out of the corner of her eye, a strange expression crossed Matarys’ face. Alicent took a bite; her teeth nipped Baelor’s fingers. Flavor exploded on her tongue. She could not stop a moan from escaping her mouth.

“Good?”

“Very.” The sweetness of the parsnip and the spice of the chicken married beautifully. She was half-tempted to tear into the rest of her plate, manners be damned. Would Baelor feed her another bite from his hand? An unfamiliar warmth simmered, pooling between her legs.

She took another sip of wine, more akin to a gulp. Master yourself, she scolded. Such wantonness is unbecoming in a woman of your standing. 

Baelor cleared his throat, then clapped his hands together. “Eat.”

Valarr and Matarys descended upon the food, each grabbing a lamb shank. Valarr piled his high with spoonfuls of fried peppers. “Princess,” he said, noticing Helaena’s indecisiveness, “do you wish to try the lamb first, or the chicken? Or both?”

“Both,” said Helaena.

“Mother,” asked Daeron, “can we eat with our hands?” Four pairs of eyes turned her way. Daeron seemed the most enthused by the prospect. Aemond perked up, relieved at not having to deal with a fork and knife. Just for tonight, thought Alicent.

“You may,” she relented, “but you must wash them once you are done, and you will not get food all over the table.”

Daeron let out a little cheer.

Valarr handed Helaena her plate. Alicent noted he took care to add a single pepper.  

“Darling, why don’t you try the lamb?”

Helaena bit into the pepper, her hands rendered greasy with oil, the skin and flesh breaking between her teeth. It crunched.

“Helaena!”

“Get her the milk,” Baelor instructed his eldest.

Somehow, Helaena’s face did not turn red, nor did she cough. She chewed and swallowed, and said, “I would like another one, Prince Valarr.”

“Eat your lamb and chicken,” said Baelor, “and Valarr will give you another pepper. Too many can upset your stomach. I speak from experience.”

At Alicent’s questioning look, he explained, a wry grin tugging at his lips, “Maekar and I, when I was Valarr’s age and he Matarys', decided to prove ourselves and eat as many dragon peppers as we could. We were in Sunspear to visit Aunt Daenerys and Uncle Maron. There were so many dragon peppers that the branches threatened to break under their weight. We picked them; he ate ten, I ate fifteen. My mother was furious when we came to her, complaining of a burst belly and a burnt tongue. We ate bread to calm our stomachs, but it did little good. My aunt and uncle came to find Maekar, and I curled up on the floor, sweating like hogs. I stood to greet them, and before I could say a single word, I vomited in front of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”

Alicent gasped, “No.” She thought of Maekar’s son, Daeron. The image of Baelor, committing the same action, was inconceivable with the man sitting beside her. “What did she say?”

“She thought we were drunk. Uncle Maron was laughing too hard to say anything. He called it a Dornish rite of passage and reminded my mother that they had done the same thing.”

“Your mother must have been pleased by that reminder.”

“She gave him a lashing so thorough that my uncle remembers it to this day.” His voice rose in pitch, mimicking Myriah Martell, “You need not remind me of such behavior. If you recall, Maron, I warned you against it, but you insisted, and spent the next week on the chamber pot in agony. The attempts upon your life due to your own stupidity have not succeeded, proving divine intervention may be true. For the sake of your wife, I hope this is the case.”

Alicent pictured it. Baelor hunched over, Maekar squirming on the floor in agony, Myriah Martell yelling at her brother, Daenerys' wide-eyed stare. The absurdity of the scene caused her to let out a snorting, unbecoming laugh. She had not laughed like that for years.

Baelor stared at her. Her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut, as she laughed, the sound at odds with her dignified appearance.

“What?” she asked, once she had recovered. Her eyes were warm, sparkling with mirth.

“I’ve never heard you laugh before." 

Valarr’s lips twitched to suppress his own laughter. Matarys raised an eyebrow. Shock crossed Aegon’s face. He evidently witnessed an aspect of his mother that was unknown to him. Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron regarded her, too, their eyes (in Aemond's case, eye) wide.

He wanted to hear it again.

Another image conjured in his mind’s eye, her eyes fluttering shut, her lips nipping her fingers, a moan leaving her throat, before they opened, deep, brown pools that one could dive into. Baelor thought of how the pulse in Alicent’s throat jumped as he pushed a curl behind her ear. He thought of how she would react if he were to embrace her, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. How the scent of jasmine and citrus would envelope his senses. How she might melt in his arms, or melt beneath him, and cry out his name.

Your children are here, he chastised, pinching his thigh. Her children are here. Get a hold of yourself. 

"Aemond," he asked, desperate to redirect their attention, "how is the fish?" 

"It's very good, Prince Baelor," said Aemond, primly. He had picked out the bones, setting them aside in a neat little pile. 

"Good." He gulped wine, the heat burning his tongue. The pain served as a welcome distraction. He turned to Aegon, who picked at his chicken. His plate was still full. "Aegon, do you wish for pigeon pie?" 

"I'm not very hungry." 

"You must eat," Alicent said. She reached out to stroke his hair. Aegon jerked away from her touch. "At least have some bread."

"Yes, mother." He broke off a piece of bread, full of fennel seed. "Do you have honey?" 

Matarys passed the honey pot resting next to the iced milk.  Aegon broke off a piece of the comb and let it drip onto the bread, watching as the viscous, amber liquid spilled over his fingers. He took a bite. A delicate peace between mother, future stepfather, and son existed, stretching, not yet breaking, until Matarys voiced the question he had been thinking of all night.

"What was it like to have a dragon?" 

Baelor fought the urge to rest his head in his hands. Aegon and Aemond went silent. Helaena, who tended to be quieter than her siblings, said nothing at all. Even little Daeron, who had smiled so freely, looked down at his plate. “Matarys, why would you say such a thing?”

He fidgeted, a dark blush spreading across his face until it turned as red as his hair.  

“I only thought –" Matarys shrank beneath Baelor’s glare. “It’s only – I was curious, Father,” he finished lamely.

“You were curious,” Baelor repeated. “Tell me: what other invasive questions do you intend to ask out of curiosity?”

“Father –"

“No, go on, we’re all waiting.”

His son flushed further. “I meant no harm. I swear it.”

“One does not need to mean harm to do it. Apologize.”

"Father -" 

“Having a dragon is the purest, sweetest freedom,” Aegon suddenly said, sounding very far away. “I didn’t need to worry about courtly intrigue, or my lessons, or anything at all, but the wind in my air and Sunfyre beneath me. I felt him along the edges of my mind. He would reassure me. He would be there for me. Always.”

He looked at Matarys, his eyes hardening. “It feels like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. I dream of him every night. I wake up, and then, I realize he’s not here.” His voice cracked, and Baelor was acutely reminded, for all his posturing, that Aegon was still a boy of ten-and-three. “I loved him more than anything in the world. You have no idea what that’s like.”

Silence descended. “Aegon,” Alicent murmured. Her hands reached out to smooth his hair before she thought better of it and rested them in her lap.

“Forgive me, Mother. I appear to have brought our merry dinner to a standstill.”

“I’m sorry,” Matarys whispered. Baelor would need to address him later, alone. His head pounded fiercely at his temples. He took another sip of wine to dull the ache.

“It’s not as if you’re not the one who brought us here,” Aegon muttered. He reached for his Arbor Gold, lifted it, and drank, a private toast for Sunfyre.

Alicent pushed around the food on her plate. Aegon did not look at her, preferring to stare into his cup. She swallowed a hint of frustration. Matarys had already been scolded by his father; he did not need her to scold him as well. She was not yet his stepmother.

Hunger gnawed at her. She took another sip of wine, spearing a parsnip onto her fork, and held it to her mouth. “Eat,” Baelor had said. Some men liked gluttonous women, but he was likely not one of them. She decided to finish the parsnips and carrots, and leave the rest of her chicken untouched.

“Do you wish for pigeon pie?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Alicent said. He gestured again. She bit back a sigh.

“Do you not like it?”

“No, it’s just – this is entirely too much, my prince.”

His brow furrowed. “Too much?”

“I appreciate your kindness, truly, but there was no need for you to do all of this.”

He took her hand. Alicent felt Aegon’s eyes on them both.

The intensity of his gaze surprised her. “My lady, I want to do this. I wish for you and your children to be content.”

“But –“

“But what?” he asked.

Why must you be so kind? There is no need for us to continue this charade. This is a union of politics. I wish for you to be kind to my children, but why are you kind to me?

The pigeon pie was every bit as she imagined: a tower of flaky, buttery golden crust encasing a pigeon stew filling. It smelled utterly appetizing. Her stomach growled.

Servants brought out a pile of orange honey cakes, stuffed with honeyed walnuts, ground into a fine paste, and pomegranate jam. Daeron reached for one. Helaena followed, handing Aemond a cake. Aegon continued to eat his bread and honey. Beside them, rested another pile of sweets Alicent didn’t recognize. Filo dough wrapped whatever was inside, and she saw Matarys light up with delight. Valarr’s eyes brightened as well, contrasting with his reserved expression.

Baelor, noticing her hesitation, cut into the pigeon pie, putting a piece on her plate. The filling contained almonds and apples, peppered through pieces of pigeon and pearl onions. “Eat,” he said.

Alicent took a bite. An involuntary sound of pleasure left her mouth. It tasted better than she had envisioned. Tender, almost buttery pigeon contrasting with toasted almonds, sweet apple and onion, a hint of fresh black pepper, the flaky crust - she took another, and another, unable to satiate her appetite. Her parsnips and carrots disappeared. The leg of chicken invited another bite.

Baelor watched her. “Is it good, my lady?”

 “Yes, my prince.” She looked up. His fingers itched to wipe away a smear of wine at the corner of her mouth. It had left her lips red, giving her the appearance that she had just been kissed. The look suited her.

Matarys’ previous embarrassment had fled. Baelor watched his son chat merrily with little Daeron, nodding along as the boy babbled. Aemond had gotten involved in their conversation, interjecting as he saw fit. He was of age to squire, as was Aegon. Yet another thing to be discussed after they were wed.

But who would take on a one-eyed squire? There was Ser Robyn Rhysling, who had lost his eye in a joust against Leo Tyrell two years ago. He was mad, to be sure, but perhaps he had some wisdom that he could impart. And Aegon, whose fingers shook whenever he went too long without wine, would need to be cured of the habit before he could handle steel.

Valarr passed him the pile of shaybaya. Baelor tore into the filo dough, exposing the pistachio and sweetened cheese center, avoiding his eldest’s pensive gaze.

“What is that?” asked Helaena.

“Shaybaya,” said Valarr. “It hails from Essos. Nymeria brought it from Rhoyne to our shores. Do you wish to try one?”

Helaena grabbed one and bit down. “It’s good,” she said, surprised.

Valarr turned to her, “Lady Alicent, do you wish to try one?”

“I couldn’t.” She had eaten too much. Alicent thought of her new dresses and how she would not be able to wear them if she continued to eat in such a fashion.

“Father,” Matarys said, from across the table, “why not give Lady Alicent some of yours? You still have half left.”

Baelor’s lips twitched. “So I do. Do you want it, my lady?”

“I shouldn’t,” Alicent said, knowing she was about to lose a battle.

He held the remaining shaybaya in his hand. “A bite,” he coaxed.

“Just one.”

Damn him, she thought, with little heat. It was good. One bite would suffice. It had to.

Alicent finished her wine. The drink and rich food sat heavily. Baelor had certainly fulfilled his goal of getting her to eat. Ruefully, she wondered if he found her lacking. Maybe he preferred his women to be thicker in the chest. Knowing her, everything she ate would go to her waist and thighs.  

To her left, Aegon finished a honey cake. At least he’s eating something, she thought. He would need to eat more at breakfast tomorrow. She would break her fast with a cup of light broth, which would hopefully settle her stomach.

Once the chatter had died down, Aemond started to nod off. His face scrunched in pain, making him appear even more disinterested in the goings-on than Aegon. He had overextended himself. Daeron’s cheeks were reddened from exhaustion. Helaena’s eyes fluttered shut, her responses coming out slower. Even Aegon fought off a yawn.

Baelor cleared his throat. “Valarr, Matarys, please escort the princes and the princess to the Holdfast. I must converse with Lady Alicent in private.”

Valarr and Matarys exchanged a look. Aegon held Daeron’s hand, and Alicent watched as Matarys rested a hand on Aemond’s arm to guide him down the stairs. Valarr stood next to Helaena but did not touch her. Did Baelor tell him about her aversion?

Among her children, Daeron and Helaena had adjusted the quickest, yet that did not mean they were happy. She had been so worried about Aegon and Aemond. Seven knew she had not been the best mother to any of her children, no matter how hard she tried. All of a sudden, Alicent felt very young and out of her depth. She recalled how her stomach had dropped to the bottom of her feet when Maester Mellos had taken her hand and told her she was with child. It had been her five-and-tenth nameday. “Do you wish for me to tell the King this joyous news?”

“No,” Alicent had said. “I will tell him myself. I bid you a good day.” She left, breaking into a run to her chambers, uncaring of who saw her. Let them see, she thought. I am Queen. No one would dare rebuke me. That thought did not provide any comfort. Upon cloistering herself in a pile of blankets, she had cried, her tears soaking the fabric until it was too damp to wipe them away.

An old memory from a lifetime ago. There was no use revisiting it now. Still, her heart clenched with unexpected and unwanted pain.

Alicent thought of Baelor’s children. Valarr appeared kind, if somewhat distant, and Matarys, despite his apparent tendency to blurt out whatever came to mind, had engaged with Daeron and Aemond in conversation. They would not view her as a mother, but she resolved to get to know them better and treat them courteously.

Baelor held out a cup of water. “The Dornish vintage can be quite strong, Lady Alicent. I would recommend drinking water, if only to settle your stomach.”

Alicent took it and sipped.

He appeared weary. “I must apologize for Matarys. I told him not to pester.” His jaw clenched and unclenched in frustration.

“He only asked what everyone else was thinking,” Alicent said. “I must admit that his comment was unseemly, yet I cannot blame him for asking. Pray tell, my prince, have you not wondered the same thing?”

Baelor went silent then. Had she pushed him too far?

There was something wistful in his tone when he spoke. “I dreamt of a dragon once, as Aegon described it. To have such a dream was enough.” Underneath, Alicent thought she detected a note of melancholy. Jena Dondarrion’s blue eyes haunted her. Perhaps, she was doomed to be another replacement. 

I do not need him to love me, she told herself. The statement's reality did not remove its cold sting. 

"I intend to speak to him. Rest assured, my lady, Matarys won’t behave that way at the wedding. He is five-and-ten, almost a man grown.”

Five-and-ten, the same age Alicent had been when she gave birth to Aegon. From across the table, Matarys looked quite young. Baby fat still clung to his cheeks. Everyone knew that a highborn girl, or woman-child, grew to maturity more quickly than her brothers. At the time, Alicent had felt quite grown up. She had her first moonblood in the spring and married half a year later. Now, she thought of Matarys’ childish antics, and wondered if she had been similar.

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” she asked.

 His answer surprised her. “I wish to make you comfortable. Our wedding is in a fortnight. I do not intend to pressure you into faking contentment.”

“My prince?”

He sighed. “Lady Alicent, I know much rests upon you – this marriage is but one of many things to cause you worry. Children are easier to appease. I find that gifts often smooth over any rough patches.”

Alicent blinked. “Are you discussing a wedding gift?”

“Do you want a wedding gift, my lady?”

“No,” she said. She met his eyes then, startled by how intently he looked at her, as though her answer hinged upon everything. “I don’t need one.”

“Then, what is it you need?”

Alicent exhaled. “I need for my children to be safe, my prince. That is what I need from you.”

“Nothing else?” That terrible gentleness appeared in his eyes again. 

Alicent swallowed.

“Nothing for me.” She could have sworn a flicker of disappointment clouded his face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“Consider it done, my lady.”

“Thank you, my prince.”

He was closer now, the scent of cedar lingering between them.  “You needn’t call my prince when it’s only us. We are to be married. I wish for you to call me by my name.”

Alicent tested his name on her tongue. “Baelor.”

“May I call you Alicent?”

“You may.”

He leant forward. “Don’t be alarmed, Alicent. You have a bit of wine, right here.” His thumb rested at the corner of her mouth. Ever so carefully, he brushed it back and forth. Then, as though he was shocked by his audacity, Baelor dragged it to the middle of her parted lips.

Without breaking eye contact, Alicent pressed a kiss to the side of his thumb and slowly, gently took it into her mouth.

Baelor’s eyes darkened. Heat built in her stomach. He tasted of salt, and wine, and spice. She wondered if he tasted the same everywhere.

His voice came out as a low rasp. “Alicent.” He looked as though he wished to kiss her. Alicent thought she would let him.

“Father?”

They jumped apart.

Shame flooded her. The all-knowing eyes of the Mother and Crone watched her from above, judgmental in their silence. She would pray tomorrow to rid herself of any wanton behavior.

“I –"

“You –"

“Go,” Baelor murmured, voice roughened, thick with unidentifiable emotion. “I will see you on the morrow, Lady Alicent.”

Struck by his change in demeanor, Alicent plastered on a tight, fixed smile. “As you wish, Prince Baelor.” 

Valarr stood outside the doorway. Had he seen them? She fought a flush of humiliation from blooming across her face. "Goodnight, Valarr." 

He nodded, eyeing her curiously, but said nothing. 

Her children were asleep when Alicent entered the Holdfast's chambers. She regarded them for a long while, noting each hitch of breath, sleepy murmur, and toss and turn. Did Baelor do this with his children? Would he do this with any future children of theirs?

Alicent pushed the thought away. She climbed into bed. It was dark and cold, and as she slept, she dreamt of his hands touching her as delicately as they had her feet.