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Helaena was crying, as she so often did. She shied away from any attempts at a soothing touch whether it came from the wet nurse or Alicent’s own hands, and it made something unpleasant curdle in Alicent’s belly. As a child, her mother had so easily wiped away her tears. Alicent did not understand why she could not do the same with her own daughter, why Alicent could not provide the same comfort that her mother had been to her. It had seemed so effortless. Natural.

“Hush, love,” Alicent whispered, and hated how her ears mistook it for begging. She tried stroking her fingers through Helaena’s silver hair, but it was no help; her daughter continued to wail, and her husband continued to ignore them.

Viserys stood a ways off, laughing into his cups with Lord Beesbury, occasionally cutting a glance towards Alicent and their weeping daughter. She was disturbing the festivities, and Alicent could tell by the stiff set to his shoulders that her husband’s patience was wearing thin.

“Bring her back when she settles,” Alicent sighed, admitting defeat. “There must be too much noise for her to handle, she’s always been sensitive.” She tipped forward to try and kiss Helaena’s cheek only for her to jerk away from the touch, much preferring to pound her tiny fists against Shana’s chest. Alicent’s heart tore itself in two at the sight of it.

Shana gave her a weary smile, sweeping the princess off into the swelling crowd of courtiers and leaving Alicent with one prince clinging to her skirts and another on her hip and a third that was stretching her to bursting.

“Shall I take the princes so that you may enjoy the feast, Your Grace?” Celesse asked softly.

Alicent tightened her grip on Aemond, free hand dropping to rest on Aegon’s silvery head. This banquet was meant to be celebrating her after all, or at least her marriage. “I suppose,” she relented, after deliberating for far longer than she likely should have. “I believe my husband will be wanting to deliver his speech soon.”

Aegon allowed himself to be led away by a nursemaid with only minor protests, but Aemond was wroth to be parted from her. He buried his face into the crook of her neck and began to thrash, kicking her hard in the belly.

She scarcely managed to smother her relief when Celesse finally managed to peel him from her arms, taking him to sit with his brother at the long table. Alicent smoothed out the wrinkled panels of her gown, a deep green silk embroidered with fine Myrish lace, commissioned by artisans from across the Narrow Sea specifically for the occasion. Alicent’s fingers floated to the small seven-pointed star that hung around her neck, ghosting across the golden pendant as she muttered a quick prayer for courage.

Beside his brother, Aemond’s fit had dissolved into quiet whimpering, but Alicent refused to bow. The nursemaids would calm him better than she could, they proved as much time and again. Alicent picked up her skirts and crossed the dais to join her husband.

“Lord Beesbury, I hope you are enjoying yourself.” Alicent extended an expectant hand.

“Your Grace, you are radiant.” Lord Beesbury kissed her ring and then pressed his forehead to her knuckles. “Congratulations,” he said once she had reclaimed her hand. “To you both,” he added, inclining his head to her husband. “Five years, has it really been that long already?”

Viserys chuckled. “If I close my eyes, I fear that when I open them Aegon will be a man grown.” Alicent came up beside him, and Viserys shifted his cane to offer her his arm. She took it with a gracious smile. This was easier. Unlike children, her husband was actually capable of reason.

“And with children of his own, at that. I’m certain the Mother will bless him just as she has blessed you both,” Lord Beesbury said. He dipped his chin to Alicent. “I am glad to see this child is proving less difficult than Prince Aemond. I hope your pregnancy continues to be easy.”

Alicent rested a hand on the swell of her stomach and refused to let her smile slip. There was no such thing as easy when it came to childing. Everything ached, even her very skin would not stop burning as it stretched further and further to fit the growing babe. It was fast becoming inescapable; it was in every nook and cranny of her body, pressing into her spine and so far up into her ribcage that she sometimes wondered if the child would tear free her heart.

Five years, Alicent thought wearily. Five years, and almost four children.

A blessing from the Mother, indeed. Would this be her last, or were there more yet to come? Would she survive the birth of this child, only for the Stranger to come for her with the next? Queen Aemma used to say that men went to war and women to the childbed, but that both were a battle. Alicent dared not forget that the queen had lost that battle in the end.

She prayed. She dedicated herself to her husband, and to her children. The gods protected their chosen faithful, did they not? Surely that is why she had three healthy children and was able to return to her husband’s bed so soon after.

“It will be another boy,” Viserys said, bringing Alicent back to her body. “I’m certain of it.”

“Yes,” Alicent agreed, though neither really seemed to be listening to her. She quietly followed their conversation for a few moments longer before allowing herself to gaze out into the rest of the Great Hall, absently tracing back and forth across her stomach.

The hall was not yet full, with yet more and more of the court trickling in. The herald announced each lord and lady in all their finery, and the trickle of arriving courtiers had begun to crest into a wave. Alicent watched them drift around the room like jeweled beetles, exchanging their pleasantries and making their thinly veiled threats. She looked for Larys Strong, but did not see any sign of him. At least she was not entirely alone with Ser Criston standing sentinel nearby, preventing anyone undesirable from coming too close to the royal family.

“I think that boy from the Reach is the one to watch tomorrow,” Viserys said. “He’s green, to be sure, but he’s quite fierce.”

“Against any of the men here? Forgive me my doubts,” Lord Beesbury replied with a small laugh.

A booming voice cut across their conversation. “Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon!” the herald cried, and what little good cheer Alicent clung to vanished in an instant.

The court fell silent. The only sound in the room was that of half a hundred skirts whispering against stone as the lords and ladies of Westeros made way for their future queen.

She wore a gown of black silk. Her silver hair was pulled back into an ornate braid and held captive by a golden net. Rubies hung from her ears and around her throat. She’d long since abandoned Prince Daemon’s trinket, and for that Alicent was grateful. Her sharp violet eyes landed on Alicent, and for a few paralyzing heartbeats Alicent could not breathe, pinned beneath the weight of that inhuman stare.

The dragon’s gaze cut to her father. The weight lifted.

Rhaenyra was beautiful, the way she always was, carrying herself with all the pride and effortless grace of a Targaryen. Her husband was similarly beautiful, his own silver curls woven into elegant braids and arranged handsomely atop his head. With the Velaryon colors on his breast and Rhaenyra on his arm, the two were a portrait of Old Valyria.

Once they reached the dais, Laenor dipped into a low bow and Rhaenyra into a graceful curtsey. They never once unlinked themselves from around each other, a practiced dance.

Viserys removed Alicent from his arm, and held out his hand to his daughter. “Rhaenyra,” he said, warmer than sunlight.

A wild grin split Rhaenyra’s face. “Father,” she replied, and took his hand to ascend to his side. That bright grin dimmed to a faint glow when turned on Alicent. “My queen. Congratulations on the anniversary of your marriage.”

Alicent hated her. Alicent loved her.

The two things were one and the same.

“A fine anniversary it is shaping up to be,” Laenor said, appearing out of thin air behind his wife. He carried two goblets of wine, and offered one to Rhaenyra. “The maesters will name you the king of bread and circuses.”

Viserys laughed merrily. “It would be my greatest honor.” He gestured gallantly to the table. “Shall we? I hope you’ve brought your appetite, by the end of the celebrations I expect every one of you to have gained at least ten stone.”

“Laenor always has an appetite,” Rhaenyra said affectionately.

Unable to bear it, Alicent turned on her heel and skirted the edge of the table to claim the chair between her husband and her eldest son. Servants started ushering the courtiers to their own seats, scurrying between tables like mice.

Talya appeared from the shadows to ease Alicent into her seat, ignoring Alicent’s attempts to wave her off. “I’m quite alright,” Alicent assured her weakly.

“You overexert yourself, Your Grace,” Talya murmured, her mouth twitching at Alicent’s sigh of relief. Then she was gone again, as quickly as she had appeared.

Aegon had gotten hold of the cutlery and was presently hitting his fork and knife against the tabletop. The sound of it set Alicent’s teeth on edge, and beneath the table she dug her nails into her palm. Her other hand found itself on Aegon’s back.

To her surprise it was Laenor, not Rhaenyra, who assisted the king to his seat. The task was Alicent’s, but in her current state, it usually passed to Rhaenyra or one of the servants. Alicent’s brow furrowed when she caught Rhaenyra making a face into her wine. Once he’d pulled out Viserys’ chair, Laenor took it from her without a word, replacing it with another goblet that she seemed to find more satisfaction in.

Alicent’s gaze dropped to the protective arm Rhaenyra had wrapped around her stomach.

“– and so we raise our cups to our beloved queen,” Viserys was saying, though Alicent hardly heard him. She stared at Rhaenyra, whose face had gone green when confronted with the endless plates of smoked meats and roasted vegetables, the bowls of thick soups and the suckling pig at the center of the display. “Whose love and generosity knows no limits, who has blessed me with two princes, with perhaps a third on the way. To five years of marriage, and many more.”

Rhaenyra raised her cup. She did not eat. The court clapped for their queen, and Alicent’s hand followed a mindless path between Aegon’s small shoulders.

“And to my daughter Rhaenyra,” Viserys said as the cheering faded, “who will soon bless me with my first grandchild.”

Rhaenyra’s smile did not meet her eyes.

- - - - -

They were always seated near each other, there was no escaping it. Rhaenyra was heir to the throne, and Alicent the queen consort. Rhaenyra’s rightful place was at her father’s side, and Alicent’s was on his other.

The tourney was no different. Alicent found herself staring at the row in front of them that she and Rhaenyra had once claimed at another tourney all those years ago. Those seats were empty now, though she imagined they would soon be filled by her children. Alicent’s children, and then Rhaenyra’s.

She’d imagined it a thousand times before, and had never once seen it going quite like this.

Laenor dropped into the open seat on Rhaenyra’s other side, as was proper. He was not armed with wine, but instead wielding a cup of some sweet smelling concoction that he did not drink, offering it instead to Rhaenyra. She took it with a hum of gratitude, grimacing after bringing it to her lips.

“You’re a knight,” Viserys said, leaning back in his chair. “Who would you wager on? I’ve my eye on the Crane boy, but Lord Beesbury thinks me a fool.”

Laenor huffed a laugh. “I wouldn’t dare call my king a fool.”

“I sense there is a but coming,” Viserys replied goodnaturedly.

“But,” Laenor said loudly, mouth twitching when Viserys chuckled into his goblet. “I would heed his warning, and place your bets elsewhere.”

“Then where would you have me place them?”

Laenor considered the assembled contestants with the critical eye of a soldier surveying the battlefield, and for a moment Alicent could see the dragonrider who lit the Stepstones aflame. It was so at odds with the Laenor Velaryon she knew that she found it strangely difficult to look at him.

“Ser Harwin.” Rhaenyra’s voice startled them all. It was the first time all morning she had spoken louder than a whisper.

She was gazing out into the arena with an expression that Alicent could not parse. Laenor smirked again, something private and conspiratorial, and slumped back into his seat.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Ser Harwin.”

“I would place mine on Ser Criston,” Alicent said.

A shadow fell over Laenor’s face. Rhaenyra’s expression remained unchanged, but her hand drifted to his wrist and squeezed.

Viserys offered Alicent a placating smile. “Yes, he is always one to watch out for.” Seeming to sense the storm on the horizon, he inclined his head to Rhaenyra. “How have you been faring, my dear? You’ve seemed unwell these past few days. Is the little prince giving you trouble?”

“It may be a girl,” Rhaenyra replied, the same words she always used to fling when Viserys asked after Aemma’s little prince. Suddenly it was Alicent’s turn to feel unwell, her hands clenching around the arm of her chair. “I find that pregnancy doesn’t seem to agree with me.”

“The sickness is common early on,” someone said, and it took a few heartbeats for Alicent to realize that it had been her. “It will pass in a few months. I discovered that ginger helps a great deal.”

Rhaenyra blinked at her, visibly startled. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She lifted her goblet. “Laenor’s concoction has been working remarkably well, though I will certainly ask my maids for any ginger.”

“It was a suggestion from my mother,” Laenor added, stumbling over the words in a rush.

Alicent swallowed. “I’m glad.” She pulled her hands into her lap and did not breathe a word to Rhaenyra for the rest of the tourney, especially not when Ser Criston unhorsed Ser Harwin with Alicent’s favor on his lance.

- - - - -

“– had armies of eagles at his command.”

“Mother!” Aegon whined, tugging at her pearly nightgown. “Mother!”

Alicent did not dare answer him. Aemond had finally stopped screaming, his wet cheek warm against Alicent’s chest. “He claimed a falcon for his own mount,” she whispered into Aemond’s silver hair, just barely long enough now to start curling.

“Mother, please, you must look!”

“Can you imagine that? You’ll fly like that one day, when you claim a dragon for your own.”

“Mother!” Aegon was beating his small fists against her thighs now, desperate for her attention. “You’re not looking!”

Aemond sniffled, a warning. Alicent swiftly batted Aegon away with her free hand, tilting away from him before waving down his nursemaid. “Later, sweetling, I promise,” she said, tucking Aemond snugly under her chin and rubbing circles on his back.

“Can you imagine that?” she repeated in that soft, awestruck voice, the one her mother had always used when she’d told Alicent the same stories. Celesse herded Aegon to his chambers as Alicent made another circuit of the nursery. “A falcon as large as a dragon, an army of eagles at his disposal? It is no wonder he was able to slay the Griffin King with such ease.”

She continued the tale until it was done, sparing him no details, and was rewarded when Aemond’s whimpering finally, finally faded into soft snores. When she lay him down in his cradle, he started to stir, and she briefly feared that he would wake screaming again. She stood hunched over his cradle until he fell quiet once more.

Alicent’s hands floated to her lower back as she straightened up, grimacing at the steady throb that was building against her spine. Her feet were swollen and sore, and every muscle in her body was stiff with exhaustion.

The quiet privacy of her personal chambers were a much needed sanctuary after so many days of pomp and celebration. Talya curtseyed in greeting as Alicent trudged inside, having already stoked the fire and prepared the bedding.

“Do you need anything further, Your Grace?” Talya asked.

“No, thank you, Talya, you may g–”

There was a knock at her door.

(There would always be a knock at her door.)

Alicent’s fingers clenched around the bedpost.

Talya’s throat bobbed. “Your Grace –”

“Answer it.”

Talya lingered long enough that Alicent very nearly started spitting fire, before finally doing as she was told. Alicent took a steadying breath, refusing to let herself crumple against the bedpost that now held her up. The celebrations had drained her, not to mention the pregnancy and her children’s endless fussing. All she wanted was the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Viserys rarely called for her once she began to show, for it was too awkward for him to climb atop her with her belly in the way, and he believed that if she laid on her stomach it would put the child in danger. But if her husband wanted her, it was her duty to submit as she always did. She supposed that the tourneys had put a fire in his blood.

With a sigh, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “The king?” she asked once Talya had reappeared.

Talya winced. “Yes, Your Grace.” Why she sounded so apologetic about it, Alicent would never understand. He was her husband, and you did not refuse your husband, and certainly not when your husband was the king.

The rest of the castle was not as tired as its queen. As Alicent held her lantern aloft, Talya stumbling along behind her in her own nightgown, she could hear the distant laughter of the courtiers still drinking in the great hall. The king and his wife had retired early, but he had encouraged the wine to flow in his absence.

Bread and circuses, as Laenor Velaryon had said.

Still, it was late, and many of the corridors were dim save for a few flickering candles. The path Alicent followed was a familiar one, well traveled in her five years of marriage. She could have walked it in her sleep.

Ser Harrold stood sentry at her husband’s door. “My queen,” he greeted with a dip of his chin. He rapped his armored knuckles against the wood, and the door swung open. A serving boy with drooping eyes peered up at them for a long, sleepy moment before finally allowing them entry.

Talya bobbed a curtsey. She did not follow.

Her husband’s chambers were dark save for the fire blazing merrily in the hearth, just as she had left it. Viserys still sat in the same chair he had been in an hour earlier. “Alicent,” he called warmly. “Come sit.”

Alicent paused. She’d been unwrapping her shawl, her eyes locked on the still-made bed with resignation. There were worse places to spend the night, but her own bed was always more comfortable. “Husband?”

“Sit, sit!” He gestured toward the empty armchair at his right. “I have a request to make of you.”

Her gaze flicked back to the bed. She stood there, frozen, until she finally thought to pick up her shawl and claim the chair beside him. He smiled up at her kindly, even fondly. He’d always been so fond of her, her husband, even long before they had been wed.

They sat in a silence that would have been companionable, if not for the tension that was slowly creeping through Alicent’s blood. She kept her shawl wound tightly around her shoulders like a shield. Perhaps he was simply waiting for her to notice the issue. Was he in pain again? She could always rouse one of the maesters while the servants readied the bath. “Viserys?” she asked softly. “Is there something wrong? Something I can help you with?”

“Nothing is wrong, my dear.” He took her hand. “I would just – I have a request of you.”

Well, that much was apparent. “Of course,” she replied easily. “What would you have me do?”

“I would – it would please me greatly, if you allowed Rhaenyra to attend you for the birth.”

She blinked at him. “Why?” she sputtered. It came out far more harshly than any wife should speak to her husband, and could not for the life of her bring herself to care.

“Alicent –”

“I do not want her there.” Viserys stared balefully up at her. She held her ground. “I do not see the benefit.”

“This is her first child,” Viserys said slowly, “and she has never seen childbirth. I think she is frightened, given what happened to her mother.”

Alicent’s hands trembled in her lap. Yes, it is frightening, she thought bitterly, uncharitably. But she did not think to comfort me when Aegon came, nor Helaena, nor Aemond. And now I am supposed to comfort her?

But if her husband ordered it, she could not disobey him.

“If that is what you wish,” she replied tightly.

Viserys tilted his head, silver hair tumbling over his thin shoulders. “You used to be closer than sisters. I have long tried to understand this rift that formed between you, but I fear it is beyond me,” he said quietly. “Perhaps this will be an opportunity to mend it. I would like us all to be a family again.”

Alicent set her jaw. “If you wish it.”

“I do wish it.”

“Then it shall be done.”

- - - - -

They met come morning in the godswood, an uncomfortable echo of their youth, though now Alicent was to play the part of the resented septa instead of the giggling maiden. She found Rhaenyra sitting among the roots of the weirwood tree, cradling the faint swell of her belly and staring up into the cloudless sky. Alicent recognized that face – Rhaenyra wanted to fly, but her wings had been clipped. And though Alicent was no dragon, she sometimes felt as though she could relate.

“This was not my idea,” Rhaenyra says without tearing her gaze from the sky. Alicent can picture the sun glinting against Syrax’s golden scales, hear the echo of her wings in her ears. “My father insisted.”

Alicent’s nostrils flared. “Yes, well.” She sifted through the black maelstrom of her thoughts, trying to find any kind words left in her. There are very few left that she had for Rhaenyra, but the Mother commanded they have mercy. She swallowed the thick lump threatening to burst from her throat. “The childbed is the most difficult challenge in a woman’s life, especially when one goes through it alone.”

The corner of Rhaenyra’s mouth pulled into a wry smile. “I’m not alone.”

“I meant without your own mother to guide you.” A muscle in Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched, though her smile remained firmly in place. “As your stepmother, it is my duty to guide you in this.”

Rhaenyra lifted an incredulous brow. “You hardly speak a word to me for two years, and now you suddenly expect to play the midwife?”

“Your father insisted,” Alicent said through gritted teeth.

Rhaenyra huffed a sound too bitter to be called a laugh. “Of course,” she muttered, collapsing back against the trunk. Her eyes shuttered. “You know, I still don’t understand what it is that I did to offend you so. Perhaps if you would just tell me –”

“As this is your first birth,” Alicent interjected loudly, “this labor will be your longest. It can last for as long as a day, and there is a chance it could be even longer than that.” She perched herself on one of the roots furthest away from Rhaenyra, a taller one that would be easy to pull herself up from despite the babe that weighed her down. “And it will be the worst pain you’ve ever felt.”

“You’re trying to scare me.”

“I am trying to prepare you, as your mother would have.”

“And who prepared you?”

“Who was there to prepare me? I had no one, not even a friend,” Alicent snapped, taking a perverse pleasure in the guilt that flashed across Rhaenyra’s face. “I would not wish that on anyone, even you.”

“Even me,” Rhaenyra repeated. “There it is again, your hatred. What did I do, Alicent?”

What did you do? Alicent wanted to scream, wanted to tear her skin to ribbons. What did I do? It was you who abandoned me first. She took a long, steadying breath. Forced her mouth to smile. “If you’re quite finished? There is a great deal that we must cover.”

Rhaenyra gaped at her. Alicent half expected her to storm off. Instead, Rhaenyra settled back against the roots. “Fine,” she grumbled, face contorting into that imperious Targaryen sneer. She looked so much like her uncle when she was angry. It was unnerving.

“Best to start at the beginning then, I think,” Alicent said, banishing all thoughts of Daemon Targaryen from her mind.

- - - - -

Alicent thought that was to be the end of it. As far as she was concerned, she’d done what her husband had asked of her, and now she’d need not think of it until her labors began. When some weeks later Talya announced the princess’s presence in Alicent’s solar, her confusion was quickly replaced with dread.

She set down her embroidery and left Aemond and Helaena in the nursery. Aegon skipped along at her heels, babbling nonsensically in the way young children have perfected, only to duck behind her skirts when he noticed Rhaenyra warming her hands at the hearth.

“Princess,” Alicent greeted, draping one hand over her stomach and the other atop Aegon’s head. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

Rhaenyra, too, was beginning to show in earnest. Not that it mattered much; it was her first child, and was very likely to come much later than desired. She would deliver months after Alicent.

“My queen,” Rhaenyra replied. She folded her hands together neatly, fingers wrapped around one delicate wrist. “My father asked that I come speak with you.”

Alicent’s brows knit together. “Has something happened?”

Rhaenyra’s throat bobbed. Her gaze dropped to Aegon, peering around Alicent’s legs to stare up at his sister with the same purple eyes. “My father thinks it would be of some benefit if I were to spend some time with the children to…prepare me.” Alicent went very, very still. “And they are my siblings, after all. I should know them.”

“You’ve never expressed an interest in them before.”

“You’ve never allowed me to before.”

“That is a lie and you know it,” Alicent snapped before she could stop herself.

From across the expanse of the room, Rhaenyra and Alicent watched each other.

“You have not given me much of a choice in the matter of late, Alicent.”

The sound of her name on Rhaenyra’s tongue was sweeter than wine. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d heard it from any save her husband. She was Your Grace, she was my queen, she was Mother most of all. She’d made it so the day she walked into the great hall in Hightower green.

Alicent still wore green, simpler than her usual fare. She found she didn’t sit well for her handmaids to dress when heavy with child. She smoothed away a few wrinkles, urged Aegon to stand before her and gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “It’s your sister, Aegon,” she murmured. Your sister, your executioner. “You know her.”

Rhaenyra looked back to her brother. “Hello, Aegon.”

“Hello,” Aegon mumbled, chin tucked to his chest.

Alicent tried on a smile. “He usually isn’t so shy.” She carded a hand through his hair, smile stretching to something a touch more genuine when he rested his head against her thigh. “I think he finds you imposing.”

“I don’t think I’m very frightening,” Rhaenyra said.

On the contrary, Alicent thought. You’re terrifying.

Aegon wound a tiny fist in Alicent’s skirt. “Father says you have a dragon.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Syrax,” he added, tripping over the word and unnecessarily drawing out syllables. Seeraaax.

“Syrax,” Rhaenyra corrected gently. “Would you like to meet her?”

“Not for a few years yet, surely,” Alicent said, a touch desperately as she failed to keep the panic out of her voice.

“He is a Targaryen prince, my queen. It is his birthright.”

To Alicent’s dismay, Aegon only grew more frantic. “I want to meet her!” he demanded, voice teetering on the knife’s edge of a scream and gods, she hated it when he screamed.

“The weather is in ill humor today,” Rhaenyra said swiftly. “You can meet her another day, when things aren’t so cold and uncomfortable, hm?”

Aegon glowered up at her, all earlier apprehension forgotten. He huffed, dropping Alicent’s skirt and stomping off, likely thinking that one of the nursemaids would be more entertaining than either of them. Alicent sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. A headache was beginning to build behind her eyes, threatening to force her to spend the rest of the day abed.

“Thank you,” Alicent murmured. “That in itself is a lesson. Once the tantrum begins, it takes some time for children to be able to come down.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a long moment. “When my father was but a few days old, my grandmother swaddled him and took him aloft on her dragon. I know that you’ve always feared them, but to us it is as natural to us as breathing.”

Of course she knew that, she wanted to shout, did Rhaenyra think so little of her that she did not know what her own children were? She saw it every time she looked at Helaena and saw Rhaenyra staring back at her, in Aegon’s furious temper and Aemond’s sharp eyes.

She clenched her jaw. “Aemond will be waking from his nap soon,” she said. “He enjoys stories. Perhaps you could tell him one?” Rhaenyra opened her mouth, but Alicent turned away before she could speak. She followed Alicent silently down the hall.

- - - - -

Rhaenyra became a regular visitor after that, and all Alicent could do was endure it. Once a week she would appear as though from the ether with her arms cradling her ever larger stomach. For now, it was still a slim little thing. A faint but noticeable curve that could be the next heir to the Iron Throne. It was difficult to think of it as such. Every time that Alicent looked at it, she would be forcibly reminded that soon Rhaenyra would either be lost to the childbed as her mother had been or rise triumphant with a screaming child in her arms. Alicent desperately hoped that it would be the latter.

Alicent pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery, watching Rhaenyra balance Aemond on her lap. He peered up at his sister with curious eyes, generously offering up one of his wooden dragons.

Rhaenyra huffed a laugh. “Thank you. This looks much like one I had as a child. Does it have a name?” Aemond made a vague sound, not quite a babble but not quite a word either. “That is a very noble name, indeed. Mine was Balerion.”

“Baaaaaaaa.”

“Quite.”

A lump was rising in Alicent’s throat. She set down her embroidery hoop, placing the needle somewhere that Aegon could not find the next time he came stomping up to demand her attention. “You’re very good with him.”

It had seemed almost effortless, how easily the children had taken to their sister. Alicent wanted to resent her for it, and at first she had, until they’d discovered how swiftly Rhaenyra could pull Aegon from one of his dark moods. That was so rare a gift that Alicent had no choice but to be grateful.

Rhaenyra quickly tilted her head away, but Alicent did not miss the small smile that had pulled at her mouth. “I feel as though I am stumbling in the dark with them.”

I feel that way every day, Alicent thought. “It will feel different with your own children.”

Rhaenyra’s sharp eyes cut toward her. “Will it?”

Alicent’s mouth went dry. “Of course.”

For a painfully long moment, Rhaenyra did nothing at all. Slowly, she tipped forward to brush her lips across the crown of Aemond’s head. Across the room, Helaena began to sing, “Salt! Salt! Sea!”

- - - - -

Childbirth was never easy by any stretch of the imagination, but at least having gone through it so frequently, Alicent had at least grown used to the progress. The slow descent from occasional pain to relentless agony was nothing short of misery, but it was one Alicent had learned to predict.

With all three of her children, it had progressed as normally as could be. Her labors began, her waters broke, and eventually the contractions became so intense that it was time to push. Aegon’s birth had been an exhausting, several day affair. Helaena and Aemond had come quicker, though Alicent had not seen it that way at the time.

The only warning Alicent had of her fourth child’s coming were those few mortifying seconds before she realized that it was not piss that had started streaming down her legs.

She was frozen in the corridor, one hand outstretched as though to grasp the wall and steady herself. Her smallclothes were uncomfortably drenched, the dark stain spreading out towards her skirts and pooling beneath her slippers.

“My queen?” Talya asked, voice so muffled by the blood rushing through Alicent’s ears that she scarcely heard her.

Alicent did not even have the time to collect herself before she was crumpling to the floor in agony, a scream tearing from her throat. The pain receded for only a few seconds before another wave assaulted her, compressing her organs until there certainly would be nothing left but blood. Then the wave drew back, leaving excruciating spasms in its wake.

She could not breathe. She was vaguely aware that she was sobbing, of Talya clutching at her gown and shouting for help. She started floating outside of herself, tied to the swollen thing that was her own body only by the most delicate of tendrils.

The pain with her first three children had been torture, but a predictable sort of torture. Nothing like this. When she dared to hope that the pain had eased, it would be upon her again in an instant. She could taste blood in her mouth; the inside of her cheeks had been ravaged and she was in serious danger of biting off her own tongue.

Alicent opened her eyes to a familiar ceiling. She must have been moved by a guard or servants to her private chambers. She was propped up slightly, leaning against a careful arrangement of pillows that her ladies must have arranged for her, and it gave her a clear view of the servants rushing around the room, faces pale with distress. Her husband stood in the doorway, speaking with the midwife in urgent, low voices. She glanced blearily down at her bloodstained thighs and her heart constricted with fear.

Talya was here, running a soothing hand up and down her bare arm. Her bare arm? When had she been stripped – she had been changed into a shift, gone dark with sweat. Talya would have known she’d want to preserve her modesty, even like this. Alicent could weep from the kindness of it.

“You’re alright, my queen,” Talya murmured. “It will be alright.”

Alicent tried to speak, though a pitiful groan spilled from her lips in place of words. Talya shushed her gently, dabbing at her face with a cool cloth.

“Talya…” she tried.

“You must save your strength, my queen.”

“Viserys…”

“It will be alright,” Talya repeated fiercely. “I swear it.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Talya pushed the hair out of Alicent’s face, offering her a strained smile. When Alicent looked back, Viserys was gone. One of the midwives manifested at the foot of her bed in a crisp white apron. It took a moment for Alicent to place her name; Meg. She’d helped to deliver Aemond.

“I’m glad to see that the herbs are helping with the pain, Your Grace,” Meg said, lifting the hem of Alicent’s shift to peer at whatever horrors lay beneath.

Helping was too strong a word. The pain was still radiating in awful waves that stole her strength. It was as though the suffering of days of labor were being condensed into these few, terrible hours.

“What –” Alicent’s mouth was too dry, her voice crackling. “What’s happening?”

“The babe has decided to come early, is all,” Meg replied airily.

Alicent wanted to throw something very heavy at her. Aemond had also come early and yet with none of the same violence. “You’re – you’re not going to – to frighten me,” Alicent managed through gasping breaths. “Tell me the truth. I command it.”

All Meg did was smile pleasantly. Throwing something heavy would be too kind a punishment.

One of the servants had brought a cup of water that Talya was helping her sip from when Rhaenyra stormed into the room. She abruptly stopped mid step when she caught sight of Alicent prone in bed, eyes going round with shock. Her fingers clenched into fists, mouth opening but no sounds coming out.

Alicent collapsed back into the pillows. “I don’t want her here,” she begged Talya. “Get her out of here.”

Talya shook her head minutely. “I can’t.”

Having queen as your title meant so little if you did not carry the Targaryen name along with it.

“Alicent…” Rhaenyra finally said, taking a few hesitant steps closer.

“It isn’t supposed to happen like this.” The words slurred together, and Alicent spoke to the ceiling rather than to the princess. You weren’t supposed to see me like this. There were black spots forming along the edges of her vision, and the world was tilting every which-way despite the surety of the bed beneath her. “Please, I beg of you, if you ever cared for me, then go away.”

But Rhaenyra was stubborn on the best of days. Her eyes snapped to Meg. “How close is she?”

“She needs to push, and soon, Your Grace.” Their voices dropped to conspiratorial whispers, near impossible for Alicent to hear above the pounding of her heart. “– the strength for it.”

“– not leave her children –”

“– but with the amount of bleeding –”

“– miracles –”

“– exceptional circumstances –”

“– an exceptional woman –”

Alicent was weeping. She did not remember when she’d started, and try as she might she could not get it to stop. Talya’s face floated in and out of focus. The pain had receded, but she was beginning to lose feeling in her legs.

And she was exhausted. The very marrow of her bones had turned to stone to weigh her down. She would never get up again.

Rhaenyra snarled something that Alicent could not catch but sent both Meg and Talya recoiling. Alicent blinked, and it was Rhaenyra who hovered anxiously above her, it was Rhaenyra who smoothed the sweaty hair from her face.

She was hallucinating, certainly. Rhaenyra had not deigned to touch her like this in years. This sort of thing only happened in her dreams. It was as likely as her own mother holding her hand in the childbed, and it made it all too easy to lean into the touch.

Alicent groaned as four hands eased her forward and as someone – as Rhaenyra of all people slid behind her. “Why are you…” she started, but could not summon the energy to finish the sentence.

“Hush,” Rhaenyra murmured lowly in her ear, the vibrations of it prickling the hair on the back of her neck. Then Rhaenyra hitched up her skirt even further so that Alicent laid snugly in between the V of her legs, the faint swell of her stomach pressing against the small of Alicent’s back.

It was a scene that would have sent Alicent spiraling into horror in her waking hours, but since it was a dream, Alicent allowed herself to collapse back against her. Allowed herself the luxury of resting her forehead against Rhaenyra’s jaw. Rhaenyra’s breath stuttered.

“Hold onto my hands,” Rhaenyra said. “There we go.”

Alicent shivered, or maybe she’d been shivering all along. Her body could not seem to decide whether she was too hot or too cold.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra murmured into her ear. Someone else was tittering along the edge of the bed. The sound was grating, like a fly that deserved to be swatted. “Alicent, you need to push.”

She couldn’t possibly be serious. “I can’t,” she moaned. “I can’t.”

“You must. Alicent,” Rhaenyra urged, squeezing Alicent’s limp fingers, “you will. You have had three healthy children and three successful births, and you will have a fourth.”

The amount of faith that this dreamt Rhaenyra had in her; Alicent would laugh, if she had the strength left for it. Rhaenyra had always believed the world itself would bend to her will. The Targaryens were the blood of dragons, why should they have to ascribe themselves to the petty laws of the earth?

Alicent Hightower was the blood of Oldtown, not of Valyria.

Alicent Hightower would not survive the childbed simply because she willed it. Only the gods had a choice in that.

Meg hunched over the end of the bed. Rhaenyra had hooked her ankles around Alicent’s to keep her legs apart.

“Your Grace, I need you to give a big push on three,” Meg said.

“No,” Alicent begged.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra commanded. She wove their fingers together, her flesh burning where Alicent’s was frozen through.

Meg counted down.

Alicent pushed.

The entire world narrowed down to just the two of them in that bed. It was Alicent’s body ripping itself in two, it was Rhaenyra flattened against her back, forehead pressed to the nape of her neck, it was ragged nails tearing open the delicate skin of Rhaenyra’s hands.

She screamed. There was not much else she could do. She screamed, and begged, and pushed, because she could not have this child in her a moment longer. Rhaenyra whispered to her in a tongue that Alicent could not make sense of.

In this hazy, agonizing space, she could pretend that Rhaenyra was her husband, holding her through her suffering. It was something she used to imagine, in the darkest hours of night, and it was an easy thing now to pretend that this was Rhaenyra’s child. If it were Rhaenyra’s child, then her children would be safe when it killed her. Rhaenyra would not harm her own heirs.

Rhaenyra breathed with her; in, out, in, out, in –

Alicent collapsed with a sob.

“You’re almost there, Your Grace,” Meg soothed. “Just once more, come on.”

“Rhaenyra…” Alicent whispered.

“One more push, Alicent,” Rhaenyra said.

“You can’t hurt them.” Her words were slurred, voice barely audible above the chaos of the room, but she had to tell her. She couldn’t die without begging this one thing of her. Alicent tilted her head, nose brushing against Rhaenyra’s cheek. “Promise me you won’t hurt them.”

Rhaenyra was silent for a long, painful moment as Meg called for more rags and another bucket of water. “I would never.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Why would I ever lie to you?”

Ser Criston, she wanted to say, but there was no strength left in her to beg. There was no strength left in her to push the child out of her, either. Will he cut it out of me? Alicent wondered, paralyzed by terror. I have given him two sons, but it will never be enough.

“Just once more,” Meg said.

Rhaenyra took her hands, and for one hysterical second Alicent thought that she was pushing for her, giving her the strength that Alicent no longer possessed.

Silence.

Then, a piercing wail filled the air.

Rhaenyra laughed into the sweaty skin of Alicent’s neck. Alicent could feel her trembling, though she could not for the life of her understand why that was.

“A boy, Your Grace.” Meg holds up the bloody, ugly babe, the cord still dangling from his little belly. “The Mother has blessed you with another son.”

And my last, Alicent prayed.

- - - - -

The sun was shining when Alicent woke, the drapes open to the watery blue light of morning. She stretched, sighing at the ache that thrummed through the muscles of her thighs. It was a good ache. A pleasant ache.

Alicent threw her legs over the edge of the bed, shivering as her bare toes brushed the cold stone. Beside her, the blankets shifted. “What are you doing?”

“There is work to be done,” Alicent replied easily, grinning brightly over her shoulder. “It’s time to get up. The children will be waking soon.”

“The kingdom will not collapse if we spend one morning in bed, and there is a reason that the children have nursemaids.”

Alicent reached for her dressing gown, prepared to ring the bell that would summon the servants and wholly unprepared for the pair of arms that darted out from beneath the blankets. She squealed from the shock of the attack, quite undignified, dissolving into laughter as she was dragged back down to the mattress.

“We have to –” Hot lips kissed their way across her collarbone and up the column of her throat, teeth dragging against the soft skin under her jaw. “Rhaenyra.”

“Alicent.” Rhaenyra peeled her face from Alicent’s neck, wet mouth curved into a wry smirk.

“You’re incorrigible.”

Rhaenyra snorted, rolling onto her back and pulling Alicent along with her.

Alicent went, for she always did, settling herself over Rhaenyra’s hips and planting a hand on either side of her head. Rhaenyra grinned wolfishly up at her, silver hair fanning out in a halo on the mattress beneath her. Gods only knew where her pillows had gone, Rhaenyra was as restless asleep as she was awake.

“Incorrigible,” Alicent repeated.

“And yet,’ Rhaenyra said, slowly pushing Alicent’s nightgown further up her thighs, “I have yet to hear any complaints.”

Alicent laughed breathily. “You have your uses.” She gasped when those hands snuck beneath her nightgown to fit themselves to her waist. “Though I wish you would learn to time them better.”

“I am the queen,” Rhaenyra said. “I do as I please.”

Her mouth came crashing down.

Alicent jerked awake, chest heaving. She clutched at herself, reaching for the seven pointed star that was not there. Her body was slick with sweat, and it wasn’t a pleasant ache that reverberated through her thighs but the steady, white-hot agony of childing.

The room was dark and empty and just as cold. Someone had piled her with blankets at some time in the night after the bedding had been changed and her body scrubbed clean of blood. Her mouth was dry to the point of painful, tongue scraping across the roof of her mouth.

Her heart pounded a staccato rhythm against her ribs, her lungs at war with her head. She was going to die like this; in her bed, her body refusing to cooperate, suffocating beneath the weight of sin.

She had to –

She had to –

She had to –

Alicent pushed herself up on trembling, straining arms, chewing a hole in her cheek to prevent herself from crying out. After the pain of such a tumultuous birth, this sort of pain was almost a relief. Something familiar, almost comforting.

She carefully eased herself from the bed and swayed across the room, struggling to pull her dressing gown over her shoulders with her too-weak fingers. Distantly, in the furthest reaches of her mind, she wondered where they had taken her son to. His screams had been earsplitting, he must have been a strong boy despite the circumstances of his coming. Later, she would wonder what Viserys would name him, when her sins weren’t quite so pressing.

The great oaken doors that led into the corridor were a greater obstacle than the dressing gown. She pushed and pushed, leaning against it with her whole weight, but it did not budge. She resorted to pounding on it with one frail fist, resting her forehead against the cool wood.

“Let me out,” she demanded, straightening up at the first telltale click.

It came swinging open, Ser Criston staring at her with huge eyes. “Your Grace, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

She shouldn’t be without her handmaids, either, but it was likely that Talya was occupied with the new babe. She waved off Ser Criston’s assistance, limping into the corridor. There was something tickling her leg that she was trying her damndest to ignore.

“I must go to the Sept.”

The Great Sept of Baelor was much too far in her condition, but there was a smaller, private sept in the keep available for urgent use. It was there that Alicent went, Ser Criston trailing behind her like a loyal hound.

It must have been late, they did not meet anyone on their slow trek save for a handful of servants that were up scrubbing the stone floors. They stood to bow as she shambled past, and she didn’t miss the whispers that filled the air the second they’d turned into another corridor.

This sept was small, scarcely big enough to fit two, and dark save for the candles that flickered on each of the altar. It was at the Father’s altar that Alicent collapsed, folding her hands together on top of the altar. Tears streamed over the hills and valleys of her face.

Forgive me, she begged. Help me understand. Was this a warning, a temptation? Rhaenyra Targaryen had always been both. Alicent had been given a miracle, and now the gods were dangling sin before her eyes as a test of her faith.

She knelt there until she lost feeling in her knees, until her maids found her hunched there muttering nonsense. Apparently she had left a trail of blood for them to follow. Ser Criston did not let them take her away until he realized that it had begun to pool beneath her pale legs.

Talya helped clean away the freshly crusted blood and settled her back into bed.

The next morning, Viserys held their newborn son and named him Daeron.

“A fine name,” Laenor said, as close to the door as he could politely manage. He had never liked Alicent, and liked her even less with Ser Criston standing guard by her bed.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra agreed, far closer to her father and the babe than her husband. She kept her dislike for Ser Criston close to her breast, and stood at the end of the bed with the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “A fine name for a fine boy.”

Viserys eased the squirming child back into Alicent’s arms. Spittle leaked from Daeron’s tiny, puckered mouth. She did not have the strength to wipe it away.

- - - - -

Alicent kept Rhaenyra at an arm’s length, but she did not spurn her company, for despite the warning the Seven had sent her, Alicent had never possessed many friends at court. It was a lonely thing to be queen.

She often took her children for walks in the castle gardens and even into the godswood. For all the heresy the godswood represented, it was still a place of comfort and beauty to her. It was not a sin to appreciate the beauty of the tree, for the Seven were the ones who crafted that tree, even if there were those who saw other gods in it.

Rhaenyra now joined her on some of these walks. They strode side by side, the space between them gaping like a wound. Alicent had allowed her to carry Daeron, and though she made it no secret that she watched Rhaenyra out of the corner of her eye at all times, Rhaenyra did not comment on it.

Aegon charged ahead, terrorizing his nursemaid, while Helaena fell behind and worried hers. She was much more interested in the dirt than in the sky, pointing out small creatures and babbling to herself. Aemond toddled beside his mother and eldest sister, clinging to Alicent’s hand so that he would not fall. She couldn’t help but smile at the concentration in his face, the steady way he put one little foot in front of the other.

“I have never met a more cautious child,” Alicent said, unable to swallow down her affection.

“It must be a relief, after a son so boisterous as Aegon,” Rhaenyra replied.

Alicent swallowed. “All of my children bring me relief.” Most days. Some days.

She paused to keep Aemond steady after he tripped over a loose stone. “He’s simply…spirited. A consequence of his Targaryen blood, I’d wager. You were much the same when we were young.” She felt bold enough to offer Rhaenyra a wry smile. “Strong willed.”

To her surprised delight, Rhaenyra smiled back. “Obstinate.”

“You said it, not I.”

Rhaenyra tossed her head back and laughed, exposing her pale throat. Alicent wanted to –

(run her tongue over it, feel Rhaenyra’s heartbeat against her lips, brand her with her teeth)

– she forced her gaze to the path ahead. Aegon danced away from his nursemaid’s hands, shrieking with laughter at her frustrated gasps. He skittered over the roots of the tree, green cloak flapping in the breeze behind him.

“Have you ever…”

Alicent waited for Rhaenyra to continue, but no other words came. She kept her eyes trained on her son, she did not dare look Rhaenyra in the face. “Have I ever what?”

“...have you ever been afraid that the child will come, and you will not love it?”

Alicent stopped dead, Aemond nearly tumbling to the ground. Rhaenyra’s hand shot out, catching him by the collar of his tunic before he fell.

“What?”

It seemed to be Rhaenyra’s turn to avert her eyes. “It is…difficult to think of them as flesh and blood.” She cradled her belly, staring down at it warily. “Rather than just this…thing that’s growing within me.”

She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows –

“No,” Alicent said sharply, tugging Aemond forward. Rhaenyra trailed along behind them, and did not speak of it again.

- - - - -

Here is what Alicent did not dare tell Rhaenyra:

When Aegon was first born, she did not love him.

Nor Helaena, nor Aemond, nor now with Daeron, though gods knew that she tried.

The truth of it was, when they finally put that first crying boy on her bare chest after so many days spent in her labors, she looked at him and felt nothing at all. Irritation at his howling, mostly, and then shame, and last of all horror.

She did not understand it. She still didn’t understand it now, five years wedded and three more children in the cradle. How could a woman hold her own child in her arms, stare down at this helpless thing she had created, and feel nothing?

When she could leave her bed, she went to the sept and she prayed. She begged the Mother for guidance, to fill her heart with the love her son deserved. The Mother did not answer her. Alicent assumed she had been doing it wrong, and with no one there to guide her, she did as she thought her mother might do. She told the same stories, made the same gestures, gave them the same affectionate names, mimicking everything she could remember.

It had taken time to love them. That did not mean she would not have killed for them. She very nearly did, those fraught early days when Aegon was just a red-faced thing that screamed and shit and spat bubbles. She’d returned from the sept to find a stranger peering down into his cradle, and her exhausted mind did not notice the maester’s robes, only the strange potion in his hands.

Alicent still wasn’t sure where she'd found the knife, the memory was hazy. Perhaps from a dinner plate that one of the servants had forgotten, it did not matter; all that mattered was the unknown man standing over her infant son.

Talya had stopped her, snatching the knife out of her hands long before the maester had noticed she was there. Apparently he was there to check on the prince’s cough; yes, he’d been sent by the king, the elixir he’d concocted would certainly do the trick. Alicent later realized she’d actually seen the maester wandering the castle before. It was easy to blame the incident on her fatigue.

But there were so many threats in the castle. Before, when she’d been an Alicent who had never once considered that Rhaenyra might lie to her, she’d never expected to think that her children’s eldest sister might be one of them. And the problem with Rhaenyra forcing her way back into Alicent’s life was that she was beginning to forget why she wore green.

Alicent was not the same person she had been. Neither was Rhaenyra; the hotheaded, entitled teenager that Alicent had once known was evolving into someone far more reserved. Alicent was not sure whether it was the fact of her marriage, or that every day she was one step closer to motherhood, or simply the fact that Rhaenyra was now a woman grown.

And worst of all there were so many moments where Alicent looked at Rhaenyra and thought: maybe. Maybe she could put her banners away. Maybe this could continue after their children were born. Maybe Rhaenyra would stop lying to her, maybe they could be as they once were.

Maybe they could raise their children together, side by side as Alicent had always dreamed, and they could be like sisters again.

(She should know better, she has to know better, her father knew better –)

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra called from the doorway, Helaena perched on her hip.

Alicent quickly sucked the blood from her ruined fingernail. “Coming!”

- - - - -

“Princess, you must push.”

Rhaenyra slumped against the bedpost, hair clinging to her wet skin. Her nightgown was dark with sweat and tears and spit. “I cannot, damn you,” she sobbed, weakly waving off the midwives and their increasing desperation. “I cannot do it, it’s not working. I am going to die here just as my mother did.”

“No,” Alicent said, shaking her head. “You will not, as long as you push.”

“I was not made for this, Alicent,” Rhaenyra moaned, peering up at Alicent with more panic than she had never seen in her before, and that terrified her more than anything else.

Rhaenyra feared nothing. Rhaenyra was the bravest person Alicent had ever known.

Alicent hummed soothingly, sweeping Rhaenyra’s hair over her bare shoulder. Rhaenyra stood by her bed as the midwife had advised, using one of the posts as leverage, but the child was slow to come and quick to steal the mother’s strength.

“You were made for it as I was made for it,” Alicent said. She kept her hands on Rhaenyra’s hips and used her thumbs to massage small, tight circles, as she had always longed for someone to do for her. “As all women were before you.”

Rhaenyra shook her head with a violence that startled Alicent. “No,” she growled. “No, I cannot be just this. I cannot –” She screamed in agony as another contraction seized her, eventually fading again into wordless sobs.

Alicent wanted to weep. She pressed her forehead to the back of Rhaenya’s neck and dared to press a kiss to the top of her spine. “I will help you,” Alicent said, “just as you helped me. Do you understand? I promise that I will not leave you.”

It seemed that Rhaenyra could do little more than pant, but she somehow managed a nod. Alicent reached forward to grasp her hand and squeeze. “Here,” she said, tugging her gently away from the bed. “Come sit over here, it will be easier if you are upright.”

Rhaenyra leaned on Alicent heavily as she led her over to the chair one of the midwives had acquired. She eased Rhaenyra carefully into the chair, and then knelt down on the cold floor beside her, holding fast to her clammy hand.

One of the midwives came and sat herself in front of Rhaenyra, while the others fluttered uselessly about. Alicent ignored them as she wove their fingers together, draping her free hand across the sharp bones of Rhaenyra’s shoulders.

“Breathe with me, Rhaenyra,” Alicent murmured, tracing random patterns on Rhaenyra’s skin. “My lungs are your lungs. In, out.”

For once, Rhaenyra did as she was told. One tremulous breath in, another slowly out, matching Alicent breath for breath.

The midwife counted, and Rhaenyra bore down. Every muscle in her body was straining with the effort of it, sapping all her remaining reserves of strength.

“And hold.”

Rhaenyra let out a terrible gasp, sagging back into the chair. She peered at Alicent with bleary eyes, mouth agape.

Alicent swiped the hair from her too-red face. “You’re almost there, I promise, it’s almost done.”

“One more,” the midwife confirmed.

“One more,” Alicent echoed. “That’s all.”

Dragonfire blazed to life behind Rhaenyra’s violet eyes. She gripped the arm of the chair, nails digging into Alicent’s wrist. The midwife disappeared beneath her linen shift, and Rhaenyra gave one final, horrible push, and it was done.

A hideous, keening sound filled the air. The midwife gathered the bloody, ugly little creature into clean blankets as it wailed and wailed and Rhaenyra fought to stay awake. Alicent seethed as the midwives abandoned the mother to check the child, but Rhaenyra –

“It is a boy, Princess. A perfect, healthy little boy.”

Rhaenyra started to laugh. Not the hysteric, victorious laugh that Alicent had expected. She could not make sense of it, until the midwives deposited the wriggling bundle into Rhaenyra’s waiting arms, until she watched a tiny fist wrap itself around Rhaenyra’s offered finger.

Joy. It was joy.

Of course she loved her son the moment she laid eyes on him. Of course all of those doubts that she had been harboring had washed away, just that fast.

There was just something wrong with Alicent. Of course there was.

She smothered it down, forced herself to smile.

But then she saw the shock of black hair atop the boy’s head, and realized just how pale his skin was beneath the film of blood.

Alicent fell back on her heels.

Laenor Velaryon came exploding through the doors, much to the dismay of the gathered midwives. He ignored their scandalized squawking, dropping to his knees at his wife’s side. He cupped her cheek, stared with huge eyes down at the screaming child.

She braced herself for a rage that never came. Laenor did not accuse Rhaenyra of anything, did not even make a surprised sound. He was far too busy staring down at the babe with something more akin to terror than anger.

“Say hello to your son,” Rhaenyra said, exhausted. She placed the boy in Laenor’s trembling arms, and Laenor did not shout adultery. His mouth wobbled, his eyes filled with tears.

He knew, Alicent realized with horror. The thought reverberated through every bone in her body, even as the midwives helped Rhaenyra deliver the afterbirth and clean up her mess. Alicent was frozen by Rhaenyra’s side, never once leaving. She had promised.

Her eyes remained locked on Laenor Velaryon.

Laenor, who cradled his wife’s bastard son like he was something precious. Like he truly was his own flesh and blood.

Laenor, who saw Alicent’s stare, and held it, bold as you please. He turned away, as though shielding the boy from her gaze.

Alicent dutifully peeled away Rhaenyra’s ruined shift, helped her back into bed. Smiled where required, kissed her husband’s hand when he arrived to greet his first grandchild and tried to ignore the terrified flutter of her hummingbird heart. He would notice immediately what was wrong with his grandson, wouldn’t he? This was not the sort of indiscretion even Viserys could ignore. Rhaenyra stood at the edge of a precipice, and try as she might, she was not born with wings. No one could catch her if she fell.

Except Viserys pulled her from danger. How could Alicent have expected anything else?

He took the child, smoothed back his dark hair to place a kiss upon his brow. “My first grandchild,” he announced, delighted. “Do you have a name chosen?”

“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra said. “Jacaerys Velaryon.”

“Prince Jacaerys,” Viserys repeated. “A good Valyrian name.” It had been some time since Alicent had seen her husband so pleased. “We stand in the presence of a future king.”

Alicent did not protest when the babe was handed over to her. She held him carefully, bouncing him as she would Daeron, smiling placidly. Jacaerys squinted up at her.

His eyes were brown.

- - - - -

“He has been sleeping well,” Rhaenyra said, slowly rocking her chair back and forth with the ball of her foot. Her attention was so wholly dedicated to her son, it was a wonder she had registered Alicent’s presence at all. “I’ve been told that he shares a wetnurse with Daeron.”

Alicent’s throat was too dry. “He does.”

Two days had passed after the birth before Alicent had gathered enough courage to visit Rhaenyra.

Two days of a constant, thrumming terror. Two days of looking into her children’s eyes and imagining the banners, the pounding of war drums. The lords of the realm would never accept a bastard as their king, not unless there were any other options. Rhaenyra had to know that. Rhaenyra was too clever not to know that.

Alicent adjusted her skirts, shifting awkwardly in her seat. “Rhaenyra…”

“Hmm?”

“Do you –” She took a breath. “You trust me, do you not?”

“Of course.”

It took three tries for her voice to work. “Who is Jacaerys’s father?”

The rocking stopped.

Please, Alicent wanted to beg. Please.

But the mask slid firmly into place even as Alicent watched. Rhaenyra finally lifted her eyes and said, “My husband, of course.” She quirked a wry smile. “What sort of question is that?”

- - - - -

The letter was sealed with green wax and stamped with the Targaryen sigil. “See that my father receives this,” Alicent said, fingers clenching around the seven-pointed star at her throat. “No one else.”

Larys bowed his head.