Chapter Text
King's Landing, some time before the end of the year 104 AC
Alicent did not know when the three years had slipped through her fingers.
Time no longer felt like a river she could watch from the bank, but a dragon upon whose back she rode, gripping tight lest she be thrown, carried ever forward with no chance to dismount.
Seasons blurred into one another, marked by feasts, festivals, births, funerals, councils, and silences. The realm had known peace in those years, a peace hard-won and uneasy, while within the royal family old wounds festered and new ones were cut with careful, patient hands.
When King Jaehaerys passed, the whole of Westeros had gone black with mourning.
Bells had tolled from the Wall to the Arbor, and even the smallfolk, who had known the Old King only as a name spoken by their grandsires, wept as though they had lost ome of their kin.
Even in Dorne, it was said that children wept at their mother's teat, men and women clawing at their clothing as they mourned the Targaryen king they never bowed to.
Five and fifty years he had ruled, longer than any monarch before him, a span so vast it had seemed immutable, as if the Old King had set a godly precedent for his successors.
Alicent remembered the night the news came as vividly as if it were etched upon her skin.
She and Daemon had been supping quietly in the solar of her chambers, the boys already abed, the windows open to the sounds of the city settling into darkness.
Otto had knocked, thrice, his knuckles insistent. When Alicent opened the door and saw her father’s face, ashen and drawn, she understood before a word was spoken.
Daemon had risen at once, his chair scraping harshly across the floor as he went to speak with the Hand in the corridor.
The King was dead.
In that moment, Alicent had watched something in her husband fracture once more.
Jaehaerys had been the last of Daemon’s father figures, the final pillar of a generation that had shaped him, restrained him, challenged him.
Though the Old King’s wits had wandered in his final moons, leaving behind only a frail shell of the formidable man he had once been, his presence had still anchored Daemon to something larger than himself.
The morning before Jaehaerys died, her husband had gone to him alone, for he had been summoned. Usually, Alicent would read to the king to ease his days, visiting him with little Baelon and Aemon.
Though the latter was quite mischievous, he would always quiet down around his great-grandsire.
Alicent had asked her lord husband after, gently, what they had spoken of during his summons.
Daemon had waved it away with a careless shrug, calling it wishful thinking, the ramblings of an old man lingering too long in the world.
She had let the matter drop, for she knew her husband well enough to understand that he spoke when he wished, and not a heartbeat sooner.
Days after the funeral, when the pyre that was lit by Vermithor had cooled and the court had resumed its careful dance, her husband had told her only this: that his grandsire had spoken of hope.
Hope, the Rogue had said with a humorless smile, was for foolish men, and for those who sensed the Stranger close at hand.
The confession had made her think about what the king had hoped for.
What did he hope for? she had asked.
Peace, he answered.
Why do you find that to be foolish? she questioned.
Because said peace is in the hands of a fool, he chuckled.
Now, years later, Alicent walked the stone paths of the gardens, sunlight filtering through budding branches overhead. Her sons raced ahead of her, laughter ringing clear and unburdened.
Baelon, nearly seven, was long-limbed and serious even in play, his sense of duty already budding like a stubborn weed, his hair plaited in one braid.
Aemon, not yet five, was all fire and speed, darting ahead only to double back, shouting rules to a game only he fully understood, his own hair cropped short due to how easily it tangled.
She watched them with a fond, watchful eye, her hands clasped neatly before her, crimson and black skirts whispering against the stone.
The Queen’s court had been cut short that morning, Aemma having taken suddenly ill, pale and unsteady upon her gilded chair. She was ushered out by one of the Kingsguards.
Alicent had stepped in without comment or ceremony, as she had done more and more of late, presiding over the gathering of ladies whose smiles were too quick and whose eyes measured everything.
They had tittered and flattered, those women, each with some quiet hope tucked beneath her silks.
Sons to be squires beneath Daemon, nephews yearning for the Gold Cloaks, daughters of a suitable age to be placed near Aemon or, failing that, near Alicent herself as ladies-in-waiting.
The Princess of Daemon had heard them all with patience born of long practice, granting nothing outright, promising nothing at all.
Now, in the garden’s relative peace, her thoughts returned unbidden to her husband.
A crunch of gravel sounded behind her.
Ser Criston Cole walked five paces back, as he always did, helm under his arm, black cloak with the Targaryen sigil swishing in the air. He had been her sworn shield for a few years now, his presence a comfort she had not expected when first assigned him by the hand of her very own lord husband.
She seated herself upon a stone bench beneath a tree heavy with blossoms, their petals pink and crimson drifting lazily to the ground.
Ser Criston halted at her side, watchful, his gaze sweeping the gardens where the boys played.
“It seems once more you held court with the hens and chicks of Her Grace,” he said at last, his voice solemn, edged with dry amusement.
Alicent hummed, her attention still fixed upon her sons.
“The Seven have granted me no patience,” Ser Criston went on, “for I have none for those women.”
She looked up at him then, one brow lifting slightly.
“And why is that, Ser Criston?”
He scoffed softly. “They’re headless chickens, my lady, clucking around you so their cocks might rise at court.”
Despite herself, Alicent smiled faintly.
“That is the way of things, is it not?”
Ser Criston surveyed the gardens again. “I suppose so. So long as Their Graces do not think you overstep. The gods know you are more sought after than the Queen herself.”
Alicent made no reply to that. She turned her gaze back to her children, watching as Baelon slowed to allow Aemon to catch him, their laughter mingling.
“All I am doing is in service of Their Graces, for we are all servants of the Crown,” she said at last.
Ser Criston inclined his head slightly. “That we are, my lady, though the lickspittles at court tell another story.”
“And which story might that be?” Her gaze remained upon the children, though her fingers tightened together for a breath.
Criston spoke more softly now, his voice pitched low, eyes flicking once to the hedges and paths to ensure no one lingered close enough to overhear.
“They say you are more blessed and more favored than the Queen herself. That the Seven have smiled upon you with two healthy sons, while Her Grace has known only sorrow and has given the king no true heir but one girl. They whisper of your father’s place of prestige, and of how your husband’s rise has lifted your station higher still. They speak of the power of the Hightowers at court, of green threading itself through black and red alike. They speak of the future king coming from your prince husband’s seed.”
Alicent pressed her lips together, the faintest crease forming between her brows. The words were not new to her. She had heard them murmured behind fans and cups of wine, seen them linger in sidelong glances.
Still, hearing them spoken aloud gave them weight. Weight that could bring them down, if the king ever gave credit to those words. From the looks of it, it was unlikely that the queen would bring forth another child and that indeed, Alicent’s eldest son will rise to be king after Daemon.
Yet Viserys had not openly named his young brother heir, in the hopes that Aemma will birth a boy any year now. And Daemon had made it time and time again clear that his brother was insulting him openly.
Ahead of them, Baelon seized Aemon by the sleeve and dragged him laughing across the grass, both boys giving chase to a bright-plumed bird that had dared to land too near them.
“They all say the same thing,” Alicent replied lightly at last, not giving credit to rumors, as true as they were. “And they all forget the same truth. We serve the Crown, Ser Criston. Nothing more.”
Criston hummed, neither agreeing nor disputing her words. She was thankful that he knew not to press matters.
Aemon broke free from his brother and ran toward them at full tilt, only to catch his foot upon a hidden root. He pitched forward, landing face-first in the grass with a startled cry. A breath later, the boy was already scrambling upright, wiping dirt from his nose with the back of his hand.
“Muña,” he declared, marching up to her with fierce determination, “can I have a sword? I’m a big boy now. Baelon says I can’t, but I want one.”
Alicent smiled down at him, indulgent and fond. “You shall have a sword when you are a man grown, my son.”
“But I am grown now!”
“Aemon, listen to my words. You will have a sword when you are grown, and your sire himself will place it in your hand.”
The boy’s lower lip jutted forward as he clenched his small fists. “I want Dark Sister,” he announced, outrage plain in every syllable. “But Baelon will get it because he’s older. That’s not fair!”
With that, he plopped down onto the grass, crossing his arms and pouting mightily, his silver hair falling into his eyes.
Alicent stepped toward him, skirts brushing the ground.
“Get up,” she said firmly. “Your sire will not like it if he hears you have behaved like a brat before your mother.”
Aemon did not budge.
She tried again, adding a note of sternness. “Your father will cane you, as he did last time, when he learns of this.”
“I don’t care,” Aemon muttered, chin trembling but stubborn.
“Will you upset your poor mother, then?” Alicent sighed, then allowed her shoulders to slump slightly, feigning sorrow.
Aemon looked up at her at once, his defiance faltering. “You’re upset, mama?”
“My sweet boy,” she said softly, “get up, so my heart may rest easy.”
The fight drained from him at once. He stood, and Alicent brushed the grass from his small black breeches and the backs of his legs, smoothing his doublet with practiced care.
“Are you upset with me, mama?” he asked in a tiny, uncertain voice.
She cupped his cheek, thumb warm against his skin. “Now that you are listening, you have gladdened my heart. Go play with your brother now, will you?”
Aemon nodded solemnly, kissed the back of her hand as he had been taught, and trudged back toward his brother with a sullen air that lasted no more than a heartbeat. Baelon was already showing him some marvel he had found, a large stick, and Aemon’s grievances were forgotten as quickly as they had come.
Alicent returned to the bench, exhaling softly.
She could scarcely believe how much mischief the younger one managed to conjure, as if he were three boys in one small body. Where Baelon had been thoughtful and careful even as a babe, Aemon burned bright and fast, demanding the world bend to his will.
“He is his father’s very image,” Cole said quietly.
“Seven save us then,” Alicent made an amused sound despite herself.
Alicent had been woken in the dead of the night by her mousy little maid, her voice scarcely louder than a breath, who informed her that the Prince was returning and had already crossed the outer yard of Maegor’s Holdfast.
The girl had looked half-afraid to wake her, as if she feared some sharp rebuke, but Alicent merely thanked her. There had been no need for alarm. Alicent had long since grown accustomed to these hours.
Indeed, she had formed the habit of being awake when her husband returned from his duties as Lord Commander of the City Watch. Daemon always complained of it.
He would grumble that she need not wait, that he was not a child in need of tending, that she should sleep and keep her strength. Yet his eyes, when they found her wakeful and waiting, betrayed him every time.
There was always relief there, and something softer still, something he would never voice in the light of day.
Alicent had learned early in their marriage that Daemon struggled to speak plainly of his feelings when such speech might expose him as vulnerable.
Words of comfort stuck in his throat, confessions were anathema to him when clothed in daylight and sobriety. Yet in the throes of passion, when the world narrowed to heat and breath and the rocking of their bed with his vigorous thrusts, he became another man altogether.
Then he praised her freely: called her a wonderful wife, a clever lady, a devoted mother, told her she was sharp-witted, the most beautiful woman in Westeros, indispensable. And sometimes, when his guard was entirely down, most of the time before he reached his completion, he would whisper that he loved her, barely audible, in High Valyrian.
It was a fragile confession carried on a shuddering breath, spoken as much to himself as to her.
So Alicent had the maid prepare her nightly tea before sending her away. She favored it warm and gentle, with milk and a pinch of crushed peach for sweetness. She sat upon the settee near the hearth, wrapped in a long pink nightgown, steam curling faintly from her cup as she sipped and waited.
The door to the bedchamber opened with a familiar sound, and Daemon entered, shoulders tense, hair loose about his face, the smell of the night clinging to him. His squire, Lyonel Hightower, Alicent’s nephew, was tending to him ever since George was knighted.
Though her lord husband had to stay up late into the night, Lyonel had been joyous to know he would squire under Daemon, and he never complained, singing high praises to his lord father Ormund and his grandsire Hobert about the Targaryen Prince.
Her youngest brother, George, had earned his spurs during the tourney at Maidenpool two years prior.
“Why are you awake?” he demanded at once, his tone rough with fatigue as his strange, colored purple-violet eyes took her in.
Alicent smiled over the rim of her cup, the ritual soothing her. “Because I wished to hear your voice, my dragon.”
He paused, surprise flickering across his god-like features, then amusement followed, quick and unguarded.
“Fourteen Hells,” he muttered, shaking his head, as a corner of his lips tilted up.
“Steaming water awaits you in the bathchamber,” she added gently.
Daemon pursed his lips, nodded once, and disappeared beyond the door. When he returned, some moments later, he had washed the city from his skin. He wore only a clean, long-sleeved black tunic that brushed his knees, his silver hair damp at the roots and loose around his shoulders.
He dropped heavily onto the settee beside her, the cushions sighing beneath his weight. Not for the first time, she felt lucky, for no other lady at court could boast of her husband’s handsomeness.
Her husband was a tall, lithe man, with a body carved for battle, undefeated as he had been in the lists and melee alike, a skilled swordsman, and the portrait of Valyria, with his strange colored eyes and silver-white hair. He looked like a god made flesh, and what a sight he was. Even his skin had a scent that made her purr.
“Tea?” Alicent asked, clearing her throat.
“If you will,” he replied, weariness thick in his voice. He played with his fingers in his lap, looking at them as if his mind was somewhere else.
“It is the kind I take,” she warned lightly, passing him a cup.
He snorted. “Hopefully not moontea.”
“As if that would do you any good.”
“Questioning my virtue?” Daemon squinted playfully at her.
“There is nothing left for me to question,” she returned dryly.
He barked out a laugh, then took a sip of the tea. His face twisted at the taste, but he swallowed it nonetheless and said nothing. Alicent watched him with fondness that bordered on ache.
“You seem displeased,” she observed quietly. Unfortunately, in the past years, after Viserys’ ascension, he had become more restless, and she feared that he had been holding back.
The Seven knew what would happen if he were to lose his composure. Her father had said much of the same to her, and she had to turn a blind ear to his counsel, little good it did her sire’s sage advice.
“I am not… or I ought not to be. Yet it feels as though my brother delights in making me run in circles. This position is beneath me, Alicent. Lord Commander of the City Watch,” Daemon exhaled slowly. Alicent realized that he was playing with the ring his father Baelon, gave him before he passed away.
She knew his feelings over the matter well. He despised the title of Lord Commander, loathed the endless reports and petitions, the disrupted schedule that would make him sleep in the evening more as he had to stay awake during the night.
He had thankfully entrusted much of the nightly grind to Captain Luthor Largent, but the weight of the office still pressed upon him.
“You command over two thousand men,” she tried to soothe him. What else could I say? I have no idea why Viserys has not named you Hand, she mused.
“To what end?” he snapped, then caught himself frowning. His voice lost al its bite. “During our grandsire’s reign, the Lord Commander of the City Watch never sat the Small Council. This is a slight. He dismissed me as Master of Laws, then as Master of Coin, and granted me this. Says I am too restless for the other offices. Father never said so, he always praised my work, especially as he entrusted me with many of the law-related petitions. Mayhap if I didn’t have you and our boys, then this office would not have bothered me, but when I patrol during the night, I tend to sleep during the day and I miss much of your routines. Not sure if that has changed something for Aemon, made him more prone to his fits.”
Aemon is your son, fire in his veins, the dragon’s blood running hot, she thought but spoke none of it. She could hear the old wound beneath his words, the sting of being passed over for the Handship.
What a moment that was, when Viserys had not named him Hand, I could barely sit straight in any chair or walk at a normal pace. The ladies at court had started walking at an ever slower pace, trying to emulate the Prince Daemon’s wife, she mused.
“Which makes it important,” Alicent countered gently, but she knew it was indeed a grave insult. “There has never been such a post upon the council. That alone makes it significant. And two thousand men loyal to you is no small thing.”
Daemon scoffed, though less fiercely now. “You always find a way to dress insult in fortune.”
“It is truth.” She reached out and rested her hand atop his.
Alicent watched him set his still-filled cup of tea upon the low table before them, noting the languor in his movements.
The faint steam curled upward and vanished, carrying with it the mingled scents of peach and herbs, soon overtaken by the more familiar essence of Daemon himself, leather, steel, and smoke.
The breath left her in a quiet sigh, unbidden, and she felt a slow warmth coil low within her, a remembered heat, patient and knowing.
She knew well how unmoored he had been in those months when her father still held the Handship and Viserys, had not named Daemon to any station of true power.
He had prowled the Keep like a caged thing then, restless, his temper quick to rise and just as quick to turn inward. Her husband had told her it was the gravest insult and she knew that he had spoken with her father once or twice, resulting in loud screams, yet her father still drew breath.
She knew if Daemon killed her father, there would be consequences, though she would not miss Otto much, nor would she weep deeply above his grave.
In those days, he had come to her bed often, again and again, as though seeking anchor in her body when the world refused him purchase. Alicent had welcomed him each time, though she had wondered more than once whether a child might come of it, for he had scarcely left her side for entire moons.
Yet even in that fevered season, he had drawn a line he would not cross. He had told her, blunt as ever, that he would not sire a child in anger or spite, that no babe of theirs would be born of resentment toward his brother or wounded pride.
At the time, the words had struck her as strange, even severe, but now they lingered in her mind as a quiet testament to the care he bore her, and their children, and even those yet unmade.
It had been a balm to her, that knowledge. She had seen too well what came of a man who did not temper desire with consideration.
The King, for all his gentleness of spirit, had all but bled poor Aemma dry with hope and duty, each pregnancy stealing a little more of her strength, each loss carving a deeper hollow in her eyes.
Alicent had once spoken of it to her father, remarking that Viserys would drive his wife into an early grave if the gods did not intervene. Otto had merely looked up from his desk, his expression unreadable, and said that it seemed so.
After that, Alicent had prayed devoutly, or so it appeared. She knelt with the rest, murmured the proper words, lit the candles. Yet in her heart, she knelt only for her own, for Daemon and their sons, for the life they had built and the lives they might yet bring forth.
Health, strength, and wits, she had asked of the Seven, again and again.
Now she watched her husband stare into the fire, and she smoothed her hand over his thigh in a gesture so familiar it needed no thought. He did not startle. He never did.
“Have you need of me?” she asked softly.
He turned his head at last, one pale brow lifting, amusement kindling in his eyes.
“Are you offering yourself, little Hightower?” he said, voice low, almost lazy.
“A pretty young maiden, at your disposal,” Alicent smiled and tilted her head, feigning innocence she had long since abandoned.
He snorted, then sighed, the sound easing out of him. “You would have to ride me. I am in no mood-”
She hummed, cutting him off gently. “Then if you are in no mood, we can simply sleep.”
He shook his head. “Not that. I meant I am in no mood to take you for my pleasure. If we do this, it should be for yours. Use me, take what you will.”
She stared at him then, chewing her bottom lip, her gaze searching his face. There was no jest there now, no challenge.
Only offering. Understanding. The ache he carried had not faded, not even almost two years on from Viserys’s ascension, and though he bore it with bravado before the world, she felt its weight keenly when they were alone. My poor lord husband, she thought.
She set her own empty cup aside and moved without another word, settling astride him with a grace born of familiarity. Her hands came to his face, cupping his shaven cheeks, and she kissed him, slow and sensual.
His hands roamed at once, over her bent legs, up the curve of her hips, and when he smacked her backside playfully, she laughed into his mouth, the sound swallowed between them as he fondled her rear with gusto.
“Should we try for another, hm?” He groaned softly against her lips, his fingers digging into her clothed backside.
She broke the kiss only long enough to brush her mouth over his aquiline nose. “I would have to think on it.”
“Less thinking,” he murmured before licking her bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth, “more fucking.” He huffed a laugh and pushed the nightgown past her hips with a practiced hand. “Fourteen Flames, you are breathtaking, such shapely thighs you have and this arse,” he smacked her harder, making her yelp. “The finest arse in Westeros. The quality of it, hm, surely they make the finest things in the Reach.”
“Daemon,” she chided, though the reprimand held no real heat as she ground on his lap, eager to feel the hardened length, while he kissed the column of her throat, her hands on his chest feeling the hard muscles shift beneath her palms. “You will cease with such crass words.”
He nipped at her jaw, teeth gentle but insistent as he bucked his hips. “Oh, my pious little wife. If I did not know you better, I would say my words have made you all the more eager. You’re most pliant when I speak of debauchery, of how you were made to take my cock.”
“How kindly you speak to me,” she replied dryly, though her breath betrayed her as he smacked her rear again, the sting making her toes curl in pleasure.
He closed his eyes as she settled more firmly upon his lap, then opened them again, smiling up at her, something open and almost boyish in his expression.
“I want another babe,” he said, not demanding now, but hopeful.
She huffed, even as she leaned into his touch, their foreheads touching. “Very demanding you are, my dragon.”
His mouth trailed along her throat, nipping, biting, the sharp sting of his teeth soothed by the hot press of his tongue. “You know how much I am, especially when I’ve a mind to fill your womb with my seed.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?” she moaned as his hand moved to the apex of her spread thighs, his thumb flicking over her pearl, then dragged it lazily over her slick slit. She shuddered, a debauched sound spilling past her lips as her eyes closed.
"Shhh." He hushed her with a low murmur, his mouth brushing her ear, his breath warm against her skin. His hands were firm as he then gripped her waist, holding her exactly where he wanted her. He moved his hips slightly to push his tunic up his hips, setting the hard appendage on his belly.
He gripped her rear and made her grind on him, his appendage slotted between her legs, letting her arousal coat his length.
"Daemon-" she pleaded, her fingers tightening in his silver-white hair as her forehead was pressed to the side of his neck.
He leaned his head back momentarily, basking in the warmth and slickness of her cunt, making him groan. He hastly pulled her hips up, his length standing at attention between them. The Rogue had no need to hold his hardness with one hand, as his lady wife guided the tip to her entrance and he simply tilted his hips to breach her.
Daemon groaned as she sat fully onto him, and he smacked her plump arse, his lip twitching at the sensation of her walls fluttering around him. He knew how much she liked to be slapped across her rear.
His hands tightened on her hips, guiding her into a slow, torturous rhythm.
Alicent let out a shaky breath, delicious sensations spreading warmth throughout her body as his cock rubbed a spot inside of her that made her toes curl.
She dutifully moved against him, her body following the silent demand of his hands. He enjoyed when she rode him as if he were her mount. She recalled the first time he had demanded it from her, and how she had terribly blushed, until she felt the immense pleasure such a position brought her.
For a man who was known for his temperament, he guided her movements with the sole purpose of bringing her pleasure, as she practically scooted continuously over him, her little pearl of flesh rubbing on his pelvic bone, the trimmed silver hairs tickling her in the most delicious way.
"Daemon-" she whined.
"They make some fine cunts in the Reach," he declared proudly as he swatted her rear, which made her cry out. "My perfect lady wife, my very own cock addicted tart, you know what a needy whore you are for some pain, makes your cunt tighter and your peak sweeter, doesn't it? Of course it does, I taught you to take pleasure with a bite of pain," he said as he smacked her once more, harder this time, enough to make her wince and scream.
That unraveled her, walls fluttering around intrusion as she tried to break free from his iron grip and the length that punished her deliciously from within. She cried out on his shoulder as he moved her still, but not for her benefit now, but for his own, bouncing her up and down his member as he fancied.
She was most tender now, Daemon reckoned, but he could not care, knowing she would not deny him his pleasure even at the expense of a few moments of discomfort on her part. And he knew she loved that discomfort, he taught her to love it.
The settee creaked with their coupling, the sound almost lost beneath their labored breaths. She braced herself on his forearms, nails biting into his skin, and she was sure her nails broke the pale flesh, littering it with red.
Moments later, he let out a low, pleased sound, the tension bleeding from his body as he spent inside of her, the length twitching as his hips jerked upwards. Alicent let out a strangled moan, slapping his shoulder a few times, trying to break free from his grip as she gasped for air.
“Daemon, I can’t-” she whined, tears gathering in her eyes as he still bounced her, if only lightly. It was too much for her.
“Shh, my good little Hightower, shh, it’s all over, you can rest now,” he cupped the back of her head, the same way he did to little Aemon when he threw one of his fits, and with the other hand, he patted her rear lovingly.
Alicent shuddered, breathless, her skin damp with sweat as she rested against him, limp in his embrace, her mind vacant of any thoughts and a delicious tenderness in her cunny, his half-hard length still inside her.
The morning was clear and bright, the sky a pale blue washed thin by a brisk wind off Blackwater Bay, when Alicent set out for the Dragonpit with her children in a wheelhouse.
Baelon was seated across from her and Aemon next to her. They were escorted by their sworn men and Ser Criston Cole, while little Princess Rhaenyra sat beside little Baelon with her stern and sour-faced septa across from the little princess.
The girl was seven now, all plump cheeks and purple eyes, her silver-gold hair braided neatly, though already loose strands escaped to flutter about her face, chatting with her betrothed as she always did.
Alicent was pleased by how naturally Rhaenyra and Baelon had taken to one another. They shared lessons in history and letters, sat side by side at supper, and were encouraged, gently but firmly, to see one another as companions rather than rivals.
Alicent made certain of it. Bonds, once forged in childhood, were not easily broken, especially with the betrothal set into place.
If Viserys never sired a son (and the gods had thus far seen fit to deny him one) then her sweet Baelon would one day wear the crown, after Daemon. The thought was a comforting one.
She allowed herself the smallest of smiles before schooling her features once more.
They had come to the Dragonpit to meet Prince Daemon, who awaited them. Her lord husband had promised a flight and the promise alone had set the children alight with anticipation.
Rhaenyra turned to Baelon, eyes bright. “If you could claim a dragon, which one would it be?”
Baelon’s brow furrowed as he considered the question with a seriousness beyond his years.
“I think, that I would have liked Vhagar. She was our grandsire’s mount, and since I bear his name, it would have been fitting. But our cousin Laena has claimed her.”
Rhaenyra’s mouth twisted into a pout. “It is not fair. She should have claimed another, like Dreamfyre. You deserved Vhagar.”
Baelon smiled sheepishly, glancing down at his boots with his mismatched eyes. “My sire says it is not we who choose the dragon, but the other way around. So I do not dwell on it. Perhaps Vermithor, or Silverwing. Dreamfyre as well. Any of them would be an honor as long as one of them will accept me.”
Rhaenyra screeched with sudden excitement. “If I had not bonded with Syrax, I would have claimed a wild dragon, Cannibal, from Dragonstone. Uncle Daemon says he is fearsome. I would have been like Aerea, who claimed Balerion.”
Aemon, chewing on an apple at Alicent’s side, scowled.
“Daor,” he said around a mouthful. “I claim Balerion.”
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes with dramatic flair. “Balerion is dead, Aemon.”
“Nuncle Viserys killed him.”
Rhaenyra gasped, affronted. “No, he did not! My papa said Balerion was old. He died of old age.”
“Daor!” Aemon shouted.
Alicent laid a gentle hand atop her son’s head.
“You will not raise your voice to a princess,” she said firmly. “It is unbecoming. Do not forget your manners.”
Rhaenyra, emboldened, shouted back, “Yes, it is unbecoming, and you are a meanie!”
Alicent drew in a breath. “That will be quite enough,” she said in common tongue, her tone brooking no argument. “All of you.”
The septa cleared her throat sharply. “Princess, you are not some wench of Flea Bottom to shout as though you are selling fish. You are a princess of the blood. You will act your station and remember your lessons in etiquette.”
Rhaenyra stuck out her tongue in defiance.
The septa did not hesitate. She produced a small cane and rapped the girl smartly across the palm. Rhaenyra yelped and at once fell silent, though her glare promised storms to come.
The septa leaned close. “And no glaring.”
Of the three children, Baelon alone sat quietly throughout, hands clasped in his lap. Alicent’s smile returned, soft and proud.
“If you all behave,” she said lightly, looking at all of them, “Prince Daemon will take you on a ride.”
The children cheered as one, the quarrel forgotten in an instant.
“I will ride first with papa,” Aemon declared.
“Daor,” Rhaenyra said, crossing her arms. “I will. I am a princess, and princesses go first.”
“Daor,” Aemon shot back, the apple nearly falling from his tiny hand. “You go ride your stupid Syrax.”
Before the words were fully out, Alicent had seized him by the ear.
“Your father will be displeased,” she warned, “if he hears you speak to your cousin in such a manner. Have I spoken to a wall just before? Be a good boy and have some decorum.”
Aemon’s bottom lip wobbled. He leaned into her side, arms crossed, staring sullenly at the floor of the wheelhouse. He resumed angrily eating his apple.
Alicent watched from within the shelter of the wheelhouse, its wooden frame shaded with red and black curtains that stirred faintly in the warm breath of the Dragonpit, and the queer smell of dragons and their droppings.
From where she sat, she could see the wide steps before the pit clearly, and upon them Rhaenyra and Baelon sat side by side, a thick woolen blanket spread beneath them to keep the stone’s chill from seeping into their bones and keeping their riding leathers clean.
The children leaned close, heads tilted skyward, their faces lit with awe as they followed the crimson streak of Caraxes cutting through the blue.
Daemon had taken Aemon first, as he always did, perhaps because the younger boy begged the loudest, or perhaps because Daemon saw too much of himself in that quick-tempered, fearless child.
Caraxes had swept low over the rooftops of King’s Landing, his long neck arcing like a living blade, his wings casting fleeting shadows over streets and spires alike. Even from the ground, Alicent had felt the tremor of his passage in her chest, as though the dragon’s heart beat in time with her own.
Now Caraxes was a distant shape against the sky, circling wide as Daemon brought him back toward the pit, and the children on the steps spoke in hushed excitement, their words drifting faintly through the open space.
“I think Cannibal would suit you,” Rhaenyra was saying, her voice bright, her chin lifted with conviction. “Uncle Daemon says he is like the Black Dread, and that is a good dragon for a future king.”
Baelon turned to her, smiling softly, his expression thoughtful rather than dazzled by the idea.
“I believe Cannibal is too wild. He does not come near people, and he would likely be violent.”
Rhaenyra nodded, considering this. She liked how carefully Baelon chose his words in the Common Tongue, each sentence measured, almost too formal, and she liked even more when he spoke to her in High Valyrian, his accent precise and earnest.
Even when speaking in Common Tongue, he had a heavy accent and she liked it too.
“I suppose,” she said, slipping into the old tongue without effort. “I do not fault you for not wishing to claim a wild dragon. It could burn you.”
Baelon’s smile widened, pleased by her understanding. “I think Vermithor is formidable enough. He seems a strong dragon.”
“And he is bronze,” Rhaenyra added, eyes shining.
“The Bronze Fury,” Baelon agreed. “Yes.”
“Grandsire Jaehaerys rode him.”
Baelon nodded solemnly.
“And Papa rode Balerion,” Rhaenyra continued, “before he died of old age.”
“He could not even fit within the Dragonpit,” he added.
Rhaenyra giggled. “Yes, he was too big. Imagine how large he must have been.”
“It is said his wings could blot out the sun,” Baelon replied, awed.
As the children spoke, Syrax was led out before the pit, her golden scales gleaming like polished gold.
The dragonkeepers moved with practiced care, fastening the saddle that Daemon had gifted Rhaenyra on her nameday, their voices low and commanding as they worked. Alicent watched them, one hand resting upon the other in her lap, her thoughts divided between pride and unease.
By then, Caraxes had returned, his shadow sweeping over the ground as he descended. Daemon slid from the saddle with his usual easy grace, Aemon clinging to him, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with triumph.
Ser Criston Cole stepped forward at once, his posture alert, though his expression softened at the sight of the boy’s delight.
Alicent rose to meet them, smoothing her skirts as she walked to her husband who gave her a quick peck on the lips and a wink as he turned to take Baelon.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked, smiling down at her youngest.
Aemon nodded vigorously.
“Yes. Papa made Caraxes swoop, and we were upside down.” He paused, then added with suspicious casualness, “I threw up on my doublet.”
Alicent’s brows knit at once. “You did?” She drew him closer, inspecting the garment. “Come, then. You need changing.”
Ser Criston fell into step beside her as she led Aemon back toward the wheelhouse.
“Next time,” Alicent said gently but firmly, “you will tell your father that if you have eaten beforehand, he cannot do such things upon Caraxes.”
Aemon giggled, delight dancing in his eyes. “I lied when he asked me, I told him I only had an apple,” he confessed. “I like being upside down. Caraxes likes it too.”
Ser Criston remained by the wheelhouse while the Septa spoke with a guard about something.
Alicent clicked her tongue.
“Lying is no good. You should never lie to your father. I never lie to him, and he never lies to me. You would do well to follow that example.”
Aemon nodded solemnly, chastened. “Yes, mama.”
She tapped his nose lightly with her finger, coaxing a giggle from him. “Now come. Lets change you.”
She heard Caraxes take flight once more. Once the soiled doublet was removed and replaced, Alicent was smoothing the fresh fabric when raised voices carried across the pit.
The dragonkeepers were shouting to one another, their tones sharp with urgency, hands gesturing skyward. Alicent straightened at once, her heart giving a sudden, uneasy thud.
Ser Criston’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as he turned, scanning the open space.
“Perhaps you should remain inside the wheelhouse, my lady,” he said quietly.
Alicent frowned but ushered Aemon in, despite his protests.
“Stupid Syrax can fly,” Aemon muttered, pouting.
“What did you say?” Alicent asked absently, her attention already drawn elsewhere.
Aemon pointed upward. Alicent followed the line of his finger and gasped.
Syrax was airborne.
The golden dragon wheeled above the pit, her wings catching the sunlight as she climbed, Princess Rhaenyra seated proudly upon her back. For a heartbeat, Alicent could do nothing but stare. The girl sat straight and sure, small against her young dragon, yet undeniably a dragonrider.
“Oh, Seven save us,” Alicent murmured. “Viserys and Aemma will have fits.”
Syrax circled the Dragonpit once, twice, her movements almost playful. Alicent’s gaze never left her, even as her pulse quickened.
A shadow passed overhead as Caraxes circled the Draonpit once more. Syrax turned, following him, the two shapes cutting patterns through the sky like living sigils of fire and blood.