Chapter Text
The sky was clear, and the rays of the sun cascaded down, illuminating the tourney grounds where the Targaryen banner flapped in the faint wind. Spring was upon them; the chill of winter was slowly receding, the leaves on the trees shone green, and birds chirped, but Rhaenyra's heart remained as cold as the North. The biting fear of her mother's fate clawed at her heart—every breath, every swallow, felt like sand coursing through her throat.
Her fingers clenched the red silk of her gown as the crowd roared when a knight from some noble house fell from his mount. Rhaenyra paid them no mind, her thoughts wandering to her father's empty seat beside her. She had seen the way his jovial expression turned grave as the Hand whispered something in his ear. Her dear father, who loved feasts and tourneys, had left then, not even glancing at Rhaenyra for a moment. They both knew it was too soon; none of them were prepared when her mother's pain began before dawn.
The Tourney of the Heir, as the lords called it, was supposed to be a triumph for their family. After all, it was after so many years that her mother had carried a babe this far, much to their relief. But perhaps it was a poor jape by the hands of the gods. Her mother had gone into labor too soon—a moon too soon. The babe wasn't supposed to arrive for another month, yet here they were, her mother fighting to bring her sibling into the world while the rest of them feasted in the honor of a child yet born.
Rhaenyra swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth, her lips paling as she pressed them together. She could not show it; the court of vipers could not see her falter. Her eyes, a brilliant lilac inherited from her mother, flicked upward. The bright sun blinded her momentarily, and blinking back tears, Rhaenyra watched it for a second. It was midday. Her heart seized with something close to panic; there was still no news from the Keep.
The faint rustling of fabrics in the stands jolted Rhaenyra out of her thoughts. She looked around to find the others rising for their King. With her heart hammering like a bird in a cage, she stood. Her legs felt as if they were made of steel. With a shuddering breath, she turned toward her father as he entered the stands. There was a smile on his face—a relief that made him look younger than his years.
For a heartbeat, her spirit soared. Her mother had lived. Her mother had succeeded in giving birth to her sibling.
But then, she noticed the way her father avoided looking at her. She noticed his red-rimmed eyes and the splatter of blood on his sleeve. Her heart seized; her throat felt tight.
No, it can't be, Rhaenyra thought desperately. The smile on her own face felt stretched and uncomfortable. She clenched her hands together, resting them above her stomach.
"My lords and ladies," Viserys spoke. The restless murmur that had started with the arrival of the King quieted. "Today, the Gods have blessed my Queen and I with not one, but two children." He paused, letting the words settle, before he spoke again. "But the trials of childbirth were not easy. The strain on her fragile body seeped away my Queen's life force."
Rhaenyra's world tilted. Her breath caught in her throat as she stumbled, her feet tangling in her crimson skirts. A hand shot out, steadying her.
"Princess," Alicent Hightower whispered. Her rosy complexion looked ashen, her eyes wide with disbelief as she held the Princess upright.
"Alicent," Rhaenyra shuddered. As her father continued with his announcement, her composure completely broke, and she sobbed into the older girl's shoulder.
───────
The Red Keep, which was supposed to burst with festivities—with the King at the helm, his pregnant Queen beside him, her face alight with happiness, and their only daughter with them, awaiting and celebrating the impending birth of the Heir—was instead shrouded in misery.
Black drapes hung from the walls, tapestries were covered in mourning black, servants scurried in the shadows, lords bent their necks in what appeared to be sorrow, and ladies dabbed their dry eyes.
They all whispered the same thing. The Queen had gone into labor too early, her body and spirit already broken by previous losses, surrendering under the burden of birthing two children. They talked about how the Queen was cut open, just like Queen Alyssa, to retrieve the younger babe from the half-dead Queen.
The children, born too early, a moon before they were said to arrive. A surprise. The Maesters confirmed the existence of the first child; the second was never anticipated, yet they came. Small and fragile, yet they cried like a dragon.
The King jealously protected them, no word about them escaping except about their survival. Midwives and guards surrounded the nursery, and Septas lined the door, kneeling and praying for the children to live. The Keep resembled a crypt. With the Queen gone, the King paranoid and grieving, and the Heir's life lying on a thin balance, the vipers of the court waited, lying in the shadows, waiting for the scale to drop, to push their sisters, daughters, nieces, or cousins into the Queen’s place to elevate their blood.
Once upon a time, Rhaenyra would have raged at this. She might have sneered at them, called them vipers, but now, the world seemed bleak. Her tears had dried out, the ashes of her mother's pyre still clung to her lungs, and every inhale reminded her of the smell of burning flesh, of what once was her mother.
It was Lady Alicent Hightower, her mother's youngest lady-in-waiting and Rhaenyra's dearest friend, who found her.
At six-and-ten, Alicent was a beauty, her gentle demeanor and loveliness attracting many suitors. But Ser Otto never gave the blessing to any of the men to approach his daughter.
Even now, in the same mourning gown that she wore in the morrow when the pyre burned, and with red-rimmed eyes, Alicent looked as if the Maiden had blessed her.
"Princess," the Lady began, her hand reaching toward the towel laid out by the servants. Dipping it in the bowl of water, she gently wiped Rhaenyra's face.
Rhaenyra sat silently as Alicent wiped her face, the only sounds being that of the water dripping as she wrung the towel.
"Tell me, Alicent," Rhaenyra began as Alicent set the towel down. "Does it get any better?"
The older girl's eyes flicked to her, and something in those intense brown eyes made Rhaenyra squirm. "With time, you get used to it." Her expression was gentle, unlike the prideful and sharp one that she wore for the courtiers. "I, myself, was nine namedays old when I lost my mother to the birthing bed. But, Princess, do you know what helped me?"
Rhaenyra opened her mouth before pausing. "What?" she asked hoarsely.
"My brother Gwayne," Alicent replied.
And it took Rhaenyra a moment to connect the name to the face: Gwayne Hightower, the youngest son of the Hand, the child that Lady Hightower died to bring into the world.
"How?" Rhaenyra wondered. How could Alicent love a babe that killed her mother? How could she look into the eyes of the babe and not see the murderer of her mother? Rhaenyra herself could not even think about the two babes in the royal nursery without feeling the bile climb up her throat.
Alicent smiled, a knowing smile, as if she knew what Rhaenyra was feeling. "Because Gwayne was innocent. It was not his fault."
In the end, Alicent persuaded Rhaenyra to visit the nursery. The black mourning gown whispered against the stone floors as the door closed behind her. She glanced around to find her Aunt Amanda Arryn sleeping on a chair; near her, a crib rested, and in it, two babes slept.
Rhaenyra felt her heart clench. Not two, but one. The whole realm expected a child, not two; the royal nursery was prepared as such. With the twins being just a day old, and with the funeral of her mother, the second crib was still not arranged.
With hollow steps, Rhaenyra approached the crib. The children that had caused her mother's death slept without any care, untouched by the grief their very existence caused.
A boy and a girl.
Alicent had told her the boy, the elder one, was named Baelon after her grandsire. The younger one, the girl, was the one who caused her mother to be cut open all because she was too weak to birth another child, her life slipping away. The accursed girl that her father wanted her to name.
A soft rustle caused Rhaenyra to freeze. Turning her head, she found a nursemaid with her head bowed. "The one in the red swaddle is the young Prince, Princess. And the blue one is the young Princess."
Rhaenyra hummed, her hand reaching inside, brushing her fingers against the soft cheek of the girl.
Visenya.
A name fitting for a Queen. A name cursed and revered at the same time. Rhaenyra had always wanted a sister; she wanted to name her Visenya, after the very woman she looked up to. Her father knew it. This was why he had left the babe unnamed for her.
Rhaenyra smiled. It was not a sweet smile, but one sharpened at the edges with bitterness. This child didn't deserve the name; no matter what Alicent said, this babe was not innocent.
Gwayne's birth never caused Lady Alerie to be butchered. She simply died, her body too weak, too broken, as the fever burned through her.
But this girl... this girl caused her mother pain. This girl who would once wear the crown promised to Rhaenyra.
She was no fool. Her father and grandsire had always wanted Rhaenyra to marry her brother—to become his sister-wife and Queen. But her brother never came. By the time Rhaenyra was eight namedays old, and her father the King for two years, she knew that she would never have a brother to wed.
She'll never be the Queen, unless her mother fails to give birth to a son.
Rhaenyra would never admit it, but she had prayed in the darkness of her room for the birth of a sister, or for her uncle to become the King, the official heir, so she could become the wife and Queen to her beloved uncle.
But now, it was an impossible dream.
Her father had his dear heir.
Little Baelon.
She'll never wed him. She was too old at two-and-ten. By the time Baelon would be old enough to marry, she'll be too old to bear him his heirs. The only option left for him was the little girl.
Rhaenyra swallowed the bitterness, her stomach churning at the thought. A thought, unbridled and cruel, came to her mind.
Viserra. The most beautiful daughter of the Old King and his Queen. A wanton woman who snuck into her grandsire's bed to force his hand, to become the Queen. A woman who died foolishly.
Viserra who loved her brother Baelon. Viserra who wished to be his Queen, but died a useless death, forgotten and buried, a dragonless wyrm.
"Viserra," Rhaenyra spoke aloud. Her smile was genuine and sweet, unlike the bitterness simmering in her heart. She turned towards the nursemaid. "Tell my father that I named my dear sister, Viserra."
Without a glance towards the babes, Rhaenyra nodded at her, casting a final glance at her aunt who should have stayed with Rhaenyra and mourned, but instead stayed with the children, and swept away from the room in a flurry of black silks.
───────
Back then, Rhaenyra never knew that her actions would haunt her for her lifetime. Angry at her father, at the world, and more importantly at the babes her mother died for, she cursed her only sister, nigh a day old, with a name that would haunt her for a lifetime.
Rhaenyra, spiteful and grieving, ensured that the name for the little girl would spread across the whole Red Keep, and by the time dawn arrived and her father was informed of the name she selected for her younger sister, it would be too late to change it.
Young Viserra Targaryen would forever be saddled with the name of a dead daughter of the Old King, a notorious villainess who coveted what belonged to others.
What Rhaenyra had never anticipated was her father’s rage. She was the Realm’s Delight, beloved by her family, especially her father and uncle. She had never imagined her father storming into her chambers the first thing in the morning. It was then that she was reminded of how Viserys Targaryen had claimed the Black Dread, and it was the first time her father had laid a hand on her. Her face, once spotless, now bore a thin scar caused by her father’s ring.
What started as spiteful jealousy led to permanent repercussions. Rhaenyra, once favoured by her father, now fell from his favour. With the King’s favour gone, the lords and ladies who once buzzed around her like annoying flies stopped coming towards her. To them, she was another Princess who fell from the King’s favour.
But perhaps the most painful was Alicent’s reaction. Her mother’s youngest lady-in-waiting and her dear friend—the only one who stayed, except Aunt Amanda, who stayed in King's Landing only to take care of the children that the Queen left behind—Alicent was disgusted at Rhaenyra, refusing to talk to her or acknowledge her unless required. Rhaenyra lost her only friend in the Keep. With her, Aunt Amanda also turned her back on her; her aunt was also disgusted at Rhaenyra’s actions, calling her a disgrace to Aemma’s memory.
The year following the Heir’s Tourney was desolate for Rhaenyra.
Every person she once was close to turned away from her, their focus revolving around the new Prince and Princess.
The Golden Twins, the Realm called them, for the dawn they brought after a long time of uncertainty. With their birth, the succession was secure, and the King, who was lost after the death of his beloved Queen, smiled after the survival and the continuous improvement of the twins were confirmed.
And the day—the day she lost her mother—was celebrated because the precious Heir was born.
A year had passed since.
The Realm celebrated the twins' turning one. Instead of the Realm mourning the first anniversary of the Queen’s death, they celebrated. Banners of the Royal family draped across the halls, servants milled around, and melodious music reverberated through the Throne Room. The lords and ladies danced, and the tables groaned under the weight of the delicacies prepared by the finest cooks in the Realm.
The Iron Throne loomed over them, and under its shadow sat the royal family. Young Baelon and Viserra had long since been sent away to their chambers; only Rhaenyra and her father remained at the table. Her uncle was away for the War in the Stepstones. A hand clamped on her arm, the strong grip causing Rhaenyra to hiss in pain.
“Must you sulk on such a day?” Father hissed, his violet eyes, the same as hers, not soft, but hard. His eyes roved over her clothes—a mourning black, fitting for such a day, the day she lost her mother.
The chasm between them grew larger as the days passed.
Father sighed. He released her arm, took his glass, and sipped his wine.
“Your mother was beloved by me,” Father murmured, and for a moment, the lines on his face seemed deeper, his eyes shadowed with grief. “I mourn her every day, Rhaenyra, I do. But that doesn't mean that I would abandon my duties. You are a Princess of the Realm; you must behave befitting of such a station.”
Rhaenyra swallowed as her father turned away to talk to another lord who came to give his congratulations.
She glanced around, feeling more alone than ever.
It was then that her father stood up.
“Today marks a day of great joy and sorrow,” he began, his voice loud and clear as the hall seemed to stop. “We lost a great Queen, but our Queen left us with a legacy.” Rhaenyra resisted the urge to flinch when his hand came to grip her shoulder. “Queen Aemma gave me three pure Valyrian children. Each is perfect and unique. Today, we celebrate her great sacrifice; today, we celebrate the birth of my heir and his sister.”
The lords banged their hands on the tables.
Father paused, his smile intact, his crimson doublet threaded with gold, glowing in the low light of the Throne Room.
“To honour the sacrifice of my late wife,” he began again as the hall fell silent, every person's eye resting on him. And Father never flinched; his voice remained as steady as ever. “I have decided to betroth my son, Prince Baelon, and his sister, Princess Viserra. They shall marry, and when the time comes, they will rule the realm together.”
The hall roared in happiness.
This—this was not just a name day celebration, but an announcement, a carefully arranged play for the lords and ladies of the Realm. Today, the King effectively secured the succession of the Iron Throne.
Rhaenyra remained seated, her hands gripping her black skirts, and a smile graced her face. Her cheeks pulled, and her eyes watered at the effort to look happy at the announcement.
Father chuckled, his hand squeezing her shoulder before he removed it from there. He raised his hand, his gold rings glinting as the room fell silent once again.
“With this, I want to say that without a Queen—who is the mother of a Realm, the steady hand behind the King—I find myself alone and weary. So, I have decided to take another wife,” he paused, letting the words be carried away. “I am in need of a Queen who would not be just the Realm's mother, but a mother to my young children too. Who would raise the young Prince and Princess to be fine rulers one day.”
He again paused as murmurs erupted. Every person wondered who would be such a lady who would bind herself to the King. The King who had made sure that the son from his first marriage would be King after him—a woman who would give birth to spares, and raise another woman's children as her own.
The King had affirmed the succession and warned his future wife's family that their blood would not sit on the throne.
Rhaenyra felt her smile slip at the admission. She glanced at her father, and the same bitter feeling that had been a companion for the past year arose within her. She glanced around the hall, desperately seeking the gaze of the Arryns, the delegations of the Vale, but no one seemed discontent.
In fact, they seemed accepting of the situation. As if her mother were nothing but a relic of the past.
They don't care about Mother, Rhaenyra realised with a start. They cared about a future King with the blood of the Vale. A King who was now promised to them, along with a Queen.
Clenching her jaw, she looked around, her eyes then landing on the table with the Reach lords. She saw the anticipatory gleam in Lord Hobert Hightower's eyes, the way Alicent glowed with contentment, but what caused her to pause was the pride on Otto Hightower's face as he sat surrounded by other Hightowers.
“With much consideration, I have decided to take the Lady Alicent Hightower as my wife. Three moons from today, we shall marry in the Sept of Remembrance,” Father said, beaming, and with a smile that was once reserved for her mother, he turned towards the Reach table.
Alicent smiled gracefully. A picture of a maiden blessed by the Gods. The silver embroidery on her dove-grey gown glowed.
She stepped forward as Father extended his hand. “My Lady,” he said fondly, gently kissing her offered hand as he helped her to stand beside him.
“My King,” Alicent smiled demurely, her brown eyes looking soft.
A love match, Rhaenyra realised as ice crept into her veins.
The King and his future Queen presented a handsome pair. The Targaryen King with his silver hair gleaming beneath the Conqueror’s crown like a halo, and the Highborn Lady from the Reach, with her gentle beauty, and her hair that shone like a river of rich auburn.
Rhaenyra swallowed, a traitorous tear escaping her eye as the gathered people roared with approval.
───────
Queen Alicent proved to be everything her predecessor, Queen Aemma, was not.
With the announcement of the upcoming marriage, the court flocked around the Lady. She was no longer merely the daughter of the Hand, but the intended of the King. The Velaryons had bristled at their blood being passed over for the daughter of a landless knight—no matter that the said knight was the second most powerful man in the realm. They had demanded repercussions for being slighted, but after a short meeting with the King, Princess Rhaenys, representing the house she married into and her Lord Husband, left the capital.
After that small hiccup, the preparations happened seamlessly. House Hightower, one of the oldest and wealthiest houses, spared no expense. The wedding, later to be known as the Silver Wedding for the bride’s silver gown, would be remembered for ages.
The then-Lady was richly dressed in silver, befitting the colors of a maiden house. The fabric gleamed like moonlight, small diamonds decorated the hem and neck of the gown, and pearls draped over the bodice. With her auburn hair piled high, the future Queen looked like a vision sent from the gods.
That night, the King and his new Queen, a gold crown gleaming atop her hair, danced for the realm to see. For the first time in a year, the King looked youthful, his joy palpable to everyone in attendance.
In the moons that followed, the shadow of the late Queen Aemma that hung around the castle dissipated. Queen Alicent took to her queenly duties as a duck does to water. Clever, charming, and politically astute, she earned the favor of even the most dour lords.
The Queen took care of the children; she was often found in the gardens after court ended, watching the young Prince and Princess play on blankets. The young royals had even taken a liking to their stepmother, following her like ducklings. Even Rhaenyra herself was sought out by the Queen, as a friendship that had broken slowly started to mend.
The marriage itself proved fruitful. Six moons after the wedding, Alicent announced that she was with child.
And Rhaenyra again found herself alone, as the attention of the court diverted entirely to the Queen once more. The bitterness which had slowly receded once again arose within her.
Three moons later, the very event that Rhaenyra had dreaded her entire life arrived.
Days after her fourteenth name day, she woke up with blood staining her sheets. She had officially flowered, becoming a woman in the eyes of the realm.
The news spread fast. Her father was overwhelmed by how quickly she had grown, hugging her and expressing sorrow that her mother was not there to support her during such a moment.
Alicent, meanwhile, remained absent. It was the next day before Rhaenyra was finally called into her solar.
Rhaenyra arrived to see Alicent seated on a cushioned chair, the faint swell of her stomach visible under her black and red skirt. Rhaenyra could see that the pregnancy had not been gentle on the Queen; her skin looked paler, her eyes were wary, and her face looked a little gaunt. Yet she remained regal, the rubies that decorated her neck and ears glinting as the sunlight poured through the large windows.
“Rhaenyra,” Alicent called, a small smile on her face as a maid filled the cups on the table. “Have a seat.”
Warily, Rhaenyra sat herself across from the Queen. The strange ache in her back, lingering since her moonblood came yesterday, caused her to wince. Alicent's observant eyes caught the movement, and the Queen smiled in sympathy.
“Drink,” she nodded at the steaming cup placed in front of her, picking up her own. “It helps with the pain.”
Rhaenyra warily picked up the cup. Sipping it, she felt the warm tea soothe her insides.
“You are now a woman, Rhaenyra,” Alicent began. “As the eldest woman in the family, the responsibility lies on my shoulders to ready you for the future that awaits you.”
“Future?” Rhaenyra echoed, her eyes squinting at the Queen.
“Yes, future,” Alicent replied, sliding a scroll toward her. “As per the rules, you are now eligible to have your own household. I have personally selected some ladies that would benefit you. You may select three of them from this list.”
Rhaenyra placed her cup back on the saucer, reaching out to pick up the parchment. Unfurling it, she read the names on the scroll. Heat unfurled in her belly as she reached the bottom of the list.
“So?” Alicent asked, lightly sipping her tea.
That damned snake!
All the ladies belonged to houses either fiercely loyal to the Hightowers or of a rank far lower than what was appropriate for a princess.
The scroll wrinkled at the corners as Rhaenyra's grip tightened. “Your Grace,” she gritted out with difficulty. “May I ask the reason for only providing me with three ladies?”
“Is the number not appropriate, Rhaenyra?” Alicent's brow furrowed.
“Even the daughters of the Old King had more ladies than what you propose to provide me, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra spat aloud, her patience running thin.
Alicent's brow shot up, and she set down her cup. “Your education seems lacking, Princess,” her tone much colder than before. “It is unseemly for a princess to have a large retinue. Only the crown princesses or the Queens are meant to have a massive household. A mere princess does not have the luxury nor the budget to maintain more than two ladies-in-waiting. Yet, I provide you with more.”
“Princesses Saera and Viserra had more ladies-in-waiting,” Rhaenyra countered.
“They didn't,” Alicent frowned. “They never had a huge retinue. I don't know where you obtained that information, but it seems your Septa was incompetent. I shall rectify that mistake as soon as possible.”
Rhaenyra breathed deeply. Alicent always thought of herself as better than everyone else—as if memorising every rule and every law would make her superior and compensate for her lack of a high birth.
“I am the King's eldest daughter,” Rhaenyra stated, keeping her voice calm only through sheer force of will.
“I know, Rhaenyra,” Alicent dipped her head in affirmation. “But managing a household requires coin. The only reason you cannot have a massive retinue is that the coin dedicated to a princess’s household is limited. And you are not the betrothed of the Crown Prince. Unlike you, Princess Viserra shall receive a massive retinue, befitting a future Queen.”
Viserra. Viserra. Viserra.
That damned girl haunted her at every turn of her life.
Rhaenyra breathed deeply, her hands tightening around her porcelain cup until her knuckles paled under the strain.
Alicent assumed her silence to be affirmation and continued with a satisfied smile. “Now that you have flowered, it is imperative to find you a fine match. His Grace wished to betroth you to Ser Laenor to soothe the pride of the Velaryons, but it was I who implored him to give you a chance to select your own groom.” Alicent's well-groomed nails lightly tapped the porcelain of her cup. “For your standing, a Lord Paramount would do. Perhaps Lord Jason; he is rich, and he would keep you happy—”
“Just like you married for power, Your Grace?” The sharp words left her mouth before Rhaenyra could stop them. To see Alicent—a woman who should have married a minor lord—sitting in that place, wearing a crown that should belong to her mother, made the bitterness of her constant companion rise to the surface.
Alicent's mouth clipped close. Her smile cooled, her lips pressing into a thin line as her eyes bored into Rhaenyra. “Careful, Princess. You overstep.” Her voice was clipped, completely devoid of warmth.
Rhaenyra ignored the warning, scoffing as she eyed the Queen in derision. “A love match, was it?” she sneered. “How convenient. A lady-in-waiting to the Queen, a young maid, comely and clever, and a King who fell for her wiles. A beautiful story. Tell me, Your Grace, when did you start whoring yourself to my father? Was it the night of my mother's funeral?”
Alicent scoffed, her eyes filled with disdain. “My, my, my, Princess. Now I see the envious little girl the court whispers about. The one who cursed her little sister with the name of a woman called wanton because she coveted a throne, only to die alone and tragically.”
Rhaenyra felt her cheeks burn at the words. Slamming her hands onto the table, she stood up. “Do not skirt around my words, Your Grace!”
Alicent snorted. “I remained a maiden until the night of my wedding. Ask the King. Ask the Septas who saw the proof of my virtue stain the white sheets. And as for the night of Queen Aemma's funeral, I remained with you, wiping your tears.”
Rhaenyra swallowed, her retort dying in her throat as the memories of that cursed night rushed back into her mind.
“And is it so bad to covet the position of the noblest woman in Westeros?” Alicent's voice softened slightly. “We are women, stepdaughter. Women in a man's world. I did what anyone would do in my place. I love His Grace, and he loves me, too. Unlike you, who were born into power, who will seamlessly marry a powerful man, I earned it.”
“By whoring yourself?” Rhaenyra snarled.
Alicent scoffed again, a cold anger settling over her face as she stood up. With a speed and strength Rhaenyra never imagined, Alicent struck, her hand seizing Rhaenyra's chin with brutal force.
Rhaenyra struggled, but Alicent dragged their faces close together. “Like it or not, Rhaenyra, I am your Queen. I outrank you,” the older woman whispered venomously. “You are just a princess. An envious little girl. And you will remain so. While others move on, you will be stuck in your envy.”
With a violent jerk, Alicent pushed Rhaenyra away. The Princess stumbled, her hand rising to cradle her throbbing chin. Flexing her jaw to alleviate the pain, Rhaenyra glared at Alicent. “You will regret this. I will tell my father about this.”
“Go on then.”
Rhaenyra froze at the dismissive words.
“Go and tell the King about how you called his pregnant wife a whore. How you called her virtue into question. How you disrespected not only me, but his first wife as well. Go on then, stepdaughter.”
Rhaenyra swallowed, her hands trembling as she clenched them together.
Alicent smiled at the sight, an expression filled not with warmth, but with venom. “The King would never side with you, dearest stepdaughter,” she tsked. “After all, your envy already caused him to lose his trust in you; it caused you to lose his favour. Let us see if you survive losing any and all affection.”
Rhaenyra barely contained a shudder at the thought of her father's wrath, her hand briefly straying to the faint scar on her cheek. Her breath was uneven as she gazed into the brown eyes of her former friend. Those once-warm eyes now looked like bottomless pits—like the ones the Andals believe are found in the Seven Hells.
Alicent's smile widened, making her look like a demon that had climbed into her former friend's skin. “I shall select two ladies for your retinue,” her hands coming up to gently cradle her belly. “But for the love I have for your father, I shall give you three years to select a husband for yourself. When you turn seven-and-ten, if there is no betrothal, your father shall take matters into his own hands.”
Rhaenyra just nodded, her nails biting into her palms, her throat feeling too tight and uncomfortable to say anything.
“Good,” Alicent whispered, her genial smile returning. “You are dismissed, Princess. I wish to rest.”
Rhaenyra turned and fled the Queen's chambers.
In the privacy of her own room, with her heart racing, Rhaenyra realised with terrifying clarity that Alicent Hightower was far more dangerous than anyone she had ever met. And if the gods were to bless her stepmother with a son, the lives of her younger brother and sister would be in grave danger.
No matter how much Rhaenyra hated or envied the existence of her siblings, she did not want them dead.
Thus, that night, for the first time in years, Rhaenyra Targaryen knelt with fear in her heart and prayers on her lips, begging the Fourteen, the Old Gods and the New, the Merlin King and the Drowned God—any deity listening—to never bless the venomous womb of Alicent Hightower with a son.