Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was good in the beginning. There were days, even, when the sound of Rhaenyra’s voice murmuring something over the rim of her wine glass was enough to darken Alicent’s eyes.

She remembers Jace’s third birthday party, a hot summer day in their wide rolling backyard outside the city when she wore a sleeveless crop-top and a long floral skirt that hugged her hips and Rhaenyra could barely let her wife cut the children’s cake without pressing up behind her, arms encircling her waist and whispering what was definitely not PG into her ear—

Once the children were fed and scattering again Alicent had pushed her back against a deck post.

"You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid."

(Rhaenyra had merely laughed.)

It was strong in the beginning. It was back when Rhaenyra’s worst vices were back in their college days and Otto knew better than to call when the banks were open; back when Rhaenyra’s aunt Rhaenys used to come over on those longer nights Rhaenyra was trapped in her office (used to speak to them, more accurately) and help Alicent make dinner, put Jace to bed; when hours later, Rhaenyra would come home and find them back out on that beautiful wide deck, giggling and going through all the brie in the house, thick as thieves—

(And she'd perch on the edge of Alicent’s chair, just so, press the sort of kiss to her temple that made her feel like the most cherished woman, the only woman, in all Rhaenyra's live-long world.)

Targaryen, Targaryen & Targaryen (mercifully shortened about seven years after its inception to the Targaryen Group) had acquired what was basically half of London with a new structured finance product—a complex Frankenstein of mortgage tranches known colloquially in the postwar market of the late ‘40s as dragon bonds, or fittingly, dragons—their first major infrastructural rebuilding and refinancing deal, nicknamed Balerion, had made the Targaryen Group all but the overlords of the city. Land turned into titles turned into philanthropy and into politics.

Then her father had met the golden boy of a different time—Rhaenyra’s father Viserys, at Eton; Otto had wanted the board to replace Viserys with a hired hand when the cancer came for him. But so long as he retained his controlling shares—which he did—and so long as Rhaenyra remained the heir to them—which she was—the succession was all but set in stone.

Viserys died on the longest day of the year, the longest and foggiest and rainiest and hottest day Alicent had ever seen in London. She’d bounced the baby in her arms—three-year-old Jace had cried and cried that day, suffering under the humidity and perturbed by his mother’s perturbance—and tried to rock him side-to-side while keeping a hand on Rhaenyra’s black-suited, ramrod-straight back.

That was the end of back then.

It changed all at once and slow like molasses, as though each day was gradually and eternally confirming what Alicent knew had already come to pass. Rhaenyra’s days at the office became nights at the office; her battles with the board taxed her—with Otto, so vicious they drove Alicent and her father to all but stop speaking (re: that one time she charged into his office and threw a decorative glass against the wall behind his head and screamed “She’s the mother of my children, your grandchildren, Viserys’ only child, how could you do this to us, how could you treat her like this, how could you be so—!”)

And her investors, circling; ever-present and maddening and ongoing like the tide.

“It’s only the first year,” Rhaenyra used to say, broken down at the breakfast table by the window in their London flat with her head in her hands. “It’ll get better, after this. We just need to right our ship.”

These days her wife was lauded in the press, darling of her board; saviour of the medieval manuscripts wing of the British Museum—the city’s favourite punk-rock posh girl; silk-suited and devilish—

A stunning, enticing optic, sure, in the magazines and at all the galas; interrupted, of course, only by her wife—who put their child to bed alone, since the debacle with Corlys, and sat in their wide empty flat alone (missing the house outside the city, as always) and sometimes even waited, alone, to intercept her son’s red-faced mother at the foyer before that innocent gaze could capture the image of Rhaenyra blowing through the door with cocaine smeared across her (perfect, so perfect) face.

(The one time it’d happened Rhaenyra had stumbled through the foyer into the drawing room where Jace had coincidentally toddled to Alicent asking for water and exclaimed fucking hells and shot off to the balcony for a cigarette—Alicent had gotten Jace his water and pretended it wasn't real and gone Mummy is tired, that’s all, my love, and then she and Rhaenyra had had a screaming match in the bedroom.

It wasn’t the fame, the success, the crown she wore. It was what it took to get there.

It was loving in the beginning, the way Rhaenyra held her; the way she could nest into Rhaenyra’s pliant body on their sofa, her wife supporting her arm and pressing warm lips to her neck as she bottle-fed Jace through his very first cold. These days Alicent wondered whether Rhaenyra ever saw her at all.

She’d agreed to come to the gala, mostly because Criston—her best friend from her Cambridge days and then still, despite all his faults—was still trying to get a job out of Rhaenyra after their falling out and begged her to run interference.

(She would have explained that Rhaenyra wouldn’t be lucid enough to recall anything Criston would say to her after the first twenty-five minutes—that is, if she felt bold enough to put those words into a legally discoverable text message.)

“My love,” Alicent says, hand over Rhaenyra’s cup as the waiter passed them by, “Maybe we take a slower night tonight.” She brushes Rhaenyra’s suited knee with her fingertips under the table, leans in closer. “Perhaps we could enjoy a longer night, the two of us.”

Rhaenyra only scoffs, drains the glass; motions with one hand for the waiter to return. “Great chance of that—I’ve just spent the last thirty-six hours beating IronBank into submission and if I don’t get my blood pressure down I’m not sure I’m making it to the thirty-seventh.” She sighs, swallowing, eyes pressed shut. "Fucking hells."

“Then we should go home.” She brushes an errant hair behind Rhaenyra’s ear. “You need sleep.”

“I have remarks to give.”

“This is your company, Rhaenyra, you don’t have to do anything.”

Rhaenyra sighs, forcefully, annoyedly; clenches a fist around her salad fork—“Can we please not go in this circle again—”

“Rhaenyra!”

Alicent looks up just as Daemon—Rhaenyra’s young uncle, closer to his niece’s age than his brother’s and arguably London’s most controversial MP—claps Rhaenyra on the shoulders, leans down to kiss her on the cheek. “There’s the shining conqueror. Old Aegon would be proud. Congratulations.”

Rhaenyra smiles, tired—covered his hand with hers. “Thank you for your help. I really mean it.”

“Anytime, it was fun.” Glances at Alicent. “Mrs. Targaryen.”

(And then, like he really thought she wouldn’t see, and leaned closer, whispering something in Rhaenyra’s other ear—)

“…In the lav later… you really want to celebrate.” And then he stands, smiling politely; points across the room. “Jason!” 

(Slinks off, as always.)

“What?”

Rhaenyra pretends to nod at something Orla Baratheon says across the table, turning without looking to Alicent. “What?”

“What did he just say?”

Finally—meets her eyes. “Nothing, he’s just happy for our deal. He did quite a bit of work for us on that, you know.”

Alicent knows Rhaenyra knows that’s not the question. “Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra turns again, then, suddenly, aggressively. “Can you please just shut up and have fun for an evening, for fuck’s sake.”

Alicent stills as the words cut into her skin and her heart drops lower. She takes a drink of water and tries to take interest in what Westerling is saying to some investor on her other side.

Rhaenya seems to notice and tries to find her hand under the table. She jerks back like fire.

Later, when Daemon and Rhaenyra make eye contact and then her (drunk, extraordinarily drunk) wife stands all too fluidly to head to the lavatory just after him, Alicent smiles, nods to Orla Baratheon, waits for a lull in the conversation, excuses herself, and goes after her.

She nods, smiles at those who stop her, smiles again, shakes a hand, gives someone—Anya Lannister?—a shoulder hug, Rhaenyra’s silver hair disappears behind the corridor and Alicent smiles and excuses herself from yet another pearl-clad patron and her skin is burning like her body knows what’s happening just a few paces away. Finally she arrives at the door and almost doesn’t need to open it to know what she inevitably finds: Rhaenyra and Daemon, disappearing a white baggie off a compact mirror as they laugh at each other. Rhaenyra snorts coke up one nostril while she sports a light trail of blood out the other.

Rhaenyra looks up, Daemon after her. There’s something else in her eyes—not the alcohol, not the coke. Vacant. Undoubtedly and unsurprisingly, something else at that. Xanax? Alicent can feel the tears burning her eyes.

(Once she’d swiped a spot of sugar off Rhaenyra’s nose, smiling up at her tiredly from the couch, their hospital bag still strewn aside in the foyer.

“I told you if you had the baby, I’d bake you a cake.”)

“Alicent—”

She leaves, exits not-too-forcefully through the celebratory crowd, tears off into the night and back home, driving fast. She sends Lyla off for an early night and checks Jace is still asleep and then cries her eyes out in the shower.

Criston asks again where she is, texts growing anxious. Harwin — one of hers and Rhaenyra’s lawyers, gods save him — tells her he hopes she’s feeling better and that Rhaenyra’s speech was great. Standing ovation. Everybody adores her.

She feels a nail pressing against the skin of her forefinger, then stops herself.

Alicent closes her phone. Only Viserys died. Still, after he’s gone, there’s really no one left to call.

Rhaenyra doesn’t come home that night. Alicent calls Lyla and tells her not to bother driving in; she’ll take Jace to preschool on her own.

His mother isn’t there that morning, of course. The brunette was terrified he’d be stressed, but as she’s buckling him in she realizes, to her even greater horror, he hasn’t noticed at all.

It’s normal to him, at this point.

Her hand finds its way around her throat as he dashes into the room to join the other children, immediately finding his cousin Baela — Alicent waves to their cousins’ nanny — as they set themselves at the blocks station.

The other parents drop off and filter out. Jace lays a foundation and begins to stack a set of cubes, higher and higher and higher. Beside him, Baela eagerly looks on.

Finally, it’s almost as tall as himself. The other kids begin to notice. One approaches, clearly thinking to knock it over, but Jace deters him with merely a glance. He reaches for a final block, stretches mournfully, high-high up on his tip-toes to ever-so-delicately place it, and Alicent fights the urge to rush over before it all falls on top of him. He slides it gentle as a feather to the precarious edge and the tower sways, and sways — and then stills.

Baela claps her hands. Jacaerys looks back at her, beaming radiantly.

Oh, my love, she thinks to herself, You’re just like your mother in certain ways.

When she leaves, there’s a black car parked beside her own. It wasn’t there before.

For a moment she regrets dismissing Rhaenyra nine months ago when she tried to have the whole ‘private security’ conversation again; Alicent had rolled her eyes and told her “You’re not a Bond villain” or something.

Someone stands out of the driver’s side — but it’s Rhaenyra herself, in one of the sets of spare suits she keeps in her office.

Her wife stares at her, silently. Alicent closes her eyes, and sighs, and gets into the passenger side.

Rhaenyra keeps driving, though Alicent isn’t sure quite where.

“This isn’t the way to your office.”

“No.”

She exhales through the nose, looks out the window. “Rhaenyra. Come out with it.”

They’re both silent for a moment. Finally, her wife swipes a lock of silver hair behind her shoulder, squeezes the wheel until her knuckles are white: “I’m sorry about last night.”

Alicent merely scoffs. “Believe me, Rhaenyra, so am I.”

“I mean it.”

Alicent looks over at her. Her eyes are imperceptibly tinged red and glued to the road. But Alicent can see those lines forming under her mouth, the ones that betray how hard Rhaenyra is fighting not to cry.

She turns, then, facing the road and not the passenger window. “I…” She looks down at her thumb, the faintest scratches at her cuticle. “I know you do.”

Rhaenyra takes a strange exit off toward the industrial areas and Alicent frowns. Rhaenyra’s eyes look glassy and far away.

She pauses, panic rising in her throat. “Rhaenyra what the hell is going on.”

Rhaenyra, snapping to, picks up the edge to her voice and answers it with a look of betrayal, finally meeting Alicent’s eyes. Alicent is almost relieved to find Rhaenyra is most certainly all there. “Where do you think we could be going?”

She wants to slam her fists against the dash; stops herself. “I don’t know.”

They pull up at a light. “Yes, well, Alicent, I’ve decided I love blow and pills so very much that I’m going to kidnap my own wife from our son’s preschool and murder her in the dockyards.”

“You don’t get to make those jests!” Then she does, slams her hands against the glove box and swats madly at Rhaenyra’s shoulder and wants to shake her wife silly and scream into oblivion. Rhaenyra sits sour like it’s not even happening so Alicent grabs Rhaenyra by the jaw and forces her eyes back to her. “You don’t get to make those jests, Rhaenyra Targaryen, after what you’ve put me through, after how you spit at me and you ignore us and the way you come home—”

She feels Rhaenyra’s mouth on hers before she sees it coming, all tongue and teeth and an unsaid pain she wasn’t even aware her wife could have harbored through the deluge. She answers it immediately with bites of her own, threading her hands through her hair and dragging her nails across the back of Rhaenyra’s neck until suddenly her wife breaks away and the car is pulling violently, pedal down, headlong into an empty parking lot.

Rhaenyra brakes forcefully on a dime and turns back to her, unbuckling her seat. “Get in the back.” Alicent climbs over the seat and drags Rhaenyra behind her by the collar, and then her mouth is on her again, and she’s digging her fingernails into her wife’s padded shoulders the way she dug them into herself, and ripping at Rhaenyra’s buttons the way she wants to rip the story apart, fighting and sobbing and rebelling against what happened to all of them after Viserys.

Rhaenyra is bunching up her long skirt and tugs her sweater clean over her head and forces her fingers right there, there, where Alicent needs them. Alicent grips Rhaenyra’s shoulders until she knows it hurts and threads her fingers into that silver hair and pulls, pulls down, it’s not enough.

Their eyes lock and Alicent’s are swimming with tears, tears and stress and wonderment at how sex can feel so much like divorce.

Rhaenyra bunches Alicent’s skirt up at her waist and her head ducks down and then Alicent feels her tongue inside her and she’s seeing stars. She’s not sure if she’ll first rip all the hair out of Rhaenyra’s head or claw the leather off the seats but it doesn’t feel like they’re in her wife’s dour fucking Mercedes at all anymore, but some liminal space, between Alicent’s rage and hurt and Rhaenyra’s distance. Alicent thrashes like a predator trapped and pulls her wife’s mouth forcefully to her cunt in a display of power that is really, she sobs, and so nakedly, just a desperation to be close.

And Rhaenyra knows.

“Don’t stop—” they’re too practiced at this and the blonde knows exactly what to do. Alicent clenches like a vice around her fingers and she comes with a sob. The waves crash over her body and her hands fly up to her face, turning toward the back of the seats, pulling her knees up to her chest like she did when she was a girl; slipping Rhaenyra out of her and locking her away.

Rhaenyra’s hands are gentle, soft, and she can hear the tears in Rhaenyra’s voice, too. “Alicent.”

Eventually, her wife’s arms snake under her shoulders and — damn her unbidden strength — pull her up and into Rhaenyra’s arms, the crook of her neck. With a free hand Rhaenyra finds her suit jacket strewn on one of the seats and places it over Alicent’s bare shoulders, smoothes her skirt back down against the white gooseflesh of her thighs.

“Shh, it’s alright, I’m sorry,” Rhaenyra whispers, her voice even, but Alicent feels the hot tears in her hair and she knows.

Alicent calms, after a few moments, and is silent, breathing with her eyes closed against the familiar smell of Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“I missed you.” She says, and hopes she conveys what she means.

Alicent tugs the jacket closer over her shoulders and sits back primly, solemnly, in the passenger’s seat. Rhaenyra ties back her tangled locks and her disheveled white button-down is tinged, on the collar, with a slim spot of red? And then Alicent spots a long scratch on the side of her neck.

Rhaenyra pulls out into the street. Alicent reaches out a hand against the mark, voice trembling. “My love—”

“It’s alright.” It’s an old voice she remembers from the Rhaenyra of before, calm and unoffended and sanguine. “Don’t worry. It’s alright.”

They arrive at Rhaenyra’s intended destination. Alicent looks around.

“The… dockyards?”

“My dockyards.” Rhaenyra nods. It’s not until she spots the side of one of the shipping containers and sees the Targaryen logo, bottom left corner in admittedly tastefully small display.

Alicent’s brow furrows. “Your dockyard.”

“All of them.”

“What?”

“All of them are mine.”

The smell of the mouth of the river hits them and Alicent looks around at the milling of the dockhands, the ships and blocks and cranes that go on for miles. “This is all Targaryen group shipping.”

“Rhaenyra, I don’t understand.”

“Ten thousand people come to work here, every day.” Rhaenyra stares out at the expanse. “Everything I do, everything I sign, or don’t sign, everything I read or don’t read — it’ll land on them, eventually. All the decisions, all the fights, the labours, the horseshit, the bloody politicking. The worst part of all of it is how much it matters.”

A hundred meters away, she spots an old, thin dockhand in a red crewneck piloting a forklift to the side of a building. He gets out, adjusts his hat, waves to a man who waves to him, begins to pull crate pads off the lift.

“Rhaenyra, you work ceaselessly. You’ve been a good leader. A good listener.” She closes her eyes tight, releases her shoulders. “But what you do outside of it isn’t helping.”

“On my shoulders since I was a child,” she begins, eyes downcast, “Were thousands of people.”

Alicent captures the blonde’s hand in both of her own, squeezing tight, pleading. “I know, but you can’t be there for any of them if you’re—”

“Don’t you get it?” Rhaenyra looks back down at her and it’s the Rhaenyra of after, short-tempered and tired and cantankerous and distant. “It’s all these people and so many more. All I do is never enough – they tug at every loose end and I fight harder and if I lose my grip then someone will take it from me, savage this place and these people, the legacy my father built—” Her voice breaks, and she stops, pauses, sets her shoulders. “That he protected for his entire life, for his father, whom he never had the chance to know. And the weight of it.” She shook her head. “It’s fucking emiserating.”

Alicent says nothing, presses a kiss to her shoulder, threads her fingers through Rhaenyra’s own.

“The…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Sometimes I need to feel all-powerful enough to fake it, just to scare them enough to give me enough breathing room to keep battling the tide. You don’t want to go that direction at first, but it all keeps coming and coming, and you’re buried, and you have to choose between your duty and yourself. But if you go that direction, eventually, you can’t get back down. You drink and liaise and the only way to make it through without clawing the faces off of your bullish lenders is to drink more, and then you’re exhausted and wired and sick and anxious and vibrating, and then there’s something for that, too, and you make it back to your desk and finally sit down for the first time all day and smooth your shirt and look back up at your clock and suddenly it’s four in the morning. And you take something to try to lose consciousness for the next three hours and lay by your wife who’s gone to bed before you arrived and who’ll wake up after you’ve already gone and all the while she’s next to a fucking zombie she didn’t marry. And she wakes up and single-parents your son. Your son.” A tear slips from her cheek and stretches down to the soft line of her jaw. “Your son who’ll have it all after you. And live a life just like this.”

Alicent is stiller than she can ever remember being. The wind blows her auburn hair away from her face, and a ship sounds in the distance. She places a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, and then her other shoulder, and gently turns the blonde around to face her.

Her hands clasp behind Rhaenyra’s neck and she gently caresses the nape of her neck, draws her eyebrows together, tries to focus on breathing. “Why didn’t you tell me this.” Before Rhaenyra can speak, she shakes her head and amends, “I wish you’d told me this.”

Her hands cup Rhaenyra’s cheeks, trace her perfect bones, absorb the warmth of her perfect skin. “You are the love of my life. Don’t you get it?” She takes a shuddering breath. “I have always protected you. Always defended you. Since we were fifteen years old.” Rhaenyra’s hands rest on her waist, the small on her back, barely there, imperceptibly gentle. “I have fought your battles, felt your pain, borne your children. Because I love you, Rhaenyra, with my entire being, my entire body.” She squeezes her hands around the blonde’s shoulders, looks down between their bodies, takes a breath. “But you need help, please, my dearest love, I can’t go on like this.”

Rhaenyra swallows, sets her shoulders and holds Alicent’s gaze. “I know.” Alicent wrenches her fists into the front of Rhaenyra’s shirt.

“And neither can you.” She shakes her head. “If not for me, for Jacaerys, please.”

She looks up, finally, and finds Rhaenyra frowning. “Why not?”

She sniffs. “I—what?”

“Why not for you?” She brushes an errant strand back from Alicent’s face. “Of course for you.”

The following weeks are… well, they’re something. Better. Not like before. But different. A different sort of better, a different sort of good.

There’s a visit to a retreat, which is what they call it, in the countryside and ultra-private and, as far as anyone else knows, not a detoxification and rehabilitation facility. There’s a therapist, Ethelide, who always walks Rhaenyra out of her home office where Alicent waits and always genuinely smiles each time she sees her.

At work, Rhaenyra’s trying this new thing called delegating, mostly to Beesbury, their (utterly ancient) CFO, who’d dined with them privately, at their home, and put his worn and wrinkled hand over her wife’s own and whispered, in a display of character Alicent had never seen from any of Rhaenyra’s men, “I loved your father. You can trust me.” Rhaenyra was skeptical. But she did. And he’s been effective—more so than anyone had ever seemed to have thought.

Jace’s nightmares are abating, slowly. But when he cries out, Rhaenyra wakes—not in a stupor—and carries him back to their bed, where he’s tucked between them, hands clasped over his tiny body.

Then there’s the greatest change—the one Alicent is almost embarrassed to admit.

The sex is constant. And fucking explosive.

Alicent isn’t sure if they’ve fucked this often or this desperately or this well since their honeymoon phase. One night Rhaenyra’s wearing their toy and slamming Alicent into the headboard until Alicent slips a leg over her and flips her and rides her like, well, like a fucking dragon. Alicent almost falls off her own treadmill when she’s on her second mile the next day, mindlessly adjusting at her vague discomfort before realizing she can feel it.

And if she brings Rhaenyra dinner in her office one night in a dress that has no business being involved in a takeout run, well, it’s purely accidental. Alicent knows she hasn’t lost her touch later that night when she has to reach up and throw a hand over Rhaenyra’s mouth to stop her from waking their baby just a few paces down the hall.

(Even if the next morning Rhaenyra’s typing out an email at the kitchen table and Alicent sips coffee with Jace on her hip, who suddenly points and exclaims “Mummy! You’ve got an ouchie on your neck!” and Alicent slaps her hand over the mark and glares over at Rhaenyra who peers up over her laptop with eyes that are almost gloating.)

(“Mummy’s got an ouchie, Jace?” Rhaenyra ventures, in a brave moment. “Do you think I should kiss it better?”)

Rhaenyra’s cousin Laenor comes over with his husband, Joffrey—despite their falling out with his parents, he remains untouched and unbothered, miraculously—and they sit out on the balcony, Alicent in Rhaenyra’s lap with an arm snaked around her shoulders, wine glass in the other hand, Rhaenyra gripping her waist and nursing a non-alcoholic beer, and it feels just slightly like things might be alright.

One morning they have (explosive, explosive) sex in the kitchen, and after they shower together Jace wakes up and they take him to the park. Rhaenyra fits him into his fall jacket and carries him in her arms, and Alicent rests her head over silver hair on Rhaenyra’s shoulder as Jace dashes for the slide.

“I love you,” she whispers, and Rhaenyra presses a kiss to the side of her eye, tender and true.

And then, in a black coat and with a grim face, she sees Daemon approach.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sighs and lays back as the jet engines, smooth as brandy, hum quickly and silently to life.

The plane tips back. She hears the bar cart jostle as they ascend and the attendants murmur. Daemon is kitty corner to her, eyes totally closed, brow even, practicing deep breathing with his lips a perfect “o”.

“Still afraid to fly?”

He cracks one eye open. “Still compulsively checking your text messages every sixteen seconds and jumpy like a crack addict?”

Rhaenyra scoffs and stares out the window as Abu Dhabi slowly – painfully so, she thinks – begins to disappear into the night.

“Yes, I suppose I could be playing house with my needy escort rather than worrying for an actual marriage.”

“She’s not an escort anymore.”

“I never did think she had a talent for it; a plain sort of attraction, really.”

Daemon’s awoken and now properly scowls. “And tell me, how has Mrs. Partridge fared these months without your newfound marital intimacy and rekindled everlasting love? Oh, right—” He puts his finger to his lips in an imitation of thought. “You don’t actually know, do you?”

Rhaenyra refuses to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s satisfied with the company of a four-year-old. You know, I was wondering the other day,” Daemon smirks that Cheshire grin he does, the petty excitement of playing his trump card—“Good thing she’s got such a dedicated friend in times like these. Criston, was his name?”

Rhaenyra throws her seatbelt buckle apart and trudges to the other side of the jet.

The flight is thirteen exhausting hours. Daemon drinks through all of them, excitedly attempting to catch her eye.

“Mmm, delicious,” he calls, sipping some sort of whisky concoction. “It’s really divine, Rhaenyra, you just have to try it.”

She contemplates opening the emergency hatch and throwing him out of it.

Daemon had done what she’d wanted him to, didn’t he? He’s always making the mess and you’re always cleaning it up, Alicent had snapped. Rhaenyra had sighed into her hands, elbows on her desk. It’s a business strategy. Alicent had held her gaze, not giving an inch. It’s bloodletting, Rhaenyra.

I want you to antagonize Craghas, she’d told him. I want you to goad him into ruining everything just to ruin you. I want him to want to devour you, Daemon.

Gods, had he delivered. She almost can’t believe he hadn’t hired hands to shoot up their Escalades on the way to the air strip.

Stepstones—the only shipping partner with a true Qatari contract, not just some here-and-there one-off bullshit—had inexplicably goaded the government into seizing roughly twelve million dollars of Targaryen Group goods at their port and freezing their remaining shipping lanes still.

(At least she’d gotten to speak with Corlys again.

“If you don’t un-fuck this, you twats, I’m taking my contracts and I’m leaving this company.”  She’d invited him to dinner, he’d slammed the phone in its cradle.

“It’s a start!”  Daemon had quipped.)

They’d used Corlys’ good will—the little of it he’d been willing to lend them—to negotiate a side deal with the feds in a hotel owned by a neutral family in the UAE. Daemon, on behalf of the government, had been sent to lead negotiations. Daemon’s insufferable, incessant taunting behind the scenes had somehow needled Craghas into attempting to blackmail the Qatari out of taking Rhaenyra’s quite favorable deal—just a few million in sovereign bond investments and an acceptance of a fair though unexclusive contract. They like you better, Daemon had coached. He’d smiled, though there was little humor behind it—the Viserys Strategy, I’m calling it. They’d cut Craghas out and released the goods. The rest, though, was still up in the air.

It was an odd turn of events. Sudden, as Corlys had called it. Fucking suspicious as fuck, as Daemon preferred to put it. It was out of nowhere.

(“Ask yourself what changed,” Beesbury had coached her, after a heated conference call at four in the morning. “Rhaenyra, this isn’t normal. Ask yourself: What is it? Who’s been silent, who’s not acting, who seems to be missing?”

Rhaenyra and wiped the underside of her eyes, slick with the grease of a thirty-hour marathon. “What exactly are you saying, Lyman?”

“This is sabotage.” She’d met his eyes, then, suddenly, staring at her hard and serious and clear as glass. “In my fifty years at this company we have weathered many battles. I have never seen a random competitor strike with such informed precision. Someone has done this on purpose. Someone here.”)

We’re under attack, Daemon had said, that day at the park where Rhaenyra wanted so badly to simply turn into the smell of Alicent’s auburn-tinged locks and bury her face in her curls and hand Daemon the keys to their office forever. Instead she’d done the thing she should, as always, as badly as it hurt, and made him help her—taunting and teasing and nicking her at the edges along the way as he always liked to do. “Why is this Eton College partyboy going on the nation’s dime to negotiate for his family business?” Some head on the BBC had shouted. The papers echoed the sentiment. Daemon’s brand barely chafed, already familiar as an enemy to conventional rules. The Targaryen Group, though, seemed to take a real hit. In the press, anyway, the Targaryens were spoiled insiders, at least these days—good-for-nothings with their hands in too many pies, their money in too many powerful pockets.

Ironically almost true, Rhaenyra’d thought.

It had taken eleven weeks. Up and down at all hours, calling and calling Alicent, though the calls back became short and then, infrequent.

“I miss you,” she’d said.

Alicent had only sighed, like she was tired of standing in the same place in the kitchen and hearing it. “I know, Rhaenyra.”

Their texts were a warfield.

Can I call you now?

Are you awake?

Will you call when you can?

How’s Jace?—He’s okay.

Are you okay?

Hey, just tried you again. Let me know when you can talk. Miss you x.

Going to try you again tomorrow. Love you x.

I’ve got a couple hours before we go back in if you can call.

Alicent, please call me.

Calling you at 4 your time – please pick up.

Alicent please.

Alicent.

She almost doesn’t have to look to recognize the dark figure as they deplane at Heathrow, wrapped in a sweater, hair blowing with the hard winds off the tarmac.

The black car waits silently behind her, the lights left on.

Alicent’s eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted, her face pale, her lips pursed and dry, looking enchanting, looking emiserated.

Daemon barely gives half a wave and darts into his own car. The airport shuttle taxi continues on into the night.  

Rhaenyra stands before her. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Alicent’s narrows her gaze, one eye almost twitching. “That’s actually my job now, isn’t it.”

Rhaenyra is silent.

Then, like a dam breaking, without pretext or preamble Alicent wraps her arms tightly around Rhaenyra’s neck, fits her body against the blonde’s own, and Rhaenyra leans down and presses a long kiss to the crook of her neck and jaw. “Come on,” Alicent runs her hands up and down Rhaenyra’s arms, adjusting the lapel of her coat. “Let’s go home. It’s fucking freezing here.”

Their home looks the same, at least in the lamplight—Jace’s Legos left out next to the couch; on the side table by the sofa, a dog-eared novel Rhaenyra doesn’t recognize.

“How is he?”

Alicent leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed. “He misses you terribly. He doesn’t fully understand why you’re gone. He knows it’s not his fault but he’s having trouble with the idea that there’s nothing he can do.”

Rhaenyra slowly takes in a shuddering breath. Her eyes moist over. “I—is it as bad as…”

Alicent shakes her head, quickly. “No. It’s not like before.”

Rhaenyra nods.

Alicent toes her sock into the marble tile on the floor, eyes downcast. “I’m quite angry with you, you know.”

“I tried to call you.”

“Eventually. Were you successful?”

“What? Obviously not.”

“In the deal.”

“Oh.” Rhaenyra pauses. “Indeed we were.” She sighs. “Thanks, much as it’s venom to say it, to Daemon.”

Alicent scoffs, laughs. “Daemon.”

“His absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder, I suppose.”

Alicent lets the comment hang mercilessly in the air. “Did you…” She refuses to meet Rhaenyra’s gaze. “Are you… are you clean?”

“Yes.” She finds Alicent’s eyes, refusing to break contact. “Completely.”

Alicent nods.

Finally, she adds, “Beesbury called me quite often.”

“I told him you were deputized to authorize anything he couldn’t reach me for.”

“You have actual deputies for that.”

Rhaenyra cocks her head. “I don’t trust them to know what I want the way you do, that’s why I asked you, that’s why we had this arrangement.”

“I’m not a businesswoman, Rhaenyra.”

“You graduated first in your class with an MPhil in Finance from Cambridge fucking University, I think we both know you can handle the everyday red-light green-light without a hassle.” Rhaenyra takes a step closer. “You’re not dodging my calls because of that.”

Alicent shakes her head and looks away. “I’m angry that you left us for two and a half months to fix something that Daemon created for you, and that you did it without so much as a huff, and that you took him with you to do it.”

“Why is everyone so convinced it was Daemon?!” Rhaenyra interrupts, exasperated, hands in the air. “What interest does he have in this? This attack was based on proprietary information—” suddenly Rhaenyra stops, eyes wide, halting in her tracks. “…That—that he didn’t even…” she exhales slowly. “That he didn’t even know.”

“What?” Alicent searches her eyes, pressing off the island to venture a hand against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “Rhaenyra, what?”

Blue eyes look into hers, grief-stricken, resigned. “I think I need to head in early tomorrow.”

With that, Alicent drops her head onto Rhaenyra’s sternum and almost—darkly, defeated—laughs.

Rhaenyra steps out of the bathroom wet, towel around body, expecting to find Alicent asleep. Instead the lamp is on and Alicent lays on her side of the bed, above the covers in her slip, arms and legs perfectly crossed, staring up at her like she’s late to a final exam.

Like she looked at me back when I was late to all my final exams, Rhaenyra thinks, Once upon a time.

“You should go to sleep, it’s late.”

Alicent doesn’t move a muscle. “I’ve been alone for eleven weeks, Rhaenyra.” She looks up at her with dark eyes. “I’m only human.”

Rhaenyra blinks, and then smirks, and then climbs slowly onto the bed toward her, poised and still and fluid like a predator. She’s leaning in slowly, then, when a hard hand on her collarbone stops her.

“No. I’m not forgiving you, I’m desperate.” Alicent tips her chin at the bureau. “Put the harness on.”

Later—minutes or maybe whole days, Rhaenyra’s not even sure—when Alicent has her knees on either side of Rhaenyra’s lap, hands braced against her shoulders, gliding strong and fast along the length of Rhaenyra’s plastic member, taking Rhaenyra’s hard thrusts from beneath, leaking onto the sheets below, melodic—Rhaenyra digs her fingers into the soft alabaster skin above her hips and growls “Why didn’t you call me.”

Alicent grabs her jaw, then, eyes blazing wide, fingernails digging into her face. “I did, you—” She rocks backward and gasps, wet lips open, at a particularly strong thrust. “—I did, weeks before.”

Their mouths meet again and it’s a battlefield—she forces past Alicent’s soft lips and licks onto her tongue, devouring her fury, stealing her breath. Rhaenyra pleads, “I missed you, I missed you, I fucking missed you,” and then Alicent goes “You didn’t—” and Rhaenyra, ever the cheater, shoots her thumb to Alicent’s clit and thrusts hard, four times, quick succession, and her wife cums and those long beautiful hands clench around her back and Alicent stills, muffling a full-throated roar into the skin of Rhaenyra’s neck.

And then Alicent’s shivering, and breathing hard, and holding on tight through the aftershocks. Finally, she lifts up on her knees and Rhaenyra slides the dildo out of her, Alicent’s brows contorting with vague discomfort as the head finally slips out. She darts off to the bathroom and Rhaenyra wonders if she can hear retching.

She hears the faucet running. Rhaenyra undoes the harness and throws the whole thing somewhere to the side of the bed. Alicent returns, sliding under the covers where Rhaenyra waits.

“Tell me how to make it up to you,” Rhaenyra coaxes, fitting against Alicent’s back beneath the covers.

“Hold me.” She answers without hesitation, without qualification, without looking, grabbing Rhaenyra’s hand and fitting it firmly around her middle. “Just hold me, please.”

It takes another three weeks, but they patch it up. Slowly, sure—faster than it should have taken, but too slow for either of their liking, both desperate to channel someone other than overgrown versions of the stubborn teenagers they once were. Alicent gets sick some days. Rhaenyra thinks it’ll take another three weeks not to feel so tired anymore. Stepstones, it turns out, was a costly battle.

But this arduous process was eternally theirs, wasn’t it? Their dance?

I want every single second of your attention, Rhaenyra always says.

Frustratingly, you always have it, Alicent replies.

Jace runs to her the first day she picks him up, swings him in her arms, tries to dry the tears before he sees them. I missed you so much, so, so much, my darling boy, my heart and soul.

She closes a deal with the Qatari. They throw a party in London. Alicent wears a stunning black dress and they’re the life of the party. Daemon, Rhaenyra vindictively notices, is entirely preoccupied with Mysaria, apparently both caught in some sort of gaudy lover’s quarrel. They stand at the edges and pretend not to be silently viciously arguing with each other. Beesbury dances slowly with his wife, who’s two years his senior, and they smile at each other like they’re still just kids.

She begged Corlys to attend, email by email. Then, funny enough, he’d picked up the phone.

(“I’m only answering because I’m impressed at what enormous balls you have to be calling me.”

“I never meant to discard you after my father. I didn’t mean to push you out, I didn’t want to. I want you back at the table and I want your advice.”

She heard Corlys sigh at the other end. “Let me amend—enormous brass balls.”

“Uncle—”

“Uncle Nothing. I should never have trusted your father—wonderful as he was, he never really fixed anything, did he, turning his back on my subsidiaries when it would mean confrontation to protect them.”

Rhaenyra chose to let that slide. “But I fixed this, didn’t I?”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Rhaenys tells me you quite well did.”

“Please come.”)

Corlys does not attend. But he does send a note. Sorry not to be there, but we hope you enjoy it. Next time.

It’s a start, at least.

Later, by their table, Rhaenyra tells a bad joke, and then Ormund tells a worse one, and Alicent tips her head back and laughs, full-bodied and covering her mouth lest her tonic water come out of her nose.

There are no remarks, as little pageantry as possible despite the black-tie affair, and the lights are warm and the music upbeat.

The waiter comes around again just as Rhaenyra returns to Alicent, engrossed in conversation with Laena, and stretches an arm around her waist.

“I know,” Laena comments, and they both laugh again, Laena pointing. “And you sat next to him! For six weeks!”

“But I didn’t know!” Alicent protests, and they laugh again.

“Even when he had that hat?” Laena quips and Alicent shakes her head, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Gods,” she says, “The worst was—” she points and Laena mirrors it, and they both fight to suppress their giggles. “When he—” And then, simultaneously, “You’re looking up the wrong end!”

They dissolve into guffaws once more and Rhaenyra wraps both arms around her from behind, presses a kiss to her neck, smiling.

“Do you know this man we’re talking about?” Laena says to Rhaenyra, still chuckling.

“I’ll pretend I haven’t a clue,” Rhaenyra smirks, and Alicent tips her head up to her wife, resting her arm languidly against Rhaenyra’s tight hold and reaching up to cup her cheek.

“You know who,” Alicent smiles, scratching her jaw.

Rhaenyra looks down at her, a picture of genuine confusion. “Who?”

They laugh and Alicent shakes her head at Laena. “Brilliant actor, she is.”

One of the waiters comes by again, this time with two glasses of champagne. “May I offer you…”

“Gods, yes,” Laena interrupts. “You have to try this. It’s the '92 vintage, divine.”

Alicent merely smiles, runs a finger along Rhaenyra’s hands where they clasp at her middle. “I’m alright—you go ahead.”

Laena frowns. “Come on, Al, it’s Pommery—it’s your favorite. Have a little fun for me, please.”

“That’s really okay, I couldn’t take it away from you.”

Laena rolls her eyes and takes both glasses, shooing the waiter away. “I’m afraid I have to insist.”

Then Alicent purses her lips, and breathes in, imperceptibly, and something unspoken passes between the two friends that makes Rhaenyra pause. “You know what, more for me,” Laena says, and sets it down, and the conversation picks up again as though nothing transpired at all.

“Going to have that?” And then the second glass is swiped by Daemon, who’s suddenly standing at the table, watching them all with a snakelike gaze.

Laena breathes in through her nose, forces a smile. “Uncle, always good to see you.”

Rhaenyra remembers, somewhat mirthfully, when they were in college and Daemon was first elected and Laena thought he’d hung the moon.

“All yours,” Laena nods, and he drains the glass.

“So, Mrs. Targaryen,” he starts, predatory eyes fixed on Alicent. Rhaenyra’s arms tighten around her and she levels Daemon a threatening gaze. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Pregnant, are we?”

They get home, Alicent sits on the bed, removes her Louboutins, sets her earrings in their box. Rhaenyra watches her like she’s a package that might explode.

Alicent looks over. “What?” She tries unfastening her necklace but can’t quite find purchase. “Could you…”

Rhaenyra undoes the clasp, sets it in the velvet jewelry box. “You’ve been nauseous, lately.”

Alicent shrugs. “Sometimes, I suppose.”

“And you’re…” Rhaenyra isn’t sure how to say it. “Curvier, a little. Almost unnoticeable.”

Alicent quirks an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I’m gaining weight?”

“No.” Rhaenyra answers quickly. “It’s not that kind of curvy.”

“Ah. A special kind of sexier, then.” Alicent turns and sighs, placing her palms on Rhaenyra’s chest, tipping her head at the bed. “Rhaenyra, sit down.”

Rhaenyra backs up until her knees hit the bedside and she sits.

Who’s her college friend again? Criston?

Rhaenyra can barely breathe.

“Do you remember…” Alicent stands, hands clasped at her sides, fingernail ever-so-slightly pressing at the skin of her thumb. “Before you left. When we…” She purses her lips, exhales, sets herself. “When we were trying again.”

“But it didn’t work. It didn’t take.”

Alicent shuts her eyes, nods. “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

Rhaenyra stands, then, comes in, crowds her, hands on her waist, searching for their eyes to meet. “So what? So it did? Did it? This entire time? You’ve—I mean, I mean, are you? You’re—”

Alicent rests a hand on Rhaenyra’s cheek, eyes shining, and takes Rhaenyra’s hand in her other and places it gently, shakily, against her abdomen. Her hand caresses from Rhaenyra’s cheek to cup the back of her neck, eyes downcast before meeting blue.

“My love,” Alicent starts, softly, tremulously, and Rhaenyra can either feel her heart beating a thousandfold or not at all. “We’re going to have a baby. She’s going to come in about seven months. I didn’t say because—it’s been a shaky start, we weren’t even sure, and then—so, I didn’t want—I didn’t want to worry you.” And Alicent searches her eyes, and Rhaenyra knows, and Rhaenyra knows Alicent knows.

“I’m going to be fine,” Alicent ventures, but it’s phrased more like a question than anything. “We’ve done this before.” She strokes Rhaenyra’s cheek, cups her face in both hands. Rhaenyra thinks she might actually be experiencing shock. “We’ve done this before, it’ll be just like last time, alright, my love? Okay?”

Rhaenyra’s hands clasp ever-so-gently around Alicent’s wrists. “… She?”

“Just a guess,” Alicent smiles small, maybe just to herself. “I’m almost sure, though. They say girls are easier.”

“Has it been easier?”

Alicent’s brows knit together, and she threads her fingers into Rhaenyra’s hair, frees it of its restrictive updo. “Not exactly.”

She’s silent again, for a long succession of moments, and finally Alicent breaks and grabs her hands and returns them to her stomach, eyes insistent, and Rhaenyra lets her, pressing her palms against Alicent’s warm skin, feeling something beneath the endless layers fear—something small, something akin to joy, maybe.

“She’s our baby, my love, you made her with me and she’s here, she’s right here,” Alicent rests her forehead against her wife’s, heartbeats thrumming along. “It’s our daughter, please, be happy.”

And Rhaenyra is.

Beesbury claps his hands like he’s just been told he’s a grandfather again (which Rhaenyra wonders how he hasn’t gotten tired of these announcements, with literally twelve of those already running around on his holiday-gift dole) and decides to celebrate by sending them the most ridiculous, expensive, complicated, top-of-the-line crib Rhaenyra’s ever seen.

(“What’s wrong with the one Jace was in?” Rhaenyra protests over FaceTime as Lyman peers at her with his enormous reading glasses, holding the iPad near up to his nose. He merely waves her off. “My daughters swear by it, my girl.” He smiles. “Don’t make me lobby your wife.”)

It’s a wonderful gesture (and so unreservedly kind) except for the fact that she has to build the damn thing.

“Where is screw AB2??” Rhaenyra protests at the directions, sitting on the floor of their guest room surrounded by parts. Alicent smirks and turns from their half-painted wall, gesturing with the paint brush. “Maybe one of the ones you accidentally left in the box?”

Rhaenyra turns and spots even more of the contraption trapped beneath a pile of discarded plastic and resists the urge to shake her fists at it, instead tipping her head back in a sigh. “Gods be good.”

The next day at work it’s an entirely different Lyman she finds, waiting in her office and somber. He looks up at her and she sees a thick clip of papers waiting for her at her desk.

“It’s about Stepstones.” She says. She doesn’t even need to ask. He tips his head in the glimmer of a nod.

“You need to read these,” Lyman says, slowly, “And then you need to let me know how you’d like me to proceed.”

“I’m sure I can proceed,” she says, already sat down and frowning at the first page.

“No,” he says, softly. “I think, after you read these, you’ll come to the conclusion, as I have, that it must actually be anyone else.”

It’s the first time there’s blood that does it.

They’re in the bath and her arms are around Alicent’s shoulders and then the water turns, and it’s unnoticeable first, and then Alicent says Rhaenyra and reaches her hand down and it comes back slick, watery but slick red.

They rush to the ER, Alicent bleeds through Rhaenyra’s grey college sweats, their OB-GYN is on call, Rhaenyra threatens the chief of the wing and at least three other nurses until she shows up and they investigate and apologize as Alicent has to nod and lay back and let them un-intimately poke and prod her most intimate places and there are ultrasounds and Alicent is crying and Rhaenyra pets her hair back from her forehead and wipes the tears from her cheeks and clasps her wife’s hand in both of her own and tries, tries, to remain upright.

Later that night, Alicent lays, despondent, in a clean hospital gown. Rhaenyra sits at her bedside, adjusting her blankets, smoothing her hair, whispering to her, and trying not to lose herself in what feels like an absolute full-throated hyperpanic.

Finally, their doctor returns. Alicent sits up and listens and remembers but Rhaenyra feels a million miles away. It’s something about the placenta being fragile and sometimes a lot of blood only looks like a lot of blood but actually it’s kind of rare to have these complications but not so rare that it’s rare and in fact, everything’s fine.

The doctor explains more things to Alicent on a chart and Alicent reads along and Rhaenyra excuses herself and dashes down the hallway and throws up in an office bin.

“We haven’t talked about it,” Alicent says, some weeks later. She’s showing now (just a little) and hasn’t bled again and Rhaenyra tries not to live every day in mortal panic (and tries not to fetch, reach for, open and close everything Alicent wants before Alicent finally kills her.) They’re back at the country house, just for a weekend, just so Jace can run around in the fresh air and they can avoid a weekend of London storms. Alicent lays her head back against Rhaenyra’s collarbone, laying on the wicker couch in the backyard, stroking Rhaenyra’s hands where they’re clasped just above her swell.

“About what,” Rhaenyra whispers, though she already knows.

“About your mother, my love,” and Rhaenyra feels like she’s about to break down.

Alicent wipes the tears away, silent as they are, one by one, until Rhaenyra is ready to speak.

“What if it goes wrong?”

“Remember what Ethelide used to say?” Alicent presses a soft, warm kiss to Rhaenyra’s neck. “Sometimes we’re afraid of things because we’ve been up close to them before, not because they’re so close to us now.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “She does sound like a fortune cookie sometimes.”

“My love.” Alicent turns, bracing her hands on Rhaenyra’s chest to look level at her. “We’ve already had a baby. He was fine. I was fine. Remember? Dr. Lang said it was one of the easiest births she’d ever seen.”

“I was fine, too. The same can’t be said for my brother. Or her.”

Alicent purses her lips, runs her fingertips along the shell of Rhaenyra’s ear, down to her jaw, eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m going to be okay. I promise. I promise, I promise, I promise. She’s going to be okay. We’re both healthy. We’re in good hands.”

You’re in my hands, Rhaenyra thinks, literally. She looks back at Alicent, who’s turned, now, calling to warn Jace not to try and climb the slippery Sycamore again. It’ll have been my doing, when you’re gone.

Corlys calls her again, a few days later. He wants to have breakfast with Alicent; with Rhaenys. Then Laenor invites himself (of course he does) so Alicent decides they should host them all at the country house, and they do, and before Rhaenyra knows it they’re all eating around the outdoor dining table and chatting along and friendly like it always could have been.

It's tentative, it’s careful — Laenor is thankfully, so thankfully, a tactful intermediary — but it’s something.

Rhaenys smiles sadly and presses a kiss to Alicent’s cheek and then, miraculously, looks Rhaenyra in the eyes and does the same. Gives her a squeeze at the top of her arm before they leave. Communicates something Rhaenyra can’t quite name. On his way out Corlys looks, if not happy, then peaceful, at least. Laenor is beaming.

It’s something, indeed.

Daemon. Daemon shows up again, just like he always does, at the worst possible times.

“I know you know.”

Rhaenyra wants to bang her head on her desk like she used to at uni. “How do you always manage to barge in just fifteen minutes before I’m finally ready to leave this damned office.”

Daemon sits in the chair opposite her own and she can tell he means business — that he might actually be sincere this time. “Rhaenyra. I’m serious.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “What do you want?”

“Beesbury called me.”

Rhaenyra tries not to reel at the sharp, white-hot feeling of being totally and instantly betrayed.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Daemon chides, reading her instantly. “It’s not like that, rest assured, Beesbury still viciously hates me for no fucking reason at all, like always.” He looks away, petulant, then back to her, back to business. “No, he called me because he knew it was all hands on deck this time.”

“I assume you got the packet also.”

Daemon shakes his head. “No, I received an abbreviated version in a box taped under my car because to have received it directly would be highly illegal, as I am a member of Parliament.”

“Inexplicably.” Rhaenyra quips.

Daemon levels his gaze on her. “Stop it. Be serious. Look at me, Rhaenyra. You can’t ignore this.”

Rhaenyra lifts her chin, then looks away, nods to herself and looks away. “Yes. Yes I can.”

“Rhaenyra—”

“I can, until the baby is born. Until then.”

“That’s months away, Rhaenyra. You know he’ll try again.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t—” One of these days, she thinks, she might just spontaneously combust. “I can’t fight this battle now.”

“You think he’ll wait for you?” Daemon fixes his stare and holds her in it, more serious than she’s ever seen him. “Rhaenyra. It’s Otto.”

Chapter Text

She shifts Alicent off of her chest slowly, gently, sliding out from under her grasp until she’s tucked gingerly back against the pillows.

3:43.

She waits—one moment; two.

Her reddened hair glitters in the dappled light, dark against the white of her slip; chest rising and falling with her breath as smoothly as ever.

Three; four.

She slides out of the bed, then, a fluid movement, practiced as ever from the days of before.

(She hates leaving without a goodbye. She’s always hated it.)

Rhaenyra dons her suit, re-sets the alarm, locks the door, starts the engine. The Mercedes hums to life and she drives, smooth and headstrong, into the fog of the nighttime.

It’s dead silent in the office. Dark as she instructed. They wait for her in the din, the lights of the city refracted through the bulletproof glass and glinting off of the cold metal of their decorated dragon insignia.

Daemon, remarkably un-hungover, leans forward in a simple black jumper. Corlys drums his fingers against the table, Rhaenys beside him with her hair still tied back and thick glasses donned.

“Is that a house robe?”  Daemon whispers to her, almost admiringly. She merely stares.  

Beesbury looks across at the city over his glasses and woolen sweater, equal parts prepared and resigned, beside Gerardys and Boremund Baratheon, who twiddles his thumb and forefinger in brave resistance of a cigarette. Lyonel Strong swirls the lukewarm coffee in his cup. Harwin spots Rhaenyra in the door and gives her a soft smile from beside his father, eyes kind and completely alert.

They stand as she enters; sit again as she does. Daemon moves as though he’s about to say something; she stills him with a hand.

“Before we begin.” She breathes, barely louder than a whisper. She meets their gaze, then, each and every one of them, a hard display of aggression she has only had to use but twice in her life. “Not a word of this to my wife.”

They nod. Rhaenys looks at her and then down again, threads her fingers together, sympathetic.  

Outside, somewhere far off, a siren begins to wail.

“I have no taste for this,” Rhaenyra laments, and then they begin.

“Jace, come now,” Alicent reasons, rubbing his round belly under the thick spaceship covers. Lyla stands in the door, brows knitted, apologetic. “Jacaerys,” she coos, and he turns, burying his face into the pillow. She rubs his back, brushes his thick hair behind his little ear, runs a thumb across his exposed cheek. “Time to get up, sweetling.”

He shakes his head and jerks away from her touch. “Jace,” she says again, more insistent.

He grunts in disapproval, shaking his head again, and protests into the pillow: “’M ill.”

“You’re ill?” She rubs his back and turns, meets Lyla’s eyes, who looks back at her equally confused.

He nods again, burrowing further into the pillows. “You were alright last night,” she prompts. “What hurts, my love?”

“No,” he fusses, eyes still turned away. (She thinks back, years ago, to Rhaenyra, adorably clingy and hungover on holiday, and wonders if petulance can be inherited.)

Alicent sighs. “Jacaerys,” she says, a bit more insistently, “If something’s wrong, you need to look at Mummy like a good boy and tell us.”

He turns back over with red-rimmed eyes, lip wobbling. “I don’t feel good,” he protests again, meekly. He sticks both arms out from under the covers, reaching for her, pitiful and demanding: “I don’t feel good!”

She lifts him into her arms before he begins to sob, little arms winding their way round her neck as she waves Lyla away, apologetic, resigned, knowing it’ll go nowhere. She combs her fingers through the hairs at the base of his neck—a trick that also works on Rhaenyra, notably—and begins to softly bounce him. “Shh, shh,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of his head as he buries his face in her curls. “You’re getting so big.”

“No!” He insists, sharp and loud. Her brow furrows. “I’m not big,” he whines—and then it clicks. “I’m little,” he says, then, weepy and defeated. “I’m your baby.”

Ah, she thinks.

She sits, then, back on the edge of his bed, coaxes him out of his hiding place in her hair to look up at her. She strokes his beautiful cheeks and presses a kiss to his hand and herself isn’t sure whether to break down in tears or prepare to recount this moment at his wedding. “You are my baby, Jace,” she assures, pressing a delicate kiss to his forehead. “You will always be my baby. My very first baby.”

“Your only baby,” he ventures, but it’s more a question, an uncertainty, a fear.

She smoothes his hair back, brushes it behind his ear, kicks herself for failing to give him credit. He’s always been perceptive beyond his years.

“My only boy,” she replies, smiling sadly. He lays his head on her shoulder, content, for now, with this compromise.

Later that night, Rhaenyra comes home hungry, though Alicent’s not entirely sure why.

“We need to talk to him,” Alicent breathes, as Rhaenyra kisses a hot insistent trail down her neck. The blonde grinds her hips down without so much as an acknowledgement and so Alicent squeezes her biceps, just so, just enough to demand her attention.

Rhaenyra hums in question, fingers continuing to search for the tie at the back of her dress. “We need to talk to Jacaerys,” Alicent insists.

Rhaenyra captures her bottom lip in a searing kiss and works down her jaw back to the soft column of her throat. “Not exactly who I’d hope you’d bring up right now,” she pants, thumbing her nipple through the thin lace.

Alicent whines despite herself and fists her fingers harder into Rhaenyra’s long hair. “I mean it,” she demands, even as Rhaenyra’s hand pushes hungrily on her knee and she instinctively moves her legs open for access. “I—” Rhaenyra finds the tie, then, and pulls, tugging the dress off of her breasts as her other hand expertly begins to tease her clit with a pianoing touch—“Gods, Rhaenyra.” Her mouth is on her nipple, and her fingers are exploring, and Alicent’s already feeling a dizzy, drunk sort of need, and then—

“Stop, stop.” She pushes Rhaenyra back onto her knees and sits up against the pillows, pulls her legs together, hands up, as though guarding against the might of a tiger. “Stop, wait. I want to talk about this.”

Even as Rhaenyra obeys, she can’t stop herself from licking Alicent’s slick off of her fingers, and Alicent shuts her eyes, impossibly turned on and so fucking annoyed.

“I think Jacaerys knows, or at least suspects,” Alicent starts, ignoring how Rhaenyra looks with flush in her cheeks, “And I think he’s worried about what the new baby is going to mean for him.”

“For what?”

Alicent fixes her with a look. “Even you must have wondered about this, Rhaenyra. He’s going to have to share with a sibling now—your attention, and mine, and even Lyla and our family—”

“I’m sorry.” Rhaenyra says, immediately sobering. “I’m sorry. I’ll make more time. I’ll start heading back earlier. I’ll guard the weekends better. I’ll—”

“No, no.” Alicent grasps her wrists, runs a thumb along her forearm. “No, Rhaenyra, it’s not you. I only meant—you know, in the typical way, in the ‘every older sibling’ sort of way. It’s normal.”

Rhaenyra seems to come back to herself for a moment, nods. “Right, of course. I understand.”

Alicent frowns. “What’s wrong? Why are you—”

“Nothing.”

Her hand brushes Rhaenyra’s cheek. “You’re on edge.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is it me? The baby? Dr. Lang says everything is going perfectly to plan—"

“No, no, it’s not.”

“Is it the shareholders’ meeting? I know these things are always a headache, Rhaenyra, but it won’t drag out long with Lyman—”

“No.” Rhaenyra says, finally, meeting her eyes, smiling softly—good enough, even, that Alicent almost believes it. “It’s nothing. I’m sorry. We can talk to him together tomorrow.”

She looks down where Alicent’s thumb continues to stroke along her veins. She looks into those beautiful brown eyes—sympathetic, yes, but utterly unconvinced.

It’s impossible to lie to you, Rhaenyra thinks, and simply hopes Alicent doesn’t press.

She stares at her for a long moment—“Alright,” she says. She nods, then, pinches Rhaenyra’s chin. “Alright, if you say so.”

Thank the gods.

She smoothes Rhaenyra’s hair, runs her fingers down and against the base of her neck. “I seem to recall you were quite focused, a moment ago?”

Rhaenyra smirks, predatory, leans forward between Alicent’s knees, and pounces.

A week later, she’s awoken—just enough, relaxing to the hush of Rhaenyra’s soft breath in a place of half-consciousness, and smiles. She snuggles in and recommits herself to her pillow on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, stretches her leg over Rhaenyra’s hips, threads her fingers along the edge of her loose t-shirt.

3:42, the clock reads, and she wonders if she can pass the next hour and a half before Rhaenyra wakes by simply watching her sleep.

But then she hears it—almost imperceptible, it wouldn’t be enough to wake her, but she hears it—the beeping.

Then Rhaenyra moves—without a moment’s hesitation, reaches out and presses the button, silencing it.

What in the world has possessed her to set an alarm at—she peaks, just slightly. Three forty-three?

She shuts her eyes and assumes it’s a mistake and settles against Rhaenyra’s form before she feels it; a familiar movement, all too practiced, something she wasn’t even aware she recognized.

Her shoulder falls gently against the pillow beside her; then her head, her arm. Finally her leg slopes down, perfectly gently, until she feels warm bed, and not Rhaenyra’s skin, beneath.

The closet door opens, then, a moment later, shuts. The bedroom door shuts. The alarm beeps—she almost can’t hear it—once, softly, signaling it’s been re-armed. The front door shuts. Alicent stands, groggy but perplexed, moves toward the window, and watches Rhaenyra’s Mercedes speed quietly into the night.

It happens again, two weeks later. And then again, a week after that. She’s begun to awaken—she can feel it when Rhaenyra goes. But Rhaenyra never mentions, Alicent never presses.

She lays, quietly, weeks later, as she hears the door shut, Rhaenyra’s Mercedes go beep-beep outside. She strokes her bump—swelling, now, larger and harder to hide.

My dearest love, she wonders to the dark, Wherever does your mother go?

“It’s the law,” Daemon insists. Harwin grins, silently, maybe only to himself.

“I hardly think that defines the parameters of war, here,” Beesbury remarks, lips pursed, effectively scolding.

“Well then you propose something, old man,” Daemon bites, and Rhaenyra shoots him a withering gaze.

“I think the law is murky on our efforts at best,” Harwin begins, calmly as ever. “It’s not exactly lawful for you to stand in this room, Mr. Targaryen, MP.”

Daemon shoves off the wall, rolls his eyes. “I can only imagine that’s why we hold these playdates at four in the morning.”

“It’s before he begins work.” Rhaenyra says, softly. He looks to her, but her eyes never leave the dim lights of the city. “So he can never preempt us. We act before him. Always.”

“Why don’t we set up shop in Fiji and start business at ten then.” Daemon quips.

“He’s an early riser, is he?” Lyonel comments, nodding to himself. “I suppose that makes sense. Though he never gave the impression.”

Rhaenyra nods. “He’s always been that way. Since my father and he—” She stops herself, sighs through the nose. The coffee machine beeps, loudly, and then Harwin sets a hot cup beside her. “Since I can remember.”

“Regardless,” Daemon insists, again, palms pressing down on the table next to Rhaenyra. “Otto Hightower is not an independent director. The law is clear. This is an FTSE company, the board is required to comprise at least half an independent directory, he’s not an executive, he has no business here, kick him the fuck off.”

“It’s an act of aggression.” Beesbury counsels. “Taken too early. It tips our hand completely. Gives him time to counter. Rhaenyra, please, we must act with restraint.”

Rhaenys’ eyes watch her, silent and ever observant.

“It’s a discretionary judgment.” Daemon argues. “The board clears him each year, rubber-stamps him as independent as a show of good will, all because he’s such a fucking dinosaur—”

Beesbury only glares.

“—That he’s warmed the chair for a hundred years but that doesn’t make it true and it doesn’t make it your responsibility to pretend it so. How could he possibly object to an assessment that he’s lost his independence, Rhaenyra, he’s your fucking father-in-law.”

Rhaenyra huffs. “Yes, I understand the logic, Daemon, thank you.”

“We could invite audit.” Rhaenys speaks, coolly, for the first time. They turn to her. “Daemon is right. It is the law. We’re beholden to follow the law, yes, but not to enforce it. That responsibility rests with the FRC.”

Boremund frowns, intrigued. “Invite the government to force him away.”

Rhaenys turns her eyes on Rhaenyra. “If our goal, at this juncture, is to limit his authority to call a vote without appearing that we intend to do so, it seems most expedient to let someone do it for us.” She glances at Daemon. “I suppose my baby brother might be able to be of some help there.”

“He’ll know it was me,” Daemon says, and then he frowns, and then smirks.

“Ah, excellent. He’ll know it was me.”

“And that’s favorable?” Boremund prompts.

Daemon sneers. “I’ve hated that insipid leech since I was a teenager. Always following my brother around like a stray he made the mistake of feeding.” He examines his nails, smirking, maybe only to himself. “Trust he’s returned the sentiment in kind.”

“It could help with the public, too,” Harwin murmurs. “Make you look impartial. Reigning in your own family’s company for the public good, the like. Counteract suspicions of improper ties between us.”

Rhaenys nods. “You could try to fight back, to keep him. Shadowboxing it, obviously.”

“Issue a statement—sorry to see him go, and the like.” Rhaenyra offers, mulling it over. She sighs. “Fine. Lyman?”

Lyman inhales, slowly, looks down at his papers, takes off his glasses and sets them aside. “It’s a gamble, I think.” He turns his attention toward Daemon. “You,” he starts, just as scornful, “Need to make your sudden urge to act on your hatred very convincing.”

Daemon nods, already smiling. “I very much understand.”

It’s freezing in London after the month turns, freezing and raining and foggy.

“I can’t believe it,” Wylla beams as rain beats the Flat Cap window. “I never thought—”

“We were extremely impressed with your application,” Daemon praises, eyes kind. “Anyway, when the positioned opened up again, we thought we’d revisit some of our favorites we’d had to forgo—and we so hoped you might still be willing to join us.”

Wylla nods, furiously. “I am! It’s been—you don’t understand, it’s always been my dream to work in Parliament.”

Daemon smiles. “I hear you’ve done excellent work for someone I know very well.”

Wylla grins, then, almost too fondly, and Daemon resists the urge to be sick. “Mr. Hightower has treated me very well, and I’ve learned a lot, and—”

“Well, I’d hate to be responsible for stealing you away.” Daemon casts her a Cheshire expression. “I do hope, when you leave him, you could keep that part our little secret, hm?”

Otto Hightower looks at the CV in his hand, and then back at Mysaria, with an untenably tired expression.

“This must be a jest.”

Mysaria leans back, practiced and calm. “A jest in what sense? I want a job and you have a qualified position. Unless you think we don’t read or type or keep calendars further south.”

Otto snorts. “I hardly think Daemon Targaryen’s plaything is interested in any of those tasks for their esoteric pleasure.”

Mysaria raises a brow. “And what is the nature of my interest, do you suspect, Mr. Hightower?”

Otto huffs, impatient, and tosses her CV back across the desk. “If Daemon wants to attempt corporate espionage, he can at least do me the courtesy of assuming I’m not dumb as a post. You can see yourself out, my dear. I do trust you remember where the door is.”

Mysaria stands, eyes sharp. “This is an insult.”

Otto nods, all but rolling his eyes. “Likewise. I wish you luck in your continued search.”

“She’ll be here,” Alicent insists, sitting up on her elbows as the nurse warms their gel.

Dr. Lang smiles, eyes kind. “I’m sure she will be.”

Alicent’s nail pinches at the edge of her thumb. “We can wait a few more minutes, surely.”

The doctor nods, placating, coaxing Alicent to lie back as she calibrates the wand. “We can wait a few more minutes.”

No sooner has she said it does Rhaenyra barrel through the door, suited and sweating and adorably flustered. Alicent reaches out and Rhaenyra grasps her hand, nods a hello to their doctor, places a gentle kiss to her cheek. “You’re alright?” Rhaenyra questions, placing her other hand on the bottom of her swell. “Do you need something—do you need water?”

“I think you might need some water,” Alicent smiles, and tugs her down for a quick peck.

“Right,” Dr. Lang begins, “If we’re ready, Alicent, go ahead and lift your sweater just under your breasts for me.” Alicent lifts up her shirt, and Rhaenyra runs a warm hand across the pale gooseflesh exposed.

The nurse moves to apply the gel, then, as their doctor readies with the ultrasonic wand. “Has it been warmed?” Rhaenyra demands. Alicent strokes her hand, shushes her gently, smiling apologetically up at their nurse.

They do it — the screen is a blur, and Rhaenyra watches Lang like a hawk for signs of concern, the slightest brow furrow—and Alicent is comfortable, she says, though Rhaenyra can’t understand for the life of her why they can’t make these rooms but the slightest hint above freezing, and everything is healthy, it’s announced, healthy and normal and this looks good and no complications and then—

“There,” Dr. Lang smiles, moving to turn the screen further toward them. “I think this is as good a view as we might get—at this stage, anyway.” She clicks a key and the screen takes one picture, then two. “Here,” she says, gesturing, “Is baby’s head, and here you can see a hand, and a foot, and…”

Rhaenyra’s not even sure she’s listening or capable even of listening anymore at all. There’s a toe, she catches, and her eyes fill with tears. The baby moves, just slightly. Alicent squeezes her hand, then, and Rhaenyra looks down, almost having forgotten where they are, and finds wet chestnut eyes locked on the screen, beautiful lips parted in awe.

“I love you,” Rhaenyra breathes, as they both stare. She brings Alicent’s hand to her lips, kisses her fingertips, her knuckles. “I love you.”

“Do you want to know the sex?” The doctor asks, softly. Rhaenyra dumbly nods.

Dr. Lang smiles gently, and the wand moves around, just a bit, though they’re still transfixed on the image, transfixed and alighted and simmering with joy.

“It’s a girl,” Dr. Lang announces.

“I know,” Alicent whispers, simply.

Rhaenyra’s eyes fill with tears once more.

Rhaenyra drives them home, and Alicent stares all the while at the tiny printed photos of their daughter, holding them in her hands as delicate as eggshells.

“I’m so happy,” she whispers, and Rhaenyra reaches her hand over the center console to thread her fingers through Alicent’s own.

Later that night she finds Alicent in the nursery, arranging and rearranging the soft padding in their (fully built, Rhaenyra thinks with pride, fully and finally built) crib, readjusting the layer of the sheer and blackout curtains, making miniscule adjustments to the positions of the stuffies on the shelf, the clothes in the drawers, testing and re-testing the security of the mobile above.

“You’re nesting,” Rhaenyra comments, smirking. Alicent turns to find her leaning, watching, in the doorway, and smiles, reaches out a hand, and Rhaenyra allows herself to be pulled close.

“You’re so beautiful, you know?” Rhaenyra comments, running a thumb along the swell of her bottom lip.

Alicent shakes her head, almost in disbelief, and captures Rhaenyra’s lips in a kiss, pulling back ever-so-slightly to trace the line of Rhaenyra’s jaw. “You really have no idea.”

There was a time she and Otto were almost friends; a year or so after the wedding, before Jace was born, they’d had him over to the country house. He’d been nice to them, strangely—kind to Alicent, an ally to Rhaenyra in the C-suite when she’d needed his help.

Alicent had been overjoyed to see him, as always—joyous and nervous and adjusting the flowers in the dining room and picking at her fingernails.

He’d sat out on their deck, and when Alicent ducked inside to use the restroom, he’d leveled her, an expression equal parts respecting and dour.

“I didn’t know your family had this house,” he’d said, staring out at the yard.

“They didn’t—we just bought it, actually. I thought she told you.”

He looked back at her, then. “Your father bought it, you mean.”

“No.” She said, meeting his gaze. “We did.”

“Then you did, it seems.” He hummed, sipped his wine. “You should be proud, Rhaenyra. She’s very lucky to have you.”

Rhaenyra worked her jaw. “As I am to have her.”

He’d almost laughed, she saw it. “Oh?” He shook his head. Then, lowly: “I appreciate your sentiment. But she doesn’t have what it takes to weather the game we play. It has always pained me to know it.”

(Please, Lyonel Tyrell had begged Alicent over dinner when she’d finally overcome her fear of her father’s disappointment and left Tyrell’s investment firm. He put a hand over hers, eyes pleading: You’re a prodigy. You’ll run this place one day. Tell me what it’ll take to have you stay.)

Rhaenyra tilted her head, almost smiling at the absurdity of it, then tipped her head toward the house. “Her name is on the deed.”

“Alicent doesn’t own anything of her own—she never has.” He’d scoffed.

The smile dropped clean from her face.

“I must say,” she said without hesitation, “That’s an ironic criticism.”

Then Alicent had emerged back through the door and squeezed her father’s shoulder and sat back down and grinned at them, utterly happy, and he smiled placatingly.

But something flashed in his eyes. She saw it.

“I just got off the phone with him,” Lyman says, almost a week and a half later. “He took it well. He’s angry, of course, and I assured him we all are. I expressed how frustrated you were.” Lyman purses his lips, hands clasped behind him. “I suggested that you were troubled with Daemon. All over a spat with his girlfriend—deeply improper. He immediately concurred.”

Rhaenyra nods. “Do you think he suspects…”

“No, no.” Lyman shakes his head. “That’s one gift of his having known you in girlhood, Rhaenyra, one you must learn to exploit.”

Rhaenyra laughs to herself, humorlessly, darkly, watching as the rain soaks her window. “The only gift, if there truly is one—which is, exactly?”

 “He underestimates you.” Beesbury looks at her, then, serious, levels her with a stare she’s only seen on occasion. “As he did your father.”

She scoffs, shakes her head, tries to fix her expression away from her barely contained rage. “Everyone underestimated my father, I’m told.”

“Not me.” It isn’t a boast, she realizes, as she watches Beesbury look away—the pain in his eyes, the pain and the anguish and the anger, perhaps an outrage at the misuse of Viserys’ kind demeanor that she so often shared. Finally, he smiles, sympathetically, nostalgically. “I never doubted him. As I’ve never doubted you, my girl.”

He stands beside her executive chair, places a warm hand on her shoulder. “He can’t call a vote, now, so he’s behind a few steps, at least. This isn’t the end.”

“I know.”

He pats her again, once, and then moves toward the door. “Speaking of underestimation.”

She meets his gaze.

“Don’t extend the same misjudgment to your wonderful wife. The kind and the dutiful are often dismissed as naïve, Rhaenyra.” Lyman simply sighs. “As your father had to learn.”

Once upon a time, years ago, so many that Rhaenyra remembers it almost as a dream, she’d laughed with her father in his private study, hiding from the crowds of their annual holiday party at the family house, looking down at a picture of Aemma—tipsy at a party many years earlier even, hands on her head, four chopsticks up her nose.

“And,” Viserys added, face split in a grin, “She looks over at him, absolutely deadpan, those things sticking out of her face—this is the Chancellor himself, mind you—and without even hesitating, she goes, I am the Walrus. Coo-coo-ca-choo!“

They’d dissolved into their laughter, and he’d stared back at the photograph, remembering.

“Where’s Alicent?”

Rhaenyra shrugged, gesturing out the doors. “Making the rounds, I’m sure. Otto’s orders.”

Viserys shook his head. “He’s far too hard on that girl.”

“Well, don’t you know, her career in serving her father can’t go anywhere if she doesn’t know each and every one of his lackeys and associates and arselickers by heart.”

“Rhaenyra.” He’d scolded. “He’s still your godfather, after all.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, fail to remind me.”

He’d nudged her in the ribs, then, grinning and conspiratorial. “So.”

She’d looked back at him, frowned. “So?”

He sighed, leveled her a knowing gaze. “You know I love Alicent. As though she were my own.”

Rhaenyra quirked a brow. “I know.”

“And I also happen to know you love her, too.”

“I do.”

“Well,” Viserys prompted, lips curling in a smile. “It’s been quite a few years, I think, and you’ve both graduated, and worked, and you’ve decorated and re-decorated and re-decorated again that handsome flat of yours in the city—”

“It needed updating!” She protested.

He merely waived her off. “My point,” he chided, gently, “Is that, well. Isn’t it time to take the next step, you two?”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. “And what step is that?”

He huffed, smiled tiredly, like she was still fifteen and petulant. “When are you going to ask her to marry you, Rhaenyra?”

“I’m sure her father would love that.”

Viserys shook his head. “Forget Otto. He’ll come around, as he’s done with most everything in his life. He’s practically written the book on it—” Viserys took a sip of his champagne, smiling, hand waving through the air with a defeated fondness— “The Art of Coming Around. Don’t think of it, Rhaenyra. Think of her. You love her, don’t you?”

“Of course.” She said, without hesitation. “More than anything.”

“I know she loves you.”

“But it’s not about that,” Rhaenyra protested. “Why marriage? Why… pomp and circumstance? It’s an aged institution, Father, one that has only ever stood for repression and ownership and… fucking servitude. I don’t own her, she doesn’t own me. Why is it necessary to put on this lavish affair for everyone, just to recommit what we already know is real, and—”

“I’m not just talking about a wedding, Rhaenyra.” Viserys sat, then, in one of the chairs opposite his desk, looking back at the photograph of Aemma, smiling and vibrant and ever so young. “I’m talking about partnership. It’s a commitment—a promise you make, that this person will forever be part of you, dear to you and part of you and hold a piece of your… your soul, I suppose. I didn’t own your mother, Rhaenyra, she was—she was the only person I ever wanted to turn to, the only person I wanted to share my joy with, to share my children with, to awaken and fall asleep with. I promised her I’d always be beside her, always protect her, always be awake, be available, come running, keep trying, keep reaching. I committed to your mother my life, all of it, because it was the most precious thing I had to offer. That’s what marriage is, Rhaenyra.” He smiled sadly at Aemma’s image, young and bright and defiant. “That’s what marriage means.”

Then, without looking, without speaking, he had walked around the desk, opened a drawer, took her hand, placed a velvet box in her palm—smiled, like it was the last time he was going to see it.

Rhaenyra looked down, stunned. She opened the lid and stared down at the single red diamond; looked back at him with wide eyes.

“This is Mother’s ring.”

Viserys only nodded.

“It should be worn by a woman who loves you,” he took a breath, closed her hand around it, voice tremulous. “Almost as much as the one who wore it before.”

Back in the war room, Rhaenyra’s not sure whether to have another cup of coffee or throw the machine through the window.

“I thought we decided he was unsuspicious.”

“It’s just…” Lyonel sighs. “It’s just irregularities, Rhaenyra. We’re not sure where these are coming from, but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Irregularities. It’s seventeen land tax audits delivered in a single day. Really, Lyonel, you’d think he’d be more tactful.”

“Punishment for the audit of our own, perhaps,” Daemon muses, leaning darkly in the corner.

Rhaenys sighs beside Corlys, who’s staring down at the government filings with barely-contained spite. “It matters not. Strong?”

“We can weather them.” Harwin nods, sighing. “Legally speaking, anyway. We’ve paid the taxes, it’s dully recorded. These audits are a headache, but they’re not meritorious.”

Rhaenyra scoffs. “As if.”

“We should find out who.” Lyman begins, slowly, as though avoiding a coiled snake. “Whoever his insider is, and they can be dealt with.”

She shook her head. “There is no dealing with this viper.”

He frowns. “What was that—”

“There is no ridding us of him!” She slams her fists against the conference table, eyes red, nostrils flaring. “It’s just as Daemon’s said—he’s a leech, that’s what he does, he attaches and feasts.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Daemon notes, and raises a hand. “All in favor of more aggressive tactics, say aye?”

“Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys counsels, voice stern, tilting her head in warning, “Do not let your temper see the better of you. Do not give this man—” she peers up at Daemon, hoping he feels her double meaning, “—the reaction he so clearly desires. If this attack feels egregious, it is only because it is. He means to bait you. If you fight back tenfold, it will prove you were behind his ouster. It will prove that you know. That you do mean war.”

“I do mean war. Or would that be so disastrous?” She stands out of her chair, marches dourly to the window. “To give him what he has long deserved. To do away with him. For good.”  

“Careful,” Corlys urges.

“Rhaenyra,” Rhaenys presses, softly as ever, and Rhaenyra turns, eyes spiteful; Rhaenys merely meets her stare with one of her own, one that is long and knowing and sad. “Rhaenyra, I fear it’s not my place to say, but I must; when you think of war—think of Alicent.”

Rhaenyra sighs, balls her fists so tight until she can feel her nails nearly breaking the skin.

Rhaenyra’s secretary’s eyes alight when she spots Alicent outside of her office, standing and beaming up at her as she exits the elevator. Of all of Rhaenyra’s secretaries and assistants and staff, Dyana—kind and unwitting and disorganized as she is—will always be Alicent’s favourite.

“Dyana.” She smiles. “Always wonderful to see you. How was your trip?”

“We saw everything,” Dyana gushes, eyes happy. “It stopped first at Amalfi, and we spent the whole day on the beach and had so much gelato—it’s Paxter and my favorite—and we went to Dubrovnik, and Santorini, and then—” Dyana sticks out her hand, practically squealing, and shows her a modest but beautiful diamond.

“Congratulations, Dyana!” Alicent beams and takes the young woman in her arms. “I’m so happy for you. It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, and my mother said I could wear her dress!” Dyana grins, then remembers—“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, I— Rhaenyra’s in her office, I’m sure you’re looking for her.”

Alicent nods, squeezes her hand, moving toward the door. “Congratulations again.”

Rhaenyra looks up at her when she enters, hands moving over a stack of clipped pages—just from the messy staple (which, after weathering about a hundred hours of moaning about it, Alicent knows she hates) she can tell they’re from Harwin.

“Well,” Rhaenyra smiles. “This is a nice surprise.” Alicent braces a hand on the back of Rhaenyra’s chair and leans down, pressing her lips to her cheek. “I thought I’d come say hello, just briefly, while I’m in the neighborhood.”

“What brings you across the city?”

“Lunch with Laena.”

“Ah, lovely, how is she?”

“She’s well.” Alicent brushes a spot of dust off of a picture of Jacaerys on Rhaenyra’s desk. “I wanted to see if you might be available a bit earlier tonight, actually.”

Rhaenyra frowns at one of the packets, marks something on the page. “I’m sure I can be, if you need—I’ll check with Dyana.”

Alicent nods. “Rhaenyra,” she starts, softly, tentatively, “Well. My father called.”

Rhaenyra’s hand stills on the page.

“He wants to have dinner with us tonight.”

Rhaenyra blinks, slowly, the gears turning behind her eyes almost undetectably. “Does he?”

“He’s trying to reach out again. He’s making an effort.”

“Oh,” Rhaenyra chuckles, quietly, utterly humorlessly, almost to herself. “He certainly is.”

And there’s something—Alicent knows, there’s an edge to Rhaenyra’s voice that just isn’t her usual disfavor.

They agreed to make peace, after Rhaenyra had gotten clean, after they’d decided to conceive again.

(He regrets it, Rhaenyra, I know it, Alicent had insisted. Whatever happened between us, Jacaerys deserves it. Our baby deserves it—to have a grandfather in their lives.

At that, Rhaenyra had had no answer.)

Alicent lowers herself into one of the chairs opposite her wife, who very convincingly pretends to be focused on something on the page. “You know quite well we need to start taking these steps. We can show him our pictures—I haven’t sent them to him yet.” She offers a small smile, unabashed in her joy. “The ultrasounds of the baby.”

“Yes, I’ll look forward to that.” Rhaenyra scoffs. “I wonder if he’ll ask who the father is again, or if we’re due some other pleasure—”

“Rhaenyra.”

Her wife looks up, then, and it’s all Targaryen—forceful and protective and fiery. “I know what we agreed and I’ll stand by it. But I don’t like the way he treats you. I don’t like the way he speaks to you, I don’t like the way he sneers and corrects you like you’re still fifteen years old. We’ve had this conversation. You’re my wife and I won’t abide it. He’s your father, it’s your decision when we see him, I still accede to that.” She sighs. “But you can’t ask me to be happy about it. It’s not fair.”

Alicent’s head tilts, trying to draw Rhaenyra’s gaze back to her own, and then she stands, rounding the desk and tugging until the blonde turns and she can slide, slowly and softly, into Rhaenyra’s lap. She strokes Rhaenyra’s cheek with her thumb. “You won’t abide it, hm?”

“No.”

Alicent presses a kiss to her furrowed brow. “I’m not allowed to be condescended to, then, am I?”

“No, you’re not.” Rhaenyra’s arms tighten around her and she feels soft lips against the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Forbidden, in fact.”

Alicent chuckles, lowly, running her fingers along Rhaenyra’s own. “Why, yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra only laughs.

Rhaenyra dons the power suit and, staring at herself, she is reminded, even if subtly, of him.

Aegon the Conqueror, they’d called him. A man who never flinched.

Black silk, hard lines, even shoulders. Strong, sharp, unforgiving.

Targaryen.

Alicent is stunning in a deep red dress, one Rhaenyra recognizes from her pregnancy with Jacaerys—modestly displaying her swell, deep and satin and lovely.

(“We really don’t have to go anywhere,” Rhaenyra had coaxed, fingertips playing at the edge of the fabric.

Alicent had raised an eyebrow and gestured with her clutch. “Car, now.”)

Rhaenyra knows the way to Alicent’s family home well—wound those thoroughfares on dozens of drives, from boarding school and from uni, from the city and the countryside, in tears and half-drunk and at three in the morning and an hour and a half late to holiday brunch. Always speeding, always winding toward her—too many times after a vicious fight with her father: Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry, I’m coming, I’m on my way.

Alicent seems to sense it, hand tense over hers. “Remember. We’re making a fresh start.”

He’s trying to destroy my family’s legacy and the inheritance of our children, Rhaenyra thinks.

(Then, Rhaenys’ voice, even and condemning.

When you think of war, think of Alicent.)

Rhaenyra wants to fix it, she does.

She glances at the gentle round of Alicent’s swell and grips the wheel tighter.

They arrive and the staff let them in. “Doesn’t have time to greet his own daughter,” Rhaenyra gripes. Alicent levels her a sharp gaze and pulls her to the side of the staircase, away from prying eyes.

“Listen to me,” Alicent demands, voice sharp as stone. “We’re here. We are doing this kindly and for our children. I will not have you barbing each other all night.” She huffs, almost shaking, and straightens Rhaenyra’s jacket. “Do you understand.”

Rhaenyra nods, huffs, and follows her into the drawing room.

(Once, when they were fifteen, Otto had snapped Alicent’s phone in half. She had waited a day and then put a book in the corner of her window—The Travels of Nymeria.

Rhaenyra had thrown pebbles at the window until Alicent had slid out the window and into her passenger side.)

Otto Hightower appears as she always remembered him—understated dress and upturned lips, surrounded eternally by the art and chinoiserie and finery he collected, somehow supplicant and domineering at once. He turns from his bar cart, drinks in both hands. Alicent moves to embrace him and he smiles, leans to kiss her on the cheek, but his eyes never leave Rhaenyra.

She gazes right back through him.

“Good father,” she smiles, though the title feels like poison.

“Good daughter,” he returns, and the gesture seems to disgust him just as much.

He holds a drink out to her. “Old fashioned?”

“I don’t partake.”

“Ah.” He nods. “That’s right, I do believe Alicent told me. Any reason why not, any longer? I remember you were…” He searches for the words, and Alicent looks back and forth between them with barely concealed nervousness. “Enthusiastic, as a child, with life’s recreational pursuits.”

“I suppose I prefer to remain alert, these days.” She counters. “Eyes always open.”

Otto smirks, though the gesture never reaches his eyes. “Of course.”

They sit to dinner and Alicent smiles, and asks questions, and nods brightly, and all but beseeches him for his attention in a way Rhaenyra can only recall detesting.

(“He’s so ashamed of me,” Alicent had cried, once, sobbing in Rhaenyra’s arms when she was nineteen years old and failed to get her thesis past the final master’s panel. You’ve done in two years what most try to do in five, Rhaenyra had reminded. It hadn’t mattered, not even that she’d passed six months afterward, not that she went on to graduate first, to gain all the accolades, all the honors, open every door; only that he had looked at her with contempt in his eyes, only that he’d been let down by her.)

“I want to show you something,” Alicent says, and opens her clutch with an unreserved, childlike excitement, producing the pictures of their daughter—two of them, Rhaenyra notes—and presenting them to him like crown jewels.

“This is her,” Alicent gushes. “She’s perfect, isn’t she? This is her head, and here, this is one of her little feet—”

His eyes remain leveled on Rhaenyra. She smiles, coolly. “She’s beautiful, like her mother,” Rhaenyra offers, still holding Otto’s penetrating gaze.

Finally, he looks down at the photos in her hands, materializes a mirthless grin. “Lovely.”

“This one is for you. I made a copy, so you could keep it.” She presses a photo into his hand like a gift. Her big eyes stare plaintively up at him—love me, love my child, accept me.

“Yes, well.” He sighs, gives her a waxy, unsatisfied smile, takes it and sets it aside without even barely looking. “Very nice, thank you.”

Alicent visibly deflates.

Rhaenyra wants to rip her dinnerplate in half.

Aegon Targaryen probably would have cleaved it into his head, Rhaenyra thinks, Then buried him in the backyard.

He asks, moments later, after Jacaerys. Alicent grins again, tells him how well Jace is doing in preschool, how quickly he’s reading simple books now, how much he loves to draw—

“They are related, aren’t they?” He quips, gesturing at her belly.

Alicent opens her mouth to reply—confusion, and mild insult, and more confusion, and then hurt evident on her face—before realizing she doesn’t even know what to say.  

But he’s not looking at her—it’s not about her at all, Rhaenyra realizes. He’s looking at me.

His eyes peer into hers, and she knows he knows.

Still hunting for a reaction.

The rest of the night goes along as planned, Alicent quiet, her smiles practised and fake, almost demure.

They drive home in silence. She looks over to the passenger side, hoping to say something, to comfort, to fix it.

Alicent sits slumped on the far side of the seat, head against the window, eyes wet.

I’ll kill him, Rhaenyra thinks to offer. At the next circle I’ll turn this car around and I’ll march right back in there and fucking kill him for you. But she knows that isn’t what Alicent wants.

I can terrify him, I can cow him, I can fight and defeat him, Rhaenyra thinks, bitterly. But I can’t make him love you. I’m sorry.

Later, Alicent slides into bed and Rhaenyra after her, and Rhaenyra doesn’t even let her attempt the pretense of sleep, reaching over and pulling her swift and sure into her arms as Alicent burrows into Rhaenyra’s chest and sobs, body quaking with uncontained hurt, crying so deeply and so hard that Rhaenyra wonders if she should do something more to calm her or if the cortisol will disturb the baby.

Not that he’d care.

She grips her tight, presses her kisses firmly to her hairline, strokes her back—breathe with me, breathe with me, she urges.

I love you, she whispers. I love you, I love our daughter, you made a perfect baby, you’re a wonderful woman, a wonderful mother, Alicent, she insists, you’re intelligent and you’re loved and you matter.

The next morning is a Saturday, and they take Jace to the park. He swings and smiles and plays pretend with a group of other children.

A boy across the playground leads his baby sister to the big mock-up driver’s wheel, shows her how it spins.

Jace looks up at Alicent, then, seeming to sense her melancholy, and tugs on her hand. “I’m going to be a nice big brother like him,” Jace insists. “I love the baby.”

And Rhaenyra wishes more than anything she could go forward in time—just for a moment, she’d trade years for it, a split second—to speak to Jacaerys as an adult; to tell him how very much it mattered, that single moment.

She sits in the war room, again, not less than two months later, and looks back at Beesbury with hard, red eyes.

“IronBank.”

“It appears so.”

She shakes her head. “We can’t lose this. It’s not like Stepstones. It’s potentially…” She trails off. The sun begins to peak across the city skyline. “It’s hundreds of millions.” She sniffs. “Is this his trump card?”

Beesbury shakes his head. “Perhaps.”

Lyonel buries his face in his hands. “Maybe we should initiate suit.”

Harwin shakes his head. “That’ll bring shareholder litigation faster than even the loss.”

“If we do nothing, he’ll take it,” Rhaenys says, simply, eyes glancing at Corlys and then leveling off at the distance. She shakes her head. “It’s IronBank. They’ll yield even to a whisper of infighting. They take no chances.”

“I can’t believe they’re even considering.” Rhaenyra demands. “This is…” She shakes her head, turns — “We’re their business, they’ve been our creditor for fifty years, we practically built their British—” Then whips back around, looks at them with a distraught frustration, hands grasping at nothing, shouts, “We’re the fucking Targaryens.”

“You need to go to Geneva,” Daemon urges.

She shakes her head. “Alicent’s due in a month. What if something…” She looks at him, to Rhaenys, back out to the city. “I can’t—I can’t be gone.”

“Then let me.”

“No.” Corlys edges. “I mean no disrespect, Daemon, but we both know.”

Daemon huffs, halfway enraged, resigned. “I know.” He toes his loafer into the carpet. “Fucking hell.”

“I can go.” Corlys urges.

“No.” Rhaenyra snaps, presses her eyes shut, rubs her temples. “Nobody is going anywhere. Not until I’ve set a course.”

That evening, she calls Alicent, tells her something’s come up, that she’ll have a late night in the office.

Corlys joins her, eventually, eyes hard and red and dry.

“You don’t mind if I drink in front of you,” he asks, opening his flask. Rhaenyra shakes her head and he takes a long swig.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, putting his feet up on her desk. She thinks to be insulted, then sighs and does the same. “Your father—I loved that man. Loved him. Don’t look at me like that; I know you know.” Rhaenyra merely rolls her eyes. “Don’t you make that face at me, girl,” he quips, but she can hear the affection in his voice. He shakes his head. “You fucking Targaryens,” he sighs. “All of you, blonde overgrown teenagers.”

“Go on.”

He snorts. “Your father, Viserys. I don’t think I’ve ever liked a man more. That was his problem, if we’re honest. Everybody liked Viserys. Very few respected him. And nobody feared him. You can’t get away with this game without fear, Rhaenyra, it’s just impossible.”

“Why is he doing this,” Rhaenyra whispers. “I think…” She looks off, away. “I think, at the end of it, I just don’t understand.”

Corlys tilts his gaze. “You know, I knew Viserys—and Otto, you remember—since our first years at this company, when we were younger men. It was expected of Viserys, of course, seeing as he’d inherit it, and he brought Otto along with him, and when I was engaged to your aunt, Viserys included me, buying my companies as subsidiaries and bringing me along to the helm with him.”

He takes another drink, and Rhaenyra watches, almost wistful, as he revels in it. “Like Otto, I was an ambitious young man— but I was thankful for Viserys’ kindness. My companies would have done fine on their own—they already were—but he didn’t need to give me that lift. My work was superior, but it was his wisdom to know it, to buy what he couldn’t create alone, to accept help to utilize it. Viserys was happy enough to be outshone, so long as he could still succeed.” Corlys fixes his gaze on her once more. “He was a man without ego. But that was not Otto’s way.”

“My father was a successful man,” Corlys continues, “Not like your grandfather, of course, but successful. Otto, though…” He shakes his head. “Otto didn’t come from nothing, as you know, but very little. Men like that…” He shrugs. “They hate men like your father; always will. I can understand, I suppose. But I always wondered why Viserys didn’t see it, or why, if he saw it, he overlooked it. Otto was no friend to Viserys; just happy to have a friend like Viserys, a Pollyanna from a rich titled family that he could use.”

“Watch your tongue,” Rhaenyra snaps, but there’s no force behind it.

“You know it’s true,” Corlys points his flask at her. “I remember, one of your father’s famous holiday parties, years ago—you were something like fifteen, sixteen years old, then—Otto said something to you, can’t remember what it was, but you didn’t like it, and oh, the way you looked at him.” Corlys tips his head back and grins, savouring the memory. “I remember thinking, now that girl…” He grins at her, almost proud. “She sees exactly what he is. And he knew it, too.”

“So what?” Rhaenyra grumbles. “It’s a thirty-years-in-the-making ultra-long-game scheme to disassemble our empire to stick it to pricks with generational wealth, workers of the world unite?” Rhaenyra scoffs. “Please.”

Corlys shakes his head. “No. He did his time with Viserys, Otto thought, I’d wager. Buttered him up, extended enough favors, carried out enough rubbish. When your father got sick, he expected to be elevated.”

“But it was me, instead.”

“But it was you, instead.” Corlys nods, maybe to himself, looks past Rhaenyra and out at her window. “You Targaryens, you took everything from him, I imagine he thinks. Worked his entire career in service to you. Carried Viserys’ water through his best and brightest years. Hell, you even took his damn daughter, even have her pregnant at home raising kids named Targaryen. That man never had an identity outside the three-headed dragon, and it never paid off.”

She nods, digesting in the silence.

He shakes his head. “He’s gunning for you, Rhaenyra. And it’s not going to end here. Not until you end it. I loved Viserys, but the times he lost, it was his own fault, you know. He never tried to preempt anything, always waited until the battle was here, on his doorstep, barreling toward him. He never acted, Rhaenyra. Not at the right time.”

The next morning, she returns to the war room again. Her directive is simple.

“We’re going to Geneva. Corlys is coming with me.”

Daemon looks like he might throw a parade.

Lyonel accedes, as does Beesbury, and Gerardys, and Harwin nods, standing firm.

“I’m going home,” she says, then. “I want a game plan by the afternoon.”

She sneaks in, silently; slides her keys back onto their hook, disarms the alarm, shuts the door without so much as a hush behind her.

And then she looks up and jumps— it’s Alicent, staring back at her from the end of the couch with a half-read novel in her hands.

“It’s getting quite good, now,” Alicent remarks, turning the page. “Sort of that mid-point moment where you can feel something about to happen—where you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Rhaenyra places a hand over her heaving chest. “Gods, you scared me half to death.”

Alicent raises a brow. “Strange, isn’t it? To find me awake and skulking around in the dark at this hour.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “Alicent.”

“Rhaenyra.” She shuts the book, discards it firmly on the side table. “You know, I kept asking myself, when you sneak out of bed—where could she possibly be going? Always so quickly, not every day, but frequently enough; so practiced and economical about it.”

Rhaenyra merely stands, still and grieving and caught.

“What’s going on, Rhaenyra?”

She waits, and then disappears into the home office, and returns, and hands her the packet.

Alicent stands and sets it on the kitchen island, paging through at warp speed—eyes scanning the pages faster than Rhaenyra’s ever could, accounts and accounts and accounts, write-ups and emails and accounts—

(She’s reminded, if for a moment, of the days when Alicent would take pity on her and do her financial analytics work after she’d broken down in tears in the dorms—finishing in fifty minutes what had taken Rhaenyra four days. Infuriating.)

She steps out onto the deck, huffs in the freezing night air, tries to catch her breath, wipes her hair back from her face, straightens her jacket, returns.

Alicent looks up at her.

“My father.”

Rhaenyra merely nods.

And then Alicent—long fuse that she has—finally breaks, flings the pages to the ground at Rhaenyra’s feet, pushes the document box onto the floor, buries her head in her hands, looks up, eyes blazing.

“You let me into that man’s house, Rhaenyra.”  She growls, voice pure venom. “He betrayed us. And you let me play the fool.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head— “I didn’t mean—”

Alicent lifts a hand and her jaw snaps back shut.

“You,” Alicent begins, hyperventilating and fuming, “Cannot possibly defend this.”

“The baby—”

“Don’t you fucking dare bring the children into this.”

Rhaenyra feels tears falling onto her cheeks. “I thought if I told you—the stress, Alicent—”

Alicent shakes her head. “I can’t—” She holds her hands up, exhales slowly, eyes on the floor. “I can’t hear this right now. I can’t—I’m going to bed.”

Rhaenyra moves to follow her, then—“Don’t.” Alicent whips around, finger pointed like a knife. “Don’t even think about it.”

Her eyes flit to the couch, and Rhaenyra sobs in earnest, then, chest heaving.

“Alicent,” she cries, “I didn’t want to lie to you.”

The kind and the dutiful are often dismissed as naïve, Rhaenyra.

Alicent merely scoffs, eyes sad. “I pray for the day you don’t hide from me, Rhaenyra,” she says. “I pray for the day I don’t have to hunt you down.”

She goes to Geneva. Corlys sits with her on the plane. She stares back at the only text from Alicent.

Text me when you land.

Radio silence otherwise.

The plane jerks to the side again, drops in altitude, shakes. She watches Corlys grip the armrest, dig his fingernails into the leather. “I fucking hate to fly.”

“As does Daemon.”

He shakes his head. “Gods love him, he’s a storm almost worse than this one.”

Eventually the pilot comes over the overhead. They’ve been forced by air control to perform an emergency landing. They’re somewhere in France. Rhaenyra can feel the sweat blooming on her forehead.

“We need to get there.”

Corlys levels her a stare. “You don’t think I know that, girl?”

When they’re finally on the ground, rain beating onto the top of the jet, her phone pings.

Then another.

And another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Corlys looks back at her, phone to his ear. His eyes are wide. She’s never seen him look at her like that.

“I understand.”

He holds the phone out. It’s Rhaenys. She takes it.

“Rhaenyra?”

“What’s going on? We’ve had to land—”

“Alicent’s in labour.”

Rhaenyra chokes.

“She…” The color drains from her face, she begins to shake, she flings her seatbelt off, rushes to the cockpit, all but breaks down the door—“We need to return to London.”

“We’ve been grounded. We won’t be able to take off again until—”

“We need to get back to London now!”  She growls. She looks to one of her assistants, Erryk, who stands, stunned and hamstrung, beside the door. “Find a car! Find a plane! Find something!”  He rushes off.

“She’s alone,” she says into the phone. “Rhaenys, our bag—it’s in the—she’s alone—”

“She’s not,” Rhaenys says, voice even, sure. “She’s not alone, Rhaenyra, she’s not. I’m on my way.”

She feels Corlys’ hands on her shoulders.

“You need to sit down.”

I’m on my way.

“We need to go. We need to get back to the city.”

Corlys pushes her, gently, into a seat. “We’ll get back. We will, Rhaenyra. She’s fine.”

Rhaenyra, into the phone: “Is she? Is she fine?”

Rhaenys swallows. “I’m not— I’m not there yet, Rhaenyra, I don’t know. I’m sure she is.”

She grabs her own phone, calls Alicent—straight to voicemail.

Rain pours out the window.

Erryk returns. “There’s a car. There’s a car and a boat.”

She moves to follow him, then Corlys— “Rhaenyra, wait.”

She looks back, just for a moment. “I trust you. You can handle it. I’m sorry my father never did, but I do. I trust you. Do it.”

He gazes back at her, then, and only nods.

Rhaenyra all but tears out of the hatch, down the stairs, and into the night.

Chapter Text

She’s driving through the mountains now, pedal down. Knuckles white on the wheel. Whipping with neat precision.

The engine snarls like a predator. Rain comes down in sheets.

(One time at university, during one of Rhaenyra’s darker and more rebellious phases, they’d broken up. It was their longest off-phase. Nine months in the dark, Alicent had called it.)

Rhaenyra whips around a freight truck and ducks back into the righthand lane as another truck barrels inches to her left.

(Complements of the owner, Erryk had said. Then he’d handed her a single black key.

The owner of the car?

The airport, he’d replied.)

She comes up on another incline across the icy slope; the car jets forward without hesitation.

(Mr. Blacktyde honors the memory of Viserys Targaryen.)

Rhaenyra flashes her lights at a motorist ahead, whips around him, leans into the wheel—

She hits a hard turn down a curve and feels the left side lift.

(It’s the Koenigsegg Syrax. The fastest car in the world.)

Nine months and two days after Rhaenyra had left, Alicent had called her for the very first time—just five minutes past midnight; it’d found Rhaenyra staring at the screen half-wondering if it were a hallucination.

She’d been at their family house. Alicent was still at school. Her beautiful voice, tremulous through her tears: Could you pick me up, please?

She lets off the pedal for a moment, waits until the road clears, looks down, tries her again: Hello, you’ve reached Alicent—

She roars in frustration, slams her hands on the wheel. The engine revs high in her ears as though in livid agreement.

(Once upon a time:

“Your mother—”

Viserys hadn’t been able to get the words out, hand over his mouth, choking. Her aunt Elys had done it, told her what she knew from the sheen in his eyes. Rhaenyra never forgot the look on his face, like part of him had died.

And it had. For all the love of her father, he was never the same.)

She skirts against the round of the road, hears the wheel scream against the warning traction lining the cliffside—

She’d thought she understood how he felt—all those years ago, at fifteen.

(“I’m going to be fine. We’ve done this before.”)

She didn’t.

(She can see her clearly in her mind, fifteen years old, at the funeral—the way Alicent took her hand.

Viserys said Alicent had cried when Otto told her.)

An hour later, still moving like a villain, she tries Rhaenys again. It rings and rings and sends to voicemail.

“Please call me,” she beseeches, then hangs up the phone.

(She’d driven Alicent back to their family home and slept in her arms on that ninth month, that third day.

I need you back.)

A motorist to her left speeds through with his brights up, blinds her for a moment—

(One time Alicent had stood in the kitchen, Jace cradled against her breast, colicky and inconsolable; long graceful fingers supporting his head just so. He was barely four weeks old—so new, so uncomfortable outside of her body. She’d handed Rhaenyra the boppy and the nursing blanket—Can you hold this? I just need to get his—)

Rhaenyra wicks like water off the mountain road onto a straightaway and bears down on the pedal. The Syrax pushes 200 and cuts through the rain like a lance.

Alicent, nails raking down her shoulders, lips kiss-swollen, eyes locked dark on her own, taking her deep, possessive thrusts—

(One summer day in the backyard. What do you think of the name Jacaerys?)

(Soft hands around her cheeks, nails scraping the corners of her lips, a white dress. From this day, until—)

Water pours down the cold curved metal of the car at warp speed and flashes like stars.

(Alicent’s eyes betrayed, anguished, full of love—You don’t get to make those jests, Rhaenyra Targaryen, after what you’ve put me through, after how you spit at me and you ignore us and the way you come home—)

I’m coming, she begs. I’m coming, I’m coming, I promise.

Corlys drums his fingers against the cool black marble of the table. The IronBank logo glows in gold on the wall above him. A blue fire blazes behind a glass wall. There are no lights outside these massive windows—not like in London. Just dark, endless dark.

Brusco Nestoris strides into the conference room, silent and demurring and smug as ever. “Mr. Velaryon.”

“I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Nestoris’ lackeys brustle. Brusco doesn’t even flinch.

“Where is Ms. Targaryen?”

“She has business elsewhere.” Corlys stands, adjusts his tie, kicks his titanium-pleather chair back under the table with the side of a new Italian loafer. “You’ll be dealing with me today.”

“Ah, very well.” Someone murmurs something in Nestoris’ ear. He turns to him, whispers: “Yes, of course.”

Corlys raises a brow. “If this isn’t a good time, Mr. Nestoris, you’re welcome to meet us in London.”

“Of course not.” Nestoris waives him off. “Please, sit.”

Corlys smirks and cracks his neck, leans against one of the windows, glances at his white hair reflected in the black gloss. Getting too old for this shit, probably. “I’d prefer to stand.”

“Certainly.” Nestoris nods, sits, pulls open a black leather folio, clicks a pen. “Shall we?”

Corlys merely stares.

“We’ve heard reports,” Brusco begins, simply, “That Ms. Targaryen is losing the confidence of certain…necessary actors.” He turns a page, looks at a note, then back to Corlys with the same unfeeling gaze. “Major shareholders. Important allies to the company.”

Corlys raises his brows. “Former directors, perhaps?”

Brusco’s hand is still under his pen, but his fingers shake, just a little, ever-so-delicately.

Wonder if he smokes.

“Yes,” Nestoris nods. “Former directors.”

Corlys hums.

“We believe our reports are credible, if not yet public,” Brusco notes, “And as we discussed with you last week, we still feel that we are most comfortable going pencils down on our major British projects. For now. A temporary measure, until you can address your…” He quirks a brow. “Troubles. Or we can discuss a renegotiated interest spread. I’d hope we could strike a compromise befitting both parties’ desires.”

Corlys sighs, checks his watch. “I’ve just had a very interesting discussion with Lionel Tyrell at Highgarden.”

Brusco’s political smirk drops in an instant.

“A lovely chat, really.” Corlys continues. “As you know, we prefer to deal with a single creditor on all of our major projects. But he’s an old friend of the family, as it happens.”

Look at the fucking fear in his eyes.

 “At the moment, he’s seeking a longer term partnership with us.”

Brusco doesn’t move a muscle. “A friend of Viserys’?”

“Of Rhaenyra’s wife’s, actually. An old mentor of hers.” Corlys finally sits, and really sits, leaning back, straining its leather edges, crossing his legs. “Have you met Mrs. Targaryen, Brusco?”

Nestoris stares. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Ah,” Corlys smirks, picking at a fingernail. Gods help her, Alicent, wherever she is now. “Well, she’s very charming.”

Nestoris inhales through the nose and places both hands on the table, uncrossing his legs. “I see.”

Corlys narrows his eyes.

Welcome to the table, you fuck.

Six hours later, Rhaenyra’s closer to the coast—the GPS pings but she can only smell it in the air.

(“I’m off to bed, I think." Alicent had clasped her hands around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, leaned down over Rhaenyra’s chair to press a kiss to her temple, smudged lipstick sticking against the blush of her skin, stunning in her black dress even hours after putting it on. Viserys had nodded and smiled over his drink, and Laenor as well from his place across the table, feet perched languidly on the chair beside him. Two in the morning had turned into four while they were reminiscing—a record, Viserys had smiled, for his holiday gathering.

They’d decided to stay over that night, in Rhaenyra’s childhood room.

Rhaenyra had smiled tiredly—“I’ll be up in a bit,” —and laid her hands over Alicent’s. Felt the familiar edge of Aemma’s ring. Alicent had kissed Viserys’ cheek as she departed; he’d squeezed her hand and she’d headed out into the hallway.

But then she’d looked back.

 Just for a second; almost missed it. Rhaenyra caught Alicent’s gaze through the doorway, idling by the stairs, eyes dark; insatiate.

Alicent had held her gaze and picked one foot up, then the other, languidly, perfectly silently, removing her heels—one, and then the other; stepping down on the pads of her soft feet, leaving them set primly by the staircase. With a last pointed look she turned, silently and graceful as ever, and ascended the steps.)

Call me when you get there, Erryk rushed—And then I’ll make sure the boat is ready.

(Twenty minutes later, Rhaenyra had looped a finger through the back straps, gingerly, and ascended after her—slowly, savoring it.

Alicent had waited for her, legs long and together against the simple white of her sheet, glowing in the alabaster moonlight; hair down. Dress unfastened.

Rhaenyra had run her index finger up the ridge of Alicent’s leg, from her ankle up to her knee, then, across the smooth expanse of her thigh, fingers coming down, greedy, as she reached the apex, gripping—)

You are now thirty minutes to your destination.

Rhaenyra dials Erryk; he answers on the first ring. The boat is ready. He sends an address. The car picks it up. She speeds on.

“You can’t expect anybody literate to take this deal.” Corlys throws the packet down. “Really, lads. This institution used to be respectable.”

Nestoris’ lackeys look scandalized. Brusco merely sighs.

“Mr. Velaryon, please, consider our position—”

“Your position is boxers down over the headmaster’s desk.” Corlys chides. “You just didn’t expect it. I understand; there’s almost nobody else in the world with pockets deep as you. A credit to the Tyrells, I guess. But come now, Brusco—surely we can agree both our time is valuable.”

One of the underlings speaks, seemingly before Nestoris can stop him—“It is true we never dealt with Viserys such.”

Corlys smiles, nods, fingers his own wedding ring, shakes his head. “Yes, I imagine so.” He stares out the skyless windows. “You don’t deal with Viserys any longer. You see, there’s been a succession.”

They’re silent for a moment.

“We’ll be going forward with our deals. Same spread. No fucking around. You keep your bargain, we shall honor ours. No more backdealing or bullshit.” Corlys glares with the venom of a younger man. “Or Rhaenyra will fuck you. Hard. Believe me.”

One of the lackeys, then, a beautiful, fateful mistake: “Mr. Nestoris, perhaps we can recall Mr. Hightower before he arrives at his plane—”

“Quiet.”

Corlys blinks. Leans back.

“He’s here. At the bank.”

Nestoris panics, visibly panics— “Mr. Velaryon—”

(One time, a long time ago, after Aemma had died, Alicent had found him, accidentally, standing in the guest bath at the wake, crying his fucking eyes out. The door had swung open, their eyes met, both shocked, both—she’d stepped back, eyes wide and pained and compassionate, only fifteen years old. Just a bit older than his daughter. “I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be. I apologize, I—I forgot to lock it, I’m sorry, sweetling.”

She shook her head. “Can I…” She dug in her purse, a tiny little black thing, offered him a packet of tissues. “Here, please.” He took one.

“I’m quite embarrassed,” he’d admitted. “Of course, I loved Aemma, but I wasn’t—I didn’t—well, not like…” His eyes met hers.  

“I understand.” She’d said, and wiped her own eyes with her fingertips, worked her hand around her throat, chaste and sincere and forlorn. He’d been grateful, in that moment, that his Laena wasn’t so sweet as this girl.

The worry would have killed him.

“Believe me. I understand.”)

Corlys snatches his coat and he’s past Nestor’s chair and out the door without another word.

The boat tears through the waves and she waits next to the captain, deep below deck, eyes hard and narrow and predatory.

“How long to Portsmouth.”

The captain shook his head. “At least another hour. The wind is with us. We’ll be soon.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “That’s not good enough.”

He frowns. “Ms. Targaryen—”

“I need to you to move faster,” she commands, eyes focused on the saltspray. “I need you to fly.”

Daemon hates late night calls.

This is why I entered politics, he thinks, bitterly, shuffling through his sheets, answering the phone without a glance, So I wouldn’t have to do any fucking work—

“Mys, if you wanted to fuck, you could have at least called earlier—”

“Daemon.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear, staring back at the screen in disbelief.

“Alicent?”

“I need—”

“Where the fuck is Rhaenyra?”

“Gone, I couldn’t reach Rhaenys, Laena, I—” She pauses, and there’s a gasp on the other end of the phone, a pain he’s never ever heard, and he rolls out of his sheets without thinking, gropes around for his long johns. “Please,” she begs through the phone, voice strained. “Please, Daemon—”

He arrives before twenty minutes pass, before he even realizes he got in the car, some discarded t-shirt thrown on himself backwards—opens the door with his spare key to find Rhaenyra’s wife with her hand braced against the wall in the foyer, in nothing but a stained slip, blood and fluid running down her legs—

“It’s too fast,” she pants, “It’s too fast—this isn’t supposed to—”

“Right,” he says, and swoops her up behind her back and under her wet legs, kicks the door back open, patters down the steps to his car—“Right, it’s alright, darling, you’ll be alright.” Hospital, you need a fucking hospital, he thinks, as watery blood wets his palms.

He thinks of Aemma, for a moment, then puts it away.

He needs to call Rhaenyra—

Shit, Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra’s going to fucking flip.

Then—“Jacaerys.” Alicent grips his shirt, eyes pleading.

“He’s here?”

She nods, weakly, as he buckles her into the passenger side.

Several moments later, he returns with Jacaerys on his hip, still half-asleep, wrapped in his blankets, and Daemon sets him in the back seat, shoves the pillow under his rear so he can get the adult seatbelt around his middle—

“Where’s your hospital?”

She tells him, and he shuts the door, and speeds off of her street and into the night.

They get to the hospital, her doctor is there, they’re taking her to a room, they’re putting something in her arm, she’s sweating like mad, she’s bleeding—

Daemon watches her grit her teeth and wrench and cry and scream and he is sure in that single moment that he has never seen anything so fucking awful in his life.

“You’re okay,” he says, almost trying to comfort himself in the horror. He grips her hand as she reaches for him, nods to her, trying to sound sure, use his crowd voice, trying to sound bright and confident and relaxed. “Don’t you worry, darling, you’ll be alright. I’ll call Rhaenyra, I’ll be right here until—”

“No.” Her eyes are bright, wet, and so, so commanding.

A flash of Otto, maybe.

(He never particularly liked Alicent. But that wasn’t because of her.)

“Jacaerys.” She bites, gripping his wrist like a vice as they ready to usher her off somewhere, nurses flitting around this way and that. “Take Jacaerys home. Stay with him.”

“Don’t you think someone should be with you—”

She cries out, bites down, grinds her teeth, winces with a sound so high he thinks his ears’ll shatter.

“He cannot be here.” She grits out. “Daemon. Take him fucking home.”

Daemon nods, and adjusts the boy in his arms, waits for a second, until he’s sure they have her, and turns on his heel, digging his phone out of his pocket—

Tries Rhaenyra, again and again and again, but it can’t complete the call. He tries another number.

Come on, pick up pick up pick the fuck up—

And then she does.

“Daemon?”

“Rhaenys, get in the fucking car.”

Jacaerys was born softly and quickly and sweetly.

No complications; no stitches. They’d had time to pack their bag, Rhaenyra had helped her lay back against the pillows in their hospital room, had massaged her shoulders as they’d waited for her latent stages to progress, had kissed her forehead as she’d napped, opened her apple sauce when she couldn’t catch the seam of the foil, read to her from her novel—

Rhaenyra had coached her through the worst of it, gripped her hand as she’d denied the epidural, kissed her as he’d cried with life, gingerly opened the top of Alicent’s gown as her arms shook and they handed him to her, placed him carefully on her bare chest so they could begin skin-to-skin. Rhaenyra had placed the blanket over them, her and Jacaerys, while they’d clung to each other—him soft and warm on her chest, both trembling, both exhausted. Rhaenyra had spoken with the doctors when they’d come by, and lowered the lights and kept it quiet and peaceful and made the nurses be gentle, and helped her drink her water, went with Jace just as Alicent asked when they took him away to weigh and clean and measure—put Alicent’s blue fuzzy socks on when she’d gotten ready to sleep, finally, like Rhaenyra knew she liked, with Jace safe and happy and full—not in the arms of a stranger but of his mother, her bright silver hair framing his tiny face like a shield.

Hours later, when she’d awoken, Rhaenyra had helped her into the bath adjoining their private room, had worked her gown over her head and lowered her into the warmth of the water, brushed her hair, helped her relax and wash her face and let her muscles rest.

The pain rocks her body and pulls her back—

Rhaenys is off to try Rhaenyra again, in the hallway, pacing like mad, and Dr. Lang had said she’d come back in fifteen minutes, but it’s been fifteen minutes—

She puts her hand over her swell, then feels it—a soft movement, soft but sure, not panicked, but still soft, still uneven. Baby’s stressed, but she’s fine, Baby’s absolutely alright, Dr. Lang had promised.

Her name is—but no one had listened.

What if I fall asleep? Alicent crushes the blankets under her hand, grits her teeth, feels the tears escape her eyes—What if I fall asleep after you come? Who will be with you? What if Rhaenyra is gone and you’re—

Her baby, alone, surrounded by strangers, in a strange woman’s arms, perfunctory and unloved and anonymous. She can’t stand it.

Rhaenyra, she grits out, as though her wife could hear her, all those thousands of miles away. Rhaenyra, please please please.

Rhaenys tears through the hallways.

“I’m her good mother,” she lies.

Alicent is paler and weaker than she’s ever seen her. They’re hooking her up to fluids.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent breathes as Rhaenys pets the wet hair back from her forehead, clammy and slick, “You have to call—”

“I called her.” Rhaenys nods, shushes her. “She knows. She’s on her way. It’s alright. She loves you, and she’s coming.”

Alicent nods, closes her eyes, and then is consumed with a roil of pain and Rhaenys watches her turn away, giving up, giving in, eyes exhausted—

“Listen.” Rhaenys grips her hand, hard, in both of hers, forces Alicent’s eyes back to her own. “Listen to me, Alicent, look at me, now.”

Alicent shakes her head. “It’s too fast, I’m not—I’m not dilating enough, and she’s not moving, I don’t feel her—” She begins to cry, and shake, trembling and panicking and eyes falling back—“She’s not moving, Rhaenys, I can’t—”

“No.” Rhaenys’ eyes are hard and upbeat and convincing and sure and Alicent holds onto them like light in the dark. “Listen to me, Alicent.” She grips her hand, again, shakes it reassuringly. “We are going to do this. We are getting through this, right now. You and me and her.”

She puts a hand under Alicent’s other arm, helps her sit up, even if only a little. “We are not giving up, my sweet.” She shakes her head. “No tears, we can do it. It’s just a task, like any other. Alright?”

Alicent is nodding, and her nose is crinkling, and she’s setting her jaw, something returning to her eyes.

“Yes.” She says, finally, gripping Rhaenys right back. “Yes, yes, alright, okay.”

They’re almost at the end, now.

Rhaenyra can see it on the faint horizon line as the sun threatens to rise.

“That’s Portsmouth,” the captain supplies, but she doesn’t need it.

We’re still grounded here, Erryk texts, So I won’t be able to meet you—

It doesn’t matter.

The boat docks, she races off like a demon.

“Rhaenyra!”

It’s Dyana, waving her arms like mad, dressed in what are most certainly her pajamas, holding the keys and jumping up and down next to Rhaenyra’s Mercedes. Rhaenyra spots her fiancé Paxter in the driver’s seat of their Volvo, parked just behind it.

She takes the keys, takes Dyana into her arms—“Thank you.”

“Go!” Dyana opens the driver’s side door, all but pushes her boss inside—“Go, go, go.”

Alicent screams for the umpteenth time, Rhaenys doesn’t flinch. “That’s it. Good girl. We’re moving through it. Good girl.”

Dr. Lang examines her cervix, the nurses and midwives move around, looking nervous. “We’re still not quite there. Okay, Alicent—”

One of the nurses—“The uterus is contracting, it’ll need—”

“I understand,” Lang responds, calmly. “Can you please fetch me—” Alicent doesn’t hear the rest over the sound of her own cry.

(One time Rhaenyra had kissed her temple when she’d cried out like this.

One time she’d called Rhaenyra five minutes past midnight, nine months and three days after she’d left her, and she’d still come.)

“Alright,” Rhaenys coaches, and then she feels her forehead patted with a cool cloth. “Let’s take a breather, now, let’s get ready for the next.”

Moments pass like years. Pain, then quiet, then pain.

Lang’s voice again, further now: “—We’re nearly there.”

Then she feels the tears springing truly forth—not pain, not anguish, not panic, but sorrow, true and unbidden and dark. “No, no, no. She’s not here.”

“Do you need—”

Her middle contracts, she sees stars, she closes her eyes so tight the vision behind them blooms black.

Lang says something, she doesn’t hear it.

Rhaenys voice echoes from her bedside—something about blood—

“The bleeding—”  It’s Dr. Lang, then.

She feels faint, now. Something’s running out of her, wet and warm, falling.

Her daughter is still.

Her hands clench around something, anything, the unknown.

“Rhaenyra.”  

It’s a prayer, it’s a whisper.

It’s the name she’d said after every time, after every hurt, on every call, late at night when she’d found nothing else, grasped nothing before her, when she’d needed someone, failed herself, been failed by someone—the name she’d shouted in anger and whispered sweetly in evening hours, panted in need during her very first time—when Rhaenyra had gone dark after Viserys, when she’d begged her to come back, come back to me, my love—when she’d left to do battle, left for Geneva, left to protect them.

She imagines Rhaenyra is there, for a second. Pretends the hand closing around hers is her wife’s.

“Rhaenyra,” she sighs, weakly. The buzzing in her head grows louder.

(Someone, somewhere far off, is panicking—maybe beside her.)

Then she smiles, at peace.

Corlys catches him on a glassy skybridge between the bank’s two towers, windows still glossy black, reflective and plaintive and dour.

“Otto.”

Otto smirks, turns, his black pinstripe suit wrinkled as though from hours at the table, expecting to gloat—

Then he spots the gun.

Corlys doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tremble, levels it to his neck.

Otto’s brow lowers.

“Old friend,” Corlys begins.

The doors on either end are closed. It’s silent on the bridge.

Otto watches the low fluorescence glint off of Corlys’ hollow silencer, and stops breathing. “Apparently not anymore.”

Rhaenyra races up the A3, phone dead.

She remembers Alicent, weak and worn and so, so happy.

She cradled Jacaerys’ head in Alicent’s arms, held her wife around her shoulders, helped her tilt him just so, just so he could smell her skin, lift a tiny hand to the skin of her breast—“Right here,” she’d whispered—and he’d latched, eyes closed, completely trusting.

Rhaenyra watched as Alicent fed their future with her body, as she’d always done.

Corlys’ eyes are sure and unyielding.

“You’ll be arrested. Convicted.” Otto breathes. “Scandal for your family. The company.”

Corlys shakes his head. “You’re not important enough, Otto.” Otto’s nose twitches. “Maybe at first. But then no one will remember.” His eyes accuse, sad and disappointed and enraged. “You’re a scourge on our family. An unending threat. Rhaenyra is the best thing to happen to it in almost a hundred years. And you’re going to dog her for the rest of her life.”

Otto raises a brow. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison."

“I’m an old man.” Corlys replies.

Otto levels his chin at him, eyes hard. “So this is what it’s become?”

Corlys steps forward and Otto back, back against the glass. “If I spoke to Laena,” he spits, “The way you do your own daughter, I’d put this in mine own mouth.”

Otto sighs, almost bored.

Then, finally—“What are your terms, Corlys?”

Corlys hands him his phone. “Retract your reports. Recant now.”

Moments pass.

And then Otto does.

He hears Nestoris on the other end of the line—“We’re disappointed to hear this was not the truth.”

Fucking headless snake, Corlys thinks.

“I expect your shares in Rhaenyra’s hands by Monday.”

Corlys lowers his gun. Otto moves away, Corlys moves with him—

Something glints in his eyes. Fear.

Quisling.

Then Corlys hits him in the corner of his eye, and Otto stumbles back against the windows, and Corlys pockets his weapon, marching out the north door.

There’s a cry in the darkness.

Rhaenys’ hand, smooth around her cheek—“You did it, you did it, my girl.”

She holds her hands out, trembling, but they don’t place the baby in her arms—

“Open my shirt,” she begs Rhaenys, but nobody helps.

She can hear murmuring—“Yes, to the NICU,”—she reaches her arms out again, weak as they are, begging, pleading.

“My daughter,” she cries, “My baby, I want my baby.”

Rhaenys shushing her, pushing her back against the pillows—her own voice, hollow in the blur—

“I want her now!”

“Misoprostol for the bleeding, and midazolam, we need to relax—”

Her body feels cold like ice. Rhaenys’ voice—“Be calm, Alicent, it’s alright, sweetling, they’re only going to—”

“No, no, no,” she demands, “No, give her to me—give her to me, please, please please—” Her heart is beating out of her chest, her heart is in a stranger’s arms, somewhere, alone—

“Please, please, Rhaenyra, tell them—”

And then—again, the dark.

Rhaenyra Targaryen charges through the hospital hallways, a force like a god.

Even Aegon the Conqueror would have cowered.

And her suit is crumpled, her sweat in her hair, she smells like boat, and stress, she’s racing toward her, finds her room, the blinds drawn, charges forward—

And then Rhaenys is in her path, hands up: “Wait.”

Rhaenyra snarls. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“No.” Rhaenys replies, every bit as forceful. She keeps her hands up, stills for a moment, then closes her eyes, slowly, exhales, cautiously, lowers her hands to Rhaenyra’s shoulders. “Listen, Rhaenyra, listen to me, calm down and listen to me. She’s fine, okay? She’s in there, she’s sleeping, she’s going to be fine, your baby is going to be fine, just listen.”

Rhaenyra stills, body vibrating.

“You cannot rush in there like this.” Rhaenys’ eyes are dogged and lecturing and sure, as ever in the boardroom as now, in this moment. “She—” Rhaenys begins, tipping her head toward the door, “—has been through a harrowing ordeal. She has lost blood, lost fluids, had arrhythmia, an emergency episiotomy, she hasn’t eaten or slept in twenty hours. She’s been put on oxygen, and she’s sedated. It was traumatic. Do you understand?” Rhaenys nods, keeps her gaze, as though willing her to comprehend it. “You cannot panic. She needs you to walk in there and be sure. You are in charge, do you understand?” Rhaenys squeezes her shoulders. “You are in charge, you are in control.”

Rhaenyra nods, and breathes deeply—in, out. She removes her suit jacket; straightens her shoulders.

Be beside her, always protect her, come running, keep trying, keep reaching.

Rhaenys removes her hands. “Okay.” She exhales, sheds the weight of hours. “Okay.”

Alicent comes to—in what feels like hours, and yet, no time at all.

She blinks, eyes blurring into focus—

It’s Rhaenyra, peering over her. Smoothing her hair back from her forehead, right hand entwined with hers.

Rhaenyra.

A piteous sob erupts from her throat, groping viciously for her— “Rhaenyra—”

“Shh, shh.” Rhaenyra coos, hand on her cheek, calm and relaxed and sure. “Everything is alright. Everything is being taken care of. I promise.”

Alicent shakes her head, grips Rhaenyra’s hand as hard as she can manage—Rhaenyra feels the weakness in her bones. “No, the baby—”

“The baby is being observed,” Rhaenyra begins, bringing Alicent’s fingers to her lips, “In the NICU, for—” she glances at her watch, “—another twenty-five minutes. As an absolute caution, because her breathing was slightly irregular. I discussed it with Dr. Lang.” Rhaenyra’s voice is even, soothing. “The doctors are with her. She’s asleep. She doesn’t even know she’s there.”

“I need her,” Alicent begs, eyes vacant, pleading. “I want her, please, Rhaenyra.” Alicent follows her eyes as her wife presses a warm kiss to her hairline, adjusts the blankets under her elbows.

“She’s safe.” Rhaenyra assures. “She’s safe, and when she’s ready, I’ll have her brought right here,” Rhaenyra promises. “And then she’ll stay right here with us, with you, until we’re discharged, alright?”

Alicent releases her grip, slowly.

“Our nurse is going to come back in five minutes and we’re going to get you some fluids, okay, my love?” Rhaenyra whispers. “And they’re going to give you a small transfusion. We’re going to stay right here for all of it. It’ll take a little under an hour. No pain, you won’t feel a thing. All you need to do is rest. Do you want your water?”

Alicent closes her eyes, then nods, gently, trying to reach her hand out—

“I’ve got it,” Rhaenyra’s voice is close, and then her hand curves around a cup, and she’s able to close her lips around the straw. “Slowly, now.” Rhaenyra cautions.

The straw falls away, and her head lulls to the side, her hand gropes for Rhaenyra’s again. “I’m so tired—”

Rhaenyra’s hand is on her cheek, her arm, lifting it gingerly, placing it under the blanket, adjusting the pillows, tucking her in just so, just the way she likes—

“I’m so proud of you.” Rhaenyra says, hand on her cheek, and only then does Alicent hear her voice shake, barely, almost inaudibly. “It’s all alright. It’s perfectly alright.” She feels soft fingers place her hair back behind her ear. “I’ve got you, my love.”

She does her best to roll onto her side, like she likes, despite all the tubes, and Rhaenyra’s arm is over her waist, around her back, stroking her spine.

Later—maybe a long time, maybe a short time, she isn’t sure—a nurse comes in. They prepare her for the transfusion; Rhaenyra politely, calmly, asks them to please be as gentle as possible—in that voice that makes her feel safe, that makes her feel heard.

And she feels Rhaenyra’s thumb stroking her skin, the smell of Rhaenyra’s clothes so close to her, and resolves to fall asleep, just for a little.

And then she’s awake, an hour later, maybe more, a bit more, and she comes to as they remove the tubes, the transfusion over, the fluids finished—and she does feel better, stronger, like they’ve put life back into her bones.

Then Rhaenyra; Rhaenyra above her, smiling down, smiling that look she’s only seen twice: Once at their wedding, and once at—

There’s a bundle in her arms. Alicent chokes, grasps for the edge of Rhaenyra’s shirt, holds her arms out—

And then Rhaenyra sets the bundle in a bassinet, and kisses Alicent, strong and sure, hands cupping her cheeks, and breathes thank you, and then reaches down, adjusts the blankets, opens the top of her hospital gown where Alicent can’t fit her shaking hands around the snaps.  

Her daughter is cradled upon her chest, Alicent’s arms reaching up to hold her before her brain can catch up, staring down and smelling that smell she knows she’s always known, all the years before and forevermore, all the years after—

And she adjusts her hold and looks down at her, and her baby stares back up at her, and Alicent smiles, laughs, begins to cry, presses a kiss to her forehead, holds her strong and sure against the soft warmth of her chest, tiny and delicate as she is.

Alicent runs her fingers across a downy film of silver hair.

“She looks just like you,” she breathes.

Rhaenyra places her hand over Alicent’s own, strong and sure on their daughter’s back, and leans down, and kisses her again, happier and more relieved and more triumphal than she’s ever seen. “I need to register her,” Rhaenyra whispers. “With her full name.”

“Helaena.” Alicent whispers, staring down at their baby, as Rhaenyra adjusts the blankets over them. Then she looks toward the door. “Helaena Rhaenys.”

Rhaenyra nods, and fixes her hospital bracelet where it’s catching on the sheets, and looks back into her eyes, strong and deep and devoted.

Rhaenyra helps her into the bath. She runs a soft cloth over her back, her shoulders.

Rhaenyra opens a little cup of apple sauce, helps her take solid food for the first time in nearly two days.

They show Rhaenyra how to clean and dry the two small stitches she’s undergone beneath. Alicent raises her legs dutifully, wincing in pain; Rhaenyra doesn’t let any more strangers touch her—follows their instructions carefully, going slow.  

Helaena wakes, and cries, and latches. Later, Rhaenys returns in fresh clothes, cradles her softly, tears in her eyes when they tell her her name.

Daemon visits on the day they’re to be discharged, and Alicent grasps his hand; thanks him, profusely, eyes warm and loving and wet. He squeezes her hand and smiles, deeply relieved and more genuine than she’s ever seen. Laena arrives, soon afterward, with Jacaerys, who climbs into the hospital bed with her and peers at his baby sister with unrestrained awe.

They take their baby home, lay her in the crib that was Lyman’s special gift; after two episodes of having to really deal with it, they both come to the conclusion it is exactly as wonderful as he swore.

She’s never seen anything more beautiful than Rhaenyra in front of the windows on that silver edge between night and morning, Helaena tucked in her arms, warm bottle held delicately to her lips, brow knitted in a picture of maternal concern. There you are, sweet girl, she’d whispered, It’s the same stuff, I promise.

She and Rhaenyra come back together, as they’ve always done.

Rhaenyra apologizes, warmly, unreservedly, profusely. They talk about it.

I was afraid for you, Rhaenyra begins.

I’m my own woman, Alicent finishes.

One evening, she lays in Rhaenyra’s arms in the living room at the country house, fireplace crackling, Jace playing with toy knights on the rug, Helaena fast asleep. She tucks her face into the juncture between Rhaenyra’s neck and shoulder, smells that familiar scent. Rhaenyra buries her nose in her hair, arms fast around her, possessive, nervous, territorial.

Alicent still has nightmares; she’s bleeding fast, Rhaenyra’s not there. She’s gasping for air, Rhaenyra’s not there. Someone takes Helaena, Rhaenyra’s not there. By the way Rhaenyra sees to her during the days, shadows her, overprotective and overbearing, she guesses her wife is feeling much the same.

Rhaenyra sings to Helaena at bedtime and helps Alicent heal her body. She’s still too tender for Rhaenyra to be inside her, per se, after a month and a week, but she knows other ways to be pleased.

"I think I'm done, after this one," Alicent murmurs, applying cream to an aching breast.

Rhaenyra sets her book down, quirks a brow. "I suppose we'll have to start using protection."

Despite herself, Alicent laughs.

Two weeks later, Rhaenyra throws their annual holiday party at her family home. Her hands barely leave Alicent’s waist the entire night.

Alicent parts from her, just for a second, just to fetch herself another cup of cocoa from the waitstaff station, and finds Anya Lannister beside her.

She can feel Rhaenyra’s eyes still on her back; Anya seems to notice, raising a brow.

“You’ve just given birth, haven’t you?”

Alicent nods. Anya smiles, covers her hand. “Yes, that makes sense.” She chuckles and tips her head toward Rhaenyra’s gaze, still following her like a hawk. “Tyland was much the same. I think it’s an instinctual sort of thing.” Then someone calls for her, and she smiles back at Alicent, squeezes her arm in congratulations, and makes off.

Rhaenyra breaks away from her own conversation, falls back behind her in an instant. She offers an arm around Alicent’s waist, and Alicent accepts it, gladly. “How are you feeling? I’ve had the upstairs prepared for whenever you’re ready.”

Alicent raises a brow, leans into her touch. “It’s barely past evening, Rhaenyra.”

“I know.” She leans in, ghosts a kiss over Alicent’s temple, traces her nails soothingly along Alicent’s shoulder. “I’d just like to be certain.” And Alicent retrieves her mug, and takes Rhaenyra’s arm, and follows her back into the party.

It’s all so sanguine; so peaceful. Rhaenyra has righted things at work; their children are happy; their friends and family and associates are here and well and cheery—Boremund is by the piano, telling Lyman and his wife and Rhaenyra’s aunt Elys another terrible joke, and Jason Lannister can barely catch his breath; Corlys and Rhaenys dance by the fire, and their lips touch, briefly, chaste and loving. Paxter and Dyana, radiant in their joy and youth, join them after a moment. Daemon and Mysaria look almost not embattled, for once; Harwin gently pushes the bartender aside to assemble something complicated for a lovely young woman Alicent’s not sure she’s ever seen.

And yet, beneath it all, she feels it—an undertow, a force, a backbeat, a discoloration; in the back of her mind, reverberating in her palms and the bottoms of her feet, behind her eyes, salivating in her mouth—

Rage.

Otto gets an exit dinner, effectively a retirement party, after he sells his shares back to Rhaenyra. Nobody knows. It’s part of their deal, his celebration, which Rhaenyra pays for, because duty.

She doesn’t pick her nails, doesn’t touch them, couldn’t be further from nervous. Rhaenyra dons her suit, presses a kiss to Alicent’s cheek, soothing. You don’t have to come. I understand.

Her blood is humming.

She knows Rhaenyra has to. She knows because she repeats it to herself, when Helaena wraps her little hand around her finger, when she sees Jace off to preschool, when she sits down with the six hundred pages of accounts histories that Rhaenyra has left her.

I think I’m… she’d trailed off, looking at Rhaenyra one evening with hungry eyes. I think I’m restless, again.

Rhaenyra’s eyes had glinted. I’d be delighted to discuss your future with Targaryen Group.

She speeds through them in a little under two hours.

You couldn’t have read them all, Rhaenyra texts.

Alicent merely rolls her eyes and forwards her a two-page write-up email analysis.

Twenty minutes later, another text: Gods alive, Alicent.

“I’ll see you when I get home?” Rhaenyra prompts, fastening her watch. Alicent tries to give her an assenting expression that is non-psychotic.

Rhaenyra kisses her, again, and then heads out to her waiting car.

She has to.

Rhaenyra swallows her pride like Viserys’ daughter; takes the stage, begins with the usual; the charming humorous remarks she’s practiced all too well—her investors and board and shareholders and staff all applaud and show their teeth.  

Otto sits two seats away from where she stands, at the banquet table, defeated and yet somehow disgustingly satisfied, smirking—

Savoring it, really.

Rhaenyra fights her bile down, hands at the podium. Keeps her face set. Turns the page. Waits for the audience to settle, opens her mouth to begin her remarks—

The doors fly open, loudly, at the back.

Alicent.

All their heads turn away, toward the sound.

Alicent, radiant, in a stunning gown of deep, emerald green.

(What’s with the fucking green ties, Rhaenyra had asked her, years ago. Every shareholder’s battle it’s the fucking green tie.

Alicent had merely glowered out the passenger side window.

He understands it to be the color of war.)

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent walks, confident and cool, up the steps; takes her place beside Rhaenyra at the banquet table.

A hundred eyes fall to her. She clears her throat.

“Yes, well.” She glances for a split-second back at Alicent, who looks up at her innocently, like she’s been there the entire time. “To begin, I’d like to ask you all to join me in thanking my good father for his forty years of continued loyalty.”

She gets through the speech, applauds Otto at the end, much as it kills her, and the crowd does, too; they send him off with a standing ovation, in fact.

She meets Corlys’ eyes in the crowd, hangs on to them to avoid putting her hands around Otto’s throat. But Corlys’ eyes shift to Alicent, eventually—with a look of triumphant reverence, of raptorial admiration.

Faster, pussy cat—kill, kill.

She feels Alicent’s eyes behind her and looks back at her wife. Alicent’s not smiling. She follows the line of her stare to Otto, and turns, expecting to find his cold, deleterious gaze; But for once, his eyes are not upon her. Not at all.

They’re locked upon Alicent’s dress.

Rhaenyra looks over her shoulder again. Somewhere, the band begins to play.

Alicent’s eyes bore right back through him like knives.

Two months in, Helaena begins to smile.

“Yes, you’re happy, my love,” Alicent gushes, smiling back at her, leaning her daughter against her thighs, laying with her knees bent on the wicker couch in the backyard of the country house. Helaena coos, grasps for her, and Alicent tickles her round middle again, laughing with her.

“You called."

Daemon stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“Yes.” She gathers Helaena up against her breast, sits up, watching as her daughter becomes immediately fascinated again with her auburn curls. “I appreciate you making the trip.”

“Where’s Rhaenyra?”

“In the city, for the afternoon.”

Daemon surveys the yard. “I’ve always liked this house, you know. My commendations on the choice.”

She follows his eyes, watches the winter breeze blow through the alders. “I prefer to work from here, it’s calmer. Better for the children, too, I think.”

“Yes, I heard you inherited your father’s shares. Been combing through our portfolios, too, I heard, clearing his rubbish.” He smirks. “I do hope you’ve received a generous benefits package.”

“Not an inheritance, exactly.” She states, simply, and gestures primly to a chair. “Please, be comfortable.” She flags down a housemaid who passes by the windows, turns back to him: “Would you take some tea?”

He nods, and sits, slowly, in the wicker elbow chair opposite her, watches the baby carefully. “How’s she doing, then?”

“She’s well.” Alicent bounces her softly, wipes a bit of spittle that drags out of Helaena’s mouth as she grabs for a fistful of her hair. “She’s healthy and happy; all you can ask for, really.”

Daemon merely nods.

Alicent meets his gaze. “I trust you understand why I called you here.”

“I heard you on the phone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She’s quiet for a moment, staring down at her daughter’s soft silver hair. Her voice is low, almost timid. “Will you help me, Daemon?”

He watches Helaena, too, how sweetly she peers up at him with curious eyes. “My daughter was alone. For hours. Because of him.” She looks down, then back at him, hard. “Her very first moments in this world.”

“Vengeance isn’t a satisfying end, Alicent.” He sighs. “Believe me.”

Her eyes burn into his. “Which is why I seek justice.”

At that, he has no answer.

His eyes flit from the red diamond on her finger to the green of her necklace, bright green, almost glowing.

“You know, I never really liked you, these years.”

She nods. “And I, you—much the same.” The baby wraps her hand around Alicent’s thumb, babbling with delight. “So you can understand my position.”

“Alright,” he says, loosening his tie. “What do you need from me?”

Chapter Text

When Jacaerys was born, her father visited immediately, just six hours after the birth, as soon as he could, as soon as she’d had a chance to sleep, have her bath, spend some time just with him and Rhaenyra. Viserys had visited later that day, just before they were discharged, and the rest of Rhaenyra’s family—her aunt, her cousins—had filtered in during the weeks following.

But not Otto. He was there—gripping her hand, telling her how proud of her he was, smoothing her hair, wiping the tears from her cheeks, smiling with joy, with gratitude, reveling in her triumph. He’d insisted on wearing sterile gloves when he’d held her baby—be careful now, the common germ is a big deal when they’re this small—and he’d grasped her soft hand in his, calloused and worn, and stared down at his grandson with an unbridled, unconditional love.

Rhaenyra had been forced on a business trip about two weeks into Jace’s life—the cancer had crept up slowly on Viserys, and this particular sudden illness before his tour to Geneva was one of the first of many harrowing harbingers—but Alicent had been alone, just her and their nighttime nurse, who wasn’t particularly helpful, when Jace had terrible colic; and three nights in she was half-alive and beside herself.

She’d called her fifty-seven-year-old father at two in the morning and he’d driven all the way to the city without a hint of a complaint, almost condescendingly calm, as always, taking Jace in his arms and telling her that’s alright, Alicent, just go to bed, and I’ll see to him just fine. He’d rubbed her back through her own exhausted sobs, her own pleas to make sure his socks stayed on and to remember to feed him from the lefthand side and that he liked to be swaddled just a tad on the tighter side—Otto had merely shushed her gently, smiled warmly, pushed her kindly toward her bedroom.

“I’m no novice, remember.” He said, arching a brow. “You turned out alright, didn’t you?”

Helaena is small but healthy at her six-month checkup. She sits happily in Rhaenyra’s lap and stares up at her and Alicent could watch for years the way Rhaenyra looks at their daughter, the sweetest, softest, most delicate affection she’s ever seen Rhaenyra give. They’d had to extend the timeline on Helaena’s vaccination programme (which stressed Alicent to no end) but Rhaenyra does a dutiful, if not commendable job distracting their baby until the needle goes pop into her thigh.

Oh, the betrayal in Helaena’s eyes.

Rhaenyra tickles her under her chin, and pinches her tummy, and her shoulder, and begins to hum her favorite song, all of which distracts her for a second but then she looks down again as their doctor places a plaster on her leg and back up at Rhaenyra, and Alicent closes in because she sees the look in Helaena’s eyes and she knows—

Helaena screams and Rhaenyra cradles her warmly right back to her chest, bouncing and shushing her, and Alicent smooths Helaena’s thick silver hair, and their doctor smiles, commiseratingly, good-naturedly, and it’s supposed to be alright, but the sound, she just can’t stand it—

Her daughter’s in pain and her daughter’s in pain and her daughter is crying and doesn’t know where she is and she’s alone and her daughter’s in pain—

“I—I can’t, here, I need—” Alicent takes her out of Rhaenyra’s arms almost insistently and holds her tight, curls around her, smells the top of her head, supports the back of Helaena’s head and neck, though they’re far past that point now. Helaena is calm before the moment is over, seemingly forgetting about her jab; but Alicent can’t stop her heart racing, can’t relax her arms still tight around her.

The doctor moves to tick something on their paperwork, and Alicent nods to whatever he says, tries to stop breathing so hard; and then she catches Rhaenyra’s eyes—trying to mask sorrow, badly, and an ocean of concern.

There’s a point where she doesn’t even know why she’s doing it.

(Teasing is childish, she knows; maybe just to see how many events of it Rhaenyra can take before she finally—)

They awaken twenty minutes before their alarm—twenty minutes before they’ll need to dress, before Jace will be up, before Helaena will cry to be fed, twenty minutes before the world begins, it feels like.

“I’m cold,” Alicent murmurs—the Spring has been nippy, it’s true—and Rhaenyra, blinking sleep away, leans down and fetches a throw blanket from atop their bedroom bench and lays it over her, tucks it into her side, presses a kiss to her cheek and snuggles back in beside her.

“I’m still cold,” she whispers.

Rhaenyra’s eyes don’t even open. “Did you put your socks on?”

She sighs, a breathy sound. “I’m not sure that would help.”

Then Rhaenyra does peek, watches Alicent pout and turn over, and smiles, slowly, creeping up to press against her back, curl her arm around her middle, press a kiss to the back of her neck.

“I think I can lend a hand,” Rhaenyra says, voice sleepy and content as she settles in around her.

After a moment of stillness, Alicent graces her fingertips down Rhaenyra’s side behind her, pushes her ass ever-so-subtly back into Rhaenyra’s hips, arching her back. Rhaenyra’s fingers sink tighter into her side and Alicent hums, lightly scraping Rhaenyra’s hands with her fingernails.

“Still chilly?” Rhaenyra breathes. Her hands begin to wander, gripping her tighter, over her middle, as her hips beginning a slow, delicious grind into Alicent’s ass. Before long her fingers are moving down to trace the pert flesh there, squeezing slowly, hungrily, pressing her lips to her shoulder, moving her slip over the slope of her hips and fitting her fingers in the indents over the bones to pull Alicent greedily back into the cants of her hips.

Alicent reaches back around Rhaenyra’s neck, draws Rhaenyra’s lips back to her throat, and her wife begins a luscious trail toward her jaw, sucking and biting tenderly, languidly, as Alicent releases a soft moan and presses back into Rhaenyra’s body, urging her on.

“I know you love this.” Alicent teases, somewhere between a gloat and an accusation; it’s a voice Rhaenyra knew better when they were still in college, when Alicent was in the tumult of her junior year and writing-by-performance what should have been entitled The Art of (Academic) War and Being a Total Cunt.

(A phase Rhaenyra loved, by the way.)

Rhaenyra only grinds into her harder, and by the strength in her hands and the insistence of her bites, she knows Rhaenyra’s feeling it. Alicent pries Rhaenyra’s fingers off of her hip and drags them slowly, slowly, up to her breast, allowing only her fingertips to come in contact with the pale swell until Rhaenyra tugs away from her grasp and cups her breast, hotly, teasing her nipple, thrusting dominant and fluid, sucking possessive marks into the back of her neck.

Alicent can feel herself leaking, and she knows Rhaenyra can feel it, too; waits until Rhaenyra’s thrusts become sloppy, aggressive, and then Alicent traps Rhaenyra’s hand before it can wander down to her center, leans back, arches her long neck and bare shoulders, moans—

“I wish you were fucking me right now.”

Rhaenyra digs her fingers in harder and whines, “Gods, Alicent—”

And then Alicent is up and out of bed in a moment, drawing her hair into a pony—“Seven above, it’s nearly six—suppose we’d ought to get to it.”

Rhaenyra hears the door shut and the shower turn on. Then she rolls back onto her back, and stares at the ceiling, and for the life of her can’t conjure a single thought in her head.

Their alarm goes off.

“Finish your eggs, and then you can play in the treehouse,” Rhaenyra bargains, calmly, a few weeks later.

Jace bounces at the backyard table with excitement and eagerly chases pieces of his egg and tomatoes with a baby fork.

She raises an eyebrow, eyes still set on her stack of printed reports. “And your jacket stays on.”

He huffs.

Alicent emerges out of the French doors, mug in each hand. “Americano?”

“Gods, yes.” She sets one in front of her and Rhaenyra catches Alicent’s hand before she sits, squeezes thankfully, drinks it down for her dear life. “Are those analytics any good, by the way?”

Alicent sets her stylus down and clicks the top of the iPad shut “They’re fine.”

Rhaenyra looks up, eyes expectant. “Don’t redo them.”

“I’m going to redo them.”

“Alicent, we employ a department for this.”

“Child’s play.” Then she looks over at Jace, winks. “I bet you could do Mummy’s controllership far better than her senior executives, isn’t that right, Jacaerys?”

Rhaenyra furrows her brow, if not a bit teasingly. “Let’s try to instill some confidence in the business he may one day inherit.”

Alicent hums, then fishes among her printouts under the iPad for a stapled stack. “This is yours, by the way.”

Rhaenyra takes it, frowns. “I hate staples.”

“I like staples.”

Rhaenyra fixes her with a look. “Perhaps you’d like to go play in the treehouse after you finish your eggs.”

Rhaenyra works the staple out of the packet, clicking her pen, as Jace declares “I’m done!” and Alicent moves to help him out of his booster chair.

It’s a proposal for a new wing of a business research hall for Judge, at Cambridge—some unnecessarily grandiose (and costly) piece of philanthropy Lyman had arranged, mostly to paper over any concern about the chaos of the past year.

Alicent has made no notes—except one, on the title.

“Just Targaryen is fine.”

She leans on the side of the table, watches Jace dash off toward the treehouse.

Rhaenyra stares down at the page:The Alicent Hightower and Rhaenyra Visenya Targaryen Teaching Room, where Alicent has crossed out her maiden name—her middle name, legally—in thin, black ink.

Rhaenyra opens her mouth, not sure what to say, exactly, and then Alicent stands up.

“I’m going to check on Helaena.”

Rhaenyra throws a sideways glance to their perfectly silent baby monitor. “Alright.”  

Alicent disappears through the French doors.

Rhaenyra watches as Jace dashes up and down the ladder, runs across the rope bridge waving his foam sword. Her wife emerges back, a couple of minutes later.

“Still asleep?” Rhaenyra asks, reaching her hand out. Alicent nods, but she doesn’t take it—sitting away from her, drawing the edges of her sweater tight around her middle, staring out across the yard.

Rhaenyra watches her carefully, tries to draw her eyes. “You’ve always insisted on your name.”

“My name is Targaryen, last I checked my driving license.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “Alicent.”

She’s still as a statute.

“Your fa—” Rhaenyra stops herself, looks down at her hands. Finally, she whispers, softly: “Alicent, it’s your name, too.”

Alicent shoves away from the table and back into the house.

From somewhere afar, on the other side of the trees, Jace’s voice rings out against unseen enemies: “Beware!”

“I wanted to ask,” she had started, coolly. “Well—I was wondering,” Alicent said, softly, slowly, “I was curious whatever happened to Mother’s ring.”

Otto had sipped his scotch, slowly. The waiter topped off her wine glass, barely touched.

Finally, he nodded. “Yes—we have it. I know it was cleaned a few months ago with the rest of her jewelry.” He fixed her with a knowing gaze. “Why do you ask?”

Her eyes flitted to the red diamond on her finger, his eyes followed. She took a breath. “Well, Rhaenyra—Rhaenyra proposed with her mother’s ring, as, well, as you know. And, so.” She’d fisted her napkin under the tablecloth, willed herself not to stab at an already bloodied cuticle. “Well, I wanted—I thought it would be important—it is important, to carry something of both. Both our mothers, into the marriage.”

Otto watched her, expressionless.

“So I—I wanted to know if I could have your blessing,” The tendons of her neck tensed as she swallowed. “Your permission—to make a gift of it. For our wedding.”

Otto nodded. A wry grin played at the corners of his lips, but—as she realized, stomach curdling—it wasn’t a happy one.

“You’d like to give my ring to Rhaenyra.”

“Mother’s ring.” It was out before she could stop herself.

His eyes flashed. “What did you say?”

Her heart beat double-time; she took a fast breath, then another. “It’s important to me to have a piece of her with—in my, in the marriage.” She tried to will herself to breathe slowly. “It would—” She stopped short, shifted tacks. “It would make me very happy. Please.”

Otto stared at the wall, and then, quick as a snake, snatched her wrist under the table—not violently, not squeezing; but she still felt trapped, pinned to her place.

He leaned in close, so low only she could hear him: “I’d like you to go home and think about all that has already been forfeit to the cause of making you very happy.” And then, cool and collected as ever, he’d released her wrist, pushed his chair back, and left.

They’re at a cocktail hour. It’s important. Rhaenyra is supposed to be chatting up Lyonel Tyrell’s daughter (and presumptive heir) Leona, and elsewise making friends with the Scottish wunderkind Cregan Stark in search—anticipation, maybe, at this point—of a joint deal between the three of them.

It was her idea in the first place. Court the Starks, she’d advised. Nobody has lasted longer in this industry, ultimately. Their creditors are ironclad. It’ll be a slow deal, a cold deal, but it will appreciate, eventually.

It’s an investment in our future.

(Lyman had looked at her like he wanted to crown her Queen.

“I have,” he’d begun, barely containing his excitement, “Always, always advocated a closer partnership with the Starks, especially during Viserys’ time. I heartily agree.”)

They sit down again at a brilliant table in a hotel whose name Alicent can’t be bothered to recall, and Rhaenyra places her hand on her knee under the table; it’s perfectly still, appropriate, loving.

Alicent waits for a moment, and puts her hand over hers—then guides it, slowly, from her knee, higher, following a smooth line up her bare thigh.

Rhaenyra gives her a split-second glance out the corner of her eye; keeps talking.

Then Alicent slides her fingertips past the hem of her red dress—and Rhaenyra lets her—until they come in contact with the warm metal of a strap of a garter belt.  

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash, even as she responds, cool and confident and urbane, to a question from across the table.

Alicent excuses herself primly to find the lavatories, squeezes Rhaenyra’s shoulder and leans down as though to tell her she’ll be back soon—then, in Rhaenyra’s ear, softer than a whisper:

“I want you to cum for me tonight.”

She smirks, imperceptibly, and strides off as heat creep up Rhaenyra’s neck.

Later, Alicent escapes what feels like an hours-long conversation with Alysanne Stark— who, Gods love her, seems to genuinely enjoy talking about the weather—and turns to find Rhaenyra suddenly nose-to-nose with her.

“Where have you been?”

“Making friends,” Alicent answers, easily, tracing the rim of her Merlot (of which she has allowed herself only a little.)

“Oh?” Rhaenyra raises a brow, smirks, gazes at her with eyes full of hunger. “Targaryen Group is excellently grateful for your dedication to the cause.”

Rhaenyra moves to take her in her arms, but only ends up resting her hands gently over her waist, craning her head over Alicent’s shoulder to where one of the young Tyrells—Victaria, Leona’s little sister, maybe—has just called her over to the bar.

Alicent tries to bury her disappointment, much as it surprises her. Rhaenyra calls back—she doesn’t really hear it, though—and begins to make her way over, Alicent’s hand grasped in hers.

Alicent doesn’t move; Rhaenyra looks back in question when she feels the tug.

“I just found you again.” Alicent entreats, gesturing to the increasing deluge of the crowd.

“Yes, and I’d like to keep you with me.” Rhaenyra squeezes her hand, gives her that small, secret, earnest smile she’s always been so good at. But she’s had a little wine, and after nearly sixteen months sober, it’s hitting, and she wants Rhaenyra to stay (though she isn’t sure where, exactly) and there’s a buzzing in her head.

And there’s the rage, too. Buried, softly and carefully, sure; but still, when it marinates in her upper consciousness she knows, coming on with a taste way too old and too eternal to be from—

Well.

Alicent quirks a brow, mouth drawing a hard line, “Oh, and I’m supposed to just follow along like your dutiful little wife, am I?”

Rhaenyra looks like she’s just been slapped.

She half expects Rhaenyra to drop her hand and walk away—to answer rejection with rejection, like she used to, when they were younger. But Rhaenyra draws her brows together, moves back toward her; and gently—telegraphing her movements, as though approaching a cornered animal—returns her hands to Alicent’s waist.

And gives her those infuriatingly sad eyes. Again.

“My love,” Rhaenyra begins, slowly. For a moment Rhaenyra seems to be peering into Alicent’s own gaze, searching her eyes for something—but whatever was on her tongue, she appears to decide against it.

Instead, she steps fully into Alicent’s space, nuzzles her cheek with her nose, presses a long kiss to the top of her cheekbone. When she draws back, she’s rubbing soothing circles into the side of Alicent’s hip, searching for her eyes again. Alicent looks down into the space between them.

“I’ll stay wherever you want, for as long as you like.” Rhaenyra states, simply.

Alicent shakes her head, and then grips Rhaenyra’s arms tighter, and then pushes her away, deliberate and bitchy and sure; forces Rhaenyra’s hands away from her body, her lips out of her space, those damn inquisitive eyes away with their sweet, doleful expression.

“Go, I’ll find you later.” She declares, and turns off into the crowd, urges Rhaenyra in the direction of Victaria and Leona and the others.

She’s by the tables, then, later, having done her duty making not entirely painful small talk with a few of Tyrell’s associates and some of the senior executives she remembers from her early days. She stands by the edge of the party and watches the band, a jazz quartet, play with an enviable sense of total levity, total abandon.

She thinks of finishing the rest of her wine—Helaena already nursed and went down before they left. They have plenty of bottles saved up.

It comes out of nowhere. Helaena’s sweet eyes looking up at her, helpless and trusting, as Alicent lifts her mouth to her breast and feeds her something toxic.

She places the glass on the next waitstaff safetray she spots, palms vaguely sweating.

“It’s a magnificent sound.”

She turns and he’s right there, right in her face, eyes twinkling with something unkind. For a moment, in the beat of initial shock, she wishes Rhaenyra was there—wishes she would emerge from the ever-growing black-tie crowd, by her side.

The thought surprises her as soon as she has it; she’s never needed a knight.

“Wonderful,” she comments, urbane, stepping on the back foot as she gestures back toward the band. “I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m—”

“I believe you know my brother,” he interjects.

“Oh?”

“Harwin Strong?” He looks around like he hopes not to find him. Then she notices his elbow crutch, his mangled foot, distracted for a moment.

“I—Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Harwin never mentioned. My wife and I adore your brother.” A beat passes. “I’m—”

“—Alicent Hightower,” he interrupts, again.

Her face doesn’t drop the grin, but her eyes do. “Targaryen.”

His brow seems to twitch at that, almost too quickly to notice.

“I haven’t met your wife,” he says.

“Oh.” Please, gods, do. “Well, I’d be happy to introduce you—I think she’s on the other side—”

“I don’t need to.”

And there’s something about the way he says it, maybe—the untimely and all-too-intimate stare—that entirely unsettles her.

Tell him to piss off, she thinks to herself, but she watches as their investors and associates mill around and buries the urge.   

But then—

She’s fourteen, her father leaves her to shake more hands, she’s left at the table with a man who doesn’t put his hand on her knee—but wants to.

She cowers. He flashes his teeth at her.

Rage.

She flags down a waiter, then, almost relieved as he dashes over and takes her order for a glass of water.

“So, who are you?” She asks, setting her shoulders, taking another half-step back.  

“Larys.” He says, simply, and takes another careful step closer.  

The waiter returns with an icewater, she takes it. His gaze follows her hand like he wants to devour it.

“And what do you do?”

“I work for myself. What do you do?” But by the leading tone of the question, she’s sure he already knows.

She levels his gaze with her own, unafraid and cool. “The same, these days.”

He peers down at her like she’s in a cage at the zoo.

She takes a drink of her water, watches the band in the awkward, welcome silence, looks back up, and somehow, he’s even closer, still

“I’d ask you to dance, but…” He nods down to his leg.

What the fuck.  “I should go find my wife,” she notes with a warning tone, “Before it gets too late.”

Harwin’s brother nods, and smiles, a strange contortion on his face. “Strange that she left you alone.”

Strange that she left you alone.

Her hand curls into a fist and her fingernail presses into the skin by her thumb until she feels it cut.

“A pleasure.” She starts away.

“And you,” he calls. “Ms. Hightower.”

Only moments later, she sees a spot of silver-blonde hair dappled among the crowd.

“Rhaenyra—” She stops short: It’s Rhaenyra, head thrown back with laughter, Victaria Tyrell standing close, squeezing the top of her arm, looking up at her with wide, hooded doe eyes.

“This is like meeting my hero.” Victaria grins.

Rhaenyra shakes her head, sort of bashful, despite herself; clearly charmed, and then waves her off. “Hardly,” she answers. And then looks up, spots Alicent moving toward them, smiles. “Ah, here she is now.”

Rhaenyra extends her arm and Alicent takes it, eyes flitting to Victaria, who looks down, grins and nods politely, moves away a little. Alicent tucks herself under Rhaenyra’s arm—maybe too close for the way she just spoke to her (maybe she’s scared and livid and livid that she’s scared and doesn’t give a fuck at all)—and rests her hand just under Rhaenyra’s collarbone, traces the nails of the other down the edge of her spine.

One time she’d traced her finger down Rhaenyra’s bare spine as she’d fucked her with her fingers, the room an explosion of black and red and white behind Rhaenyra’s eyes.

“You’re so tense, my love.”

Rhaenyra clearly responds, her fingers beginning to ghost lower behind Alicent’s bodice.

Her wife looks down at her, eyes mirthful, if not a bit drunk on her ego. She’s reminded of Rhaenyra, once upon a time, at her seventeenth nameday party—antagonizing her uncle purely for bloodsport as Daemon, twenty-seven and freshly dumped, glared back hatefully. 

“I’m a right and true folk hero, apparently.” Her eyes returning to Victaria, who returns the look tenfold.

“Not only to me,” Victaria grins, “How many Fortune fifty CEOs out there are women, and young women, at that?”

Rhaenyra cocks her head. “Your sister, soon, perhaps.”

Victaria shakes her head. “If she ever emerges from the books long enough to attend a meeting.”

“Nothing wrong with the books,” Alicent quips, and Rhaenyra grins, scratches her shoulder.

“Indeed.” She gestures to the crowd, looks down at Alicent. “Where did you find yourself?”

Her hand is barely brushing the curve of her ass, and Rhaenyra’s smirk is playful and daring as ever; but still behind them remains the half-concealed concern—that patronizing loving condescension of absolute devotion, absolutely enraging.  

It’s indignation, that bubbles up under her skin. How dare you shy away like it’s me when you—

Alicent looks back to Victaria, snuggles a bit closer into Rhaenyra’s side, traces her finger along Rhaenyra’s collarbone; presses a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the bare skin of Rhaenyra’s jaw as Victaria looks on—verging on inappropriate, verging on performative, waiting for Rhaenyra’s breath to inevitably imperceptibly hitch before she looks up at her, smiles, “I was watching the band, my love.”

Without missing a beat, Victaria nods, cheery. “I love them. I begged Father. What do you think? I found them in New York, actually, they’re American—” She goes on, Alicent barely listens, instead focused on hooking a single finger against the back of Rhaenyra’s black leather belt, rubbing lovingly, hungrily, against the skin just underneath her shirt.

She wants to rip Rhaenyra’s clothes off, she wants to scream at her until her voice dies out.

She wants to be held until she falls asleep.

There’s a lull in the conversation, then, and Alicent drums her fingers along Rhaenyra’s collarbone, sighs. “I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to last.”

Rhaenyra’s brow quirks, like she’s hearing the words in an altogether different context.

Victaria watches the motion. The girl is subtle, tactful, but she clearly wishes it was her; wonders how it feels.

You think your language is secret, Alicent realizes, almost sad. So do all subtle, tactful girls.

She watches Victaria watch her and isn’t sure if she finds it satisfying or infuriating or awful, the whole of it, all these bitter thoughts, the whole bitter exchange.

Rhaenyra nods, smiles apologetically up at Victaria, the few others. “I suppose we should head. The children will be up at six, no matter when we got to bed the night before.”

Alicent lets Rhaenyra make her goodbyes, cement her new friendships. Cregan Stark looks young and vibrant and pleased and his kind, beautiful (piteously dull) wife smiles and clasps his hand beside him, waves Rhaenyra goodbye as though she’s going to miss her forever.

They get in the car, the driver raises the privacy partition, and she traces a finger up the exposed forearm beneath Rhaenyra’s rolled-up cuff until Rhaenyra saddles up beside her, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses to the side of her neck, gripping her waist with a sort of celebratory, self-congratulatory possession.

“I think I’ve got it,” Rhaenyra whispers into the shell of her ear.

“What’s that?” She replies, thumbing Rhaenyra’s jaw and coaxing her down to her shoulder.

Rhaenyra looks up, lips half-pursed into the pale skin. “The deal, of course.”

Alicen chuckles humorlessly. “And a few fans at that.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes, nips her shoulder. “You don’t mean Victaria.”

Alicent hums.

“Come on.” Rhaenyra smiles in earnest, then, as though it’s a jest. “She’s just out of college.”

Alicent raises an eyebrow. Is she jesting with Rhaenyra, is she actually angry with her? She almost doesn’t know.

“You wouldn’t be the first Fortune fifty CEO.”

Rhaenyra sighs, smiling, shakes her head, and then places her strong hand on the side of Alicent’s face, pulls her nearer to plant strong kisses on her temple, her cheek. “Don’t worry,” she teases, mirthfully, “You could always call Criston, then.”

Alicent jerks away.

“Why would you bring him up?” Her eyes are dark and accusatory.

Rhaenyra leans back, brow furrowed. “I’m only taking the…” Then she sees the look in her eyes, the anger and the fear. “Alicent, what’s wrong?”

“Why would you bring him up?”

Rhaenyra sighs, finally sits up, fully. “I don’t know, Alicent; I was only jesting, really.”

Alicent’s eyes are wide and angry and full of hurt. Then she turns, looks back out the window at the city going by. “Of course.”

Rhaenyra reaches for her arm. “My love,” she says, again, in that soothing, placating tone, her thumb tracing circles along the gooseflesh, “I’m sorry.”

She reaches for Alicent’s hand, Alicent lets her take it. She squeezes, keeps tracing circles. “Alicent, I’m not sure—”

“Because it would be ironic, that’s all.” It’s an iconically cruel stare she levies, though she’s not sure who it’s intended to hurt.

Rhaenyra’s brow levels out, and then it’s the boardroom face she gets. “Really, Alicent.”

The driver pulls onto their street.

Rhaenyra, under her breath: “Nearly fourteen years and two children later—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t recall bringing it up.”

At that tone, Alicent breaks, a little, and leans against the side of the car, blinking away fucking infuriating, fucking traitorous tears.

Fucking stop, she tells herself, working her nail into a bloodied thumb, Fucking stop it right now—

(“Stop it right now,” Otto had bellowed, after her first thesis had been denied and she’d bawled her eyes out. “More than your failure I am disappointed in your undeserved sorrow. You have nothing to be crying about, none at all—")

“Alicent.” It’s Rhaenyra’s voice, tender and sorry. Her fingertips ghost Alicent’s wrist where her hand wipes furiously at her face. “We’re here.”

They get out; Rhaenyra unlocks the door, they pad quietly into the flat. Rhaenyra greets and thanks Lyla and their nurse, sees them out; Alicent heads back to the master bedroom.

Just as soon as Alicent frees herself of her other heel, Helaena begins to fuss, disgruntled and uncomfortable through the baby monitor. Without even thinking she’s off the bed, heads toward the nursery.

“I’ve got it.” She knows Rhaenyra hears the dismissal in her voice.

In the dark of the nursery, Helaena looks up at her with big, watery eyes. She can’t help but feel the same.

“What do you need, my sweet?” Alicent whispers, cradling her against her breast, kissing her little head. But Helaena doesn’t seem to know—these aren’t her hungry cries, that Alicent knows—she checks her diaper, she’s dry, feels her temperature, she’s healthy. Instead, she only seems tired and irregular and frustrated, crying that lonely sound, that whimper that makes Alicent, somewhere in the back (or maybe the front) of her mind feel completely frantic—

Her cries become exhausted and desperate, and Alicent rocks and bounces her, kisses her, turns on the white noise machine that always soothes her—nothing works, nothing works, and Alicent feels the tears begin to spring from her own eyes, even after only those few minutes, feeling alone, as alone as Helaena sounds—

And then Rhaenyra appears in the door, in her robe, comes up behind them.

“Alicent,” she whispers, hand on her back. “Alicent, come here, let me.” Then she takes Helaena, and Alicent watches as she rocks her, ever-so-gently, begins to sing her song, softly, soothingly. Helaena’s cries taper back off into whines, just a little, just so she can hear the tune—

And then she’s leaning tired and defeated into Rhaenyra’s breast, her face still anguished, but only slightly upset, now—suffering if only from the feeling of sadness, as though her body has held onto something now gone.

“There’s a good girl,” Rhaenyra praises, pressing a kiss to the silver hair that so perfectly matches her own. “That’s my sweet girl, go on, now.” Slowly, slowly, Helaena’s eyes close.

Then, rocking her for a few more moments, Rhaenyra risks a look down—to find their baby completely asleep, red mouth ajar in a perfect ‘o’.

 Their eyes meet, and then Rhaenyra sets her down softly in her crib, places the noise machine close. Together, they watch her for another moment.

Then Rhaenyra takes Alicent’s hand, pulls her in, tries to bring her softly into her arms, too—

“I’m sorry, my love—”

And then Alicent is out the door, back to the bedroom, working the zipper of her dress and dragging it off her body, throwing it (fuck the expense) into a limp pile on the hardwood, wrenching her hair out of the updo, wringing her fingers across the indentation by her thumbnail, vaguely clotted, vaguely oozing—

Rhaenyra enters behind her. “Alicent, why don’t I draw us a bath? We could just relax, alright, and then maybe after, later, we could talk—”

Rhaenyra won’t go to bed angry. It’s the one stupid ubiquitous platitude she’s internalized, the same way Alicent will never wear new clothes without washing them.

Fine, she thinks.

Then Alicent turns and takes two steps forward and pounces, absolutely attacking her lips with her own, wresting her arms in and up Rhaenyra’s sides, clawing at her back, clawing her body into her own.

She almost expects the pull away, the stupid dog eyes again, the what’s wrong—until Rhaenyra’s hands are aggressive on her waist, tugging her up and then pushing her, walking her back roughly, dominantly, all but shoving her onto the bed.

She allows herself to collapse against the sheets, and Rhaenyra is on her in a second, lifting her up again, almost tossing her back further, up toward the headboard, gripping and snapping her garters off with quick precision, then descending with her mouth—hot, sharp, biting and mean and dominant.

Alicent cannot physically remember needing it so badly in her entire life.

She tries to hook a leg around Rhaenyra, biting her bottom lip, pushing up with her elbows to flip on top of her but Rhaenyra shoves her back down, shoves her hard, pins her to the mattress.

Alicent whimpers.

There’s a hand on her chest—not quite around her throat, but threatening—as Rhaenyra kisses her way down, first her neck, then teasing her nipples, rubbing and kneading in her fingers, brushing teeth across her sternum, lower, over the dip of her hipbones, then, without preamble—

Rhaenyra’s tongue enters her rudely, aggressively, and she slaps a hand over her own mouth to stop herself from calling out. Her wife doesn’t even bother to give her the usual teasing “quiet, now,” with the smirk or whatever—no, she’s fully focused, one hand still ghosting at the base of her throat, the other on her thigh, holding her down.

All she can do is lay back and feel the fury and ecstasy and abandon.

She comes absurdly fast, nails digging into the hand at her neck, other hand fisted into the sheets, sees absolute stars; a rush of fluid coats Rhaenyra’s slick pink mouth, but she’s not smirking that usual canary smile—in fact, she doesn’t seem sated at all.

Alicent tries to climb on top again—shoves at Rhaenyra’s shoulder, tries to hook an arm around her neck, knee bending—and Rhaenyra’s eyes flash, pushing her down by the waist, the other hand wrenching Alicent’s hand off of her neck and pinning her back against the bed.

But it’s not aggressive, Alicent realizes, with a start. It’s territorial, it’s possessive.

Rhaenyra bears down on her, covers her body with her own, begins to tease her again in a way that can only be described as selfish.

I can touch you like nobody else, it speaks. I can sate you like nobody else.

“I want you to come for me, please,” Alicent whispers, again, as she did hours before, though now in a far different lilt.

Rhaenyra moves to pull away from her and she chases, hands needy and insistent against her upper arms—“Don’t stop touching me.”

But Rhaenyra shoves her back down again, captures her bottom lip in a dominating kiss. “Wait.” Rhaenyra commands, and her hand caresses Alicent’s open thigh as she moves off the bed.

She returns with the harness and Alicent all but growls, sits up and winds her arms over Rhaenyra’s shoulders and around her neck and drags her down and snarls take it, then, and Rhaenyra wastes no time finding her entrance and pushing forward in a matter of seconds.

There’s no warmup; she’s against the bed, suddenly, flat on the mattress, and Rhaenyra’s body is flush against her own, hands wrapped like a vice around her waist, lips at her throat, thrusting between her open legs with long, sure, assertive strokes. It’s working inside of her like a city fire, hot and consuming.

Rhaenyra had been her first time, but she had not been Rhaenyra’s.

“Harder,” she entreats, and Rhaenyra complies, fingers digging into her waist, pounding her into the mattress.

It’s not going to be the healing sort of sex, she already knows; maybe something close, something else.

Then Rhaenyra slows down, teasing, drawing out the bitter sharp edge before her ecstasy, and she groans, infuriated, and tries to cant her hips against Rhaenyra’s before they get beaten down, Rhaenyra moving into her again, hard, and she knows Rhaenyra knows she’s hitting inside just right, fucking a sound out of her with each thrust—sure her throat is purple by now, and so she reaches up, pulls Rhaenyra’s hair hard, brings her down to scrape her teeth against her neck, knead her nipples between her fingers and smile, ravenous and victorious as she feels Rhaenyra absolutely quake with orgasm, pounding into her harsh, slow, whining into her neck, hips stuttering, teeth gritting, and then continuing to power forward, power into her; Alicent grips behind her neck, pulling—“I love when you’re on top like this—”

And then Rhaenyra stops, suddenly, and Alicent fights the urge to scream. Rhaenyra’s out of it, mood gone dead cold, staring down between them. “You’re bleeding,” she says, and it’s totally the Rhaenyra of daylight again, thoughtful and certain and directive.

“What—” She knows it can’t be that; she’s wetter than she’s ever been in her life and maybe, if Rhaenyra doesn’t finish the job, about to enter a psychotic meltdown. She tries to pull her shoulders back in, she needs it, coaxing Rhaenyra to begin again, don’t lose the moment, I was so close to—

“I said you’re bleeding,” Rhaenyra repeats.

She looks down just enough to see something on the edge of the silicone. “It’s probably just my p—”

“No, you’re fucking bleeding, Alicent, there’s blood.” There’s something in Rhaenyra’s expression—something completely terrified—Rhaenyra pulls out, quickly, and Alicent winces at the sudden movement, which only makes Rhaenyra look even more horrified, even more guilty. “Let me—” She moves down between Alicent’s legs, isn’t sure what to do. Alicent reaches down and then looks in the lamplight at slick shining with a thin sheen of red. “Does it hurt?”

Alicent waves her hands away. “No, I’m fine, I’m completely fine.” She grasps Rhaenyra’s arm, pulling her back toward her, “Keep going.”

“No,” Rhaenyra exclaims, looking back at her with an utterly incredulous expression. “You think I’m just going to keep—while you lay back and bleed—”

“I told you I’m fine!”  She shouts, finally, and then they both still; listening, apprehensive, willing the children not to wake.

After a moment of silence, Rhaenyra’s eyes return to her. “I said,” Alicent huffs, chest rising and falling with rage, again, uncontained fucking—”I want you to.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head like she’s lost her mind. “Well I don’t want to,” she returns; then she’s unhooking the harness, shoving it off, discarding it somewhere— “I’ll go get the antibiotic—”

“It’s just my fucking period, Rhaenyra.”  She whispers, sharp and full of venom.

Rhaenyra’s eyes return to her, just as angry. “You haven’t gotten your period in months.”

“It was going to return eventually, Rhaenyra, I’m not fucking menopausal—”

“I’m sorry,” Rhaenyra says, suddenly, almost talking to herself, then, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have gotten carried away, I shouldn’t—you’ve just—”

“It’s been six months.”  She exclaims, then, and she feels tears spring from the corners of her eyes, so livid and lost and let down she feels like she’s going to fucking break down in sobs. She drags Rhaenyra back, then, buries her face in her neck, opens her legs, wills her, begs her to take her back to a space of freedom just moments ago. “It’s healed, I’m fine, it’s not—please,” she cries, though her voice is weak. “Please, come back, Rhaenyra, please.” The tears are falling in earnest, then. “You can stay, you can keep going, don’t go away, please—”

Then Rhaenyra does, takes her possessively into her arms and leans on top of her, puts her weight on her, and she falls back, and Rhaenyra follows, as though shielding her from something unknown; and then, her tongue slips in her mouth, and her hand moves from Alicent’s waist to snake down, and cheater, cheater, fucking cheater, six strokes of Rhaenyra’s pointer and middle fingers on her clit and she’s tumbling over the edge in the most powerful and most ashen orgasm she’s ever had in her life.

There’s a kiss pressed to her neck, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth—very, very soft, very gentle. Then Rhaenyra moves off of her.

“Wait—”

There’s a hand on her cheek, another taking the hand that grasps for her. “Relax, just relax, I’ll be right back, right back in a moment.”

Ten minutes later, she’s up to her shoulders in a hot bath, her back flush against Rhaenyra’s chest. Her arms are around Alicent’s waist, and Alicent closes her eyes, lets her head lull back on Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“We should talk.” Rhaenyra whispers.

Alicent exhales through the nose. “What about.”

There’s a moment of silence. A thumb strokes over her hipbone, slowly, comfortingly.

“About what’s wrong.”

Alicent says nothing.

Rhaenyra sighs, pressing a kiss to the space behind her ear. “Alright,” she says, finally. “I suppose I’ll just tell you what I’ve seen.”

She exhales against the back of Alicent’s neck like it all hurts her to say. “You’re terrified whenever Helaena cries. Maybe not terrified, exactly, I suppose; but not like with Jace. You panic.”

Alicent traces above her knee with her own finger, eyes downcast.

“You’re angry with me. Furious, I think. And you’re equally terrified when I’m gone. If I had to venture a guess I’d say you’re doubly angry that that scares you.” She feels Rhaenyra’s thumb rub slowly against the soft skin of her stomach. “You turn me on to keep me close, leave me cold to prove you don’t need it.”

Alicent nods, watching the water ripple beside Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “Is that all?”

A moment passes.

“It’s okay to be angry with me.”

Alicent wants to shout, wants to vibrate; wants to be anything other than perfectly still, a learned stillness, practiced and certain.

Rhaenyra tries again. “I understand if you feel betrayed. That I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

Alicent shakes her head, eyes wet. Then she draws Rhaenyra’s arms around herself, tighter, closer, as close as she can.

“I don’t need you for everything,” she whispers. “No matter what anyone else thinks. I’m my own person, I can take care of myself, I—” She stops short. “But I couldn’t, because—and—and you were supposed to be there.” She whimpers. And then her tears break in earnest; she turns, buries her face in Rhaenyra’s hold, wraps her arms around her neck, her legs around her waist, hears the water slosh; but Rhaenyra just holds her, tight and sure, holds her like she’d never want to be anywhere else.

“And Helaena,” Alicent weeps, shaking her head against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “I didn’t know where she was, I couldn’t help her—until you got there, we were just.” She shrugs, almost. “We were just praying, I suppose. I was so scared.”

She feels the rigidity in Rhaenyra’s body, knows how much it must hurt; drags her thumb across the base of Rhaenyra’s throat, fits herself along the slope of her shoulder, presses a kiss to the water droplets atop her skin.

“I’m so sorry.” Rhaenyra whispers, finally. “You will never, ever know how sorry I am.”

“I do know,” Alicent rushes, eyes shut hard, gripping her impossibly tighter. “I know. It wasn’t your fault.”

She can almost feel Rhaenyra frown. “Of course it was my fault, Alicent. I never should have gone anywhere when you were so close to—”

“No.” Alicent’s voice is sure, hard, measured. “No, Rhaenyra.”

She’s silent, for a moment.

Then, Rhaenyra speaks. “I suppose we should talk about the other thing.”

They get out of the tub. Rhaenyra climbs under the covers, sits herself up on the pillows, holds out her arms; Alicent slides in after and climbs into them, lays on her chest, fits her head just under Rhaenyra’s jaw. She feels her wife’s arms pull the blankets up around them—up to the cusp of Alicent’s shoulder, like Rhaenyra knows she likes—then settle around her middle, tight and secure.

“I need you to hold me.” Alicent says, eyes closed fast, auburn hair splayed across Rhaenyra’s chest. “I have to tell you something. But you have to promise you won’t stop holding me.”

She feels Rhaenyra’s breath come in slow on top of her head, her fingers stroke absentmindedly on the skin of Alicent’s back.

Then she searches for Alicent’s left hand, resting on Rhaenyra’s sternum, lifts it up to her lips, kisses her right on her ring finger, right over the red diamond and wedding band.

“Listen to me,” she says, softly. “I belong to you.” She strokes the ring, then, with the pad of her thumb, her eyes certain. “That’s what this means. I don’t care, whatever it is; I just don’t care.”

Alicent nods, finally, and settles her hand back, absentmindedly fidgeting with the collar of Rhaenyra’s shirt.

They talk all night. Until the early sun begins to pierce through the drapes and they hear the mail service driving by. Until there’s foot traffic and dogs barking outside again.

Alicent lays on Rhaenyra’s other side, now, a bare leg thrown over both of hers. Rhaenyra’s arms still hold her firm and sure. Alicent fingers a fresh mark on her neck, the base; easy enough to hide in the wintertime.

He asked me if I loved sex more than my own family, she’d said.

Rhaenyra had pressed a kiss to the top of her ear, massaged the tensing muscles in her forearm.

It made me feel like an object. Like you were an object, too.

It had begun to rain outside. The blonde worked her way to her hand, then, rubbing in between the tendons, the muscles; relaxing the joints.

It would be over once I’d given you what you wanted, he told me.

Rhaenyra traced the length of her fingers; her wedding band.

He never raised a hand to me, but he broke my things all the time. He said I didn’t have anything that was mine.

“I know,” Rhaenyra had whispered, lips tender against her cheekbone, finger tracing gentle and solemn over the scarring on the side of her fingernail.

When I asked him for Mother’s ring, he grabbed me by the wrist. He told me to think about all he’d done for me, all he’d put up with.

Rhaenyra’s hand had stilled.

I didn’t tell you, because the wedding was only weeks away, and you had been getting along so well, those few times you saw each other, and I knew you’d look at him differently, I knew that he’d know—

Rhaenyra had nodded, stormclouds behind her eyes.

But it was my ring, Rhaenyra. It was willed to me, not him. I asked out of courtesy; to be a respectful daughter. Her ring was mine—it’s still mine. But he kept it anyway.

Alicent’s eyes had flashed up at her; hands tight over Rhaenyra’s arms, mouth downturned, hurt and livid and grieving.

There were times that he looked in my eyes and told me he’d never been so proud of anything as he was of me. He drove in for every performance, every event at Cambridge. He never sent me to voicemail when I called. He always gave me the right advice; when there was a problem, a real problem, he always fixed it. He never remarried—didn’t even try—because he was afraid it would be too difficult for me, too disruptive to me. 

He bought me anything I wanted, if I asked. He just broke it all the time.

It’s twenty-five minutes until their morning alarm. Rhaenyra is on flat on her side, turned toward the window. Alicent is secure in her arms, fingers tangled in the hem of Rhaenyra’s shirt, forehead pressed against Rhaenyra’s chest.

They haven’t slept a wink.

Alicent feels Rhaenyra pull the covers closer over her shoulder, higher over her back.

“I’m plenty warm,” Alicent hums.

“It’s cold out.” Rhaenyra replies.

Her arm rests back over Alicent’s side again, fingers tracing soft lines.

A moment passes.

“I understand what has to happen.”

Then another. “Do you?”

Rhaenyra nods, just barely. “I do.”

“I suppose you’ll have to look the other way.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes open fully, then, looking down at her with puzzlement. “Of course not.”

Alicent frowns, knuckles flexing along the skin of Rhaenyra’s stomach. “No?”

“No,” and then Rhaenyra grabs her hand, her ring finger, again, traces it with a reverence Alicent will never not need. “How could you ever think there’s a reality where I’m not on your team?”

The baby cries—those awful, where are you, where are you cries—her hands shake.

She takes Helaena in her arms, she breathes deep, in, then out, trying to quell it, trying to find the handle on these sorts of feelings she’s mostly always found before.

Then Rhaenyra comes in, in her blue robe, arms strong and sure around them. “I’m right here,” she whispers, evenly. “I’m right here and she’s right here and everything is okay.”

And then Alicent catches her breath, and sits in the plush rocking chair, and Rhaenyra helps her settle in with Helaena, easy and comfortable, and nurse her.

“I think maybe I should go and see someone,” she says, later, when Helaena is back down.

Rhaenyra rubs her arm, soothing. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”

Later, Rhaenyra reaches in her bedside drawer; fumbles with some plastic. Then she takes Alicent’s bloodied thumb, sure as ever, and wraps a plaster snug around it.

Before she even realizes, it’s Alicent’s nameday.

On the date itself, Rhaenyra wakes her late with her favourite cappuccino from Martin’s, down the block, and holds her as she sips it and wakes, and then eats her out in the shower so fucking well that Alicent thinks she might actually have blacked out.

They’re back in bed—and Rhaenyra’s well on her way to pushing their luck and sneaking in round two—when Alicent hears little feet scurrying down the hallway and rushes to throw the duvet over them at breakneck speed.

“Mummy!” Jace squeals and dases up onto the bed with unrestrained delight as Rhaenyra rolls out from between Alicent’s legs and shuffles back up toward the pillows. 

Jace frowns. “Mummy, are you under the covers?”

Alicent’s face is bright red. “Mummy’s just being silly,” she covers. Rhaenyra emerges next to her, looking equally as caught.

“That’s right,” Rhaenyra confirms. “I’m very silly.”

She slides Alicent a quick and dirty sideways glance. Alicent kicks her under the sheets.

“Come here, my love.” Alicent pulls Jace under his arms to rest in her lap, and he grins, snuggling in. “You are exactly who I wanted to see this morning.”

She plants a big kiss on his forehead and he looks up at her with unrestrained adoration.

(Rhaenyra could watch for a million years.)

His silver-haired mother pets his thick brown curls, smiles fondly. “Is there something special we should say to Mummy this morning, Jace?”

Jacaerys thinks, then his face alights. “Happy nameday, Mummy!” he cries, and throws his arms around her neck again. Then he exclaims—“Wait, I have it!” and thunders back to his room.

Rhaenyra and Alicent share a look; she takes Alicent’s hand in her own and joins their lips, softly, gently.

“I have it!” Then Jace is rushing back in and clambering onto the bed and depositing something in her lap—a piece of paper absolutely covered in a million shades of coloring pencil, four clear figures in the center: Two holding hands, one with red hair, one yellow; another one beside them, a smaller figure with brown hair, who she presumes is probably Jace; and then, next to him, the smallest one of all—a girl with a big smile and hair that’s yellow and long.

“It’s us,” Jace explains.

Tears well in Alicent’s eyes.

Rhaenyra looks closer for a moment—“Jace, are you supposed to be breathing fire?”

Alicent gives her a playful knock to the arm, then returns to her baby, pulls him in closer, cuddles him tight under her chin, in the auburn curtain of her soft curls. “My baby, my sweet boy—thank you.”

Later, Rhaenyra packs their bags to begin their weekend away from the city; ducks into the study to find Alicent, reading glasses on, sifting through papers—where Rhaenyra, as though one of the children, has been made to promise not to disturb her for one hour only.

“I’m working,” Alicent reminds, tone even, expression serious and focused, eyes not even leaving the desk. She marks something with a fountain pen, flips the page.

Rhaenyra momentarily cannot remember ever wanting her wife more.

“Couldn’t you make an exception?” Rhaenyra murmurs, swiveling the chair and sinking down to her knees. She places her hands at the ties of Alicent’s house robe, pulling slowly, silken ribbons coming languidly apart at her waist. “For your lonely, darling wife?”

They drive out to the country house; they play in the wide rolling yard, in the soft Springtime sun. Alicent stands out in the light, kicking a soft football gingerly back to Jace, Helaena bundled in a plush onesie in her arms. It pops up in the air and Jace practically flies for the header—misses wildly, lands in a pile in the pillowy waves of ryegrass, and he laughs, Alicent with him.

It's a sound like a thousand shimmering suns, Rhaenyra thinks; one she wishes she could preserve forever, just a small single reprieve from time.

Later, Jace dashes by her for a glass of water and Rhaenyra gives Alicent that smile—that brilliant, lopsided grin; and Alicent beams back, blows her a mirthful kiss, mouths it:

I love you.

Later, Helaena takes her afternoon bottle in Alicent’s arms on the rug, while Jace explains to them the drawbridges and garrisons and ramparts of his Lego castle.

“I suppose I should get started in the kitchen,” Rhaenyra comments, pressing a kiss to Alicent’s hair.

“The kitchen? You’re needed in the kitchen?”

“I’ve dismissed the staff,” Rhaenyra counters, grinning. “I’ll be cooking tonight.”

“You’ve never cooked a day in your life.”

“Seemed as good an occasion as any to begin.”

Alicent shakes her head, a smirk played upon her lips. “And what are you making for our party instead, exactly?”

“Instead?” Rhaenyra retorts. “The plan is, of course, unchanged.”

Alicent nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. “Right. Well. If this experiment fails, Rhaenyra Targaryen, be warned—you’re taking us all out to dinner.”

“I am wounded by your lack of confidence,” she smirks, pressing another kiss to Alicent’s lips. “I suppose I’ll just have to surprise you.”

Laenor arrives first, with Joffrey, who throws his arms around Alicent in unrestrained excitement, twirls her around the foyer—“Happy nameday, happy nameday, my darling!”

Laena arrives shortly after, and she and Alicent practically jump into each other’s embrace as Rhaenyra leans against the kitchen island, watching, heart full. “I missed you so much,” Laena beseeches, squeezing Alicent tight. “It’s been weeks, you absolute criminal.” Alicent rocks her side to side, laughs, then pulls back, face serious.

“My gods. I meant to text you, I’ve just gotten an email about our reunion, from—you’ll never believe, you’re going to die. You’ll have no idea.”

Laena’s face alights, then. “No. Was it—” Then they simply stare at each other. “Holy shit. I got it too!” They squeal like schoolgirls and dash for Alicent’s study, and it’s only when the pot boils over does Rhaenyra come to her senses and dash back to the range.

“I’m here,” Daemon invites, letting himself in. He shakes an expensive bottle of wine in one hand, together with a card. “See, on time, good uncle that I am. Hello, darling.” He kisses Alicent on the cheek, waves to Laena, then spots Rhaenyra, stirring madly, if not a bit sweaty, at the hob.

“Ah,” he smiles back at Alicent, hands on his hips, looking altogether satisfied. “Finally put her to work, have you?”

Corlys and Rhaenys follow not long after, cheery and graceful, and they host them all with hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room as Laena and Alicent trade canards and laugh like teenagers, as Daemon takes admirable interest in Jace’s drawings of powerful knights, as Rhaenys dotes adoringly on the baby that shares her name.

Criston is the last to arrive, sporting an admirable bottle of wine and a pressed dinner jacket. “I’m so sorry I’m late, I took a wrong turn out of the city and got absolutely miserably lost—”

“Not at all,” Rhaenyra waves him off, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come in, come in, please. They’re all in the drawing room, just that way.” She takes the wine and card out of his hands; they trade a perfunctory embrace, ghosts of kisses by the cheek, as usual. “I’ll get this, go on.”

“Are you… are you actually cooking?” He asks with a half-smile.

She levels him with a sauce-covered spoon. “That is the party line and I expect everyone to uphold it.”

He nods, hands up, surrendering. “Right. Keeping the faith.”

She waggles the spoon at him again, and they smile at each other, and he departs.

She watches, for a moment, as he enters the room; how Alicent lights up and practically catapults from her chair to take him in a warm hug. He smiles, and she pulls away to point him toward an armchair, to fetch him a drink from the bar; Rhaenyra also watches as he watches Alicent while her back is turned, still trying his damnedest to cover that silent, wistful expression.

(Once upon a time, at sixteen, Rhaenyra had returned from holiday, no longer a virgin. It had caused a massive fight between them, though neither Alicent nor Rhaenyra really fully understood why, at the time. A year later, they’d started dating—if secret embraces in dark bedrooms could be called that, exactly—and a year after that, they’d gone to university; Alicent to Cambridge, of course, with Laena and quite a few more of their peers, and Rhaenyra, like the rest of her family, to St. Andrew’s. That spring, Alicent had invited Criston—who she’d only ever described as her best mate from introductory accounting—to the Alps on their trip with Laena and six or seven of their old college friends.

It didn’t take long for Alicent to put the pieces together.)

His and Rhaenyra’s tryst had been fleeting; but his interest in Alicent, however tactfully hidden, respectfully denied, had never quite gone away. Alicent didn’t believe it and didn’t care enough to investigate; Rhaenyra wasn’t going to insist, of course.

But still, she noticed.

“Criston,” Laena remarks, handing him her phone, “Look at what I received last night.”

He scrolls a bit, then looks back at her with wide, smiling eyes. “You’re kidding me.”

They all burst into laughter.

Rhaenyra hears from Daemon, outside her view—“This isn’t that bloke from ten years ago with the hat, is it?” More laughter.

The food is passable, as it turns out, as Alicent presses a kiss to her cheek, as Rhaenyra hands her a teaspoon to try and beseeches, “Do you accept, Your Grace?”

Later still, Rhaenyra places her cake on the table, lit and glistening in the lamplight. Jace, in his pajamas on Laena’s lap, has been allowed to stay up late enough to sing to his mother. They clap as Alicent blows out her candles.

“Happy nameday, my heart,” Rhaenyra whispers, and Alicent presses a kiss right to her lips, long and warm and sugary-sweet.

Later that night, much later, in the light of the dewy spring moon—

Alicent lays her head on the sofa in the attic-turned-skyroom, staring up, wet lips open, through the skylight. “I don’t think I will ever regain feeling below my waist, ever again.”

“I certainly hope not,” Rhaenyra chuckles, raising up and propping herself up on an elbow. “I have ideas.”

The weekend following is the real party—or the fake one, perspective depending.

They’ve rented out the entire Royal Opera House. Guests arrive in droves. Lights flash out the massive regal windows and onto the street below. Quartet on one side, DJ on the other; dinner, a show, and, in the adjoining room, whenever one might prefer to duck into it, an opera, on repeat. “It has to be unbelievable,” Daemon had counseled. “A display of power.”

It’s a who’s who of the elite, the powerful. Rhaenyra hadn’t even assembled the guest list.

(Corlys had audibly twirled the phone cord in his fingers. “Allow me.” He’d crooned.)

(Everybody knows the name Targaryen.)

Rhaenyra remembers the last party of this size, hosted by Viserys, fifteen years before, on her mother’s final nameday.

(Viserys had had the ballet perform an ensemble number in Aemma’s honor; returned to the microphone afterward with a keen air about him, a joviality, ended his remarks with a final toast to the occasion: “In honor of the woman to whom my truest loyalty shall always belong,” he’d smiled—and seemingly out of nowhere, they’d carried to her mother’s table a magnificent, massive flowing crown of flowers, and she’d taken it with both hands, tears in her eyes still locked devotionally upon him. “My queen of love and beauty.”)

Before they go, Rhaenyra plucks a peony from their garden, tucks it slowly, gingerly,  Alicent’s clutch.

The black car pulls up. Cameras flash even before they’ve opened the door.

“Are you ready?”

Alicent nods.

They emerge. Rhaenyra looks good, sharp and elegant in a pantsuit, as always; but it’s Alicent.

Alicent, in a resplendent floor-length gown, in shimmering diamonds; dark red curls escaping a regal updo in delicate flowing tresses; averting her brilliant, dewy, pink-painted eyes as the flashes burn bright against the silk of deep, ensconcing green.

Rhaenyra grips her hand as the doors open before them, as every head turns, as they step forward with grace.

Alicent looks back at her for a moment. There’s no fear. It’s—well, it’s annoyance, almost.

Impatience for something. Hunger.

(She’d worn the same look on the floor of her dorm, the night before her exam in advanced theoretical multivariable calculus, staring up at Rhaenyra in blue fuzzy socks as she’d returned with cartons from the chippy.

Of course I’m not nervous, she’d rolled her eyes. I’m tired of waiting around for the damn thing.

She’d received a perfect mark—the first in fifty-five years.)

Daemon spots them as they enter, turning away from Mysaria, and his eyes widen, smile growing. He nods, she can practically hear it in his voice—Brilliant, darling.

Corlys greets them with drinks in the middle of the ballroom, Rhaenys stunning in her gown beside him.

“Well,” Rhaenys smiles, eyes focused. “I’d say it’s shaping up to be a stellar success.”

“Thus far,” Alicent remarks.

Rhaenys nods; her smirk widens. “Indeed. Thus far.”

Otto walks in, then.

With the green tie, this time.

Rhaenyra spots him out of the corner of her eye; he greets a few, who embrace him warmly, accepts a drink from the waitstaff. The DJ’s bass thrums in her ears as he surveys the crowd; as a man on a cane approaches him, smiling, a man Rhaenyra’s never seen.

Alicent doesn’t look. “Has he arrived?”

Rhaenyra nods, then turns them away, toward a waiting glut of their investors and allies. “Indeed he has.”

But the night is theirs, still.

They liaise, they charm, they inspire, practically; Rhaenyra charms and Alicent endears, enticing and endearing, squeezing Rhaenyra’s hand and shaking her head bashfully—practiced and coquettish and perfectly timed—as they comment how royal she looks, how graceful, how enchanting.

She runs her hand up suited shoulders, laughs like it’s genuine; Rhaenyra smirks and shares a look with her, out the corner of her eye.

Triumphal.

“You two have an energy,” Cregan Stark praises as he finds them, finishing his whisky with Alysanne on his arm. “It’s unbelievable, really.” He shares a grin with his wife. “You’ll have to teach us.”

“I’m afraid we can’t quite pin it down,” Alicent says, and her fingertips trace down the back of Rhaenyra’s arm.

“It’s always come from somewhere else.”

Then they go to the opera theater, just for a moment, find their box. It’s dark. Rhaenyra sneaks her hand up Alicent’s leg, Alicent runs her nails along her jugular; she finds the hem of Alicent’s gown, bunches the fabric subtly without creasing.

The soprano ascends into a melodic leap as Rhaenyra enters her.

She unleashes her highest note as Alicent comes.

“Vater!”

Alicent digs her nails into Rhaenyra’s jaw, eyebrows drawn, ghosts her open mouth over Rhaenyra’s, resisting the damage to her lipstick—

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Rhaenyra pants.

“Vater! Agamemnon!”

Otto catches her on the balcony, alone, above the crowds, surveying the party. Rhaenyra’s lipstick has just barely grazed the side of her jaw.

(She sees him approach and decides, then, not to wipe it away.)

“I remember when I could always rely on finding you here,” he smiles, running his hand along the banister. “You were so shy, as a girl. Not anymore.”

“No,” she says, turning. “Not anymore.”

He sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. She lets him. “Happy nameday, my girl.”

“Thank you, Father.”

He nods, turns back, with her, to watch the movement below.

“That’s a beautiful dress.”

“Rhaenyra certainly thinks so.”

Alicent watches, if not a bit vindictively, as his face just barely sours, as he tries to mask it.

(It’s immature; she knows.)

“How is Rhaenyra, lately?”

“She’s well.” Her voice is even, low. “Enjoying time with Helaena. Making up for the moments lost, at the very beginning.”

“Unfortunate,” he comments.

Her nails dig into the oak of the banister.

Not into herself, but outward, barreling like a train, open and hot and roaring.

“You look very comely in green.” He notes. “I only wish you’d taken an interest in the color before.”

“I see you’ve chosen the same,” she nods to his tie. “Long before I, I imagine.”

Then turns to her, fully, finally.

“Alicent.” His eyes are cool, unreadable. “I wish I could only describe how it pains me to be at odds with you. You’ve been distant for a long while.” He brushes a hand over her shoulder, she stills herself, grips herself, holds herself down. “Perhaps we can turn a new leaf, in this springtime, this time of renewal.” He sighs, then, almost sadly. “My only daughter. I know our hearts are still one.”

She turns back toward the party, looks down as the lights flare from the DJ’s table, red and purple and swimming across the window glass. “Not long ago, my wife missed the birth of her only daughter.” She murmurs, coolly, almost impassively. “And I’ll never be able to give that back to her. No matter what I do.”

Otto merely waits.

Then Alicent whips back, glares at him with eyes full and open and pained.

“You betrayed me.” Her fingernails splinter in the wood. “You attacked us, Father.”

He hums. “I suppose,” he begins, “It depends on who exactly you consider to be us.”

Alicent shakes her head, banishes her tears with another pang of rage.

“How dare you?” She whispers. “Did you even consider—did you even care—she’s my—”

She stops, then, suddenly. Stops in her tracks. Unleashes her fingernails from the wood, sets her shoulders straight, and burns low, poised down to the single muscle.

“Seeing you now, I’m not sure you don’t celebrate our horrific Pyrrhic victory. Celebrate what happened to me. What happened to her. Destruction of the moment she and Helaena can never share, never, for the rest of eternity.” She shakes her head, heart thrumming with rage, pure and high-octane. “Though I suppose I should have known, I think I trusted you, still, foolishly. You loved me too much to let me bleed alone, loved me too much not to love my son, love my daughter. Love my wife, even. Even if in your own, distant, dissembling way.”

She sighs, a sad sound. “But the line between love and investment is thin for you, isn’t it?” She holds his eyes. “Our hearts were never one.”

“You were not an ‘investment.’”

“No; then perhaps like a debt, I intend to come due.” Then she sees Harwin in her peripheral view, and waves her hand for him to approach. He strides right over, towering over Otto in his tux, and shoves a sealed legal envelope to his chest.

“Apologies, Father.” She says, eyes cutting like glass. “You’ve been served.”

She could never get tired of that look of affection. It sits deep in her chest and radiates therefrom, warm and inviting and solid in her body.

“And,” Rhaenyra says, and the enlivened crowd continues to whoop and cheer, “As I’m sure you expected, I simply couldn’t allow the night to finish out except on a single note. So now I ask you all to join me in raising a glass, or a slice of cake, or a business card you plan to bin—” The crowd laughs and calls out and cheers, “—to the love of my life, the mother of my children, the most intelligent, the most devoted, the most beautiful woman in the world; my heart, my life.” Their eyes meet, shining in the limelight. “Alicent. Happy nameday, my darling.”

Rhaenyra takes her into her arms on the dance floor, the DJ’s bass thrumming with a low, sultry, repetitive mixture, and she leans her arms atop Rhaenyra’s shoulders and rests her head in the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck and feels her arms wrap strong and sure around her, a thumb trace gently across the groove of her spine.

She looks up, then, and moves in, and Rhaenyra meets her halfway; it’s a kiss that says everything, and yet, all the same things they’ve always said.

Rhaenyra stares at her, a teary smile, and she expects her to say I love you. But she doesn’t. It’s like what she wants to say can’t be spoken. Like it has no sound.

“They’re stunning,” Corlys comments as they dance.

Rhaenys nods, watches Alicent, vibrant and stunning and full of life, move across and through and over the room, like she owns it; watches Rhaenyra smile and charm and please, but not like Viserys; not jovial, not supplicant.

Commanding.

“They’re exactly what we hoped.” Rhaenys shakes her head, sighs. “Exactly what we needed.”

Corlys looks down at her, hands around her waist, and raises an eyebrow. “What, the Conqueror again?”

Rhaenys smiles, but she’s not laughing. “No.” She says, calmly, definitively. “An improvement thereupon.”

Otto opens his door to two policemen and a suited stranger.

“Mr. Hightower,” they say, “You’ll need to accept some documents from us, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?”

The policeman hands him a packet. “This is a court order for replevin of property, to be adjudicated in thirty days. You have until that time to return the property by way of the listed authorities, or—”

He waves him off. “Yes, yes, I understand.” His eyes flit to the suit. “And you?”

“I’m from HMRC,” he starts, “And I am here to serve you, Mr. Hightower, with personal notice of the following land tax audits—”

Otto snatches the report from his hand, flips to the second page. “There are twenty-four audits contained in this review, sir.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Otto nods, almost snorts, looks away, as though thinking of someone else. “Impressive indeed.”

He looks back to the policeman with an intimidating gaze. “What’s the property dispute?”

The policeman looks away, down. “Well, sir, that information is confidential, but I believe—I understand it’s regarding some jewelry.”

Larys Strong smiles, cocks his head from his green parlour chair, tea in hand, raises his eyebrows. “I appreciate you making it all this way."

“Certainly.”

Then he turns, waves an attendant to serve his final houseguest.

“You see, you’re just the man I was hoping to meet this evening.”

Criston Cole waits, eyes at his feet.

Larys presses his hands into the pockets of his housecoat, cocks his head, patronizing. “I presume you’re still looking for work.”

Chapter Text

Frankly, it’s Alicent, and it always has been, through all the tumult and bloodletting and drama. It’s Alicent, when their Dorne project is imploding, when Cregan is waffling, when the lawsuit has dragged on for what feels like decades—Alicent in the humidity, surrounded by flowers and green, in a white sleeveless crop-top showing just a bit of delicate cleavage, in that damned floral flowing floor-length skirt, eyes bright in the summertime, a silver-haired child cuddled soft and slow in her arms.

And Rhaenyra pauses for the eighteen-year-old she once was who begged for this image; who prayed for this moment, this fulfillment, this grace.

Helaena wiggles and smiles and reaches, elated.

“Who’s that, my love?” Alicent beams a brilliant smile, sun glinting off her curls like a thousand copper sheets. She kisses Helaena’s rosy cheek, meets Rhaenyra’s eyes over the top of her head. “Who’s that?”

Then Helaena looks again, sweet as ever.

“Mama,” she squeals.

Rhaenyra’s knees almost buckle.

(It’s Jace at the family home, years ago, in Viserys’ arms, saying ‘ball’ again, for the very first time.)

It seems almost impossible to feel some things twice.

She takes Helaena in her arms, swings her around, gives her a dazzling smile. “Yes, my love,” she coos, and then her arm snakes around Alicent’s waist, and Alicent captures her lips in a soft close-mouth kiss, and Jace’s delighted squeals ring out behind her, dashing through his treehouse with Baela quick behind him. “Yes, I’m here, sweetling, I’m here.”

Something about war makes them teenagers again.

Rhaenyra pulls up to the country house in the Syrax. Alicent stands at the edge of the motor court, in front of the door, arms crossed.

Rhaenyra emerges, smirking, swipes her fingertips along the silver hood. “What?” She shrugs. “I wanted it.”

She watches as the edges of Alicent’s lips turn just slightly upward; she raises an eyebrow. “Is it fast?”

Somewhere out in the countryside, dodging lorry trucks and past all civilisation, Rhaenyra lays her out on the warm hood, kisses her slow in the summer rains.

Alicent runs her hands up her neck, past her jaw. “What do I have to do,” she whispers, teeth skimming her earlobe, “For a go at the wheel?”

It’s really amazing, Rhaenyra marvels, how their thirties have begun to feel so much like the hotblooded twenties they thought they missed.

Alicent in satin suits, Alicent on the leather wheel of a thoroughbred engine; Alicent solid and sure in boardrooms, Alicent with the power of the purse in splendid executive chairs. Alicent directing lawyers like a string quartet; moving numbers like a supercomputer.

(Please stay, Lyonel had begged.)

Alicent’s isn’t the way of fire. It’s a different aggression, moving slow, and sort of unrelenting; bright and staid in the darkness.

(Of course, she’d always been good at topping from the bottom, Rhaenyra thinks with a grin, in more ways than one.)

Jace bursts into her home office one day, overcome with excitement about the knight he’s just drawn at school before he suddenly remembers Mummy is working, just for a little bit.

He stops in his tracks as soon as the door’s thrown open and she looks up at him with surprise, suddenly, from beyond a truly titanic pile of documents.

It’s Otto’s financial disclosures. Harwin finally won them.

(At least, he was the face in court, that is.)

Rhaenyra strides right in after him—Helaena’s due to wake from her afternoon nap in less than a quarter of an hour and she knows she’s just a second too late to preserve Alicent’s time—“Sweetling—"

“What have you got there, my love?” Alicent asks, then, setting her glasses down on the desk, smiling toward him. “Did you make something at school today?” He nods with a small smile. “Would you show me please?”

And then he eagerly dashes over, climbs atop her lap; lays his art across the table—over all the notices and documents and financial disclosures and bloodshed and fraud.

It’s a knight, helm down, standing tall on a windy mountain.

“It’s the Winged Knight,” he tells her. “I made it for you.”

She presses a kiss to his curls. “It’s wonderful, my sweet. Thank you.” Rhaenyra meets her eyes, and they look back down at him, his big brown eyes, together. “Will you let me frame it, my darling?”

He nods, then looks at the stacks of folders. “What are you doing today?”

She meets Rhaenyra’s eyes, then. “Actually,” she murmurs, hand soft through his hair, “I’m making something for you, as well.”

After the children are fed and asleep, they return to the pile; Rhaenyra brings back takeout.

“Please,” Alicent sighs, eyes still glued to the packet in her hands, “Tell me you didn’t take your two-million-pound car to the chippy.”

Rhaenyra shoves a chip in her mouth with utmost self-satisfaction. “I didn’t eat in it.”

Alicent rolls her eyes and reaches up, pulls her down as though for a kiss—then, quick as a snake, ducks under Rhaenyra’s chin and snatches the paper sack for herself.

Rhaenyra shakes her head, hands on her hips. “Swindler.”

Alicent flashes her a gloating grin, points a chip in her direction as she settles down on the other side of the pile. “What’s yours is mine.”

Rhaenyra wiggles her fingers. “Fish, please.” 

Alicent hands her the bag. “Whatever happened to all your new cookery books?”

“Collecting dust, I’m sure.”

“Unapologetically neglecting your wifely duties, I see.”

Her eyes flit down to the low plunge of Alicent’s robe. “My duties have been fulfilled elsewhere.”

Alicent quirks a brow and then hands her another set of financial disclosures. “Make love to the documents."

The digital clock reads bright in the darkness the inevitable hour:

Three forty-three.

The softest alarm sounds, barely there, barely noticeable.

Alicent is fast asleep when Rhaenyra lifts an arm from across her waist, ever so slowly, moving with a dead hush, to silence it.

She waits for a moment.

Then she presses a kiss to her shoulder, her jaw, rubs her hand soothingly across the top of her arm. “You awake?”

Alicent hums and Rhaenyra squeezes her arm, slowly dislodges herself from their place curled together. “I’m going to start the shower.”

Alicent stretches, then, dexterous and languid, like a cat. “Come back for me when it’s hot.”

Rhaenyra breaks into that lopsided smirk, still clear with all its quirk even in the dark. “Spoiled.”

She raises her eyebrows, snuggles further into Rhaenyra’s pillow. “Your fault.”

War is exhaustion, it’s bloodletting, hours so long that they seem to blur, as though time is only a train that’s left the station. It’s fought without breaks, in between black coffees and ink stains and in thirty-six-hour increments, in between feedings and wishes for a wonderful day at school, my love, on the balcony and the bath and in the office where Rhaenyra’s been trying to convince her to have sex on the desk.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent had scoffed, rolling her eyes, “We are not about to become the have sex on the desk people.”

It’s the most uninterrupted time they’ve spent together in years.

One night they cruise the Syrax home, slowly, along the river, the scenic view. The lights sparkle in Alicent’s eyes. Rhaenyra drives smooth and languid as the wind whips south.

Alicent’s hand ghosts over, delicately, spindling, manicured nails just ghosting the inside of Rhaenyra’s suited thigh.

They get into the house, dismiss the staff, it’s dark. Alicent pushes her suit jacket off of her shoulders; it drifts silently to the floor.

All sex in their early twenties had been explosive and secret—even once they were out, even once their parents knew—secret and secretive and exploratory, sometimes feral and sometimes obligatory, that I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Scotland again sort of desperation that led to cries in the dark that were with her but not about her—not the way they would be.

It was a year into the flat—when it was still a mess and Rhaenyra was stripping paint off the walls and sledgehammering tile and ripping apart old cabinetry—when she had started to notice it changing, that subtle difference between the physicality of making her come and the engagement of the experience that was everything else and coming.

The connection of her person with her body; the body and the mind, the mind to the heart, the heart to the blood, the rhythm. All the same as the lips to the teeth, the neck to the collar, the breasts to the hips and below, the balls of the feet to the length of the calf and the peak of the thigh, and then—

Alicent’s fingers slip away, after she comes down, and Rhaenyra feels emptier, then, until Alicent’s hands clasp around Rhaenyra’s cheeks and slide down to the ridge of her jaw and she joins their lips, slowly.

Alicent took classics, once, a required course. Left her textbooks in Scotland all the time; Rhaenyra would always ship them back.

(Once, with a dog-ear and an underline—

Philtatos, Achilles says.)

The next morning begins around four again, and by breakfast it feels like lunch, or maybe later. Alicent is sipping an Americano in the kitchen with what Rhaenyra notes (with smug satisfaction) is a well-fucked blush, and Jace is eating his eggs at the breakfast table and colouring a marvelous grey tower. Alicent hands her a mug of coffee and Rhaenyra snags the edge of the belt of her robe from the island, smiles, takes a sip, draws her closer as Alicent’s arm slides snug around her shoulders—

“Are you going to get a divorce?”

Rhaenyra nearly spits out her coffee.

Alicent whips around, eyebrows drawn. “Pardon me, Jacaerys?”

Jace is completely nonchalant, eyes down, lazily choosing between two colouring pencils.

“Jace,” Alicent presses, “My love, what under the gods would give you that idea?”

He looks up at them like he’s perplexed by their confusion. “At school—Armond’s parents are getting a divorce. So they don’t live in the same house.” He picks up another pencil, totally unconcerned. “Does everyone do that?”

Rhaenyra almost wants to chuckle at the adorable childlike absurdity until she sees Alicent’s look of utter incredulity and stops herself.

Rhaenyra looks at Alicent, then back to him. “Jace,” she murmurs, in that voice that means she’s very serious, “Absolutely not.” She moves over, kneels down, levels with him. “I’m so sorry for what’s happening to Armond. That must be very sad and very hard. We’ve got to be extra kind to him for a while, hm?” Jace nods in agreement. “But I don’t want you to ever worry. Your mother and I are never, ever getting a divorce.”

“Okay,” he says. “But how do you know?”

Rhaenyra looks back at her wife with an emergent sideways smirk. “No prenuptial, for one.”

Alicent fixes her with a look.

She turns back to him. “Because, my love,” she says, smoothing his curls back from his face, “Sometimes, you just know.”

Alicent wonders, absentmindedly, later, if she would have been able to do it; been able to leave, way back when. Of course, the Rhaenyra she would have left was hardly Rhaenyra at all.

(Can you please just shut up and have fun for an evening, for fuck’s sake, and other moments she can dolefully still remember but hardly reconcile with the woman whom she often catches cradling one of their pillows and humming hushabye mountain in her sleep.)

Alicent knows it’s bad practice, emotionally, and bad parenting to boot. Kicks herself, chides herself for it, internally, dutifully bears the guilt. But still—

It could have gotten a hundred times worse, she knows, somewhere deep in her soul; and even so, she could never have gone.   

“How’s my sweet girl today?” Rhaenyra coos, lifting Helaena from her crib. She’s happy and curious this morning, smiling brightly at Rhaenyra, bouncing, pulling herself up by the slats of the crib. It’s just after six; she can hear Alicent faintly from the office, on the phone with Harwin and the rest of their team.

(Alicent politely warmaking in Rhaenyra’s cashmere sweater; Alicent issuing marching orders on the edge of a Montblanc.)

Rhaenyra looks down at her daughter, soft and comfortable in her arms; pinches the little feet still snuggled in the onesie. I hope, one day, you meet someone like her.  

(Rhaenyra, twenty years old, peeking over her shoulder in the dark edges of a dorm room, years and years and years ago, in Cambridge this time, that same semester: Who’s that?

Alicent, leaning over, reaching up, threading her fingers through silver hair:

Septimia Zenobia.)

Helaena busies herself with examining the buttons on the front of Rhaenyra’s shirt after she changes her and makes her way to the kitchen. At ten months, they’ve tried to start introducing solids; she likes pureed banana and sweet potatoes, sometimes. She’s picky, Rhaenyra’s noticed—most of the time, fussing for milk, and demanding it straight from the source. Alicent’s more than happy to nurse her; for a ravenous infant, Helaena is apparently very polite.

“Mummy’s just a bit busy,” she apologizes, warming the bottle. “We’re going to take our bottle nice and easy this morning, aren’t we, my love?”

Helaena looks back up at her with a single eye, the other side of her face adorably pressed up against Rhaenyra’s breast—quizzical, almost as though she knows what’s coming. She’s taken the bottle from Rhaenyra dozens of times—and still, she can almost understand how nothing could compare to the connection of the other thing.

(Or the world-bending sensation of laying in Alicent’s arms.)

“Your mother would likely emphatically disagree,” she whispers, as though Helaena can hear her thoughts, “But I want you to know we share this understanding, just between the two of us.”

Rhaenyra warms the bottle, bounces and tickles and chatters about her plans for the day to Helaena, who babbles along, soft and happy, and then takes the bottle dutifully,  like a wartime ration. Still, it never ceases to amaze—how with her own body Alicent can make the purest substance in the world and then just put it in the fridge.

Alicent in boardrooms, Alicent reflecting off of marble, off of the gold Targaryen sigil, her copper hair turning it red.

“That sounds amenable to us,” Rhaenyra says, clicking her pen, circles under her eyes,    trying not to be so obvious in her desperate hankering for lunch. “Why don’t you send your portfolio along to us and we’ll pass it to title.”

Corlys flips through their projections book, eyebrows raised, murmurs: “Impressive numbers for a property portfolio of this size, I have to say.”

Jasper Wylde grins. “Thank you all. We’ll certainly do so. We’d like to tell you again how much we appreciate your time in hearing our—”

Alicent shifts—barely. It’s a twitch; a subtle movement with her fingers that Rhaenyra remembers from the later days of their first pregnancy, when Alicent had finally agreed to hiring a nanny and they’d conducted interviews—

It’s Alicent’s way, still inscrutable and courteous, of expressing acute displeasure.

Rhaenyra meets her eyes; then leans back.

Please—after you.

Alicent exhales through the nose, then, closes her binder. “And an updated set of property income projections, when you could.”

Their eyes flicker to her. Corlys’ brow furrows, near imperceptibly, and he silently reopens his binder, looks back down at the numbers again, then back up at her, waiting.  

“The projections you have are up-to-date.” Wylde retorts with a plastic smile.  

“That may be, but the math is wrong on these adjustments.”

“The math,” Wylde’s mask slips for a second and his nostrils flare. “Was done by a computer.”

“Maybe originally, but the last twenty-seven pages of these projections have no native document ID.”

His face flashes again, with contempt. “I’m not sure if you—"

“When you manually edit a generated forecast, it removes the document ID, because you corrupt the relationship between the numbers. The computer loses track of its original file. On manual e-books, this wouldn’t be a problem—there you can individually adjust numbers and the computer will ignore you. But not on a programme.” She taps her pen, closes the binder. “As you know, we’ll need to see numbers generated directly from the YTD income and the interest spreads." Rhaenyra quirks a brow. Alicent sighs, looks at his lackeys with a tired expression. "So if you could send a file with an ID, we’d appreciate it.”

His account manager withers, but Wylde’s chin dimples, and he looks back at Rhaenyra indignantly. “Are we to receive an accounting lesson?”

For a split second, Rhaenyra—looking about as nakedly annoyed as Alicent’s ever seen her—leans back and fixes him with a glower. “I can only hope the accounting is the problem and you’re not due a lesson in fraud.”

“Respectfully, this is ridiculous.” Wylde levels. “Am I to understand you are reneging on our offer?”

Her eyes flit back to Alicent, for a moment. “Mr. Wylde, if I understand Mrs. Targaryen correctly, it appears I haven’t actually seen your offer.”

He stands, huffing, hands flat on the table. “Perhaps I should bring my wife to our next business meeting,” he snaps, “So she can raise her financial concerns on the color of your drapes.”

“Unfortunate, if that is indeed the extent of her abilities.” Rhaenyra quips, looking to Alicent with a predatory grin.

Alicent, corners of her lips upturned, nevertheless flashes her a tired expression and resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Wylde storms out and his lackeys scramble to collect his files. “Thank you for your time,” one of them adds, meekly—a young one, maybe an intern.

Rhaenyra merely raises an eyebrow. “What do you think of my drapes?”

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent chastises.

He blinks, hugs a flurry of papers to his chest, mouth gaping like a fish. “Ah—well—yes, I—quite lovely.”

“Wonderful,” Rhaenyra smiles, leans back in her chair. “My uncle picked them out.”

“I’m bad at math, so I do all the interiors.” Corlys adds.

The intern nods, pastes a smile on, and then flees.

Alicent looks between them. “You two are absolutely incorrigible.”

Rhaenyra smiles back at her uncle, resisting a guffaw. “Is it any accident that fun and fraud both begin with an ‘F’?”

Alicent shakes her head, gathers her folio, leans down to press a kiss to Rhaenyra’s cheek. “As does fucking order us some lunch.” She marches out the door; Rhaenyra watches her whole way out.

“I do the decorating, you do the food,” Corlys smiles, hands behind his head. “And she runs the company. You’ll hear no complaints from me.”

A few nights later, Harwin is on the floor of the office with them, sitting on his suit jacket, moving through packets of disclosures.

“We do have a dining table,” Alicent adds as she steps over the stacks, settles down with a mug of tea in her hands.

Rhaenyra doesn’t even look up. “Fun and floor both begin with an ‘F’, darling.”

“Please don’t kill her,” Harwin chides. “It would be a bad time for the company.”

Alicent pinches the side of her cheek. “Not to worry, I’m very patient.”

Then, after a few moments, she places her chin on the edge of Rhaenyra’s shoulder, gives her those plaintive brown eyes. “My love,” she says, softly, lowly, working her hands around Rhaenyra’s upper arm. She presses a tender kiss to the silk of Rhaenyra’s shirt. “Would you please grant a favor to your wife?”

Rhaenyra looks up at Harwin, nonplussed. “Look at the absolute masterful manipulation that I suffer.”

Alicent bats her lashes, rubs Rhaenyra’s bicep with her thumb. “Won’t you please? I need your help, my love.”

Rhaenyra sighs, gives in immediately, as always, captures Alicent’s hand in hers and brings her knuckles to her lips. “Do you want the haddock again?”

“Cheese and onion pie, onion gravy, mushy peas.”

“No beans?” Harwin gapes. “Alicent, as your counsel, I strongly advise you to reconsider.”

Alicent slowly takes a packet out of Rhaenyra’s hands, nudges her toward the door. “My love,” she coos, “I’m hungry now.”

Harwin smirks, suppresses a laugh.

“Not to worry,” she trades, linking eyes with Harwin. “I’m sure I’ll get there extraordinarily quickly.”

Alicent rolls her eyes and returns to the documents.

“The Syrax?” Harwin’s eyes light up. “I’m sorry, surely it’s a bit unprofessional but—if you wouldn’t mind, I must say, I’d be glad to ride along, sometime, you know, perhaps—should you need company—”

“Harwin,” Alicent says, eyes focused, turning the page. “My wife requires legal counsel in her just-for-fun, overpriced spaceship car. Would your schedule be able to accommodate?”

He smiles emphatically, and she can’t help but laugh as they scramble from the floor and traipse out toward the garage like naughty children.

Hours and hours later, well past one in the morning, Alicent’s only just arriving at her peas and—thank the gods—they’re nearing the finish line on the night’s review. They’ve closed the door to the office, sequestering the light from the hallway adjoining to Jace’s and Helaena’s doors.

“They have to be horrid by now,” Rhaenyra comments.

Harwin raises his brows. “You really are the slowest eater I’ve ever seen.”

She shrugs. “I’m patient in all respects.”

“All respects?” Rhaenyra smirks.

Alicent fixes her with a look.

“Well,” Harwin says, handing off another stack of filings to Alicent’s waiting hands, “I think it’s safe to say that we can go ahead with our plan for motion despite the amended—”

The doorbell rings, loud, and Rhaenyra and Alicent both wince, eyes darting down in the direction of the children’s rooms.  

Harwin frowns, as does Rhaenyra. “Who under the gods at this hour—”

It rings again, then, twice, insistently. Harwin stands. “Just wait here,” he advises. “Let me.”

He moves out the door. They hear his booming voice, then, low and sure—State your business.

Then, silence.

The front door opens, shuts. Murmuring.

Alicent stands, as does Rhaenyra. “Maybe Daemon—?”

They return to the foyer, Alicent wrapping her sweater against the cold of the entryway—

Harwin looks back at them, concerned and confused.

Criston Cole stands beside him with a look of absolute dismay.

Rhaenyra leans up against the wall, Alicent sits behind the desk. Harwin waits, off to the side, arms crossed, brows drawn together.

Rhaenyra follows his eyes. “When did this happen?”

“Weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“I—I didn’t want to be involved.”

She scoffs. “You sound extraordinarily involved already.”

“Rhaenyra.” Alicent warns, softly, eyes downcast.

“I’m only curious what changed.” She accuses. “Thought you could make away with it, for a while at least, did you?”

“No!” He insists. “No. I didn’t know what all was going on. I thought it was just business, you know, just competition. But then, he showed me these records, and he asked me to—”

“What did he offer you.”

“Stop. Hold there.” Harwin commands, suddenly, forcefully. “Absolutely no details.”

Criston clenches his jaw, eyes pleading, looking to Alicent; but she doesn’t meet them. “He knows you’re winning, Alicent. He wants you to take the settlement offer, I don’t know what it is, I only know it’s not good for you. He thinks if there’s too much pressure, you’ll take it.”

Rhaenyra narrows her eyes. “And you were told to—”

“To watch,” he says, softly. “To help—to help create pressure. And to report back.”

“What did you do.”

Criston shakes his head, gestures forcefully—“I didn’t do anything, Rhaenyra—”

“Yet.”

 “No, I—I’m coming to you!”

“Alright.” She raises a hand. “Enough. Harwin?”

He shrugs. “I mean, this is a criminal offence,” he sighs. “It’s espionage, among other things.”

“I can’t go to prison.”

“Not your offence.” Harwin states. “Though I can’t say you remain above reproach, either.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “Gods above, Criston.”

He looks to Alicent, again, who keeps her eyes on Harwin, cold and still.

“I’ll handle it from here.” Harwin says, pushing off the wall, standing. “I think it’s best we preserve your deniability in any case. I’ll come back to you for direction once I have an idea of how to proceed.”

Rhaenyra nods.

Harwin tips his head out the door. “Cole,” he levels. “Let’s go for a drive, shall we?”

The door closes. Harwin’s car fades away in the distance.  

Rhaenyra watches her turn in on herself, close in on herself. Her eyes vibrate with pain, flashing bright and bloody in the dim light of the kitchen. She braces a hand on the island, other arm around her middle, setting her jaw tight as a drum, eyebrows drawn together in anguish, in grief, with consternation.

Treason.

She squeezes her eyes shut, but no tears emerge.

Rhaenyra approaches slowly. Rests a hand on her waist.

Alicent, she whispers.

She wants to, somewhere inside of her, but doesn’t say it—

(I always knew he was made of this stuff.)

Alicent trembles, and her knuckles are tight white, and she releases a breath in shaky bursts.

Rhaenyra strokes her side with her thumb, waits, for as long as it takes.

It takes a long time. The automatic light over the oven vent shuts off. The streetlight from the window reflects against the metal.

“I thought he was my friend,” she whispers, simply.

Rhaenyra nods; and then it spills forth.

“He was—” She still looks down, at her feet, at the floor. “He wasn’t our family, not someone I met through you, not someone from our world, not someone in our orbit. He was my friend. My school friend. He barely knew you, by that time, never met my father, never met yours, never knew any of it.” She stills. “A friend I made by myself. As only myself. For me.”

Rhaenyra only waits.

“Him—him and my father, Rhaenyra, but him, what does it say—” Then she breaks. “What does it say about me that everyone I chose to trust—”

Then she pulls her in her arms, tight and enveloping and strong. Looks down again when Alicent’s calm. Feels her pull away, but won’t unwind her arms from her waist, won’t let go.

Their eyes meet.

She can tell Alicent wants to find the words; but she sees the fire in her eyes, the warlike intention, and the meaning she already knows.

(Alicent in boardrooms, Alicent in war rooms. Alicent in the green dress. Alicent alight.)

It begins with the clash of Agamemnon—

Alicent grips her wrists then, hard, hard enough that it almost hurts.

Sing, Goddess, of the rage of Achilles.

Weeks later, Daemon places his feet on the desk in Rhaenyra’s office, sitting lazily across from the helm. Rhaenyra stands by the window. Alicent worries her hands from Rhaenyra’s executive chair, eyes tired.

Rhaenyra leans against the wall. “Well, we managed fairly far, without a snag.” She turns back to them. “Is it really as bad as Lyman thinks?”

Alicent and Daemon share a look.

“My love,” Exhaustion seeps through her voice and she swallows, fingers on her temples. “This SOFR spread is really unreasonable.”

Daemon nods, toes a Louboutin loafer on the edge of Rhaenyra’s desk.

“This isn’t market rate at all,” Alicent continues. “It’s catastrophic. You’d think he was predicting a second ’08.”

Daemon sighs. “I refuse to follow the math on this out of principle, but I concur entirely.”

Rhaenyra grunts. “A true politician.”

He only grins.

She turns back to Alicent. “Are you really telling me he thinks—”

Alicent shakes her head. “He either thinks the entire market is going to tank or we signed a rate cap with the Father himself—”

Daemon rolls his eyes. “He thinks we’re a bad investment.”

“Yes, those of us who follow the math have gathered that.” Rhaenyra deadpans. “And watch the we. You have a race to win, as I understand it.”

Daemon tips his head. “Family duty, blah blah blah, something something influence, be serious, Daemon, yes—but if you absolutely need to do your best Viserys impression, do go ahead.”

“I think you know exactly why—”

“Let’s just—” Alicent cuts in, then, hands up. “Let’s think this through, please. Logically.” She fixes her eyes on Daemon and waives her hand; he huffs, takes his feet off Rhaenyra’s desk. “Cregan is a cautious man. He’s reasonable, but extremely cautious. He plays the long game, you know, he plans for the future’s future. Rhaenyra, we have to face the eventuality that he’s almost certainly looking forward to—”

“When you lose.” Daemon finishes. He picks his fingernail, looks out, behind Rhaenyra, to his own reflection in the darkness of the window. “He thinks Daddy Dearest is going to beat your case and then, inevitably, countersue.”

“Watch your tongue.” Rhaenyra snaps.

He glowers right back. “I’m sorry, I thought we were thinking this through logically, after all.” He huffs. “I wonder who in the world could have given him that idea.”

Rhaenyra exhales in blind frustration. “Harwin said that Cole never spoke to—"

“Regardless.” Alicent says, eyes fixed on her lap. Finally, she meets Rhaenyra’s eyes. “He’s right. We talked about this.”

“We aren’t litigating.” Rhaenyra protests. “It’s a private action. The company isn’t even a party.”

“No, you’re right, it’s only a war between a former director with more proprietary information than MI6 at war with the CEO and her wife, who also happens to be one of the three largest minority shareholders alive and his own daughter.” Daemon chides. “Couldn’t be further from the company’s better interests.”

“He knows us.” She drums her fingers against the desk, worries her lip. “Cregan knows us, after all. It’s just…”

“It’s unreasonable.” Alicent threads her fingers together, rests her hands upon the edge of the desk. “Rhaenyra, it’s not malicious, it’s not untenable. It’s just unreasonable. Call him. Socially. See him again when he’s in London next. Remind him why he trusted you.” Her eyes are sure, true, plaintive. “You’re excellent at this sort of maneuver. Allow yourself room to do what you do best.”

Rhaenyra nods; her fingers still. “I’ll consider it.”

“Or you could put it to bed with the real power move,” Daemon mumbles.

Rhaenyra fixes him with a tired gaze, leans back in her chair. He merely stares back.

“Oh, come on, out with it. Which is?”

“You should go to Scotland.” Daemon meets her eyes and suddenly it’s the man she remembers from those darker days, two years ago; unflagging and soberly serious. “The Starks are here all the time. They come to us—not that I think it should’ve been any different, but.” He waves his hand. “No one has treated with them in their own country since the Conqueror. It’s only a two hour journey to you and yet, to them, a massive gesture of respect. Of investment. If you want to convince him he can trust you, go to Scotland.”

Alicent quirks her lips; then nods. “He’s right.”

“Try not to sound so surprised.” He pouts at her. “We’re allies now, after all.”

“For express purposes.”

“Meanie.”

Rhaenyra works her knuckles under her thumb. “I don’t know. There are the children to think about. And I haven’t traveled abroad since…” Alicent refuses to meet her eyes; still, Rhaenyra tips her head, approaches the desk, chasing them. “What do you think?”

Alicent breathes deep, exhales silently; takes a soft, silent hand when Rhaenyra offers it, hangs on lightly to her fingers. “I think…” She shrugs, shakes her head, barely. “What choice do we have?”

So she looks to Daemon, the window. “Indeed.”

It’s late when Victaria calls.

“Because she talked on the phone with some weird freak,” Victoria protests through speakerphone. Alicent and Rhaenyra sit in their office, at home, meet tired eyes across the desk. “Like, twice—my sister’s about to make the worst business decision of her entire life.”

Rhaenyra works her jaw, rubs her brow. “What does your father say?”

“If I can be frank,” Victaria replies, sharply, “He’s off in Monaco with his mistress and gave her the old whatever you think is best, darling, which, to someone with the constitution of a perpetually startled horse, is just about the worst thing you could say.” She sighs, and Rhaenyra can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Look, she respects you, Rhaenyra. She’s—you know, the conscientious, dutiful first daughter, like you. She’s got the whole do the right thing, selflessness, egoless, head down soldier mentality. You could reach her on that level.”

She and Alicent share a look that Alicent seems almost guilty to give her.

Rhaenyra leans—“Well, I don’t know if I’m—”

“You just need to—please, you just need to convince her to stay the course with you and with Cregan. If she gives it up now there’s no going back; sometimes I’d rather try to lift a house than make mine own sister change her mind twice.”

Alicent reaches, mutes the phone for a moment.

“They haven’t heard from Cregan. They don’t know that he’s gotten cold feet as well.”

“It seems not.”

They stare at each other, for a moment. Then Alicent nods.

Rhaenyra unmutes them. “Alright. Where is she now?”

“She’s in Barcelona for two weeks to deal with Dorne.”

Rhaenyra nods. “You’re their creditor, right?”

“Yes, deeply unfortunately. They’ll literally never do business in the UK, so we’re always in their court. Leona’s convinced we need to diversify in long-haul shipping, which, like, why. But in any case, yes, she’s there.”

“Alright. Let me see what I can do.”

Victaria lets out a breath. “Thank you, Rhaenyra, you have no idea. We’ll get her straightened out.”

The line clicks.

“We can’t take the settlement, Rhaenyra.” Alicent whispers, voice sure and strong and true. “We can’t be forced.”

“I agree.” Then, Rhaenyra stands. “Do you want some tea—”

“Who was it?” Alicent asks, brows knitted, picking at the grain of the desk. “She said Leona spoke to someone. Some weird freak.”

Rhaenyra shrugs. “I’ve come to learn that, coming from Victaria, such a jape could refer to just about anyone.”  

Alicent twists her fingers, eyes away. “Rhaenyra,” she says, slowly. “I need to tell you about somebody I once met.”

Rhaenyra sits, arms crossed, stewing mad, at the kitchen table.

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“It—it didn’t seem a big deal, not really, Rhaenyra.” She rubs the material on her sleeve, looks away, then back at her wife, sorrowful and stubborn at once. “And you know how you were with me, in those days.”

Rhaenyra raises a brow. “How I was with you?”

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent sighs, fixing her with a look, “If I had told you that evening, ‘oh, my love, well, you know, some strange man just subtly threatened and then physically intimidated me,’ you’d have marched over and killed him.”

She examines a nail. “I may still.”

“No, but back then, after everything was still fresh—” She meets Rhaenyra’s eyes, silently pleading, asking her to understand. “Come now, Rhaenyra.”

She shakes her head, huffs. “You’re asking me not to feel protective—”

“I’m asking you to extend me the credit of knowing the woman I married.”

Rhaenyra merely crosses her arms, sighs.

Finally—“I didn’t know Harwin had a brother.”

Alicent shakes her head. “Nor did I.”

“What makes you think this?” Rhaenyra looks back at her. “How do you know Victaria was talking about him?”

“I don’t know, I suspect it.”

“Why.”

Alicent shakes her head. “Just a feeling.”

She snaps, with instant regret—“I can’t very well call our lawyers about your feelings.”

Alicent looks back at her, then, eyes wet and frustrated and warning. “Don’t be mean.”

She sighs, reaches for Alicent’s hand. Alicent lets her take it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my heart, I’m just…” she shakes her head. “I’m just fucking frustrated.”

Alicent stands, then, rounds the table, takes both of her hands in her own. “Come on.”

Rhaenyra looks up at her. “What?”

“Come on, let’s go.” She tugs on Rhaenyra’s hands and she stands, then, acquiesces, rests her forehead on Alicent’s shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”

“We can’t, not yet—we’ve got to figure this out.”

Alicent fixes her with a look. “I didn’t suggest we should go to sleep.”

It’s when Rhaenyra is still inside her, lazily massaging, kissing the sweat off of Alicent’s skin, that she speaks.

“I want you to feel safe with me.”

Alicent hums, grazes her fingernails along Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “Rhaenyra,” she murmurs, hands tracing the tendons in her neck, “I couldn’t name all the reasons you ought to know that’s already true.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers curl inside of her, and she inhales, sharply, hooking a heel back around Rhaenyra’s thigh.

“I mean—I want you to feel safe to come to me, when you need my help.”

“My love,” Alicent whispers, lips reaching up for Rhaenyra’s, “I do.”

“But you didn’t—”

“I’d just had the baby,” Alicent comforts, hands soft, tracing around Rhaenyra’s jaw. “I’d just had Helaena, and I was so hurt by what happened—”

Rhaenyra thrusts with three fingers, soft and slow, and Alicent’s brow knits, mouth open, with a sound and yet, no sound at all—

“—And you were so worried,” she finishes, throat tightening, “You were so patient with me, but I know you were so worried, and—”

She feels her peak coming on, staves it off, concentrates and applies pressure—

“You needed a breather,” she murmurs, and Rhaenyra finds her lips again, and accommodates her tongue again, touching softly to Rhaenyra’s own, soft and teasing and unobtrusive. She pulls back—“You’d have panicked.”

“I don’t want you to hide from me when you need me because you’re afraid of me panicking.”

“Panicking over your wife, who used to wake from night terrors and cry her eyes out in your arms? I hardly think that’s inexcusable, Rhaenyra.” Alicent opens her legs wider, and Rhaenyra thrusts low, gentle and teasing, as she swallows a wanton cry. “You—you are who you are.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

It means you love me, Alicent thinks, and nuzzles the side of her neck, places a kiss there. And I have always known.

Rhaenyra’s lips cast down upon her neck, beside her ear. “I need you to let me protect you.”

And Alicent turns, meets her lips, just as forceful. “And I need the same.”

She pages through another document, Montblanc in hand, as Rhaenyra, arms around her, chin on her shoulder, does the same with another.

She feels Rhaenyra’s hand draw small circles on her hip, arm around her middle. She leans back, ever subtly, relaxing to the feeling of Rhaenyra’s breath on her neck. Then she draws her knees above Rhaenyra’s lap on the executive chair, reaching back to find Rhaenyra’s jaw, press a kiss there.

“I want to fight past this.” She says, finally. “And live a happier sort of life.”

(Patroclus armed himself in Achilles’ gleaming bronze, she remembers, from somewhere else.)

Rhaenyra presses a kiss to her shoulder. “I know.”

Alicent grips her hand; she smells the eternal fragrance of Alicent’s shampoo.

“I love you, Rhaenyra,” Alicent reminds, skin soft against hers.

(First he wrapped his legs with the well-made greaves, fastened behind the hells with silver ankle-clasps; next he strapped the breastplate round his chest, blazoned with stars—swift Achilles’ own.

Then—over his shoulder, Patroclus slung the sword.)

The next day, Harwin groans through the phone; she can hear him wiping his hand over his face.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He sighs.

Rhaenyra waits. “Who is he, Harwin?”

Harwin’s chair creaks; she imagines him rubbing his temples, like she knows he is. “He’s my brother, that’s true. From my father’s first marriage. He always lived with his mother. He had a desk job at MI6. Then he started working as private security, private investigation, something like that. He’s a—if I’m honest, Rhaenyra, he’s no more than a professional snake. I never liked him. Frankly, nobody did.”

She exhales, slowly. “What should we do?”

“Leave him to me.”

Then they hang up the line.

Leona isn’t like me, Rhaenyra had insisted.

I’m not dutiful, I’m not courteous, not cautious, not like her. Not like you.

Alicent had merely stared down at their joined hands, knowing and grieving of what she had to do.

I’d never spend hours with the accounts, Rhaenyra had pressed. Nor feared what my father had told me.

(I know, Alicent remarks.)

“They’ll be just fine,” Rhaenys assures, hands on Alicent’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into her skin. Like Rhaenyra does, she thinks. “We will be perfectly alright. We’ll spoil them absolutely rotten.”

Corlys smiles from the settee, Helaena cradled in his big warm arms, smiling up in awe at the deep boom of his voice. He looks down at her, just as joyous. “We may not give them back, I fear.”

You’re as bad as grandparents, Rhaenyra thinks, and nearly startles herself at the thought.

“Jacaerys,” Alicent sniffs, holding back her tears, “Mummy will be back in just nine days, my love, I promise.”

He nods, completely unbothered. “Mummy, Uncle said we could go get a train set! And build it together!”

Corlys looks up at them, bashful and yet entirely not sorry at all. “I’m a terrible negotiator.”

“And you have enough bottles?” Alicent worries, wringing her hands. “She’s alright with solids, but I don’t—”

“Alicent,” Rhaenys eases, gently, “Enough for double the time.” Corlys hands the baby back to Rhaenyra, who makes her goodbyes, and Rhaenys takes Alicent into her arms, rubbing her back. “My darling,” she murmurs, kind and sympathizing, “I was a new mother once. I know. I promise you, I promise you, I’ll make certain they hardly notice. I swear it, my girl, they’ll be nothing but happy.”

Alicent pulls back, makes to wipe away her tears before Jace can see, holds him desperately to her middle, strokes the edges of his cheek, looks back to Rhaenys. “Thank you.”

“We’re happy to.” Corlys impresses, eyes strong and stable and sure. “We’re none but delighted. I mean it.”

Rhaenyra leans down, nuzzles her nose to Helaena’s. “I’ll see you so soon, sweetling,” she whispers. “My little love, singing you to sleep before you know it.”

She and Alicent part ways, as hard as the last time, as hard as every time.

Within me, around me, inside me.  

Tears in Alicent’s eyes, pure and precious as crystals.

(Let go, Rhaenyra wants to say, because she knows she can’t.)

Erryk averts his eyes, almost as sad as they seem. “Mrs. Targaryen, your car has arrived. Take your time.” Then the door shuts again.

Her fingers ghost Alicent’s lips, kiss-swollen from the minutes before.

“It’s no time at all.” Rhaenyra lies.

Alicent feels like she’s losing a limb. But—

Still, she agrees. “No time at all,” she affirms.

She takes her suitcase. Rhaenyra’s heart is breaking.

They’ve done this so many times, she thinks to herself, But never after so much time; never after being so dependent—so close.

“If you need anything,” Rhaenyra interjects, hand shooting out to stop the opening door, “Call me. Promise me you’ll call, please—I’ll be right there, I swear—”

Alicent strokes her cheek. “I’ll be absolutely fine,” she assures, “And see you in just a little while.”

Rhaenyra nods, and they kiss, and then she’s gone.

Scotland, as she’d hoped, is just the same as she remembers it; ethereal and otherworldly and divine, fierce and wild and foreign, the same place and yet a different one—altogether unrecognizable and yet, the place she’d always known.

She’d loved it up here, once before. Secure and hidden and away.

“Let’s head further,” Cregan says, pointing toward a crag in the hills. He starts off, and Rhaenyra follows.

At a distillery above the hilltops, they stop. Cregan pours her a finger of scotch, which she denies, dutifully. It tastes like fire, he informs her.

“I didn’t take you for such a fan of the Highlands,” he smiles.

She looks back at him, kind and yet searching. “Scotland has always been a home of mine.”

“Yes.” He nods, takes a sip. “Our one and only Scottish Targaryen.”

She quirks a brow. “Who said that?”

“My father,” he answers, eyes mirthful. “Years ago.”

They walk further, again, so long that Rhaenyra’s legs ache, that she marvels above at the clear refracted white light of the sky on the chartreuse of the grass and wonders how it’s still day.

“Your father was the artist?” she asks.

“No,” he says, extending a hand for her across a particularly wide creek. “You’re probably thinking of my uncle.”

“Oh,” she says. “The studies?”

He chuckles, though it’s humorless. “Yes. Studies.”

They walk further, she trots along—he makes a good pace, tearing along the path, so much so that she struggles to keep up. “Why do you jest?”

“I don’t jest, it is a jest,” he retorts. “My uncle the artist.”

“What do you mean?”

“All those paintings,” he replies. “The ones everyone knows so well. Mind the gap just now.” She hops over a muddy pool. “All thievery.”

“What?”

“My father used to paint.” He looks out at the horizon, watching the position of the setting sun, then continues on. “Beautiful wide portraits of the countryside, he did. Of his home, of Scotland. My uncle—he was desperate to expand into advertising, thought it easy money—so he started taking pieces of those works. Just a detail, maybe even one that seemed unnoticeable, at that. Copy it, enlarge it, exaggerate it. Commercialize it as high art on a low budget. He claimed it was all a mere coincidence; who could lay claim to the appearance of a crag, after all? But still, it was all the very same thing.”

She waits; then— “I see.”

“The world loved him for it. Loved his work. And my father, ever the artist—too polite to say anything about it. Too principled.”

Rhaenyra nods, continues to follow—

“Too worried what they’d say, I think.” Cregan looks out again, this time dour; this time wronged. “I am sorry. Just old family troubles.”

“No,” she replies, eyes downcast. “No, I quite understand, actually.”

He nods. “It’s only—” He shakes his head. “How did he live with himself—all those accolades won by borrowing, I wonder? Taking the blood off someone else’s work, and  blowing it out, barely, bootlegged and bare-bones and shoddy. The best bits and pieces—or, at least, the ones that he knew would, on their own, speak the most.”

“I know something about lost credit.” Rhaenyra jabs.

He nods, smiles. “Do you? Who would really dare leech off a Targaryen in London?”

She fixes her gaze upon him, his ruddy cheeks, his Beaufort. “Who would dare steal his brother’s joy? There are all kinds in the world, I’m afraid.”

He shakes his head. “Aye. I’ve just always thought—what better way to admit mediocrity? How did he live with it, you understand? Making a living off of the admission, even if only internal, that none of the things he celebrated were truly made of him. Borrowers, plagiarists, vultures.” Cregan bemoans. She wonders if he’s been here, walking and brewing, these past few weeks, on Skye. “All leeches indeed.”

She chuckles. “And I know something about leeches.”

He turns.

“I know why you’ve hesitated,” she says, then, finally. “I know why you’ve faltered. Like you, I love my wife. More than anything in the world.” She draws a breath, looks out at the expanse. “This is her chance. Her chance at justice. I can’t explain the story; I’ve been trying to imagine how, where to begin and what to say to describe without loosing an avalanche upon you—only I trust, now, that you could already imagine how it feels.” He waits, eyes honest and stern. “And if you renege—if things begin to fall apart—she’ll give in. Give up on it and let him go. He’s our leech, Cregan, every family has one.” She meets his eyes, sad and honest. “Don’t let this one go. I’m begging you.”

He stares out, and they stand, for a while, until the Sun begins to touch the horizon line. “I understand.” He says, finally. “But I’m going to need your patience as well.”

It’s hot; hot when they dance, hot at the bar, even at four in the morning, hot as the sun threatens to rise.

Leona is everything Rhaenyra seemed to claim—cautious, dutiful, mannerly; she addresses her drunk associates still as ser and refuses to touch her utensils until service is complete; greeted Alicent for tea before their dinner and spoke about their renewed proposal like she read it, actually read it, exhibits and schedules and all.

Still, under her calm professionalism lies a girl drumming her fingers like mad against the table and worrying her lip all the while.

(I would need to ask my father, she often recites; her most common anxious refrain.)

The Dornish attempt to scare and sway and browbeat Leona; Alicent merely sits, honest and calm.

(“We’ll be here whenever you decide,” she’d told her. But it’s not exactly true; Alicent has only four more days.)

“This is Victaria’s scene,” Leona says, nursing a drink she ordered hours ago. “But the Martells love it, so I don’t complain. Gets them in the mood to talk, you know—seven hours later, after they sleep and sober up.”

Alicent nods. “Not much of a drinker?”

Leona shrugs. “In the privacy of my home, maybe. Not here. This is the table. Even now.”

Alicent sips her wine, watching Aliandra Martell and Victaria dance. “Up straight, ankles together.” she quips.

Leona smirks over her glass. “Quite.”

Cregan’s in the sitting room when she finds him, admiring a stag’s head.

“Twelve point,” she commends. “Stunning.”

“He’s not mine,” he confesses, swirling his whisky. “He’s my grandfather’s.”

“An old buck, then.”

“Aye. The great-grandsire of these stags today, I imagine.” He looks back at her. “Your grandfather was quite a man, I hear.”

She takes a water when he offers it, sits opposite him in a leather recliner. “The Conqueror was my great-grandfather, actually.”

“I don’t mean the Conqueror.” Cregan smiles, a mischievous sort of look, secretive and endearing. “I meant Jaehaerys.”

“Ah, yes.” She nods, smiles ruefully. “The Conciliator, they called him. It was meant to be a jest; suggest that he waived white flags where his father would have fought to the finish. But then he wore the name; wore it proud. The friends he made are still friends to us to this day. I never knew him, anyway, but. I suppose I think on his memory fondly.”

Cregan nods. “He’s my favorite.”

She quirks a brow, smirks. “Your favorite?”

“My favorite Targaryen.” He leans back, grinning. “Come now, everyone in business in this country has a favorite Targaryen.”

She takes a sip, rolls her eyes. “I can imagine that’s a contest I’ll never have won—”

“Oh, no.” He stands, pours himself another finger. “No, you’re quite popular, actually.”

She cocks her head. “So you’ve actually discussed this?”

He holds his arms out, bottle in one and tumbler in the other—“It’s as I said. Everyone has their favorite.”

“And you chose the Conciliator.”

He returns to his seat. “He’s certainly an inspiration of mine, at least.”

She narrows her eyes, laughs a little. “That makes you quite interesting to me, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

He shrugs, smiles back. “Not much of a conqueror myself. I like to be far from the bloodshed.”

Spain is a place where time scarcely seems to pass.

Later, much later, impossibly—

“What does Rhaenyra do?” Leona asks, no more than two empty wine glasses before her, somber and controlled and yet, pitifully apprehensive and—after the hours and the wine and the anxiety—pitifully honest. “What does she do to be so—you know. Jovial and confident and aggressive.”

Alicent shakes her head. “She does nothing. It’s her nature. She wakes and falls asleep that way.”

Leona nods, somewhat defeated. “Ah.”

“Others of us,” Alicent continues, gently, finding her eyes, “Take a different tact entirely.”

She shakes her head. “My father doesn’t seem to believe there is a different tact. Talks about her all the time.” She looks back at the Martells, loud and jovial and raucous. “He thinks Victaria’s like her.”

Alicent sighs. Purses her lips, watches as Leona picks a nail under the other, looks down at the floor. “How old are you, remind me?”

Leona hesitates. “Twenty-five.”

Alicent raises an eyebrow.

“Really—” Then she stops herself. “I—I’m, ah. Well, I’m almost twenty-four.” Her eyes remain fixed on her glass, the dregs of Merlot. “Actually.”

“You’re very young.” Alicent chuckles, kindly, rests a hand softly upon her forearm. “If you don’t mind my saying.”

Leona shakes her head. “No, that’s alright.”

“You’ve assumed quite a bit for your age.”

“Yes, well. The price of being good at the books, I guess.”

Alicent smiles ruefully, nods. “I know that atonement well.”

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, seemingly, Leona brings the back of her hand over her mouth, squeezes her eyes shut—soft, nearly inaudibly, turning away, begins to cry.

Alicent’s brows draw together, she moves closer. “Leona—”

And then, before she knows it, the girl turns and reaches for her and Alicent draws her in close; takes the wine from her hand, sets it on the table, brings her into her arms. “Oh, sweetling, it’s alright. It’s alright. What’s wrong?” Leona’s shoulders shake; She notices one of the Martell investors returning for another drink at the bar—swift as a bird, Alicent pivots her by the shoulders, turns them away.

Leona shakes her head. “I don’t know what to do—he’s not answering my calls, and I study as much as I can, but the predictions aren’t clear—and I need to make a decision, and you’re here, too, and you’ve left your family, and you’ve come all this way—”

“Shh,” Alicent whispers. “Hush now.” She pulls back, wipes a stray tear from Leona’s cheek. “Listen to me. It’s been hours. You’re exhausted. Let’s return you to your room.”

“No, I can’t—I need to be here, to appear—”

Alicent shakes her head. “They won’t notice. They just want to spend your money. The account is already paid. They can drink as much as they like and they’ll be at the table tomorrow. You’re not so desperate as to mind them like children, are you? You’re Leona Tyrell; you’ll retire whenever you like—isn’t that right?”

Leona nods, almost to herself, eyes wet.

Alicent stands, takes her hands, guides her. “Come on. You’re off to bed.”

Leona chuckles, wipes her nose. “You don’t have to mother me.”

Alicent shakes her head. “Terrible. I’ve already decided on it.” She notices Leona unsteady on her feet, catches her by the elbow. “How often do you drink?”

“Almost never.” Leona admits.

She nods. “Keep that habit, in this industry,” she advises. “Keep it forever.” Then she puts an arm around Leona’s waist, puts her purse in her hands. “Come along, sweet girl. This night should have ended a long while ago.”

The next day, Cregan leaves early; elects to hunt alone.

Rhaenyra works from his desk, as he offered. Snoops about the manor, if she’s being honest about it. The staff leave her be.

Finally, she comes upon a study, tucked away upstairs; tries the door—it’s open.

The place is covered in dust, the furniture covered in sheets. Still, cobwebbed photographs still adorn the walls.

A small one, in the corner, a red leather frame—she brushes the dust away, takes a step closer.

She’d recognize him anywhere.

Jaehaerys, young, maybe his thirties, in a full tuxedo, laughing at something; and beside him, similarly delighted, a man looking much like Cregan.

Everybody has a favorite Targaryen.

Two days later, at the desk—

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Leona insists, hand tearing through her hair.

Alicent rubs her shoulder, looks over at the numbers, picks up the page. “Let me see.”

After a moment—

“It’s because they’re doctored.”

“What?”

Alicent smiles, sympathetically, sets the page down and points. “Look. You see these numbers—bottom lefthand?”

“Yes.”

“They change. Just on these few pages. That’s how you can tell.”

Leona looks, then her eyes widen, and her face collapses in her hands. “Gods above.” Then she looks at Alicent with panic. “I sent these to my father. He’s going to kill me.”

And there’s something about her tone, there.

Alicent kneels down beside her chair, on that ostentatious hotel room carpet, holds her eyes sure in her own. “Leona,” she says, softly. “First of all, you are not beholden to be perfect for your father or anyone else. Nobody can be. It’s impossible.”

“He doesn’t think so.”

“Then he’ll just have to learn, won’t he?” Alicent reminds, eyes sanguine. “You’re doing your level best, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re a brilliant businesswoman, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know if I’d say—”

Alicent fixes her with a knowing look. “Aren’t you?”

Finally, she relents; nods. “I do alright.”

“Better than others, certainly.”

“Better than a lot of others.” And as soon as it’s out, Leona looks sorry, back at Alicent, abashed and shameful and sorry. “I shouldn’t even say that. I don’t deserve it. I’m out of my depth, here, and I only have three days left, and I’ve had to call you to help me, and it’s so inappropriate—I’m sorry that—"

“Stop it,” Alicent chastises, drawing her hand away from her mouth. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I counted six pages in three hundred with this false marker. You’re allowed to be proud of yourself and make mistakes and ask for help, Leona.”

She shakes her head. “My father doesn’t see it that way.”

“And maybe he never will. But you know that you’re a brilliant businesswoman, dedicating yourself and competing with the best, hm?” Alicent pushes the hair behind her ear. “If your father thinks he can do better, he’s welcome to fly to Spain. In the meantime, you’re ordering dinner. Now.”

“I don’t have time.”

Alicent picks up the hotel phone. “I didn’t come down with the last shower. Remember who I married?” She tilts her head, a look of sympathy and insistence all at once. “Order dinner and eat it. You’ll thank me later.”

Leona acquiesces, takes the phone, then looks back at the documents. “It’s such amateurish stuff,” she whispers, fingers creasing the page. Then, quieter: “They’d never try this on Rhaenyra.”

Alicent quirks a brow. “You’d be surprised.”

Leona shakes. Her hands effectively vibrate with fear. She twists the skin of a left knuckle with her right hand, worries her lip, waiting.

Suddenly, a hand falls softly over hers. She looks up. It’s Alicent, fully suited, in the executive chair beside her, looking back at her. “Don’t.”

Leona withdraws her hands, places them back on the table; taps her finger.

“Don’t do that.” Alicent leans back, hands in her lap, folded. Gestures and waits for Leona to do the same.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, even as she follows suit. “They already suspect I’m nervous.”

“They don’t need to be certain, though, do they? There you are—lean back, elbows out. Look relaxed.”

“I’m not relaxed.”

“Leona,” Alicent implores, almost laughing, “I’m very aware.” She sighs, smiling kindly. “Come now. Why did you tell me you were twenty-five, instead of twenty-three?”

“Well—you’re here to do business with me. I didn’t want you to think I was inexperienced.”

Alicent nods. “Would you have told me you were terrified to meet me, that I could intimidate you into a weaker negotiating position?”

Leona frowns. “Of course not.”

“Right.” She taps Leona’s shoulders and the girl drops them, just half an inch. “So we won’t do the same with the Martells, will we?”

She nods, straightens her jacket. “No. We won’t.” And then she deflates, just a little. “My father always tells me I’m too apprehensive with these things.”

Alicent looks toward the door, the clock, and then sighs, turns toward her, fully, draws Leona’s hands in her own. “Listen to me. I wish you could have heard what Viserys said about supposedly perfect Rhaenyra. She was boisterous and confident and never nervous and never hesitant. And he told her all the time to sit down, slow down, show more respect, take further consideration, be cooler, be more prudent, less rash.” Alicent squeezes her hands. “There will always be another criticism, always a silver edge to whatever path you choose. It doesn’t matter what your father thinks. Only what you know you are, what you’re capable of.”

“He doesn’t know what I’m capable of.”

“Then, sometimes, you just have to show him.” Alicent’s eyes flick to the door as footsteps begin to echo down the hall, and back to Leona, kind and heartening and true. “Take it from me.”

The Martells leave enraged, but Leona looks proud of herself, standing and buttoning her suit jacket with hands no longer shaking.

She looks to Alicent. “Was that—”

“Masterful.” Alicent commends—and then winks. “Would have put a young Rhaenyra to shame.”

At that, Leona, despite herself, really smiles.

Cregan looks down at the paper, back at her.

“You can’t offer me such a bargain, Rhaenyra.” He takes his glasses off, runs a hand through that unruly black hair.

“You’re not impressed?”

“For myself?” He leans back in his chair, shakes his head. “Pure dead brilliant. But I’m not so new to this, you’d know. You get all the risk, I get all the control; that’s not how Targaryen business goes. Why?”

“Why not?” She folds her hands. “You need assurance; I need commitment. I’ll assume the risk because I believe we are certain to succeed. You can assume control and be certain to assure it.”

He shakes his head. “No.” Then he chuckles. “As much as I do enjoy the blethering southern shop talk, surely not. I’m not saying I won’t agree, Rhaenyra. I just want the truth of it.”

They lock eyes, for a moment. She knows he already knows.

Cregan is a cautious man.

He just needs to hear it.

“I love my wife.” Rhaenyra confesses, simply. “And I want her to win.”

He nods. “Aye.”  Then Cregan winks, and clicks his pen, and signs. He slides the document back across the desk. “I want her to win, too.”

When she makes to leave, Leona catches her at the hotel.

“Leona,” Alicent greets, slipping her phone into her purse. “This is a nice parting surprise.”

“I just wanted to say thank you.” She says, eyes on her feet. “And—and we didn’t finish our business.”

Alicent smiles, if not a bit sadly. “You’re not going to take our deal. I know. I understand. I hope you know you can still consider me a friend.”

“I am taking it.”

Alicent tilts her head, eyebrows drawn together; a sympathetic expression. “Sweetling, business is business. I wouldn’t think any less of you—”

“You’ll never lie to me.” Then Leona’s eyes are on her, hard and pleading and sure. “My father thinks we should do business with whomever offers the bigger check at the end but I don’t think that’s right at all, and I am tired of having to work through the pretense to get to the numbers, I just can’t do it that way, I just—” She takes a breath. “You’ll never lie to me, I know you won’t. Please stay, just to the end of today. We can talk through all the details, negotiate it now, I promise.”

Alicent waits. “This is a big decision, Leona. It’s a long and very expensive partnership.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I do. I know.”

And then, with that, Alicent takes her bag, sets it down.

Later, hours later, at dinner, as Alicent’s plane awaits her at the tarmac, and Leona’s chattering away about the Yang-Mills theory and smiling.

Her phone rings. The girl silences it and looks down, just for a moment, to make sure—

And then her face falls. Confusion then frustration then fear.

And Alicent just knows.

“Leona,” she says, setting her fork aside, “I need to ask you something that may sound quite strange.”

Leona puts the phone down, snapping back to attention, nodding. “Sorry, I—I mean, yes, alright.”

She taps her finger, eyes flitting out to the restaurant; but Alicent lays a hand on her arm, holds her gaze.

“Some men,” she says, simply, “In our industry, and others, will try to scare you to get what they want. Not just boardroom intimidation; personally scare you. Do you understand?” Leona doesn’t move a muscle, but she can see it in her eyes, clear as day, that she does. “Has somebody tried to do that to you, Leona?”

She’s stock-still for a moment. Her eyes flit to the phone, then back to the table, then back to Alicent’s own. “There’s a man who works for a private investment group. His name is Larys Strong. I don’t know how he called, or why I answered, but he—he told me he had information about my father. I called our people in, confidentially of course, and they found out that wasn’t true. I told him not to communicate with me any more. He keeps calling. Once I saw a car outside my apartment, but I—” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t really know it was him.”

Alicent nods. “I understand.” She sighs. “And what did he tell you about Rhaenyra?”

Leona’s brows draw together with guilt, caught out, her mouth turns—“I’m so sorry. I didn’t believe—”

Alicent grasps her hand, squeezes, shushes her gently. “No, no. It’s alright. You’re not to blame.”

“He said—” She stops herself, gathers. “He said he had information on her as well and he didn’t want our deal to go through. I told him I didn’t have any interest in his information and that’s when I told him not to contact me. I told my lawyers. I didn’t want to tell my father. He’ll just blame me for taking the call.”

“Did he tell you what it was?”

“Yes,” Leona says, waving her hand, “But it was ridiculous. More fabrications, like his other claims. He tried to make out like behind closed doors she’s some secret drug-addicted alcoholic. As if anyone would believe that.” Leona looks back at her. “Is this common in our industry? My father never told me about this. Is it because I’m a girl?”

“You’re a woman,” Alicent corrects, habitually, absentmindedly. Her spine runs with a chill; she can feel pinpricks bloom on the sides of her cheeks. “Thank you for telling me, Leona. You don’t need to be scared of him. I’ll take care of it.”

“Is it normal, though?”

Alicent sighs. “No,” she answers. “No, it’s not normal.”

Harwin pops champagne when their deal is signed; Lyman smiles and claps with the rest of the board.

“It wasn’t easy,” he notes, “But you did it, the both of you. Proof again—and I think I speak with some community confidence here—that this institution could not be in better hands. Cheers to you, to the future you built today.”

Rhaenyra presses a kiss to Alicent’s cheek, clinks their glasses of sparkling grape juice with a grin. “Thank you again, my love.”

And Alicent smiles, and nods, but then Harwin catches her eye—

And that’s the moment she realizes that both of them know.

A week later, Jace rockets a knight out of the water and bubbles fly out of the tub and across the tile. “Prince Daemon has felled the Burning Knight! Glory to Prince Daemon!”

Alicent wipes a glut of bubbles off of her tank top, raises a brow. “Uncle Daemon is a knight?”

“Of course he’d be a knight,” Jace supplies. “The best knight.”

Alicent hums. “And a prince, at that.”

“Because he’s Granddad’s brother,” he explains.

“Jacaerys,” she asks, calmly, casually, “Who do you mean?”

He frowns up at her from a cascade of bubbles like she’s lost her mind, and she’s not sure whether to freeze at the expression or laugh terribly at the image. “Granddad. Granddad from before. At the big house.”

“Mummy’s dad?”

“Yes.” He returns to his figurines, ducking them in and out of the water, skating them along the porcelain rim. “Your dad.”

She reaches in and brushes his shoulder, coaxing him to lean back under the faucet so she can rinse the conditioner from his hair. “Sweetling,” she says, testing the temperature on her wrist, “Granddad wasn’t my dad. He’s Mummy’s dad.”

“And your dad.”

“No,” she reminds, gently. “Your Mummy and I are married, so Granddad was my good father.”

“No,” he argues. “He was your dad, too.”

She runs her fingers through his curls, ignores the way it hurts. “My love,” she says, then, softer. “My father is Grandfather. Grandfather is my dad.”

He seems to remember, then, his tiny brow furrowed. “Oh.” She turns off the tap and he sits up, puts his arms over the tub, leaning to look up at her. “Why?”

You can’t cry, you’ll scare him.

“Do you remember Granddad, my love?” She prompts, stacking a handful of bubbles into a tower.

He places more on top of it, nods, begins describing the big house and the swing set; smiles and brightens his eyes and babbles and babbles away.

Rhaenyra frowns when she tells her, later, after.

She wipes the sweaty hair out of her face, into a silver pony. “He understands that’d make us siblings, right?”

Alicent props herself up on her elbow, throws a leg over Rhaenyra’s hips. “Oh, like your grandparents?” She grins.

Rhaenyra narrows her eyes. “They were second cousins,” she scolds. “And they didn’t even know.”

Alicent fixes her with a look.

“Alright,” Rhaenyra concedes, smirking, pressing a kiss to her sweat-laden neck. “They had an inkling, maybe.”

“You Targaryens,” She rolls her eyes in her best impression of Otto. “And your strange customs.”

Rhaenyra rolls on her side, waits in the silence; and then—"So.” She traces the edge of the sheet with her finger. “Who’s your favorite Targaryen?”

Alicent lifts her head off the pillow. “My what?”

Many nights later, she dreams of it, her most cherished memory of him.

At the reception, Alicent had danced with Otto, Viserys with Rhaenyra; then they’d switched—she’d taken Viserys’ hands and kept looking back, over her shoulder, waiting, watching, hoping that—

“Don’t worry,” Viserys had said. She’d looked back at him, then, his eyes sweet and understanding and kind. “They’re alright.”

“Of course.” She’d looked down between them, followed the steps, concentrated on the melody.

But he’d only smiled, chasing her eyes. “Don’t you worry, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “You and I will keep them in line.” And then he’d grinned, a jovial, secret sort of smile. “As a family should be.”

His hand had tightened around hers. “I’m so looking forward to these years.”

And she’d looked back at him, losing track of the sound of the harp with big watery eyes.

Otto looks back at Harwin, then his counsel, then the document.

He sighs. “Well, I have to admit. It’s a most acceptable offer.”

Harwin nods. “You can have the full twenty-four hours to consider it, as discussed.”

Otto folds his hands. “And what was it that prompted such a sensible change of heart, in my lost daughter?”

Harwin merely stares. “I think, were I in your position, I might consider it the divine favor of the gods.”

Otto snorts. “Indeed. What’s to say we shouldn’t insist on our original offer, then?”

Harwin shrugs. “I suppose you could. Though I doubt your counsel would advise it.”

Otto’s solicitor swallows.

Then, finally, he nods. “I’ve considered this with my counsel. We will accept.”

Harwin’s shoulders drop. “I am sure my clients will be glad to hear it.”

Otto cocks his head. “I assume the first thing you’d like is this enormous NDA you’ve demanded.”

“Indeed.”

He waves a hand. “Consider it done.” Then, as Harwin stands to leave, he catches his eye. “A most anticlimactic ending to such a valiant war effort. Almost leaves one to wonder what that titanic thing is intended to cover.”

Harwin’s face remains serene. “Please do deliver executed documents to our office address by certified post. Once we receive, we’ll file with the courts.”

Otto nods, once more, and he departs.

He’s almost at his car; heart beating faster than he’s ever felt, praying it wasn’t seen.

Still, victory—sort of—nevertheless. He approaches the driver’s side, reaches in his pocket, fishes for his keys—

He never sees the gun, but he hears the shot.

Chapter Text

It happened the first day of primary school; and then it happened all the time.

Oh, the way he used to look out on that yard, that hell of its own making.

“Can I join?”

He tried to run along with the other boys, jockey for the football; saw they were down a man on whites, took off his jumper—

Shoved down, then, hard, into the mud—a single hand to his chest.

“Pover.”

The schoolboys laughed.

He didn’t say anything, though, as he scrambled back—only climbed to his knees, muddy jumper clutched in his muddy hands; ran, ran back into the streets.

At the council estate, his mother used to fix the windows with glue. His father worked days on the line and nights with a mop. He himself had a job at the grocery shop down the road, where Morton Andrey caught him stealing a can of beans, once.

“What’re you doing? You put that back, boy.”

He’d rolled it out of his muddy sweater, meekly, stretching on his tip-toes to place it back—

“Stealing from the shelf you can barely reach? Some thief you are.” Morton had sighed, swung a towel over his shoulder, peering down at him. “How old are you?”

He swallowed. “Ten.”

“What’s a boy of ten stealing beans for?” He put his hands on his hips. “Shouldn’t you be marauding my sweets aisle?”

“I’m sorry.” He’d swung on his feet, felt his toes curled up against the warn canvas of last year’s shoes. “For my mother. Sir.”

Then the shopkeep frowned at him; looked at him for a long time. “Well.” Morton had tongued his cheek, there in all his glory, in those early days, with his big potbelly and his smoker’s cough and his glasses, smiling and sort of tired and sort of ruefully jolly; Churchill-esque, he would later often think. “My sweeper just quit. You fancy learning to sweep up, stock up the shelves?” He’d half-smiled, then. “The ones you can reach, that is.”

He nodded quickly.

“Alright. How about a job, instead? I’ll pay you five quid a week, less anything you nick off me, of course.” He’d winked.

His eyes were wide as saucers. “Yes!” He said. “Yes, yes I can. I won’t steal. I’ll do a good job.”

Morton nodded, chuckled. “Alright, then. What do they call you?”

He blinked, swallowed.

“Otto,” he said.

He worked from school’s close to sundown each day. Barely saw his father after that.

“What are you doing?” Morton asked, one day, carrying a pail of salt for the icy curb. “Go lay this along the freeze.”

Otto barely looked up from the shop counter, scrawling numbers onto lined paper. “I’m doing the records.”

“Records?” Morton snorted. “Records, are you. Alright, Mr. Secretary, what records are those?”

“The bookkeeping.”

“We don’t keep the books every day, here. We’re only small, Otto.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Morton had put his hands on his hips, eyebrows raised. “It doesn’t, now?” He grinned. “I suppose I should ask what’s the worry with the books today.” 

“The money.” Otto insisted, penning another set of numbers to the page. “In the till. It’s not the same as last night.”

Morton frowned. “We do make money during the day, I should hope.”

“Ten seventy-five.”

“What?”

“We made ten seventy-five today. Last night I counted and the til had six twenty. Ten seventy-five plus six twenty is sixteen ninety-five. There’s only fourteen-ninety five in here.”

Morton shrugged. “Maybe you only miscounted.”

Quick as a badger—“I do not miscount.”

Morton’s brow furrowed and he moved behind the counter. “Only a question, lad. Let me see there.” He’d wiped the day’s grease off his glasses, peered over at the book. “Alright. Show me at the end of the week.”

“It’s Addam.”

“What?”

“Addam opens in the mornings before you get here. He’s taking money.”

Morton frowned. “That,” he warned, “is a very serious accusation, Otto.”

Otto only glared back at him with wide brown eyes, quiet and insistent and righteous. “He’s taking it.”

(They caught him, only a few weeks later.)

One day, before the holidays, he’d finished stacking the shelves. Morton had stopped him on his way out. Handed him something into his patchy gloves.

A can of beans.

Otto had looked at it, then back up at him.

“For me?”

Morton nodded to it. “Peel back the top.”

He fidgeted with the seal, already broken, and looked inside—

A thick wad of paper notes, full to the brim.

“Take you that onto your mother, now.”

But then, he found them, in between the bills—

Two glorious rolos, Morton had placed there, gleaming in their shiny black paper, right into the can.

“Those, though, are for you.”

His mother had cried when he’d given it to her. “Thank you, my darling,” she’d said, tears in her eyes, wiping her hands at the hob. “You’re such a good boy, Otto.”

One autumn, one long awaited payday, cold and miserable, a group of boys on bikes, older than him—

“What have you got there, slag?”

Split his bottom lip, took the cash right out of his jacket, broke the buttons on it, knocked the wind out of him—

(His mother cried that evening. She’d been hoping to replace his sister’s window before the wintertime.)

He’d never forgotten the look of his father, worn and only moments home from the line, disappointment in his eyes— “You let those street rats rob you?” His mother had argued back without hesitation, waving at his father with the tea towel.

Still, he’d only fixed his eyes upon Otto’s swollen mouth; shaken his head.

“It’s my fault,” his father murmured. “I should have taught you to fight.”

One morning, a month before the summer solstice, Otto wiped the windows; fastidiously, thoroughly, mathematically as ever. 

Morton rolled in, steaming mad.

“Why in seven hells have you paid twenty-five pounds to the wholesaler?”

Otto looked back at him, utterly nonchalant. “It’s an advance.”

Morton’s face, bright fucking red. “A what?”

Otto shrugged. “If we pay twenty percent in advance each month, we receive a fifteen percent discount. It’s three thousand pounds a year.”

Morton stopped, taken aback. “Oh.” Then, true to character, pissed again. “How?”

“If they have more money earlier,” Otto said, “They can buy more from the suppliers, all at the same time. In bulk. You buy in bulk, you get a discount. We get a cut of that discount.” He pursed his lips. “To the tune of fifteen percent.”

Morton shook his head. “Sometimes I swear you came straight from the firms, you did.”

Otto only turned back to the window; rubbed at a stubborn spot. “I recommend we invest it.”

“What?”

“The extra profit. From the discount. Invest it.”

Morton laughed, started away. “You’ve got all sorts of ideas, haven’t you, now.”

They used to have a castle, his family; back and back and back in the day, hundreds of years ago.

“Lost during the Civil War,” his father used to say, when he was drunk. “Lost to the new King.” He’d fixed his lazy eyes upon Otto. “You can’t be on the wrong side of a war, lad.”

Sometimes, they would drive out to it, on Sundays, as a treat; just a simple motte-and-bailey tower out in the countryside, broken and dilapidated and wet. They’d sit on the grounds; he and his sister would chase each other through the muck. “I brought something for you,” his mother had once said. She’d unfurled her petticoat to reveal a pair of oranges. “Don’t tell your father.”

He’d let the juice run down his fingers. It was sunny, that day.

A few years later, one evening, he’d been sweeping up, frustrated.

“Killing rats back there?” Morton called.

“No,” he snarks.

He put the broom down, eventually; moved to start stacking the shelves.

A while later, Morton peered at him from the end of an aisle. “Look at you, there,” He smiled. “You’re almost taller than the top shelf now, aren’t you?”

Otto had only nodded to him and looked away again, nostalgic and angry and pretending not to notice all the weight he’d lost, the glassiness to his eyes. 

Morton tried again. “I remember when you were no higher than these cans.”

“Yes, once upon a time.” Otto grumbled.

Morton neared him, reached out a hand. “Lad, I think—”

“I’ve got to check the books, now.”

Otto fled behind the counter; opened the till, began to count—

“Otto, please.”

And he’d never heard that tone from the old man before, never heard him so desperate or lonely or pleading. No, Morton was a rock; he was stack these crates and get you out of my shop, you lot of good for nothings, and Otto, where in the gods’ name are my cigarettes. He was Churchill, after all, and Otto his loyal man; he was an institution, a stout, angry immortal.

So Otto had turned with tears in his eyes. “How long have you got?”

Morton shook his head. “Not long.”

Otto put his hands in his pockets.

“I’m going to go and live with my son,” Morton told him. “In Carlisle. So I’ll be selling the shop.”

Otto nodded.

“And I know you’ll be off to secondary school.”

“To Eton.” Otto said. “I’ve been admitted to Eton, actually.”

Morton had broken—his sagging, deflated face reshaping into an unbelievably brilliant smile. “Oh, lad—”

“When are you leaving?”

“What?”

“When do you leave.”

Morton shrugs. “After I see to this place, I suppose.” Then he grins. “Maybe you can come back for it, after your fancy school when you’re getting yourself a job. Make a real business of it—”

“That’s not what Eton’s for.”

“What?”

“Eton’s not for…” He’d picked at his nail, lips tight, frustrated and dejected and grieving. “It’s not for ‘getting oneself a job.’”

Morton frowned, chuckling. “Well if that’s true, then why would you ever want to go—”

“Because I don’t want to be a fucking shopkeep!”

Morton was silent for a moment; and then was the man Otto remembered, the one he’d loved.  “You watch your fucking tone with me, little lad.”

But Otto was a foot taller than him by then; and the threat was only empty.

They stared upon each other.

Otto fell into his arms when he opened them; let his head drop down onto his shoulder.

“You show those twee coddled pricks what we’re made of, this side of the city.” Morton patted his back, pulled away, squeezed his shoulder as he’d cried. “Hear me, Hightower. Don’t let them ever get you down.”

“Otto,” said Edric Florent, huge paw around his neck, “You lanky fuck. Another.”

He took the pint in his hands, smiled at him, drained it.

“Another!”

The boys cheered. Someone handed him a shot of whisky. He didn’t pay for it. They were all friends, almost, maybe; all wearing the same jacket but somehow theirs always look cleaner—these boys who drank wherever they want, bought whatever they want, did whatever they want.

Over by the back of the pub, Balon Byrch was feeling up some girl who looked more than desperate to leave—

He felt a shove to the back of his neck. “Edric—"

Then Edric horsecollared him, pinned his ribs up against the hard lip of the bar as the boys laughed; he laughed, too, reflexively. The noise went in his ears and through him, surrounding, as Branton fiddled with the new American juke-box in the corner.

“You’re a fucking cad, Edric,” Balon jested.

“Yeah,” Otto tried, “Edric, you ca—"

Edric closed a fist around the back of his jacket. “Take the fucking shot.”

Rich prick Gormon Massey smiled. His father was the headmaster. Otto’s father worked dusk until dawn to scrape together tuition.

He took the shot. His head swam.

“Pussy,” Gormon said.

He wasn’t really sure how Viserys became his friend, but he was, and he was his only friend, really.

Otto was not Viserys’ only friend. Viserys was very well-liked.

The kid with the famous father, Otto often thought, in his darker moments. Of course.

Viserys got invited to everything, congratulated for anything, always got incessantly asked for his (shit) help, his (shit) advice, his (shit) opinion. Viserys was elected captain in sports he was shit at, and the professors all liked him in courses he was shit at, and he was a shit friend.

(Well, only some of the time.

“I forgot,” Viserys used to sometimes say, with that endearing, dumb look on his face. Or, “I thought you were working.”)

“It’s an apprenticeship,” Otto would insist; but it didn’t matter—it was embarrassing, still. Not that Viserys judged him for needing the money. Just that it was absurd that you could apprentice at London’s finest banks and still open his locker in the training room and find a bunch of wadded-up notes falling out as the other boys sniggered like children.

“For the needy,” they’d japed.

(I hate being poor, I hate being poor, I hate being poor, I hate being poor, I hate being—

He used to write it in his journal, over and over, and then rip up and flush the pages.)

When marks time came around, it wasn’t that Otto hoped Viserys would fail; he didn’t. Well—maybe only that he wasn’t as sorry as he should have been.

That is, until Viserys found Edric shoving Otto to the ground in the gardens and then socked him square in the nose.

“My father won’t let them expel me,” Viserys had rolled his eyes, holding ice to his cut brow. “Or I’ll have Florent’s father fucking fired, how about that?”

“You’re too ninny to fire anyone,” Otto said, taking the ice from his hand, moving it north, holding it closer to the bruise.

Viserys raised his brow. “You’re jesting.”

Otto rolled his eyes, readjusted the ice. “You’re moving too much.”

He knew Viserys would probably fail the final, and therefore the course, rich dad or not. He especially knew when he saw Viserys looking down at the exam, hands in his silver hair, sweating and totally lost.

And then, Otto made his choice.

He slid his test to the side of his desk; watched Viserys notice with a furrowed brow. “Sir,” he asked, raising his hand, “May I use the lavatory?”

On his way out, he’d moved the page closer to Viserys’ side, skimming the very edge; turned it toward his view.

Later, several days later, when Viserys had passed, barely—

“My family is actually having a party,” he said, in the hallway.

(Where the other boys still, meanwhile, after three years, couldn’t believe Viserys Targaryen was actually speaking to him.)

“It’s at the big house, the one a little while away.” Viserys smiled, kind and honest and bashful, even. “For my nameday, you know; not the school party. It’s—well, I suppose it’s only a small thing. But I’d like you to come. If you want. Well—if you can.”

Otto nodded. “I might have to work.” Viserys pouted, then, like the stupid jolly princeling he was. “My apprenticeship.”

“Dutiful Otto,” Viserys huffed. “I wish you worked for my father,” he whined, then. “Then we could do whatever we wanted.”

That will only ever be true for you, Otto had thought, sadly.  

He only smiled. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

A few days later, he got the letter, crumpled in the post, from Carlisle. Viserys sat beside him as he read it.

Anyway, my boy, Morton had written, I do hope you are keeping yourself well, and I hope they don’t have you working any harder than I had. Today I saw Elayne. She took me to the garden. She said we might go again tomorrow. I’m so looking forward.

He’d died before he’d finished it.

His son had explained, below, in a short note written in a different ink.

“What happened?” Viserys asked. “Who’s it from?”

He’d folded it up, tucked it in his pocket.

“Nobody.”

“It’s a letter,” Viserys insisted. “It’s from someone.”

Otto dug at his nail, silent and dour. 

Viserys swung his long legs, kicked a rock through the grass.

“If you tell me whatever it is, maybe I could help.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’d positively leap into action. An altogether Prince Charming.”

Then Viserys had stood, a glint in his eye—and leapt. Gliding over the grass like a ballerino, arms raised, silver hair flying in the shag he knows his father hates.

“What in seven hells are you doing?”

He’d only smiled, bashfully and secretly, and jumped again, spun, kicked his legs out, an absolute fool.

The other boys began to look on from across the yard.

Then he leapt again toward Otto and landed before him, turned back, over his shoulder, violet eyes alight, smirking like a cat. “Not a leap. Arabesque.”

And Otto had broken, smiled, he couldn’t possibly help it; released a breath—let his shoulders down and laughed, laughed fucking hard, in that moment, truly.

When he walked into his apprenticeship Saturday, where Alester Royce looked up at him with puzzlement—

“What are you doing here?”

“What? You said we’re meeting with the team from—”

“No,” Alester shook his head with utter annoyance. “You’re supposed to be at your fancy party with little Viserys Targaryen and the Etonians.”

The colour drained from Otto’s face. “No. I’m supposed to be here. I told him I couldn’t make it, you said I could meet—”

Alester held up a hand; Otto stopped.

“I got a call from my boss’s boss about working our rising star too hard,” Alester sneered. “Do you know what that’s like? Working ninety hours a week to be scolded like I’m breaking my apprentice’s fingers? You don’t know what hard work is, you damn Eton nits. Go to your party, Hightower. And clear your fucking desk on your way out.”

He found Viserys in the garden, surrounded by his stupid polo sycophants, holding a half-full Bellini. “You’re here! I was just about to call—”

He hit him square in the jaw. His drink spilled across the cobblestones, onto the petunias.

"You got me fucking fired,” he growled as the boys held him back. “You got me fucking fired!”

Viserys stood, blood on his lip, brow furrowed. “I only asked if you could have a day off.”

“You said they were working me to the bone,” Otto had shouted, “You made me look ungrateful, made it out like I was put upon, you embarrassed me!”

Viserys shook his head, eyes wide. “It was only a jest. I just wanted you to come.”

Otto laughed, then, humorlessly; held his hands up. The boys let him go. “Well, here I am, Viserys.” He shook his head, smiling incredulously. “Here I fucking am.”

He ignored the searing pain in Viserys’ violet eyes. “Happy nameday, you spoiled cunt.”

The rest of the week, at the College, he didn’t speak to him. Not when Viserys pretended not to be following him in the hallways. Not when they were forced back into their doubles pairs on those wide grass courts. Not even when Viserys sat beside him in maths giving him the big sad eyes of a beaten dog.

On Friday, he received another letter in the post.

It was an offer of an apprenticeship at the Targaryen Group.

He had shaken his head, even as his heart lept. “Fucking idiot.”

He took it, of course.

Viserys went to St. Andrew’s. It was where his father went.

“It’s where my father went,” he explained, when Otto begged him to choose Cambridge.

(Otto wasn’t a beggar. Not anymore, anyway.)

“Don’t make me get on my knees,” Otto said, maybe one too many drinks into the graduation party, top hat in his hands.

“I’ll see you in the Spring,” Viserys met his eyes. “It’s no time at all.”

Otto had felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

(You’re my only friend, he wanted to say.)

But—

Still, he agreed. “No time at all,” he repeated.

Later that night, Viserys’ three-year-old brother Daemon had toddled up to him, diaper full, eyes mean.

The child had looked up at him.

“You’re stinky.” He said.

Otto blinked. “Strong words from someone who’s just shat their pants.”

Daemon, unbothered, toddled away.

They graduated, eventually, and when Viserys came back to London, he brought a girl with him.

“This is Aemma,” he’d said.

She was perfect; a wealthy girl from a wealthy family with all the money and titles and pedigree and yet, all the spunk and flair and intolerance for melodrama that Viserys always needed—which made it even worse, mostly, that it was so perfect on paper and yet, so perfect in reality, too.

They were disgustingly in love.

“Hi, Aemma,” Otto said.

The years passed by faster after that.

A year into his job at Targaryen Group—mostly, he was Vice Something of Something, a lot of words to cover for his actual position which was making Viserys look less like a fuckup and more like Jaehaerys’ son—

Jaehaerys, who Viserys had known about as well as Otto, which was to say, almost not at all—

A year in, he’d taken his parents to dinner. He’d moved them out of the council estate into a real home, modest as it was, a home nonetheless.

Broke his back for the mortgage, which was a Targaryen Group loan, of course.

“Why don’t you just let us buy it for you,” Viserys had complained, rubbing his fingers in, trying to massage behind his eyes. “This is utterly ridiculous.”

Otto had sneered, trying not to snap. “Apologies if I don’t want your company to own my family’s house, Viserys.”

Viserys had rolled his eyes. “The things you do for pride, Otto,” he’d criticized, “Are so fucking absurd.”

It was a nice restaurant. A nice old restaurant, where rich men went.

Rich men like me, he’d thought. He stared at his check every fortnight.

(The first time it had come, all five thousand pounds, he’d put his head in his hands and cried.)

His father wore his nicest jacket and tie. They were mismatched. The jacket had a patch on the back, just near the seam.

“No one will notice,” he’d said.

His mother, her cleanest frock.

(Gray. Just gray.)

They’d sat to dinner. Otto removed his own jacket, the bespoke nine-hundred-pound thing.

“Could we have some bread?” His mother had asked.

Their server had looked to Otto with a frown. “Some…bread?”

“We’ll start with the paté, and the Arbor red, please,” Otto had said.

Their server had head off.

“You know I don’t like wine,” his father said.

“They don’t serve brown ale, here.”

His father frowned, laughed. “They’ve got brown ale everywhere, boy.”

Otto shook his head. “Not here.”

It had gone well enough, for the most part.

But then his father had needed something—he didn’t remember what it was, exactly—

“Oi!” He’d called out toward their server on the other end of the dining room, loud, waving his hand, across all the hushed conversations and white tablecloths and pearls. “Mate! Could we see about a pudding, please?”

“Father,” he’d whispered, eyes on his plate.

Later, when they’d fought on the sidewalk, inevitably; some argument that began when Otto tried to pay for the cab—

“You think we’re not good enough for you, eh?” His father clutched him by his silken lapels, breath tinged with expensive whisky he’d done nothing but wince at the entire glass down. “You think we’re not fancy enough for your fancy people, is that what it is?”

Otto had sighed, and wanted to scream, and wanted to cry, and wanted to choke his father, and then himself, and then the world.

But he’d calmly taken his hands, sighed, leveled at him with a diplomatic gaze.

“Father,” he’d said, gently, “I was so happy to see you tonight. Will you please get in the cab? Let me treat you to it,” he said, “For all you’ve done for me.”

Then his mother had taken his arm, and pulled him into the car, and he’d given the cabby a hundred quid, and they’d sped off.

His father died a couple months later. Heart attack.

He’d paid for the funeral. He’d only wanted to be buried in the city cemetery, with his own father, who’d lived just the same. 

He married her, when he felt like he should. She was kind, and thoughtful, and good. She cared for him. They never talked, they never talked talked, not really. It was calm and easy and loving and simple and only skin-deep.

Viserys was gladly his best man, smiled and jested and charmed and was so fucking popular in his powder-blue suit that he might as well have been the groom.

“Congratulations,” Aemma had told him. Her smile was deep and knowing and almost secret.

He’d nodded. “Thank you.”

His bride brought him down, as tall as he was, clutched his head in her arms, to place a kiss atop his hair.

“I love you, my darling,” she told him, and he knew it was true.

She was a traditional sort of girl, a chaste sort of girl.

“It’s alright,” she said, later, clearly uncomfortable, clearly in pain. “Just keep going.”

He hesitated, then. “I can hardly imagine you’re enjoying this.”

She shook her head, dug her nails into his shoulders. “Every woman must know it eventually. It’s alright, my love, just—just do it quickly. Over with.”

Over with.

He waited a moment, and then she urged him again, and he saw that look in her big brown eyes and knew she was sure.

So he did. He didn’t close his eyes to her gasp or her hard wince in utter intractable pain; didn’t think he deserved to look away.

He felt so guilty he could hardly finish, but then he did, and hated himself so much in that moment he could hardly breathe.

I bet it was perfect for Aemma, he’d thought to himself, shameful and unbidden. I bet she loved it with him.

He was a loyal husband to a quiet wife. They never argued. He never started a fight; she never insisted they finish one.

He didn’t experience real love, true love, ever.

(Until there was a newborn in his arms.)

Until the world tilted on its axis, until the colours changed colour, until every string of every fibre of his mind was endlessly thinking of her, from that day on; until she turned her tiny head toward the warmth of his chest, and he knew, he just knew—

You are my favorite thing, he thought, immediately. My favorite person in the world.

She was tiny and pink and quiet and new, so new. He cradled her in his arms; hugged her to his chest, is she cold?—he pulled the hat closer over her ears, wrapped his arms as close as he could around her.

(I’ll be your father, he promised, in the moment where his surroundings fell away, where it was just her and him, together, floating in space. I’ll do anything, he promised.)

Your father; your lion.

He thought back, years and years and years ago, the memory springing up unbidden. Returning home with a split lip, an empty pocket.

No one will ever touch you in vain, he swore in that moment, blood icy and mad.

I’ll teach you to fight.

He penned the name on the registration, while his wife was asleep.

Alicent, he wrote, like the name was a song.

Years and years and years later, after so many nights at the office, training him, after so many explanations, after so many saves and pleas and working drinks avoided—

“I need you, Otto,” Viserys beseeched. “I’ve made a mistake.”

Otto looked around, snuck to the edge of the hallway, hoped the other parents didn’t watch him. “Viserys,” he spat. “It’s my daughter’s fucking recital.”

“We’re going to lose IronBank.”

He pulled the phone away from his ears, found an exit to the cold air, somewhere he could be alone, covered the bottom of his cell phone, for a moment—“Fuck!”

He returned from the office, from cleaning up the mess, just in time to catch the tail end of Alicent’s violin solo.

She was awful. Strings screaming against her bow. Shaking with piteous fear.

How many times have I told you to buck up, he thought, How many times have I told you that the world won’t have any grace for nervous girls—

She finished, bowed as expected. Received perfunctory applause. Looked mortified.

He thought it all the time. The world will eat the timid, Alicent, it eats the weak, you have to want it, you have to protect yourself, you have to eat it first, you have to fight for it—

Afterwards, he found her, fixed her with a fatherly gaze. “We’ll have to do better in the future, won’t we?”

She could barely meet his eyes, picking hard at a nail. “Yes, father.”

You’re a godsend, Otto, Viserys had said.

Otto turned his phone off for an hour and sat beside Alicent’s beside and read another chapter of War of the Worlds.

She’d barely listened, still horrified at herself. He’d read anyway.

You have to know we’ll go home the same, he’d thought to himself, as she’d shrunk away in the back seat of the car. You have to know it’ll be the same, every night, no matter what, you could snap that damn bow in half and I’ll always be there, our house is always warm, your father always reads to you—

Nothing can touch you, he thought.

But then, another side of him—

But you must also know, when the façade falls away, that everything can.

He was never sure what he wanted with her—whether he wanted her to feel perfectly safe or perfectly hungry; perfectly good or perfectly inadequate; perfectly satisfied or perfectly wanting.

He’d never known with himself, either.

(He’d thought back to that first five-thousand-pound check and laughed, sometimes.)

Two years later—

“Otto,” Viserys called again, not a year or two later. “I need your help.”

He got up, moved through the audience rows of the recital without hesitation. “Yes, Viserys,” he told him, voice sanguine and dead. “What’s the matter.”

Alicent watched him leave.

She was still shit at the violin, as it happened.

(Good at maths, though.)

When his wife had died, he’d held her to his chest like she was a baby, again.

She was ten but she was so small, still, skinny as a post. He’d pulled her hat down lower over her freezing ears.

(If you’ll eat a few more bites for me, my darling, he’d said the night prior, We can go to the bookstore on Saturday. It had barely moved her.)

Someone, one of his wife’s associates, looked upon Alicent with disdain.

Dry your tears, girl, they’d told her. It’s inappropriate.

He’d sent Alicent off with his wife’s cousin, waited until she was a few steps away—

Who the fuck do you think you are, he’d whispered, venomous as a viper, sharp as a lion’s tooth. If you so much as speak my daughter again I’ll—

That night he’d fallen asleep above the covers, next to her, on her bed, her face tucked into his arm, the edge of his housecoat crumpled in her fist; The Story of King Arthur fallen open on his chest, tear tracks dry on her cheeks.

Your father will always love you, he told her.

“It’s been years,” Viserys told him, one day, older and worn and having cut his hair to a businesslike shave, laughing with some new finance manager—some other Eton cunt he couldn’t even recognize, having become exactly what he should, so far from the boy who copied his notes, who probably doesn’t even remember doing so.

“And the girls still haven’t met, Otto. They’re the same age. They’d ought to be friends.”

Otto smiled. “I can remember them meeting several times.”

Viserys waved him off. “In the same room, you mean, not meeting. Come now, Otto. Don’t you remember us, as children?”

Then—"Rhaenyra may run this company, one day, sooner than we think.”

(He thought of Viserys’ willful, selfish daughter attempting to do anything other than sneak out her window or manipulate her clueless father and almost laughed.)

At home, Alicent practised the violin each night; she was still awful at it. But at least she tried.

(No one ever really got employed for the fucking violin, he reminds himself.)

"Come to my holiday party, Saturday,” Viserys urged for the billionth time. “Bring Alicent, won’t you?”

“I don’t want to,” fifteen-year-old Alicent protested.

You really are my daughter, he thought.

(Then—Viserys, on his phone, calling and calling and calling.)

He sighed. “I suppose, if you do this favor for your old father, I’ll let you attend Sabitha’s nameday.”

Her eyes had perked up. “Really?”

He’d fixed her with a look. “I’ll still retrieve you at eleven. And, if I find you’ve been drinking, institute a grounding that shall last for all eternity.”

“Yes!” She’d flown off her bed, thrown her arms around his waist. “Yes, father, please. Let me dress.”

Rhaenyra was just as spoiled as her cunt father, only ten thousand times less sorry about it.

Viserys had brought his seventeen-year-old to their boardroom meeting as a secretary; but she was no secretary, and everyone knew it.

(She wasn’t even taking notes.)

“Viserys,” Otto had said, deferential and calm, “I would propose that we re-submit more favorable terms to Geneva. Let them know that we’re a partner; that we won’t simply bush aside their concerns, even if—”

“What a jest.” Said Rhaenyra, bored and petulant and impatient.

From across the table, Corlys Velaryon raised his brow.

“If I were you, I’d go to Geneva,” Rhaenyra bit, eyes judgmental and sardonic, “And show them what happens when you test the Targaryens.”

“Yes,” Otto chided, “And were this a Sorkin film, that just might work, but—”

“Why don’t we just propose an alternate route,” Viserys said, hands up. “Remove our properties from that portfolio and spread the risk elsewhere.”

Corlys nodded. “I’ve done the same, many times. I’d be happy to—”

“Maybe you could do that, Otto,” Viserys said, eyes plaintive. “Why don’t you return with a proposal on Wednesday.”

Otto merely nodded.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, hard, looked annoyed up at her father. “Now that you’ve done exactly as you were always going to,” she sighed, snitty, “Can I go?”

Corlys snorted.

“You betrayed me,” Viserys leveled.

Otto shook his head, incredulous and incensed. “You made a bad decision,” he insisted. “You and I both well know we have a fiduciary duty of loyalty to this company’s interests—”

“I told you what to do,” Viserys whispered, eyes hardened. “I told you to do it and you didn’t.”

Otto felt his blood boil. “You are asking me to betray our shareholders. Including myself.”

“We’re men of Eton, Otto. We don’t do this to our friends.”

“He is a creditor; this is a default; and he and I are not friends.”

Viserys pointed his finger, eyes narrowing. “You,” he says, “Work for me, remember.”

Otto shook his head, again. “It’s a terrible decision. You’re math is wrong. You’re wrong. You’re just wrong.”

“Your opinion here is of no consequence!”

And all the papers flew off Viserys’ desk.

“Then,” Otto leveled, chest heaving, “What have I been doing, all these years?”

“Serving,” Viserys snapped, sure and honest and mean, uncharacteristically mean. “Serving at the pleasure of me.”

Otto raised his brows, nodded. “Apparently so.”

That night, he forwarded Viserys a document, to protect all his shares as an independent stake, divorced from his tenure. Viserys attached his electronic signature without even looking.

Hours later, he got a call.

“I’m bringing Beesbury out of retirement. He’s the CFO now. Not you.”

Otto switched the phone to the other ear; watches out the glass doors of his office as Alicent turned back another page of her textbook, tapped her pencil. “You expect me to resign, do you?”

“I’m nominating you instead as an independent director.”

Otto snorted. “Over the phone, no less.”

Viserys was quiet, for a moment. “I’m right, Otto. You may not believe me, but it matters not. I have not been blind to how much brighter, how much wiser you’ve always thought yourself to be. I have been patient about it. But I needed you to put your pride aside.” Viserys huffed. “And you couldn’t. You can’t.”

Otto exhaled. “Viserys,” he said, almost bored. “We both know you’ve always been shit at maths.”

The line clicked.

As an independent director, as a man betrayed, as a servant, even, Otto flew to Geneva.

“This is the third time,” they’d threatened.

“Yes, it is.”

“How can you expect us to maintain confidence in your business?”

“I suppose that’s a question for your board.”

“You’re not helping yourself by stonewalling our proposals.”

“We remain solely interested in the deals you made. Not the ones you’re attempting to finagle after the fact.”

“And why should we accede to such draconian terms?”

Otto had fixed them with a look.

“Because we are your British business.” He’d reminded. “We’re the fucking Targaryens.”

Afterward, Viserys had called him, impatient, demanding that he’d cleaned up his mess—

Yes, I've cleaned it for you, Otto had said. (Though not in those words, of course.)

It wasn’t fast enough, Viserys had said. (Though not in those words, of course.)

It was the gall Viserys had, to be raking him so over the coals, after all he’d done and they way he’d been treated—

Afterward, on the plane, in a gale, a horrible storm: I’ll quit, he told himself. I’ll leave. I’ll be beholden no longer, a servant to the mollycoddled no longer.

Then, at home, only hours after he’d gotten to bed, she’d had a nightmare.

She was getting too old for her night terrors, equal parts annoying and concerning—

He’d turned on the lamp, set her up tucked into the far side of his bed, placed the pillows around her, with her blue blanket on top, like she wanted.

“Can I stay?” She’d asked, eyes wide and soft and sad. “Just until I fall asleep?”

She’d fallen asleep; he hadn’t the heart to move her.

He thought of it, again. And then thought of all the risk.

I’ll never leave, he resigned.

Aemma died.

He’d watched Alicent put her arms around Rhaenyra, when they both thought nobody was looking. There was something else to it; he’d noticed without noticing—maybe he just hadn’t been looking.

He’d gripped Viserys’ shoulder, looked into his tired, dead eyes.

We’re old men now, I guess, he’d thought. Or maybe just you.

“I may need to lean on you, for a while,” Viserys had admitted, later.

As always, Otto had thought.

He knew what they were doing, she and Rhaenyra, alone and sequestered in her room.

It’s got to be a jest, he thought to himself. Then he’d gone out to the balcony, looked up at the stars. The gods are cruel.

But he understood, ultimately. Just hated it all the same.

He wasn’t sure when it had become like this, exactly.

The screaming, door-slamming hell, the words he thought he’d never have to say, the constant détente.  

What is it going to take for you to understand the importance of ambition, he’d yelled, hating himself all the while—Do you think this isn’t the reality? That you’ll be spared from it? If you ever want to make something of yourself, if you ever want to have anything of your own, if you ever want to be out from under the yoke of other people, dumber people, Alicent, if you’ll ever take even a slim advantage of what you’ve been given—

Do you think you’re Rhaenyra Targaryen? He’d leveled. Because you’re not.

You’ll never have the same freedom to be so thoughtless—

Rhaenyra Targaryen, whose stupid expensive car he heard in front of his house at two in the morning.

These girls must think I’m an idiot, he’d thought to himself.

(Or maybe they’re only seventeen, a voice inside him had tempered.)

In a darker moment, took the book she was using to hide her face, to ignore him as he spoke to her, one evening—

He snatched it away, it out of her hands, tore it down the middle, ripped the cover clean off, let the scraps fall to the rug.

Don’t you see how easy it is, he’d yelled, and she’d cried, and he’d wanted to rip himself in half, too. But she had to know—

It’ll go just like that, he’d said. It’s just that easy for it all to be broken, just like these fucking pieces of paper, the things we love, do you see how finite it all is, how delicate—

(I’m not in the business of raising clueless rich girls.)

She’d dashed up to her room.

Hours later, he’d knocked on her door.

“Alicent.”

He’d opened it. Looked to the desk, then opened it wider, to the bed.

Empty.

The window, ever so slightly, left open.

Ah, he’d thought. Of course.

I want you to be your own person, he’d thought to himself, Like I should have been.

And then it had all happened at once; the years moved aside, faster than they ever had.

Rhaenyra, with her feet up on Viserys’ desk, giving decidedly un-terrible advice in an utterly terrible way, so undeservedly self-assured, so unbelievably entitled to her own absurdly unearned inheritance —

Where do you find the right to sit so comfortably in this room, he’d thought, You, who has accomplished nothing.

Still, he supported her, when she had good ideas. Insisted she be listened to, when Viserys, in a moment of even more petulant whining, refused to hear her out. Kept the Group in focus, the company in mind.

Ah, Viserys; demanding and supplicant and waffling as ever, so far from the boy he’d known, soft and forgiving to everybody except him—

Investors at the holiday party, investors whose credit he’d saved. Who are you, again?

Alicent, wearing Aemma’s ring, on Rhaenyra’s arm, like his family hadn’t even been a thing of his own.

(“Isn’t it beautiful?” she’d asked.)

Then she’d had the nerve—

“It would make me very happy,” she’d tried, his unbelievably selfish daughter.

After he’d left the restaurant, he’d driven far; driven a long time, back to the other side of town, the side he hadn’t seen in years—

Don’t let them ever get you down—

He’d found the outline of the shop, nestled there in the same place, despite all the changing facades.

It was a Starbucks.

He drove long into the night.

When she’d given up her job—

How in seven hells do you ever expect to make something of yourself, he’d wanted to say, but he hadn’t—

Alicent, taking Rhaenyra’s name.

Alicent, giving up her time, her career, her body.

“You’re going to be a grandfather,” she’d told him, tears in her eyes.

He’d been delighted, of course, despite how perverse it all was. He couldn’t help it.

At some point he couldn’t even remember, at the hospital—victorious, raucous Viserys clapping Rhaenyra on the shoulder, congratulating her, laughing, loud and convivial—

Otto, hand on his daughter’s arm, her face pallid in her hospital bed. Are you alright?

Of course, just a few weeks later, predictably, it was only Alicent, entirely alone and completely exhausted, when he’d entered their house; his daughter on her own with tear tracks on her beautiful cheeks, dark circles beneath her big eyes, worn and half-awake and thin—

He’d taken the baby in his arms, his little grandson, the sweet boy.

(He looked so like Alicent—his old ornery grandfather couldn’t help but fall in love.)

“Go to bed,” he’d urged, as she’d cried, near incoherently, about his bottle, about his socks. “Alicent,” he’d told her again. “Alicent, you’ve got to get some rest.”

He’d put the squalling baby down, in his crib, only for a moment, to tend to her; Jacaerys had screamed when the warmth was gone—

(I’m sorry, little lad, he’d thought. You may be her baby, but she is mine.)

He’d found her asleep, only minutes later, in her slippers, on top of her covers; he’d taken them gingerly off of her feet, placed them down next to the bed, lifted her up just so, arm under her back, just to get her secure under her duvet, tucked her in gently, removed the clip from her auburn curls—

Returning to Jacaerys, then, finally: Perhaps you and I can hold the watch for a full night, us men.

Do this kindness, with me, for your beautiful mother.

Rhaenyra was nowhere to be found, of course. On an errand for Viserys; a chance to escape the actual responsibility of parenthood, which she’d almost certainly taken without hesitation, he was sure.

He’d laid on the ground, his back screaming at him, placed a wailing Jacaerys belly-down on his chest, and then lifted up into a sitting position, ever-so-softly; then back down, just as slowly. Again. And again.

This was easier, he thought ruefully, twenty-eight years ago.

Still, just like Alicent, all those eons ago—

His grandson loved the motion, the rocking, the calm of it. Fell right asleep.

“Look at him,” Viserys bragged, eyes alight, bouncing Jacaerys softly. “Isn’t he just a delight.”

Rhaenyra smiled beside him, Viserys’ nameday party buzzing behind them with an even lull. “Thank you, Father.”

Boremund Baratheon had nodded, beside a few of Viserys’ other sycophants. “He’s a healthy, hefty little lad, isn’t he?” They all laughed, chittered, murmured their agreement. Boremund looked to Rhaenyra. “Mustn’t have been easy for you.”

Otto stood, perfectly still, smile plastered upon his features. Rhaenyra—“Well, actually—”

“Finally, now,” Viserys said, then, eyes flitting to Otto. “Something my old friend and I can share between us that HMRC can’t audit.” More laughter, more flashing of teeth—“Look at our little grandson, Otto,” he smiled, tickling Jacaerys’ cheek. “Ours to spoil rotten.”

“Not too rotten,” Rhaenyra tempered.

Viserys raised his eyebrows, smirking in the jest of a challenge. Then—“Where’s your wife?”

Rhaenyra looked over her shoulder, brow furrowing. “I think she was off to greet Aunt Elys, but—" Otto watched her worry her hands, and nearly quirked a brow in pleasant surprise. Becoming an adult who might actually experience thoughts and feelings for others? How undecidedly out of character. “Here, I’ll take him—I might just make sure she’s—”

“No, no,” Viserys waved her off, smiling down at the baby who babbled back up at him with delight. “Go on, enjoy, I’ve got him.” Rhaenyra nodded, pressed a kiss to the baby’s cheek, made to head off—

“Go find her,” Viserys said, before she’d left, and he’d looked to Otto, grinning, then back to Boremund, back to Edric; he’d watched as Jace peered up at him with Alicent’s brown eyes, lovingly mussed the boy’s curly dark locks. “I’ll be here, with the littlest Targaryen.”

“You’re going to die.” He leveled.

Viserys sighed, coughed and sighed and looked back at him with the eyes of a man already gone. “Yes.”

“When.”

Viserys shook his head. “Not long.”

Otto put his hands in his pockets.

“Come now, Otto,” he’d said, as Otto had turned, pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have much to discuss.”

“I’m not allowed to mourn you?” He’d rounded on him, regret filling his gut not a second later—

Viserys only looked back at him with those worn, longing eyes.

“Rhaenyra doesn’t yet know,” Otto surmised.

“She’ll need to, soon. For obvious reasons. And, well. Professionally, of course.”

Otto was stock-still. “Professionally.”

“We should take Jacaerys for a day, to the park,” Viserys murmurs, then, toward the window, but Otto can barely hear him over the racing of his own thoughts—“You and I. I want to. Together.”

Otto waves his hand. “Finish your thought. About Rhaenyra.”

Viserys moved a stack of papers from his desk, lowered himself into his leather executive seat. “Well, she’ll need to assume control, if not legally in her own capacity then in my stead, sooner rather than later—but there’s much to be done before she can, and we’ll need to—”

Otto shook his head. “I had suspected, but—” He’d stopped himself, laughed, humorlessly. “Viserys. People depend upon this company. This is an institution. It isn’t just some family shop.”

“I’m well aware of that.” And then his eyes narrowed. “It seems there’s something you’d like to say, old friend.”

Otto sat, opened his jacket. “Indeed.”

Alicent, in a rage, a rage that almost gave him confidence that she could have been—

(Well, sadness that she could have been—)

“How could you!”

Equal parts disappointed and proud, he watched one of his whisky glasses shatter on the wall behind his desk; watched her pace, like a cornered mother doe, on long, graceful legs—She’s the mother of my children, your grandchildren, Viserys’ only child, how could you do this to us, how could you think to usurp her—

“It’s a mercy, Alicent.”

You and I both know.

She’d worked her hand around her neck, then pointed at him, fierce and horrible—

“You don’t get to tell me what I know and don’t, not anymore.”

(Are you happy about it? He wanted to ask. All that light locked up in that head of yours, done nothing but lay under Rhaenyra’s roof and nurse the next crop of Eton’s D-level passersby—

It’s time to take your medicine, my dear.)

(Over with, as her mother had said.)

“Viserys,” he said, as the tubes dripped into Viserys’ veins.

 He’d opened one eye, looked at him ruefully. “Otto.”

“Viserys, I am here one last time,” he adjusted his sheets, brought the water to his lips when Viserys grasped for it, all but gasping. “One last time to beg you to make the right decision.”

Viserys coughed, his lips turned down in a dead man’s glimmer of rage. “You,” he sputtered, “Are the hungriest man I have ever known.”

Otto fixed his eyes upon him. “War will follow, Viserys.”

His old friend nodded. “War, if you do not get what you want, the power you crave,” he nodded, a bent, jerking motion. “Surely it is so.”

Otto waited, for a moment. “I’ll take that as your final answer, however it hurts.”

“Take it to the bank, even.”

Otto looked down at his hands, then back up.

“I’ve only tried to help.” He’d sighed, pressed his fingers into his jaw, watched a wasp trapped in between the window screens, just there, in the light— “In my own way.”

“In some way,” Viserys coughed, “Indeed.”

“What will you tell Rhaenyra?”

“I shall hold confident the treason you have spoken in this room today,” Viserys whispered, through cracked and colorless lips. “So that you may aid her, as you aided me. That is my wish. If I was truly ever your companion at all.”

Otto pursed his lips, and then nodded.

“I fear we may not see one another again.”

Viserys leaned his head back, into the fluorescence, in a resigned sort of peace.

“How you have treated your only friend,” Viserys lamented, then, eyes closed. “It is no wonder nobody else made such a mistake.”

And then Otto left.

(Selfish spoiled cunt.)

He’d driven by the river and sat there, for a while, with a feeling he couldn’t explain.

Rhaenyra, only months after Viserys’ death, following Daemon to the bathroom.

Emerging, well—

(Like she thought nobody in that room had lived through the eighties.)

Alicent, watching, eyes wide and sad.

Don’t go home to that, he wanted to say. But he hadn’t.

She was an adult, after all, as he’d reminded himself; it wasn’t his place to interfere in their marriage, however concerned, however much he—

(Jacaerys, asleep on his chest.)

He watched her glide around the room, light and enticing and electric.

Do you have that shit in the house? With my daughter? And her child?

Then, Rhaenyra, months and months later still, cross-faded at their holiday gathering—

I know you know now, he’d thought to himself, watching her, watching his daughter. And yet you’ve chosen this.

(He dreams of rainy days, sometimes, getting shoved into the mud.)

Even with the child at home.

Forty years, a lifetime of dedication, of missed recitals; all up the nose of a dilettante.

They’re all the same, he thought, around and around, generation by generation, riding off of coattails and coattails, a dance—

(“An arabesque,” Viserys had said, once, too long ago now to remember.)

Alicent, handling Rhaenyra into their taxi, barely embarrassed, barely interested, face utterly impassive, that gaudy red rock still shining like a chain on her finger.

All her work, her efforts, her tears, the screaming on the violin, the mortification of the recitals, all the spreadsheets and sweat and blood she’d bled for it, the way he’d helped her straighten the hood of her graduand’s gown—

(You let those street rats rob you?)

I’ll teach you, he thought, as he chose, as he watched her. I’ll teach you to fight.

The shot that didn’t ring out—

“If I spoke to Laena,” Corlys Velaryon spat, “The way you do your own daughter, I’d put this in mine own mouth.”

Ah, yes, Otto mused. All so protective of Alicent, so long as she’s between four walls, bearing children for the cause.

“What are your terms, Corlys?”

I made this company, he wanted to say; To unmake it is only my right.

Corlys beat him against the wall; he took it on the nose, as always.

“I heard you were the man for this sort of… distasteful effort.”

Larys Strong only smiled. “I am a man of certain talents, to be sure.”

Otto nodded. “I’d imagine well-cultivated, over the years of your vulturous work.”

Larys smirked. “To some, maybe.”

“I’d like to free this city,” said Otto. “Free it of this grotesque enterprise, in all its dependence on weak and ineffectual and unpredictable putterers.”

Larys raised his brows. “That would be much a public service, indeed.”

He fingered a photo of Alicent on his desk, sipped his wine, smudged away the collected dust with his thumb. “She’ll thank me, one day, when I’ve freed her. And we’ll be one, again.”

Larys frowned, just barely. “Who?”

He’d only sighed.

“My oldest friend.”

Alicent in that stunning verdant dress, Alicent with the envelope, eyes burning—

I do regret what happened to you, he wanted to say. I do regret it. But not what happened to her.

He watched her dance; stayed for the speech, the one that felt almost genuine, that seemed almost real.

Her beautiful red hair, her glistening pink cheeks, a woman grown, indeed.

“Our horrible Pyrrhic victory,” she’d said to him.

(So like her mother, he’d only thought, in certain lights.)

He’d believed in her, then.

“You work for me.” He’d bellowed, fists balled, towering over that limp-dick freak—

“I have a duty to our venture, I’d remind,” Larys had said, with that same unsettling eerie calm, taking a sip of his wine, “One which I have served with the aid of certain volumes of… proprietary information, I should say.”

Otto had grabbed him out of the chair by the collar, without hesitation, knocked the cane out of his hand; thrown him like a sack of flour to the floor like the kid from the streets might have done—

(Edric—who’d overdosed two years prior—holding his ribs to the bar.)

He savored it, for a moment; finally, a true expression from that weasel—fear, real fear from that slippery child who thought he was so much smarter—

Larys, usually so sanguine, staring up at him in terror. Sweeter than Arbor red.

Otto had placed a foot on either side of his limp body, leaned down, sneering—

“Do I look like a mollycoddled well-bred banker to you?” He’d snatched the cane from the ground, pressed the rounded edge into his throat. “Do you think you can defy me without consequence, you leech? Nobody cares about you. Nobody knows who you are. Nobody will miss you. Nobody will notice. Tell that imbecile Cole to deliver our answer. We will accede to this settlement. That is my final answer.”

Larys coughed. “Our information—”

“Would ruin my daughter’s life, were it outed.” Otto growled. “As I have patiently, ad nauseam, explained. Don’t you ever forget who feeds you, you talentless vulture.”

Larys’ mouth curled as he watched the cane digging on his larynx. “That hurts.”

Otto only pushed the wood further into his throat.

“Believe me. I know how it feels.”

Harwin Strong looked back at him, weeks later, with Larys’ same amber eyes—almost unbelievably similar, staring out from a man so much more—

Human, maybe?

(Otto almost wondered how he ended up attracting that brother to his cause and not the other.)

“I understand my brother’s skills make him attractive in corporate feuds.” Harwin said. “I hope you also understand how unbelievably inappropriate it is for me to be here, in your home, in your personal study, without your counsel present, telling you this. So I hope you’ll consider this a personal errand on my part.”

Otto snorted. “I’m only curious what that errand should entail.”

“I understand the purpose of your war.” Harwin stated.

“Do you?”

“I do. The poaching clients, the precision strikes on the Targaryens, the founding of your own group to house the spoils; you’re attempting to destabilize the Pax Targaryana, if you will.” Harwin chuckled, then, almost, a small sound, seemingly only for himself. “But everyone needs a garbageman, in these nastier elements, which is where I suppose my brother fits in. But he doesn’t work for you, Mr. Hightower. He never works for anyone but himself.”

“If my pocketbook should reflect the truth,” Otto leveled, “It appears he only works for a check.”

“My brother doesn’t care about money.” And it was said so fast and so sternly that Otto almost found himself surprised. Then—“Alicent knows what you know. What I know. What he knows. What everyone cannot know.”

Otto raised a brow. “Is that some sort of confusing children’s song, or—”

Harwin had fixed him a look, then, the sort of gaze of a man far older and kinder and wiser than he’d had any business being. “Rhaenyra’s struggles. After Viserys. I’d always hoped that when this came out in this war—if ever it did—you’d understand.”

“How?” Otto sneered. “I’ve never been a burnout junkie.”

Harwin only sighed. “I did assume I’d be disappointed.”

“What am I supposed to understand?” Otto hissed. “That once again, even with a family depending on them at home, a Targaryen only ever thinks of—only ever serves—themselves?”

Harwin had only watched him, silently, for a moment.

“If I were you, I’d take your own advice, as far as familial loyalty figures in.”

Otto lifted his chin. “That is all I have been doing.”

Harwin shrugged. “You may wage your war. We may continue to hold you to account for these many breaches of your fiduciary duties of loyalty and care as an independent director of this company. You may do battle within Rhaenyra’s court; your daughter may continue to toil to resolve all of these matters and more. On and on it will go. But if that outs—Rhaenyra’s struggles with—” He’d stilled his hand, then holding Otto’s gaze—"Even you will be tainted by your proximity to the scandal. It would be the end. For everyone. Including Alicent.”

“I can say with absolute certainty that I have no interest in that information becoming public.”

Harwin had raised a brow, picked up his coat, pushed in his chair. “It would not end Larys.” He’d added. “Something to consider.”

Otto hummed.

Then, on his way out: “He’s a dangerous man, Mr. Hightower. Maybe even more dangerous than you. I only beseech you to see it.”

“We never spoke, this day,” Otto called, reminding him.

“Indeed, we never did.” And then the door shut.

He’d looked back at the document with nothing but surprise.

More generous than Harwin had explained, he thought to himself. Far more generous.

Why?

He’d looked at Larys, but as usual, the snake offered nothing but its impassive, impetuous gaze.

“Almost,” he’d said, his eyes remaining on his associate, fingering the pages of the NDA, “Leaves one to wonder what that titanic thing is intended to cover.”

After Harwin Strong had left, rounding on his grotesque brother without a thought—

“Did you threaten my daughter?”

Larys had merely smiled. “We play an ugly game.”

“You work for me,” he’d demanded, almost desperate, collar dragging against his fingers. “You work for me.”

“You intended to win, I’m winning,” Larys offered. “You intended to compete, I’m competing.”

“No,” Otto said, loosing him. “This isn’t how—”

“How it was supposed to conclude?” Larys smirked, raising a brow.

“My interest is in the Group, the enterprise, not in their personal—"

“Cole and I only have your daughter’s best interests in mind.”

“You have in mind your own pocketbook, funded by this war.”

“I believe you’ve done the right thing.”

And it’s something about how he says it, then.

And he pushed him back into his chair, stood, took his coat. “I’m reneging. Right now.”

Larys shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

“And why is that, you viper?”

Larys merely grinned. “Cole feels very strongly about the threat which you and Mr. Strong have levied against your daughter to obtain settlement of this arduous case, you see.”

“That I—?”

“He knows how hungry you are, Mr. Hightower.” Larys laughed, an awful, wheezing sound. “Even after all this time.”

And then it clicked. And he hit him. And then, old man that he was, dashed down the stairs.

There, in the parking garage, sweat blooming on his face—

“Mr. Strong, get out of—!”

Harwin turned and then the shot rang out, louder than a siren’s wail.

“Don’t—"

Things moved more slowly, after that.

Harwin’s shoulder exploded and he screamed, collapsed to the concrete by his car. Otto reached out to catch him—

And then Harwin was over him, eyes panicked, asking something, over and over again—

His chest felt warm, then cold.

Harwin’s hands were on him, cell phone in the crook of his neck and shoulder, he was shouting, shouting into his face—

Don’t—

“I can’t,” he said, and his sleeve was wet against Harwin’s shoulder as he gripped him. “I can’t. Alicent.”

Harwin’s voice was muggy and velvet, muffled and underwater.

You’re bleeding, he wanted to say, as Harwin’s shirt turned red.

(Sometimes, in his office, when he was alone, years and years ago, he used to put his records on. Always after work, like it was a treat, like he wasn’t allowed to enjoy himself, until—

Always the old hits, something he’d allow himself to dance to, there, alone when nobody was watching, when nobody could care. Like the teenage years he’d spent crunching numbers, like a feeling he’d missed, like there was still a young man inside of him, dancing along to American records.

He’d sing along to Adrian Belew, sometimes, listen to his daughter’s trill, clear as a bell—

Oh Daddy, when you gonna be a big star?)

Harwin shouted again, far away.

(Oh Daddy, are you gonna make a million bucks?)

“Alicent,” he said, again. And then—

(She took me to the garden. She said we might go again tomorrow.)

“Careful, now,” Alicent says, adjusting Jace’s hands where they grasp Helaena’s. “We want to support her, my sweet, not pull her, right? So she can go on her own—”

The front door opens. Jace grins, helping Helaena toddle along on unsteady feet on the plush rug—“Good job!” He says, smiling with wide brown eyes, “Look, she’s almost got it—”

It’s Rhaenyra, deadly quiet, standing stock-still in the doorway, jacket still on, face open and rueful and dark.

(Alicent already begs to never see this expression again.)

"Sweetling,” Alicent entreats, almost in question.

Rhaenyra exhales, slowly, and then steps aside, opens the door wider, so Lyla and their nurse can enter.

“My love,” she says, softly. “Would you please fetch your coat?”

She drives her out, far out, to the countryside, past the lorry trucks, until she can pull over by a glen, until they’re utterly and completely alone.

“Rhaenyra,” she asks, offering her hand over the console, and finds herself surprised by how tightly Rhaenyra takes it. “Where are we?”

And again, almost familiarly, Rhaenyra looks vacant and far away.

Then she gets out of the car; walks around to Alicent’s side, opens the door. She swings her legs over, to get out—Rhaenyra’s hands fall on her knees, then, and stop her.

She crouches down, on the gravel, takes Alicent’s hands in her own, looks up at her.

And there are tears in her eyes.

“Gods, Rhaenyra—” she jerks one of her hands away from that vice-like grip, brings it to her wife’s mournful face, brow contorting—“What in seven hells is going on? Are you alright? Are you—”

Rhaenyra only captures her hand again, and holds her in solemn blue contemplation, sure and sad. Brings her fingers to her lips.

“My heart; my love,” Rhaenyra begins.

He’s on his smoke break, finally. Been trucking along for hours. Thinks of taking a drink; remembers the last swerve, how he’d promised the wife he’d never try that shite again, much as it made the road easier. (A little white lie here and there, though.)

He stares out through the cold expanse. Spots something on the road some ways away. It’s two women, it looks like. Standing up.

Then one of them’s angry, looks like. Uh-oh, he chuckles.

But then the ciggie falls from his lips. His brow furrows.

One of the women collapses. Falls to the knees of the other. Screams.

He gets back in his truck.

The monitor beeps softly, faintly, like it’s not even there, like he’s not even there.

Alicent sits in the chair beside him. Fingers the edge of her blue sweater.

She moves the blanket further under his elbows; watches his chest rise and fall with the machine.

He’s not quite awake; but we do believe he can hear you, they’d told her.

She’d watched the shadow bloom on his face over two unending days. We’ve got to shave him, she’d said. They’d smiled sympathetically and no one had listened at all.

She grips his hand, turns with the other, throws another discarded coffee cup into the bin beside her chair. She strokes his knuckles.

“Father,” she whispers.

His counsel comes by, the day following.

Both men are under arrest.

(Criston, laughing and bright, only twenty years old, so long ago, mooning the Dean’s window—

“Run!” They’d whispered, as the bulldogs came shouting and waving their flashlights. He’d taken her hand, dashed away alongside her—“Come on, come on, faster!” He’d giggled, mischievous and earnest. “I won’t do well in prison, you know!”)

She’d only nods.

“You remain the executor of his estate,” he tells her, unbuttoning his suitcoat, “And, as of the doctors’ prognosis this morning, you may now exercise power of attorney, for all necessary medical and financial decisions,” he’d fumbles, then, for a moment. “That may come. In the following days.”

Days.

“You’ll need to go through the terms of his estate,” he reminds. “And assume control over his particulars.”

“Yes, yes.” She says. “I understand.”

Rhaenyra drives her back to her family home on the same road as always, watching the same trees pass as always, staring out on the passenger side, as always, Rhaenyra looking at her mournfully, plaintively, sorry, as always.

She walks around to her side, after they park—

“I can open it,” she says. “I can open the door.”

Rhaenyra relents, and merely stands, waiting.

She unlocks the door with a key from his counsel, and moves through, to the back, to the office. Stares out at the files that had been drawn out and stacked, organized so neatly for her purview.

He was always meticulous, she thinks. Like me.

(Gods above.)

“Can I—” Rhaenyra tries, starts, then tries again. “Can I make you a sandwich?”

“In here?” And Alicent smiles, then, sadly. “You wouldn’t even know where to find a plate.”

Rhaenyra merely nods. Straightens her coat.

“Why don’t you take that off,” Alicent says, sliding her hands under the shoulders, undoing a button. “Be comfortable, my love—I can find something—”

Then Rhaenyra catches her hands, both of them, captures her eyes. “Stop.”

So she does. “Stop, stop. Just—come here. Come here.” She works her way around Alicent’s waist, draws her nearer to her chest, waits until Alicent fits herself against her body, and then waits again, longer, longer, for the release—

And then a weight falls off of Alicent’s body and she curls, unguarded and gripping and sad, against Rhaenyra’s neck, her middle, fitting her fingers against the wool of her sweater.

“Let me hold you,” Rhaenyra whispers, as no tears fall, as she untenses, muscle by muscle. “Just let me hold you.”

There’s a picture of Alicent holding a violin in the hallway. Otto stands beside her. Neither look particularly happy.

“After my fifth year recital,” Alicent explains. She looks back at the photograph, squeezes Rhaenyra’s hand where it reaches for her, in the big chair, at that big desk she remembers from when she was eye-level with it.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“No,” She wipes the dust away. “Because I wasn’t good.”

“You don’t have to have been good to have liked it.”

“No, but I did, back then.” Then Alicent turns away, toward another file, continues making notes of numbers to call. “Practised all the time. Just wasn’t musical, I guess.”

“Hm.”

Then she looks back, almost smiling, at the picture, her father’s attempt at a grin. “I think we both hated those things.”

Later, they find an image, tiny and colorless and ancient, in a drawer of the desk. It’s a tall boy, Otto, and a stout man, with a belly and a stained apron and a big cigar.

“Who is that?” Rhaenyra asks.

Alicent looks; shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“You need to go,” she says, when it’s dark, when Otto’s grandfather clock chimes again. “The children.”

“You as well.”

Alicent shakes her head. “My place is here, for now.”

Rhaenyra frowns, that small, almost pouting expression, strokes her knuckles. “You’re not staying here to do this alone.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. I won’t have it.”

Alicent raises a brow; wraps an arm around her shoulders, invites her to take her waist. “You won’t have it, will you?”

“No, I won’t. You’re not going through this alone.”

She sighs, thumbs Rhaenyra’s jaw, allows the blonde to kiss her, then, softly. “In this house, I’m afraid,” she admits, “That has always been my lot.”

She finally coaxes Rhaenyra to the car with a low blow—

“Jacaerys will be nervous.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “A desperate attack.”

“Still,” Alicent replies, tracing the line of the jacket across her shoulders, “Still true, all the same.”

Rhaenyra finally removes herself, finally walks to the driver’s side, finally sets her bag in the back—

“I’m sending Erryk.”

Alicent frowns. “Whyever for?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “Security, for one. And—whatever you like. Send him for anything you need.”

“The Group needs him, you need him. You have to keep him at his actual work, Rhaenyra.”

She smiles, starts the engine on a low hum. “It’s my company. I don’t have to do anything.” She winks. “Remember?”

Harwin rolls his shoulder in the bandages, winces.

“Maybe don’t move it after they tell you don’t move it,” Rhaenyra chides, stilling his arm.

He shrugs. “I figure, the better I can do, the faster they’ll take this thing off me.”

“What, the tape holding your arm on your body?”

He chortles. “It’s only my left. Nothing I really need it for.”

She rolls her eyes so hard she wonders if they’ll fall out of her head.

“Can you please,” she says, pressing the bandages to his side, “Not be a fucking idiot for a second and try to actually survive.”

“We’re past the surviving point,” he reminds. “You’re officially stuck with me until retirement, unless you formally dismiss me as counsel.”

“Right. We’ll be looking for a barrister with two arms, actually.”

He laughs, then sighs, then looks back at her. “I know you must be nervous.”

She works her jaw. “Will it out?”

“No, no. Not anymore, anyway.”

“I’m sure your brother has scores of spiders who can leak—”

“No.” He shakes his head, sanguine. “It’s all part of the Crown investigation, now. It’s not allowed to be published. Incident to potentially ongoing criminal activity. And besides, he’d never play his trump card for spite.”

“I can’t believe Otto would direct such mutually-assured destruction.”

“No,” Harwin says, softly. “I don’t believe Otto did.”

She frowns. “What?”

He rolls his shoulder again, avoiding her critical eye. “At the last second. He betrayed him. Bugged my brother’s phone and records and made arrangements to have those tapes forwarded to me, in case he ever acted against his instructions. And I received them—forty-eight hours ago, or so. I think he had never before met a man he truly couldn’t control.” He gives her an eye. “I tell you this confidentially as your counsel, of course.”

“Of course.”

He shrugs, winces. “I don’t expect he meant to spare you, Rhaenyra. He was intent on dismantling your work, your father’s, your company. He wanted to hurt you. Professionally, at least. But not her.”

“Why?”

“Well, because she’s his daughter, I imagine—”

“No. Why to you. Why turn that all over to you?”

Harwin shakes his head. “I don’t think Otto had many friends, at the end of it.”

“But you weren’t friends.”

“No.” He catches her eye, then. “Though we understood each other. You see, I had never hurt him, either.”

One time, after college, they’d done ecstasy together in Amsterdam and had sex in the hotel that was so good that Alicent wonders (worries? hopes?) if, one day, it’ll be her clearest lasting memory.

Something about Rhaenyra’s silver hair in the pink LED light, the thrum of whatever horrendous blaring music she’d decided to play, coming up like a tiger between her legs, eyes glinting and glazed—

Putting a plastic cup of tonic and Belvedere to her wet lips, then pouring it over her bra; her hands fisting into silver hair glowing pink as Rhaenyra’s tongue—

Pushing her over, still dripping—in more ways than one—straddling her, pinning her down by the shoulders, twisting like a snake, stretching like a cat, leaning down, to put lips and teeth to her neck—

Holding an ice cube to the divet at the base of her neck (which she knew Rhaenyra hated); dragging it lower, watching the predatory challenge darken her eyes—lower, along her sternum, past the stomach, still—

“Surrender,” Alicent commanded.

She’d dragged Rhaenyra off the bed, then; pushed her up against the wall; fell to her knees.

She finds it, in her old room, crumpled somewhere under the bed—

The old Rijksmuseum brochure, discarded out of whatever suitcase.

How did it even end up back in this room?

Stranger, still, to think of a piece of that here. He’d been so happy that they’d made the trip, though.

(“I want my family to live better than I,” he’d admitted, in a moment of honesty. “Well, have a bit more fun, at least.”)

She finds a photograph of her mother.

(He never kept them out. She didn’t ask why. They were the same, in that regard.)

It’s in his desk, with the photo of the stout man.

She looks young, but not happy. Neither of them do. Him in his tuxedo, her resplendent evening gown. Other tuxedos meander in the dark, washed background. But she sees their hands, then—clasped together, clasped tight, allies in the din.

She knows the feeling.

Still, it’s Mummy—so she sits down and puts her hand over her face and cries her eyes out, like always.

His records take eons to move through, as organised as he is.

They all match the ones she’s seen. His disclosures to the court had been accurate, at least.

How could you do this to me.

But as she pieces together the math of the attacks she begins to wonder if she was ever the target at all.

When a stack of unclipped papers splash upon the floor, flutter underneath the cabinet, she sighs, gets up, heaves it to the side, just a tad, so she can drag them back with the end of a fly swatter—

Something else falls down from its place once pinned against the wall, between the wood.

She picks it up, turns it over. It’s a photograph.

It’s Viserys—

Viserys and Otto, only boys, in their tailcoats. Her father, smiling, top hat donned; Viserys, behind him, with his rattan school cane raised like a cricket bat, as though to knock it off.

In pen, on the back, in her father’s tiny, cursive script—

You should’ve! Remember me up north, will you.

That second night, she leaves her own room. Walks down the hall. Opens the door.

It’s the smell, familiar enough to untangle the knots in her very soul.

She collapses into his bed that night, fits her face into his sheets, arms wide open.

Rhaenyra shows up, on the fourth day, directs Erryk aside; arrives back at the house only a little while after Alicent’s returned from the hospital.

“Alicent,” she calls, closing the door behind her.

Alicent emerges, then, in a Cambridge sweater and a pair of her old socks, like a living image of the past.

(Like they’d never had two children; like they were still here, in this house, sneaking around like an open secret, offering perfunctory greetings to her father.)

“Hello,” she says, simply.

Rhaenyra sighs. “Alicent,” she laments. “It’s time to come home.”

She leads Rhaenyra back into the house, its bowels, back into the study.

Opens a little side drawer, pushes some pens and paperclips and cards aside—

Lifts it up, from the bottom, covered in his fingerprints. Hands Rhaenyra the photograph.

She looks down at it, a warfield of emotion. “Why would he have kept this? He didn’t even want it.”

“She’s his granddaughter, too.” Alicent says, eyes tracing the edges of the ultrasound. “Ultimately.”

Rhaenyra is quiet for a moment.

“I feel like I took things from you,” she says, finally. “A lot of things. This, most of all. Our inability to ever just fucking get along. It—”

“Nobody was going to.” Alicent states. “Nobody was going to make their apologies and show good will. Nobody was going to lay down their arms, especially not at the end, and he didn’t, either. You didn’t take it, Rhaenyra. It was already gone.”

Rhaenyra’s hand finds its way around her waist, the other up her neck, cupping her jaw, softly.

“It’s been four days,” she reminds, softly.

“I know.”

Then—“I know someone who will be very excited to see you.” Rhaenyra finds her hand, rubs her knuckles, then, softly.

And Alicent’s eyes flit back to the photograph. “I know.”

Helaena giggles and squeals and reaches and Alicent snatches her right up into her arms, rocks from side to side, presses her lips to her head, basks in that baby smell that she wonders how she ever went a matter of moments without.

My girl, my girl, she coos.

Jace finally parts with his treehouse to dash inside—“Mummy?”

And she crouches down and offers him her other hand, and he buries his face into her neck, just opposite his sister, and she presses her eyes shut and holds them close.

Just a few paces away, Rhaenyra straightens a hanging frame, the Winged Knight gleaming beneath the glass.

Harwin arrives, later, to Rhaenyra’s office, where they wait for him.

She throws her arms around him when he enters; she can’t help it.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs.

“I should tell you the same,” he replies.

They sit.

“Criston Cole,” he begins, “Has been charged with attempted homicide, and will not be released from custody. Not until the termination of his trial. My brother, on the other hand, has proved harder to pin down. Well—he’s not been deemed violent, anyway. And thus he’ll be granted bail, which I can only assume he will post.”

Rhaenyra’s nostrils flare. “So he’ll be free.”

“Well—tagged. And only temporarily. His case is very weak. It would take a miracle for CPS to lose him.”

Alicent nods.

“What of my father’s case? And ours?”

Harwin shrugs. “Easy enough to dismiss both without much procedure. We need not continue, of course. Especially once—” He pauses. Looks down at his shoes. “Well.”

Alicent works her jaw. “He could still—he may still pull through.”

“Yes, of course.”

“We don’t have to just dismiss him, outright, like he’s nothing.”

“Of course. I understand. I apol—”

“Because I should think we’re far past the point of underestimating him, now.”

Rhaenyra catches her hand. “My love—”

“He’s not just going to lay down for it.” She says, and suddenly she’s standing, before she knows it, standing over them both, fists balled, shoulders up, tense, pinned to her place. “He’s not just going to collapse after all this time because your—Criston—because this nobody with a gun managed to—”

Rhaenyra’s standing, then, too, working her fist open, arm snaking around hers. “Sweetling—”

“No, you thought so too—” Suddenly her finger is in Rhaenyra’s face, and there’s something behind her eyes, burning, and she expects to feel tired, but she doesn’t—it’s like wildfire moving through her, she’s never been more on in her entire fucking life, not rage, something else, something heavier. “You thought we were finally rid of him, too, didn’t you, didn’t you?” And she pushes her back, together behind the desk, really pushes her against the chest and in some liminal space in her mind knows how much she’ll regret it, when she finds her mind again, that is—

But Rhaenyra doesn’t move. Like she never even tried. Like she’d been shoving against stone.

“Didn’t you—”

And Rhaenyra catches her hand, and somewhere behind, Harwin’s counsel voice, strong and deep and comforting—“Alicent—”

But it’s only Rhaenyra before her, in the yellow light of the corner lamp, in the ambience of the window, the city glowing soft, like paper stars. “Did you think it?” She can hear the thickness of her voice as it snaps but can’t feel it, not really. “Did you think it? Tell me you thought it. Happy to be done with him, after all this time, all these bitter years, the bloodshed and the trauma and the fights and barbs and unending dinner parties, his demands and the way he never liked you like everyone else always does—” And her fists are hard on Rhaenyra’s chest, but she only looks back at her, from those blue pools of Avalon, stretching long and deep and sad. “All the times he made me cry, like you always said you hated, did you think it?” she demands, and her fingers work their way to clench like vices around Rhaenyra’s collar.

Then, softer than a whisper—“Because I did.”

She hears Rhaenyra dismiss Harwin. She hears the door close. She feels herself held in Rhaenyra’s arms. Smells the familiar smell, feels the hand against her back and the lips against her hair.

She gets driven home and isn’t sure when. The scenic view. She watches the lights ripple off of the edges of the water; watches the ridges of the waves sinking into the twilight.

“Interesting.” He says, swirling a cigar. “We’d blow this right open.”

“The source is shaky,” his reporter replies. “But it’s solid. I think. Though I have a feeling CPS may have something to say about it.”

Arrian Peake snorts. “It doesn’t matter,” then he picks up the page, looks at the blurry image of Rhaenyra Targaryen with her hand on her nose. “Nobody won’t be buying this.”

“You’re an institution, Mr. Peake,” his reporter beams. “And this will prove it.”

He hums, fingers a bald brow. “I should say.”

And then Beren from copy is running up on his chicken legs—“Sir. The owners are here.”

“Wipe your glasses, you nit. Lyonel Tyrell is in Italy.”

“Sir,” he says, shakily, “Lyonel is no longer the owner of this particular paper.”

Arrian rips the cigar from his lips. “You mean to tell me I don’t know who owns my damn publication—”

“It’s his daughter.”

And then there’s a girl standing before him, with a messy bun and a bookbag.

“Sir, this is Leona Tyrell—"

“What?” He laughs. “You? You here to sell me chocolates for the poor?”

And the child is trembling, visibly, and he almost laughs.

“You look like a wet puppy,” he barks, chortling.

“You won’t be running the cover story,” she says, quietly. “On the Targaryens.”

His brows shoot up to his forehead and he nears her, with his broad chest and hard gaze, steps into her space. “What was that, little lady?”

“I said,” she says, again, “You won’t be moving forward with that story.”

“Says who? You?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Indeed.”

He laughs, turns back, waves her away. “Please. I’m sure someone can find you an apple juice and see your way out—”

“Or you’re fired.”

And he whips back around, face turning red.

“What,” he whispers, “Did you just say.”

“If you run that story, you’re fired.”

From the edge of his periphery Arrian can see the typing stop, see his reporters’ mouths fall open. Watch chickenshit Beren shake in his little boots.

“I’ve helmed this paper for thirty-five years,” he says, stalking toward her. “Since before you were an ill-timed squirt in your mother’s cunt. You can’t fire me. Run along, you little—”

“You’re fired. Get out.”

And he’s standing right up to her chest. Looking full down at her. Bearing with his weight.

Her hand twitches—

And then she brings them in front of her, folds them together.

“I said get the fuck out of my building. This is your week’s notice. Leave.” She looks back at the newsroom. “And if I see even a shred of this on my desk, from this paper—tomorrow or anytime else—I’ll do the same. To every single person in this room. Is that understood?”

And then, like clockwork, the milling continues.

She looks back to Arrian, who’s backed off, nearly incredulous. “Do you need a box for your things? You ill-timed flick of my father’s pen?”

It was Alicent clenching around her fingers; Rhaenyra whispering, in one of her more desperate moments, sometimes I miss the feeling of my baby inside you.

Alicent’s arms wrapped snug around her shoulders, holding her fast to her body; letting Rhaenyra run tender fingers through her curls when she snaked down to put her own mouth on her, hungry and attentive and loving.

They’d had sex plenty of times; but it was this, Rhaenyra on top of her, all around her, arms around her, around her middle, her waist, being so gentle, so sweet. Rhaenyra withdrawing slow, so slow, after her second orgasm, scarcely letting her out of her tight hold, pulling the covers up around them, asking do you need your water, and does that feel good?  when she knew Rhaenyra knew it did, when she was sure, so sure.

The aftercare of the water placed in her hands, the bath that was run, the arms around her middle, lips on the back of her neck in bed, later.

I love you, Rhaenyra says, after, when she’s almost asleep; and Alicent knows it means more than her wife could ever try to explain.

“Criston believed the settlement was the result of a threat,” Harwin explains, as he pulls out onto the motorway. “A threat against Alicent. Which, I believe, is why he acted. I have some strange texts in discovery about not suffering threats to her anymore.”

Rhaenyra waves him off. “I always knew he was a psycho, somewhere underneath. I need no convincing there.”

“Well,” Harwin says, looking over his shoulder to merge, “I quite agree. But Larys is going to be another thing altogether.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “He’ll be nothing at all.”

Harwin frowns. “Well, maybe, but I highly doubt he’ll go without a fight—”

“You can pull off, here.”

He takes the exit. They continue down the road, toward the industrial areas.

“And a left at the next.”

He turns to her. “We’re headed toward the dockyards.”

“Quite.”

They pull up to the warehouses just as the sun begins to disappear behind the skyline.

Daemon is already there. They park a few paces before him, get out.

He smiles in front of a black car. The windows are tinted beyond all visibility.

Harwin wonders, idly, if he can make out a silhouette in the backseat.

“You can’t,” Daemon says, then, as though reading his mind. “He’s in the trunk.”

And then he and Rhaenyra both laugh; but he’s not sure if they’re kidding, not really.

“What are you going to do?” Rhaenyra says, half-admiring, half-scolding. “Cut out his tongue?”

“Oh, no,” Daemon smiles. “He can keep his tongue.”

Then she shakes her head, and they laugh again, almost as though he’s not even there; and she hands him an envelope.

Daemon shakes it with a grin. “I’ll give Cregan my regards.”

Then he drives off.

“Anyway,” she says, patting Harwin on his good shoulder, “Had to take care of that errand. We can head toward the offices, now.”

He drives them away, as she sits prim and relaxed beside him. And he wonders.

Days later, it’s reported that Larys fled, to the Canary Islands and then, Mexico. He’s made a low-priority INTERPOL Red Notice. And then, it’s as though even his memory disappears.

It seems like something he’d do, Harwin thinks, when he reads the news. His brother’s done business in both places. Has friends in both places. Probably the most likely outcome, he thinks, of that absurd decision on bail.

But still. He’s seen Rhaenyra, when it’s about her wife.

She returns to his house, one last time, to collect it.

Ascends the stairs, in the dim daylight, swallowed by all that mahogany, all those ornate frames, all the dark finery, the tapestries—all the darkness that cost too much and never brought him but a momentary feeling of peace.

But it’s not with her jewelry, with the rest of her things.

She finds it in the first drawer of the nightstand, on his side.  

She opens the tiny box and peers down at the gleaming white diamond.

Snaps it back shut. Makes her way back to the car. Passes the framed photo of her mother, the one in the foyer, the one she’d placed there, last time, by the window; to be out, to be seen.

And then—without thinking—grabs it off the console, takes it with her.

Locks the door. Starts the car. Begins to glide away—in the driver’s seat, this time.

Otto dies on the shortest day of the year, the shortest and brightest and sunniest and clearest day Corlys has ever seen in London.

He lets Alicent, and Rhaenyra, take their moment; Rhaenys, too, who waits, patient and maternal, outside the room.

Corlys smiles, kneeling down to Jacaerys, who sits silent and respectful (and confused, he imagines) on one of those plastic hospital chairs, flying a golden dragon figurine quietly over his knee.

“How about you and I go for a turn on the swings, lad?”

Corlys takes Jace to the park; holds his hand as they cross, then, just as they’re coming upon the climbing frame, looses him—

He dashes to the swings, filled with delight; calls thank you! to another child, leaving with his mother, who holds the swing out for Jace to grasp its rubber-coated chain.

“Look!” He calls, as he kicks. “I can do it by myself!”

Corlys puts his hands on his hips. “Does that mean you don’t want to see Uncle’s special trick?”

And then Jacaerys gasps. “Can I please?”

Corlys shakes his head, grinning. “For you, little lad,” he says. “Anything.” And then he gets behind the swing. “You holding on, there, lad? You ready?”

“Yes I am!”

And with the mocking exaggeration of a heaving groan, Corlys pushes him up, up, up, until he can run underneath the swing; turns to watch Jace flying through the air, hands tight on the chains, smile wide as his face, curls flying in the sun, delighted.

“He’ll pay.” Rhaenyra says, later, when they’re alone. “For his betrayal. And anyone who contributed. I promise.”

Alicent shakes her head. “Criston, I can’t…” She squeezes her eyes shut; then looks back, back down at her hands, back up at her wife. “It wasn’t Criston. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t, not really.” She sighs. “I see that now.”

She waits, for a moment, watches the light refract across that damned desolate hospital window. “His ambition killed him as much as the shot. His hunger.” And she draws her arms up around herself, in the still air of the room, lets it hang. “He ate himself.”

Then—moments later, Rhaenyra huffs. “I only hope he got what he wanted.”

“He did.” And she says it so quickly that it shocks her, that Rhaenyra looks up, furrows her brow in question. “He did get what he wanted. In the end. Look at us, Rhaenyra, look at the way we live. Look at our children. Beyond the meticulous records he left, the unbelievably organised inheritance he engineered, all his dots and crosses, it wouldn’t have even mattered. His grandchildren happy, in that big safe house. It’s so far from where he started, Rhaenyra, you couldn’t even imagine. He got exactly what he wanted—we’re good, don’t you see?” And she takes her hands, soft and light as ever. “We’re good. And he almost ruined it, I know, but he didn’t. And we are. We’re happy.”

She sighs, like she’s taking off a weight, like she’s releasing something. “We’re happy.”

Rhaenyra bounces Helaena in her arms, when they bury him; Helaena doesn’t cry that day—merely peers over at her auburn-haired mother, like she can understand the multitude of thoughts, the blended technicolor of emotions she must feel. Rhaenyra rocks her side-to-side, keeping a hand on the soft velvet of Alicent’s black dress.

She holds her hand as Alicent says goodbye, one last time.

Then, before the service is over—a man approaches; young, stocky, with a potbelly and a kind smile.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” he greets, with wide, big eyes. “Alicent.”

She turns away from another guest, politely, eyes red-rimmed but sure, solid—“Oh! Oh, you came. Thank you.”

“I was afraid you might not recognize me, from only the pictures.”

Rhaenyra watches them embrace, smiles.

“I’m so happy for you to meet my wife—this is Rhaenyra.”

She offers her hand; he shakes it.

“Morton Andrey,” he says, with a sweet, lopsided grin. “Though you probably know it as my grandfather’s name.”

Alicent squeezes his arm, looks upon him with utter delight. “I’m so happy we found you.”

And they embrace, again, he and her, before he leaves. Rhaenyra watches her wife; watches it settle her, in some way.

She gets in the car, dutifully, like Rhaenyra asks; lets her open the door, presses a kiss to her lips before she slides inside, her hand cradling Rhaenyra’s jaw. Holds her hand, lets Rhaenyra massage her knuckles as she drives, slow and easy, across town.

Until they pull up, smooth and quiet, alongside the outline of an old shop.

“Your friend Morton helped me find it,” Rhaenyra says.

They get out. Alicent watches a family emerge with a sack of groceries.

“It’s a food pantry,” Rhaenyra says.

Then Alicent turns. “I don’t—”

“It’s your food pantry. Well, ours, actually. We’ve donated it.” Rhaenyra smiles, that small half-smile, and then she joins their fingers. “Everything here is reduced, for the local community. And free, to families with children.”

She’s quiet, for a moment. “This is where my father grew up.”

“Yes.”

“You did this?”

“Well, through a trust, actually,” Rhaenyra replies. “In his name.”

Then, in that moment, her eyes finally find the sign on the window.

Otto’s.

“We can change it, if it’s too…” Rhaenyra trails off. “You know. Listen, I know I was never your father’s most…ardent supporter. And I know my own father never really understood where he came from, I know, I know he never appreciated it, and how that must have felt, but I—”

And then her voice cracks, and she stops, and finds Alicent’s eyes. “But I want you to know I admire it. I do. I always have. I should have said it to him, sometime, but it felt condescending, and of course there was everything else, so I thought—” she shakes her head. “I don’t know. I thought, maybe, this. For him. My way of—” she stops herself. “Our way, I suppose. Of saying thanks. Or goodbye. But tell me if it’s too much, I understand, I don’t want to—”

And Alicent rips her gloves off her hands and lets them drop clean to the ground so she can cup Rhaenyra’s cheeks, skin against skin, and draw her in and take her breath away.

“I love you,” she says, fingers soft against her cheekbone. “I love you, Rhaenyra.”

A little boy skips out of the shop and down the pavement beside them, a Rolo clutched in his mitten.

The sun peaks, then, from behind a cloud. Rhaenyra smiles.

Chapter Text

She remembers it from somewhere; a lyric, her father’s voice, maybe;

If you feel it once, you’ll feel it everywhere.

It’s bone-deep, even on the summer days when it’s cold; and her good father still haunts her, in her sleep, when his memory is so vivid she almost misses him.

The steadiness of his voice, the reliability of his ire, the rock of his enmity.

Rhaenyra sleeps soundly at night, knowing he cannot trouble them; and lays awake, wondering of the cost—

(Alicent, sometimes, on the back porch of the country house when she thinks everybody’s still asleep, clutching Rhaenyra’s winter jumper around her middle, bent prone in a silent, soft cry.

And Alicent in the city, softly readying Jace’s bookbag for school.)

On and on it goes, in the cold, when it blooms again, to the summertime.

Helaena is particular, at four. Whip-smart, clever, sweet as the day is long; but particular.

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent plates food without touching it together as though she’s handling an allergen; helps Helaena put her toys back in exactly the places she likes to find them, makes sure the fruit is cut exactly in predictable shapes, holds her so, so gently when the world’s too loud. Rhaenyra wants to talk about it, whether they should worry that these things bother their daughter at all. To her credit, Helaena never complains; it’s never a fight, never a fit—just a discomfort. An anxiety, a great uneasiness, like the world is rubbing her the wrong way.

But it’s the nighttime ritual that gets her—the way Alicent arranges everything just so; the way she kneels by the bath in her pearlescent slip, up to her elbows in bubbles, red curls cascading down her back, rinsing Helaena’s silver hair with such surgical precision so that the soap never, never, runs in her eyes; the way she carries her back to bed wrapped in one of Rhaenyra’s oversized bath towels (because they smell like you, Alicent had explained, so I’m afraid you’re barred from switching shampoos until she’s off to uni) and tucks her in. And then, like clockwork, she reads from start to finish her Big Book of Bugs—every night with a lilt of perfect surprise and intrigue and wonderment like it’s the first time she’s ever seen it.

“Oh, look, Helaena,” Alicent always entices, smiling, pointing to the pictures. “Can you find two praying mantises eating dinner?”

And as always, Helaena eagerly points them out. “Here.”

Rhaenyra watches from the doorway one evening as Alicent plants a kiss atop her head, closes her eyes for a moment—it’s Helaena’s baby smell, still the same in one exact spot. “That’s right. My wonderful, clever girl.”

One summer day, Helaena has gone out somewhere in the garden and discovered the most enormous cockroach Rhaenyra has ever seen. It’s so utterly gargantuan that at first she thinks Helaena’s cradling a leaf. Rhaenyra’s never particularly minded them (not that she likes them); but for Alicent—it’s a war.

(Kill it, she’d once told Rhaenyra, crouched on a kitchen chair with a broom in her hands.

Rhaenyra had laughed out loud, dodged a swat from the broom, trapped it with a cup and paper. “I’ll go toss it outside—”

“No.” Alicent was practically rabid. “I said kill it.”)

“Mummy,” Helaena calls, and she skips over to the wicker sofa, presents it to Alicent like a prized gift. “Look. He’s so pretty.” She strokes its back with her finger.

Alicent practically turns green.

“Hold him?”

And Helaena’s eyes are so excited, so plaintive, so earnest. Rhaenyra’s about to jump in and take the fall—“I’d love to hold him, my darling—”

But then Alicent sets her jaw, and plasters a smile on, and takes the roach into her fucking bare hands, notably does not look down, and says to Helaena, with a mask of perfect eagerness, “He is beautiful, my sweet. What’s he called?”

Rhaenyra can barely pick her jaw up off the floor.

She hands the bug back to Helaena, who grins, takes him reverently. “He’s a roach,” she says, perfectly matter-of-factly. “They don’t have names.” She smiles down at him. “I put him back now.”

Then Helaena wanders away, and their eyes meet. Rhaenyra’s eyebrows are all the way up to her hairline.

“Would you like to… wash your hands?”

Alicent bolts for the washroom.

The deal with the Starks pays off. Wildly. More than even Lyman could have dreamed. So she works like a dog for it, directs and commands and coordinates and works, charming the creditors and cowing her board and running the shareholders’ meetings with an iron fist, with patience and with resolve and with steel.

Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of properties.

It’s one of the biggest and most successful stacks of infrastructural tranches they’ve ever processed at one time. Her investors have practically thrown a parade. Lyman is triumphant.

You’ve come into it, Lyman tells her, one day.

What?

Your crown, he says.

(It’s a quote she remembers from somewhere else—somewhere dim, some movie night, maybe, out in the city, some campus hall she can hardly recall, a forgotten night of Raisin Weekend—

As if through a glass and darkly—I fought in many guises, many names.)

The board calls it Balerion II. It’s a profound act of respect, Rhaenys tells her.

(Alicent tells her, too. Not in so many words. But in the way she looks up at her, looks into her, from those marblesque tables, with such stunning admiration; and at night, when she folds her reading glasses and sets down her stylus and clicks off the iPad, she holds her; brings Rhaenyra close, rubs the top of her shoulders, when she’s about to let her touch her, when Rhaenyra is hungry and she’s about to let her have her—

It's when she whispers it, like an oath: You make me so proud, my love.)

Rhaenyra thinks of him always, the Conqueror; all he won and yet all of the costs—how Jaehaerys didn’t know Aegon, how Viserys didn’t know Jaehaerys—

But Jacaerys will know Rhaenyra, the future may claim, at some point, when he’s a man grown. And then it will be different.

She returns to them always by eight o’clock at latest, save for catastrophe; sees the children to school at least once in a fortnight, parks and walks them in herself; reads, in the evenings, The Story of King Arthur—and on weekends lets them nestle, both, in Rhaenyra and Alicent’s bed for the reading, stroking an imaginary beard, waving an imaginary sword, doing all of the lilts and the voices.

(Making Alicent play the Queen, which she does, dutifully, ducking out of their bathroom where she’s conducting her nighttime routine, reading Guinevere’s lines with a proper Hallmark melodrama.)

And after they return the children to their rooms, gently, after they’re asleep, she makes certain her wife remains loved; remains touched, that her muscles untense.

Alicent never hunts for her, doesn’t have to, not anymore. Now Rhaenyra goes to her like the lark to a branch, open and purely and singing.

Laena throws a party in the garden behind Corlys’ country house, where they dance and gossip and reminisce until they’re silly, where Alicent gets a little bit drunk and walks over, eventually, back to where Rhaenyra’s sat—stunning in those tight jeans and dipping v-neck sweater and gold threader earrings that match her wristlets, shimmering in the sparkling fairy lights across the patio—and slides into her lap with a half-full Bellini, and Rhaenyra thinks she’ll maybe never miss anybody the way she does her wife, miss her even when she’s right there. 

“Are you having fun, my love?”

Alicent closes her eyes, nods, raises her glass in the jest of a toast. “I am dutifully, as best friend and good cousin, having a smashing time, in fact.”

“But found yourself tragically lacking for a place to sit, I see.”

Alicent nods, slides her arm closer around her shoulders. “Yes. Do hope it’s alright.”

Rhaenyra hums with a smirk. “I’ll allow it, I suppose, for the special occasion.”

“My apologies, my love,” Alicent’s fingers tangle in the soft hairs at her neck. “Would you prefer me in a straddle?”

Later, Laena talks Alicent and a gaggle of their friends into a round of tequila shots and Corlys’ wide patio becomes a dance floor and Alicent, unsteady on her feet but laughing and smiling wide, grabs Rhaenyra’s hands and draws her in, closer, lower, until she’s grinning mischievously and snaking her hands up from Rhaenyra’s shoulders, cradling her jaw and joining their lips, swaying to the smooth low rhythm of the beat.

It's something sultry, something triumphal, something with a booming back beat and thundering brass and a relentless bass—

Still, from that whisper of a voice, again, thin and fleeting as the dew on her window, in the thrumming, for a moment—

When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooters, the fastest runners—big league ball players, the toughest boxers.

Rhaenyra hugs her hips to her own, crowds her space, folds her arms around her, like she knows Alicent loves; presses a kiss, tightly, to the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Sometimes it’s about duty and war, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s only Alicent, in the calmer moments, leading her with the tenderest touch of the hips.

In the end, it’s Stepstones again, amazingly.

Everything comes full circle eventually, Lyman tells her, eyes tired. Wait a little while longer. You’ll learn life is like that.

I’m learning it now, she wants to say, but she doesn’t.

They’ve convinced their government to support another full-scale shipping embargo. Including fuels. Interest is soaring. It jeopardizes Balerion II, and Rhaenyra knows the numbers are bad, because Alicent looks at the market offerings and then goes to get a glass of water, which is only her excuse to take a lap around the offices and catch her breath, school her face to serenity when she’s nevertheless caught in full-throated panic.

We can’t retain these properties for that long, Cregan reminds her, over the phone, of yet another thing she fucking knows.

“I know,” she tells him. “I’ll deal with it.”

This time, there is no wavering. From the helm, Rhaenyra acts.

She calls a meeting of her board for blood, not for help. Calls Daemon to give orders, not beg favors; charters her plane to Qatar like a hound on the hunt.

(And then calls someone else, too.)

“This is the proposal,” Alicent says, only a night later, handing her the folio. “You’ve got a copy on your computer, as well. And Erryk has everything else.”

Rhaenyra leans on the kitchen island, sets it down, takes her hands in her own.

“I’m so grateful for this. I really am.”

Alicent shakes her head. “It’s nothing, it’s quite straightforward, really. I think they’ll accept; this can’t go on forever, after all, their creditors are experiencing madness, and, you know—everything else we’ve discussed.”

“I wish you could come with me. That they’d hear it from you.”

“No, no, they shouldn’t.” Her hands leave her wife’s and come around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, then, stroking softly at the back of her neck, along the frame of her jaw. “It’s you, Rhaenyra. You and nobody else. It’s yours. Go and show them what that means.”

Rhaenyra ducks her head. Thinks, for a moment, then exhales, nods.

“Show them what you show me.” Alicent urges, as her hands return to her own. “That nothing ever gets the better of Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Alicent slips her cufflinks on; Rhaenyra watches as she clasps them, sure and serene in that unbelievable, everyday devotion.

When Rhaenyra returns on an overnight journey, when their jet touches down only a couple hours past midday local, when her eyes are glassy and lightless—

Her phone’s made so many sounds since they ascended that she thought to power it down.

(But the children, Alicent, what if Alicent needs her.)

Corlys sits across from her, and Daemon, too, both asleep in their chairs.

(It was kind of nice of Daemon, she thinks, to share his Xanax.)

The BBC want to speak with her, Erryk tells her five minutes into the air.

“Averting financial crisis, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the first female CEO of the Targaryen Group, has brokered a deal with Stepstones that may mean a return in interest rates to their pre-embargo levels. A representative from Stepstones has reported that the Targaryen Group will assume a nearly thirteen billion pound infrastructural deal in exchange for an exclusively British—”

Turn that thing off, she’d told Daemon, who’d played and played and replayed the news with nothing less than unbridled glee—

Why?  He’d smirked, fire in his eyes. You’re the returning fucking hero, Rhaenyra. You battered them.  

Behold the Conqueror, Corlys had quipped, smiling lips at his champagne.

And Alicent.

She’s there, on the tarmac by the car when they land with her soft black coat, her windblown hair, smiling from ear to ear, arms outstretched—

Rhaenyra falls into them; nearly falls asleep on her shoulder.

“You did it, my love,” Alicent whispers, rocking her from side to side, hand over the back of her head. “You’re my champion, my darling, I’m so, so proud.”

When they get home, Alicent strips her of her suit and deposits her right into bed, draws the blackout curtains closed.

“I’ll wake you before dinner,” she says, hand on her cheek as Rhaenyra cuddles up to Alicent’s pillow, curls up on Alicent’s side. “I’m here if you need me.”

And Rhaenyra feels the pad of Alicent’s thumb gently over her brow in soft circles, feels it even out her drawn, exhausted expression.

Moments later, she can hear her calling to the children, in the hallway—Mummy’s having a rest. Why don’t we play in the garden, sweetlings?

She falls asleep quickly, nose in Alicent’s pillow.

Rhaenyra wakes before their alarm, the next morning. Thanks the gods for it, the moments in silence when the sun’s barely peeked through the clouds, when the world’s still at a standstill, when Alicent is fast asleep and the warm subtle weight of her is pressed safely up against her chest.

Gods, I love you, I love you more than breathing air.

Alicent shifts, hums in her sleep; frowns, just a little, like she’s thinking about something, and then her brow evens out again. Rhaenyra readjusts the covers higher over them and then returns her arms around Alicent’s back, just under her ribs.

She turns, presses her nose into Rhaenyra’s shirt. Outside, she can hear the soft ding of a bicycle bell.

Rhaenyra remembers, of course, when her wife had just had the baby, after the pain and panic and undiluted heartache; those first few weeks when they could hardly separate, when Rhaenyra would come home from the office or the market or a takeout run and Alicent would walk to the foyer and slide Rhaenyra’s coat off her shoulders and bury herself in her arms, like clockwork.

And the months after Otto, when Rhaenyra had to draw her in herself.

(How are you, my heart, Rhaenyra would say, gentle and easy, when her body was still fragile, and when it wasn’t, and when she needed a strong grip. How are you feeling?)

She feels the soft pull of Alicent’s fingers on her loose shirt; reaches up, caresses her wrist, the long thin tendons of her hand.

Alicent’s voice, sleepy and groggy and barely audible—

“Are you awake?”

Rhaenyra only hums, rubbing feather-light circles into her wrist. “Did I wake you?”

“No.” She burrows further into Rhaenyra’s side, finds the juncture of her neck and shoulder, turns her nose into the soft divot above her collarbone. “It was my dream, actually.”

Rhaenyra nods. “What did you dream of?”

She’s quiet, for a moment; frowns, stretches her fingers nimbly. “I can’t actually remember, now.”

Rhaenyra ventures a glance at the clock.

“Do you think we should arise?”

“No,” Alicent says, fingers finding the soft edge of her collarbone. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

Rhaenyra watches her fall back asleep, slowly, until her face is entirely peaceful.

Rhaenyra sighs. “I still don’t understand why we’re forbidden from remaining home and watching a film. Or…” And she eyes the soft curve of Alicent’s dress.

Alicent straightens her suit jacket, adjusts her collar. “Not a chance. Look up.”

Rhaenyra complies as she pulls her collar up at the back, smooths down her lapels. “I still don’t see why we need to attend this.”

“Because it’s an honour, Rhaenyra, you’re being recognized as one of the economic leaders of our nation. Try to find some fun in it.” She lets her go, and Rhaenyra reaches down, adjusts her watch.

“Why are you so excited about this? You despise meaningless galas.”

“Usually,” Alicent remarks, “Though this one is a bit more of a show, for me.”

Rhaenyra raises a brow. “A show?”

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent gives her a look. “You are quite literally being publicly awarded for being effortlessly cool, endlessly successful, and fit. You don’t think there’s anything I might enjoy about being party to that?”

Rhaenyra pouts. “I still don’t see why I can’t be cool, successful and fit on our sofa.”

“For one thing,” she says, eyes trailing the tailored seams of Rhaenyra’s buttonless blouse, “I don’t suppose I could get you into this dipping v-line with a romantic comedy.”

“I’m open to compromise.”

Alicent grabs her clutch off the coffee table, checks for her things—“Why don’t you let Erryk know we’re ready?”

With a sigh, Rhaenyra moves toward the door.

She clings to Alicent’s hand, that night, almost petulantly; lets her do the talking, the smiling, the floating about the room like some jovial god—and oh, how they love her, her duty, her tact; how sharp, how calm, how full of grace she is.

(How Rhaenyra wants only to lay her head in her lap and draw her hand over her own shoulder and sleep, sleep like she used to, sometimes; when Alicent would be on the phone with Laena on the wicker sofa and Rhaenyra would lay down on the top of her thigh, fall asleep to the sweet vibrations of her voice, Alicent’s hand in her hair.)

Her week in Qatar drained her, and she can feel it, even now, as satisfying as it was, as triumphal as it was.

She threads her fingers through her wife’s; leans on her, a little.  

They’re asked to return to their tables; she does, tries to clap, pay attention to the opening acts, knows there are cameras all around her and that she, among others, will have to give remarks in less than half an hour—

“Here, my love,” Alicent urges, as the waitstaff bring around a single espresso to their table, set it in front of Rhaenyra as they clap, dutifully, for someone else. “Bottoms up.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, and drains the thing, resisting the urge to lay her head down on the soft slope of Alicent’s shoulder.

But the coffee picks her up; and she charms, and she smiles, and she networks. Returns to life with Alicent on her arm, still leaning in, as often as she can, as often as is acceptable, to press a tender kiss to her cheek, take in that smell again, Alicent’s smell, of her perfume and her hair and her body, something that awakens a memory from when she was only fifteen.

And then she takes the stage, and the applause is immense; she can feel the vibration of it ringing through her body, can’t even hear herself speak, really, so she waits.

Praises Alicent, as always—her unsung hero, her soul, her force.

Alicent smiles.

(From that same place, that same name, that film she can’t quite match, that evening she can hardly recall—

I love it. Gods help me I do love it so. I love it more than my life.)

Her wife stands to her feet and applauds her. They all do, really.

(But it’s only Alicent, in that stunning deep-red satin dress, that she can see.)

Reluctantly, and at Lyman’s request (or, more accurately, his doleful, persistent begging) she gives the interview to the BBC.

They close the first round of Balerion II just before they’re live. A single text, from Cregan—

Here’s to the first of many. And then a picture of his champagne.

She smiles, pockets her phone, sets herself.

In the end, it’s only good; and even while she’s in it, she can tell it’s going to be good, that kind of good that settles in the depth of her stomach, something between exaltation and relief.

The Targaryens, spoiled insiders no longer, she imagines.

At the tail end, too, a question she’s sure she can hear Corlys laughing at already, wherever he is—

“You’re quite publicly popular, for a business figure,” they comment. “The Sun recently referred to you as ‘our very own British billionaire heartthrob—the ‘Realm’s Delight.’” They smile. “That’s quite the endorsement. Would you agree with that assessment?”

“I don’t know.” She grins, that sideways half-smile, if not a bit secretively. “I suppose I’d have to ask my wife.”  

After it airs, Alicent takes her out to dinner, reserves the back room of their favorite Italian place—and they’re driving, and then they’re parking, and then they’re kissing in the car, and then they barely make their reservation, not that it would have mattered anyway.

Targaryen, Alicent tells the host, who almost certainly already knows. And then, with a perfectly straight face—

Yes, just the two of us. Myself and the Realm’s Delight.

And Rhaenyra breaks—laughing with her stomach, laughing until her sides hurt.

Later, far later, when Alicent’s ruminating on it—Rhaenyra on the television, Rhaenyra in the boardroom, aggressive, commanding, Rhaenyra in her prime, Rhaenyra striking like a Valkyrie, Rhaenyra triumphant.

She arches her spine as Rhaenyra works a hot trail down the side of her neck, across her chest, in the divet of her throat, marked and reddened and oversensitive after their second round—

She can almost feel Rhaenyra’s half smirk. “You’re making a mess.”

Alicent digs her fingernails along her back in response, only lightly, across the tensing, working muscles in Rhaenyra’s back, panting along the rhythm pushing deliciously between her legs. “Hm,” she agrees, “And what about you?” She runs her nails up her spine, fists her fingers in silver hair to drag her up, up, until she can trace a kiss against the juncture of her neck and jaw, capture her earlobe between her teeth.

(She can also feel the stutter in Rhaenyra’s hips, victoriously.)

Fair’s fair.

“Are you going to come like this, my love?” She croons. “Just from fucking me?”

Rhaenyra hisses. “Gods, yes.”

Rhaenyra’s hands are running up her sides, tracing and squeezing, pulling her in, lips capturing hers, in that impossibly sensual way Rhaenyra has all but mastered.

And then Alicent escapes her, one last time, draws her back in close, her voice smooth as velvet, low and sultry—knows exactly what to say to this side of Rhaenyra’s mind—

“Are you going to come inside me, my love, like nobody else can—”

Rhaenyra rolls into her, then, with a force that takes her breath away, a number of assertive, possessive strokes with a muffled whine that, as Alicent recalls with utter self-satisfaction, she’s only heard in those moments when she’s made Rhaenyra come so hard that her mind leaves her altogether.

And then Rhaenyra’s flush on top of her, panting into Alicent’s neck, trying piteously to catch her breath.

Alicent smirks, smug; turns and presses a kiss upon her nose. “Thought so.”

One evening Laena sits, and swishes her Arbor red, and looks back at Alicent on their London patio with consternation in her eyes.

“Thanks for having me here,” she murmurs, “Without much warning.”

Alicent frowns, takes a sip. “Don’t be ridiculous. You could knock on this door at four in the fucking morning and I’d scramble some eggs.”

Laena smiles, then, but there’s hardly any joy in it.

“Can I ask you,” she says, eyes on the lights of the horizon off the patio, back out over London’s starless sky. “Forgive me. Now that we’re both maybe… a little in our cups. Something personal.”

Alicent fixes her with a look. “Remember three weeks after your first baby when you called me in a panic and begged me to tell you if it looked normal down there?” And then Laena suppresses a laugh, a true one. “I’m not sure what’s still properly personal between us.”

“Well,” Laena says, tracing the legs against the glass, “I appreciate it.” She sighs. “Love you.”

And Alicent brings a hand to her forearm, squeezes.

“I wanted to ask,” she continues, “How… if you…” She huffs, softly. “Things haven’t been so easy. I know I mentioned a little, but—Luco and I. Lately. It’s just not—we’re a team, you know, still, but sometimes I think, after children, and you get busy, and there’s always something else, something to worry about or thing about or rise early for—” She purses her lips. Pauses, for a moment. Shakes her head. “Do you remember what he was like, back at uni?”

Even as concern rises in her chest, she can’t help but smile. “What, the jester who tried to submit an entire thesis on—what had he called it, again? Seduction through jazz?”

Laena shakes her head. “He was a force, back then. Remember how they used to chide him—Mr. Prestayn, just because I laugh does not mean I condone.” Her sparkling eyes seem to fade, then. “And yet that’s a man I hardly remember. We had a such a fire, in those first years. I still support him. He still supports me. He works all the time but he’s there when I ask. It’s not for a lack of trying. But there’s something that just…” She grasps for it, almost, like the words are hanging in the air. “It’s just not the same.”

She takes another sip, finds Alicent’s eyes. “So I wanted to ask if you still. You know. Find… intimacy. Maybe it’s not only us, I thought. Maybe we’re at an age, or a lull, or something. Maybe it’s everybody, I don’t know.”

Alicent looks back at her, open and sorry and kind. “Yes, I think—I think we do, I mean. We’re intimate.”

Laena nods. “Well, yes, not just—I don’t mean, of course you’re intimate, but are you…do you…do you find that you still…”

Alicent looks down, trying to mask her concern, maybe even a bit pink. “We have sex.” She answers, softly. “If I understand your question.”

“Often?”

“What’s often?”

“Once a month?”

And she must see the poorly concealed look on Alicent’s face, because hers falls, just a little.

“Well, that’s good. A good thing, I mean.” Laena looks down. “How do you—look, I hate asking, by the way, she’s my cousin and I love you but I’m still almost halfway disturbed at the idea, but—well—do you schedule? Or you do plan? Or—”

She shrugs, softly. “No, I suppose—I suppose it just happens. It’ll be the mood. Sometimes stress relief. Sometimes you just want to be close, I guess, you want that sort of undivided physical and emotional attention, and you…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never thought about planning it. I mean, everyone gets tired. We have nights where she might, or I might want something, you know, but we get to bed too late, or the children…”

Laena only sits. “Undivided attention.”

“I think that’s part of it. I’m sorry, I feel like I’m making things worse.”

“No,” Laena says. “You’re making them clearer.”

“Laena,” she says, hand on her forearm. “Not once a month?”

She shakes her head.

“It might just be a lull, as you said. He’s still a good partner, though, in other ways, isn’t he?”

Laena tilts her head. “To me,” she replies. “In a practical sense. He does his level best, but—how many times can Daddy say goodnight over FaceTime and still create a real relationship?”

“We had our time, with those concerns, as well,” Alicent whispers. “You’re not alone.”

“How did you solve it?”

Alicent quirks a brow, thumbs the edge of her glass. “Well, eliminating the cocaine habit certainly helped.”

Laena snorts. “I’m sure it did.” And then—"I’m proud of her. Proud of you both. I love you two, you know.”

“I know. She does, too.” Alicent only shakes her head. “Sometimes that time in our lives feels like a terrible dream. As this time may, to you, someday.”

“But at least you had a reason.” And Laena seems sure, sad and truthful and sure. “We don’t have a problem like that. I could never tell him, it’s this, fix it, fix it and it’s good again. He’s not failing, or neglecting, or mean; he’s not a workaholic or an alcoholic or even a bad partner, it’s just—it’s just not working.” She shakes her head. “What do you do when it’s just not working?”

On the weekend, she brings her morning coffee to the garden to find Rhaenyra and the children already outside; Helaena is watching her butterflies, and pointing, and Jace is practicing juggling, and Rhaenyra claps for him when he keeps the ball in the air for six touches. And then Helaena calls her over, and Rhaenyra joins her, takes her hands and brushes her own silver hair back from her shoulder and sits down with her easily, in her jeans, right down there in the dirt.

Alicent sets her mug down, strides out across the lawn; leans down in her robe, takes her face in both hands, presses a kiss surely and softly to her lips.

They take the children to the park close to the country house, the one that’s wide and open and always almost empty.

Jace smiles and laughs and swings from the climbing frame, dashes for the big slide; joins a small a group of boys kicking a football across the wide rolling grass.

Helaena wanders over to a grove of willow tree, finds something interesting among their roots—sits, watches. Rhaenyra follows, eventually.

“Have you found a bug, sweetling?”

Helaena shakes her head. Rhaenyra peers down over her shoulder—finds her staring with wonderment upon a tiny cluster of dandelions.

Rhaenyra kneels down. Reaches out as the breeze picks up her long locks, smooths Helaena’s identical silken hair.

“Do you like them, my love?”

Helaena nods, silent as the summer wind.

They watch them for some time; she notes the fragility of the florets, in her tiny, thin hands.

(Helaena’s fingers are gentle upon them.)

“Would you like to pick one?”

Helaena looks up at her, just the glimmer, a split half-second of an expression somewhere between scolding and scandal.

(It’s Alicent, looking back at her from over a toilet in a bar bathroom in Greece after Rhaenyra asked if she’d go for another shot.)

“No,” Helaena replies. “Then they would die.”

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to say something—then looks up, quickly, to find another child approaching; another little girl, maybe somewhere around Helaena’s age.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Alicent gesturing to Jace—probably telling him not to stand on the slide again.

The girl’s father, kind and sheepish, gives them a small wave.

“Hello,” he says, “I think Cassana might recognize a friend from school.”

The little girl smiles.

“Hello,” Rhaenyra rubs her daughter’s back, smiles down at her. “Helaena,” she says, prompting her to meet their eyes, “Do you remember Cassana, sweetling, from play time?”

Helaena looks up at Rhaenyra, interested for a moment, then back down to the flowers.

Cassana looks on, too, for a moment, before blurting, “Do you like dolls?”

Her father smiles, a bit bashfully. “She’s become very taken with her dolls as of late.”

Rhaenyra nods. “Helaena doesn’t do much with dolls. But she loves bugs, and flowers, and her stuffies—don’t you, my love?” Her fingers card softly, encouragingly, through Helaena’s hair. Still, Helaena pays no mind.

The little girl tries again. “Do you like kicking the football?”

A moment passes. Rhaenyra tries again, gently—thumb tracing soothing circles on Helaena’s back. “Do you like to kick the football, Helaena? With Jace and Mummy?”

Then Helaena gets up; without a word, she sets out for another grove of trees.

“I’m sorry.” Rhaenyra looks back at the girl, her father, smiling contritely. “She’s quite shy, these days.”

“No, no, that’s quite alright.” He says. “Her mum—well, my wife is quite shy, actually.” He smiles, then, if not a bit sweetly. “They’re always the best people. In my opinion.”

Then he motions for Cassana to follow, waves goodbye; she returns the gesture. The girl skips along behind him.

Alicent treads over, only a moment later, the grass crunching softly under her flats; spots Helaena a few paces away, under a different tree.

“Everything alright?”

“She’s decided to explore the dandelions,” Rhaenyra replies, only a hint past utterly smitten, and traces one with her finger.

They approach, slowly. Alicent kneels next to her, ready to take her hand. “Set to go, my love?”

But then she turns, and there are tears in Helaena’s eyes. “Am I bad?”

Rhaenyra’s face instantly contorts and she drops down, too. Alicent looks utterly flabbergasted. Rhaenyra reaches for her. “Are you—”

“Am I bad,” Helaena repeats, “That I don’t like dolls and I don’t like Jace’s football.”

Alicent frowns, her eyes shining. “No, my love.” She cups Helaena’s face, wipes the tiny tears from her cheeks before they can fall any further, gathers her up in her arms. “You are perfect.” Rhaenyra can hear the insistence in her voice, the conviction. She stands with her, then, strong and sure on her hip, hand against her cheek. “Listen to me, Helaena. You are absolutely perfect, just the way you are.”

They’re out to drinks at a place Rhaenyra picked, overlooking the city, the patio practically to themselves; Alicent’s in her lap, leaning against Rhaenyra’s front, drawing her arm around her waist, watching Rhaenyra sip a non-alcoholic beer with such unbelievable absurd charisma.

But still, in her mind, looming—

“My love,” she whispers. Rhaenyra hums, pressing a kiss to the curve of Alicent’s jaw. “Could I ask a favor of you?”

Rhaenyra nuzzles her nose to the side of her cheek. “Anything you desire.”

Alicent smiles, still, despite herself. “That’s a dangerous promise.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Alicent ghosts her fingers over the knuckles folded together across her lap. “I’d like it if we hosted something for Laena’s nameday. Lunch, maybe. At the country house, with our family, and hers. As a gesture.” She sighs. “She’s been having a tougher time of it, lately; and I know she won’t spend any energy on herself, she never does, and I’m not sure that Luco will have the time to think about it, either—”

“Of course.” Rhaenyra rests her chin on her shoulder. “Of course we can.”

“Maybe at the end of the month,” Alicent muses, eyes out on the lights. “It’ll still be warm, then, too, I think.”

Rhaenyra peers down, if not a bit sadly. “Is everything alright? Is she alright?”

Alicent shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says, fingering a piece of Rhaenyra’s shirt. “I was just thinking about it.”

“She is my favorite cousin, after all.”

“Liar,” Alicent quips, looking back at her with knowing eyes. “Laenor is your favorite cousin.”

“Nonsense.”

And then Rhaenyra looks at her, there, really looks, with her hands drawn tight against Rhaenyra’s arms, and her pink cheeks and reddened lips, those stunning auburn locks, the way her brows draw together in the most perfect, most unbelievably piteous contortion, thoughts swimming behind them, her beautiful eyes beginning, in that moment, to moisten—

She has never, ever, been able to stand that look of sorrow.

(Even if Alicent might only be a little drunk.)

“It’ll be lovely,” Rhaenyra assures, rubbing soothing circles into her side. “We’ll plan something wonderful. Whatever you desire, I promise. It’s a lovely idea.” Rhaenyra hums, holds her a bit tighter, presses another kiss to the side of her cheek, and then another, until she smiles again, even if only a little. “Speaking of my favorite cousin, I’d love to see her soon, anyway.” And then she noses her cheek again, kindly, encouragingly, begging to banish that look of sorrow from her face. “Alright, my love?”

And Alicent only nods, takes a sip of her wine, leans back further into Rhaenyra’s waiting arms. “Alright.”

Sometimes Rhaenyra catches a certain light, Alicent notices, the next morning—one where her eyes are perfectly clear, lilac, almost; where she can see every touch of the delicate curve of her nose, the impossible symmetry of those purely classic lips, the way her brows curve just slightly upward when she laughs, the strong line of her shoulders, her jaw, her hands.

She’s standing in the garden, hands in the pockets of her jacket, admiring the flowers as they come into bloom, her silver hair falling free in loose threads from its tie—Alicent steps into the grass barefoot and in nothing but her silk robe, deliciously sore, reaches out, ghosts her fingertips across Rhaenyra’s shoulder, watches in aching slow motion as she turns, turns, smiles—

Alicent wants to curve her hands around Rhaenyra’s cheeks but then she wouldn’t be able to admire the unbelievable perfection of the art of it, that otherworldly gaze coming out from a statue’s face.

(The first time she’d ever seen her, at Viserys’ work party, years and years ago, the one where she’d gone just to earn the privilege of a nameday party she’d ended up too ill to attend. She can still recall that exact millisecond, almost; not the familiarity, which came later—the preserved impression of Rhaenyra only as a beautiful stranger, in that singular moment, the pressing, fueling curiosity—

Who is that?)

“Sweetling,” and Rhaenyra is leaning down, pressing her mouth to hers, and her hands fall away from Alicent’s waist and then her jacket is sliding off, sliding around Alicent’s  own shoulders—“It’s too cold to be without your jumper.”

“I feel perfectly fine.” Still, she draws it tighter around herself, dips her nose to her smell on the side of the collar.

(How is it? How can she sleep beside her each night—dress in a closet half-full of her clothes, shower beside her shampoos, sit beside her, sleep beside her, be inside her, and still steal that scent like it’s water in the desert, that smell of home, each time it’s there—

It’s everywhere and yet, in the garden on a Springtime morning, as joyous as always.)

And so she unlaces the soft bands at her waist, just slightly, until she can feel the dewy air kiss her skin.

(Years later, she’d tease her, lips smeared with the frosting of a wedding cake—

I saw you first.)

“My love,” she begins, hands tugging toward the front of Rhaenyra’s loose shirt, inviting the warm security of Rhaenyra’s hands around her waist—

(The light catches on the white diamond on Rhaenyra’s finger, the edge of it.)

“Come inside,” she entreats.

They throw a party for Laena’s nameday on the last weekend of the month, and it’s warm out—maybe even miserably hot, if Rhaenyra’s honest, making her regret breaking down and calling their chef and giving up a brilliant excuse to hide out in their climate-controlled kitchen.

(“Do you really want to be trapped inside cooking,” Alicent had asked her, utterly manipulatively, “While I’m in a dress like this?”

She rakes her eyes across the open back. “I know you didn’t exactly love my Bolognese, but this is a little beyond.”)

Corlys and Rhaenys arrive first, Baela and Rhaena in tow, and Laenor and Joffrey, and then Daemon, who’s none but slapped a ridiculous bow—a corsage, practically—on a bottle of Dom and thrown on a summer tee. Finally, they greet Laena herself, and some of hers and Alicent’s friends from Cambridge that Rhaenyra recognizes from those days—Jorelle, Masha, even Mickon Rebbly (who upon meeting her back at uni had announced So you’re Alicent’s boyfriend! and thought it was just about the funniest jest he’d ever heard.

“He’s your pet prick,” Rhaenyra had told her.

Alicent rolled her eyes. “He’s not a prick.”

“He’s a prick.”)

Still, Mick walks in with a big smile, bouquet of flowers, gives her a bear hug, which she returns, easily. “Good to see you, you prick.”

Happily, Laena’s uncle is visiting from further west—Vaemond, if Rhaenyra remembers correctly—and arrives, though without his new wife (bit of a scandal, not that she knew or cared for the details), with their young son Aethan, whom Laena appears to adore.

“It’ll be perfect,” Alicent had said, clicking her phone shut. “He’s exactly Jace’s age. Only three months apart, actually.” Predictably, the boys extend about ten seconds of a greeting before they’re off onto the lawn, thick as thieves. Rhaenyra only grins.

“Luco’s going to be late, maybe,” Alicent tells her, maybe half an hour in, with a worried glance toward Laena. “Or he might be entirely tied up, he’s not sure.”

Rhaenyra glances between the wringing of her hands and Laena’s slight, almost unnoticeable unease. “Ah.”

And finally, before she has a chance to call him and complain, Harwin enters, grinning in a sharp suit, bottle of champagne in each hand. Alicent takes them, hugs him, hard; he returns it in kind.

(It’s a bond they’ll share forever, Rhaenyra suspects.)

They start around noon, to give the children time to play. Alicent and Laena and their friends are gathered around the wicker sofa and chairs; Daemon and Corlys stand out in the yard, drinks in hand, watching the older children chase each other up and down the treehouse bridges. The music is calm, and sweet, and Laenor says something about taxes or traffic or someone they once knew, and Harwin laughs, but Rhaenyra doesn’t hear it—only watches, thrives in the peace around them, how wonderfully Laena laughs; how contented Rhaenys seems; how lovely Alicent looks, smooth skin warm and open in the sun.

Later, she moves out to the yard, bumps Daemon with her elbow, tilts her head toward the children. “Shall I relieve you of duty?”

“Are you prepared?” Daemon asks, eyebrow raised as Corlys chuckles. “It’s getting rough out there.”

Corlys nods. “Treacherous waters. The alliance between Jacaerys and Aethan has broken down.”

She looks up to the opposite ends of the treehouse, where both boys are pretending to spy on each other.

“Terrible.” She grins. “Nobody wins a family feud.”

“Oh, indeed.”

When the boys and Baela are busy drawing a treasure map, and Rhaena dashes up to join them, Rhaenyra looks out for Helaena—not in the garden, nor by the trees, by the wildflowers, not back by the fountain—

She’s trying to push aside that instinctual parental panic and think clearly when she spots her, finally, thank the gods, safely on Alicent’s lap in a wicker chair, quietly examining a fallen daisy in her hands. Alicent smooths her hair absentmindedly, laughs as Masha talks animatedly with her hands, replies to something Laena says.

It’s her hand, safe and secure over Helaena’s middle as she and Laena smile; it’s how Helaena touches her red diamond with her tiny finger, daisy clutched gently in the other. It’s Jace, behind her, flying a paper airplane to the other side of the treehouse bridge.

It’s ours, Rhaenyra thinks, softly, as Helaena relaxes in Alicent’s arms. The future. She and I.

They sit to lunch and the staff seat them around their enormous outdoor table; their chef serves a beautiful lemon pepper capon and summer salad and cream cakes, all of which Rhaenyra swears she could have made herself.

(Alicent only nods, dutifully, suppresses a grin. “Of course you could, darling.”)

Then Corlys stands, raises his champagne with a smile—

“I’d like to propose a toast,” he announces, eyes on Laena, “To my wonderful, beloved daughter. Your mother and I are eternally proud, and—”

The doors at the back slide open. Loud.

Luco shuffles out, in an entirely crumpled suit with one of Rhaenyra’s attendants trailing behind.

Rhaenyra spots the look on Corlys’ face and feels immediately, thoroughly sorry for him.

Alicent stands immediately from beside Laena, serviette in hand, drawing out her chair—“Luco, I’m so happy you’re here—please, take my place.” She smiles through the discomfiture, gestures toward Rhaenyra—"I’ll sneak in right there next to my wife—you’ll make a little room for me, won’t you, darling?”

“Of course.” Rhaenyra stands, quickly, smiling, shuffling as the attendants add a chair, a place setting beside her. “Luco, welcome.” She looks to the table, who all stare back with unease. “We’re all so happy to see you.”

“Hello, hello, everyone, darling,” he nods, rushes around the table to Alicent’s setting, presses a kiss to Laena’s cheek. She smiles, a little. Corlys glares daggers. “Apologies, all, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“As one would be.” Corlys states. Vaemond snorts, drains his glass, holds his flute out for another.  

Daemon leans back, as though basking in the utter unbearability of the moment.

Rhaenyra ventures a sideways glance to Alicent. Her eyes remain only with Laena; and they are burningly sorry.

“Well.” She squeezes Alicent’s hand under the table, raises her sparkling cider with a nod to Laenor. “I believe there was a toast in order?”

“Yes, Father,” Laenor says, immediately, grinning, turning back to Corlys. “You were singing the praises of your favorite child!”

Thank the gods for you, Laenor, and your ability to pick up what’s put down.

The table chuckles, if only a little, breaking the silence; Corlys takes a breath.

“Of course.” He sets his jaw, and Rhaenys looks up at him from atop clasped hands.  “As I said, we’re so proud of you, Laena, our wonderful girl. You deserve the very best”—and his eyes return to Luco, then, for a fraction of a moment—“and all the love and praise in the world. To many more namedays ahead. To Laena.”

They echo the sentiment, raise their flutes, drink. Masha turns to comment something to Mick, on her other side; Vaemond laughs at something Joffrey notes, maybe a bit too loudly, too abrasively. Harwin glances at him, seeming to notice.  

Laena, though, remains perfectly still. Rhaenyra looks again to Laenor, who returns her expression with knowing eyes.

Still, she smiles toward Luco. Under the table, Alicent squeezes her hand like a stress toy. “It sounds like work has been difficult,” she tries. “I can surely relate.”

“Yes, yes, work.” He removes his glasses, fogging, tries to wipe them on his shirt. “Well, it’s been—actually, I’m sorry, might you have a—”

“Yes—could we please get a fresh serviette, for our new guest?” Alicent asks. An attendant nods, flits away. She turns back. “Sorry about that.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I do apologize.” He turns to Laena, then, almost for the first time. “I’m sorry, darling. I left late, and then the rush traffic—”

She readjusts her fork, eyes downcast. “There’s no rush traffic right now, Luco, it’s two in the afternoon.”

“I—” And then he stops, and glances back at their company, quickly. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

Then she takes a breath, sighs, looks back at him with the most tired imitation of a smile Rhaenyra’s ever seen. “Yes. Well. I’m glad you’re here.”

(If she ever gets that look from Alicent, Rhaenyra thinks, she may well jump off a cliff.)

Alicent grins, pianotes her fingers on the side of her flute. “Luco, your girls are getting so big.” She looks to Laena, sympathetic and gentle and trying to tee him up for a win—“They’re the very image of their mother.”

And then Luco’s brows shoot up, for a second, like he’d forgotten she was even speaking to him. “Yes? Oh, yes—yes, of course.” He sighs, turns, watches as they run along with the boys.

“They’re quite the troupe.” Alicent raises her eyebrows, a smirk upon her lips. “Inseparable, now, I fear.”

“And it looks like yours have gotten bigger as well.” He smiles. “And is that—em, sorry, your little cousin, Laena—”

“His name’s Aethan.” Laena says, simply. “And his primary school photo’s on our fridge.”

He purses his lips. “Right.” And then, to Alicent, trying a smile—“Well, and your boy, too, he’s gotten quite a bit taller since the last I saw him—how is he, Jaehaerys?”

Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a moment, if only to take them off of the house fire before her.

Alicent eyes are patient, her smile polite. “Jacaerys.”

“Oh, dear gods, of course, of course. I’m so sorry. I think I’ve—I might have just thought of—well, you know, the famous Jaehaerys Targaryen, of course—”

Alicent waves him off. “Similar family name. Think nothing of it.” She pauses. “So. Is your mother well—”

“Can I speak to you inside?” Laena asks, then.  

Luco sucks in his cheeks, nods, shortly. “Of course.” And back to them—“Excuse us, for a moment, please.”

Rhaenyra watches as she starts into the house, as Luco follows, head down, like a scolded dog.

She turns to Alicent. Very quietly—“Gods above.”

And then, from the other end of the table, another loud guffaw; Alicent jumps, just slightly, as Vaemond bangs his fist on the table, rattles the silverware.

Rhaenyra sighs. “And then there’s that.”

Alicent exhales, sharply, then pushes her chair back. “I think I’ll check on the children.”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra deadpans. “Go see to Jaehaerys.”

Alicent pinches her shoulder. “Be nice.”

She makes off, quickly; Rhaenyra waves her fork goodbye.

“I’m not sure if a loud, boisterous club wouldn’t have been better,” Laenor remarks, eyes tired.

Rhaenyra ventures a glance back down the table where Vaemond has snatched the bottle from one of their attendants with what she’s sure isn’t a polite remark. “I’m not sure if some of us aren’t there already.”

Laenor follows her eyes, then shakes his head. He leans in; then, lowly, too low for anyone to hear—“Absolute menace.”

“Or just a drunk.” Rhaenyra quirks a brow. “Who am I to judge, after all—”

“No, Rhaenyra.” Laenor shakes his head. “He’s an arsehole.”

She raises her brows; watches as he fills his glass, again, while Corlys tells some story to Rhaenys and Joffrey beside them, and only sighs.

Alicent returns, eventually, only fifteen minutes later, when it’s almost worse—

(And when Laena and Luco have yet to return from inside, notably.)

She comes round the table, leans to reclaim her seat next to Rhaenyra, who turns to pull out her chair—

“Such a good mummy.”

Rhaenyra whips back around; it’s Vaemond, smirking back up at Alicent, with a tone of voice that Rhaenyra does not like.

Rhaenyra narrows her gaze. “What was that?”

Alicent grasps her wrist under the table. Stop.

He gestures at her with a full glass. “Seeing to the children.” He takes another sip. “As she should.”

Rhaenyra cocks her head. “As she should?”

Alicent apparently recognizes the look, because her thumb begins tracing circles on her arm, gently, placatingly. Across from him, Rhaenys takes a sip of her Bellini like she wishes it would teleport her into space, and looks back toward the house, where Laena disappeared.

Vaemond grins. “Three cheers for you, on that count.”

Rhaenyra quirks a brow, jaw set. “And why might such high praise be due, exactly?”

“Rhaenyra.” Alicent whispers, sharp in her ear.

“For your recent triumph, of course,” Corlys interjects, with an expression somewhere between tempering and pleading—“Your unbridled success with Stepstones. I think everyone around this table doing business in this country only has you to thank.”

Mick raises his glass, nodding along with a look of utter relief. “Gods above, isn’t that true; hear, hear.”

And Corlys eyes are plaintive, then.

Forgive him.

Rhaenyra nods, smiles at Mick, nods and concedes, squeezes Alicent’s hand, lightly. “Yes, well. I certainly didn’t do it alone.”

And then, without missing a beat, Laena re-enters, face impassive and notably alone.

“Apologies. Luco had to attend to business.”

Alicent’s eyes follow her, but Laena doesn’t return them. She tries to smile. “It was wonderful to see him, even for a little while.”

Rhaenys looks down, sadly, and puts her hand over Corlys—almost unnoticeable.

Alicent’s eyes fall to Laena again, her somber expression. “My love,” Alicent says, then, hand on Rhaenyra’s wrist, eyeing Laena. “Will you help me with something very special inside?”

Laena glances at her with a knowing look—then she smiles, a little, almost embarrassed. “Oh, gods, no, Al, I said no cake!”

Alicent holds up her hands. “I made no promises.”

“Alicent!”

And Laenor only laughs.

Laena blows out her candles and smiles, a real one, a big one, as Alicent drapes her arms over her shoulders and presses a peck to her cheek and whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh, really laugh. Laenor swipes a finger through her frosting as she elbows him and Harwin, ever dutifully, takes the cake knife, begins to dole out little slices—first to the children, of course, who’ve crowded around him like starving animals.

“Jace,” she tempers. “Mind yourself, now.”

He looks back at her with a mouth full of cake.

Over on the other end of the table, Harwin offers Rhaenys a slice that she dutifully denies, waving her hand, smiling—but then Corlys brings a bite to her lips and she breaks down, accepts it, looks up at him with a grin.

The sun is warm, the heat’s died down, a little. It’s perfect, even.

The children are playing with Jace’s bubbles on the patio, later. Helaena returns from the flower garden, after a moment—and amid the conversation, Alicent watches her, carefully.

“Look what I’ve found,” she says to Jace. Alicent can see it from her grasp—it’s a little caterpillar, green with black legs.

“That’s pretty.” He smiles, looks down at it in her hands. “Maybe it’ll become a butterfly if we put it high up? In a tree? And tomorrow it will be a butterfly!”

“No,” she says, simply. “They go to sleep in the bushes.”

From over by the chairs—“Look at the bubble I made!” Aethan declares, big sweet smile, balancing a big one in his hand.

Rhaena seems to spot that there’s something in Helaena’s grasp, then—“I want to see!” She makes off toward Helaena. “It’s green!”

Helaena seems to shrink back, a little, from the attention. Softly, then: “They have six legs.”

Rhaena smiles at her, softly. “I like it.”

And then Helaena smiles a little, too.

“Look at my bubble!” Aethan demands.

Then Baela abandons the bubbles, makes her way over, too. “What have you got there?”

Aethan, again, face red: “You lot!”

Alicent frowns, leans back—“Wonderful bubble, Aethan,” she calls, but he hardly seems to hear her.

Helaena tells her, swinging her feet. “They’ve got six legs,” she adds, again.

Aethan, seemingly frustrated, starts over.

(And Alicent almost knows before it happens, wants to say something, but—)

“Could I see?”

Happily, Helaena offers him a look.

Aethan grabs it out of her hands and throws it to the ground and steps on it, hard.

In the split second, out of the corner of her eye, she can see Rhaenyra turn, her brow furrowing, to see what’s going on—Aethan’s stomping, and Helaena’s staring down at the cobblestones, at—

Alicent’s out of her chair with Helaena in her arms in a matter of moments, whisking her off to the garden path at the side of the house.

She feels hot tears on her neck and a little fist at the strap of her dress but there’s no sound, almost no sound at all. Still, she shushes her, presses her lips to the side of her hair—“My dearest love, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

She waits, for a few minutes; paces around, rubs her back, walks down the gravel path and back and down again to let her soothe to the routine, the rhythm, the quiet. “Shh, my sweet, Mummy’s here; I’m so sorry.”

(She’s not really sure what she’s apologizing for, but it feels right, in the moment.)

She returns with Helaena in her arms, once she’s calm again; takes one look at the scene before her and stops dead in her tracks. Finds Rhaenyra’s eyes. “What happened?”

The children are inside; Corlys is leading a bickering Vaemond back out toward the motor court, while he holds a hand to his mouth and spits blood onto the grass. The adults at the table look gobsmacked, Laena most of all (even though her eyes reflect an expression that Alicent can almost clock as impressed.)

(Daemon, of course, looks more pleased than ever.)

Rhaenyra approaches, takes Helaena in her arms, ever gently, and she lets her, smooths Helaena’s hair. Rhaenyra gives her a sorry smile. “I’m sorry about this, my love. I’ll take her in.” And simply as that, she’s off inside the house.

Daemon saunters up beside her, smirk about his features. “Well.”

Alicent shakes her head. “Would you like to explain what’s transpired?”

But before he can say anything, Mick, from the table—“Rhaenyra hit that fucker in the mouth.”

She whips around. “Rhaenyra what?”

Laena sighs, then, shoots Mick a warning glare. “Well, my father wanted Aethan to apologize, but, well, Vaemond seemed to feel that Helaena was only a bit sensitive—”

Harwin waves his hand. “He was a little drunk, called Helaena a name, Rhaenyra was less than pleased. That’s all. Just raised tempers in the heat. Nothing serious.”

Alicent raises her eyebrows shakes her head, incredulous. “Harwin,” she demands, “If Rhaenyra just assaulted someone—”

“It will be forgotten.” He assures. “It’s not an issue.”

She sighs, turns back to Daemon. “What—what did he say?”

“It’s not important.” Laena interjects.

“No, I’d like to know.” She looks back. “Daemon, come now. Out with it.”

“He was a bit goaded.” Laenor quips, eyes on Daemon.

Daemon shrugs. “Yes, I told him that if he had something to say, he ought to say it.”

Alicent rolls her eyes.

Laena sighs at her uncle, entirely unamused. “He, um. Well, he got a bit in Rhaenyra’s face—that’s when my mother took the children inside, and then—he called Helaena a mean name, that’s all. Suggested she was, well. He said she was upset because she was—he called her—”

“A slow little freak,” Daemon finishes, with a sneer.

Alicent is very quiet, for a moment.

Laena looks up at her with regret.

“And then,” Daemon says, with immense satisfaction, “Rhaenyra slapped him to the ground.”

“Backhanded him, actually.” Laenor notes.

“I was going to do it,” he adds, almost disappointed, as Alicent only blinks. “She beat me to it, I fear.”

Joffrey nods. “She hits quite hard, actually.”

Laenor hums. “I noticed that too.”

Then, with half a grip on herself, Alicent nods, turns to Laena—“I am—gods, I am so sorry about all of this.”

Laena raises her hands, gestures to the table, shakes her head. “Not at all. This life,” she says, almost chuckling, “It’s messy, you know.”

Later, once everyone’s left—with a strong hug from Laena, and profuse apologies from Corlys, which are utterly unnecessary, and farewells to her friends, and Harwin, who bumps her playfully and thanks her for a meal and a show, with a wink, she closes the door and turns back to Rhaenyra, behind her.

“What in under the Seven were you thinking—"

“She’s my daughter, Alicent.” Rhaenyra declares, brow even. “My blood.”

At that, Alicent falls silent. Shakes her head, a little. “We can’t handle it this way, next time.”

“Of course not.” Rhaenyra smirks, just a tiny bend at the end of her lips, eyes serene, pinching Alicent’s side. “You know how I feel about doing my own dirty work.” And with that, she simply walks off, toward the children’s rooms.

(Alicent wonders, for a moment, about this side of her; the one that used to antagonize her young uncle, that had her showing down her father’s councilors, that saw her shaking down boardrooms—whether on coke or not, having had sleep or not, at sixteen and at twenty six and still, even now—

Dragon, indeed.)

And then Alicent follows her, down the hall.

They find Helaena in her room, on her bed, softly thumbing her little figurine of a dragonfly. Alicent sits, without hesitation lifts her securely back in her arms, lets her bury her head into the soft place by her shoulder. “Come here, my love.”

Then she looks down at Helaena, pulls back, just for a moment—“Would you let me see your beautiful face, my love, please?”

And Helaena leans back, her hand still on Alicent, worrying her lip; Alicent wipes her cheek with her thumb. “Helaena,” she says, softly, eyes on her somber expression, “Sometimes, when people aren’t very nice to us, it can make us very sad. And that’s alright, to feel sad.” She ducks her head, finds Helaena’s eyes. “Yes?”

Helaena nods, once; her eyes remain on the dragonfly in her hands, but Alicent knows she’s paying attention.

“It doesn’t mean he’s bad,” Alicent says, quickly. “Or that he’s not your friend. Sometimes people make mistakes and do things they wish they hadn’t. But he should apologize, okay, and it’s good that he apologized, right? Because it’s not alright to treat you that way, Helaena, that’s never alright. Do you understand?”

Helaena traces the edge of an eyelet on the hem of her dress; it’s the first time she realizes she’s still wearing it. “Okay.”

And Alicent brings her close again, lets her rest her head against her chest. Rhaenyra comes down, sits beside them; wraps her arm around Alicent’s shoulders, presses a kiss to her cheek; places her hand over Helaena’s head, cards her fingers softly through her hair.

Alicent gets no sleep. She doesn’t know why.

She knows why.

It’s rare, that it bothers her. At least these days. These days it’s only a subtle numbness, the faintest raised edge of a scab, a scar, maybe—

But Rhaenyra flips a fried egg at the hob high in the air while Jace squeals with delight and that white diamond catches the tail end of the light of the window and she can’t think, the rest of the day, can’t sleep that night next to Rhaenyra, not at all.

Rhaenyra rolls on top of her, earlier in the evening, when they’re in bed—kisses her neck, ghosts her hands up her sides, silver hair down, muscles tensing, teasing and excited and hot. Alicent rests her hands atop her biceps, gently, and bends her neck, lets her touch her; drifts away, tracing the edges of the crown moulding upon the ceiling.

Rhaenyra kisses up her jaw, she lets her; Rhaenyra grips her side, she lets her; cups her breast, works her way down, and then—

Blue eyes on hers, a hand on her cheek, bringing her back. “You okay?”

She nods, simply, brings her hand up from the top of Rhaenyra’s shoulder to the back of her neck, pulling her down, again, hoping she’ll forget, just go, just go, keep going—

But Rhaenyra resists, takes her hand and holds it, gently, leans up on her elbow. “Are you enjoying this?”

Alicent shakes her head. Lips barely move. “It’s fine,” she whispers.

Rhaenyra’s brow instantly furrows. “It’s fine?”

“It’s fine. I want to.”

Rhaenyra leans up even further. “It’s fine and I want to are very different sentiments, Alicent.”

Alicent rolls her eyes and then pushes Rhaenyra off of her, turns over, toward the opposite side. “Have it your way, then.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, blinks a little, almost incredulous. “Okay,” she says, simply. “Not tonight, then.” She waits, for a moment; then strokes up and down her arm, gentle motions, slow. “How about I just hold you?” She glances over at their bedside clock. “It’s still early. How about a movie?” She scratches her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll put the kettle on?”

And Alicent feels as though in some deep space, something between wired and exhausted and utterly unfocused, and alone.

But she isn’t alone, some part of her knows; Rhaenyra is there, just right there.

“Okay.” She says. Rhaenyra turns her over, kisses her cheek, leans down to their bedroom bench for the knit blanket, her knit blanket, the one she knows isn’t for keeping warm; and nestles it over her, tucks it into Alicent’s arms and, finally satisfied, makes away for the kitchen.

She clutches her blanket in her fingers; brings it up to her chest, into her arms, hugs. Lays her cheek against Rhaenyra’s pillow.

She hears the kettle scream, eventually, and Rhaenyra returns with chamomile and settles in beside her and pushes a button and the projector screen whirrs down, and then there’s some movie playing, a rainy and quiet one, and she lays her head against Rhaenyra’s chest, watches the pictures move.

She’s never told Rhaenyra the date, exactly. She thinks she might have known once, when they were kids, just from context or from family or something. But she never says anything and never brings it up and Rhaenyra lets her, thank the gods, despite all her need to protect and defend and hover, sometimes, when it comes to this.

(That’s not fair, she knows, somewhere inside herself; Rhaenyra’s never been anything but good about these things, these terrible things in life.)

Rhaenyra’s arms encircle across her waist, and later, almost toward the end, she hears the soft snoozing, weight against the crown of her head. A few minutes after, Alicent looks up to find Rhaenyra completely asleep.

She turns off the projector, watches the screen withdraw.

Rhaenyra sleeps through the night, soundly, in complete serenity. Alicent watches, thinking and hurting and—not; all of it and at the same time, nothing at all.

She watches until the end of the night.

Alicent gets no sleep and sits at her desk (the conference table, which is desk enough, in the conference room, which is office enough) and runs her hands through her hair and averts nervous breakdown.

Dyana, who has taken it upon herself to become Alicent’s part-time assistant (Alicent insisted she didn’t need an assistant and Rhaenyra insisted everyone needed an assistant and Alicent refused and then Rhaenyra attempted to stealth-staff an assistant and they had a fight that Alicent told her was the dumbest fight of their entire marriage) brings her an Americano around ten and she takes it, like liquid gold, holds back tears.

“Thank you, Dyana,” she insists, hoping it’ll save her. Dyana merely smiles.

Nothing goes correctly, the rest of the day, of course. Reports fly the wrong way; fires come up—preventable ones—that she puts out, wonders whether she’s simply too exhausted to reprimand her analysts today; gives up and reworks the numbers, the output herself, sends it on. In a long-awaited moment of silence, tries to take a heel off; but it won’t budge, so she presses against the ground, trying—

The fucker snaps in half.  

She exhales, very slowly.

“Dyana,” she says, into her phone, ten agonizing minutes later. “I’m sorry to ask, but I’ve got an extra pair of heels in the—” She stops herself, resists the urge to scream like an animal. “In Rhaenyra’s office.”

An hour later, Gilliane—one of Rhaenyra’s best senior executives—stands before her, holding a loan servicing projection report that should have gone to their creditors hours ago.

“I am so, so sorry,” Gilliane says, a panic in her eyes that probably means Alicent ought to look in a mirror and examine the state that she’s in, “I needed to bring this to you. Immediately. These numbers are—they’re very, very wrong.”

“These were supposed to go to Rogare hours ago—”

“They did.”

Alicent shuts her eyes.

“How sure are you that they’re—”

“One hundred percent.”

Alicent nods. “Fuck.”

Then she opens her eyes, looks down, starts flipping through, frown deepening into a scowl, and then, into the same desire for the same animalistic banshee cry—“Who in seven hells had their hands on this last?”

Gilliane swallows.

Alicent looks up in question, eyebrows raised. “Gilliane, I’m not trying to put heads on spikes here, but this is seriously—”

“It was you.” Her eyes are closed, as though she’s afraid Alicent is about to turn into a lion and maul her. “I’m so sorry. It was actually from—I believe you may have adjusted these numbers this morning.”

And then Alicent flips back to the cover page, looks at the title.

The familiar title.

She inhales. Exhales. Nods. “Fuck.”

Gilliane, always so poised, has a look on her face like she’s found herself dumped through the fucking looking glass. “Who do we—Rogare, or—who should we call?”

And then Alicent merely sighs. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I fucked these up.”

Rhaenyra looks from the thick report slapped onto her desk back up to her wife.

“What?”

“I fucked these up. Entirely. They went to Rogare. We’ll need to notify regulators when we retract, since these are our servicing projections and Rogare a has already extended the credit line and reported the extension of the debt. So.” Alicent works her jaw. “It’s an absolute disaster. It’s my fault. No one else’s. I’ll fix it.”

Rhaenyra puts her pen down, sets her document to the side. Frowns. “How did this go out?”

Alicent resists the urge to stomp her foot. “I told you, I fucking ruined them.”

And Rhaenyra only frowns even deeper. “I seriously doubt that.”

“No, Rhaenyra, I did these, okay, and they’re wrong, they’re just fucking wrong!”

Rhaenyra leans back, a little; then, hands up, as though with a feral animal: “Okay.” She meets Alicent’s eyes, holds them. “Okay, my love. I’m sure it’s alright.”

“It’s not alright, Rhaenyra, this is actually quite major. It makes us look sloppy and we’re about to spend an ungodly amount of money and time today to solve the issue, and Rogare is going to have to hear about it as well, so it’s not really alright at all.”

Rhaenyra inhales, then, sets her jaw; looks down at the report, folds her hands, exhales through the nose. Then, with that perfectly inscrutable boardroom expression, calm as ever: “Would you like me to yell at you?”

Alicent merely stands, fists clenched. “This is an unbelievable error, Rhaenyra, I don’t think you understand—”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t, I know absolutely nothing about this.” Rhaenyra lifts the first few pages of the report, lets them drop. “Which you know. So. Do you want me to yell at you? Is that why you’ve brought this here?”

“I’ve brought this here,” she bites, fuming, “Because this is your company, Rhaenyra—”

“And yours, Alicent, we’re married.” Her gaze doesn’t back down an inch. “So, what? Do you want me to fly the papers off the desk, wave my finger in your face, scream and shout about it? I’ll even kick the bin over, if you want.”

Alicent shakes her head, arms around herself, eyes shut tight. “Stop it. This isn’t funny. You should be furious.”

“Certainly—I can break one of my water glasses on the wall, because you’ve made a single error in four years, and march out and scream at Dyana to get someone on the phone, and then I’ll snap my pen in half, if you like—”

“Stop.”  And her hand comes over her eyes, over her brow, as she feels it coming up, coming out—“Stop it, please.”

She feels Rhaenyra’s arms before she sees her move, hears the click of the heels of her loafers across the floor, and then her hands are on the small of her back, her forehead touches against the side of Rhaenyra’s neck.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra whispers it into her hair, soft as ever. “Come here, my sweet; just come here.”

She catches her breath against Rhaenyra’s black sweater. Rhaenyra rocks her gently. Her body feels like it’s melting. Her mind is already gone.

There’s a knock on the door. Rhaenyra’s voice, over her head, louder and lower—“Not now.”

Lips at her temple, eventually—“Alicent, what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, lets her hands rest at Rhaenyra’s waist. “I’m sorry.”

And then Rhaenyra huffs, again, hard, annoyed. Still, her voice is soft. “Alicent, I don’t care about these reports and I’m not going to punish you for them. I care about you and whatever’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Really?” She pulls back, raises an eyebrow. “Alicent, gods above.” She sighs. “You’re exhausted, my love, you’re fucking exhausted, please—"

She swallows, then, draws away from her, brings her hands under her eyes, works away from Rhaenyra’s grasp—“I’m not. I’m fine. I really am. I’m sorry.”

And she watches Rhaenyra’s eyes close, watches her sigh, long and hard and defeated.

And then she picks up the phone. And presses a single digit.

“I’ll take a black car. Yes, now. The front, please. Thank you.”

She hangs up. Alicent frowns, brushes a tear back, tries to swallow it all back. “Where—where are you going?”

Rhaenyra cocks her head, her face perfectly even. “I’m staying right here,” she says, endlessly calm. “You, on the other hand, are going home.”

“No, I’m fucking not. I need to fix this, Rhaenyra, I’m very serious, this isn’t just a simple error—”

“Gilliane will handle it.” Rhaenyra says, and that statement is final, Alicent can hear it, hear the finality in her tone. “Where’s your things?”

“In—in my—Rhaenyra I’m not leaving this office.”

“Yes, you are.” The phone rings again; Rhaenyra picks it up, then puts it back down. “The car is here.” Then, without another word, she strides out the door.

“Rhaenyra—”

She can’t chase her, she knows; it’s one thing to have a row behind Rhaenyra’s door, another to—

She can’t even follow her to fight in her own office.

Because it has fucking glass walls.

Because it’s not a fucking office.

(She wants to scream at the unbelievable fucking cosmic unfairness of Rhaenyra winning two battles at once.)

Rhaenyra returns with her purse, then, in one hand, her laptop in the other. Tilts her head toward the door. “Come on.”

“This isn’t fair, Rhaenyra.”

“I’ll pick you up and carry you, if I have to.”  

They get in the elevator. Ride in silence.

Rhaenyra places her things in the black backseat on the driver’s side as the chauffer waits; adjusts the tall headrest, taps the passenger seat. “Can you bring this forward, please?”

Alicent rolls her eyes. Waits.

Then she withdraws, places her hands on Alicent’s arms, drawn around herself—“My love,” she says, softer, softly, even, “I need to send you home. Will you please, please  get some sleep for me, I’ll send you whatever you want, whatever you need, just rest, please.”

It’s only at the end that she realizes Rhaenyra’s begging and wonders what she must look like.

But there’s such a desperation in Rhaenyra’s eyes, such an honesty, and, damn her—

“Okay.” She huffs, places a hand upon Rhaenyra’s cheek, draws her in, places a kiss on her lips. “Okay, alright, fine. Fine.”

“I love you.”

She gets in the seat, buckles in. Sighs, tilts her head, looks up at her, sadly. “I love you, Rhaenyra.”

“I’ll see you tonight?”

Alicent lifts a brow. “Well, you know where I’ll be.”

With that, Rhaenyra shuts her door. They drive off.

She goes home, but she doesn’t sleep.

Sorry.

She moves instead to the closet, changes into her plainclothes.

Erryk is by the house, like she expected. She knocks on his passenger-side window. He jumps; lowers the glass.

“Mrs. Targaryen, I was just—”

“Spying on me?”

She folds her arms over her sweater, raises an eyebrow.

He swallows. “Rhaenyra asked me to stand by, in case you needed anything.”

She shakes her head. “Alright,” she says. “As it happens, I do need something.”

He puts his hands on the wheel, seems to sit up straighter. “Of course. What can I do?”

She fixes him with a look, and then reaches over the door, pulls it unlocked, and slides inside. “You’re going to take me somewhere.”

“Mrs. Targaryen—”

“And take this exit, just here.”

“Mrs. Targaryen, we’re a bit far from London, I think—”

“I’m aware.” He takes the exit, slows for the stop. “And my name is Alicent.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t call you that.”

“I insist.”

“Mrs. Targaryen, please, really—”

And he looks genuinely nervous, so she sighs, folds her arms, stares out the window. “Seven above, alright.”

She leads him around the turns, in silence, almost. She wonders if Erryk recognizes the town; wonders if he knows.

Maybe nobody knows this about her.

(Maybe not even Rhaenyra.)

“Just here.”

He pulls into the lot. She gets out.

“You can stay here.”

“I’m afraid, if I’m escorting you to an unknown location, my instructions—”

“You tell my wife,” she interjects, icily, “That I forbade you from following. And if she gives you any issue about it, she can speak directly with me.”

He sighs, nervously, then nods. “I understand.”

She shuts the door, heads through the cemetery gate, down the steps.

It’s a practiced movement, one she began in college, when her father couldn’t know, couldn’t follow, couldn’t stop her from going, couldn’t refuse to follow.

She finds it, finally. The day is clear as glass. It’s horribly clear, even, horribly plain, horribly innocuous, almost completely unmentionable.

I needed it to rain, I needed it to thunder.

She sinks to her knees in the dirt.

“Mother,” she says, simply.

(Silent by her headstone, a handful of dandelions have grown.)

She returns to the car hours later, when it’s nearly dark, where Erryk, ever dutiful, has remained, albeit standing outside of it now, as though on guard.

He spots her. “Mrs. Targaryen—we need to get back, as soon as possible—”

“Oh?” She gets in the passenger side, eyes red-rimmed, calm as ever. She buckles herself. “And why’s that?”

He hops in the driver’s seat, starts the car before his seatbelt’s even on, begins to reverse. “Rhaenyra called, she’s a bit concerned that you—”

She holds up a hand, stares out the opposite window at the night. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Then she looks back over at him, heart hurting—“I—Erryk, I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.” She shakes her head. “I’m just—” She stops herself, then. “It’s been a difficult day, I think. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but they’re still kind, kind and soft and easy.

“It’s alright,” he says. Then he turns, just for a second, to give her a small smile. “It’s okay, it’s really alright.” He hesitates. “Would you like some music?”

She’s not sure how she ends up screaming to the radio with Erryk, who has finally called her Alicent, but that’s where she is, window down, cold wind through her hair as they pull into a drive-thru window at a chippy outside London.

They’re just about finishing their bag of vinegar chips when Erryk finally turns onto the street of her flat.

She looks at him mischievously, like they’re teenagers, like he’s sneaking her home. “We probably shouldn’t mention the chips.”

He almost giggles. “You have vinegar on your...”

And she looks in the car mirror at her absolutely smeared lips and turns, smiles at him with mirthful eyes. “Yeah? Think she’ll notice?”

And they laugh, truly, then; and she needs it, she really does.

Only a few moments later, he looks sheepish as they approach the door. She keys in. “You can still escape.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve got to take my licks, I fear.”

It’s pitch-black outside. She enters the foyer, sheds her jacket, hangs her keys up. Erryk comes in behind her, shuts her door, but makes no move to enter any further.

Rhaenyra comes around from the hallway, then, with an utterly incredulous expression. “Thank you, Erryk. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Alicent turns, before he can go. “Thank you for today,” she says, softly. “I mean it.”

He nods, then, and departs. She locks the door behind him.

Then she sighs, turns back.

Rhaenyra has her arm crossed, brows raised in askance.

Alicent purses her lips. “Do you make him call me Mrs. Targaryen? Or is he only particularly polite—”

“Alicent.”

She sighs. “The children?”

“They’re in bed. I told them you were at the office.”

Alicent nods. “I’m going to bed myself, I think.”

“Alicent—”

She only walks past her.

She emerges from the shower, towel around her body, to find Rhaenyra already in bed, reading (pretending to read, Alicent thinks) her novel.

Rhaenyra puts it down. Alicent slides under the covers beside her; throws her towel to the end of the bed, adjusts upon her pillow, exhales, lets it go, lets herself become weightless, even.

She turns out the light. Rhaenyra does the same on her own side.

Rhaenyra, quietly, from beside her: “You know, I didn’t even realize, at first.”

She remains silent.

“I was trying to…” Rhaenyra stops. “I was trying to figure out, well, had I done something, had I said something—”

“You didn’t.” She doesn’t want to engage, but can’t help herself, then.

(It’s not your fault, she wants to scream, almost; It’s never been your fault that you couldn’t fix it.)

“And that’s when I realized,” Rhaenyra whispers, softly. “It’s the anniversary, isn’t it.”

Alicent simply tries to find unconsciousness, to leave this conversation, this day—

But then Rhaenyra is close, and a warm arm comes perfectly over her middle, and lips press perfectly to the edge of her shoulder, her ear. And there’s that smell, again, the one she can never forget, never deny.

(And it’s been so hard, today.)

She turns, then, turns and grabs and pulls Rhaenyra, pulls her closer, hopes beyond hope that despite it all she’ll hold her, buries herself in her arms, pushes her back until they’re both on her side, her pillow, prompts her to pull the duvet up around them, encircle her with her arms, hold me, hold me, hold me.

“My love,” Rhaenyra whispers. “What can I do? I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, again, and her hand reaches up, against her cheek. “For earlier.”

And then Rhaenyra simply shushes her, a gentle sound, a comforting sound. “Do you want your blanket?”

“No,” she says, her breathing slowing in Rhaenyra’s neck, “I’m alright.”

“What about some water?”

“Rhaenyra,” she stops her, softly. “I want you.”

Rhaenyra says something else, something soothing, but she doesn’t hear it. It’s two breaths more before she’s asleep, sleeping harder than she thinks she’s ever slept.

The next morning, it’s late, she knows, and she feels Rhaenyra slide right back into bed.

She hums in question, Rhaenyra replies: “The children are safe, off to school.”

She wants to say something—ask if they’re in good spirits, if Helaena finished her juice, if Jace still had a sniffle.

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra says, then, as if hearing her thoughts. “It’s all taken care of.”

She wonders if Rhaenyra’s called her absence into the office; doesn’t really care, though, in that moment.

(Wants to tell her how angry she’s been at herself, how much she wanted to be shaken, have this latent grief dragged out of her like a spool of thread.)

She slides back into her arms, into her hold, into her warmth.

“Go back to sleep, my love,” Rhaenyra murmurs.

And she does, for a long while.

When they wake, near eleven, they speak.

(Well, Rhaenyra speaks; looks down at her with that unbelievable ethereal look, that’s beautiful and stable and devoted, so loving.

Are you alright?

Alicent thinks of the backhand sometimes; it’s hot. She reminds herself all the time how inappropriate that thought is—that Rhaenyra putting hands on their guest isn’t less than embarrassing, or at least it should be, embarrassing and wrong—

But then she hears the words in her head and it’s different, it’s just different.

Rhaenyra is willing to take the gloves off, for her, for their children. Rhaenyra isn’t afraid. Rhaenyra’s fire burns.

The Conqueror, Rhaenys had said.

(And yet the way she dotes on their babies—becomes so tender and soft, all of the sudden.)

It makes her feel safe, in a part of her she knows isn’t healed, that’s maybe unhealthy, that’s maybe still yet part of her.

(She feels Rhaenyra around her, again; her arm across her shoulder, holding her softly, her gentle kiss upon Helaena’s head, her warmth and steadiness—

Safe, safe, safe.)

And then Rhaenyra asks, again—asks her if she’s alright, asks her what can I do.

“Nothing,” she promises.

Her fingers find the edge of Rhaenyra’s sleep shirt, at her collar. Rhaenyra’s chest rises and falls slowly and she’s warm underneath her.

“I was wondering,” Rhaenyra says, finally, “If it’s too difficult to see it—I know you wanted me to have it, when we first…” She trails off. “But given the history. I understand if you’d rather that I didn’t—”

“No,” Alicent whispers, her hand finding Rhaenyra’s, finding the ring. “No, I want you to. I want you to have it.”

“But I could understand, if it’s a reminder, a hard one, of—”

“It reminds me of her, yes. It does.” Alicent says, simply. “That’s why I want you to wear it.”

Rhaenyra swallows, above her. Alicent watches her throat move.

“But not if it hurts you,” she says, finally. “I don’t want to, if it’s hurtful to you.”

“No,” she says. “No, it’s not.” Her eyes remain on the rain, sad and cool. “I want you to have the ring. I want you to have it and wear it and I want our children to see it, I want it to be worn and be loved, like she loved it. She was hidden away for so long, Rhaenyra, I—” And Rhaenyra’s hand comes around her own, her grip strong, sure, solid and true in the dark of the clouds. “I want you to wear it. I think I need you to, actually.”

And the rain pitter-patters against the window, but Rhaenyra’s heart is strong in its rhythm and steadiness beneath her ear, in the hands soft upon her back.

“You never told me when. Never wanted to talk about it. Ever.” Rhaenyra’s thumb traces a circle, a tiny one, upon the base of her spine, soothing and sure. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she admits. Her fingers find Rhaenyra’s own, then, and she drags Rhaenyra’s hand up to her chest, then underneath her own, between the two of them, under her own heartbeat, under the thrumming.

“Will you come with me somewhere?” She asks, then.

Rhaenyra drives the Syrax low, smooth, rolling like syrup over the highway, out to the countryside, the edges of town and then past them.

“Take the exit here,” she tells her. Rhaenyra does.

They pull into the car park; Rhaenyra clicks the locks.

She takes her hand, even as Rhaenyra tries to take her arm, tries to slide around her back; Alicent knows she knows what’s coming. But still, she takes her hand, guides her out, down the cobblestone path, past the headstones, to the right row, and then—

“I’ve never been here before.” Rhaenyra murmurs.

“I know.” Alicent replies.

Rhaenyra looks down at her grave, at her place, at the stunningly vibrant chartreuse of the grass.

(At the dandelions.)

Alicent takes her wife’s hand in both of her own.

“Mother,” she whispers, softly, almost to herself. “This is Rhaenyra.”

They drive home in the silence of the rain.

“I wish I could have met her.”

Alicent nods. “I do, too. And the children. There’s a lot of…” She shakes her head. “You know,” she murmurs, eyes on her hands, “I’m so grateful, that I met your mum.” She grasps her hand, takes it over the console, rests it upon her thigh, threads through her fingers. “That I knew Aemma.”

Rhaenyra smiles, softly. “You remember her?”

“Oh, Rhaenyra,” Alicent whispers, fingers light as feathers. “I miss your mother all the time.”

They’re at the country house for the long weekend; Rhaenyra finds Alicent in the kitchen, in her soft knit robe, with Helaena in her arms. Their daughter’s only half-awake, hiding in her mother’s curls, still in her blanket sleeper. A fresh cup of coffee waits for Alicent, still steaming on the counter.

“Good morrow.” She presses a kiss to Alicent’s lips, Helaena’s soft hair. “Jace still asleep?”

“Indeed he is.” Alicent smiles down at Helaena. “But at least somebody’s still an early riser in this household, hm?”

“Have you been waiting on us, my sweet?” Rhaenyra asks, and she’s at peace as she takes Helaena in her own arms, sets her on her hip. Alicent takes a grateful sip of her coffee, wanders back to the machine—

“Americano, my love?”

“Please.”

Helaena rubs at an eye, looks up at her with an entirely curious expression. Then—in a manner altogether Alicent—bunches her hand in Rhaenyra’s sweater, looks up at her with wide eyes. “Maybe we can go to the park?”

“It’s raining, sweetling,” Alicent herself reminds, in an albeit gentle tone that strikes like it’s not the first time she’s said it.

Still, Helaena doesn’t falter. “Maybe we can.”

And still, all Rhaenyra can think is I will give you literally anything you want—utterly, stupidly besotted, as always.

Alicent shoots her a look, like she can hear what she’s thinking.

“You’ll catch a cold, my sweet.” 

“What if we play a game inside?” Rhaenyra prompts, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Anything you want.”

Helaena nods. “Maybe—” her brow furrows, like she’s recalling something, and Rhaenyra thinks it’s so adorable her heart may break—“Maybe you play Enchanted Forest with me?”

“Oh, my love,” Rhaenyra smiles, swaying gently, “I will play Enchanted Forest with you all day long.”

And Rhaenyra does. She plays Enchanted Forest.

All. Day. Long.

“Mummy,” Jace implores, handing her the dice, “You haven’t found the Golden Crown.”

“Oh,” Rhaenyra says, willing her afternoon tea to carry her through. “Haven’t I?”

“Haven’t you what?” Alicent emerges from the study, reading glasses pushed up onto her head. “You haven’t solved the grand mystery yet, my love?”

“Mummy has to find the Golden Crown,” Jace supplies.

“Does she?” Rhaenyra glares as Alicent’s smiling eyes do none but gloat. “I’m sure Mummy is more than capable of securing her crown.”

“Oh,” Rhaenyra chuckles, almost to herself, “Certainly trying.”

“Because if she wins,” Alicent starts the kettle without merely a glance in her direction. “I think she might receive a prize.”

“A sweet?” Helaena asks, rolling the dice.

“Yes, my dearest,” Alicent smiles, taking her mug in her hands and making off for the study. “Something very sweet indeed.”

Rhaenyra watches her walk, in that flowing floor-length skirt, all the way down the hall.

“You’re a menace, Harwin Strong.”

He smirks as he pops the top off another non-alcoholic beer, hands it to her. “Thank you. Menacing is a lot of work, and I feel I’ve really improved, these past few years.”

She shakes her head as he opens a Guinness, for himself, sits back at his table, flips the next page. Harwin’s apartment is stylish and cozy and warm, and also interestingly appears to have a pair of women’s slippers and a romance novel by the edge of the sofa, which Harwin won’t talk about.

“It’s my book,” Harwin lies.

“And your tiny slippers?”

“I ordered them by accident. Have to send them back.”

She chuckles, takes a sip. “Alright. So what’s the book about?”

He looks back at it. “It’s… it’s your typical romance, Rhaenyra. You know. The usual. Two people who are… romantic.”

Rhaenyra leans back, nodding. “Alicent read that book two years ago. I know, with painstaking detail, every single character and every single plot point.”

And then he rolls his eyes, massively, sighs, and then tips his head toward the shoes. “She loves the main bloke even though he sounds like an absolute tosser. Every new thing she tells me about him somehow only makes it worse.”

“Don’t get me started—one night I told her, Alicent, if I said that to you, I’d be sleeping on the sofa til the end of our days.”

“That’s what I said!” Harwin laughs, takes a swig of his beer. “And she was like, well, you’re not Podrick. What in seven hells does that mean?”

She chuckles. “Come now, Harwin. Surely you too can be a half-wolf half-man who grants magic wishes.”

“Hairy enough to be, certainly.” He shakes his head. “In any case. Back to Balerion. So, the offering circulars—outside counsel has gone ahead and sent us the disclosures we’ll have to—”

“Wait,” she says, gesturing with her own with a smirk, “Isn’t this our fourth? Your fourth real one?”

He frowns, shrugs. “Beer is barristers’ milk, Rhaenyra. I’m tamer than most, I’ll have you know.”

She snorts, picks up the page. “I’m starting to understand why we’ve been winning.”

They go through the mark-up from the top, and then finish, and then Harwin starts telling another one of his damn stories, and by the time Rhaenyra looks up again, it’s almost ten o’clock.

And she gets up, to use the lav, and then to tell Harwin she’ll have to go after they finalize the investors’ share reports—

And then she stands. And sways.

Only then does she realize there’s a buzzing in her head. At the back. And she’s loose. And only once she’s up on her feet does she feel sick, actually sick.

No, no, no, no, no, gods no, please no—

She marches to the fridge, then, terrifyingly wobbly on her feet.

Harwin, behind her—“What’s wrong?”

She takes one of the bottles, her bottles, turns it in her hands, searching, searching like mad, where’s the special label, where’s the fucking label—

She turns it over a half dozen times.

Puts it back. Closes the fridge. Leans her forehead against it.

“Harwin,” she says, very slowly, very quietly. And the buzzing only grows louder.

Defeated, defeated, she’s fucked.

Alicent steps out of the cab, and Harwin’s already there, at the door, looking more sorry than she’s ever seen him. His eyes are big and wide and scared and apprehensive; melancholic, almost.

She smiles at him, a small one, puts her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Is she on the patio?”

“The cold helps, I think.”

Alicent merely nods.

She makes her way through the living area, out toward the back.

Rhaenyra’s there, turned away. The silver of her hair glows white in the moonlight.

“Rhaenyra, it’s me.”

She doesn’t move, not a muscle.

“Rhaenyra,” she says, and takes a step closer, until her hand can connect with the top of her arm, her shoulder. “Are you feeling okay?”

And Rhaenyra shakes her head, turns further, pulls away from her grasp, hand up, don’t touch me.

I’m sorry, Alicent hears her say. But it’s softer than a whisper.

“My sweet,” Alicent tries, stepping closer still, hand on her back, thumb tracing softly—“It’s too cold. Why don’t you come inside.”

Rhaenyra grips the wrought iron railing so hard her knuckles turn white. “I’m so, so sorry, Alicent.”

“It’s not your fault.” She shakes her head, rubs Rhaenyra’s back, tries to pull her closer, tries to find her soft blue eyes. “Harwin told me. It could have happened to anybody. You didn’t do anything wrong, my love. You didn’t do it on purpose.”

“The bottles look the same.”

“I know they do.” She loops her arm through Rhaenyra’s, then, tugs her gently. “Will you look at me, please, sweetling, please look at me?” She draws her closer, places her hands to Rhaenyra’s face, feels the hot sting of her tears—“I’m not angry with you. Nobody’s angry with you.”

Rhaenyra shuts her eyes. “The brand, I—I didn’t even know they made the real thing. I didn’t even taste it.”

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent catches her hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

And then Rhaenyra looks, finally looks—her eyes are horribly unfocused, red and dazed and full to the brim with mournful, crystalline tears.

She mouths it, again, wet and sorrowful—“I’m so sorry.”

Alicent nods. “Okay, my sweet. Where’s your key?”

Rhaenyra finds it in the pocket of her trousers, hands it to her.

“Come on,” she says, then, and she takes her toward the door. “I’m going to take you home.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Alicent turns back. “Do you mean the car ride?” Her hand returns to Rhaenyra’s cheek, her thumb rubs gently. “Do you think you’re going to be sick?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “I can’t be there,” she whispers. “Like this. The children.”

And Alicent’s brows draw together, then, in a perfect expression of sorrow. “Oh, my love,” she murmurs, and she tugs, brings her closer until she’s in her arms, until her wife bends, a little, and she can fit Rhaenyra’s face against her neck.

(Even as she ignores the feeling that seeps from deep in her bones at the smell of alcohol on Rhaenyra’s breath, again.)

“They’re asleep.” She assures, as her thumb traces away the tears, as she covers over the gooseflesh of Rhaenyra’s neck, open to the cold. “Lyla is there, now. They’re completely asleep, I promise. You need to get some sleep, too.”

“I can’t sleep beside you. Not like this.”

“Rhaenyra, please—you didn’t do anything wrong—”

“No, I promised myself.”  She chokes. “I’d never sleep this way beside you again.”

And the way Rhaenyra’s looking at her, with all that fear and that guilt, the premonition of it, the flood of memories—the way she spoke to her and the way she ignored her and the sex in the back of the car, the absence of her touch, the year she felt passed in a matter of seconds, the year that took a thousand years—the thousand different kaleidoscopic pains of each memory, a madrigal of that moment, the moment Alicent wondered, even for a singular second, if she’d have to—

“I promised myself,” Rhaenyra breathes, again, though Alicent’s not even sure she’s talking exactly to her. “Especially after we decided—after we decided to have another baby. And—Alicent, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so—”

(And then she realizes; and then it clicks.)

“I forgive you.” She whispers. “I forgive you, Rhaenyra. I forgave you a long time ago. You’re my partner and I love you.” Her fingers fall to Rhaenyra’s side, to the edge of her hipbone. “That time in our lives, it’s over. And I forgive you. Okay?”

She waits, then, for Rhaenyra to nod.

Then, again—“And I’m your partner, and you’ve got to let me take care of you, my heart.”

Alicent grasps her hand, again, and as Harwin opens the sliding door behind them, she pulls her forth, pulls her forward, into the warmth, into the light. “You’ve got to let me take you home.”

As they leave, she turns to Harwin. “Thank you,” she impresses, hand on his shoulder. He merely smiles, softly sadly; opens the door for them.

But before they’re gone, she turns, nods her head toward the sofa with just the shadow of a smile. “And tell her I love the book.”

Rhaenyra gets sick, after they get home, after she bolts to the master bedroom. Alicent holds her silver hair from her face, rubs her back, gently.

She puts her in the shower; it’s a quick one, a rinse, really, but she emerges with her hair wet, at least. Alicent wraps her in her towel, presses a kiss to the crown of her head; puts a full glass of water in her hands, watches her drink it; and later, tucks her right into bed, their bed, beside her, where she belongs.

Alicent snuggles up beside her with a kiss to the side of her jaw. “Listen to me,” she whispers, simply. “I love you, Rhaenyra. I love you,” she promises. “And it’s okay.”

Laena gets a divorce.

She brings the children to the country house, to stay the night on the day she leaves to tell him.

Alicent was the maid of honour at that wedding. She has one of the pictures on her desk—she and Laena at the reception, young and raucous, Laena spraying her in her party dress with a shaken-up champagne bottle.

The girls come through their door. Alicent kneels, brings them into her arms, kisses Rhaena’s sweet silver curls. “My little loves.”

The children scurry off to play, quickly enough.

She takes Laena into her arms, then; smooths her hair, presses a kiss to her temple, holds her and holds her and holds her.

Later, in the reading room, away from the children, tea in hand:

Alicent—“It’s normal to fall out of love.”

Laena shakes her head. “I do love him. I love him so much.”

Alicent nods.

“But I know the difference, now.”

“The difference between what.”

“You taught me that, actually.”

Alicent frowns, apologetic, quietly. “How do you mean?”

“Well. You and Rhaenyra. You and she, my parents, even my brother and his husband. The difference, it was everywhere around me, all the time. I think we were just too young to know. We didn’t get lucky, you know, I think it was just never there, and we wanted it to be, wanted it so bad, both of us.”

“I don’t understand—”

“You love Rhaenyra,” Laena says simply. “I love Luco. But it’s not the same. Because you’re in love with Rhaenyra, too. She’s in love with you. That’s why you’ve weathered what you have, why you can work together without killing each other—I could never be within fifty meters of Luco’s work, Alicent, you don’t even understand—why for all her self-restraint she’ll still blow her top and smack the shit out of my legless uncle. I’m not comparing, really, I know you can never compare, but. What my parents share, even the way Laenor will look at Joff…” She shakes her head. “You have to find that thing. And I still want to find it, Al, I want to. I want the girls to grow up and see it. I  want that for myself.”

Alicent nods. “I want it for you, too.”

Then Laena smiles, softly. “All things in time.”

The children don’t know yet, but they know something’s different, something’s off.

Later, in the afternoon, Alicent lifts little Rhaena into her arms, places her sure and easy on her hip; Rhaena lays her head on her shoulder, eventually, and Alicent walks her around the garden, slow and calm along the edge, by the wildflowers.

Balerion II completes its second round.

(The certificates fly off the market, down to the last tranches, gone almost before business begins in New York.

Lyman raises an eyebrow in the conference suite. “Fly like dragons?”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes nearly out of her head.)

Still, when it’s over, he and Lyonel Strong look at her from across the table like she’s just performed a miracle.

“It’s outpaced the first round,” Lyonel murmurs, shaking his head, eyes full of awe and shock and disbelief. “By two hundred and ten percent.”

From beside her, Lyman gives her a look of pride she doesn’t think she’ll ever forget.

But she’s gloating, when she marches across the hall to Alicent’s new office (the one she finally, finally agreed to occupy) and slaps down the printed numbers onto her desk, smile absolutely predatory, eyes sparkling like gold.

Alicent looks up from her iPad to the packet, stands from her chair, flips the page, flips and flips and flips.

She’s quiet. Very quiet.

Quick as ever, she paces across to her door, shutting it—“Dyana, will you please see that I’m not disturbed, for the next twenty?”

“So?” Rhaenyra grins triumphant as Alicent returns behind her desk, methodically places her iPad onto the shelf behind her, then her files, her pictures. “Are congratulations in order, for the shining—”

Alicent slams her lips to Rhaenyra’s own before she knows it, rips away her suit jacket, makes quick work of her buttons, pushes her tongue into her mouth, pushes her back onto the desk.

They go to the opening ceremony, when it’s unveiled—try to keep it small, though Alicent’s old Cambridge mates attend in droves, Rhaenys and Corlys, too, and the school seems delighted to have her name on a wall—so delighted, in fact, that she’s shaking the hands of other benefactors for thirty-five minutes afterwards.

It’s a beautiful hall, to be sure. Modern and warm and gleaming.

Rhaenyra lifts Jace in her arms, so he can trace the edges of his name along the panel—

The Alicent Hightower and Rhaenyra Visenya Targaryen Teaching Room.

Alicent stares at her own name, for a moment, and Rhaenyra knows who she’s thinking of.

(He’d be so proud to see it, in this place, her place, their name on it forever.

And so proud of her, above all.)

“Who’s that?” Alicent whispers to Helaena, gesturing to Rhaenyra’s name. She smiles down at her, eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s, playful. “You know Rhaenyra Targaryen, don’t you, my love?”

Helaena thinks, for a moment. She looks back at Rhaenys, a few paces behind them, and then points.

“Nana!”

(And Rhaenys guffaws, doubles over, wonderfully amused, delighted, even.)

Rhaenyra tickles Helaena’s side, smiles as she giggles. “Close enough.”

Three months later, they host their holiday party, once it’s cold again, and Rhaenyra’s family house is alight and alive with their family, their friends; Daemon and Mysaria, suspiciously happy with each other—Mysaria goading him into tending the bar, at least for a few minutes, until Alicent dismisses him before he can get everyone horribly drunk; Corlys and Rhaenys, with Baela and Rhaena in tow, and Laena, who rides with her brother and Joffrey, who has himself decided to wear the ugliest holiday sweater he could find.

“It’s the ugliest one I could find.” He holds out the front to Alicent with a winning grin.

Rhaenyra’s eyebrows shoot up when she walks past and spots him. “Seven above.”

Harwin brings his father, who himself has decided to bring four litres of homemade eggnog in a giant dispensable jar labeled Strong Eggnog, which he and Harwin both seem to find utterly hilarious; and Lyman and his wife make it, even having returned from vacation only the night before, from Paris—“Our very last trip,” he calls it, which Rhaenyra all but begs him to stop saying. Before everyone’s even arrived, Boremund manages to all but immediately trap Mick and poor Paxter into listening to the longest story they’ve ever heard (though Alicent does manage to save Dyana with an invitation to the bar, abandoning the others with only a look of sympathy.)

Rhaenyra’s business associates crowd her, for a little while; but in their eyes, the way they speak to her—there’s a difference however subtle, and one she’s not exactly sure how to feel about. It’s respect, but not just; and it’s fear, but not fear fear, maybe apprehension, or—

Reverence, she realises.

(Lyman only watches, smiles with something like relief, something like satisfaction, like the sun’s finally risen, like it’s finally warm.)

It feels right, here, in Viserys’ home.

It’s the house that Jaehaerys had bought, but the home Viserys had made—for all his faults, always insistent on this, investing in this sweet piece of life, the togetherness of it, the mirth, the meaning, the moments of joy. By her father’s old clock, Jace’s primary school photo smiles out upon the room, bright and loving.

She knows it’s coming, too, when he finds her alone by the garden windows, watching the children chase each other in their galoshes through the fading twilight hour.

“Rhaenyra.”

“Lyman,” she turns, smiles. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, no.” He shakes his head, smiling. Watches Jace pick the football up with his hands, kick it across to the other side of the trees, watches it splash into a pile of frost. “I was hoping to corner you, actually, my girl.”

She looks back at him with happy eyes. “Corner away.”

“You know,” he says, swishing his Arbor red, “When you first came to me—after everything, that dinner we had, at your home, years ago—I was planning to retire. As it happens, I thought you’d invited me there to ask me to. I thought, well, it’s the right time. You’re new blood, you’d want new blood. And I’d already tried to go, once, during your father’s time. It was only right.”

Her face falls. “Lyman—”

He holds up a hand. “No, no, wait. And I wanted to, you see.” He slides her a sly grin. “As you have so delicately pointed out, on occasion, I have an absurd number of grandchildren, and every time I look away, another one of them suddenly grows five years older and sneaks off to secondary school. But then you asked for my help. And I remember taking a look at you, a hard look at you, then.” He takes a sip of his wine. “You have to forgive me. I loved your father so much, my dear, all I wanted to see in you was him, so I didn’t realize. I looked at you, then, and you were so tired. I don’t know if you remember. You were unbelievably tired, then, and quite scared, as well. And your wife, walking around like she was on the verge of tears all the time. I remembered how hard it was, you understand, to be a young couple with a young child, even without an empire hanging over my head—and I thought, if my old friend doesn’t haunt me for leaving now, there’s truly nothing right in the world. So I stayed.”

She swallows thickly. “I can’t really tell you,” she murmurs, fighting for an even voice, “What that meant. What that means.”

He only smiles, warm and true, and for the first time she sees the wrinkles upon him, the life and the spots and the wear. “To have stood by your side is one of the greatest joys of my life, and indeed, one of the greatest sorrows. Because I wanted to see Viserys in you, Rhaenyra; you’ll have to forgive the nostalgia of a very old man—but you see, he wasn’t there. Underneath all that exhaustion and panic, even back then, there was something else. A relentlessness that never belonged to him.” He shakes his head. “You have a rock inside you, Rhaenyra, you’re solid at your core; solid and burning. I never subscribed to the Great Man Theory, you know, not even in business—but it’s only been these past couple of years I’ve begun to believe it.” He nods, almost to himself. “If your great-grandfather was even a tenth of the force that you stand to become, then all the stories are true.”

She’s quiet, for a moment. Looks down at the shining black leather of her shoes, back up to the moistening blue of his eyes. “Well,” she says, finally. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

“No,” He says, eyes serene. “We won’t.”

And then it clicks—she feels it rise in her chest. “Lyman, no—I need you—”

“You don’t.” He replies, simply. “You did, once, but not anymore. Now I’ll have to invoke the power of old people, Rhaenyra, to somehow always be right, one way or another.” He chuckles. “Seeing you now—seeing Balerion—I don’t think you quite know how impressive that is. I know you know the numbers are good. But what you have accomplished, before you’re even thirty-five, I just…” He shakes his head. “You did need me once. But it’s as I thought, those years ago. You’re new blood. You need new blood.”

Her eyes are hard, sad. “No. I need experienced advisors who know my strengths.”

“Empires are not built in a day, Rhaenyra.” He counsels, eyes smiling, still. “I was not always six and seventy and so experienced, as you kindly suggest. In your grandfather’s time, I was a twenty-two-year-old mumbling, bumbling ball of nerves. As your new advisor surely will be, too—but they’ll grow with you, Rhaenyra. And with Jacaerys, perhaps, in time.”

From across the room, Rhaenyra catches Alicent’s eyes, chestnut and shining in the low light; looks back to Lyman.

“I take it this is your announcement of retirement.”

“Oh no,” he takes another sip, almost chuckling. “Not the official one, anyway. But the leader I see before me has no use of old dithering men anymore. Still, worry not. I do promise to dither away, anyway, until you find your young blood.”

Rhaenyra nods, silently. Then she takes his hand, squeezes, looks him dead on in the eyes.

“I will never, ever be able to express my gratitude.” She holds his gaze, holds it, tries to imbue the meaning, say what could never be said. “I think you saved my life.”

He sighs, dips his head, keeps her fingers primly in his own. “And I shall never manage to express, in turn,” he says, “The light which your courage, and character, have brought to mine.”

Only a few hours in, even in the crowd, Rhaenyra manages to spot Harwin attempting to sneak someone through the door without drawing an eye—

“Harwin!” Rhaenyra smiles, and grins even wider at his expression of complete and utter defeat. She locks eyes with Alicent, in another conversation across the room, who excuses herself to approach.

Alicent slides an arm around Rhaenyra’s waist, looking from Harwin’s utterly caught expression to the way he stands in front of the door, half-ajar. “Is there someone you’d like to bring inside?” She smiles, innocently, with entirely knowing eyes. “It’s quite cold, you know.”

Finally, Harwin relents, steps aside, takes the woman’s hand—

And then Alicent’s jaw all but falls open.

“Leona?”

“Hi.” Leona, in a pretty red dress, looks sheepishly back at Alicent and then up to Harwin, who smiles softly down at her—then leans and kisses her hello.

Rhaenyra glances at Alicent, whose eyes look like they’re about to fall out of her head.

“Alicent, I’m so sorry I forgot to call you—I meant to tell you I’d be able to make it, after all, and, well—I brought champagne.” Leona holds a sparkling bag up, tentatively. “And then, you know, it turned out, Harwin was also attending, so we thought—”

“We.” Alicent blinks. “We as in—you and Harwin, we. Together. Coming together.”

Rhaenyra frowns. “Leona, are you really reading that werewolf book?”

Alicent recovers, then, takes the bag from her hands, hugs her around the shoulders, presses a kiss to her cheek. “Yes, of course, come in, come in. I’ll take this to the bar. Actually, would you like a drink?” She takes Leona’s hand, then, shoots Harwin a look. “Come, let’s get you a drink.”

Rhaenyra watches as Alicent leads Leona through the crowd. “So,” she starts, with a Cheshire smirk, “You’re close friends with my wife’s protégé.”

“I’m dating your wife’s protégé,” he amends. “Actually.”

Rhaenyra raises a brow. “And how did that happen?”

He shrugs. “Well, we met after the first round of Balerion, because I needed her principal’s wet-ink signature on a few of our documents, and I was by their offices, and it turns out she was reviewing and signing personally. So I delivered the documents, and said hello, and then we were chatting, and then she got this kind of look on her face, like maybe she was psyching herself up for something, and then she asked me to have dinner.”

Rhaenyra nods, utterly impressed. “Leona Tyrell, who would have thought.”

“So, I thought it might be rude to deny, and she’s our partner, after all, and so I said, sure, I’ll take you to dinner.” He grins. “And then she crossed her legs, and clicked her pen—I’ll never forget—and she said no, I’m taking you to dinner. And I don’t think I’ve stopped thinking about her since.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, laughing and incredulous and utterly gleeful, somewhere inside herself. “Harwin Strong, you undying romantic.”

He raises his glass. “The one and only.”

Later, once Leona’s off happily chatting with someone else, Alicent returns, two drinks in hand, and hands him one. Rhaenyra only raises her eyebrows and waits for the show.

“Harwin,” Alicent entreats, primly, with a gentle smile. “You are the best man I know, and indeed, I love you dearly. However, if ever I find out you have treated her poorly, I will scatter your entrails across opposite ends of the world. Yes?”

Harwin blinks. “Understood.”

She nods, smiling brightly. “Wonderful.” And then she makes away, joining Laena and Rhaenys and Joanna Lannister by the piano.

He looks down to Rhaenyra, then, who merely shakes her head.

“I have the hottest wife,” she sighs, taking a sip of a virgin cocktail. She starts off to follow in Alicent’s wake. “The absolute hottest wife.”

Joanna Lannister is smiling, showing their guests pictures of her daughter, who’s grown immensely since they held her—even a thick head of brilliant yellow hair.

Alicent smiles, strokes Rhaenyra’s knuckles where her arm has come around her waist. “She’s so beautiful, Joanna.”

Joanna smiles as Allyria Dayne nods beside her. “And Tyland is such a natural father, too. With all of our children, but especially Genna. He longed for a daughter, I think.”

Rhaenyra hums, takes a sip of her tonic, looks to Alicent. “We certainly recommend at least one of each, I think.”

Allyria grins. “Yes, how are yours? I’m not sure I’ve seen them, since your last holiday gathering.”

But before Rhaenyra can answer, Alicent only looks to her wife, the piano still playing behind them, stars in her eyes. “They are the very image of my wife,” she avows, “Like I’d always hoped.”

“Nonsense,” Rhaenyra replies, drawing circles upon her side. “Their beauty is all your own.”

An hour after the children are sent up to bed, they check on them in the guest suite across from Rhaenyra’s childhood room. They’re nestled under soft blankets in the big queen bed, curled up beside each other, heads together.

Alicent pulls the blankets up further to their chins, tucks them softly under the covers as Rhaenyra adjusts the curtains. Jace stirs, then, just the tiniest bit; Alicent’s soft kiss upon his curls is all that it takes to soothe him back to sleep.

She watches their chests rise and fall, for a moment; small as they are, silent as they are. She feels Rhaenyra’s arms come around her waist.

“Thank you, for them.”

Alicent turns, nuzzles Rhaenyra’s cheek. “I should say the same to you.” She picks a spot of fluff off of Rhaenyra’s collar. “You’re such a wonderful mother, you know. There’s nothing like watching you with them. It’s the air that I breathe, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra only smiles, presses her forehead upon Alicent’s own. “I’d tell you I love you, but I’m not certain that it would capture even half the feeling at all.”

Half an hour later, while Rhaenyra’s chatting to one of her business associates and Alicent’s looped her arm through Rhaenyra’s own, chin on her shoulder, Laena sneaks up behind them. Alicent feels a tap on her arm.  

Laena shakes the bottle and two glasses. “I found it,” she grins. “Pommery.”

Alicent lights up, and she flashes her a mischievous grin, and they scuttle off, somewhere toward the backyard.

Rhaenyra gets pulled into the Cambridge crowd, eventually—chatting away with Alicent’s arm around the back of her chair as Rhaenyra swirls the last dregs of a mocktail.

“So, anyway,” Joelle continues, chuckling, “I didn’t even see the hat, first time we met. But I saw him years and years later—no, honestly, it was my first week at Rogare, and who’s sitting in the bullpen next to me but—”

Alicent leans in—“You’re absolutely jesting, it was him?”—and her fingertips come to Rhaenyra’s shoulder, and for a moment, it’s all she can think about.

Sometimes all I want in the world is to kiss you, she thinks.

Joelle seems to notice, smiling over her drink. “I have to know if Rhaenyra’s heard even a word of this conversation.”

She seems to realize she’s been staring at the edge of Alicent’s lips, then, and Alicent’s eyes are on her, caught, and her hand withdraws from her shoulder, pinches her cheek with a grin.

“Sorry.”

Alicent shakes her head, returns her arm around her, rubs her shoulder. “Can’t be helped.”

Joelle sighs, with affection, smirks. “Rhaenyra, you have a lifetime to stare at your wife, but I’ve only got like two more years before this story is uninteresting, so please.”

Rhaenyra only shrugs. “Not sure if a lifetime is enough.”

And she ignores Mick’s mock-retching, then, as Alicent leans in and presses her lips right to Rhaenyra’s own.

The music is playing, the drinks are flowing, conversation alight in the house, Harwin and Leona have been on a tour of the garden for a suspiciously long while—the Strong Eggnog is somehow already gone, which might explain the extra conviviality and the noise and the way everyone seems to think Boremund is really funny—and Alicent puts her arm around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, sways to the rhythm, looks up at her under darkened lashes, smiles at her with beautifully pink painted lips.

Rhaenyra traces the edge of her deep blue dress, slides her hands around her waist, to the small of her back, lower, until Alicent gives her a look.

But Rhaenyra looks back hungry, clutches her to the front of her suit with a possessive ardor, a playful smirk, letting her fingers trace along the tie holding her dress together at the back.

And then Rhaenyra leans to whisper something in her ear, pushes her back a little, steps closer, smirking—

“Ow.”

She looks down to where she’s just stepped on Harwin’s foot, dancing with Leona beside them. “Oh. Sorry.”

Alicent laughs, pulls them away, into their own space, closer to the fire, threads her fingers together behind Rhaenyra’s neck, runs her fingers along her jaw.

Her eyes sparkle, then, if not a bit secretly, and she leans in by Rhaenyra’s ear, as though to press her lips there—

But she merely chuckles and whispers: “You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

And Rhaenyra shakes her head, and smirks, then grabs her by the waist as Alicent laughs, as she swings her down, just a little, and kisses her.

After midnight, when the crowd has cleared and only their close friends remain, Harwin stands, jovial and half-drunk and smiling from ear to ear, and divides them into charades pairs (absurdly) as Laenor feeds the fireplace.

Alicent and Laena kill, as usual, absolutely steamrolling Daemon and Joffrey—who do wildly better together than anyone expected, to be fair—and Mysaria and Laenor, and even Rhaenyra and Harwin, who perform worst of all.

“I thought you were swimming!” He insists.

“Harwin,” she bemoans, eyes wide in disbelief. “It was a fucking unicycle!”

 After it’s over, and Alicent and Laena are gloating and showboating, Alicent stalks over and slides her arm under Rhaenyra’s own, urges her to her left, to join Harwin. “I think the loser has to make me a drink, don’t you?”

Rhaenyra smirks and obliges, takes Harwin’s place behind the bar, for a moment. “Anything you desire.”

Alicent leans over the top, making sure Rhaenyra gets an ample view of her cleavage. “How’s about a Sazerac, for the splendid victor?”

She mixes it slowly, that sweet green drink; and then  Alicent takes the first sip, languidly, indulgently, eyes locked upon her own.

Later, Laenor smiles at Joffrey, rubbing his eyes, loosening his collar. Laenor finally kicks off his own shoes, slides them neatly against the wall.

“Do you think they remember which room we’re supposed to take?”

Joffrey looks back at Rhaenyra and Alicent, snogging against the wall by the bar.

He shakes his head, laughs. “Not a chance.”

They find their way upstairs, eventually; Alicent’s lost her heels somewhere along the way, not that she remembers, and Rhaenyra’s apparently too distracted by the ghost of Alicent’s lips on her neck to really care to look.

They’ve decided to stay in Rhaenyra’s old room, just to make space for the few others spending the night; Alicent returns from the bathroom in just a towel to find Rhaenyra staring down at a piece of paper in her hands.

She brushes her wet curls back from her face, paws for her slip in their overnight bag. “What’s that?”

Rhaenyra only smiles, if not a bit nostalgically. “It’s your phone number.”

Alicent frowns. “My what?”

And then Rhaenyra meets her eyes, somehow happy and sad and mirthful at once. “Remember that night we met? Here, at my father’s party. You came with your father.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was so interesting, back then. Needling Daemon and snarking off to my father’s associates, taking full advantage of my long leash.”

Alicent raises a brow. “Yes, I well remember.”

“But then you were there.” Rhaenyra looks back down, again. “And you were so pretty, I don’t think you even knew, so pretty and cool and—and it shut me right up.” She chuckles. “And then we were talking, and then at the end, I asked you if you wanted to help me find the keys to joyride my father’s new Thunderbird. And you said, I’m quite content as a spectator, thank you. And then you just walked away. I swear I stared at you the rest of the night."

“And before I left,” Alicent cuts in, her hand falling to Rhaenyra’s forearm, “I was so afraid I’d never see you again that I asked if you had a piece of paper. But I didn’t have my own phone, like you, so I told you to try me before my father got home, remember?”

Rhaenyra turns the paper over—in red pen, fading ink, dusty from its years in her childhood drawer:

Not after 7.

Rhaenyra smiles. “I remember all too well.”

Alicent traces her fingertips along the edge of her arm, up to her hand, back. “It’s a long road, we’ve taken.”

Rhaenyra nods. “But out of a thousand realities,” she whispers, “I think I’d choose this one.”

Alicent smiles, then. “I quite agree.”

Alicent stuns in deep blues; and indeed, Rhaenyra muses, this long-sleeve silk dress is no exception, red tresses falling in gentle curls against it, even with the subtle pieces of grey that have come to find their way among them over the years.

You’re supposed to go grey at fifty, Alicent had told her from in front of the bathroom mirror, as though handing down law. Any earlier is a crime.

Rhaenyra had only raised a brow, smirked. We’re not exactly far from that deadline, you remember.

But there are tears in her chestnut eyes, now, on this university lawn, a crystalline glistening from under long lashes. “Alright,” she says. “I’m holding it together. I promise.”

“Mum,” Jace smiles, rubbing the top of her arms, taking her hands. “It’s alright. It’s a happy day. We’re celebrating.”

Rhaenyra raises him a playful brow. “Hopefully you and the lads haven’t started celebrating already.”

He smirks, then, a bit bashfully. “Only a tiny sip of champagne, maybe.”

Rhaenyra bites back a grin. “Of course.”

Still, Alicent wipes a falling tear, reaches up, draws him closer. “Okay, my love, come here. Look up for me.”

(He’s five inches taller than her now, but Rhaenyra’s sure she’d still lift him right up onto her lap, if she could.)

And he does, dutifully, lifts his chin as she straightens his white tie, adjusts his graduand’s hood to fall neatly over his robes.

(It’s your grandfather’s hood, Alicent had told him. From his Cambridge days. You don’t have to, but—

Of course I will, Jace had said, his eyes kind as ever. Of course I’d like to wear it.)

When she’s finished, she steps back, a little, smooths his shoulders, hands lingering upon him.

“I’m so, so proud of you, Jacaerys,” she whispers. “We love you so much.”

He smiles, wraps her shoulders in a hug; bends down, lets her press a kiss to his cheek, wipe any smudge of her lipstick away with her thumb.

Rhaenyra only takes his hand, squeezes. They lock eyes, her and her boy, who, as a man, has come to embody all the best of her.

(And all the best of Alicent, too—

And of Viserys, Rhaenyra sometimes thinks, in the most subtle and meaningful ways.)

“Right,” Rhaenyra says, stroking his cheek, patting his shoulder. “I suppose you’ve got to go find your house, now.”

He nods excitedly. “Wouldn’t want to be late.” And with that, with a grand smile, starts away.

They sit in Senate House for the ceremony, Helaena between them, silver hair cascading down her shoulders. Eventually, the praelector calls his name.

Alicent grasps Rhaenyra’s hand as happy tears escape down her cheek.

The praelector, then, from the dais—

“Jacaerys Otto Targaryen.”

And he kneels before her, his shoulders wide under his robe, as she admits him.

Alicent’s hand never leaves her own. Rhaenyra only smiles.

When it’s over, and he’s back with them, smiling out on the lawn, Helaena throws her arms around him and he laughs and catches her and spins her around. She ruffles his thick brow hair, and he elbows her with a grin, tries to smooth it back down. Their eyes sparkle in the sun.

“Daemon’s getting married.” Rhaenyra announces, deadpan, to the porch, envelope in her hands.

Jace looks up from the wicker couch, book nearly falling from his hands. “What?”

“To Mysaria.”

Alicent frowns from her laptop. “But they broke up. Again.”

“In Ireland.”

Helaena pops up, then, from behind her textbook, nothing but elated. “Really?” She says, eyes flitting to Alicent and back to Rhaenyra. “Can we go?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head as Daemon adjusts his cufflinks, smooths his suit in the mirror.

“Never pegged you as one for marriage.”

“Well,” he says, wrinkled eyes as mischievous as ever, “Surely tax purposes is as romantic a reason as any.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I’m here,” Jace announces, somewhat out of breath in his tuxedo, shutting the door to the dressing area behind him. “Uncle, I’m so sorry I’m late—”

“Nonsense, you’re the best best man there ever was.” Daemon takes his hand, puts the velvet box into his palm, closes it, shakes it. “Now, try not to lose these in the next thirty-five minutes, won’t you.”

Jace smiles. “I promise.”

Later, at the ceremony, after Daemon’s had cake all but shoved down his throat by his new bride, after Helaena has proposed a toast to my uncle, who is not so bad once you know him, or maybe so long as he’s your uncle, after Jace has so dashingly asked Alicent to dance and then not so dashingly talked her into a tequila shot with him and Helaena—a sight Rhaenyra never wants to forget—Alicent steals Rhaenyra outside the party tent, onto the gravel path by the cliffs, the Atlantic churning softly below.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Rhaenyra lifts an eyebrow, loops her arm through Alicent’s, smiles. “And why might that be in order?”

Alicent smirks, primly. “You really thought I’d just pretend it isn’t your nameday, in…” She lifts Rhaenyra’s wrist to look at her watch. “An hour and fifty-five minutes?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. “You’ve got a menacingly good memory about these things, sometimes.”

She only chuckles. “Indeed.”

They walk along the path until they arrive back at the arbor where Daemon was married, still lit; below it, Rhaenyra spots the band that was playing before the DJ—the fiddler, the guitarist—even the accordionist, who so sweetly let Leona and Harwin’s little boy touch the bass keys with utter wonderment as he played.

(They’re great friends of mine, Laena’s husband, Arthur, had told them. We met at Trinity.

You got into trouble at Trinity, Laena had corrected, hand tracing over his heart.)

Rhaenyra looks to her wife. “What’s this?”

Alicent shrugs. “Just one dance,” she says, taking her hands. “For you.”

Rhaenyra smiles, traces her fingers along her waist. “Oh?” She asks. “To which song, might I ask?”

The ocean churns low beneath them.

“It’s called ríl liatroma,” Alicent replies, softly. Her eyes are a deep brown in the twilight. “It means grey ridge.”

She remembers it from somewhere; a simple song, from one of her father’s records, maybe.

Rhaenyra lets her take her hands in the ambient light of the lanterns; watches as the band softly begins to play, the wind swelling just underneath the sounds.

(It’s their life under that tent, under the stars, here in this place; only bigger, only sweeter, as the years go by.)

If you feel it once, you’ll feel it everywhere.

She loops her arms around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, lets her head rest upon her chest as they sway. Hears the warm vibration in her chest as Rhaenyra asks, softly—

“You did all this for me?”

(But she knows Rhaenyra isn’t just talking about the song.)

(On and on it goes, in the cold, when it blooms again, to the summertime.)

“Why not for you?” She pulls back, just a little, just enough to kiss her, soft and slow and as long and short as the years. Alicent smiles. “Of course for you.”