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Chapter Text

The first thing Rhaenyra felt was warmth, like fire or wine, but gentler and heavier like being swaddled in furs too soft to fight against. She stirred faintly beneath them, eyes still closed, caught in that quiet space between sleep and the waking world. She’d slept too much already, and yet… she could sleep more. Her mind remained clouded. She blinked slowly, exhaled, and tried to lift her head.

The effort ached, not sharply or painfully, but in an irritating way. A weariness settled deep in her bones. Her ribs throbbed with each breath, wrapped tightly in thick, clean bandages. The firewine, the blood loss, and the reopened wound had yet to release their grip on her.

However, it wasn't the physical ache that held Rhaenyra in that in-between stillness; it was the scent. Familiar and comforting, it clung to her skin like the essence of life itself. She inhaled, steady and slow. The scent was warm and clean, edged with softness and something floral, like someone who had bathed in fragrant water and left their presence in the fabric.

It didn’t have the sharpness of perfume, just the kind of scent one only noticed when pressed close. When your face was tucked into the slope of a shoulder, or when your nose found the curve of a neck in half-sleep. It lingered now, everywhere: in the pillow beside her, in the sheets around her, in every breath she drew. Rhaenyra knew it even when her mind still wandered in a haze.

Alicent

She didn’t know when her sense beneath memory had come to link that scent with her wife, with warmth, trust, and love. Her conscious mind could not remember, but her body followed it, her breath eased with it, and her heart seemed to recognize it. The scent didn’t just calm her, it anchored her, told her that she was not alone. That someone had held her here, covered her, and kept her warm.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

The last thing she recalled was a spoon at her lips and the savory taste of soup. After that…

The bed.

The arms.

The hush.

They had curled into each other after breakfast—Alicent’s arms around her, their legs tangled, the slow rise and fall of her breath grounding her through the pain. Rhaenyra had fallen asleep in that safety, her cheek pressed against her wife’s collarbones. She could still smell her, still feel the imprint of her body in the heat beside her.

Rhaenyra reached out under the furs, her hand sweeping toward where warmth should’ve been. But there was no curve of the shoulder, no rise of breath, just a long pillow, softened at the edge by her grip.

Rhaenyra blinked once.

Her gaze dropped to the cloak across her chest—Alicent’s cloak. Dark velvet, trimmed with snow fox fur, unmistakably hers. It had been placed over the topmost layer, pulled up all the way to Rhaenyra’s throat, tucked so carefully she almost hadn’t noticed. Beneath it, the blankets were thick and heavy, layered to hold in warmth. Nestled against her sides, one on each flank, two long pillows pressed gently inward—a makeshift embrace, keeping her from turning in her sleep.

Alicent had done this, wrapped her in layers, held her even in her absence. Stayed near, even when she had to rise.

The scent was now stronger as she became aware of it, close to her face and embedded in the collar of the cloak. It was that clean warmth again, intimate and familiar, enveloping her more securely than the fabric itself, but the form it should have taken was gone.

A small pang bloomed at the base of her chest. The space felt emptier than she expected. Rhaenyra hadn’t thought she would wake alone. She wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. Her hand lingered on the edge of the cloak, as if it might become a shoulder if she waited long enough. But no presence answered.

Her eyes followed the low light toward the other end of the room. There, at the desk, half-turned away from the bed, sat Alicent. Her auburn hair was unbound, falling in soft, slightly tousled waves down her back. She wore a winter nightgown with long sleeves fitted close to her arms, lined inside with soft fleece for warmth. The pale cream fabric caught the low firelight, its hem brushing the floor as she moved. A small gold chain glinted faintly at her collarbone, resting just above the modest cut of the gown—a glimpse of the dragon scale pendant nestled close to her skin.

Rhaenyra had seen it already that morning, in her haze. She’d seen it again when she dozed off, curled against that same heart. But still, it warmed her to see it resting there now.

Alicent sat forward, reading closely, one hand bracing a document, the other resting over a closed stack of scrolls and reports. Those could never wait too long, no matter how bloody the night before. Her shoulders maintained their usual grace, her spine perfectly straight, and her movements precise, yet she was not at ease. The line between her brows was taut, a stillness that stemmed from effort. The silence surrounding her was the kind that developed when worries were folded inward, when the mind labored too hard for the body to relax. The tension in her posture told Rhaenyra more than any words could express.

Still, Alicent hadn’t gone far. She was still here, and somehow, that was enough to ease the ache in her chest.

Just a little.

Alicent hadn’t noticed she’d stirred. She was focused, face lowered over the parchment in her hands, candlelight casting along the edge of her profile. But after a moment, with the report still in hand, she walked toward the window. Her steps soundless on the stone floor, her movement fluid but hurried, like someone chasing thoughts too fast to catch. She paused at the sill, lifting the report to her chest, and looked out.

From the bed, Rhaenyra could only see the back of her, auburn strands fluttered as a sharp wind hissed against the window. The candle on the desk flickered. Her wife didn’t flinch, but her shoulders arched slightly inward, and Rhaenyra’s breath caught all the same.

Was Alicent cold, standing there like that?

Even with the fire at her back, the window was no shield. And lately, Gods, was it just her imagination, or had her wife grown thinner again? In just a handful of days, how had it come to this? How could each glance reveal something? More weight lost, more light dimmed, more burden carried in silence…

The ache crept in before Rhaenyra could name it. A stubborn pain in the center of her chest. Guilt and longing braided so tightly she couldn’t tell one from the other. She had tried, Gods, she had tried. Prior to the feast, she’d asked the kitchens to prepare dishes she thought Alicent might enjoy, small comforts, gestures, things she thought might ease whatever obligation lingered behind those tired eyes. Then, she had sat straighter, more alert, and tried to appear in control. For Alicent’s sake, for their sake.

But none of it was enough.

In the end, it was her collapse that tore the night apart and her fault that Alicent had spent the night beside a body slipping toward coldness. Her recklessness left her wife clutching for breath, praying in tears. Rhaenyra hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she had.

Now, Alicent stood near the window, dressed in a loose fleece gown, framed by a world of storm, and she looked fragile as if one stronger gust might shatter her. To Rhaenyra, that hurt more than any wound stitched in her side.

Rhaenyra shifted beneath the blankets, and only now did she truly register the stark difference between her and her wife: how completely she had been enveloped, guarded against the cold, cocooned in care. Her body was surrounded by gentle heat, beneath the velvet cloak and thick blankets. The layers were heavy but breathable, secure without smothering. Not far from the bed, closer to her side than Alicent’s, was a small iron brazier glowing with red coals that pulsed without smoke.

She was certain it hadn’t been there this morning. Someone had brought it in. She had thought, for a moment, it must have been for Alicent, but no, the brazier wasn’t placed by the desk, nor near the window where her wife now stood. It had been placed here, in the center of the room, just far enough not to overheat the bed, but close enough to keep Rhaenyra warm…

She swallowed hard. Her fingers curled into the cloak. It still carried Alicent’s warmth, her scent. A flicker stirred in her chest again.

She should be the one kept warm, Rhaenyra thought, guilt curling under her ribs.

She’s the one who never stopped moving.

Rhaenyra glanced past her wife to the view beyond the glass. The sky was darker than she remembered. A bank of clouds hung low over Winterfell, choking out the sky with a slate-colored weight. The trees in the courtyard bent in the wind. The snow hadn’t begun again, not yet, but it felt close. A storm was gathering. She could feel it even beneath the layers wrapped around her, the chill pressing in like a warning.

Her eyes narrowed. They were supposed to leave tomorrow and return south. Return home. She would ride Syrax, which had never been in question. And though she hadn’t said it aloud, not even to herself until this moment, she had meant to take Alicent with her, together, on dragonback. She wouldn’t leave her wife to endure the journey south in a carriage, weeks of rattling wheels, biting winds, and the slow grind of distance.

The intention had settled in her mind days ago. To bring Alicent with her, cloaked and warm, held close against her back, rising through the sky together, above the clouds, above the Realm, above every cold and watching eye, back toward the sun.

But this weather…

She frowned at the sky, where the clouds were brooding. What if it turned worse by dawn?

Syrax could fly. She was strong, brave, and answered Rhaenyra as if they shared one heartbeat. She had flown through storms before, fearless and daring. The skies had never been a limit. But snow could thicken. Rain could freeze into sleet. Winds could twist mid-flight and force a descent. Hail, Gods forbid, could tear through even the toughest wings. And more than anything—more than anything—the thought that Alicent might suffer through it…

Her jaw tensed.

Would the risk be too high for the one person she could never risk?

Alicent was not born of steel or fire. She had been through too much already, and now Rhaenyra would ask her to brave the skies? To fly across the Realm into another storm?

A throb settled low in her chest. It wasn’t herself she feared for. Not anymore.

If the skies turned cruel… we might have to wait.

She watched her for a while longer, heart stilling with each breath.

“Alicent”

The name hung in the air for barely a second, like a flame in the dark. Across the room, the woman at the window turned at once. Her footsteps were swift and soundless, crossing the stone like a ribbon dancing in a breeze.

“I’m here.”

By the time Rhaenyra took her next breath, she was already there. Her eyes were wide and sharp with concern, but her voice was soft as snowfall. The report slipped from her fingers. Whether it landed on the table or the floor, neither of them looked to see.

“My love,” her fingers brushed Rhaenyra’s cheek, the words exhaled like a prayer. “You are awake. How do you feel now? Are you in pain?”

Rhaenyra didn’t answer right away. Her eyes fluttered, then softened, as if drawn to the sound. Her head tilted gently like instinct. Then she leaned in and pressed her cheek into the hand that cupped her face.

Warmth

It was blooming against her skin and spreading inward where longing met peace, familiar and impossibly tender, like something remembered from a dream. Alicent’s touch had always been careful, but never cold, and her voice—

My love

Rhaenyra had heard it before. She remembered that voice, trembling and raw, had whispered those words to her once, when the world had been a blur of snow and silence, when she’d been half-frozen, barely breathing, clutched against warmth she couldn’t yet name. But that had been a dream, or close to one, and when she’d woken, with no memory of the woman beside her, the words had vanished. So had the voice that dared say them.

Alicent hadn’t called her that again.

Not when she brought her food. Not when she sat by her side each morning, reading reports in silence or bandaging wounds.

Not even when she looked at her like her heart might split from the weight of being a stranger to the woman she loved.

Not until the feast. Not until last night.

The words had come meekly and out of the sudden, amid silver goblets and candlelight, in a hush that somehow found them, even as the feast roared on. She hadn’t expected the way Alicent looked at her. The way her voice had cracked with the endearment slipping past her lips like it had never left. It came again, sincere and desperate, when everything had started to fade. When blood had spilled and her body had gone cold. When Alicent held her tight and begged the Gods to let her stay.

She hadn’t forgotten that. Somehow, though she couldn’t name the reason, that endearment still did something to her. The phrase. The way it sounded from those lips. The way those brown eyes looked at her when they said it, not like a title but like a vow, remade in the hush between heartbeats.

Her heart skipped once, then again. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, just for a moment, to feel it, to hold onto the feeling that was rising and impossible to name.

“Just drowsy…”

Rhaenyra said, her voice still touched by sleep. Her eyes were slow to focus, but already warm and drawn to the woman before her.

“…and a mild headache, dear wife.”

Her hand drifted up to cover the hand resting on her cheek, cradling the familiar touch. Her thumb swept along the lines of her wife’s fingers, wanting more than she knew how to say.

“How long have I slept?” she murmured, glancing past Alicent toward the window. “It seems to be evening already?”

Rhaenyra turned back toward her wife. Her gaze softened, eyes low, lulled by the comfort of the room and the touch she refused to release. There was no urgency in her movements, only a yearning to stay in this tenderness a little longer. When Alicent caressed her cheek and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth holding, her heart fluttered. An infatuation blossomed inside her.

She didn’t know when it began.

Perhaps it was last night, when Alicent wouldn’t let go of her, even when everything fell apart.

Perhaps it was earlier, when that voice calling her my love sounded like something Rhaenyra had been waiting to hear all her life, without ever knowing it.

She had been touched before, gestures, closeness… There have been others. But none of them lingered in her the way this did. This touch wasn’t just gentle. It also felt right. Somehow, that single look, that single touch, mattered more than anything that had ever come, like they had always been hers. She could sense that, even if the memories were lost to haze.

Alicent’s fingers pressed a little closer to Rhaenyra’s cheek, feeling how her wife leaned into the touch like it brought her great comfort, so she stayed there, gently stroking her face, her smile full of fondness.

“It’s just past midday, my love,” she said, voice hushed and endearing. “I meant to wake you for lunch, but we had a late breakfast, and you were still sleeping so soundly. I thought it better to let you rest a little longer.”

Her gaze flickered toward the window, where the clouds coiled dark and low.

“The weather turned while you slept. It’s darker now, feels like evening, but it isn’t yet.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes followed hers, brows knitting faintly, giving the hand on her cheek a small squeeze.

Alicent barely breathed.

My love

It had slipped out, unbidden, as natural as breathing, as familiar as the warmth of morning light through old curtains. It was a name she had spoken for years in moments grand and small. She had once said it without thinking, because it had always belonged to Rhaenyra.

She had stopped saying it when Rhaenyra woke up with no memory of her out of the fear that such endearments would weigh too heavily on a mind already lost, and hearing them might make her Dragon feel ashamed, or worse, guilty. Alicent could bear many things, but not that, not being another wound. So she held back and used titles instead. Polite phrases. Careful touches. Until last night.

When Rhaenyra glanced up from the feast and asked shyly if the food had pleased her, Alicent had faltered. The word arose then, unintentionally, and Rhaenyra… had smiled. There had been no pain or confusion in that expression, only sincerity and adoration.

Now, after the night that nearly took her wife from her for good, how could Alicent deny herself the only word that ever felt true? How could she not call Rhaenyra that again, as she had done all her life?

She didn’t even notice when the word left her lips again. But Rhaenyra turned to her like a child hearing her mother’s voice in a dream, leaned into her palm, clutched her hand like the warmth there was sanctuary, and one gentle touch could anchor her back to the living. Her eyes—Gods, those eyes! Still tired, still dulled with pain and fog and blood loss, yet the moment Alicent spoke, they lit with something precious. A stunned kind of wonder, like her wife hadn’t known she was waiting for this… until it was given.

One word. That was all it took.

Now she lay there, breath caught in her throat, lashes lowered and flushed like a girl kissed for the first time. Her fingers curled tighter around Alicent’s as if letting go would break something. Alicent felt it like a blow to the chest. Her mind reeled with fury, not at Rhaenyra, never at her, but at everything else. The world. The war. Herself. Gods, herself most of all. How many days, how many years had she let this go unseen? How long had her Dragon learned to live without tenderness, to hoard scraps of affection like a starving creature tucking warmth into the corners of her soul?

I let her grow cold.

Alicent cursed herself for that, for every time she had not been there, had not spoken the words that laid bare her heart, had not drawn Rhaenyra close when all she longed for was closeness, reassurance, and love. Now, just one word that came too late, too tender, had shattered her defenses.

Alicent wanted to scream, but instead, she swallowed the grief, keeping her hand exactly where it was, as if daring the world to take this moment away.

This is my girl, she thought. I will not let her break again.

Her thumb brushed beneath her wife’s eye, trailing from Rhaenyra’s cheek to the line of her jaw, down to the hollow of her neck, checking warmth, searching for any tremor. Then she shifted her weight slightly, the other hand moving to the edge of the duvet.

“You’re not cold, are you?” she asked dearly, her voice low and careful.

Rhaenyra was surprised by the question. She wasn’t, not at all. Her body was cocooned in warmth so thoroughly it almost felt indulgent, and with her wife this close, it felt even warmer. But the worry in Alicent’s tone made her chest pull tight.

“I’m warm,” she murmured. “More than warm.”

“You wouldn’t normally stand a room like this,” Alicent whispered, mostly to herself. Her gaze lingered on the brazier, then drifted to the hearth across the chamber. Its flames roared, fed to their limit. There was no space left for the fire to burn any brighter.

“One hearth, already stoked to full flame and a brazier… Still, I wasn’t sure it would be enough. You’re fire-blooded. A true dragon. Even in the worst winters, you used to complain it was too warm.”

The corner of her mouth pulled, but it wasn’t a smile. Her voice stayed even, almost measured, but Rhaenyra heard what laced beneath it. That thread of distress, too controlled to be called worry anymore, and too tired to disguise how close she had come to losing her. Again. In just a few days.

Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted from the fire to the thick layers around her—blankets, pillows, and the cloak pulled high beneath her chin.

“You brought that in?” she asked softly, glancing toward the brazier again, her voice held the edge of guilt, sheepish and small.

She knew the answer. There was no one else who would’ve thought to do it, no one else who could. But something in her needed to ask, needed to hear her wife speak again, even just for a moment.

Alicent nodded. “You went cold last night,” she said gently but without softening the truth. “Too cold. I couldn’t risk it. You lost so much blood…”

She leaned in and brushed a golden strand from Rhaenyra’s face.

“I tucked you in myself, layers and layers. I had them bring in the brazier. No smoke, don’t worry, your lungs have always hated it.”

Then, Alicent kissed her forehead, just above the brow. The kind of kiss you give someone when you are quietly begging the world to spare them. Her lips lingered there longer than necessary, trying to memorize the feel of her wife's skin, the feeble heat beneath it, and the fragile beat of life. She closed her eyes against the touch, letting herself be still and everything else in the world fade.

“If you’d been awake,” a faint breath that was almost like an apology wrapping around her words, “you wouldn’t have let me fuss like this. You would’ve argued, or teased and told me it wasn’t necessary.”

Her voice thinned for a moment, fingers tightening where they still touched. Her gaze traced the signs of life in her wife, the way Rhaenyra’s fingers refused to let go, the rise and fall of her chest, shallow still, but no longer fading.

“I had to leave the bed for a while, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you waking up cold, or waking and not finding me there.”

Rhaenyra was caught between awe and guilt, but there was a softening flickered in her expression like melting snow. Her lashes fluttered once. Her fingers flexed faintly, seeking more. The warmth of that kiss settled in her, slow and tender, and somewhere deep inside her chest, a feeling stirred awake. The sensation was not fire, but a blossom so full it almost hurt. Rhaenyra didn’t know what it meant, but she yearned for more, without knowing how to ask. She wanted to be kissed again, touched again. She wanted to be held like this forever, adoringly and fondly, like she was something cherished. Like this closeness was her home, the only place she’d ever felt truly safe, and these arms were a promise that she would never be left behind again.

Alicent, still breathing against her skin, felt that silent plea. The way her Dragon leaned ever so affectionately, as if her body already knew what her voice could not form. It shattered something in her.

She pulled back only far enough to see Rhaenyra’s face again, her golden lashes framing a gaze that had filled with ache and longing. She kissed her brow once more, feather-light, before murmuring so dearly:

“I’m right here.”

Alicent traced her fingers through the loose strands of silver-gold hair at her wife’s temple. She didn’t want to move. Not when Rhaenyra looked at her as if warmth itself had taken shape, and it was her. Her Dragon still lay there, wounded and too quiet, pain tucked beneath silence. She glanced down, past the curve of Rhaenyra’s jaw, to where the blankets draped too still over her ribs…

A memory of blood-soaked linens surged back.

She could never forget, even with no fresh blood, even with her wife awake and breathing beside her. The images of last night haunt her forever. With an exhale, Alicent kissed Rhaenyra’s temple once more, soft as a prayer. Then she shifted carefully, one hand brushing down to the edge of the duvet, the other remaining cradled in Rhaenyra’s grasp.

“Darling… may I check your side?”

Rhaenyra said nothing, and her hand didn’t move.

Alicent looked down, pausing for a breath. There was no resistance in the gesture, no stubbornness or fear. Just an insistence. As if Rhaenyra had heard her words, understood them, and silently decided. She wasn’t holding her tightly, just enough to be felt.

Something about it pierced Alicent’s chest, sharp and deep all at once. She didn’t ask again, simply adjusted her position, lifting the layers with one hand. Her movements were slower than usual, more deliberate, scanning the area along Rhaenyra’s left side. No blood had seeped through her nightgown.

“How does it feel? The stitches, are they too tight? Any itching… or bleeding?”

Alicent’s eyes met hers, trying to stay calm, but they couldn’t quite hide the worry or the low ache swelling just beneath the surface.

“Tell me if there’s any pain, love. Please, I need to hear it from you.”

Rhaenyra heard the concern. The questions. She saw the fingers hover near her waist, but her mind had snagged on something else…

Something far softer, far more disarming.

Love.

Alicent had called her like that again. Not with ceremony, not in desperation like last night, but as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if she had always called her that, and maybe she had.

Maybe that’s why the words settled so easily into Rhaenyra’s chest, blooming warmth in places that had felt hollow since the moment she woke in Winterfell. She blinked slowly, eyes still on Alicent’s. Her voice was quieter than before.

“It doesn’t hurt. A little sore. But I think it’s healing well.”

Her fingers hadn’t let go of Alicent’s hand, drawing it just a little closer. Although Rhaenyra said nothing more, her gaze lingered on her face.

Alicent waited for the answer, and when it came, when Rhaenyra spoke with no sign of pain, a breath left her. A small relief, blooming just behind her ribs. She had checked the wound already when she held her through the night, and when she dressed her that morning, she knew it was clean. But knowing wasn’t enough. Her gaze dropped just beneath her collarbone, watching for a rise and fall of breath.

While Rhaenyra slept, unmoving, too pale, and too quiet, Alicent had crossed the room again and again, pretending to read, to review, to write. But every stretch of silence pulled her back.

Each time, her steps had grown quicker out of desperation and fear.

She knew the blood loss had been severe, that the firewine, the cold, the exhaustion, and all the other wounds, not just the one at her side, would keep Rhaenyra sleeping for hours. But the longer her wife lay still, the more that knowledge began to feel like guesswork. The longer the silence stretched, the more it sounded like absence.

Each time, her hand had reached out with fingers she couldn’t keep from trembling.

A touch to Rhaenyra’s cheek, to her temple, to her neck, just beneath the jaw, where the pulse should be.

Please be warm, she had prayed, again and again.

Please breathe. Please stay.

When warmth met her hand, when she felt the flutter of life, Alicent had exhaled as though her heart had only remembered to beat once Rhaenyra’s did. She’d always drawn back after that, careful not to wake her wife. But the ache would always return. The fear. The need to check again. Because last night, Rhaenyra’s body had turned cold. Not just cold, but wrongly cold, frighteningly cold for a woman born of fire, and that cold had carved something raw into Alicent’s bones. So she asked, not because she didn’t know the answer, but she needed to hear Rhaenyra say it. Because even now, after everything, a part of Alicent was still listening for a heartbeat.

Rhaenyra felt Alicent’s fear linger in every touch, every second glance. A love so deep it had long ceased asking to be seen. She was looking at her, and in that gaze, Rhaenyra saw what her wife didn’t say. The realization made something swell inside Rhaenyra’s chest.

This woman—her Queen, her wife—had sat through the night with terrors etched in her bones…

“You’re still worried…”

The words left Rhaenyra before she meant to speak, almost like an apology. She said it like someone recognizing a terrible bruise on their beloved. Her gaze softened further, thumb still moving gently over her wife’s hand, trying to soothe what her voice could not.

Alicent’s eyes flickered to the gesture, then back to her face, unreadable for a moment.

“I just need to be certain you’re truly well and warm, that your wound hasn’t opened again.”

There was a gentle thread of understanding pulled tight between them. A sleepless night with too many words left unsaid. In that moment, Rhaenyra realized her wife had done this while she slept, waking every hour just to make sure she was still breathing.

“I’m fine,” she said, her tone mellow and soothing, meant more for Alicent than herself.

For once, Rhaenyra didn’t think she was lying. But even as the words left her lips, she knew how fragile they were. She was fine, but only just. Fine in a way that could be undone with one wrong breath, one slip of blood, one wave of pain. Alicent knew that, of course, she did. Her wife didn’t argue or call her bluff, but she didn’t look away, either. Her eyes stayed on Rhaenyra, and for a moment, it almost looked like they shimmered.

You are not. You were not.

Not when you said it the first time.

Not when you whispered it again and again, trying to spare me the weight of it.

That was what those eyes said. The silent grief of someone who had spent the night sitting on the edge of collapse, watching the woman she loved bleed to death, and wondering if each breath might be the last.

Rhaenyra blinked, her chest tightening. She couldn’t hold that gaze for long, so she shifted her grip, pressing her thumb into the back of Alicent’s hand. A quiet reassurance.

I’m here.

Silence wrapped around them like the hush that follows a lullaby. A hush born of closeness too full to be rushed.

When Alicent finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, almost like speaking to a fevered child, but with none of the condescension, only love, worn and real.

“My heart,” she said, “would you let me help you get up for a little while? You haven’t moved since dawn…”

She didn’t press further right away, letting the words settle into Rhaenyra on their own time.

“I know you’re still tired,” Alicent continued, brushing her thumb over her wife’s knuckles, “but it might ease the soreness to move. And if you’re ready… we could freshen up a little, wash your face, stretch your legs. Only what you can manage today.”

The rest of her thoughts waited behind her lips, held back by the knowing that her wife needed space to choose.

Rhaenyra blinked slowly, the words slipping into her like ripples on still water. Her eyes searched Alicent’s face, fragile and unguarded, like she hadn’t expected to be asked so gently. She didn’t answer at once, not because she was unwilling, but because, embarrassingly, she was.

She could feel the need rising in her body now that the fog had lifted. Her legs were stiff, and a pressure in her lower belly reminded her she hadn’t moved in hours. Still, she didn’t know how to speak it aloud. Rhaenyra hated how awkward she felt, like a girl again, unsure between needing help and asking for it.

 I need to wash. I need to… go.

The silence stretched in the way that came when one didn’t know how to ask for sympathy and intimacy. Alicent must have seen it: the flicker of hesitation, the trace of need, and a glimpse of embarrassment.

“There’s warm water waiting. I can stay close,” her words smooth as silk, folded with care. “Or help… if you’d like me to.”

Rhaenyra dropped her gaze, fixed on the blanket, then on their joined hands, then nowhere in particular. Her chest felt coiled and restless from the crawling awareness that she was being seen, truly seen, and she didn’t know how to bear it. She hated the way her pride curled up small and useless beneath a simple question. She didn’t want to be a trouble. She hated this feeling—this fragility, this sense of needing, this awful fear that asking for help would make her seem less than she was.

Especially in front of her.

Alicent.

There was something about the way her wife looked at her patiently and endlessly kind that made Rhaenyra want to curl into herself and lean toward Alicent all at once. It was maddening and embarrassing. She felt like a girl again, young and nervous, all sharp edges dulled by the warmth of someone else’s nearness. It wasn’t just discomfort or pride, but also a glimpse of hope that she could not voice aloud. She didn’t want to be pitied, but a part of her, fragile and fluttering, wanted to be seen and held. Wanted her to stay.

“I think I…” she began, then hesitated, praying the words would come out on their own. “I might need to get up… with… some help.”

Rhaenyra risked a glance upward, almost against her will. Alicent was still watching her dedicatedly as if this moment was something sacred and not awkward at all. Rhaenyra’s cheeks burned. She felt exposed, like her heart had been turned inside out, not because of the chamberpot, but because of the way this woman looked at her like she was fragile and breakable, but still beautiful and worthy of being cherished and loved. Rhaenyra could feel herself unraveling helplessly beneath that realization. A secret meltdown, like wax to flame. It was ridiculous, nonsense even, she barely knew Alicent, and yet—

There was something about her voice, her touch, and her tenderness that made Rhaenyra want to be good, be braver, and be hers.

Alicent waited for one heartbeat, then shifted on the edge of the bed.

“Let me help you, my love.”

She leaned in, wrapping one arm behind Rhaenyra’s back, the other placing near the ribs mindfully, avoiding the stitched wound. There was no rush in the way she moved, only warmth and caution, and a softness so deep it made Rhaenyra’s breath catch. Together, they eased her upright.

Rhaenyra winced barely but didn’t pull away. Her body trembled for a moment—too long lying still, too little blood left—but Alicent’s arms held firm and didn’t let her sway. Once seated, Rhaenyra leaned into her instinctively, head resting on her wife’s shoulder, enough to admit without saying that the world spun a little when she tried to rise too fast.

“I’ve got you,” Alicent whispered, her hand smoothing along Rhaenyra’s spine. “We’ll stay like this for a moment, just breathe.”

Only when her breathing became stable did Alicent move again. She adjusted her hold and guided her wife’s legs over the edge of the bed, then rose with her.

“Let’s take you to the pot first. We’ll go slowly. Ready?”

Rhaenyra nodded as Alicent helped her to her feet. They moved one step at a time, toward the corner where the chamberpot waited.

When they reached it, Alicent helped her ease down with attentiveness, never rushing or drawing attention to what was happening, only bracing her, like one would treat something precious. Once Rhaenyra was settled, Alicent gave her hand a light squeeze.

“I’ll fetch warm water,” she said, soft as a hush. “Just a moment, my love. Only to the door. I’ll be right back.”

Her tone carried a calm promise. She lingered one breath longer, enough for Rhaenyra to feel it wasn’t abandonment, only a mere distance, then moved to the chamber door, never fully turning her back, never truly leaving.

The moment those words left her lips, something tugged painfully inside Rhaenyra’s chest.

It was ridiculous, truly. She should have been relieved. No one wanted to be watched in a moment like this. A part of her was grateful for the reprieve, for the space to breathe, to not feel so helpless under someone’s watchful eye. But another part—deep, irrational, and yearning—didn’t want her wife to go, not even to the door. She didn’t know why her stomach clenched when she heard the subdued retreat of Alicent’s footsteps, or why her fingers twitched faintly in her lap like they meant to reach for something.

Why was she like this? Why did it feel like her entire being had become a thread wound tightly around this woman’s presence?

It wasn’t just the care or the closeness but the way everything—everything—felt too loud or too quiet the moment Alicent moved even a step away, as if her world tilted in a second.

Alicent’s grace was a gift, thoughtful and merciful, yet…

A small part of Rhaenyra wanted to call her back. Another part hated herself for it. And the deepest part, raw, scared, and searching, just wanted her to stay. Rhaenyra didn’t understand herself anymore, not her pride, not her need, and certainly not this consuming glow that filled her chest whenever Alicent’s voice came.

It was maddening, terrifying, and…warm.

While Rhaenyra remained tangled in her thoughts, the chamber door eased open, just wide enough for Alicent to receive the items. She returned with a silver jug in one hand and two copper basins nested in the other. Steam rose in tendrils from the jug, carrying fragrance and curling through the cold air like a promise of comfort.

She set the basins down near the hearth and cast a glance toward her wife, checking without intruding. Satisfied that Rhaenyra was still steady, she moved with practiced calm, filling one basin with hot water, placing a folded stack of clean cloths beside it, dipping one into the warmth and wringing it out until it no longer dripped. Then she returned to her wife’s side, kneeling slightly.

“Here,” she murmured, guiding Rhaenyra’s hands with a featherlight touch. “You can rest them on my shoulders, if it helps. I’ll keep you anchored.”

Rhaenyra did, almost without thinking. She faltered slightly while rising, but Alicent caught her, stance sure. Once Rhaenyra stood, her wife remained close, one hand still braced gently at her hip. Then, without preamble, Alicent began to clean her.

Every touch was dedicated and full of love. Her fingers glided with the warm cloth along Rhaenyra’s skin, never lingering too long in any place, never drawing attention to what might embarrass. Each used cloth was set into the empty basin, then replaced with another. The whole act was private, dignified yet filled with a kind of domestic grace.

Through it all, Alicent smiled, not the courtly smile she wore in the feast last night, but something gentler and real. Her expression was relieved with each movement, serene and luminously kind, as though the simple act of caring for Rhaenyra offered her a great joy she hadn’t let herself feel in days. There was tenderness in the way she looked at her, like the warmth had risen from inside her and bloomed into light.

“There’s a myth,” Alicent began, her voice a thread of passion against breath, “that beneath Winterfell lies a dragon in deep slumber.”

At that, Rhaenyra blinked, her eyes widening just a little, less from the tale itself and more from the way Alicent had chosen to speak it. She hadn’t expected a story, not now, not like this, but somehow, her wife had found the softest way to lift her from the awkward silence and lead her somewhere peaceful and brighter, without ever making her feel small.

“They say Brandon Stark the Builder raised this place thousands of years ago. The hot springs here—the ones that never run cold—are the breath of that hidden beast. It keeps Winterfell livable, even in the harshest winters.”

Alicent was wiping Rhaenyra’s face then, a warm cloth moving gently along her temple, her cheek, then down to her jawline. But when she saw that look, that spark of curiosity glimmering through the haze of exhaustion, something inside her softened even further. She lingered just a little longer as she brushed beneath Rhaenyra’s chin, her fingers smoothing. There was color in her cheeks and light in her eyes. It made Alicent’s chest tighten with tenderness and protectiveness, as if she were watching a flame begin to stir beneath the ashes, not fully reborn, but alive. With a smile, she dipped another cloth into the water, wrung it out, and moved to clean Rhaenyra’s hands, one by one.

“The hot springs are piped through the walls like veins, and they keep the cold at bay. There’s even a faucet in our chamber, and I’ve used it this past week. The water flows so hot it’s nearly boiling… one must be careful when opening it.”

She glanced up, mischief flickering in her voice. “But isn’t it strange? In this frozen land, a spring that’s burned underground for thousands of years, and I wonder…”

Her smile deepened, gentle and playful.

“If there truly is a dragon down there,” Alicent went on, smoothing the cloth down Rhaenyra’s arm, “then perhaps Syrax or you, or your ancestors, when they visited Winterfell, might’ve sensed her presence long ago.”

She dipped the cloth into the warm water once more, wringing it out delicately. A smile illuminated her face. Her voice, infused with warmth and affection, danced softly in the air around her.

“Besides, dragons can’t possibly sleep that long without stirring or… snoring, can they?”

It wasn’t quite a joke, but it was close. A gentle nudge, a little thread of lark softened the moment, lifting the weight for her wife to breathe without shame.

What caught Rhaenyra off guard wasn’t the words but the smile that came with them, melodious and joyous, almost teasing.

Alicent had not smiled like that—not to her, not to anyone—since Rhaenyra woke. Maybe not even before that. Though it was the first time she had ever seen her wear that look, something inside her stirred with a pining familiarity, as if she’d been waiting for this, for that smile, for far longer than she knew. It warmed Rhaenyra more than the cloth, the water, or the fire in the hearth, and it lingered.

Even after Alicent turned back to her task, that flicker of light in her expression stayed behind, settling deep in Rhaenyra’s chest like something once lost... now suddenly returning in silence and relief.

She let herself be washed, breathe, and listen.

When her wife finally helped her step away from the chamberpot and across the room, Rhaenyra vaguely registered the shuffle of servants entering behind them to collect the used basins and linens. By then, it didn’t matter anymore.

Alicent had already turned toward her again with the same rhythm as everything else she did. Her hand found Rhaenyra’s cheek, gently guiding her face back toward her. Rhaenyra, for reasons she couldn’t name, didn’t want to look anywhere else.

Alicent reached for a small silver cup that had been warming near the hearth. The scent drifted up, clean and crisp, touched with a trace of citrus blossom and mint.

“Here,” she said softly, offering it with both hands. “It’s for rinsing. I thought it might help.”

Rhaenyra accepted it, surprised again by how thoughtful her wife was. She swirled the warm liquid in her mouth carefully. The taste was refreshing after hours of nothing but dryness and sleep. When she leaned slightly to spit into the second vessel Alicent had prepared, her wife turned discreetly away, just enough to give her space, without ever really leaving her side. It was such a small thing, but it made her feel human again. She didn’t know why it felt so intimate, why the simple act of rinsing her mouth under Alicent’s care felt like being cherished and loved. Rhaenyra should’ve said thank you or something else, but the question slipped out before she could stop it.

“Did Cregan tell you that story?” she asked, voice still husky but sincere and earnest.

Alicent looked at her, pausing mid-motion as she blotted the last traces of water from the edge of Rhaenyra’s lips. A pleasant smile formed, touched by a flicker of thoughtfulness, as if the question had brushed against something long-shelved in her heart, and left it trembling a little.

“This myth is well known in the North,” she said. “The smallfolk even sing about it in old cradle songs.”

She folded the damp cloth and set it aside.

“But no. It wasn’t Lord Cregan nor any Northerner who told me that.”

For a heartbeat or two, Alicent just watched her, watched the question hanging in Rhaenyra’s eyes like a breath not yet released.

“Years ago, there was a princess,” she smiled again, softer now, and her voice was full of remembering, “wild with questions and full of wonder, never quite still or satisfied with what the maesters wrote in their records. She wasn’t drawn to books the way I was, but she carried the old stories in her bones. She memorized every tale, every myth, every ancient hymn that spoke of her blood. Old Valyria. The Dragonlords. The Ancient Gods. She loved them all. She could recite Valyrian myths with the same fire she summoned from her dragon, spoke of the lost empire and sunken cities as though she had lived among them.”

A silence bloomed, light as a feather, yet sentimental.

“My Princess,” Alicent said fondly, her words smoldering like a flame. “She was the one who told me about the sleeping dragon beneath Winterfell.” She didn’t elaborate any further, just let it float between them like morning light in the snow.

Rhaenyra had started to suspect, somewhere between the myths and the smile that curled at the edges of her wife’s lips. The way Alicent spoke with that particular weight that only warmhearted memories carry wasn’t the way one recites an old tale. It was personal. It was close. Too close.

As she listened, her chest grew tighter, fingers slightly gripped the hem of her shift—a small, unconscious movement, like her body registering the weight of the moment before her mind could catch up. Her gaze found Alicent’s face, widening with awe that blooms first from surprise, then from realization. Because she knew, even before the words had finally settled, even when she dared not assume anything…

Alicent was talking about her.

Not a princess in fairytales, not an heir of some dragonlords. It was her whom Alicent was remembering.

Her.

The certainty wasn’t immediate. It bloomed leisurely like warmth rising at the end of the long winter. And yet, when it came, it came all at once.

My Princess.

Those two words landed softly, too softly, and didn’t mean to stir anything, but they did.

Rhaenyra blinked. The world had shifted around her in mere silent seconds and left her breathless in its wake. Her lips parted, reaching for air that no longer felt enough. Because in that single moment, with just two words, Alicent had said everything. Those words carried a lifetime, and Rhaenyra…she didn’t know what to say back.

A thread pulled taut between now and then, between the woman standing in front of her and the pieces of herself she hadn’t known were missing. Her throat ached from the echo of something she’d once clung to in her dreams that still pressed behind her ribs. She didn’t know why the words shook her like this. But she knew—without logic and memory—whatever lived inside that story had once lived in her, and maybe, just maybe, it still did.

Though there was no grand revelation, Rhaenyra felt her breath leave her like she’d stepped off a ledge she hadn’t seen until too late. She looked at Alicent, and Gods, somehow… that was enough to make her fall all over again.

I don’t remember, but I believe you.

Rhaenyra didn’t speak, but her gaze gave it away: the quiet awe, the gentleness blooming just beneath the surface, and the gleam of surprise followed by something warmer, like she didn’t expect to be remembered like that, much less spoken of with such undiminished love.

A love that had lived in another heart for years, untouched by time and unchanged by odds.

Now that she knew, she couldn’t look away. It felt like being loved across time, through thick and thin, and Rhaenyra couldn’t bear the ache of it.

How could someone still love her like that?

She didn’t know, but she wanted it. Gods, she wanted that love. She wanted to be that girl again.

To be hers.

Alicent knew Rhaenyra didn’t remember whispering the myth in her arms, curled close by firelight years ago. And perhaps, she didn’t even remember the myth. But Alicent had never told the story to make her remember. She only wanted to offer compassion and ease the weight of helplessness wrapped around her wife. It was never meant to be a test or a plea, but a gift to give without asking anything in return. A way to soothe the burden Rhaenyra carried each time she let herself be cared for like this. A way to show her that love didn’t depend on strength or sovereignty, on sharp words or flaming swords, that she was loved in her hurt, her doubt, and even in her vulnerability. That she was worthy of being treasured even when she couldn’t stand tall, even when she didn’t remember why she was loved at all.

Alicent only wanted to cradle the woman she loved with every ounce of tenderness she still possessed, to calm the guilt, to dispel the shame, and to soothe wounds Rhaenyra might not yet realize she was carrying.

When she stepped forward, Rhaenyra didn’t flinch, her eyes wide with unspoken words, like she was waiting for the next part of the story or anything Alicent was about to give. There was a light in her face, a gleam of hope and wonder that lifted her features, brightening her expression like spring sun touching thawed earth. Alicent cupped her face, tracing over the skin that still held a nuance of stunned warmth. Then, with a tenderness that had been aching in her chest for too long, she leaned in and kissed Rhaenyra’s cheek. Her hand caressed her face, holding her like treasure.

“My Princess,” she whispered. “I loved her so, and I love her still.”

Rhaenyra was stunned and instinctively leaned into the warmth, her head tilting into the hands cradling her face. For a long while, she simply stared, utterly caught between heartbeat and breath. The heat bloomed fast across her cheeks, then her ears, staining her face with that unmistakable pink of one who had just been touched by a bliss they never thought they were blessed enough to have. Her eyes followed Alicent like a baby bird locking gaze to the first warmth it ever knew, as if that tenderness had imprinted itself into her. It wasn’t just awe but also longing. A kind of aching that trembled beneath the surface, unspoken but obvious, like seeing your first love after years apart and realizing your heart never stopped waiting. Rhaenyra’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide, brimmed with realization and pining, both too young and too ancient for words.

Please don’t stop.

Please don’t take this back.

Even if I don’t remember our story… let me believe I was loved.

Truly loved…

From the first moment Rhaenyra woke up, broken and half-frozen, with the taste of death still on her tongue, Alicent had been there not just in presence, but in everything. In every meal chosen with care, in the way blankets and pillows were adjusted carefully to ease her pain, in every time those loving hands tended to wounds that no one else was allowed to see. Little things. Constant things. No grand declarations, no theatrical mourning, only the dedication so thorough it left no room for doubt.

But there had always been a restraint in Alicent—an invisible grip she kept over her heart. Ever since Rhaenyra had admitted that she remembered nothing of their past, Alicent had locked her feelings behind bars. Even in the stillness of night, Rhaenyra could sense how Alicent lingered at the bedside just a moment longer than necessary, fingers hovering too near her temple and tempted to kiss her brow, but always drawing back like she no longer had the right, although Rhaenyra seemed to sleep.

Rhaenyra had felt the hesitation, the grief that was hidden beneath care, and the love that wouldn’t be shown, as though it might break both of them if let loose. She hadn’t known what it meant at first, but she had mourned it anyway, like a fortune once hers she had ruined before ever knowing of it.

However, something had changed. Rhaenyra saw it now with unmistakable clarity, not just in the words or affections her wife had been giving her, but in everything that came after she had nearly died in her arms. Since last night, the restraint had unraveled. The fear of losing her had shattered Alicent and broken the control she had always maintained.

Now that she had been touched with Alicent’s love—poured into every gesture, every word, every glance without fear or filter—and had been cradled like the most beloved thing in the world, Rhaenyra knew she could never go back, not to the days of silence, not to the shadows behind Alicent’s carefulness, not to the way everything had been wrapped in sorrow and held at a distance. She didn’t want the version of her wife who tiptoed around her, locking her heart behind tight smiles and soft hands. Not when Alicent had finally let herself feel and let Rhaenyra see it.

Rhaenyra reached up and clutched at Alicent’s wrist with desperation. A moment of silence stretched before her voice broke through, as if she were unveiling a precious truth that had just come to light and was still unfolding.

“I imagine our children must be quite fond of you.”

She gave a shy yet delighted smile that glowed with tenderness and love in its gentlest form. It was sincere and revealed more than anything else she had said. Her eyes fixed on Alicent, filled with wonder and passion. Though her tone stayed deliberated, it couldn’t disguise the swoon threaded through every word.

“You’re thoughtful and kind. A person they’d feel safe with and wish to be close to. I suppose they enjoy spending time with you.”

There was a touch of formality in her tone, like she was trying to keep the words neat and befitting of a Queen. But the way her eyes softened, the way her voice trailed just slightly on that last word, exposed her. There was too much affection in her gaze to be mistaken for anything else. It wasn’t their children she was thinking of, and Alicent would know…

That she loved being near her

That she loved being touched like this

That she never wanted it to stop.

Alicent let out a soft, almost sheepish laugh, though the warmth blooming in her chest had caught her off guard. Her eyes sparkled with radiant joy, reflecting the glow of her smile and the happiness she felt in that moment. The hand Rhaenyra was holding brushed along the blush on her cheek, tracing her jaw before sliding up and caressing the edge of Rhaenyra’s ear fondly.

“I hope so,” Alicent said, voice touched with amusement. “Dragons are… unpredictable. Erratic, even. And there are six of them, from babies to rebellious teenagers, five boys and a girl, each with their tempers and wills.”

She stroked Rhaenyra's cheek, this time more slowly.

“But yes, to some degree, they seem to enjoy my company. All warmhearted. Just like their Muña.”

Alicent smiled, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice dipped, speaking from the heart of a long-kept truth:

“And it’s a true blessing that dragons are straightforward. They never hide what they feel.”

Her eyes lingered on Rhaenyra. There was a relief in her smile as solace clicked into place, like she had found shelter at last, after standing too long in the storm. But she didn’t let the moment become overwhelming. Before Rhaenyra could grow too flustered, Alicent eased her.

“Come,” she said softly, guiding her wife. “It’s time for lunch. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

She helped Rhaenyra settle onto the chaise, which was covered in velvet and featured a single raised armrest. Alicent moved with utmost care, never rushing or letting her wife take too much weight on her own feet. She carefully avoided the wounded side, her touch firm yet gentle, maintaining her wife's balance without causing pain, mindful of any signs of strain or dizziness.

Alicent crouched beside her, adjusting the fall of her gown to ensure nothing tugged against healing skin. Then she reached the cushions and tucked them behind Rhaenyra’s back, adjusting until the angle was just right to keep her wife seated comfortably, not so upright that it would risk pressure near the injury, and not so reclined that it would make eating difficult.

“Tell me if anything hurts.”

Alicent drew back a little bit, hand abiding at Rhaenyra’s elbow, reluctant to let go entirely.

Rhaenyra snorted and smiled.

“You’re treating me like glass,” she grumbled like a hatchling hissing just to feel heard, half protest, half asking for indulgence unawares. Her mouth tugged downward in a petulant pout, though her fingers still clutched Alicent’s sleeve like she had no real intention of pushing her away.

Alicent gave her a look, then reached for the silver strand that had slipped near Rhaenyra’s temple and tucked it behind her ear.

“My wife, my right. ”She spoke with finality. “Complain all you like, my love. But I will make sure you’re strong enough for that.”

Her words lingered in the air, unshakable. She smoothed the blanket near Rhaenyra’s hip, then straightened.

“I’ll get your lunch,” she said, giving her hand a light squeeze before turning toward the door.

Rhaenyra watched as Alicent walked away. She didn’t even realize how much she’d warmed and how much softer she’d become in her presence. As her eyes drifted across the chamber, they caught on something near the bed.

The cloak

She hadn’t thought of it until now, but the sight of it brought a throb to her chest. The warmth, the scent, and the proximity that had held her when she was barely clinging to life. It wasn’t just comfort. It was hers, and it smelled like safety, like home, like Alicent.

And it was only a few steps away…

Rhaenyra didn't think to ask for help. She didn’t want to admit that she needed assistance, not for this, not again. Her pride flared up within her. She shifted forward stiffly, one hand pressed against the seat as she attempted to rise, determined to grasp even the smallest shard of independence.

Alicent turned back the moment she caught the motion. Her voice was immediate and touched with concern.

“Are you looking for something, my love? Don’t move. I’ll get it for you.”

Rhaenyra blinked and halted. She eased back against the cushion like a child gently corrected, avoiding her wife’s eyes at first. After a brief pause, an awkward murmur followed.

“The cloak,” she glanced toward the bed. “Yours.”                                                               

Alicent’s brow creased with worry, but before she could speak, Rhaenyra rushed to explain, gaze flicking up in earnest. The flush across her cheekbones was unmistakable.

“I’m not cold, just… It feels comfortable and…I’d love to have it here.”

Alicent turned toward the bed and took the velvet cloak, still bearing the trace of her scent, and returned in moments. She unfolded the cloak and spread it over Rhaenyra, pulling it up to her collarbone, smoothing the fabric beneath her chin like she might a beloved child, then finally tucking the edges around her wife.

“There,” she murmured. “Better.”

Without waiting for any protests or thanks, Alicent quickly moved to the chamber door and opened it just enough to take the tray from the waiting servant. She exchanged a brief nod of dismissal and then closed the door again. In less than a minute, she returned to Rhaenyra’s side, carrying a bowl of steaming porridge, with a silver spoon laid beside it.

But for a moment, the lunch did not matter.

Because what Alicent saw—Rhaenyra hugging her cloak, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with hope and dither, trying very hard to appear unaffected—was a sight that could have stopped time.

Alicent set the tray down on the small table next to the head of the chaise, right beside the armrest where Rhaenyra could easily reach.

“I know you don’t like porridge or anything too bland,” she began, voice unobtrusive as the movement of her hands. A hint of a smile just behind the words.

“But… you drank too much firewine last night, and you lost a great deal of blood. Your body’s still recovering, and I didn’t want to burden your stomach with anything too heavy.”

Alicent settled at the edge of the chaise next to Rhaenyra without disturbing her injury, then glanced toward the steaming bowl.

“This porridge is made with stewed beef, tendered and seasoned well, with just enough pepper and a bit of ginger. There’s egg in it, too, whisked in right before it finishes cooking to keep the flavor rich. I tried to make sure it wouldn’t feel like a punishment.”

Her gaze drifted to Rhaenyra’s side, where the wound was still hidden beneath layers of cloth.

“The cut hasn’t fully sealed, and you’ve barely regained strength. Too much at once, even of something good, might overwhelm your stomach. It’s still sensitive after the firewine, and your body needs time to start accepting things again. I dared not let you drink too much water at once or eat full portions… It’s safer to space it out for now. I’m afraid pushing too fast won’t just make you uncomfortable, but also tear your wound open again. Inside out. And I can’t—”

A breath caught in her throat, revealing the weight of what she hadn’t meant to say.

“I don’t want that risk.”

Alicent’s voice was still wrapped in all the careful thought and quiet love she always poured into her every act. She wasn’t tending to the Queen but looking after the woman she loved—the woman she never stopped loving.

As the last words spilled out, Rhaenyra gently grabbed Alicent’s wrist and guided her hand up until it rested over her heart. It beat steadily beneath the skin, stronger than yesterday, stronger than last night.

Alive

Her gaze fixed on Alicent, filled with warmth akin to a burning hearth fire on the longest winter nights. It was a lasting flame of emotions that had taken root long before she knew its name.

Within that flame was a desire to stay in this closeness a little longer. She longed to be cared for, wanted, and held not as a sovereign, but as the woman she was. There was a flicker of grief that lay deep beneath the surface, as if watching her wife speak with such care and being cherished in ways she didn’t think she deserved was both a wound and a balm. And behind it all was a pain, because Alicent’s tenderness felt like a gift too precious yet too fleeting. But she wanted it. All of it.

Rhaenyra felt too much. It filled her heart to the brim, and there was nowhere left for it to go. Whatever this bond between them was, it mattered deeply and entirely. Then, she leaned in, just enough to close the distance and slow enough for Alicent to know what was coming and to move away if she wished, but she didn’t.

Her lips met Alicent’s with the barest pressure at first, like a promise not to take more than what was given. A kiss so soft it could’ve been mistaken for breath, but it lingered and deepened as seconds passed. Her lips moved slowly, molding to her wife’s with aching tenderness, memorizing the shape of her again. Her hand slid up to Alicent’s jaw, fingers splaying along her cheek, holding her like something precious, like something desperately missed.

There was no fire in this kiss that demanded surrender, but the rising warmth of need had nowhere to hide now.

The twinge of time lost.

The certainty of a love remembered in the hearts.

The world fell silent as the kiss deepened with every breath. Rhaenyra kissed like someone who understood the art of affection but chose to be gentle and sincere. This was how she spoke when words fell short, how she confessed what had already bloomed in her heart, too fiercely to conceal, hoping her wife would understand.

Alicent gasped, her fingers twitched against Rhaenyra’s chest to hold on, but she didn’t pull back.

She melted.

Her lips, stunned for only a second, responded with tenderness first, then with the same longing that had filled her nights with sufferings. She kissed her wife back like she’d been waiting for this for too long, their breaths mingled, mouths brushed again and again, like they were relearning each other’s shape. There was no rush, only the need to stay right there, in that small, golden space where nothing else mattered.

Rhaenyra held Alicent’s waist, grounding her. Alicent’s palm shifted slightly over her wife’s chest, feeling the beats that were meant for her. Neither of them wanted to let go, because this was how they told each other what neither could yet say aloud.

That they were here.

That they remembered, even if the memories were gone.

That love had never truly left.

When their foreheads touched, and they finally exhaled in the same breath, the stillness spread in warmth. Their lips separated just barely. Alicent’s hand remained over Rhaenyra’s heart. Her other hand had drifted up during the kiss, cradling Rhaenyra’s jaw, where she could feel the flutter of a pulse. She opened her eyes just enough to see the blush still blooming on Rhaenyra’s cheeks, the way her lips parted briefly, and the dazed softness in her gaze.

It hit her again, the realization that cracked something open inside Alicent.

Her wife was alive.

Still warm. Still here. Still kissing her like she meant it.

Even now. Even without memory.

Even without knowing the depth of what they had shared before.

That love was still there.

In a new shape. In a different light. But true and sincere.

Her eyes shimmered, and the hand touching Rhaenyra’s throat quivered. The tears didn’t fall, but they welled. Her soul was too full to contain them any longer.

Her wife loved her.

Maybe in a new way.

Maybe from a new beginning.

But the core was the same.

And… that was everything.

“It’s indeed a true blessing…” Alicent murmured, catching her breath from the kiss that had unraveled her to the root. “…that dragons are straightforward.”

She smiled, her lips curved with wonder. Her eyes glinted with bliss, still wet at the corners, shimmering where emotion hadn’t fully been tucked away. There was light in her face, but also the awakening of how precious and fragile love could be. How close she had come to losing it, and how miraculous it was that she hadn’t…

They stayed like that for a long beat, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. Then, Alicent nuzzled forward, her nose brushing along Rhaenyra’s, a featherlight rub that lingered too long to be accidental. It was affectionate, instinctive, and strangely childlike in its sincerity. When Rhaenyra didn’t pull back, Alicent exhaled softly against her skin, like she was finally at ease. Then she leaned in again, tucking her face into her neck, the tip of her nose brushing Rhaenyra’s skin, resting there as if afraid to let go.

“I see it as a compliment,” Rhaenyra smiled. “And you seem to understand our kind very well… dear wife.”

A pleasant hum answered her, something between a chuckle and a satisfactory exhale, rising from deep in Alicent’s throat. Her eyes were still closed as if savoring the moment. She pressed closer, nuzzling the underside of Rhaenyra’s jaw, the tip of her nose caressing along warm skin. Then she nudged the crown of her head beneath Rhaenyra’s throat dotingly.

“I suppose it’s only natural, my love,” she murmured. “One cannot be poor at something they’ve done for most of their life, can they?”

Alicent nestled even closer, as if everything between them had never fractured and her place had always been here, close enough to breathe the same breath with her beloved.

There was warmth unfurling in Rhaenyra’s chest—a peace she couldn’t name, humming low and sweet in her chest. She felt the sheer affection in every stroke, in the closeness of their skin, in the persistence of her wife’s touch, and more than that, she felt… known and understood.

It left her reeling.

Because Alicent—composed, dutiful, regal Alicent—was not only affectionate, but unhesitating in how she showed it. It wasn’t just in this moment. It had been in all those little touches since last night. The way her hands moved when she wrapped Rhaenyra in her cloak. The way her voice softened when she said “my love.” The way she looked at her across the chamber, as if the world narrowed to one presence alone. And now—

The way she drew close, resting her forehead lightly against Rhaenyra’s temple, brushing her nose on her cheek, pressing against her like a creature drawn to the sun, like someone who knew—truly knew—how to calm a dragon’s heart.

These weren’t random acts. Not to someone who grew up with dragons.

A dragon showed affection not with roar or fire. Their language—especially with their riders, mates, and kins—was built through touch. Intentional touch. Dragons had no hands, no true forelimbs to reach and hold. What they had—what they used—were their heads and their long necks. To express acceptance, to soothe, to show love. To ask for comfort, or to give it. When they let another touch their head or neck, it was an offering of everything—trust, affection, loyalty, and the will to protect. They leaned their heads into those they accepted and nudged with their skulls.

Among bonded dragons, such intimacy deepened into rituals. They nested together and curled tightly—forehead to forehead, necks draped over one another like silk coils. It was not rare to see the female twining her neck around her mate’s, shielding the most vital part of him with her own body.

Alicent did all of it. She moved like someone who knew how to soothe a restless beast, how to calm a dragon in pain, how to tame fire with presence alone. She’d done this a couple of times since Rhaenyra woke up this dawn, when they had their breakfast, and after that, when they cuddled in bed before Rhaenyra fell asleep again. It felt natural, like a rhythm Alicent had always known. These gestures had come without fanfare or hesitation, like instinct, like habit, like… knowing, or perhaps, knowing all too well.

How do you know?

How do you always seem to know exactly what to do?

Rhaenyra had simply accepted it at first, totally consumed by love. There was a great comfort in the way Alicent touched her, a safety that ameliorated the distress she didn’t know she carried. But now, in a brief tranquility amidst the haze, her breath caught, because these weren’t just a lover's habits born of affection.

They were familiar. Too familiar.

If it only happened once, it might be instinct. Random acts. Normal love expression. But those acts appeared repeatedly over and over again?

Those were not merely human gestures of affection but a dragon-speech.

For Rhaenyra—whose soul was woven with dragonfire, who understood the world through instinct and touch more than words—this language was sacred. Somehow, Alicent spoke it. In every glance, every contact, every nuzzle, Alicent met her with a passion that made Rhaenyra wonder if her wife had always known the way. It wasn’t only her lips or hands that touched Rhaenyra. It was something deeper that reached not just the Queen or the beloved wife, or the woman, but also the dragon within her.

That, perhaps, was what startled her most.

It couldn’t be a coincidence or just a habit.

Even if it was…

Habits also say something, don’t they?

Where and when did she learn this?

Rhaenyra’s lashes fluttered open, dazed with the weight of what she felt. Her wife’s face was still close, soft strands of auburn curling against her cheek. Alicent’s breath brushed her skin in rhythmic intervals. Rhaenyra leaned into it. Her nose grazed Alicent’s brow in return, her cheek brushed along the curve of her wife’s temple. In that moment, they didn’t look like the Queen and her Consort, nor even two women reunited after near-death, but a pair of bonded dragons.

Alicent drew back just enough to see Rhaenyra’s face. There was fondness in her smile, radiant and adoring, curling around every syllable when she spoke.

“Even the greatest dragons,” her voice soft as dawn and warm enough to melt snow, “cannot fly high without food in their belly.”

Her hand smoothed along Rhaenyra’s jaw, thumb pausing beneath her lips.

“You cannot get away with this forever, you know.”

Her tone held no edge, only a concern toned down by amusement. She reached for the bowl, stirring the porridge to let the steam rise again. “A kiss cannot replace food, and affection will not save you from porridge.”

She looked at Rhaenyra, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the curve of her lips still marked with mischief and tenderness.

“I know it’s not your taste,” Alicent continued, coaxing, “but please… try to finish at least half a bowl. For me, please? If you feel better by evening, I’ll ask the kitchens for something else for supper—light, but with flavor, and closer to your favorites, if you promise to behave like a healing Queen.”

Her smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. She didn’t say it, but Rhaenyra would hear the tease in her eyes just as clearly: Strong enough to steal more kisses, perhaps?

“Dear wife,” Rhaenyra said solemnly, though the twinkle in her gaze betrayed her, “I never run from battles. Not even the one involving… baby food.”

Her lips curved into a grin, boyish and bold. “Especially when it’s made by my beloved Queen Consort.”

She tilted her head, voice dipping into that honeyed tone she always used when trying to charm her way out of trouble.

“And no, the Queen does not barter her affections for the sake of better meals, nor would your wife dare to flatter only to upset you later.”

A brief pause followed. Then, with playful elegance, Rhaenyra raised her brows and leaned toward her wife:

“I only ask for a small favor… Perhaps a lovely hand holding a spoon for me? For the blessing to the Realm, and a little comfort to this wounded warrior.”

Alicent stirred the porridge, silver spoon gliding along the bottom of the bowl. She paused a moment, as though savoring the rising steam, her gaze resting on the swirl of broth. The scent rose nicely and was laced with hints of beef and ginger. She scooped a modest portion, then brought the spoon close to her lips and carefully blew on it. Her smile bloomed, the endearing ones she saved only for moments like this.

“In fact,” Alicent said with a trace of amusement, “it was the kitchen staff who cooked this.”

The spoon hovered for a beat. Her eyes flicked up to meet Rhaenyra’s, catching the gleam of mischief.

“But it is my pleasure to serve my Queen, and my wife, her belated lunch.”

She leaned in just close enough that her presence could be felt in full. The titles weren’t just honorifics. They were sacred. Rhaenyra wasn’t just the Queen of the Realm. She was hers.

There was light in Alicent’s gaze, but behind it was everything unspoken—a relief that her wife was still breathing, still sitting here before her. A gratitude for the miracle of one more ordinary moment together. A shared meal. A spoonful of warmth. A breath that didn't have to be begged from the Gods.

Alicent brought a spoonful near her lips, hand steady despite the subtle tension in her fingers, and glanced at Rhaenyra with soft seriousness.

“Would you mind?” she asked.

Rhaenyra blinked, then let out a chuckle. “I kissed you. Surely I don’t mind sharing food and a spoon with you, my wife.”

Alicent took the smallest sip. “It’s still a little hot.” She waited a beat longer than needed before setting the spoon back in the bowl. “Let’s wait a few minutes.”

Rhaenyra frowned, brows knitting together slightly in a flicker of concern.

“Did you burn your tongue?”

“No.” Alicent placed the bowl on the small side table beside her, a gesture as smooth as it was swift, before Rhaenyra could lift a hand to take it from her.

“Just cautious. You’ve had enough injuries for a lifetime, haven’t you?”

Rhaenyra smirked with a sense of smugness. “Heat doesn’t bother dragons, dear wife.”

Alicent smiled, adjusting the cloak that had slipped from Rhaenyra’s lap. “Then it’s good your keeper is in her fussy phase. Even dragons need doting sometimes.”

The words were said with lightness, but Rhaenyra’s smile wavered for a heartbeat. Something about the careful sip, the pause, and the teasing voice tugged at the edge of her thoughts. But the warmth in Alicent’s eyes swept over the doubt like a tide, and Rhaenyra let it go, reaching out to brush her fingers against her wife’s.

“Then feed me, fussy one. The Dragon awaits.”

Alicent looked at her with a mix of concern and adoration, taking Rhaenyra’s hand in both of hers and squeezing gently, almost like a rhythm of reassurance. Her voice was soft and warm, intended only for the two of them.

“There are things I wish to tell you,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving Rhaenyra’s. “When you first woke, do you remember what the maester said about your mind?”

Rhaenyra nodded. “He said… There were no wounds on my skull. No visible injury. But something inside might have been… disturbed.”

“Yes,” Alicent exhaled heavily. “They found no fracture, but warned me it could be damage within—perhaps a pooling of blood, a bruise beneath the bone. One of the older maesters called it hidden pressure, that when blood hardens in the wrong place, it can cloud the mind and disrupt memory. There was nothing they could fix directly and immediately. Only time and a few crafted remedies might help dissolve it,” Her fingers tightened slightly around the spoon. “To ease circulation and soften what may have hardened, and perhaps, eventually restore what was lost.”

“I’ve been drinking that brew for days,” Rhaenyra murmured. “It tastes bitter. But I hope…”

“I am asking you to stop the remedy, my love.” Alicent interrupted gently. “Just for now, your wound was forced open again, and you bled too much. I dare not give you anything that thins your blood further. The remedy not only prevents blood from clotting as it should, but also disperses the clots that seal the wounds. We cannot risk another rupture.”

“But—”

Rhaenyra almost protested. The word slipped out, born of instinct rather than thought. Yet as her gaze met Alicent’s, she hesitated. Her brow furrowed, fingers curling around her wife’s hand. She could see worry carved into every line of Alicent’s face. This wasn’t just caution but fear. She didn’t argue again, but a flicker of reluctance lingered in her chest, and the regrets for the bitter brew she had pinned quiet hopes on.

Alicent raised their joined hands slowly, her thumb brushing across Rhaenyra’s knuckles before she pressed a kiss into her wife’s skin. The gesture was tender and intimate. But when Rhaenyra looked up, she saw it in her wife’s eyes: the sorrow, the guilt, the quiet strain of someone who wished things could be different, yet knew they could not be. Alicent understood, and it hurt her too.

“I know this upset you so much, my love. You’ve tried for days… and I know how much you want to recover everything. It’s not just personal, for you, it never is. As Queen, you cannot afford to be doubted, to have your strength or your mind questioned.”

Her fingers tightened around Rhaenyra’s, anchoring her.

“But I am here, my love. You can rely on me… for as long as you need.”

A breath passed between them, shared and silent, before Alicent continued, eyes never leaving hers.

“As far as we know… It’s the memories connected to me—and perhaps some involving our children—that were most affected. The rest, may the Gods have mercy, seem to remain intact. Only the maesters who tended you, and the two of us, are aware of this. Rendall and some of the Flamesworn may have noticed something, but they will not spill a word. They only saw that you did not recognize me at first. Now, it’s clear things are better between us. To most, we seem as close as we’ve always been—no tension, no strangeness. Only those like Rendall, who’ve known us for years, might see beyond that. If we stop the remedies, even just for now, there is nothing to fan the flames. It will pass.”

She paused, her tone lowering with resolution.

“Even if a rumor spreads, it cannot harm you. When we return to King’s Landing, yes, things may become… more complicated. But I will be there. I will make sure no one uses this against you. I will not let them.”

Alicent’s hands lingered on Rhaenyra’s wounded side, as if touching sacred ground, tracing the echo of pain she could never erase, thoughts caught in quiet turmoil. She hadn’t meant to weigh down their moment, not when peace was so fleeting. But the price of silence had cost too much, and this—this one Rhaenyra deserved to know.

“Two days ago, when Syrax returned, you ran to greet her.” Her voice was calm, but regretful. “I was horrified, but you looked so happy. You have been tortured for days by everything that has happened… And I know how much she means to you, I couldn’t take that from you. I checked your wounds that night, and there was no blood. But I believe the stitches tore that day. Only slightly, and possibly from inside.”

There was a glimmer in her eyes—one that only someone who had spent sleepless nights by a bedside would understand.

“Before that, the day I found you beyond the Wall, I asked the maesters to check all your injuries thoroughly. We found a long cut on your left side, under the dent of your armor, but it had been sewn, although just barely, enough to stop the blood. We supposed… you had done it yourself with the first aid equipment I put in the saddlebag of Syrax. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have…”

Alicent couldn’t finish when she spoke of what might’ve happened. A tremor edging her breath as memories pushed past the walls she’d tried to raise. She had tried not to think about it. But the moment she recalled the image of Rhaenyra—crumpled in the snow alone, injured and starving, stitching herself back to life—the pain returned with absolute intensity. It didn’t lessen with time; it never would. It gnawed at Alicent.

“We considered redoing the stitches to make sure it would heal properly, but you were… frail. I could not bear hurting you more, not when the bleeding had stopped. Our priority was keeping you warm and nurtured while tending to your wounds until you woke...”

Alicent’s heart broke again, splintering along the lines. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, but the muffled, broken sob pierced Rhaenyra's chest like a blade.

The sight undid her.

Rhaenyra instantly pulled Alicent into a protective embrace. She stroked her wife's back, holding her as if that could take away the hurt. She couldn’t remember much of what happened beyond the Wall. The blizzard had devoured her memories and turned them to shards. Whenever she tried to look back, it was like groping into a basket of broken glass—every thought sliced her open. There was pain and loneliness. There was also a vast, suffocating terror. Those were the only things that had remained whole in her mind.

But even so, even when drowning in all of that, none of it could compare to the agony of seeing Alicent cry.

It didn’t matter what had happened to her. What haunted Rhaenyra most now was what her absence had done to the woman in her arms. Alicent had carried it all—carried her—through storm, devastation, and death all alone.

And no wound could ever rival the torment of that.

Alicent fought to prevent herself from descending into turmoil. Rhaenyra sensed her distress and wanted to intervene. But her wife gently patted her hand, and Rhaenyra realized that Alicent needed this moment. So, she remained stilled, letting Alicent grasp onto her presence and find solace in the warmth they shared.

“The cut seemed to be healing well, only then I could truly breathe and give you the remedy for your mind. But this morning, I came to understand what created our worst nightmare… It was never an accident, nor a misfortune. It was my mistake. Multiple. I never asked the maesters to redo your stitches, even after Syrax’s return, just because it never bled… I gave you the blood-thinning brew for days. Then I let you attend to the dreadful feast, standing, speaking, sitting up straight for hours, even drinking the goddamned firewine far too much, cups after cups under my name, never thinking of excusing you from that bloody celebration and bringing you back to our chamber sooner.”

“Alicent—”

“Don’t, my love, don’t. You don’t get to comfort me or spare me the blame this time. I know what you want to say: that I never meant to hurt you, that it was your duty as Queen to uphold the expectations, that I have done everything I could. But it is also true that I was the one who led you to your early grave. All because of my carelessness. Because I was too easy on myself. The wound, the stitches torn apart, the blood-thinning brew, the loathsome feast, too much firewine that clouded your mind and made you bleed much faster without knowing… If each had come alone, we could have managed the damage. But they came together, not all at once, but accumulatingly, under my watch. I let them pass, and I almost lost you. The bleeding just didn’t stop, Rhaenyra. I did everything, but it didn’t stop, not soon enough. You are alive because the Gods are merciful, not because of me.”

“Alicent, please—”

“I told you… right before the feast… that I had handled everything, that those men would not push you, and there was nothing that could harm you when I was there. Then only a few hours later…”

Her voice trailed off, and Alicent quickly covered her face with her hands, but the tears streamed down regardless. Each word felt like a knife twisting in her chest. The guilt was intense, but it paled in comparison to the relentless pain of nearly losing Rhaenyra. What hurt even more was that she had seen the signs, had doubted, only to let them go unaddressed. All of them.

Rhaenyra reached for her wife’s trembling hands and unwrapped them gently, guiding them down from her tear-streaked face until she could cradle both within her own.

“My dear, you still handled everything.”

She kissed the tears left glistening on Alicent’s cheeks—one side, then the other. Each drop was a fragment of pain she wished she could draw into herself and bear in Alicent’s stead.

“It is still true that nothing can harm me when you are here with me.”

In her mind, a memory flashing like a lightning strike: Alicent’s hands, bloodied, torn nailbed, the skin scored by guilt and fear. Hands that had clutched too hard in silence and borne weight far too cruel for too long. Rhaenyra swore she would never let it happen again.

“And, you cannot argue this: the Gods didn’t put first aid equipment in Syrax’s saddlebag. You did.”

Alicent was about to protest, but the words never made it out. Rhaenyra leaned in and kissed her. Then she pulled back just enough to meet her wife’s eyes, whispering warmly against her lips.

“You said it yourself, my Alicent, don’t take it back.”

Her lips found those beloved hands next—one kiss to each palm, a promise in every touch. No blood today. Just warmth and love.

“Once is by chance. Twice is a coincidence. But thrice? You still don’t want to count it, dear wife? Had you not prepared the first aid, I wouldn’t have survived. Had you not gone beyond the Wall and found me in time, I would have been buried in the snow. And if it’s not for you, I took my last breath last night.”

Rhaenyra looked up to find Alicent watching her, her eyes still wet and filled with the unspoken.

“I cannot tell you that you did not let all the signs go, and you cannot tell me that I have never played a part in my downfall: I ran to Syrax. I dismissed your pleas, running like crazy, drinking like a fool, stopping you from calling for help, then leaving you to deal with a pool of blood. What you could have done different, hmm, dear wife? I am your wife and your Queen, beloved, stupidly proud, and stubborn as hell. I am so sorry you have to deal with all that.”

Rhaenyra kissed both her wrists dearly. Her gaze lingered, wishing to ease what ache she could. Then, she tilted her head. In that fleeting moment, something impish bloomed across her features.

“Now, my devoted keeper, if your Dragon has made you feel better, even just a little, would you kindly feed her? She is very hungry already. Kissing requires much energy, you know.”

Alicent was caught entirely off guard and overwhelmed by the sudden shift in tone. Her cheeks flushed as she hurried to wipe away the remnants of her tears, realizing how easily her wife had turned anguish into something tender. She reached for the bowl on the side table, grateful to find the porridge still warm.

Rhaenyra chuckled under her breath, watching the flustered motions with quiet delight. Her wife—so thoughtful, so full of care, so terribly sweet even in her embarrassment—was heartbreakingly precious. She patted Alicent’s knee lightly, assuring her there was no rush, then leaned back against the cushioned spine of the settee, gaze never straying from the woman before her.

“I know there’s too much on your shoulders, too many worries, too many eyes watching. But you don’t have to brave it all alone. We will face the world together, my love.”

Alicent said as she brought the spoon to Rhaenyra’s lip. Her wife has been understanding and so gentle. Now that Rhaenyra knew why Alicent worried so much and was extremely cautious with everything, she could hope that her wife would see to her wish. But Alicent also knew Rhaenyra had her reasons to take risks. Her heart was pounding fast in her chest as she carefully pressed forward.

“I want to ask, just for a while, let us stop using the brew. Just until your wound is fully healed, then we’ll begin again.”

The scent of porridge rose between them, warm with ginger and beef. Rhaenyra’s eyes drifted from the spoon to her wife’s face. There was no urge in Alicent’s gaze, just that aching tenderness that always unraveled her, pleading in silence:

You don’t have to be strong right now. Just let me love you. Let me take care of you.

“I understand.” Rhaenyra nodded. “You have taken very good care of me, dear wife. I see you now, and I will not make you worry because of my recklessness again.” She took the first spoonful, as the warm broth filled her mouth, the light-hearted playfulness quieted into sincerity.

Alicent extended the next spoon to her wife. Her voice was warm and soothing. Yet, beneath the comforting tone lay a serious concern.

“If you feel dizzy, off-balance, nauseated, or a pressure behind your eyes, even if it fades… please say something. It may seem small, but it matters. I can’t afford to overlook anything when it comes to you, my love.”

Rhaenyra swallowed as she gathered her thoughts, then asked, “Even if it only lasts a few seconds and there's nothing else—no fever, no pain—still?”

“Especially if it’s nothing,” Alicent insisted. “Because the mind gives warning only once.”

Rhaenyra chewed mindlessly, her gaze falling from Alicent’s face to the cloak covering her. Her eyes shifted without purpose, as though trying to catch a thought that never quite arrived. Too many things brushed the edge of her mind at once, yet… nothing held, like standing in a room once familiar, now turned emptied.

The porridge, warm and rich on her tongue, gradually cut through the fog. The beef was simmered nicely, its flavor softened by eggs and rice, lifted by ginger and a hint of pepper. The taste was a caring hand gliding along her back that brought her comfort. A reassuring presence in the midst of her turmoil. The kind of taste that made one breathe easier without noticing.

It reminded her of something she couldn’t name.

Another spoon came. And another. She didn’t look up, but accepted them, one by one, in rhythm. By the third spoon, the flavor had become more than comfort. By the fifth, it was familiar.

Rhaenyra frowned vaguely from the weight of recognition pressing behind her subconsciousness. She had eaten this before. She didn’t remember when or where. But she had, and somehow, it had mattered. It must have been.

I would never choose soup or porridge, her thoughts murmured, not even on my worst days. She knew that well, and Alicent had said the kitchen prepared this. But if so, why did it taste like home?

“This… isn’t just something the kitchens made, is it? You’ve given this to me before…”

The spoon in Alicent’s hand halted just above the porridge, still hovering where she'd been about to scoop another mouthful. The question caught her wholly. Her head tilted as if to be sure she’d heard right.

For several seconds, she only gazed at Rhaenyra. The spoon in her hand was forgotten midair. Her expression didn’t shift much, but something soft and tremulous moved behind her features, like the flicker of candlelight through glass.

A small, genuine smile formed, revealing a shimmer. Not quite tears. Not yet. But there was something in her eyes that shone too brightly. Something that didn’t belong to now, but to a memory she hadn’t meant to reach for. A memory that hurt and healed in the same breath.

“You were the youngest dragonrider in history,” Alicent began, her smile faint but unmistakably fond. “A princess of only seven… the only child of the King… and already a legend. The Morning Star.”

For a moment, her voice took on a more wistful tone.

“Your father’s dragon—Balerion the Black Dread—had died before you were born. He only mounted him three times, and never far from King’s Landing. Balerion died less than a year after Viserys claimed him, and in those final months, the old dragon could barely lift himself from the ground. Your father did his best to learn, but… he never had much experience in the sky, and even less could he pass down to you. No one ever taught you how to ride, not properly. But I suppose it was always in your blood.”

A soft huff of air left her nose, her eyes remained on Rhaenyra, warm and distant at once, as if looking at her and also through her, into a time long past.

“I was told you gave the entire Red Keep a heart attack the first time you took to the sky. You were all fire and instinct and no warning. But Gods… what a show you gave them. Roughly a year later, we met. Both of us were eight, and somehow, despite all odds, we got along, spending most of our time together. You may have been the youngest rider in history, but in other things… you bloomed a little later than most.”

Her smile blossomed as she arched her brow. A playful spark ignited in her eyes as they darted to Rhaenyra's face. After a brief pause, she let her amusement spill over, her laughter dancing in the air like music.

“Your milk teeth didn’t fall out until you were nine. But when they did, four of them vanished in two days. All front teeth. What a disaster for a princess, hmm?”

Alicent’s smile lingered, softer at the corners now, laced with awe.

“You ran to my chamber that dawn,” she continued, her voice falling lower and warmer, “holding those teeth in your hands like treasure. Your hair was a bird’s nest, tangled in every direction. You refused to speak to anyone, no maid, no steward, not even the Septa, only me.”

She shook her head and continued feeding Rhaenyra while telling the story.

“My heart nearly stopped. I thought you’d fallen off Syrax, or Gods forbid, tumbled down a flight of stairs. Four teeth missing, and not a drop of blood on you. You looked like someone had stolen your crown.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as if she were savoring the memory in greater detail. Her tone remained affectionate.

“I lost my baby teeth at six. So when you told me what happened, I tried to comfort you, said it was all perfectly natural. But no lady is ever truly calm in such a situation, least of all the Princess. The Realm’s Delight. You didn’t want to do anything. You wouldn’t speak to your parents or go to class. I remember having to explain everything away, not just to the King and Queen, but to my parents as well.”

A breath of disbelief escaped her, sounding more like an exasperated yet fond complaint.

“You’d clung to me like a shadow, refused to let me leave your side even for a moment. So I had to excuse both of us, telling them you weren’t feeling well, and that I would stay to look after you. You sulked at that, too, by the way. Said I made it sound too pitiful, that the Princess could not be ‘unwell.’”

Rhaenyra listened to her wife in silence, filled with awe. Her expression changed with each word Alicent spoke. The corner of her mouth twitched, and her lashes fluttered downwards as Alicent talked about covering for both of them. Rhaenyra let out a huff, struck by how much she believed it and how easily she could envision the scene. She could see herself sulking—toothless and overdramatic—clutching the hem of Alicent’s nightgown as if it were a lifeline. She pressed her lips together and shook her head faintly, as if embarrassed on behalf of her younger self. But there was no real shame in her voice when she murmured:

“That sounds exactly like something I would do. And something you would have done.”

Alicent’s eyes softened again. Her brows lifted slightly, and there was a gentle tease in her voice—half scold, half ache.

“Most of the time, you were brave and reckless. You never cared for decorum or faces. But even dragons… have soft spots and could be vulnerable sometimes.”

She paused. Her eyes didn’t waver.

“Especially one proud, lively, beautiful, shining she-dragon.”

The corners of Alicent’s mouth were quirked as if she were trying not to laugh at a very old mischief.

“Then came the hard part,” she murmured. “Breakfast.”

Her eyes sparkled, not from humor alone, but from memory, vivid and alive.

“Meals, really. Recharging your energy after that much heartbreak and distress… and outright refusal. You were miserable and utterly unwilling.”

Alicent stared at the spoon in her hand, as though it, too, remembered.

“You were a meat lover. Dragon. Carnivore. An energetic little wildfire who couldn’t sit still and never settled for anything bland or simple. God forbid anyone tried to give you something too green. So what could possibly be the solution,” she asked with a mock-serious tone, “for a Dragon who’d just lost four teeth?”

The question lingered between them for a moment before helpless laughter erupted, breathy and low.

“You didn’t even let me ask the servants to prepare your meal.”

Alicent dipped the spoon again, letting it glide through the porridge. She leaned in, her eyes never leaving Rhaenyra’s face as she brought the spoon to her wife’s lips.

“You were afraid they might find out… that the mighty she-dragon couldn’t chew anything for a while. You would’ve rather starved.”

Rhaenyra parted her lips without a word this time, as the memory had lowered her resistance. She chewed carefully. Alicent watched her like she had all those years ago, not just whether she swallowed, but whether she smiled, wondering if her wife still liked the taste.

“But we couldn’t let the Princess waste away, could we? Teeth need days to grow. And you—” she smiled, gently patted Rhaenyra’s cheek, “you were a growing Dragon, always in motion, flipping things, climbing, running, and setting the Keep on fire. You ate almost one and a half of my rations every meal, every day.”

Her fingers flexed on the handle of the spoon as she inhaled sharply and considered giving her younger self some credit in silence.

“I had no choice but to cook for you myself. I pretended I was… practicing. Learning to be a proper lady far too soon. But truthfully… I feared you’d make yourself sick from how upset you were.”

Her voice lowered to an intimate hush.

“What could a nine-year-old girl possibly cook for her sulking, royal friend who’d lost four teeth and refused to eat anything that didn’t taste like meat?”

She let out a laugh, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“I did what I could, throwing everything into the porridge that might make it richer. A little beef. A bit of egg. The broth was taken from a pot that the kitchen made for our household. It was always simmering in winter: beef bones, onions, white radish, potatoes, and carrots. Nothing fancy, but it held warmth in every sip and was used as a stock for other dishes. I wanted the meal to taste full, like something worthy of a dragon’s breakfast.”

A smile curved at the corner of Rhaenyra’s mouth, her eyes gleamed with a flicker of understanding and empathy in her gaze now.

Beef, of course…

It was her favorite.

But the way Alicent had remembered—so carefully, so naturally—stirred something warm in her chest. Every small detail her wife recalled felt like a thread, tying them back together, leading her way to where the heart remembers, even when the mind cannot.

It made her heart ache a little, too.

Poor girl, Rhaenyra thought.

Just nine years old, and already fussing over a moody Dragon who refused to eat without drama.

Rhaenyra was filled with a mix of tenderness, guilt, and awe. The thought slipped in quietly, yet it pierced her with a sudden intensity, curling like a tendril deep within her chest.

How did I ever deserve her?

Even back then… she was already this patient. This thoughtful. This loving. Gods… she was just a girl, and I—

I must have made her suffer so much.

Alicent noticed her wife’s stillness, as if her thoughts had taken hold too tightly to name. She reached forward, gently wiping the corner of Rhaenyra’s mouth with the edge of the linen cloth, then leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“It was winter. You’d been sobbing in my bed since dawn. You hated plain food. I just… wanted to keep you warm and cheer you up a little.”

A laugh full of disbelief broke through, even after all these years.

“You didn’t even want to eat at first and stared at the porridge like it had insulted you and as if it owed you everything. I had to persuade you for twenty minutes straight. Bargain with you. Reason with a pouting Babydragon who wanted nothing but meat and vengeance.”

She shook her head, fondness glowing in her eyes.

“In the end, I fed you myself, spoon by spoon, and promised that if you didn’t like it, I’d try to make something else. Anything else. Whatever you could chew. Whatever you wanted.”

Alicent gave a long, theatrical sigh, though the warmth in her eyes never left.

“I even told you that if it still tasted bland… just chew the ginger. I said it would burn a little, but—‘It would feel like breathing fire yourself, Rhaenyra.’”

As she spoke those words, Alicent tilted her head, brows lifting in an impression of her younger self—earnest, hopeful, trying so hard to lift the spirits of a sulking Dragon. Her voice rose just a touch, exaggerated, and mimicking her younger self’s solemn conviction, almost as if she were trying to convince that same little girl again.

“Mmhh, it does burn nicely in the mouth, dear wife.” Rhaenyra grinned contentedly while chewing the ginger, then opened her mouth, awaiting the next spoonful from her wife.

Alicent let out a melodious laugh as her eyes sparkled with adoration that only years of loving someone could bring.

“I was very serious about that, trying to sell it like it was the most logical, noble thing in the world— ‘Fire in the mouth for a mighty dragon’. I considered adding chili, too. It would’ve burned hotter. But you weren’t into spicy food, still not, and your gums were already sore, raw in places your teeth were coming in… Even if you didn’t eat the chili directly, the spice could’ve hurt. So I settled for just pepper and ginger. Warm enough for winter. Burned just enough for a hurting Babydragon.”

Alicent went on, her smile distorted by helplessness.

“My headache didn’t end with the day. You refused to return to your chamber and insisted on staying with me…”

She glanced sideways at Rhaenyra, pretending to be offended.

“…said it was your reward for finishing bowls of porridge and a comfort—your words—for a Princess who had lost… a lot.”

She emphasized the last two words. Her voice dropped to a faux-serious mutter.

“My Gods! I skipped my class and faced both our parents’ deadly glares. I cooked for you, fed you, lied for you… And you asked me for a reward because you’d managed to finish your meal? You were a menace!”

Rhaenyra burst out laughing—loud, sudden, entirely unrepentant.

“I indeed am a menace.” She declared. “The greatest of them all, dear wife. I lost four teeth, my jaw strength, and my pride. Of course, I deserved a reward!”

She smirked like she proudly wore the title. Her eyes shone with triumph and, more obviously, an intoxicating joy of being seen and understood that even her brattiness was remembered with affection. There was vanity in her voice, the smugness of someone who knew she’d always gotten away with everything and never paid the price for it. Not because she deserved it, but because someone had always chosen to love her anyway. And that one was sitting across from her, still feeding her with the same patience, twenty years later…

“Also,” Alicent continued, lifting her chin in mock indignation, commanding attention. “Because no one could ever be allowed to know the Princess had eaten porridge—let alone why she needed to—when the royal chef brought your usual meal to my chamber…”

She shot Rhaenyra a sharp look.

“I had to finish it. All of it. Your stew. Your roasted meat. While you had my porridge.”

A sigh of both affectionate and long-suffering.

“Even when you couldn’t stay in my chamber anymore—after the third day, when our parents finally pieced together what had happened—you still refused to eat with them. You insisted that your meals be brought to your chamber. Privately. Every time.”

After a faint huff of disbelief, Alicent blew gently on the next spoon before offering it to her wife.

“For more than a week, I cooked for you, tried every kind of rich, delicious yet chewable food I could imagine. Created types of… baby food that might please a Babydragon while I finished your real meals in your stead. And if you ever felt like studying, it was me who recited everything the maester taught during the days you were… indisposed.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze dropped to the bowl for a moment, then flicked back up to Alicent.

“You know,” she murmured, “for someone raised to be the most proper lady in the Realm…”

She let the sentence hang, the corners of her lips tugging upward.

“…you were exceptionally good at harboring fugitives and committing high treason on behalf of one naughty Dragon. Lying to the King and the Queen could have ended with execution, and fooling both your parents and our Septa is somewhat immoral, isn’t it?”

Alicent huffed, the sound a mix of amusement and weary affection, but Rhaenyra’s smile only deepened, eyes glinting beneath golden lashes.

“All of that… just because I lost four teeth.”

She leaned a bit closer, playfully measuring how far she could push her luck. Her voice dropped further, almost like she was tasting the words.

“You must’ve loved me a lot.”

Alicent lifted her gaze. She hadn’t expected Rhaenyra to say it out loud, not like that, not so direct and unguarded. But… why should she be surprised? Her wife had always been frank, impulsive even, ruled by her heart more than her head. It had always been that way.

And that wasn’t an accusation but the truth.

This time, Alicent no longer wished to deny it. Her lips curved with the ease of someone who no longer doubted her heart.

“I have,” she admitted serenely. The words had always been there in years, waiting. “And I still do.”

For a moment, Rhaenyra stilled.

She hadn’t meant for her words to sound like a challenge. It was teasing, light, flirty… or so she thought. But Alicent didn’t turn away or reach for something safer. She admitted it right away. The words struck Rhaenyra with weight, resonating deep in her chest. Her heart skipped a beat as a slow realization settled in. She had known, but she hadn’t expected her wife to say it so simply, so confidently, so seriously. Not after days of restraint. Not without softening the edges or framing them with duty, concern, or care. And not during a lighthearted joke.

For days, Alicent had been cautious and reserved, choosing every word and gesture carefully, afraid to venture too close to where memories once thrived. Even when she poured devotion into every act, she never voiced it aloud.

Rhaenyra was speechless and gazed at her wife. The air between them seemed to hum with something both delicate and fierce. The glimmer in her gaze deepened, revealing everything she felt: the swell in her chest, the heat blooming beneath her skin, and the way her heart stuttered painfully against her ribs. She looked as though she had been waiting for this moment—for those words—for far too long. Now that they had finally come, freely given, she could do nothing but absorb them. Alicent had confessed her love for her once, merely an hour ago, after a tale, too. But Rhaenyra came to realize that no matter how many times she heard her wife say it, the word always unravel her the same.

“I didn’t know what got into me back then,” Alicent said, her voice like the rustle of silk, amused by her younger self but forgiving her too. “Maybe I lost my mind… or maybe you were just too cute when you were fragile and sulking.” She let the words hang for a beat, then added with a straight face and a sparkle in her eye—

“Still are.”

Rhaenyra blinked rapidly in disbelief and then chuckled, trying to chase away the warmth rising on her cheeks. Her voice was teasing, but the way her fingers tightened around Alicent’s wrist betrayed her.

“I made you suffer,” she emphasized, almost incredulously. “Threw tantrums all over the Keep, demanded everything, stood on your nerves…”

A shaky breath escaped her lips, followed by a cocky laugh. She tried to mask the depth of her emotions, feigning an untouchable demeanor in the wake of her wife’s heartfelt love confession.

“And you called me cute?”

Alicent looked at her with a serious yet indulgent expression. Her thumb brushed against the side of Rhaenyra's hand, holding her in place with words she never said lightly.

“You are brave. Strong. Reckless. Arrogant. Silly, sometimes. Chaotic—most of the time.”

A hint of a smile.

“Disagreeable when you’re nervous or upset. You roar first, cry later… or never. Especially not in front of others.”

She shrugged and shook her head, smiling with both understanding and acceptance.

“Apologize? That depends. On your mood. Or—more accurately—your ego.”

Rhaenyra felt both offended and captivated. She wanted to argue, but Alicent spoke first.

“But you’re warmhearted. Loving. Lively.”

A pause.

“And yes. Cute. Especially when you’re overwhelmed. Or helpless.”

She spoke it without hesitation. It was the truth, expressed like a vow.

“What could I do?” Alicent whispered. “My heart breaks when you cry.”

Her gaze momentarily dropped to the floor, as if she was pondering her feelings, before it returned to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes.

“And you rarely cry, even as a child.”

She exhaled slowly, drawing the memory from some place she’d sealed for too long.

“I didn’t understand much back then. But you were standing in front of me… tears all over your face—”

A breath of disbelief, fond and aching.

“—clutching your baby teeth like they were broken relics.”

A faint smile, but her voice caught slightly.

“You were the Morning Star. Everyone said so. But in that moment, it scared me. Terrified me. Thinking something awful must have happened to make you that desperate, that vulnerable.”

She shrugged, eyes glistening now.

“How could I deny you anything?”

Alicent fixed her gaze on Rhaenyra for what felt like an eternity. A smile adorned her lips, a soft light in her eyes that contrasted with the bittersweet ache in her heart. It cracked a little, splintering under the weight of emotion, yet at the same time, it felt as if it had been bathed in warmth, as though a flicker of hope was igniting within.

“You looked like that nine-year-old Princess again,” she whispered. “The one who demanded a reward just because she ate her breakfast.”

Her fingers tightened around Rhaenyra’s hand, absent-mindedly smoothing over the pale skin like comforting that same stubborn child.

“When you asked me to feed you, just minutes ago…” she added softly, “…‘Feed me, fussy one. The Dragon awaits.’”

Her smile grew deeper and wistful. The light in her eyes shimmered with love, memory, and a hint of regret.

“You sounded exactly like her.”

Her voice barely quivered as she spoke, but it encompassed a world of emotions: an indulgence that lingered like an embrace, a deep longing that echoed in the silence between them, and the sorrow of loving someone who could no longer recall the shared moments that once bound them together.

Rhaenyra took the empty bowl from Alicent’s hands. Her fingers brushed over Alicent’s knuckles for a brief moment before she set the bowl down on the small table beside the armrest. Then, carefully, she gathered Alicent into her arms. She knew her wife might tense at the thought of pressure against her healing wounds, would even fret or protest. But Rhaenyra did not hesitate. She adjusted her hold, ensuring it was neither too tight nor too loose, and cradled the back of Alicent’s head, pressing a soft kiss to her brow.

As she lowered her cheek to rest upon Alicent’s silky auburn waves, she guided her head down until it nestled perfectly into the curve of her neck. A hush fell over the room. Warm breath and coziness held between two heartbeats.

“I guess something never changes, dear wife,” Rhaenyra whispered against Alicent’s forehead.

…including my heart.

The words came gently, but unmistakably wrapped in love. She didn’t say more. The rest lived in her embrace: in the way her hand stroked Alicent’s back dedicatedly, in the way she closed her eyes as if tying herself to this moment and to her wife’s heartbeat, in her eyes, when they fluttered open again and found Alicent’s.

“You hate baby food. Everyone knows that,” Alicent murmured as she nestled closer, letting herself be drawn into the warmth of her wife’s embrace like someone who had finally found safe harbor. “The royal chef would panic if someone so much as hinted at serving soup or porridge to the Queen—especially when you are the one asking for it.”

A weary laugh escaped her lips.“But somehow—Gods bless me—you always seemed to enjoy my cooking. Even these childish, clumsy dishes I made up out of nothing. I didn’t even know what to call them. I just want to make something good and comforting for you.”

Her hand shifted lightly against Rhaenyra’s chest, fingertips caressing over the fabric of the cloak as she spoke.

“Yet, you always come home asking for this, and only from me, especially after battles. Whenever the war ends, you always try to return as soon as you can. Whether it means flying through the rain or braving the dark, you don’t even let the maesters tend your wounds first. No bath. No change of clothes. No thought of returning like some triumphant, glorious warrior Queen. Just…” her voice thinned with memory, “…straight home. Straight to me.”

A moment of silence.

“You’d come in, breathless and bloodied, ask me if I mind the smell—ashes, dragon, mud, blood, sweat, all of it—and then collapse into my arms. Sometimes from pain, but mostly from exhaustion. You always lead and fight like you were born for it…You never fall. A nightmare to your enemies. A creature of fire and fury. Unbeatable. Stamina like the Gods.”

Her voice quivered at the brink of a chuckle, then sank into a deeper, aching tone.

“They say Targaryens are closer to Gods than men…” Alicent inhaled shakily, almost painfully, the weight of her words hanging in the air. “How much I wish for that to be true…”

Rhaenyra stilled. Something in Alicent’s voice—so fragile, almost brittle at the edges, yet brutally true—stirred the air between them. Her wife had spoken of Gods and the Targaryens, but the ache beneath it all… was not in the words alone, but in the hope buried inside them.

How much I wish for that to be true…

That was what hurt the most. The resigned acceptance that came from both knowing too much and loving too much was devastating.

Rhaenyra had grown up with the myth that Targaryens were born of flame, blessed by the Gods, and superior to mortals. But now, hearing Alicent say it like a forlorn prayer that had already lost to time and fate, Rhaenyra felt the weight of something agonizingly inevitable gnawing in her chest.

Gods or not, Targaryens died too.

Their bones cracked the same. Their blood spilled just as red. And no crown, no dragon, no ancient language or Valyrian blood magic could save them from diseases, or blade, or the cold of winter.

She looked at Alicent, not as the Queen Regent or the Consort, but the woman who had ridden through a snowstorm, burned through duties and reasons, just to reach her. This was the price of loving someone who carried fire in their veins, a legacy on their shoulders, and a crown on their head. Alicent had always paid it silently and completely.

It struck Rhaenyra deeply—the sorrow behind those words didn’t belong to someone dazzled by legacy or power. It came from a woman who had seen the other side of greatness and glory, the parts no epic or eulogy ever sang of. Alicent had always been the one who saw wounds before they bled, who wept and hurt in silence for every scar, visible or not, that Rhaenyra carried, who never forgot the weight of duties and sacrifice even when they were overshadowed by privileges and magnificence. She never mourned aloud or sought comfort. She just endured, every time, everything. For Rhaenyra. For them. For the Realm.

Alicent bore all weights in silence, not because it didn’t hurt, but because she refused to let it burden others. Refused to let it burden Rhaenyra. Suddenly, Rhaenyra saw it—the years of quiet sacrifices, the dignity of a Queen Consort and a wife who never asked for pity, even when she bled for the Crown. Alicent understood better than anyone that even Gods fall, that Targaryens die like all mortals—broken, burning, forgotten. That even dragons fall from the sky, and those born of fire could also die cold, legends or not.

Rhaenyra had never understood that cruel truth more than now, nor had she ever hated it more. Not because she could not accept her mortality, nor because pride forbade her from being seen as anything less than divine. But because her wife—her Moon, her light, her everything—was the one who bled most for that legacy and delusion alike. Because Alicent endured pain in silence, she kept giving, yet never once thought herself worthy of complaint or even sobbing.

Rhaenyra hugged her wife tightly. No words came yet, only the weight of her breath, as she pressed her lips to the crown of Alicent’s head, quietly devastated. Her heart twisted in her chest.

Alicent pressed on. She feared that if she paused for even a moment, the storm of emotions swirling within her would swallow her whole.

“I lost count of the times you fell asleep while I was bathing you, or helping you change, or trying to take off your armor and boots after you’d already collapsed onto the nearest flat surface in our chamber. You know how I am about cleanliness. Even in those moments, when I said nothing and cared only about your well-being, you’d still try to avoid the bed unless you were clean. It breaks my heart, every time, knowing that even when totally worn out and half-conscious, you still put me first.”

She looked up at last—those large brown eyes, glassy with tears, locking onto Rhaenyra’s face for a second. Then, as if realizing she’d been caught, Alicent quickly shut her eyes and pressed her face into the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck, hiding the trembling of her lashes. But it was too late. Rhaenyra had already seen the flush rising along her wife’s nose, already heard the break in her voice despite how carefully Alicent tried to pull herself together.

“After the war, sleep was what you needed most, not food. But I couldn’t let you rest with an empty stomach, nor force rich, heavy meals on you when they’d only make it worse. And the celebrations—Gods, we both hate them. The wine, the noise, the empty words, the false praise. You’ve always despised all that. But… you loved this porridge.”

She drew in a deep breath, trying to muster a smile despite the weight of her thoughts.

“After a bowl, you’d sleep half a day, sometimes till sunset. No pain, no hunger. Just peace. You once told me it helped the most when you’d flown home through the rain and snow, that it warmed you from the inside out.”

She intertwined her fingers with Rhaenyra’s. Her thumb moved slowly in absent circles, brushing over the familiar calluses and hardened ridges from years of swordplay and battles. These hands were no longer smooth. But Alicent didn’t mind. In truth, she missed them—the roughness, the warmth, and the sense of safety and protection they provided. As her touch lingered, part of her was already thinking about how to care for them later when they returned home.

“Our children were so curious. None of them quite believed that porridge or soup, of all things, could be your favorite. Even knowing I was the one who made it, they still found it hard to believe. It looked far too simple, too baby-coded, as they say, for a dragon to favor. Egg, of course, was the first to tease you. He claimed, whether he liked it or not, that it was worth any scolding just to see you hiss at him over a bowl of food you once declared ‘too weak and unworthy of a dragon’s appetite.’ Every time I made it, he demanded half a pot for himself. You two sat there, hissing and snarling like overgrown firelizards fighting over your territory. He never admitted he liked it, but he never let you have the whole pot either, and he always finished his bowl just as fast as you did.”

Rhaenyra sat quietly, her arms wrapped around her wife, holding her close like she was something precious that had finally returned. One hand rested gently on Alicent's shoulder blade, while the other curled loosely around her waist. Occasionally, Rhaenyra's hand would move in soothing strokes, both to comfort Alicent and to remind her that she was present, listening, and would not let go. Her gaze stayed on Alicent, catching every shift in her wife’s expression, every curve of her lips, every rise and fall in her voice.

When Alicent mentioned their children and the chaos over shared porridge pots, a smile touched Rhaenyra’s lips now and then, soft and fleeting, but her eyes stayed on Alicent with both love and sorrow. She wanted to speak, but nothing came. Because she didn’t remember, she couldn’t recall anything that Alicent was telling.

The faces of their children hovered at the edge of her mind like fading paintings. She knew them. She knows them. Their names were carved into her soul, their laughter embedded somewhere in her heart. But the memories themselves… flickered. Hazy. Some moments glimmered feebly—Egg’s proud grin, Luke’s wild curls, Helaena’s solicitous voice—but even those, she wasn’t sure they were real or presumptive, or pieced together from whatever was left in her since she woke.

It hurts like hell—knowing that you have a big, happy family with children who once called you Muña with joy in their voices, and a devoted, beautiful wife who loves you beyond reason. But the memories—your own life—have become fragments scattered in the dark. You gave everything. Threw yourself into battle not for glory, not even just for those you love, but for the Realm. For everyone. For strangers who would never remember your name. For peace that would never reach you in time.

And what did it leave you with?

Victory, perhaps. Survival, just barely. But also this—

This haunting blankness, where a life once lived should be.

The laughter of your children, the comfort of your wife’s arms, the warmth of a home you fought to protect—flickering now. Dimmed. Vanished.

You saved the world

…and it left you broken.

You’re safe, yes. Alive and blessedly loved.

But you are also grieving a life you cannot remember living.

So Rhaenyra listened and bore it all in silence. She forced the ache down, pressed it deep beneath cracked ribs and tired lungs, because Alicent was here. Because her wife had never turned away, never resented her, even when she returned half-ruined and hollowed out by war. Because love like hers was enough to soothe the worst of the pain. Enough to soften the sharp edges of loss, of memory gone missing, of a soul still suffering from battle.

Rhaenyra leaned closer. Her hand was tracing the length of her wife’s spine. She nuzzled into her hair and clung to the scent that had always meant home, because she needed it too. She needed to be held, to be known, to be forgiven for not remembering, and to be loved without being perfect or whole…

She needed a place to return to, and it had always been here, always been her…

Alicent

She let Alicent speak. Let her words fill the space that her mind couldn’t. Because even if Rhaenyra didn’t have the memories, she felt them now. Through Alicent’s voice. Through her eyes. Through the care in every silly anecdote and every precious retelling. This was her family, and this was her wife guarding their memories, treasuring them, carrying them all. Although Rhaenyra didn’t have the past, she had this—Alicent’s voice, her warmth, her heartbeat against hers, and it was enough to anchor her.

It was enough to bring her home.

“Jace is a good boy, dutiful, well-mannered, and always so caring. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been too strict with our children—especially him—perhaps not with words, but with expectations and the weight we both carry. He pays attention to everything, always so aware of what others feel, too thoughtful for his age and his own good. I hold my breath whenever we talk about anything serious, afraid a single word might burden him more than I ever intended.”

Alicent paused, her fingers gently tracing a circle near Rhaenyra’s wrist.

“He asked if he could taste the porridge. After you had your bowl, there was more than half a pot left, but he still hesitated, shy and worried it might be selfish or improper. You liked it so much, and he thought you needed every bit of strength after the battles. Our sweet boy… he always puts everyone before himself, even in the smallest acts. He said he only wanted a spoonful. We could tell he liked it, truly liked it. But he didn’t touch it until we insisted, and only ate when he was sure you were full and content.”

Alicent’s voice had softened by then, infused with love, pride, and an ache that never seemed to leave when she spoke of Jacaerys.

“He never said it was his favorite—not directly. But every time I made that porridge, he’d go to the kitchen, hovering just close enough to be noticed, hands a little fidgety, eyes bright with anticipation he never quite managed to hide, waiting for the right moment to offer help. He’d ask if we might make a little more this time—just in case. I saw how his eyes lit up when he looked at the ladle, how his voice turned just a little brighter when he spoke, how proud he looked—so endearingly proud—when he brought your bowl to you first. He looked so lovely in those moments. So happy. Like it meant the world to him just to be part of your return.”

There was always that subtle lilt in her tone when Alicent recalled her son’s gentleness, the way her words stretched over the memory. But behind each word was a weight. A sorrow that her boy had learned to be thoughtful far too early, that he’d grown up understanding how to measure his wants against the needs of others before he’d ever been taught to demand anything for himself. Alicent sounded proud when she spoke of their son. But beneath that pride, Rhaenyra could hear a mother’s worry that he had become too considerate and too good in a world that would not always be kind back.

Rhaenyra's fingers rested along her wife's side as pure happiness sparkled in her eyes. She whispered her thoughts more to herself than to Alicent. The fondness in her voice was unmistakable:

“Jace… he takes after you.”

Alicent blinked rapidly, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Although her voice remained steady, it carried a delicate tremor that did not go unnoticed.

“That’s exactly what I wish had not happened,” she said. “I do not wish for our children—any of them—to go through what I did… I tried to love and take care of them equally. Thoughtfully. Tried not to go the same way our parents did…”

Her voice trailed off, almost breaking in her words.

“But somehow things still happened, and I don’t know where it slipped off track.”

Rhaenyra shifted just enough to make sure Alicent felt comfortable while they were sitting for a while.

“I know you tried.”

She nuzzled against Alicent, her warm lips grazing her forehead. The sweet scent on Alicent’s cloak surrounded them, enhancing the intimacy of the moment.

“You loved them. You love us. And no one… no one could have done more than you did. I don’t remember all of it, but I know you. If there’s pain, if things went off track, it wasn’t because you failed them, Alicent. It was because the world is cruel, we had too much to carry, and things never go the way we wanted them to be. But sometimes, life would turn out better, just not like what we expected it to be, but better.”

Rhaenyra looked at Alicent with a warm smile, her eyes glimmering with tenderness as she spoke.

“Maybe Jace takes after you more than you think. He worries, gives, and never blames. He just… loves us. The way you do.”

She squeezed her wife's hand, giving both solace and reassurance, letting her know she was not alone in facing whatever challenges lay ahead.

“And he’ll be okay because you were here. You are here. We are here.”

Alicent exhaled a delicate sigh, her gaze becoming distant. For a moment, she looked caught in her thoughts, somewhere between memory and feeling. Then, her voice returned, more wistful than before.

“Our Princess… she is a quiet child. Although there are times she enjoys bossing her brothers around, she truly treasures her personal space. Serenity suits her. Helaena rarely says what she likes, almost never asks for treats or gifts or anything except this. The porridge.”

A faint smile touched her lips.

“Once she was old enough to walk, you came home and were having the dish I’d just cooked for you. She toddled over, poked your arm—that was how she asked to be picked up. You lifted her into your lap, and she just… sat there, expectant. You fed her. I was worried then. She hadn’t cried much as a baby, but she was picky. Her stomach was sensitive. I tried to stop you, but you said the porridge was safe for babies, delicious even, and assured me that you would not let her eat pepper and ginger. You fed her carefully and comforted me all at once. When my panic left, I looked up, and you two had finished the bowl together. She liked it. She didn’t even fuss.”

Alicent’s eyes shone with a luminous affection as she cherished the precious moments captured in her mind that were untouched by time and loss.

“Helaena never asks for anything. But this—this porridge, she does. Every time you came home and I cooked for you, she’d come too. She sat beside you, or climbed into your lap if she could, ate with you, and talked to you about everything. Her stories, her findings, what she’s added to her collections, what the boys did… or ruined, what changed in the Keep while you were gone. Her dreams. The stars. The bugs. Everything. She was timid with the world but not with you. She loved your company. She always has.”

Alicent spoke with fondness in her voice, though a bittersweet smile graced her lips.

“As she grows up, she looks so much like you. That resemblance… Sometimes it feels like I’m looking at you again, just smaller. Softer.”

She took a gentle breath before continuing, as if she were about to confess.

“There were moments—” she glanced down at her hands briefly, “—I know I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t hold back the tears when I saw her… especially when you were not home. And every time, although she has never been comfortable with people being too close, or with touches, she tried.”

The warmth of her voice dipped into the depths of those guilty feelings that only a mother can truly understand, a haunting melody of love and regret intertwining in her heart.

“She tried so hard to comfort me, even if it was just sitting beside me for hours without saying a word. Then, at some point, she’d placed her hand on my back or gently took my hand in hers, never looking up, just… holding on.”

Her gaze shifted back to Rhaenyra, glassy with unshed tears.

“She missed you, too, so deeply. You were the only one she truly let close. Even as a baby, she would squirm away from everyone—me included—but not from you. She climbed onto your lap the moment you sat down. She would reach out, little arms lifted, waiting for you to hold her.”

Rhaenyra watched Alicent in silence for a moment, her heart breaking from a grief so sharp it nearly stole her breath. Because her wife—her fierce, extraordinary, beloved wife—always gave so much, yet believed herself deserving of so little.

Not love

Not thanks

Not even the recognition of their children

As if care and sacrifice were her duties, not treasures. As if her heart were a tool, not a gift.

Gods… Rhaenyra hated it. Hated that the woman who carried the weight of their world still doubted she was worthy of even being held.

Alicent had looked away again, as she often did when emotions rose too high, when vulnerability caught her off guard. Rhaenyra reached out gently, two fingers curling beneath her wife's chin, lifting it with care to hold her wife in place long enough to see what she was unaware of or dared not believe.

“Look at me,” Rhaenyra coaxed. “Please.”

Rhaenyra remained patient, holding Alicent not just by touch, but by her presence. Her thumb brushed once along Alicent’s jaw, and when her wife finally looked at her, only then did she speak:

“Helaena sounds like you… The way she tries to comfort you, even when it’s not easy for her.”

Her fingers glided across her wife's face, tracing the elegant contours and brushing back a coppery strand. Each touch conveyed a warmth and tenderness that spoke volumes, as if she were savoring every nuance of the beloved features before her.

“If she is drawn to me… maybe it’s because we Targaryens have distinct ways of bonding. Dragonblood runs thick. The same fire lives in our veins. We recognize each other long before words or reason ever come. It’s instinct. The call of our root, kinship, and fire. But what she has with you—what she chooses to give, against all odds, against her very nature—that is love, Alicent. It can’t be anything else but love.”

She leaned in until their foreheads touched, skin to skin, breath mingling. Her gaze stayed open, letting her wife see that every word about to be spoken is a truth that never wavered.

“You are her mother—by blood, by heart, and by choice.”

Rhaenyra remained still and close, allowing the weight of her words to settle while giving Alicent space to breathe. Only when she felt her wife's shoulders relax did she grin, easing the strain between them with a hint of mischief.

“Besides, I don’t think anyone would describe me as ‘gentle’, dear wife. I’m passionate, energetic, loving—yes, as you once said,” she declared cockily. “Cute? Hmm… that’s your biased opinion, and I highly appreciate it. Truly. Very much so.”

She raised a playful eyebrow. Her tone was jokingly offbeat.

“But gentle, thoughtful, and patient?” She shook her head with an exaggerated expression. “Those are qualities no one outside the spell of love would ever associate with me. Our daughter must have taken those from her other mother. As she should.”

Rhaenyra smiled genuinely this time, her expression warm and benign, a stark contrast to the cocky twist of her lips she had just shown merely a minute ago.

“She stayed,” she kindly pressed on, eyes still on her wife. “Even when it was hard. Even when she didn’t know what to do or what to say, she stayed, and she loves.”

Her fingers brushed against Alicent’s hand, as soft and delicate as the flutter of a feather. The touch was reverent, almost as if she were caressing the edge of something sacred.

“I know someone else like that.”

She smiled tenderly, her voice becoming even softer as she leaned in closer to her wife.

“Someone who doesn’t leave even when love is hard and demanding. Even when it’s lost… or broken.”

Her thumb glided in across the back of Alicent’s hand, the contrast of her rough, weathered skin brushing against the soft, unblemished surface.

“Someone who keeps giving when the other can offer her nothing but ask for everything. When that one needs her too much, in all the worst ways…”

Rhaenyra drew in a breath, but her gaze didn’t wander.

“…and still, she stays even when she’s breaking silently under pressure and pain. Even when she deserves much more than this.”

The words hung between them, trembled with impulse, with gratitude, and with love so deep it didn’t know how else to speak except through sheer sincerity,

Through this

Through them

…and through what remained.

The heaviness of those final words took aback Alicent. She gasped sharply and suddenly.

“Love…” her voice cracking as she reached up, cupping Rhaenyra’s face before she even knew she was moving. “Please, don’t talk about yourself like that…”

She caressed Rhaenyra's face, attempting to wipe away the sorrow etched across her features. Her own eyes brimming with a mix of disbelief and empathy, absorbing the weight of the moment.

“You are not a burden,” she stated, her breath warmed Rhaenyra’s cheek, almost pleading. “You are not too much. You are my everything. My love, my heart, my other half, and I only ever wished to deserve you.”

Their foreheads touched again, but this time it was Alicent who offered comfort, she who held steady as her wife trembled, who reached into a breaking soul and chose, without hesitation, to keep her, to mend, and to love her harder than ever before. Her touch was delicate, but it anchored them both—a silent vow made through closeness alone.

“You gave me a life I never thought I could have, a love I never dared to want, and a happy family that gives me reasons to wake up every day and thank the Gods for.”

A pause filled with anticipation hung in the air between them. Alicent stayed close and unwavering, not because she knew how to make things right, but because Rhaenyra needed someone who would not leave.

“If it’s not for you, I would have perished years ago, or lived as a miserable shadow for the rest of my life, pleading to be set free. Even when you could barely stand, you cared about me. You protected me with your own life, although you remember nothing about me, about us… I would run through a thousand miles just to have one moment with you again, and I want nothing but you, Rhaenyra.”

Alicent meant every word, and she understood what still held her wife in silence.

It wasn’t just memory loss alone, but the shame of watching her world crumble and having no way to fix it. The helplessness. The guilt. The crushing weight of waking each day beside the woman she could not remember, and yet could not bear to let go. Though Alicent never dared to believe she was the reason Rhaenyra clung so tightly, she felt it all the same when those hands reached for her in the dark and in that searching gaze of her wife.

And Rhaenyra?

She had faced blades and fire, had worn pride like armor, and ruled as if unshakable. But this pain of forgetting what should have been hers, of feeling everything yet remembering nothing, was a wound that did not bleed, and yet nothing had ever cut her so deep. It was something no war had prepared her for. But the cruelest part is watching Alicent bear it all—rule in her name, care for her wounds, carry their world—without a word of complaint, all because she could not!

Though the blood coursing through her veins demanded unyielding resilience and the heavy burdens of crowns and dragons cautioned her against any semblance of fragility, Rhaenyra did break. In silence. Slowly, but with a devastating finality. It was in this moment of vulnerability, only in Alicent’s warm embrace, that her defenses crumbled.

Because Alicent never asked her to be unshakable.

Because in Alicent’s arms, pride gave way to sincerity, and bravery could bow to trust and love.

She let Alicent see it. All of it. The fear, the broken pieces, the silence swollen with things she couldn’t explain. Because even now, even without memory, she trusted this woman, trusted her enough to fall, and Alicent caught her, as she always would.

Alicent pressed a tender kiss to the bridge of Rhaenyra’s nose—right where the old break had never quite healed straight. Her lips lingered there for a breath. When she pulled back, her gaze settled there for a moment longer with deep affection.

“I’ll get you some water. You’ve barely had any since morning. Just a little at a time is best, but you still need it.”

She rose, careful not to jolt the wound beneath Rhaenyra's nightclothes. The arms around her held on a moment longer, subtly reluctant to let go. Rhaenyra didn't want to be alone, not even for a minute, especially after everything that had happened. Only when Alicent fully stood did the Queen's hands finally loosen their grip, but her eyes remained fixed on her wife, never leaving her for a single breath.

“I must have started flying too soon,” Rhaenyra muttered under her breath, her tone caught between dry complaint and rueful self-cursing. “So now the Gods have me paying for it—making me ask my wife for help just to reach the chamberpot like some oversized toddler.”

Alicent stood by the desk, the flickering hearth casting warm golden light across her silhouette. She poured warm water from a silver carafe into a goblet and didn’t immediately respond to Rhaenyra’s dramatized musing—part complaint, part concealed hurt—but a smile curved her lips.

“I heard it as ‘thank you,’” she said, finally turning, voice laced with little tease. Her steps were light but swift as she crossed the room.

Rhaenyra watched her wife approach, eyes following the familiar grace in every motion. Her pride still sat on her shoulders like a cloak, but her gaze delated it.

Alicent gently coaxed the ornate goblet into Rhaenyra’s hand, guiding her fingers to curl around the stem. As their hands grazed, Alicent tilted her head, an eyebrow arched in a jesting, silent encouragement. Rhaenyra complied with a resigned exhale. Alicent’s smile grew warmer, a glimmer dancing behind her lashes as she watched her wife take the first sip.

“And,” she added, her voice lifting just enough, pausing deliberately, “you are welcome, my grumpy baby.”

It was a playful jab, perhaps, but it was also rooted in genuine joy. Rhaenyra no longer flinched. She clung to her—shyly and unconsciously—in every small act. Her warmth had returned. Not completely, but Alicent could feel it again, like the golden rays of the morning sun slowly emerging from beneath the horizon, wrapping around her with a familiar, fervent embrace that reignited her soul.

When Rhaenyra finished the last sip, Alicent reached for the goblet and placed it on the small table beside the armrest. But instead of returning to her earlier position at the edge of the chaise and tucked within Rhaenyra’s embrace, she gave an endearing tap on her wife’s uninjured shoulder.

Rhaenyra was fairly confused, but when she looked up and saw Alicent still standing before her, not settling back into her arms, she instinctively shifted, drawing herself up just slightly from the backrest—thinking perhaps her wife needed the seat, or wanted her to move.

But before she could rise fully, Alicent’s hand caught her arm gently, the other supporting her back with care. In the same motion, Alicent sank behind her, filling the space between Rhaenyra and the cushion without letting her move more than necessary. She guided Rhaenyra back cautiously until her wife rested snugly against her chest, cradled in an angle that eased the strain on her wounded side.

Rhaenyra yielded at once, allowing her body to lean back into the warmth behind her. Her weight shifted gradually, shoulders relaxing as she let herself melt into Alicent’s arms—her posture half-upright, half-reclining. The crown of her head nestled just beneath her wife’s chin, and the rhythm of Alicent’s breathing found its way to her skin again. Wrapped in her arms like this, she felt perfectly shaped for that embrace, adoringly held, protected, and free to rest. The transition into this moment had been so smooth and natural that for a heartbeat, she didn’t even realize it had happened. All she felt was the warmth of arms closing around her, along with the scent that had lived in her breath from yesterday.

Alicent lowered her head, grazing the tip of her nose over Rhaenyra’s crown, nudging against her wife again.

“As much as I hate it when you get hurt,” she murmured, “those are the rare and precious times when I can have you like this. Just us. No throne, no court, no messengers knocking every five minutes.”

Her arms tightened slightly, cradling her wife closer.

“I’ll never be free of this love-hate bond I have with your homecomings. I thank the Gods with all I have when you return to me and our children. But I break each time I see what it costs you. Even the tiniest cut tears me apart. How many times have you called them ‘just scratches and mosquito bites, dear wife’? That’s your catchphrase every time you come home to me.”

She sounded upset, even angry, but in the end, only grief remained.

“Still was—just last night, when you were slipping away in my arms…”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widened as she turned her head to glance up at Alicent. Surprise flickered across her face, tinged with guilt and shame. She didn’t remember everything from the night before—especially the moments when her mind had blurred—but she remembered trying to comfort her wife. What she hadn’t realized was that she had spoken those exact words again. The same foolish refrain she thought might make things easier for Alicent to bear.

Before any apology could break free from Rhaenyra’s lips, Alicent's expression changed. Though she wasn’t genuinely angry, her lips tightened into a tense line, and her brows drew together in a subtle frown. A subtle quiver in her voice revealed her struggle to remain calm while her heart still ached.

“I almost vowed to make mosquitoes extinct,” she muttered with a huff, “so you’d never use those stupid, half-baked excuses to soothe me again. You say it like you’re tricking a child, with that same tone you use to coo our kids.”

Rhaenyra was momentarily struck silent. It took her a few breaths before the words found their way out, quiet and sincere.

“I… never wish for you to be uncomfortable,” she confessed sheepishly at last. “Or frightened… and hurt. I just hoped it would somehow make things… lighter and easier for you.”

She swallowed hard, her gaze dropped to their hands lacing together, and held them firmer, caressing Alicent’s knuckles, like a soundless apology she didn’t know how else to offer.

“I know, my love,” Alicent said. “And that’s what makes it hurt more…”

Her voice was thick with the pain she’d tried to keep at bay.

“You lost your breath and much blood every second that passed, yet still tried to comfort me. Now you feel ashamed and see yourself as a burden just because I take care of you, my wife, my love…”

She murmured, her tone both chiding and adoring.

“Darling, I will never be at ease when you are in pain, visible or not. You may not believe this, but I love tending to you, spending time with you, and shutting the world out of our door. It only feels agonizing because the few times I am allowed to do this—completely focus on this—are the times my beloved gets hurt.”

Alicent kept her arms wrapped around Rhaenyra from behind. One arm encircled Rhaenyra's waist, while the other hand, still held within Rhaenyra's grasp, was lifted to caress her cheek. Then, Alicent kissed her, not just once, but three times. Each press of her lips was firmer than the last, and each kiss was loud and deliberate.

“It’s not like I get to take my Queen-wife as a perfect excuse to avoid court work every day, and steal a small break from our chaotic herd of little dragons. Therefore, ironically, I shall appreciate those precious times.”

“The more I hear you, the more conflicted I feel about my injuries.”

Rhaenyra giggled joyfully and tilted her head back just enough to gaze up at Alicent. Her eyes gleamed, and her smile was radiant. Alicent's hand still rested on her cheek, a reminder of the three kisses that felt like a vow.

“Should I hate them for making a fool of me, or thank them for turning me into the treasured big baby of my wife at last? The one you declared war for—on mosquitoes, Seven Kingdoms-wide—and gladly let the Lords rot with their endless expectance. Even our children don’t stand a chance against me now. How blessed am I, huh?”

Rhaenyra laughed heartily, her head tipped back against her wife's shoulder. However, behind her, Alicent's smile faltered for just a moment, too brief for anyone to notice, but it was there. The corners of her lips stilled, and the sparkle in her eyes dimmed.

Because she heard that buried truth wrapped in jest, that biting joy from being, for once, chosen first.

Even now—stripped of memories—Rhaenyra still knew that duty would always come first for Alicent, and no matter how deeply she was loved, Rhaenyra could never truly be her first and only. Even when Alicent was pouring love into every touch, pampering Rhaenyra in every glance, drowning her in affection, her wife still beamed like it was a blessing to be chosen once…

As if it were a miracle

As if she had accepted it long ago and made peace with the fact that Alicent would never love her the way she loved Alicent.

Alicent swallowed hard, feeling the sharp thorns prick at her throat. The unspoken words weighed heavily on her heart.

Gods, what had she done?

What kind of wife had she been, that even a soul with no memories still knew to expect less?

Alicent cursed herself for it, but she refused to let this moment become heavy. Not when her wife was finally laughing again. Not when she had just begun to feel warmth in her arms once more. As her lips grazed Rhaenyra’s temple, her tone softened into a tender coo.

“In some unexpected and twisted ways, yes, it is indeed a blessing for both of us, not just you, my love. Our children refuse to let us have private moments. No matter their personalities, they are absolutely united in this one cause. The little ones cling to us as if we’d vanish, and the elder ones—well, their ‘understanding phase’ lasts about three days before they decide we need to be kept in checked and teased. Mercilessly.”

She let out a sigh, totally reflecting the tired vibe of a mother juggling a big, chaotic family.

“I told you how far Egg is willing to go just to step on your nerves, didn’t I? He would start a riot in the royal kitchen just to steal your favorite dish and declare a porridge war against you. Even Aemond, with all his solemn airs, finds great joy in disrupting us in every way imaginable. He once sent a raven to tell you I ‘had a sneeze, although the autumn had not come,’ just to see how fast you’d fly home and won a betting game with Jace.”

Alicent gave a small shrug, voice rising to sarcasm.

“Truly, I think the only time we’re left alone is when I issue a formal decree—‘The Queen requires uninterrupted rest.’ Even then, it takes visible injuries and a bit of blood before the children actually take it seriously. The Lords retreat out of fear. Our children retreat only when guilt finally starts to outweigh curiosity. I ought to be concerned. But instead, here I am, grateful.”

Rhaenyra chuckled, feeling wickedly amused.

“Seems like my dear wife always suffers from dragons, huh? The only difference here is which one of them… or all at once?”

A playful glint sparkled in her eyes as she leaned closer to Alicent.

“And let’s not forget about the court—it haunts her too.” She sighed with mock sympathy, then smiled wider. “God bless my wife. She must have owed us Targaryens too much.”

Alicent kissed the crown of Rhaenyra’s head, framing her wife’s face as her voice rose—cool, articulate, and regal.

“I signed up for dragonkeeping, I would not complain that the Crown happened to come as an attachment… or an extension of headache.”

The contrast between her indulgent caress and the crisp cadence of her words was nearly comical, yet it was distinctly her: graceful in affection, sharp in humor, and effortlessly poised in both.

A pleasant hum vibrated from Rhaenyra’s chest. She lifted her chin and spoke in her most ceremonial cadence, matching Alicent’s earlier poise with her own flamboyant flair.

“The Crown and I—your very grateful wife—thank you most sincerely for your tireless devotion to both our Kingdoms and our kind,” Rhaenyra intoned, mock-formal and utterly delighted. “It brings me immense joy to know you take such pleasure in suffering the fire-breathing disasters and those old toads of the Council who would not stop grumbling even for a single day.”

She grinned widely as she cautiously straightened her posture. Rhaenyra noticed how Alicent tensed in alarm, so she remained in her wife's embrace, adjusting just enough to face her properly. Rhaenyra lifted Alicent's hand and bowed, kissing the back of it—a courtly gesture infused with affection and perhaps a hint of flirtation.

“Now, if it pleases Your Grace,” she continued with practiced grandeur, “perhaps you would grant me the honor of knowing your daily concerns—especially those who share my blood—so that I may resume my post in the royal household, preferably near my Queen who keeps all of us in line, and perhaps spare you a headache or two in the days ahead.”

Rhaenyra smiled. Her every word had been woven from sincerity. Her tone was splendid, but her eyes, still glowing with hope, uncertainly searched her wife’s face as if listening to those tales of their family might bring her a step closer to home. There was no mistaking it: beneath all that jest, Rhaenyra was asking to be let in.

Alicent watched her wife in silence.

Pale and weary as she was, her eyes still held that incredible glow—sharp, playful, and endlessly charming, even in her most ridiculous moments. Even now, cocooned in blankets and bearing brutal wounds, Rhaenyra could disarm an entire kingdom with just a single, radiant smile, and make Alicent breathless in her presence, as if the world had faded away.

A few seconds passed, just long enough for Rhaenyra’s fingers to twitch slightly in anticipation. Then, Alicent let out a sigh that was almost a suppressed chuckle. She leaned in, gently cupping Rhaenyra’s jaw with both hands, her thumbs resting on her wife's cheekbones. Alicent's gaze remained steady, warm, and impossibly fond.

“Where should I start?” she said at last, the corners of her lips tugging upward. “I cannot recall where we were. I'm afraid your charisma is to blame for my struggles with concentrating.”

She gave Rhaenyra’s cheek a featherlight tap, as if scolding a particularly charming troublemaker, then let her hands linger a second longer than necessary.

Rhaenyra beamed, her eyes shining as she embraced her wife’s affection, much like a kitten seeking warmth—dazzling, content, and wholehearted. However, fearing that the moment might pass or that Alicent might reconsider, she spoke up eagerly, unable to contain her emotions.

“Aemond! You mentioned him. Stern and calm outside but secretly delinquent and defiant?”

It was almost comical how quickly she flipped from melting completely to highly focusing, from basking in affection to chasing stories, like a child who’d finally found a crack in a locked door and couldn’t resist peeking through.

Alicent raised both eyebrows and pressed her lips into a thin line while taking a long, thoughtful breath, as if she needed to choose her words very carefully. However, the look in her eyes wasn't one of trouble; it was slightly exasperated in a familiar, maternal way, tinged with dry humor.

“Aemond… Aemond…” she repeated, almost to herself. “He is quite particular. I never have struggles describing the other children, but him...”

She exhaled again, shaking her head, her tone caught between bemusement and reluctant defeat.

“I suppose general terms do not work well with Aem.”

Rhaenyra was taken aback by her wife’s answer. However, rather than feeling doubt, her gaze became more focused and curious. She did not question Alicent’s words; it was clear that Alicent had paid close attention to their children, loving them with fierce devotion. The way Alicent spoke about them was so natural and fluid, filled with details that only a mother who truly listens, feels, and remembers could recall. This left no room for doubt in Rhaenyra’s mind. Alicent not only knew their personalities; she cherished them. Each quirk, habit, and temperamental trait was something she had folded into her heart. Rhaenyra felt it in every word: Alicent loved their children as only she could—with structure, dedication, and constancy.

So, if Aemond was so unique that even Alicent, the most articulate woman she knew, found herself at a loss… Then what kind of boy was he, truly? What made him so difficult to define?

Alicent observed the curiosity lighting up her wife’s face—a bright and absolute focus that was unique to Rhaenyra whenever something captured her interest—and her features softened even more. Alicent gently pinched the edge of Rhaenyra’s ear with her thumb and forefinger, stroking slow circles along the rim. The remaining three fingers occasionally flicked behind Rhaenyra’s ear and traced the curve of her neck in a steady, absentminded rhythm like soothing a beloved, oversized cat back into comfort. This was a habit formed during lazy weekend mornings and quiet evenings after long days burdened with court affairs and the endless noise of their children. It was how they found each other again and offered love in silence. Although Rhaenyra no longer remembered those moments, her body leaned into the touch as it always had, like a dragon lulled by hands that had never feared her fire.

Alicent’s voice was calm, and her thumb kept circling behind Rhaenyra’s ear as she began.

“Aemond has always been full of surprises and unpredictable even before he was born. He came after Helaena. Unlike our other children who made their presence known by kicking, rolling, and setting fire in my belly, he was too quiet even in the womb.”

A gentle laugh escaped her lips, lightly echoing like a whisper from the past, as if she were adrift in a sea of memories, unearthing long-buried emotions.

“When I carried the others, my whole body burned—my breath, my skin, even the deepest parts of me. It felt like a firestorm in my belly, day and night. I was terrified the first time… I thought I would die. You explained to me that dragonblood doesn’t just run hot—it is fire—and Valyrian children, even before they enter this world, are already dragons in flesh. It’s one of the reasons your kind often weds among kin. Not merely for bloodline purity, as people think, but because few outside your race can endure carrying a dragon, to nurture fire within a body not meant for it, and to foster life that burns as it grows—if the flame consumes the mother too soon, the child may never survive to see the light.”

Alicent’s voice dropped into that reflective cadence, the one she always used when recounting things that once frightened her but had become tender with time.

“Each pregnancy was different, but the fire never changed. The heat, the ache, the constant craving to be near you, like you were my only shelter and relief. But with Aemond… there was no fire. There was no movement, just silence. He barely stirred. Days would pass, and I’d feel nothing. He was so quiet…”

She tilted her head slightly to glance down at her wife’s face nestling against her chest. The fondness in her voice never wavered, but something more fragile threaded underneath. Her hand stilled for a moment.

“Too quiet, Rhaenyra… I thought—”

She caught herself, then exhaled slowly, recovering.

“I thought we might lose him before we even met him.”

Rhaenyra stirred, instinctively lifting her head. She knew that Alicent and Aemond had survived and that the danger was long past, yet her heart strained at those words. The memories were gone, but her body still remembered the fear.

The terror of bodies that broke on the birthing bed. Of mothers who never rose. Of babies who never drew breath.

Unbidden, she held her breath.

“We summoned the maesters too often. I think they ran out of reassurances to offer. ‘The child is fine, the Queen is fine’—they said it over and over. But he was too still. The absence of fire was more terrifying than fire itself.”

Alicent offered a comforting, knowing smile. One hand continued to toy gently with the curve of Rhaenyra’s ear, while the other stroked along her back, each motion intended to soothe. She understood this fear well. Childbirth, with all its cruel uncertainties, had always terrified her wife to the core.

“Our only solace came when you talked to him. You always did that, with every child, pressing your cheek to my belly, whispering to our unborn little dragons like they could understand. You’d coo at them, telling them to behave, to let me rest. I knew you meant every word, but you were also terrified, especially with Aem. You’d ask him gently, ‘If you must keep sleeping, at least give us a sign. Let us know you’re content in there.’”

Her hand paused briefly on Rhaenyra’s ear, then resumed.

“And he always did. Every time. He moved for you and for me, too, when I whispered to him at night or told him stories to lull the storm in my heart. He seemed to enjoy calmness… the softness of our voices, the way we took turns cooing and soothing him like he could already hear us together. Those were the only times he stirred—when he felt us both.”

Alicent let out a breath—a whisper of sound that seemed to dance unnoticed among the stillness—but her voice carried the weight of memory and love.

“You believed we were expecting a little princess. You said no boy could ever be so tranquil, only a girl would love bedtime stories, lullabies, and curling against her Muña and Mother like that. Not even Helaena was that solemn. You went back and forth with girl names for months. You wanted our child to have my eyes and my hair. You said we would throw a feast to welcome our brown-eyed princess. A grand one.”

Alicent spoke with a kind of gentle marvel. Her voice laced with reverence, like someone still astonished, even now, by the depth of a love she once tried to temper.

“Not just a feast. You issued a realm-wide clemency—decreed that all who had shown repentance should be freed or pardoned a tier below. You even promised two years of lowered taxes. I told you it was excessive and might be unfair to the other children. Not that the Crown couldn’t afford all of it—Seven help me, we could—but everyone might not understand why this child received so much celebration before even being born. I worried that you were doing too much, but when I saw your face—how you smiled through your fear, how you tried to pretend it was just excitement—I couldn't say another word.”

A faint smile escaped, tinted with sorrow.

“I knew what you were really wishing for.”

Her eyes fell as if watching an old memory unfold in her hands. Her voice softened, barely above a hush.

“You weren’t just dreaming of a daughter. You were praying, desperately, that she’d come into this world safely and I would still be there to hold her.”

She looked down at Rhaenyra, feeling her heart breaking.

“You were begging the Gods to spare us both. You were willing to promise anything—celebrations, clemency, altars, even another Grand Sept—if we both lived through it.”

Alicent didn’t expect a response, then she heard a sound—barely audible but unmistakable: a stifled sniffle. Rhaenyra hadn’t spoken a word, yet her body had curled inward, shrinking within the crook of her arms.

The fear had never truly left her—watching a mother die screaming, hearing the words “another stillborn” spoken in terrors behind locked doors.

The fear that birth took more than it gave, that love, in the end, always bled.

Now, hearing how close it had come to happening again—to losing both Alicent and their child—she trembled. Even without memories, her body remembered. Her heart remembered, not from weakness or obsession alone, but from that shattering pain only those who have already lost know too well.

Rhaenyra folded herself smaller like a frightened cat seeking shelter in the only arms it trusted. She was searching for safety, trusting that it was there, trusting in her wife.

Alicent pulled her closer, cradling Rhaenyra’s head, fingers gently carding through silver strands. She bent down and kissed her—once on the crown, once on the temple, and again on the other side—then, resting her cheek against the top of her wife’s head, she let herself breathe in the scent of her skin. She knew Rhaenyra could only bear stories like this when she was wrapped in love, and some wounds, old and wordless, could only be healed by someone who never turned away.

“But in the end, your meticulously prepared name list turned into a waste. Utterly useless.” Alicent clicked her tongue in mock pity, a smile tugging at her lips. “Because, well, we got a fully Targaryen-coded prince instead.”

Rhaenyra looked up. Those large, glistening amethyst eyes met Alicent with silent surprise. There was no time for Rhaenyra to respond. Her wife had already taken the reins, steering the mood with such natural grace and timing that it caught her completely off guard. No performance. No awkwardness. Just effortless warmth and the kind of love that always knew when to pull someone back from the brink.

Alicent chuckled as she curled her fingers behind Rhaenyra's ear again. Her wife nuzzled in unthinkingly like a sun-drunk cat, chasing the warmth, scent, and safety. Her entire body hummed with it.

“My dear, you did not stop mumbling about how your masterpiece of a name list became a tragedy. All those Andal-inspired flourishes, all those poetic references? Lost to history. We only have Helaena. So yes, your perfect list for a brown-eyed princess never got its moment.”

Alicent shook her head, unable to hide her amusement.

“We had a crisis of finding a name for him. Gods, you’d convinced yourself—convinced us—that we would definitely have a princess. We didn’t prepare any names for a boy.”

She gave Rhaenyra’s cheek a playful pat, eyes glinting.

“I was worn out by childbirth, completely drained. And you—my great warrior Queen—were sitting beside me like a ghost, mourning your perfect name list as if the Gods had personally betrayed your artistry.”

Rhaenyra looked away, her ears flushed pink and her lashes still damp. Her pout deepened into a helpless sulk that came from being caught in a vulnerability she could no longer hide. She hadn’t meant to cry or let Alicent see her in that state. Now, on top of her embarrassment, she felt foolish.

She mumbled low and sheepish, lips barely moving, “Please tell me at least I held you and our child properly…”

The words came with both hesitance and longing—fragile, ashamed, but unbearably sincere. As if not knowing what had happened wounded her much more than the fear that she might have failed them, even then.

Alicent chuckled, drawing Rhaenyra even closer, then kissed the bridge of her nose.

“Of course you did. Thank all the Gods above, the labor was much easier than we feared. But you refused to leave my side, not even for a moment, wrapping around me and Aem like a sire dragon guarding its nest, only letting go when I told you it hurt. My body was so sensitive after childbirth, and you know how I am about cleanliness… I was covered in sweat and blood. I couldn’t stand the idea of you being so close when I was in that state. The smell alone was insufferable…”

She gave a dear sigh, brushing her fingers against Rhaenyra’s jaw.

“I begged you to step away—just a little, just for a while—but you always looked like you’d burst into tears the moment I suggested it, and that was your highest level of tolerance and most loving response, because it was me who pleaded.” Her smile curled wryly. “Everyone else? The maesters, the midwives, even the poor maids—they got snapped at, hissed at, sometimes even kicked. Especially that one maester who dared to mention something… uncertain.”

Rhaenyra grumbled under her breath, still burrowed in her wife’s arms like a spoiled cat unwilling to move.

“I regret nothing,” she muttered. “No one gets to treat my wife and son with uncertainty. Kicks were benevolent. I would’ve even—”

“—sentenced them with Fire and Blood,” Alicent finished smoothly, not missing a beat.

Rhaenyra froze, blinking. Her eyes widened in stunned silence as she lifted her head just enough to look at her wife.

“What?! How?!”

Alicent arched one perfect brow, obviously smug. “How?” she echoed, letting the word hang a second longer just to tease her wife. “It’s been twenty years, darling. Of course, I’ve learned all your catchphrases by heart.”

Rhaenyra’s ears drooped, her pride finally retreating into the folds of Alicent’s nightgown. She buried her face against her wife's chest again—partly for comfort, and partly to hide the warmth rising to her cheeks. Her voice was muffled and shy.

“And how did we… uhm…” a tiny pause, “…end up with the name ‘Aemond’?”

She hesitated before speaking with a nervous curiosity. Beneath her question lay something heavier and more fragile—a quiet admission. Each time Rhaenyra inquired about their past or their children, it meant confronting the painful truth that she had forgotten. Yet, she couldn't help herself. The ache was always present, a persistent throb just beneath her ribs. She wanted to know. She needed to know, even if it hurt, even if it meant facing her loss and brokenness.

Alicent stroked the golden strands that spilled over her chest, her gaze softening with indulgence.

“Would you sulk, my love, if I told you the name came from one of your half-baked ideas?” she teased gently.

“You, my proud Queen, mourned your perfect name list for three days straight, and I was hardly awake to help—sleeping more than not.”

A laughter stirred between them.

“We struggled to think of anything special enough, anything that might suit him. Aem was only a few days old but already strong—thank the Gods—calm, modest, and watchful. He was half the size of Egg in his first years, yet was twice as willful, silently fierce, even. It reminded you of Prince Aemon—Princess Rhaenys’s father—serious, honorable, and admired.”

Alicent’s voice softened, thoughtful and hesitant, as her fingers combed through strands of silver-gold hair. “But sometimes I wonder,” she said quietly, “if you also named him… after your mother.”

Rhaenyra looked up, her eyes widening in surprise. Her lips parted, yet the words she sought eluded her. She turned her gaze away momentarily, then returned to Alicent’s face, searching for understanding and grappling with her thoughts. No memories came forth; only a fleeting flicker of something long buried stirred within her—a faint pull, a lingering trace, an elusive feeling that whispered of the past. Her brow furrowed in confusion. Rhaenyra was genuinely lost. She turned back to Alicent with eyes that shimmered in the firelight, uncertain and shaken.

“I…” she stuttered, fingers curled slightly against the cloak. “I don’t know,” Rhaenyra admitted after a beat. Her voice was low, almost apologetic. “Perhaps I did.”

Her tone was laced with uncertainty, yet there lingered a profound sound resonating from a well of emotions that transcended words and thoughts within her. It was as if she were grappling with an unarticulated truth that hovered just beneath the surface, waiting to be unearthed.

Her chest clenched.

Rhaenyra hadn’t considered it. She’d been too drawn into her wife’s voice, the lull of memory, the pain and love folded into each story. But now… now the idea uncurled within her, slow and tender.

Maybe…

Maybe she had wished her mother could have seen her become Queen.

Seen her rise—strong and crowned not by bloodline alone, but by fire and battle—proving that her legacy lived on. That her only daughter had made the Realm remember her.

Maybe she had wished Aemma could have held her grandson in her arms.

Maybe, with that silent hope… she had reached back through a name.

Rhaenyra swallowed hard, feeling a heat well up behind her eyes, but she remained silent. Alicent gathered her wife into her arms, cradling her like a precious, wounded hatchling. Then, she ceaselessly nuzzled her cheek and nose against Rhaenyra’s. Her brow pressed to her wife’s, gently reminding Rhaenyra she was here and her wife was safe now. She held her close—close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of her breath, the tension in her shoulders, and the vulnerability her wife never showed anyone else.

Alicent continued stroking her wife’s hair, another hand placed on the small of her back, patient, grounding, then whispered:

“I’m here. You don’t have to say anything, darling. I understand.”

Alicent closed her eyes, allowing herself to be enveloped in the moment. Her hand paused briefly, savoring the warmth that radiated between them, before resuming its rhythm on Rhaenyra’s spine. Each tender stroke felt like a soothing balm that tethered their hearts together in a quiet intimacy.

Her thoughts drifted to another time, to the hush of the Red Keep years ago.

On the night their daughter was born, when the halls were lined with candlelight, and not even the nightingales dared to make a sound.

She remembered how they had chosen her name together.

Helaena

Their only daughter

Alicent had seen the ache in Rhaenyra’s eyes then, even amidst her tears of joy. She remembered how her wife shook when she first held their child, how her arms embraced the tiny form, and how her lips brushed the baby's brow repeatedly, as if she dared not believe the miracle of it all.

Rhaenyra had looked at their daughter the way people look at dawn after a long storm, and for a fleeting second, Alicent had thought Rhaenyra would name her ‘Aemma’. She had seen and felt that silent but fierce longing…

But her wife hadn’t.

She had said nothing about Queen Aemma.

She had only whispered ‘Helaena’, again and again.

Alicent had understood. She understood too well that it had shattered her heart, too.

Because their daughter was their only girl

Because she looked like Rhaenyra—so much

…and because Rhaenyra looked like her mother.

She couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t risk caging her daughter in the shadow of that name

Of that fate…

To name her ‘Aemma’ would be to curse her to follow it.

To lose her life. To be treated as a royal womb, to suffer, to mourn her children before mourning herself, from time to time.

To die in childbirth.

To be forgotten before she ever had a chance to live.

Rhaenyra, who rarely explained her pain, had never spoken of it then.

Not because she didn’t trust her wife, or didn’t wish to be comforted and soothed when she was breaking down. But because saying it out loud would’ve destroyed her.

The grief was too large, too consuming, and Alicent—

Alicent had just given birth…

Their daughter was only minutes into the world, pink and crying, cradled between fear, exhaustion, and wonder.

Rhaenyra couldn’t bring that shadow into the room or look at her wife and child and speak of death. She couldn’t collapse emotionally—not then—not when her wife needed peace, and their child needed light.

So she said nothing, and Alicent, who knew her Dragon’s silences as well as her fire, understood.

But their son, Aemond, was a Targaryen prince.

Calm. Strong. Fierce. Proud.

He would never walk the same path Queen Aemma did—bleeding out on a birthing bed and be remembered only by misery.

Perhaps that’s why Rhaenyra finally allowed herself to honor her mother through him.

It was safer that way—remembering her mother through her children without inviting doom.

Rhaenyra never spoke of Queen Aemma in those sensitive times. But Alicent saw it in the way her wife looked toward the sky during her pregnancies, searching the heavens for someone long gone…

She saw it in the way Rhaenyra cradled each child beneath the stars, as if showing them to someone far above, who was dearly missed, whispering without words:

Look, Muña… look at them, they are your grandchildren. I did not forget you.

Especially with Aemond

That had been the most frightening pregnancy. Not the most painful—not even the most exhausting—But the one that kept both of them awake at night, afraid to breathe too deeply.

Alicent had grown anxious while Rhaenyra had grown desperate.

They discussed with the maesters, prayed to the Gods, and comforted each other with false reassurances. Every day, the fear that the baby had died inside the womb and that they would not know until it was too late hung over them like a blade. There had been terrifying moments when Rhaenyra had feared she might lose her wife and their child at the same time. Alicent had seen that fear in her eyes. Too many times.

Her proud Dragon couldn’t hide it, and maybe… just maybe… in those fragile nights, Rhaenyra had thought of her mother.

No one said it aloud. No one dared. But Rhaenyra knew.

She knew what it meant when a child, already so large, stopped moving.

If the baby had been smaller, the body might’ve let go—a miscarriage, a silent tragedy.

If larger, perhaps the maesters could’ve induced an early labor, a desperate attempt to bring the stillborn out and save the mother.

But Aemond had been neither: too big to fall away, but too small to be born.

It was the worst possible in-between.

He would’ve remained lodged inside, slowly turning from child to curse, and Alicent… would have followed him into the grave.

In the dark corners of her mind, Rhaenyra heard it:

A maester’s voice—cool, determined, and merciless—suggesting the only option…

Cut open the Queen, take the child out, then pray the Gods are kind.

The very idea made her sick. It killed her every second. She heard her mind screaming:

Muña

Not again…

Not her!

Rhaenyra would not survive it. Not again. Not if it was Alicent.

When Aemond was finally born—small, breathless for a moment—and Alicent, pale but conscious, reached for him with trembling arms, Rhaenyra dropped to her knees at the edge of the bed, and swore to the Gods, the skies, and every damn star above:

“Reduce taxes. Open the coffers. Free the prisoners. I will give everything. Please, just let them live.”

When her wife and her son both survived days after, safe and sound, she kept her promise. The kingdom rejoiced for its prince. But only a few knew the Queen’s celebration was born of pure, desperate, aching relief.

Alicent had long suspected something more. Rhaenyra had never spoken of it, not during the pregnancy, not after. Perhaps she feared it might invite misfortune and make her nightmare real. But Alicent knew. She saw it in the way her wife clutched her hand when the labor began, in the way her eyes lifted toward the stars when Aemond took his first breath.

Rhaenyra had not forgotten her mother.

In those dreadful months, when they feared losing everything, she must have prayed soundlessly but fervently.

Muña, please..!

Help her live.

Let her live.

Let them live.

When their child lived… Rhaenyra gave him a name.

A name no one questioned, but only she knew why.

A name that touched the memory of her mother, just enough to be hers without daring to claim too much.

A name was all she had, and Aemond carried it.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were glossy with unshed tears. Her jaw clenched, willing herself not to fall apart. But Alicent saw through it. Without a word, she drew the blankets higher, wrapping her arms tighter around Rhaenyra’s waist and tucking the cloak more securely across her wife’s chest. Then, she kissed her temple, her brow, and both dampening cheeks. Alicent kissed away her wife’s tears like she had done a hundred times before.

“Your mother would’ve been proud,” she murmured between kisses, nudging her nose against Rhaenyra’s cheek, coaxing her back with a fond smile. “Proud of you for what you’ve done—how you grew up splendid, brave, and kind. How you carried the Crown. How you remembered her, even in silence and fear, and… how loving you are. You’re a good Queen, a perfect wife to me, and a wonderful mother of our children, Rhaenyra. You always have been.”

Rhaenyra made a broken sound between a sigh and a sob, and instinctively leaned closer. Alicent held her more tightly in her arms, blankets rustling as she curled protectively around her wife, like a windshield over embers, shielding warmth and willing the fragile fire to survive.

Rhaenyra didn’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not now. But something in those words broke straight through.

You never needed forgiveness.

You’ve done so well.

Your mother would be proud. Your wife is happy and grateful to have you.

You are loved, very loved, for who you are…

They landed like blows, striking with precision, and each of them touched a place inside Rhaenyra she had hidden, even from herself.

The shame of forgetting their children.

The guilt of not knowing the name of the woman she now clung to like breath.

The unbearable weight of being helpless—reduced to a burden, no longer sovereign, no longer a warrior.

The haunting belief that she had failed them all, and most of all—Alicent.

Each one was a needlepoint truth piercing places even she hadn’t dared face: old wounds, devastating shame, the fear of not being enough and of being forgotten, the guilt of surviving just to be a burden to her loved ones.

Yet… Alicent held her wholly, dearly, and fiercely, as if Rhaenyra had never been lost at all. As if she were worth fighting for with everything.

Something inside the Dragon collapsed.

Her breath hitched as a sob broke loose, followed by another; sharp, wet sounds muffled against her wife’s neck. Then she broke. The sobs came before she could stop them, freeing breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She had never needed to be perfect.

She had never needed to be whole.

She had only ever needed to be loved.

And she was. Even now. Especially now.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts blurred. But one truth rang clearer than all else:

She didn’t have to ask for forgiveness.

Her wife—her heart—had already given it. Had always given it. Because love, true love, remembered her even when she forgot. Even when the memories were gone and her fire was dim, Alicent still saw her, and that was enough to keep the flame alive.

“I’ve got you, it’s alright, my love. I’ve got you.” Alicent kissed Rhaenyra’s brow, followed by her temple and the corner of her trembling lips, whispering into her silken silver-gold hair. “Cry if you need. You don’t have to be strong here. Not with me.”

Rhaenyra buried her face in Alicent’s neck, gripping her gown like it were her last lifeline. In that moment of shelter, she allowed herself to fall apart. For the first time since opening her eyes in Winterfell, she truly believed she was not alone, that she had not failed, and she was still herself—still Alicent’s. Not the Queen or the Dragon, but Rhaenyra, being held, understood, and deeply loved.

“Thank you. Don’t let go of me. Please… don’t let go.”

“I won’t. Never again.” Alicent took Rhaenyra’s weathered hand—marked by the trials of battle—and dotingly kissed every rugged knuckle. Their fingers weaved together in a delicate embrace. “I think you wanted to remember your mother through Aemond… and it’s beautiful. I believe she knows, and she is happy now.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t answer—not with words. She only curled tighter against Alicent, face still tucked into the crook of her neck. The scent lingered all around Rhaenyra, on the cloak that she had been cocooned in, drifting from the soft coppery strands brushing her cheek, and clinging to the warmth of the skin she leaned against. It was everywhere. It was her, Alicent, and it calmed the turmoil in Rhaenyra more than anything ever could.

Alicent waited until Rhaenyra's breathing began to ease before pulling back just enough to place a kiss on her cheek, followed by one on her temple. She pressed their foreheads together, a smile lighting up her face, meant to soothe and tease at the same time.

“Not that I complain, but you weren’t very subtle about your longings, my love. You still clung to your dream of a brown-eyed princess, and called our boy ‘Almond’ sometimes, under your breath. I suppose you thought it was endearing, so I didn’t want to correct you.”

Rhaenyra blinked at her through misty lashes, eyes still wet but defiant. With a small huff, she wriggled deeper into her wife’s hold.

“I suppose… if I did call him that,” she grumbled like a spoiled cat, “then it must have been endearing.”

Her voice was hoarse, remnants of crying barely steadied. “Besides, I maintain it wasn’t just my stubbornness. Judging from the facts—objectively speaking—there were plenty of signs to believe we were expecting a princess. That stillness was criminal!”

There was a pout beneath the words, utterly childish, meant only for the woman who held her. Rhaenyra’s tone turned ever so slightly petulant, as if daring Alicent to argue, or worse, laugh. It wasn’t just teasing but a flash of wounded pride trying to be cute about itself, too proud to admit it was trying.

“That lad! Fooled his Muña even before he met me for the first time. No wonder he keeps getting me with those raven messages years later!”

In that moment, hidden among flushed cheeks and the rhythm of her heartbeat, Rhaenyra realized she had started engaging in these playful antics more often. These little games and silly banters made sense only with Alicent. She couldn't pinpoint when it had begun, but she felt a strong desire to know how her wife would react. Rhaenyra wanted to be funny, charming, even desirable. She wanted to be liked—not just obeyed, pittied, or tolerated—but liked, wanted, and loved. And that realization was equally terrifying.

Alicent trailed through Rhaenyra’s platinum strands as she spoke.

“In your interest, my love, Aem does have perfect princess hair, which makes the real princess, our Helaena, envy.”

Her tone held a teasing lilt, clearly meant to comfort and nudge her Dragon out of her brooding thoughts.

“He has a silken mane just like yours, so soft it slips through my fingers like water. Helaena, somehow, inherited my hair—thicker and a little wavy—just not the same color.”

She exhaled with both pride and amusement.

“But Aemond? Gods… That boy’s hair was as smooth as silk the moment he was born.”

Rhaenyra gave a crooked grin, still nestled in the safety of her wife's arms. Her voice was boyish with mischief, nuzzling closer and basking in the bliss between them.

“Seems like my princess fantasy wasn’t that off after all…”

Alicent let out a soft huff of laughter. Her eyes narrowed as if the scene still entertained her, and maybe haunted her a little.

“But no one—not even you—ever dared to tell him we were expecting a girl. So you just... sighed every time you brushed his hair, the most regretful sigh, as if your brown-eyed princess had slipped through your fingers.”

“I hope… I didn’t upset our boy, making him believe I wanted another child, not him.” Rhaenyra’s voice dipped low as her fingers brushed the edge of the cloak wrapping around her. “But… it would’ve been understandable, wouldn’t it? That I longed for a brown-eyed princess who would take after her mother…”

Rhaenyra shifted carefully, her arms pressing against the chaise for balance while she sat upright. The movement was cautious; she feared startling the very breath between them. She turned to Alicent, her gaze was unwavering. With every inch she leaned closer, her yearning became more pronounced, mingled with the hope that she hadn’t overstepped her bounds—like someone reaching for a treasure, uncertain if it was still theirs to touch.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmured, her voice resonating deeply. Her eyes traced Alicent’s features like a bard chasing moonlight on a lake. “Brilliant, considerate, and kind.”

Rhaenyra hesitated only a breath, searching her wife’s expression for permission. Then, with a courage born not of confidence but yearning, she gently reached out, found Alicent’s hand, and brought it to her chest, right over the thrum of her heart, cradling Alicent’s fingers there, as if asking her to feel the rhythm she lived by.

“Even now, when I can’t remember how we began…” her voice cracked with sincerity, “I look at you, and I still want to build the world around you.”

Alicent’s eyes glistened, but before she could speak, Rhaenyra leaned forward and kissed her.

At first, the kiss was barely there—just a tentative brush of lips, like she feared the spell might shatter if she pressed too hard. But Alicent didn’t pull away. Rhaenyra felt how her wife relaxed beneath her touch and melted into her like a tide on the shore. With that, the kiss deepened, full of aching warmth. A shared breath. A vow in silence. A claim written in touch.

Here is my soul. I may not know its past, but I know who it belongs to.

They moved together in a dance, each step a whisper of connection, savoring every precious second as if the world around them had completely melted away. In that moment, only the timeless intimacy they shared existed. It felt like this was not merely a memory reclaimed, but a love freshly blossomed—an exquisite flower thriving amidst the ashes of war and wounds, a love that boldly chose each other anew, time and again.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads stayed touching, breath mingling, hearts loud in the hush between them.

Alicent let out a breathless laugh against Rhaenyra’s lips and cradled her cheek with a tenderness that made the world feel impossibly peaceful and lenient. Her fingers traced dotingly, relearning the face she already knew by heart. Then, with a huff of amusement, she looked into those starstruck violet eyes that still shimmered with the remnants of awe.

“Love…” Alicent said fondly. “You cannot keep stealing my breath like this while asking for more stories.” Came a chuckle, laced with teasing exasperation and affection. “I don’t even know where we were anymore. You asked how Aemond is, and somehow I ended up telling you how he was born instead—I’ve gone utterly off course again.”

Rhaenyra leaned into her wife’s palm, her eyes half-closed, savoring the sweetness of this moment. With a relaxed grace, she kissed the center of Alicent’s hand. “I love what you have shared with me—what we have been through, how happy we were, how blessed I was… ” Her tone was both jolly and profound, completely relieved. “So tell me everything. Anything that comes to your mind. Fret not, dear wife. Even your complaints sound lovely to me. I cherish whatever you offer.”

Alicent giggled, a rare and genuine sound that lilted like a chime in a spring breeze. “Now we all know who was born not just with silver hair but also a silver tongue, hmm?”

She teased, brushing her nose against Rhaenyra’s in a feather-light nudge. However, the brightness in her voice soon faded, giving way to a more pensive tone. A fleeting shadow of thoughtfulness and sorrow crossed her features as she gazed intently, contemplating the burdens that might soon weigh upon her wife’s heart. Her smile lingered as she caressed Rhaenyra’s face, memorizing it for the thousandth time.

“There are too many things I wish to tell you… and others you must know, not only about our family, but the Kingdoms, and everything happening beyond these walls.” Her voice caught slightly, the weight behind it slipping through. “But time is too short, space too narrow, and you…”

Alicent looked down at their joined hands, silently pleading the Gods to spare her beloved. “You deserve a moment of relief. I only wish someone—anyone—would show you mercy.” She kissed Rhaenyra’s temple then pulled her closer, shielding her from the burdens still waiting outside the warmth of their embrace.

Rhaenyra stilled. Her eyelashes fluttered as her breath warm against Alicent's neck, their hearts beating in unison. Gathering her resolve, she lifted her head to meet her wife's gaze.

“You did,” she whispered tenderly. “You take care of me. You think for me. You hurt for me even before I feel the pain…” She glided her hand over Alicent's, cradling it against her cheek, giving comfort in the warmth of their connection. “That’s far more than mercy, my dear.”

Rhaenyra shifted closer, pressing her forehead gently to her wife’s once more. “I wish to share your burden. It’s ours, Alicent.” She added softly, but with determination. “So tell me what you will… what I should know. Whatever it is, I’ll listen. You are already taking very good care of me. Let me walk with you, dear wife.”

Alicent, for a long breath, was silent. Her brow faintly drawn, weighing not just her words but how much of the world she should place in Rhaenyra’s hands today.

“I have no perfect answer… no path that will keep every storm at bay.” Her fingers skimmed down to Rhaenyra’s jaw, anchoring her as she held her gaze. “But you will never face them alone. I will be here. Always.”

Alicent’s fingers slowed in their rhythm, her voice lowering with hesitation and a subtle pang woven between the words. “There are a few things you should know first, matters that cannot wait, then we will discuss the others as we go on. As for Aemond...” She glanced down at her wife’s attentive face, then carefully continued, “He is the only child of ours who has not claimed a dragon, and that—” her voice dipped, “has always been a thorn in his heart.”

Alicent let out a heavy breath. “Although we have tried—Gods know we’ve tried—to comfort him, it didn’t help. We told him that not every rider bonded with their dragon early. That your father claimed the legendary Balerion at ten-and-six. That maybe good things require time to show up, and no fixed timeline applies to everyone. But it didn’t ease the hurt and the shame, not when every one of his siblings had already claimed their beasts.”

Her hand resumed stroking Rhaenyra slowly.

“Sunfyre hatched three days after Egg was born. Vermax cracked his shell the very moment Jace entered this world. Luke and Joff both met their dragons before they could walk, although they still are not able to ride them now. And Helaena…”

A smile appeared on her lips, fond and proud, though a flicker of reluctance crossed her eyes. A part of Alicent still wondered if now was the right moment to say this.

“Our daughter didn’t need to be taught to fly, just like you. She was eight when she took her first flight this spring. But Dreamfyre, the only full-grown dragon in the Red Keep, had chosen her long before that. The dragon is calm and wise. She never acts without reason or follows the chaos when the others grow restless. Yet, the night Helaena was born…”

Alicent's voice slowed as the memory surged in her mind. Her expression once again dimmed.

“Dreamfyre broke her chains and left the Pit, flew through the dark to reach our chamber, hovering before the balcony. You were holding our daughter then. I remember you turned so quickly, shielding Helaena with your body, stepping in front of my bed like a wall of steel, ready to face the dragon. Dreamfyre must have felt it—your stance, my terror, and the tension in the air—because she went utterly still. Her great wings beat only enough to keep her there in the sky. Her gaze fixed on our child as though she had come only to see her for the first time. And before the Dragonkeepers could even reach her, she turned in the night and flew back on her own.”

Her fingers traced a line down Rhaenyra’s neck, her voice wavered as she went on.

“Helaena is only a year older than Aemond. Although no one wished to weigh him down, the world he was born into pressed on him all the same. The bloodline, the legacy, the siblings—altogether overshadowed him. And you… You were the youngest rider in Westerosi history.”

The room grew still with the weight of that truth.

Rhaenyra's breath caught—a subtle reaction, but enough for Alicent to notice. She had never thought of herself as a pressure for their children, yet hearing her wife include her in that moment stirred a pang of guilt. However, Alicent's eyes reflected no judgment, only understanding. Sensing Rhaenyra's self-blame, Alicent gazed into her eyes and reassuringly stroked her face.

“You never stressed him, Rhaenyra. Not once. I know that. He knows that. But you were his Muña. You were the legend. No Targaryens before or after, up to now, flew as you did. People called you the Morning Star not just because you blazed through the sky, but because you lit a path none had walked before.”

Alicent remembered the sadness in Aemond’s eyes as she spoke, feeling compassion not only for her son but also for her wife.

“Sometimes, the brightest star casts the greatest shadow, and that is not your fault. You only ever gave him something beautiful to look up to.”

Rhaenyra’s light, her legacy, and her victories had burned too bright for their son to escape their gravity. Her very being was enough to stir both reverence and shame in their little boy, who could not yet claim a dragon.

“You were born with a gift, but you also carry the charge of a ruling Queen, the heir who brought the Targaryen line into a new age. You were bound to protect the Realm, to govern well, to honor your House… even when it cost you more than anyone will ever know.”

Alicent’s tone carried no trace of accusation, only the certainty of someone who had weighed every word before offering it, anchoring her wife against the tides inside her. Her gaze softened, the shadow of pride and sacrifice mingling in her eyes.

“That glory, hard-won as it was, became something our children could never help but measure themselves against. You never meant to burden him, but the victories you bled for, the legacy you upheld… they could inspire, and they could weigh heavy, inevitably so.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t speak. Every syllable—steeping in a compassion so unguarded it was almost startling—wrapped around her like the cloak draped over her shoulders. It was the understanding no one else had ever given her, the love that left no corner of her unaccepted. Even without her memories, Rhaenyra knew: no one, in all her life or in the fragments she could recall, had ever seen her so completely or met her flaws with such unshaken devotion.

Alicent sighed, tasting the truth before letting it pass her lips.

“Our boy…I’m not sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse in how much he resembles both of us. Too much of you in me and too much of me in you.”

She found herself fidgeting with her hands, revealing her discomfort. Rhaenyra must have noticed too; without a word, she took those anxious hands and cradled them against her face.

“He is too cold for a Targaryen. The surface is mine, but the firestorm underneath is yours. Bold, fierce, even ferocious, when he chooses to be. Aemond is two extremes in one soul. We never know which he will be—only that both are him, both always have been.”

Alicent glanced at the hearth, then back to Rhaenyra. Her fingers gently played with Rhaenyra’s ear as if the motion helped keep her thoughts persistent while she laid down truths too sharp to touch barehanded.

“You gave him that recklessness and unbending will to act without permission. Once he chooses, the world can burn, and he wouldn’t flinch. But the way he never lets go? That’s mine. He doesn’t scream or rage. He simply locks on and presses forward. When he does, no one—not even the Gods—can sway him. He doesn’t anger easily, but his resentment takes root, and he never forgets or forgives.”

She stopped there, letting the weight of her words settle, gaze dropping to the woman in her arms—her wife, the mother of the boy they both made, both loved, and both feared for.

“He is all strong will, but while you are frank and blazing, he is quiet and absolute. He acts without warning. Independent, steadfast, and Gods forgive me—passive aggressive.”

There was a pause, followed by a sigh of self-awareness.

“That last one… is definitely on me.”

Alicent's fingers slowed in Rhaenyra's hair, her gaze dimming as the words left her heavy with a mother's anguish.

“To ease his pain of not having a dragon, we turned him toward swordplay—his hobby and motivation. He took to it with such intensity. It became his fire, his way of proving himself. He pushes harder than any child his age should, beyond exhaustion, past reason, and it frightens me. I value discipline and order. I expect it from all our children. But with Aemond… It’s different. Jace has my forbearance, but Aemond inherited my extremity—the harshest part of me.”

Her voice wavered with guilt.

“He trains relentlessly as if each cut of the blade might carve him into something whole. Something… worthy. He never shows affection the way his siblings do—no open arms, no cheerful cries for his Muña—but he reveres you not just as his mother but also as his Queen. As something divine.”

That sounded too familiar…

That merciless—even unreasonable and unrealistic—self-imposed standard… pushing beyond limits, striving to be worthy, hiding the hurt behind self-control and the urge to fulfill every expectation

Alicent knew it far too well…

It was the same blade she had wielded against herself for decades, and Rhaenyra—sitting there, without memories, but her heart was aching all the same—began to see it too.

It’s Alicent in Aemond’s extremity, but it was also her in his hunger to be more than what fate dealt him.

Rhaenyra found herself reflecting on her younger self—the bright, proud Princess everyone claimed to love, the darling of her parents and the Kingdoms, or so they said. Yet she had never truly been enough for them. They had always longed for a son; if not, then perhaps her uncle would serve as heir. Only when every other path had failed—Daemon a calamity, her mother dead from birthing a baby who never drew breath—did her father name her heir to the Iron Throne.

Both of them had come into the world already marked by what they lacked:

Rhaenyra, born a girl in a Realm that prized male heirs, watched as her claim was bypassed. Her worth was measured against a brother who never came or an uncle who waited in the wings.

Aemond, born without a dragon in a family where dragons were not just pride but the very mark of a true Targaryen, stood under the same cold shadow.

So they learned the same lesson: that to stand equal, they must fight harder, bleed more, and never falter.

They believed that love must be earned

That worth must be proven

That if you fell short—even just once—you were not enough. You would never be enough.

So yes, what happened to Aemond sounded too familiar, poignant even, to both Rhaenyra and Alicent. Perhaps that was why it broke their hearts to see it in their son.

Alicent hesitated before speaking; her chest tightened as the memory surfaced. “Once… Aemond called himself ‘only partial Targaryen’ as if the lack of a dragon made him lesser. He said it without thinking, then caught himself and turned pale. He apologized, thinking he’d insulted me, his Andal mother. But Rhaenyra…”

She exhaled, her hand cupping her wife’s face with exquisite gentleness, but the thorns scratching in her throat sharpened with every word.

“It’s not about me. What hurt me is seeing how deeply he believes he’s incomplete, that he’s a disappointment to you, to the name, and the fire in his blood.”

Alicent had carried this torment alone for far too long. The only person who could understand, the only one who could comfort her, was already lost to that blizzard beyond the Wall…

…or maybe she wasn’t?

“Aemond never gave up on dragons…Not once. Not even when it hurt him,” Alicent said. “I know…they’re part of your soul. That the call of wings and flame is in your blood, that none of you—none of you—can bear a life lived away from danger. You chase storms because it’s expected of you, your pride burns too bright, and the Targaryen legacy always demands more.”

Her hand pressed flat against Rhaenyra's heart, tears filling her eyes with anguish.

“But it cuts me every time.”

She looked away for a moment, gazing at the gray sky outside the window.

“My wife rides into battle not just for glory, but because she must. And now…our son walks the same path. Too eager to prove he is her blood—one true Targaryen. Too ready to put his life in danger to answer a call that was never meant to judge his worth.”

Alicent stifled a sob as memories of her son overwhelmed her.

“He once disappeared for a day. Just vanished. We searched the Keep—every corridor, every stairwell. I thought I would lose my mind. I feared the worst: kidnapping, treachery, or…death. But then, I remembered his eyes, that look he wore when he spoke of dragons.”

She clutched Rhaenyra's sleeve as if it were a lifeline. The tension in her grip reflected her anxiety, while her wide eyes searched Rhaenyra's face for reassurance.

“I fell to my knees and begged you to fly to Dragonstone. Because that’s where the unclaimed ones wait… wild or not.”

The weight of haunting sorrow settled heavily on Alicent’s features, deepening the furrows on her brow with the thought of what had almost come.

“You were already running to the Pit, calling for Syrax, but suddenly stopped midway, and turned to look at me. I’ll never forget your eyes… You didn’t know how to say it. But I knew what was on your mind, and you were torn. Then, you said if Aem were on Dragonstone or anywhere out there, you’d find him. But if he were trying to claim a dragon… you wouldn’t intervene.”

Her voice cracked at the edge of her words, struggled to hold back tears.

“I snapped and cried. I asked you how you could say that, how you could even think of letting him risk his life. I understood that you trusted him and respected his will, even when it tore you apart, but I couldn’t accept it.”

Alicent pressed on, though a deep pain rooted itself within her, and self-loathing clawed at her heart: she knew that she would make the same choice again.

“I know what it means to be the blood of dragons. But I also know what it means to bear a child in your body, and live every day praying the Gods, the world, and everything… to not take him from you.”

Her lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes, but she continued to speak, breathless.

“I couldn’t lose him. I grabbed your shoulders like a madwoman and begged you to go. I didn’t care if it was wrong, if it dishonored the destiny, the Gods, or all the damned rules of Valyria. I didn’t care if he was ten, or twenty, or a prince—he is our son. I just wanted our boy back. I would not let him die trying to prove his worth.”

Her words were desperate yet unyielding like iron at the core.

“I flew with you that day. I had to come. I knew you loved him and would do anything for him. But I feared... that the Valyrian faith would tell you to let him prove himself, and maybe… maybe you would think it was his trial to face. So I came with you, just… to be sure. If I had to beg again, I would.”

Alicent recalled climbing up behind Rhaenyra on Syrax when her wife had barely finished speaking. She could not let Rhaenyra go alone, could not bear the thought of possibilities. When they reached Dragonstone, they split the moment Syrax touched the ground.

“You ran ahead like the wind and arrived just in time to save our son. I could not keep up with you, but I saw the fire from a distance—Vermithor’s flames, towering and blinding—I didn’t know if either of you would still be alive by the time I reached there.”

The terror still resided deep within Alicent. Her eyes, voice, and words carried it like a ghost from the past.

“You threw yourself over Aemond and dragged him out of the fire’s path. You were both sliding on the ground, your cloak was burning, and your hair was singed. I saw you tear your cloak off and toss it aside before it burned through. Then you stood up and commanded Vermithor, calming him with nothing but your voice and your will. The dragon lowered his head under your hand. He yielded to you and obeyed, even though you were not his rider, and that—”

Her breath faltered.

“—burned Aemond more than the fire ever could. You saved him, but for an entire month, he couldn’t meet your eyes.”

Alicent glanced down, her lips forming a tight line as she carefully chose her words before continuing.

“It wasn’t just that he failed to claim the dragon, but the knowledge that it nearly cost you your life to save him. And, because it was you, everything was harder for him.”

It wasn’t just his failure that crushed Aemond…

It was the cruel contrast of witnessing the dragon he longed for bow his head… not for him, but for her

His mother, the Morning Star, the Golden Dragon, the Queen

The first name etched in every child’s dream

The legend who did not even need a claim to command a dragon

Vermithor's submission was like the Gods whispering:

“This is what a true Targaryen looks like.”

Poor Aemond—already cracked by self-doubt, bleeding from the wound of being dragonless—looked at his Muña, and could only feel smaller.

It wasn’t the flame that destroyed him.

It was surviving it, shielded by the one person who should have understood, but whose existence alone made forgiving himself impossible.

Rhaenyra was too much.

Too bright. Too absolute. Too divine. Even her presence alone burned with legacy.

Imagine being the only one of her children without a dragon…

Then imagine your mother risking her life to save yours… from dragonfire

From your failure

What worse? She did it effortlessly—doing what you could not—in front of you.

You loved her.

But that kind of love, mixed with shame and the fear of never being enough, roasted you alive.

Alicent's gaze flickered to the floor, her chest throbbed with the heavy in her heart. The turmoil spilled into her voice as she spoke. Each word tasted bittersweet on her tongue. “Eventually, I came to understand… There was never a good solution, no easy answer, and I owe both of you—especially you—an apology.”

There was a sorrow in her eyes, too profound to ease. It pierced Rhaenyra just by seeing.

“Aemond never blamed you. But he was hurt. He thought you’d understand. He counted on it and believed you would never stop him, not even if it meant his death. The truth is… You did understand. You understood more than anyone ever could. But I begged you to go. I was the one who, by one way or another, forced you to intervene… I broke the bond between you two because I could not let him die. But he never blamed me…”

The cool breeze brushed against her damp cheeks. Alicent tried to hold back the torrent of feelings that swelled just beneath the surface.

“It was you whom he pulled away from. He let the cold build between you two. But it wasn’t your choice. It was mine.”

Silence returned briefly. Alicent brushed Rhaenyra’s shoulder and trailed along the curve of her waist, trembling above her injured side.

“But what broke me, love…” Her voice cracked. “Is knowing that if you hadn’t made it back… if Vermithor hadn’t held his flame and your cloak hadn’t smothered the fire in time… I would’ve lost you. I asked for your death without knowing it. That realization alone was enough to kill me. But one side was my son, the other was my wife. No matter what decision I made, it hurt the same.”

Everything Alicent said was both honest and heartbreaking. She loved Rhaenyra more than anything. But she was also a mother who had nearly lost her son. The agony of both possibilities smashed her equally.

Rhaenyra took a shuddering breath, feeling everything fade away as she pulled her wife into a tight embrace. The familiar scent of Alicent’s hair—flowery and elegant—filled her senses, grounding her at this moment. She nuzzled her nose against Alicent’s. The rhythm of her heartbeat was a soothing balm to Rhaenyra's roaring mind, reminding her of the unbreakable bond they shared.

“You should never have to make that choice again. I’ll never make you choose again. Never.”

The warmth of the hug wrapped around them like a shield, a momentary refuge from the storms of their past. With emotion thick in her throat, Rhaenyra finally uttered the words that had long been trapped inside her:

“I don’t know who I used to be to you… But I know I would’ve said this even then.”

She brought Alicent's hand to her lips and kissed her palm.

“You have been carrying so much… You love us both, and we broke your heart. Our son, Aemond, is everything both of us are. Our strengths, our flaws, and our scars stitched into one boy who burns quietly but fiercely. And Gods, it’s terrifying… I see it now. I see why you worry so much for him.”

Rhaenyra gazed deeply into her wife's eyes, her own filled with love and empathy. With a gentle, soothing tone, she comforted and reassured Alicent in that moment of vulnerability.

“But I also know this: he needs us. He needs you—your understanding, your care, your love. And he needs me, not as a legend or the Queen, but as his Muña.” She brushed their foreheads together. “We will give him everything we can together. So that one day, when he flies, dragon or not, he’ll know where home is.”

“Aemond never lets go of what he wants, no matter what it costs. But he doesn’t declare his intentions like you do, leaving us no time to fear, pray, or prepare. With you, at least… I knew when the storm would break. I could see it coming and braced myself. But with him…”

Alicent’s voice dropped to a brittle whisper, worn at the edges. She closed her eyes and tightened her arms around Rhaenyra.

“I don’t know when or how, but one day, he will go again. And I don’t know whether I’ll see him return triumphant on the back of his dream dragon… or whether I’ll be left searching for his body.”

Rhaenyra remained silent for a long moment, her gaze locked on her wife. As her breath slowed and deepened, she let her hand glide along the length of Alicent’s arm until their fingers met and intertwined once more.

“Our boy thought you wouldn’t understand…” A light breath escaped her, infused with relief like someone who eventually reached land after days of floating on the sea. “…and you suppose he didn’t lash out at you because he never expected you to understand the way our kind lives. The fire. The pride. The madness. You believed it was me whom he could not face because I was the only one who would feel for him.”

Rhaenyra brushed her fingertips across Alicent’s knuckle—a fleeting whisper of a kiss. She lowered her voice, unveiling a tender truth.

“But my dear Alicent, I think you understand more than anyone, and you’re the one who suffers most from everything, from all of us.”

She swallowed hard, and the words spilled forth gently yet resolute, like a calm river flowing despite the weight of the world.

“You said it yourself: the next time one of our children draws too close to their beasts, you will panic again. The next time Aemond risks his life chasing purpose, you’ll bleed all over again. And when duty calls my name, you’ll stand there—tears on your face, prayers in your chest, and that pain…rips through your soul. Still, you let us go but never turn away.”

Alicent’s breath caught, and for a moment she stilled, shoulders tightening as if to hold herself together. The mere thought of Rhaenyra facing that peril again, so soon after almost losing her last night, hollowed her from the inside. A tremor passed through her fingers, but she said nothing. She couldn’t. The ache was too sharp, the fear too fresh, and deep down she knew she might never be ready to bear it again.

Rhaenyra felt it all—the silent shattering, the weight of last night’s horror pressing in again. She knew it would haunt her wife forever, and it was she who carved such pain into the woman she loved. So she placed Alicent’s hand over her heart, kissed her cheek, and let her feel each breath and every steady beat before speaking on.

“You love us, and you stay. The next time we break your heart because of our destiny or duties, you’ll still find us and bring us home. You always do.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled with heartfelt gratitude. She offered a crooked smile, one tinged with tears born from realization.

“And… you think Helaena takes that loving and staying no matter what… from me? No, dear wife. That’s you. That’s always been you.”

Alicent was nearly lost in the intimacy of Rhaenyra’s words. The warmth of her breath contrasted with the cool air as she nestled gently against Rhaenyra’s shoulder, seeking comfort in their shared closeness. She whispered, soothing her beloved Dragon, who clearly was trying to be strong for both of them once again.

“You don’t have to carry all of that right now, my love. I told you these things not to burden you, but so you would understand our son better when the time comes. Just… know this much for now: Aemond is fiercely private and unbearably proud. He is not affectionate like the other kids—not openly—but he does love you, and he admires you more than he can say. The shame of making you risk your life marked him terribly. So if he seems distant when you return, please… do not think it’s rejection. It is his pain and guilt.”

She pressed her lips against Rhaenyra's temple, murmuring against her skin.

“He doesn’t resent you, my sunshine. He resents himself for not being more like you.”

Rhaenyra curled in Alicent’s embrace, their fingers still entwined across her ribs. Her breath was warm and even now, almost relief.

“Thank you for telling me,” she spoke, her voice thick with tenderness. “I... I needed to know. I understand him better now. I will love him with everything I have. Whether he lets me or not.”

Then, Rhaenyra cuddled closer, resting her cheek against Alicent’s. She tightened her grip on Alicent’s hand slightly before letting it loosen.

“And you, my moon, you must stop blaming yourself. You always carry more than you should, putting others above yourself and your peace. I don’t want that for our son, and I don’t want that for you.”

A shaky breath escaped her lips. Then, she admitted while snuggling into her wife again.

“If I had lost him, I would’ve never forgiven myself either. So please, don’t carry this alone anymore. No matter what you chose, I would have always chosen you and our son.”

Alicent remained silent as those words gradually settled in her mind. After a moment, she finally nodded, a mix of understanding and resignation in her eyes. Her chin rested against Rhaenyra’s uninjured shoulder, savoring the warmth between them, then she pressed a soft kiss against that resilient skin, seeking solace in the intimacy they shared.

Then, her gaze drifted unwilledly toward the empty bowl on the table beside the chaise. The sight pulled her mind elsewhere. To Aemond. To all their children. To the place they called home.

Home, where she and Rhaenyra had once grown together. Home—which they had been told and had to tell themselves—was safe. Yet, it never truly was. Too many things still waited for them there. Demands that would not relent. Shadows that would not lift. Threats that never sleep. Every day, another choice to make—some so tangled she could scarcely tell which path was the better one, only which one might cost them less.

“Aem loves that porridge too…” Alicent smiled. “Surprisingly, he is not subtle about that, which is very off-character for him.”

“I suppose you’ll have to make a big pot when we get home, dear wife,” Rhaenyra said, a hint of playful warmth threading through her voice. “Our children enjoy your cooking, and I… eagerly, gratefully look forward to it, too. You told me what I had was prepared by Winterfell’s kitchen. I wonder how your cooking would be…”

Alicent released her breath, feeling the pain in her chest. Though it still lingered, the warmth of her wife's presence brought her great relief. She understood that Rhaenyra was offering whatever protection she could muster despite the fragility of her life.

“I was… occupied with the reports, and I could not leave you alone in this chamber,” she replied softly. “My heart could not bear that. So I gave the recipe to the kitchen. I didn’t expect much, I only wished you to have some comfort and gain back strength. The kitchen tried its best, and I am glad the taste pleased you. ”

Rhaenyra shifted ever so slightly in her wife’s hold, pressing forward with a glimmer in her violet eyes that was almost girlish.

“Tell me, dear wife—how close is this porridge to yours? The one you make?”

Her smile was bright, but behind it was a subdued tightness, the kind that came when she prodded at the empty places in her mind. Each missing memory felt like a shard lodged deep, and she could not tell if retrieving it would heal her or cut her worse.

“I like it. I like it very much. It even feels… familiar and soothing, though I cannot say why. That must mean it was close, right?”

There was a stubborn little lilt to her voice then, reflecting the child she had once been, and perhaps still was, deep down. But as the words left her lips, the smile lingered a fraction too long, stretched over something quieter beneath. She searched Alicent’s face as though willing her to agree. Somewhere deep down, the thought gnawed at her—that what little memory she might still have of her wife’s touch, her care, her cooking, could be overwritten by something merely similar. That the fragile shards she held onto might end up carrying the shape of an imitation, not the original.

Rhaenyra would not let that happen. Even if it made her sound unreasonable, even if it was a child’s logic, she wanted that space in her mind untouched, reserved only for the true thing—for Alicent.

“Seven out of ten, perhaps,” Alicent said after a moment’s thought. “Because I’ve adjusted the recipe from time to time. The base is the same—just like how I cooked for you the first time—but depending on who would eat the porridge, there will be some… adaptations, according to that person’s preference, and sometimes, the weather… or the situation.”

Her fingers traced lightly along the edge of Rhaenyra’s sleeve as she went on, voice slipping into a fireside tale. “Helaena prefers the original, so I’ll make a large pot of the base first, then add more ingredients later for the others. Jace likes it a bit creamy but light—less ginger, more onion—and usually asks for extra stewed potatoes. Aemond is growing fast, so his portion has changed over time… more meat, stewed beef of course, but simmered longer until tender yet rich. He hates carrots, glares if he finds even one piece in his bowl.”

A faint smile curved her lips. “Don’t worry—Joff takes them all. Once, Luke told him that eating more carrots would make his hair turn red like mine, and the little boy never let that idea go. Everyone else, myself included, tried to tell him otherwise, but he wouldn’t listen. Now he prefers all fruits and vegetables that have red in them, especially carrots. As soon as he could speak, he asked why I have red hair while the rest of our family—even our three boys with reddish-brown curls—do not share the same shade. I told him my hair got redder as I aged, and his would too in time. Then Luke gave him that myth, and now…” Alicent gave a helpless sigh, “Joff loves every food with red color. Oh—he loves eggs, too. His porridge always has extra whisked egg stirred in at the very last minute.”

Her eyes warmed as she added, “Luke is… a bit of a foodie. Most of his meals take longer to prepare, but he truly has a taste, and his standards are higher, indeed. Roasted pumpkin, mashed, then folded into the porridge and left to cook another half hour on low heat—that’s his favorite.”

Rhaenyra listened intently, her gaze fixed on the woman in her arms. Alicent spoke of their family with that wholeheartedness that seemed to wrap each word in care—her voice rich with fondness, her eyes alight with memory. Every small detail, every little quirk of their children, was offered like a precious keepsake placed gently into Rhaenyra’s hands.

She thought her wife must miss them… and she, even with her memories fractured and blurred, found herself missing them too. Missing home. Missing the little world that was theirs alone. Missing the woman in front of her now, who sat within her embrace, whose stories—woven from laughter, happiness, mischief, worries, hurt, and the spirited rhythms of daily life—were leading her back. Each word felt like a piece of something she had lost being returned to her, fitting into place one by one, until she could almost see it again: the life they had built, the love that had held it together, and at the center of it all, this woman—devoted, steadfast, and hers.

Without a word, Rhaenyra gathered Alicent fully into her arms, holding her as if she might vanish. Her palm slid to the small of her wife’s back, the other curling protectively at her nape, fingers threading into warm auburn hair. She inhaled her scent deeply, a sweet mixture of floral fragrance and the faint warmth of her skin, as if those delicate sensations alone could weave their souls together once more, bridging the chasm of time and the loss that separated them. The embrace was fierce yet careful, the way a dragon curls around its hoard. Her cheek pressed into that silken hair, lips brushing the strands in a touch more vow than kiss. The world beyond the chamber ceased to exist. There was only the warmth under her hand, only the cadence of Alicent’s voice still echoing in her chest, and in that closeness, Rhaenyra felt herself come home.

Alicent shifted in her hold, settling closer, her arms winding around Rhaenyra’s waist. She nuzzled into the curve of her neck, the fine brush of her forehead and nose against her skin sending shivers through the Dragon’s frame. Her breath fanned across Rhaenyra’s collarbone.

“Egg… our Aegon has the same taste as yours. Almost identical. If I hadn’t known better—given his playful, teasing personality—I would have assumed he eats everything you like just to have an excuse to steal your meals. He’s flexible and easy-going; as long as he’s in a good mood, he can eat nearly anything. But he does have preferences, I must say. Meaty, hearty… hates vegetables, but says yes to potatoes, peanuts, and beans. Mild spice, but never chili—only pepper and ginger, just like you. You two are the only ones who add extra ginger and pepper to the porridge and chew every bit of ginger before swallowing it. The other children only eat a little or leave it behind. They want the flavor, but not the bite.”

Her voice softened further—sweet enough to melt into the air between them—while her lips traced a fleeting touch to Rhaenyra’s shoulder, a glancing graze along the collarbone, then a kiss pressed where the pulse throbbed just beneath the skin of her neck. Still telling their story, Alicent let her words fall like petals against her wife’s skin.

“If it’s winter… or you’ve flown through nights of rain and storm to come home…” her lips lingered against Rhaenyra’s skin as if sealing the promise, “…I would stew more beef and let it simmer longer, make the porridge thicker, add more ginger and pepper for warmth and your strength.” She kissed her cheek once, then again, both touches lingering, dear as a vow. “You always sleep so soundly after being well-fed, my love.”

For a long while, Rhaenyra stayed silent, holding Alicent as if their embrace could anchor her against the pull of everything she’d lost. But the question pushed its way to her lips, carrying the weight of someone crossing a fragile bridge toward a treasure she might never touch again. Her tone was sure, yet there was something shy, almost ashamed, threaded through the fear of asking too much.

“Is it true?” Rhaenyra breathed at last. “Is it true that… your hair gets redder as you age?”

She searched her wife’s face as if the answer might already be there, and tried—Gods, she tried—to recall how Alicent had looked years ago. Because she had been told they were childhood friends… that they had been together since they were both eight years old. Why had she never thought of it before? The thought landed like a blow: one more precious thing that had been taken from her—or perhaps worse, something she had let slip through her fingers.

How had Alicent looked then? The girl she had loved since they were so young… wandering the Keep’s halls with her, hand in hand… what color had that hair caught in the sunlight? What shade had framed the smile she had once sworn to keep? How could she have forgotten? The ache of it tightened in her chest, sharper than any wound, as though the memory were just out of reach—close enough to feel, yet gone when she reached for it.

Alicent stilled, her breath faltering for a beat. Of all the things she had spoken of—children’s laughter, their preferences, their jokes—she had not expected Rhaenyra to fixate on her. Not the food, not the stories, but the color of her hair… the small, almost trivial detail—something she’d only mentioned in passing, a sweet memory of Joff’s innocent wish to look more like her, and Luke’s gleeful ‘solution’ born of light-hearted imagination and impulsive belief.

Her lips parted, then closed again. She studied Rhaenyra’s face—the intense focus in those violet eyes, the almost imperceptible tension at the corners, the way her arms still held her as if she might drift away if loosened. Beneath it all, Alicent saw the flicker of both curiosity and longing.

“Yes, my love. It’s true.”

She replied tenderly. Her voice was warm and laced with a subtle recognition that tugged at the heartstrings, evoking memories long buried.

“When we first met, my hair was reddish brown, like the shell of a hazelnut with a hint of russet. In sunlight, you could see the glow more clearly, but it wasn’t yet red. As I grew older, the red deepened. It wasn’t ginger but auburn, unmistakably so. Even in the dark, it looked red, not brown.”

A ghost of a smile curved her lips.

“It was uncommon, I suppose… My family often had brown hair, sometimes with a hint of gold or red, but theirs would soften with age, fade into lighter shades. Mine did the opposite. The older I became, the more the red came through.”

Her thumb brushed along Rhaenyra’s cheekbone, a wistful lovingness touching her voice.

“Jace has that same shade I had when I was young—chestnut. Luke’s is lighter, not quite as red… but close enough that sometimes, when the sun hits just right, I see something of myself in him.”

Alicent’s voice trailed off, but Rhaenyra stayed silent. The words settled in her chest, not as warmth, but as weight. Her gaze was still on Alicent as though staring long enough might coax the years to return to her. She tried to remember the girl who had first stolen her heart. The young lady who had once been more than a friend, more than a dream, who had somehow become everything.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but a shimmer of hair in the sun. Only the color—brown shifting red in her vision—and the faintest outline, a silhouette seen from far, far away. No face. No eyes she could meet. No smile she could hold on to. She almost didn’t know if it was truly a splinter of memory or something her mind had shaped from the words just spoken to her.

Rhaenyra reached for it again and again. Some stubborn parts of her believed that if she pressed hard enough, the memory would yield. She chased it through the fog—through hair catching sunlight, through the fading features—but the moment she thought she had it, it slipped through her grasp like smoke. She couldn’t feel it, couldn’t hold it. All she knew was the hollow ache behind her ribs, the sharp pull of something once dear, now unmoored. Her heart throbbed from longing and the cruel absence of it.

Frustration tightened her jaw. Desperation followed, raw and unguarded. Rhaenyra didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until it shuddered out of her in silence. The ache in her chest crested, too sharp to contain, and before she knew it, her vision blurred. A tear slipped free, hot against her skin, then another, falling before she even understood she was crying.

To survive a great war was one thing; to come back with strength and pride shattered, another. But to lose the face, the gaze, the voice of the woman she had once loved—the girl who had held her hand through endless corridors, who had smiled at her across candlelit halls, who had whispered secrets into her hair as they dreamed of a world too far away—that was what cleaved Rhaenyra in two, a wound no victory could ever hope to mend.

How did one grieve that loss? She had fought so hard to come home, only to realize parts of that home were gone forever.

This was the price of surviving. Not blood nor scars nor frozen breath beneath a northern sky, but this: forgetting the face she loved most. Losing not her sword, nor her crown, but the woman who had once been the center of her world. She had gone through a snowstorm, clawed her way back from death, and woken in the arms of a stranger who kissed her like home… she had looked into those eyes with no spark of recognition, only silence.

But worse—worse than the forgetting—was the truth that this was no stranger. These were the arms that had held her through war and winter, through childbirth and bloodshed. This was the woman who had bled for her, borne their children, raised them with a love so fierce it left no part of herself untouched. The one who had stood beside her not just as Queen, but as her truest friend, her wife, her soulmate, the one who had never turned away.

Survival had taken much. But this was the cruelest toll it had claimed: rising again in a world where the soul that had once been your other half feels unfamiliar and the hollowness it leaves inside you that stretches too wide and too deep to fill.

Rhaenyra held Alicent closer, hoping the present could make up for the past. But inside her, a sheer pain spread wide and deep, the kind that the fire in her soul couldn’t burn away.

Alicent instantly felt the subtle change in Rhaenyra’s breathing, the minute trembling in her hold, the way her wife curled inward, bracing herself against a loss she could not name. She drew back just enough to see her face, thumb catching the next tear before it could fall. Her expression softened, unbearably tender.

“My love…”

Alicent whispered. The words left her softer now, like she feared her sound might shatter the fragile thing she was holding. She drew Rhaenyra fully into her, one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head, shielding her from the world, fingers sliding into silver-gold hair in long, calming strokes. She could feel the tension thrumming through her wife, like the restless shiver of a dragon caught between fight and flee.

“I… I cannot recall what you looked like, Alicent…” Rhaenyra said haltingly, fragile as spun glass. “I tried… but everything… fleeting away…” Her voice thinned, the last two words almost swallowed by the breath that carried them as if speaking them made the loss sharper and more real.

Her head bowed under the weight of it. The pain in her temples pulsed in time with her heartbeat, each throb a reminder of how empty her mind was after grasping those fading memories so hard. She leaned closer into Alicent’s chest, seeking the only anchor that had never shifted.

“You don’t have to recall it now,” Alicent murmured against her hair, voice as soft as the brush of lips that followed. “You know me now.” She pressed Rhaenyra’s hand over her own heart. “You have me here. That is enough for this moment.”

But even in her arms, Rhaenyra seemed far away.

Her wife’s gaze had gone unfocused, lost somewhere past the walls of the room. She was still searching—Alicent could sense it—the desperate reaching for a memory just beyond her grasp. But the more Rhaenyra tried, the more it seemed to recede, until her mind became a fog she could not see through. The silhouette she chased faded into the mist, slipping further and further, until it was gone.

The pain had been building for a while now, gnawing at her temples and threading down her spine. Alicent had felt it, little by little: the way her wife had stiffened, the shudders beneath her skin, the moments her breath hitched without cause. Now it was no longer hidden. A vein had risen stark against her temple, pulsing beneath the skin. Her body had curled inward, a tremor running through her shoulders as though she were crying, but this was more. This was distress—deep, consuming, both mental and physical.

Alicent reacted at once. Her hand moved from Rhaenyra’s back to cradle her jaw, guiding her gaze up.

“My love—look at me, easy… easy… breathe with me,” she said, voice threading through the haze like an anchor, cradling her closer. Her forehead touched Rhaenyra’s. She pressed her lips to the crown of her head, the kiss lingering like a warding charm. “Don’t chase it, my love. Not now. It’s alright. You’re safe here. Let it go. Let yourself rest.”

“What if I…” Rhaenyra’s voice faltered, then found itself again in a thin, trembling line. “What if I never gain it back? My memory. Our past… our story… our family, the children, you…” Her breath caught, the words breaking against it. “What if one day I wake up and I lose more? Those little, broken things about us that are left in my head…”

Rhaenyra’s arms tightened around her wife, holding to the fragments she still had, holding to the most precious thing she ever had. But the fear was there, sinking claws deep into her soul: the terror not of death, but of forgetting the life she had lived, and the love that had shaped it.

Alicent kissed her once more, her hand gliding along her back in a soothing motion. The tender caress brought her comfort, anchoring her firmly in the moment and dispelling the lingering doubts that clouded her mind.

“If that day comes… I will tell you our story again. I will tell it as many times as it takes. I will put every moment back into your hands, even if I have to do it every morning for the rest of our lives.” Her lips brushed her temple, lingering there like a seal. “And you will never wake alone, my love. Not while I can still breathe.”

Her words settled over Rhaenyra like a guiding flame in the dark. Even as the fog inside her mind swirled and surrounded, she could feel it—Alicent’s presence, unwavering, bright as a beacon cutting through the storm.

The dragon in her, scared and hurt, stilled at last. She let the hunt for memory go, the tension draining from her shoulders as she turned in closer, seeking the warmth at the heart of that beacon light. Her forehead found the hollow of Alicent’s throat, her arms curling tighter around her waist, and at that moment, she felt less like a Queen and more like what she truly was—Alicent’s beloved Dragon, wounded but alive, retreating into the safety of her lair: in these arms, with this heartbeat, the scent of Alicent’s hair, the press of her lips, and the low murmur of vows that felt older than both of them. The world beyond could rage, the mist could swallow every path, but here—where her Moon held her fast—Rhaenyra was home.

So she stayed, letting the warmth and the quiet strength hold her, until the pounding in her head eased and the ache in her chest dulled beneath the sound of the one heartbeat she could never forget.

Rhaenyra curled close, face pressed against the heartbeat beneath her wife’s collarbone. Her breath hitched weakly—once, then again—her voice was low and uneven, almost buried in cloth and skin.

“Our children must be so happy,” she murmured, lips curling upward as her eyes brimmed again. “Mother… never had the chance to cook for me. But I think I would have liked that.”

Rhaenyra swallowed and blinked hard against the sting, then tilted her face just enough to glance up at the woman who held her like the world could not touch her here. Her smile wavered, trembling at the corners.

“You—” she exhaled shakily, “—you’ve learned each of them by heart. You cook for them quite often, I suppose…” A tear escaped her eye, silently sliding down her cheek. Then came another, and soon more followed. “I am happy for them. And for me, too. Truly.”

The words sounded graceful, grateful even, but they were woven through with something too delicate to hold for long. Rhaenyra was trying to be strong, to be understanding, to say I’m happy like it didn’t cost her anything. But Alicent could feel how tightly her wife was holding herself together. Rhaenyra’s shoulders had tensed as if bracing for something—rejection, perhaps, or simply the unbearable weight of not being this fragile and vulnerable. Yet, her face turned up to her with that quavery smile, eyes shimmering not only with tears but with yearning.

Please hold me.

Please love me.

Please stay close.

Rhaenyra didn’t say it aloud, but was in the way she nudged closer, leaning fully into her wife like a child might lean into the only warmth they knew. It was in the way she clung to every word Alicent had spoken earlier—porridge, stories of their children, and those of them—as if they were the last threads tying her to a world she could no longer fully see. Rhaenyra was hurting, but more than that, she was asking quietly and desperately…

For her wife’s gaze. For her breath. For the touch of her lips on her skin.

For the only love that she knew—for Alicent—even if she couldn’t remember why.

Alicent lifted Rhaenyra’s face, cradling her like something precious—something not fragile from weakness, but worn thin from too many battles, too many losses, and too much loneliness. Her fingers moved lovingly across her wife’s face—over her jaw, her cheekbone, the curve of her ear, remembering her, remembering them. Then she pressed a kiss to Rhaenyra’s forehead: one long, firm kiss, full of warmth and a vow. Next, to the center of her brow, where the lines had deepened with grief. Then, to the delicate dip at the bridge of her nose, and finally, beneath those eyes, where the tears still clung. She kissed them all, one after the other, her lips lingering just long enough to ease the hurt with tenderness. Without a word, Alicent kissed her lips, followed by the dimple at her chin, the little cleft she always loved. Every touch said: I see you. I love you. I am still here.

Rhaenyra felt each line of her face, every scar, and memory etched into her skin being cherished. Her wife loved her completely: the beauty, the wounds, the hurt, the past, and the present of her.

Only then did Alicent speak, her voice a thread of honey, warm as the hearth fire in this ruthless winter:

“I will cook for you, my heart. Anything. Whatever you like. As much as you want. Whenever you need or would like me to prepare your meals. Or snacks and treats. Just say a word, my dearest Rhaenyra. You are loved. I love you, and I love it when you are happy. I want to make you happy, darling.”

She kissed her lips once more, slowly this time, sealing each word between them. Then her mouth found the cleft of Rhaenyra’s chin—another kiss. Her hands never stopped moving—cradling her, grounding her, healing her.

Rhaenyra’s breath stuttered in her chest, struggling before falling into rhythm with the warmth surrounding her—Alicent’s voice, her touch, her scent, and her love. The pressure on her shoulders gave way without defense. The pain in her chest didn’t vanish, but was ameliorated and folded beneath the great comfort offered by her wife. She pressed her forehead against Alicent’s again, eyes closed now, trying to find her way back through touches instead of thought. A husky whisper, raw and intimate, flowed between them.

“You’ve always cooked for me… haven’t you?”

Her arms gripped tighter around Alicent’s back, anchoring herself to what she couldn’t see but could feel—the one truth that memory hadn’t stolen: Rhaenyra didn’t remember the first time Alicent cooked for her, but now she knew how it happened, and she knew it brought her great happiness. She knew Alicent always made her feel so loved, so safe, and so happy… She didn’t try to be strong this time, just let the truth fall out, barely more than breath.

“Please don’t ever stop…”

Rhaenyra wanted this. All of it. The warmth. The arms. The way Alicent touched her, as if nothing had ever been lost. Rhaenyra didn’t mean just the cooking or the heartfelt way Alicent called her name, or the embrace and kisses. She meant everything—the love, the waiting, the understanding, the remembering, the forgiveness—and Alicent understood.

In the hush that followed, as tears cooled on flushed cheeks and two foreheads rested together, Alicent whispered her vow:

“Never, not even if you forget again. I will love you, feed you, hold you… until your heart remembers me for you.”

The silence between them settled like snowfall. Beneath the quiet, Rhaenyra’s heart beat with a desperation she could no longer contain. She looked up at her wife, her eyes were still wet and red-rimmed, but there was urgency in them now.

“I want to resume the brew,” she said, low but certain. “Once my wounds seal shut.”

Her voice frayed at the edges, holding back a fear too scary to name. She paused for a beat, steadying herself, and studied her wife’s face.

“I want to remember,” Rhaenyra carefully pressed forward, fearing her words might break something or, worse, be met with rejection. “Not just the Crown, the duties, the victory... Not just… me.”

A breath.

“I want to remember you.”

It was longing and forlorn that bloomed in the hollow of loss and turned into a scream without sound. The fear of losing more.

“I need to remember you, Alicent. The girl I loved. The woman I married. The mother of our children. The one who… who loved me, held me, and waited for me. Who brought me back to life…”

She exhaled shakily like someone confessing a sin.

“I know you’re still here. I feel you. But I want more. I want everything back, even if it hurts. Even if it breaks me, will you… Will you help me find us again?”

Rhaenyra poured out her heart, her vulnerability stark and raw, as her gaze remained unwavering on Alicent.

Alicent listened without interrupting, her heart breaking with every word Rhaenyra managed to speak. Her Queen was utterly undone by a cut deeper than anything a blade could make, and all she could do now was hold her until she could become whole again.

“I will, my love,” she wiped tears away from Rhaenyra’s cheek and kissed just below her damp lashes. “We will use the brew again. I promise. But not yet, not at the cost of your life.”

Her hand hovered over Rhaenyra’s side—where she had stitched shut just a day before. Her words were gentle, but her intent was clear.

“I can’t risk losing you again, not to memory, not to anything, not even to your love for me. The maesters must confirm that the scabs have sealed completely and your body is ready to take the remedy without suffering from it. Once we’re sure you are safe, we’ll begin again. I’ll see to it myself, every dose, every day. I will take care of you.”

Alicent leaned in once more, her forehead gently pressing against her wife’s, shielding Rhaenyra from the outside world. She paused to collect her thoughts, the weight of their recent trials heavy on her mind.

“Will you allow the maester to examine your wounds today, my love? I did what I could to tend to you, but the danger may still linger beneath the surface. We mustn’t leave it unchecked.”

Rhaenyra tensed. Her fingers gripped her wife’s nightgown. After a moment, she spoke firmly, yet risks weighed down her tone.

“The moment the maesters of Winterfell discover that my injuries have worsened, rumors will spread. If they find out that the Queen was bleeding in her bed, half-dead and hidden behind that door…” With more conviction, she added, “I don’t want anyone to sense weakness.”

Alicent nodded, already anticipating both the fear and the burden pressing down on her wife.

“I know how dangerous it would be if words spread. That’s why I’ll ask Rendall to bring one of the Flamesworn maesters. They are military-trained individuals whom we selected for you and the elite force that fights alongside your side. They’re younger than the Northern maesters, but they’ve served in battlefield conditions and only answer to us.”

Rhaenyra contemplatively studied her wife’s expression. Last night, in those harrowing minutes before the darkness swallowed her whole, Rhaenyra had considered summoning the Flamesworn maesters. With what little lucidity had remained, she’d weighed the risk, forced herself to think as a sovereign even while her body bled and her mind began to crumble.

The Flamesworn were loyal. But the danger of the words slipping beyond the chamber had still loomed too large. The risk—to her throne and her family—was one she could not take.

Now, as she looked at Alicent in the flicker of candlelight, that decision returned like a blade pressing back into her chest. Not only because she had wagered her life in the name of duties and protection, but because her choice had cost Alicent something greater: the burden of watching her bleed, alone. The terror of not knowing if her wife would survive. The nightmare that might haunt her far longer than any scar would haunt Rhaenyra.

Yet Alicent—her brilliant, formidable Alicent—remained enduring even now, fighting back her fears in silence. Her eyes were still full of grief and worry, but above them all was a sharp determination.

“I’ll order a vow of silence and give Rendall orders to enforce absolute confidentiality. No records. Whatever happens in this chamber must stay here and here only. No one is allowed to know more than they should.”

Something in the cadence of Alicent’s words—certain, precise, cutting so clean—slipped beneath Rhaenyra’s skin like a cold blade wrapped in silk. Another might have missed it. Or, if they’d sensed it, would have flinched at the implication. Because what Alicent had just promised wasn’t merely discretion but an extreme damage control. It was an ultimate protection to the heart of their power and lives.

She knows, Rhaenyra realized.

She knows why I was afraid, and she has an answer for that, too…

Although her wife’s voice had remained gentle, Rhaenyra heard the undertone of how far Alicent would go to protect her.

A shiver passed through her from the weight of realization: if the Realm ever turned its eye the wrong way, if any soul dared to exploit this weakness, Alicent would meet them with all force. Her wife dulled the knife in her words. She chose what to reveal, but didn’t hide or be ashamed of what she was willing to do.

Rhaenyra was not a queen unfamiliar with loss and violence. She’d known threats, betrayal, and death. She also knew the cost of the crown, especially for a woman, and more than that, the cost of keeping it. But more than any fear or memory, deeper than the fracture in her mind, there lived a certainty…

Alicent would protect her. Always. At all costs.

Somehow, the knowledge didn’t frighten her. Not after all they had been through. Not when the hands that could orchestrate deadly silence were the same hands that were still cradling her and soothing her roaring soul with a vow like a lullaby to her heart, “You are loved, and I will do anything to keep you safe.”

Her wife’s warmth hadn’t vanished, only stepping aside, letting steel speak for a moment. Rhaenyra, despite all she’d lost, still felt both. She suddenly understood, in that stillness, why Aemond had such an iron will that was fueled by cold and sharpness, why he could endure in silence and chase a target for years without blinking. He had Alicent’s fire, not the kind that blazed, but the kind that never went out.

Rhaenyra finally turned to Alicent. She maintained a firm posture, but her eyes betrayed her, flickering with insecurity.

“Stay, when the maeters come.” The words were barely above a whisper, but they carried so much. “I want you here.”

Alicent cupped her cheek, brushing across her cheekbone, her other hand reached for Rhaenyra’s and squeezed it gently.

“I will be by your side the whole time. I promise.”

Outside the tall window, the sky was bruised with gathering clouds. A howling wind pressed against the glass, carrying the promise of a storm. Alicent’s gaze lingered on it for a heartbeat. Whatever waited beyond these walls, she would meet it, side by side with her Dragon. Her eyes returned to Rhaenyra, softer now.

“My love… once we return home, please let me speak with our children first.”

She traced the curve of Rhaenyra’s knuckles, trying to ease the tremor pulsing through her wife. She paused for a moment, allowing space for Rhaenyra to breathe and for the words to settle.

“I believe they would understand, but they also need to know what happened. At least enough so that what comes after does not confuse or frighten them.”

A breath hung in the air between them. Outside, the wind rustled the trees like a warning.

“They are our blood. They live with us, and they know how we are when we are together. We can manage in public, but they will sense if something has shifted. I don’t want to lie to them, and truthfully, we shouldn’t. They worried for you, too.”

Alicent understood that Rhaenyra did not ask to resume the brew merely to recall their love story. It was also about their children, their family’s safety, and the throne. Rhaenyra could not face their kids with a hollow gaze or speak to them with nothing but borrowed tales. If the bond between them cracked, however slightly, it would destroy her first, then the children later. Soon, the court would sniff it out, and people would whisper:

What truly happened to the Queen? Why has she changed? What did she lose in that war?

They would not see a warrior returned, only a sovereign shaken, and that threat, once set loose, would not be easily eliminated. Rhaenyra had too many reasons to risk her life for that brew, and Alicent saw them all.

“Let me talk to them first. You can speak with them later, perhaps start with Jace and Helaena. They would understand best.”

The words had settled into Rhaenyra like warmth seeping into chilled skin, steadying her in ways she could not name. Her fingers curled around Alicent’s hand at her cheek, holding it there.

“You always think of everything. Even the things I forgot, and the things I can’t yet face.” Her eyes sparkled, and her lips quivered between a smile and something much more delicate. “I don’t know how to thank you, dear wife. For giving them what I never had, and for giving me what I never thought I would have.”

The next breath Rhaenyra drew felt tight in her chest, thick with relief and bliss. She lightly touched the only ring Alicent wore, her voice filled with the weight of her emotions.

“I am truly happy that you opened your heart to me, told me of our life and our children. I… I’ve been on edge for so long, afraid to lose even what little I still hold. But with you beside me… I feel safe again, deeply loved and cared for.”

She couldn’t help but lean forward, sliding her arms around Alicent and drawing her close until their brows touched. Her hold tightened quickly like a soundless plea. Her nose nuzzled against her wife’s, as if that touch alone could say what words could not.

“I didn’t realize how much your silence frightened me until now. I don’t remember all that I should, but I couldn’t bear it when you shut me out.” Rhaenyra smiled through her tears. “When you let me in and speak to me like this, the weight in my chest lifts. I can finally breathe again.”

Alicent cradled her Dragon with a tenderness born from decades of love and loss. Her hand soothed Rhaenyra’s spine, her other arm wrapped around her waist, and she rocked her gently.

“I am so sorry, my love,” Alicent whispered, her voice breaking. “I never meant to hurt you. But I was overwhelmed. Everything was pressing down on us, and I didn’t know what to do. When I found you, you were barely breathing. Every second, I prayed—begged—that you would live. Then you woke… and didn’t recognize me.” Her voice cracked. “It felt like I was being deboned alive.”

Stillness enveloped the room, creating tension that seemed to stretch time itself.

“We’ve been together for so long… too long for me to imagine a world without you. I don’t know how to live without you. I will never know how.”

Alicent faltered.

“We are wives. But more than that… even before that... we were childhood friends. Classmates. Sisters. Lovers. We grew up together. No one ever came close. No one ever replaced you. Too many years, too many things have passed between us.”

You are my everything…

Her vision clouded by tears, yet she couldn't look away. Each trembling breath seemed to deepen her longing for her wife—the blushes on her cheeks, the gentleness of her smile, and the spark in her violet eyes that always made her feel at home. Alicent clung to every detail, trying to imprint the image in her heart and capture this fleeting moment forever.

“There were times I didn’t know who I was. Things I can’t remember. Pieces of myself I still struggle to face. Only you ever knew them. Only you ever understood. Only you reminded me of who I am, loved me for who I am, and walked beside me through everything.”

Her voice fell into a hush.

“But that day, I looked into your eyes and saw only a stranger, worse—the stranger who bore the title of your wife. Your Queen Consort…”

Alicent inhaled shakily, her heart broke with every word.

“We both know how much you hate anything that’s forced on you…and I had become the very thing you would hate most.”

Rhaenyra’s tears began to fall before she even realized it. The weight of Alicent’s pain washed over her like a tidal wave, crashing against her grief, and somehow, it didn’t feel separate. Her wife’s sorrow lived in her bones, twisting through every hollow space left behind by lost memories and broken time. She looked at Alicent through the blur of her tears, lips trembling.

“I never hated you, Alicent. Not even then. Not even when I hurt you without meaning to… I could never hate you.”

Her shoulders shook as she leaned closer, burying her face against the warmth of Alicent’s throat, the scent of her wife familiar and comforting in a way her soul never forgot. Alicent held Rhaenyra tighter, arms locking around her. Her breath shivered against her wife’s skin, her voice raw, barely held together by tears.

“I never blamed you, my love. Gods, you’ve been through so much…”

Her fingers clutched Rhaenyra’s back, desperate not to let go—not now, not again.

“I told myself that if you lived… if you came back to me, I would not ask for more. And you did. You opened your eyes and breathed again. I should’ve been grateful. But then I watched you try so hard for me, for us, even when you were confused and exhausted, even when you were bleeding.”

A hiccup broke through her throat.

“I held back because I was afraid I would hurt or frighten you if I kept pushing or telling you more about us and everything that has been expected of you. So I stayed silent. But after last night…”

Alicent choked, burying her face into Rhaenyra’s neck.

“I am terrified.”

Her voice cracked, splintering like thin glass.

“I almost lost you twice in just days. It has merely been a week, but everything has dashed through my mind like a storm. And when I barely registered what was happening, you were fading in my arms. My scariest nightmare kept repeating itself, again and again…”

Alicent pulled back enough to look into Rhaenyra’s tearful eyes, her thumbs wiping away tears that mirrored her own. Her words flowed out, broken and raw with confession.

“I didn’t tell you all those stories or how I felt to burden you, my love. But I think what has happened broke me open. My restraint is gone. I should’ve been alarmed. But the only fear that remains now is that the Gods will not give me another chance. Two is already more than mercy. I would rather risk being hated by you, or even pushed away, than let you leave again… believing that you were not loved.”

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to continue.

“As much as you fear losing your memory about us, I do, too. I realized no matter how fiercely I cherish what we’ve built together, no matter how many pieces I hold onto with everything I am, it takes both of us to carry them wholly.”

She smiled, a bittersweet smile.

“Twenty years… I don’t even know how much I’ve forgotten. How many memories slipped through our fingers because we’ve been too occupied with the court, threats, and duty… too overwhelmed to stop and look back.”

Her thumbs stilled over Rhaenyra’s knuckles.

“So, my dearest Rhaenyra, you owe me nothing, and you have given me everything. These memories—they are ours, not mine alone. I will give them back to you, as much as I can, whenever I’m allowed to… and for as long as I can remember.”

With tenderness, Alicent pressed a soft kiss to Rhaenyra's brow, wishing to soothe the storm within her. Her fingers interlaced with Rhaenyra's hair, offering comfort through soothing circular motions.

“For now, just focus on resting well, my love,” she whispered against her skin. “I’ve got this. I’ve got you.”

A breath left Rhaenyra’s lips. Her lashes fluttered, and for a moment she simply looked at her wife, her anchor, the moonlight she’d once lost, then nodded and tucked herself under Alicent’s chin. She nestled close, burying her cheek against the rise and fall of her wife’s chest. Her hands reached out, seeking and finding Alicent’s, wrapping around them like something sacred. Her gaze was drawn to the one ring Alicent wore. She'd seen it on her wife’s left ring finger every day, even when the rest of her jewels had been replaced or removed, even when the world was falling apart.

Rhaenyra touched it, traced its edge, and rolled it slightly against her touch. The kind of thing she did often with her rings—spinning, absently playing with them in thought. But this time, she was gentler and more careful not to hurt her wife. The ring caught the candlelight, glowing and radiating heat like a tiny ember. Her gaze shifted upward—just above where her cheek rested against her wife’s chest—and caught the glint of a dragon-scale pendant. It lay against Alicent’s skin like a truth, never removed, not even in sleep. Now, staying close enough to feel the heat of it, Rhaenyra noticed what she had somehow missed before:

Both were forged of Valyrian gold. From one piece. By the same hand.

One ring. One pendant. One vow.

Rhaenyra exhaled softly. So much had been taken from her—things she never thought could be stolen, memories she believed would be eternal. The war had razed them, leaving ruins in their place. But now, wrapped in warmth and held in the arms that never let go, peace settled inside her at last: Alicent had never let go. Even when Rhaenyra couldn’t remember and had nothing left to offer, her wife had stood alone and carried them both.

“Since when?”

Rhaenyra sounded like someone who had finally returned home after years of being lost.

“Since we were twelve. The pendant was your first handcraft. The ring came years later, when we married. But both were forged from one piece of Valyrian gold—the Bracelet of Eternity. It was a relic you found in one of your campaigns, in the ruins of an ancient temple on the shores of Summer Sea in Essos.”

Alicent’s arms still wrapped protectively around the woman who had always been both her salvation and her ruin. She had seen the way Rhaenyra’s fingers had lingered, the way her gaze had flickered between the pendant at her chest and the ring on her finger, quiet and contemplative, putting the pieces together.

“The artifact is mentioned in the old tales of Valyria. It was believed to carry a blessing and the promise of eternity—of everlasting love, enduring bonds, and even life without end. Valyrians would craft imitations of it as wedding gifts, or offer them to women of great importance—mothers, wives, those they cherished most. But only the original was made of Valyrian gold—gold born beneath the volcanoes of Old Valyria, fused with dragonblood, and forged through fire magic.”

Rhaenyra let her wife’s voice wash over her like a lullaby, pulling her in comfort. A warmth unfurled in her chest like a bloom opening under the sun. Slowly, she drifted into a waking dream, enveloped by her thoughts. Even without memory, from the first time her eyes landed on those two pieces—the pendant at her wife’s neck, the ring on her hand—Rhaenyra had felt drawn by a pull. A heartbeat. A call. As if something of hers lived inside them. They remembered her, even when she could not remember herself. She had known they were Valyrian gold. Her forge. Her mark. Her vow to the woman she had loved more than life itself.

A hush settled inside Rhaenyra. A thanks to the girl she once was, who had found this woman and had fallen for her. Thanks to the lover who had forged these promises. She was grateful that she had once known how to cherish her love, that she had given Alicent what was most precious—what deserved her wife. Even now, broken as she was, Rhaenyra still wanted to give her everything.

Alicent exhaled slowly, her chin resting on the crown of Rhaenyra’s head. Her heart was heavy with the unspoken, but for a moment—just a moment—the weight didn't feel so unbearable. Not when her wife held onto her so dearly, and not when those violet eyes looked at her, filled with love. Alicent watched her for a bit longer, feeling bliss settle deep in her bones.

Then, her gaze strayed past the curve of Rhaenyra’s cheek and the gold-spun hair tumbling over her shoulder to outside the window. The dark clouds had grown monstrous, wind clawed at the glass, trees bending like bowed sentries, their leaves whipped into chaos, yet the storm refused to break. No snow, no rain, just clouds and wind, threatening a downpour that would break the world open. In that suspended moment, heavy and suffocating like a choked scream, Alicent realized something else had been waiting in silence…

It had been days since Rhaenyra woke, but in all her smiles, all her questions, all the tender hours they’d reclaimed, her wife had not mentioned Laena again.

Rhaenyra had called her name the moment she woke. Then, when Alicent told her that Laena was taking care of their children in the Keep along with Gwayne, her wife had asked about her—with honest concern and a stubborn sort of innocence that pierced Alicent.

The thought stung as it settled like a stone cast into the still lake of Alicent’s heart. Ripples spread outward, quiet but relentless, brushing against places she'd been too weary to look into, too focused on surviving to feel. A thread pulled loose in a tapestry she had been too busy mending to notice.

Was it a coincidence, or was it because of me? Did I make her feel she shouldn’t ask more? Or… was it something else entirely?

For the first time that day, a sliver of frost touched the warmth Alicent had fought so hard to keep.

Her Dragon still nestled close, eyes half-lidded in contentment, a smile where tears had just been. The sight should have comforted her. It did, but now, everything felt unbearably fragile.

There was no wind in the chamber, yet the flames in the hearth swayed restlessly, casting a wavering glow over Alicent’s features. Light and shadow tangled there, sweeping her skin like a play. The glow flickered over her eyes, chasing a question that curled like mist in her mind—thin, almost unreal, but cold enough to reach her bones.

Why has my Dragon never mentioned Laena again?

As Alicent looked down, Rhaenyra was still absentmindedly playing with her wedding band, fingertips brushing the metal in rhythm. But gradually, those motions slowed. Her eyes, once fixed on the golden loop encircling Alicent’s finger, began to drift and settled on her own hands.

There was no matching ring…

The realization came sharp like a winter gust, and in that breathless moment, both of them knew.