Work Text:
In the beginning, Alicent had made the mistake of trying. She had been told by her father how Rhaenyra had no friends, and the loneliness was surely enough that she'd take anyone.
He had said it with that conniving smile of his, which left no place for arguments—not that there was ever any room for her to disagree. She was to always obey his command, and truthfully or sadly, Alicent always did—at the cost of her very own life.
Mr. and Mrs. Targaryen were kind, at the very least. They seemed like a gentle, fragile pair, as if one more gush of wind would send the ship overboard. Their marriage was a sharp contrast to her own parents, whose love was true and real but lost to ambition or The Seven's will.
Alicent had later found out that, in truth, their marriage had been a shipwreck, where they both were stranded on an uninhabitable island—with a lifeboat that was just left there and ready to take them away to safety, but Mr. Targaryen refused to leave.
When she had first laid eyes on Mrs. Targaryen, or Aemma—as the woman always kindly insisted she call her, but Alicent never did (they'd always be above her and her father, and you don't address the people above you so casually)—she was visibly pregnant and sad.
Then almost a month or two later, her father had carefully instructed her in the car, “Alicent, don't mention the baby in front of them. It's gone."
He hadn't given her another explanation, and she hadn't dared to ask for one. Alicent had been barely ten, extremely religious, and shielded from practically everything in the world that wasn't The Sept, the elite school run by the Septas and Septons, her family, Old Town, and the Targaryen's.
But she had remembered to be extra nice to Rhaenyra that day—who, as always, despised her mere presence.
But this time, the girl lost the intense, almost blinding spark she always carried when looking at Alicent. They both knew that if looks alone could burn and kill, then Otto Hightower would lose his only daughter.
“Do you want to play?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked, kicking her feet in the well-maintained grass. She was frowning, one that was deep and far too grown up for her.
Alicent only nodded, letting Rhaenyra lead her to a more secluded area. They hadn't talked much that day, but she could feel that it didn't matter—at least they played “Barbies and Dragons" together (a game made by Rhaenyra). She had made a point to laugh at every silly joke and rule but never argued or made fun of it.
On their ride back home, her father had looked at her from the rearview mirror, with a small smile on his face—“You did good today, my darling. We will have ice cream with dinner tonight."
She had sunk into her seat, with her cheeks red from the praise and a grin that even the reminder that pride was a grave sin couldn't take away. For a very long time, maybe since her birth, she had toiled after her father—always begging, like an ever-loyal dog, for his attention and love. He scarcely gave either, and when he did, it put her on the top of the world.
Less than a decade later, with the burden of duty and honor having fully crushed her spirits, she'd sit wearing a deep red dress, cradling her heavily pregnant belly, thinking, “How stupid I had been. If only I'd realized earlier. If only I had run off. If only."
“Alicent. I know, your father has different opinions on duty and honor than I do," her mother began, gently combing through her hair.
Alerie Florent was a good woman—good, gentle, and beautiful (decades after her death, her father would be astonished and then grieve over how much Alicent truly looked and acted like her), if not a little foolish. She had fallen in love with a man who had nothing to his name and married him, only to be cast aside with her son.
“What do you mean, Mother?" she asked, smiling with innocence etched into her features, like death would be in Alerie Florent's in a mere five years.
Young, young, young. That had always been the problem with her mother and her—too young to die and too old to be a bride. I have now lived longer than she did.
Alerie paused, regaining her thoughts. She couldn't bear to look at her daughter, snatched from her and the safety of Old Town, to be paraded around the heathens of Red Keep (you will not take her away from me. Do you hear me, Otto? She is my only daughter! You will not—")
“I know that your father insists on a friendship between you and the Targaryen girl, but my darling, you need not force yourself to be friends with such—" her mother paused, trying to find the right word, “—depravity."
Alicent looked up, uncertain of what to say. It seemed that most conversations with her family were nothing more than a trap. They were always testing her; either it was her father and his mind games, her mother and her carefully twisted words, or Gwayne and his insolence.
“I don't understand, mother."
Alerie sighed, gently kissing her forehead. “I know, my darling."
The conversation was dropped after that, as Alicent ran to her father's study to show him her braid (it was identical to Rhaenyra's). He paused, looking at her from the seat behind his desk.
“Wear that tomorrow, Alicent. I am certain Rhaenyra would appreciate it," he said, giving her a tight smile before returning to the pile of papers on his desk.
She only nodded, quietly closing the door and apologizing for entering without knocking. There were rules in this house—be quiet and be invisible, be good and holy, always obey, smile and laugh when needed, and cry only behind closed doors.
Rhaenyra had no such rules in her house. She was free to do as she wished, with a governess and a maid always running around at her beck and call. At first, Alicent had been so jealous (she shouldn't be. It's wrong. The Seven would never forgive and send her to hell!).
But then she had realized that Rhaenyra had the whole world at her feet but, at the same time, no one at all.
Mr. Targaryen wanted and needed a son, like a dying man craved forgiveness for his sins and heaven's welcoming doors. His only daughter wasn't enough for him, something that even someone as blind and carefree as Rhaenyra could clearly see.
Mrs. Targaryen always did her duty, even though nothing except grief and dead almost-babies came from it. The woman never shared a word of complaint, just smiled and took it.
She saw how Mr. Targaryen would frown whenever her older brother was mentioned by her father, and he would follow it with a comment like, “You are blessed to have a son, Otto. It doesn't matter how he is; at least he exists. All I have for my legacy is my brother, and we both know what Daemon is."
Rhaenyra would pretend she didn't hear them, and so would Alicent. It wasn't their business what their fathers did and thought. They were just girls—just inconsequantial daughters.
“Alicent!" Gwayne, her older brother, yelled from the corridor.
He had just turned fifteen and seemed to thrive on breaking the careful rules that their father had set for the household. He and their mother lived in Old Town with her uncle and his family. They were only visiting, and that was also because Mrs. Targaryen had suggested it to her husband (no girl that age should be without a mother. Alicent is a sweet child, she shouldn't be so alone. Viserys, imagine our Rhaenyra without me and then tell me how just Otto is enough).
Mr. Targaryen (or Viserys, as he demanded she call him) asked for her father to call his wife and son here for a while and stressed how their moving her permanently would be great.
They weren't going to move here. But, it was so nice to be around her mother and Gawyne again. She had missed them so much, almost bursting into tears at the airport.
Father had already started speaking about their trip back, and all Alicent wanted to do was cry. It had only been a week or two—what was so wrong with them staying? The house was more than big enough for all of them, and it needed life, something Alicent or her father couldn't bring.
They were rotten; Mother and Gwayne were not. That has always been and will be the difference.
“Yes?" she asked, raising her head from the book. It was two years above her reading level, something her father was proud of, as he kept filling the bookshelves with even thicker novels, all for her.
Alicent read them all with ease and sought only his approval. Even if it got tiring, and sometimes all she wanted was nothing more than to be held and loved without any conditions attached, as Rhaenyra probably was by her parents.
“Want to go out?" he questioned, leaning against the door.
She didn't miss the slight crack in his voice or how his hair seemed longer. There was a strange sense of ‘man' to him now. He was looking more and more like her father. No matter how ripped his jeans were or how long he grew his hair out, Gwayne would forever only be remembered as Otto Hightower's son. Any and all achievements would pale in comparison.
“Where?" she asked, staring at the space between his two front teeth.
According to Gwayne, he had broken a tooth or two while winning the fight against an ass (don't say that, Gwayne. Gods.). But in private, her mother had told a very different story.
“Around."
Alicent rolled her eyes, closing the book and carefully placing it on her desk as she walked over to him. “Gwayne."
He groaned, closing his eyes for a moment, before grabbing her hand. “Fuck—Alicent, I'm not going to get you killed. Come on!"
Alicent could only gasp and silently protest as she was practically dragged outside her room, down the corridor, down the stairs, and to the front door.
“We should inform mother," she suggested to him, slipping her coat on as he bent down to wear his boots.
It had snowed yesterday, much to Gwayne's fascination (it's always hot in Old Town! Like, it fucking stinks at Sevenmas. One time, Uncle Hobert even took us all to the beach as the carols were sung by Mom and Aunt Lynesse, and each one mentioned snow! It was horrid; like, I think at one point—Ormund, the absolute idiot fuck he is, just stared! He just fucking stared at the spectacle, and I was the one scolded by Mother for being indifferent and not more excited at Uncle including me! Like, what the hell!)
“Is it like this every time?" her older brother asked, unable to hide the awe in his voice. He looked younger than his years, and for the first time, Alicent grinned.
She had wanted to beg him to stay since he had arrived; nobody had the power to fight their father—except Gwayne. He lost every time, but at least he tried.
“So, how are they?" Gwayne questioned, slipping his hand into hers, as they walked on the footpath, admiring all the holiday decorations.
It seemed that all the houses were in some sort of competition to outdo one another. Her father never took part in such things, never having the time or seeing any true purpose behind such petty competition. But, yesterday, her mother had happily spent an entire evening decorating the house with them.
“Who?" she asked, keeping her eyes on a particularly bright house.
The exterior was covered in blinding red and green lights, with white reindeer's in the lawn—all in a straight direction, emerging from both sides of the front door to the mailbox. It was exquisite, if not a bit overdone.
She'd decorate it just like that when she finally grew up and had her own house with her future family. Alicent and her future children would spend hours choosing the right decorations, and she'd lounge in a corner as her future husband did all the manly work of putting the lights up on the roof or carrying the perfect tree.
Gwayne slightly pulled on her hand, bringing her attention back to him. She looked up to him. He was smirking, and his face was identical to her father's, as Alicent resisted the urge to vomit because of the thought.
“Oh, you know."
Alicent took a deep breath, wiser than her years. “No, I don't, Gwayne."
He slightly frowned because she said his name just like their father always did—annoyed, disappointed, and having no time for his nonsense.
"Don't say it like that," he grumbled, turning his head away from her.
She looked down at the ground with shame, quickly understanding what he meant. It was unexpectedly cruel of her, even if she hadn't meant it to be. It seemed that their father had truly been leaving his impact on her.
“I am sorry."
He only sighed, rubbing her hand in comfort, before mustering up a small smile in her direction.
They both knew that he wouldn't be here long—some far-away, expensive boarding school in the North, which was befitting Otto's only son, was actively being considered for him, even if their mother constantly begged her husband not to do this to her again.
There was a good chance that he wouldn't go. Old Town had a good boarding school too, and Uncle Hobert would probably not approve of the one in the North, scared that his handsome but dim-witted heir would be outshined by Gwayne. In her opinion, the wind could outshine Ormund, but only if he opened his mouth; if he stayed quiet, then his face saved him.
It was exhausting to hear their parents constantly argue behind closed doors, as she and Gwayne pretended that nothing was wrong.
After a minute of awkward silence, Alicent finally broke: “They're kind."
Gwayne shot her a playful grin, moving forward with confidence and dragging her along with him.
“Really?" Then he lowered his voice, leaning in towards her. “Mother thinks they're heathens."
Alicent allowed herself to roll her eyes, almost groaning. “Mother thinks everybody here are heathens and unholy and—"
“Don't forget complete blasphemous fools that are dishonoring the will of The Seven by existing," Gwayne interrupted, a wide smile on his face.
He exactly quoted what their mother had been repeating to them since she had arrived, with her head held high and praying beads kept close. Alerie had found Kings Landing to be an over-polluted and far-too-populated-with-atheist-idiots-dump, with nothing to give to anyone.
For a moment, she and Gwayne just looked at each other before they burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all or just because they just could.
After all, they were just children, even if all the adults around them had long forgotten that.
Her laugh was loud and unrestrained as she almost fell to the cold ground due to momentarily losing balance. It was only the strong grip of her older brother's hand holding her up.
Years later, with her own children weighing her down and no more walks on frozen sidewalks and no alive mother, whose angry words that her Gwayne—who would be so far away in Old Town and unreachable—could share laughter over, she'd look at these moments with fondness and a certain ache.
“Come on," he said, tugging on her hand after a few more minutes of mindless walking in the cold and admiring the creative holiday decorations of theie neighbours.
In her personal opinion, their house was the best decorated and easily won the unsaid but extremely obvious neighborhood competition. It held the holiday spirit of Sevenmas without being overdone or looking too extravagant.
“We should go back, dear sister. It's late, and I don't want father to yell at me or some other shit."
Alicent only nodded, watching her steps a lot more carefully before being led back. Her older brother never once let go of her hand, not until they were at the front door of the house.
Alicent raised her head, and from the corner of her eye, she saw their mother looking at them. The woman was sitting by the window, in the guest bedroom of the first floor, with her eyes cast downward and her usually beautiful smile turned into a furious frown—one that made the young girl immediately look away.
At dinner, her mother held her and Gwayne's hands tightly as she softly spoke the evening prayer: “We ask The Father to judge us with mercy, accepting our human fragility. We ask The Mother to bless the hands that prepared this food and look kindly upon my daughter and son. We ask The Warrior to steady his hand and keep away from the infectious teenage mind of my son. Give him courage and only that, none of the madness that comes with your blessings, I beg. We ask The Maiden to look kindly upon my daughter Alicent, to guide her gently through this passage, as she is just a girl. We ask The Crone to provide wisdom to my husband and bless my children. We ask The Stranger to look away and when the time comes, to treat us kindly in your realm."
A few weeks later, her mother and Gwayne had gone back to Old Town, as her father had willed it, refusing to listen or even consider them staying. As a result of the separation from her family, she began to say that same prayer every night in her bed before eventually crying herself to sleep.
“Are you ok?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked, moving closer, tilting her head in that strange way.
Alicent looked up from her novel, startled and fearful. “I—of course."
Rhaenyra shook her head, unimpressed by Alicent’s clumsy attempt at a lie. With a heavy thud, she dropped onto the wooden bench, the hem of her golden skirt sinking into the mud.
Alicent had to bite back the urge to scold her. Even now, despite her own turmoil, she'd kept her own skirt carefully lifted above the ground, refusing to let it touch the dirt.
“You lie badly," Rhaenyra stated, looking right at the girl.
For a moment, neither said anything, but the tension was obvious. They both knew that something was wrong and like always, it would be Alicent who'd have to talk and play jester.
“I am sorry,” she said at last, convinced this must be some misunderstanding that could be mended with an apology.
Rhaenyra only softly smiled before slowly reaching out and placing her hand on Alicent's.
Alicent loudly gasped; the feeling of Rhaenyra's hand on hers was incredibly new and weird. It was the first time that they had touched, like ever.
Rhaenyra had avoided her for the past two months like she was a disgusting plague sent to infect and destroy everything the girl held dear and close. It had been deeply insulting, but Alicent had choosen to say nothing. She had only hoped that it would all end as her father wanted it to: with the two girls as friends and close.
Finally, in the past few weeks when they had gotten closer and started to play together and do their homework—there was still quite a bit of distance that always lingered, like a wound one couldn't quite feel and didn't remember doing anything to create (“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? Trampled under your pretty foot again!")
Rhaenyra only moved closer, her smile even kinder. It wasn't something Alicent had thought her capable of, not even in her dreams.
“For what? You did nothing wrong."
And that's what made Alicent cry and fully turn to embrace her, because finally someone told her what she had needed to hear since her mother and Gwayne had left: you did nothing wrong.