"He looks peaceful," Rhaenyra said as they looked down at the body resting upon the stepped marble bier beneath the towering statue of the Stranger. "But I don't understand why they have his visor closed. He had a dignified face."

It was bright within the Grand Sept with the sky absent of clouds. The sun slanted down through the leaded glass and hanging crystals, draping the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in rainbows. The silent sisters had armored Ser Ryam Redwyne in the raiment of the sworn brotherhood he had belonged to for over fifty years. His ringmail was silver, and over it he wore his finest plate, heavy steel and enameled white scales, every fastener made of silver. Pure white like snow were his gorget, breastplate, pauldron, gauntlets, and greaves. His rondels were white sunbursts, his vambraces scaled with silver inlay, as were his couters and poleyns. At his feet rested his shield, a pure white field unemblazoned, and upon his chest rested his longsword in a white scabbard, his hands folded about its hilt in gloves of silver ringmail. He does look peaceful, Alicent thought, and may the Father judge him justly.

The Lord Commander had died a day ago, going to bed one night, and never rising with the dawn. His sworn brother Ser Tom Costayne had found him and then the bells of King's Landing were ringing their death knells. A peaceful way to die by her father's own words, yet Alicent found she couldn't agree. The gods can be so very cruel when they wish to be. "Peaceful for the one who died," Triston had said after their father had left for the small council meeting, a frown twisting his lips. "Cruel for those who remain." Their lady mother had died the same way, going to sleep one night to never wake the next morning, she who had been of perfect health.

"We can ask the Lord Commander after the wake," Alicent said.

Rhaenyra looked to her, a sadness in those deep amethyst eyes, and then she placed the white starflower with its seven petals onto the dead Ser Ryam's bier. At its head the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood vigil, both hands curled about the hilt of a tall greatsword whose point rested on the marble floor, tall and brilliant in his white armor. The king had chosen Ser Jeffory Norcross to fill the position, a knight of irrefutable skill with his sword and shield, who had faced down Prince Daemon Targaryen, and bested even the likes of Ser Jon Costayne and Prince Aegon Targaryen in the sparring yard, the latter singing his praise. He stood as if hewn from stone, and would not move until the wake was over, when the silent sisters would take the body and boil the flesh away, sending the bones back to the Arbor.

They returned to the benches and knelt as the seven septons came to stand behind the bier, dressed in their silver robes and seven-stranded belts, leading them in prayer, beseeching the Father Above to judge Ser Ryam justly for his many years in service to the king. They held hands as they prayed, and Alicent felt Rhaenyra give her a squeeze after every prayer. All around them noble lords and ladies knelt. The king's court had come out to honor the famed knight, from the lowest retainer to the most important lord. Her father Lord Otto knelt with his eyes closed, and her brothers Triston and Gwayne were beside him. The Grand Maester was not a religious man, but he knelt beside them with his head bowed, the two dozen chains of his order wound together into metal necklace with each link a different metal. Lord Lyman Beesbury clutched his own chain of golden bumblebees as he prayed. Lord Lyonel Strong was with his children; the strong Ser Harwin, Larys with his clubfoot and cane, young Melesa of only seven, and the even younger Rowena with her septa. Lord Corlys Velaryon even in mourning was richly dressed, kneeling with his daughter Laena, his son and lady wife returned to Driftmark.

Beyond them were the lords and ladies and knights of the king's court. Second sons and daughters, younger brothers and cousins, household knights and foreign emissaries. The twins Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk in matching doublets. Lord Redwyne's brother and nephews. Isembard Arryn. Lady Jocelyn Reyne and her sister Lady Johanna, who many now called the Black Lioness to her face and whispered "Ser Hill" behind her back. Tycho Antaryon, the colorful and lavishly dressed representative from the Iron Bank of Braavos. Suseron Tagaros of Volantis, a scion of the Old Blood, looking all like a Targaryen with his hair like silver and eyes colored like violets. Ser Tyland Lannister, a golden lion on his breast. Ser Bartimos Celtigar. They all knelt and prayed, but it was those that were not present that Alicent noticed more, and she knew many others had as well. Prince Daemon had not graced the Grand Sept atop Visenya's Hill with his presence. He doesn't even believe in the Andal gods. The king had visited in private, before the doors had been opened to the rest of the court, and he was not amongst them now. A king does not kneel, her father's words came to mind, not to the old gods or the new. Alicent thought King Viserys did pray to the gods, just not in the view of others, as the king seemed a private man.

After the septons finished with their prayers, seven septas stood before the altar of the Mother, singing for her mercy. The singing went on rather long, and though Alicent prided herself on her piety, her knees had begun to ache with time. Aegon would not complain like this, fidgeting on the bench. He would find solace in prayer. She saw that Rhaenyra was still like a stone with her head bowed, her gown of mourning in black silk with red trim, the rise and fall of her chest slow and steady, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks. Matters of the heart belong to the Maiden, but even she is not perfect.

When the singing came to an end, and the prayers all said, the morning service came to an end; with another one planned in the afternoon for the smallfolk, and the evening prayers open for all to pay their respects. As the many mourners moved down the aisle to the Father's Antechamber, the princess remained on the bench, seemingly lost in her prayers. And she will want to return this evening, lighting another candle at the Maiden's altar. Whatever had been said between the two Alicent knew not, but after Prince Aegon had left for the Vale, Rhaenyra had shunned the royal sept of the Red Keep, preferring to pray in the Grand Sept built upon Visenya's Hill on the orders of King Aegon the Conqueror. Every day she went to pray, morning and evening, and the surprise on Septa Marlow's face when the princess had asked to include the Seven-Pointed Star in their lessons had been comical. Alicent had nearly giggled at the sight, but Rhaenyra hadn't, nor did she most days. A new sadness clung to her like a shawl, as it did now, and it pained the heart to see in such a beautiful face.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent said softly, as the last stragglers lingered into the Father's Antechamber, and Lord Commander Jeffory Norcross stood vigil alone at the bier.

She swiped a finger across those pale cheeks wet with tears, and then those amethyst eyes opened to look at her, a shuddering breath escaping the princess. "I'm sorry," Rhaenyra whispered.

"No." Alicent squeezed her best friend's hand. "There's nothing to apologize for."

"I… I was lost in my prayers."

Prayers to the Maiden, on matters of the heart. She rubbed Rhaenyra's knuckle with the ball of her thumb, and then gave her hand another squeeze, a soft smile to her lips. "Come," she said, "let us leave the gods for now. Some fresh air might do some good."

Back in the Father's Antechamber, the mourners were huddled in their small groups, speaking softly amongst themselves, and few noticed as they passed. The conversations washed over them like the flowing waters of the Honeywine. "What is to be had of this venture?" Isembard Arryn was saying to Tycho Antaryon. Old Lord Thorne stood bow-backed, speaking of the tourney celebrating a decade of Jaehaerys as king, where Ser Ryam Redwyne had bested all others in the joust and crowned Alysanne as the queen of love and beauty. "That was jousting!" he said to the small crowd gathered around to hear the tale. Young Ser Harry Horpe wished to prove himself worthy to fill the vacant spot on the Kingsguard. Lord Redwyne's nephews were eager for the same, speaking with their fellow knight, while Lord Redwyne's brother remained in deep discussion with the Sea Snake, of cautious words of the Stepstones and Myrish pirates.

Gwayne saw them through the crowd, but Alicent shook her head, and led Rhaenyra past the press, only to come face-to-face with a tall man dressed in Volantene silk with an elephant brooch upon his breast. "Please take this for your tears, princess," Suseron Tagaros said in his lilting Common Tongue, a square of red and black silk between his fingers. "To have your beauty besmirched, a daughter of the noblest blood, is a sin in the eyes of the Lord of Light."

"The Lord of Light," Alicent repeated, knowing the name. R'hllor, the red god of the east, worshipped in temples across the Free Cities and beyond, with one found even in Oldtown. They called him the Lord of Light, the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow. In the eyes of the Seven, he is a false god.

"You know his name." Those violet eyes found Alicent for the first time. "But you do not believe in his fires, preferring your god with the seven aspects. Curious, that."

"I do not believe in this Lord of Light either," Rhaenyra said, clutching the silk square. "But you have my thanks for this, my lord."

"I am no lord, not truly."

"Then who are you?" Alicent asked. She misliked the way of this man. There was something eerily familiar about him, with his silver hair and violet eyes, his handsome face and foreign accent.

"A simple visitor to the court of King Viserys, and a merchant," said Suseron Tagaros, tapping his elephant brooch wrought in gold. "I am new to Westeros. But my elder brothers have visited in the past for a great council called by an old king, and my mother hails from this very city. She described the Red Keep to me when I was a child, and I wished to see it, but now I know that it does not compare to the Black Walls of Old Volantis."

"I have not seen these black walls," Rhaenyra snapped. "But I know that Old Volantis was built by the Valyrians, on the backs of their slaves, and the Seven holds slavery as an abomination." Then she looped their arms and left Tagaros, and Alicent was more than happy to leave him where he stood, no matter how rude they were.

They passed by Laena Velaryon speaking of a dragon sighting along Crackclaw Point with Jeyne Sunglass and Hellen Bar Emmon, kindly brushed off Ser Vorian Darry, the same to Lord Justin Chyttering, and made for the doors. Outside, Ser Harrold Westerling was waiting in his white armor, and across the white square the gold cloaks outnumbered the small groups of mourners, keeping them back until it was time for the afternoon service. The royal carriage awaited them, a squad of Targaryen guards mounted on their horses, but the click of riding boots on marble caught Rhaenyra's ear, and Alicent turned with her.

Then the sisters Reyne approached.

Lady Jocelyn was the elder, taller than both of them by a head. She wore a simple gown of red silk trimmed with Myrish lace of cloth-of-gold around her silver bodice, golden curls bound underneath a silver hairnet. Her blue eyes kind, her smile soft, her manners graceful. "Your Grace," she said, as her sister dipped ever so in curtsy. Lady Johanna was a sharp beauty, slender-waisted and small-breasted, with her braid of midnight black hair that fell over one strong shoulder. Her eyes were brown. "A sad day, to lose a man so noble and chivalrous as Ser Ryam Redwyne."

"Indeed," said Rhaenyra, "it is a sad day. There are few true knights in the realm."

"I find that my mind is clearest when ahorse," Lady Johanna declared after seeing the many members of the king's court slowly make their way into the white square. "Away from all of this. Would you care to join us for a ride, Princess Rhaenyra, Lady Alicent? If only along the river."

Alicent looked to the princess and saw the conflict in her eyes. Returning to their lessons after the tourney's end, the Knight of the Black Cat had been raised as a topic of discussion, and Septa Marlow declared it unladylike for a woman of noble birth to don armor and ride astride, wielding weapons made for a man's hand. A woman's place is not the battlefield, she had said, the histories speaking differently. Princess Nymeria had sailed with her ten thousand ships and conquered Dorne. Queen Visenya had ridden the she-dragon Vhagar into battle, as did Queen Rhaenys on the she-dragon Meraxes, and both had borne King Aegon a son. And Jonquil Darke was famously the sworn shield of Good Queen Alysanne. The Mother and the Father made us in their image, but is Lady Johanna lesser of a woman because she rides, or wears armor?

"I would like that," the princess decided at last, and so it was.

They rode through the King's Gate, three ladies and one princess in riding leathers, twenty Targaryen and Reyne guardsmen and one knight of the Kingsguard at their backs, bearing the royal standard. Along the northern bank of the Blackwater Rush men and boys fished, while ships from the heart of the Riverlands sailed for the harbor, and the sailors of Princess Daenerys – a great war galley of three hundred oars flying the red three-headed dragon – called to them as they passed.

Rhaenyra set them on a hard pace, horses at full gallop, and Alicent found riding astride more difficult than riding sidesaddle. The muscles in her legs and back soon burned with the effort of keeping herself ahorse, but when she heard the sweet laugh of her princess so absent in these recent days, she shouldered the pain. The Realm's Delight should be smiling and laughing, not crying. The tears had come in earnest the day Prince Aegon had left upon Dreamfyre for the Vale, and though they had dried in the days to follow, the sadness had never left. Alicent did not know if it was love, but in the Red Keep's godswood Rhaenyra confessed it was, and at dinner she heard talks of marriage from her lord father, of how politics influenced every match, of what duty demanded of them.

Lady Johanna met Rhaenyra stride for stride, and soon enough a distance grew between them, then a gulf, and Alicent's palfrey started to tire, Lady Jocelyn beside her. "Stay with Rhaenyra," she called to Ser Harrold, and the knight of the Kingsguard nodded to her. Then he was off with the Targaryen guardsmen racing after the pair, and she was left with the Reyne household guard, Lady Jocelyn slowing her mount to match a trot. Then a walk.

"My sister was always the better horseman," Lady Jocelyn said, as they watched them go. "Or should I say horsewoman? Doesn't roll off the tongue as well."

Alicent agreed. "I've always ridden sidesaddle, though never as fast. It feels ungainly to sit like this."

"But so much more commanding, and it seems that Princess Rhaenyra is more than suited, keeping pace with Johanna like it were nothing but a light walk."

She was always meant to have the wind blowing through her hair. "She's flown on dragonback. I think this is nothing but child's play to her."

"And speaking of dragons…" Lady Jocelyn's look was pleasant, but her tone was different. "There is a rumor that the king means to announce a royal betrothal by the year's end, and we are but months away. With Prince Aegon flown back to the Vale, that leaves only two others, and you are friends with the princess."

"I'm not privy to the mind of the king, nor the dealings of the small council," Alicent said stiffly. "But I do know that Rhaenyra is in no desire to be betrothed."

"Begging your pardon, I only meant to make conversation." Her smile was graceful. "You are the daughter of the King's Hand. Many think you are privy to his thoughts."

"My lord father does not indulge in gossip. That would be my brother, he does well enough for our father and myself both. He's the one to go to if you wish for rumors. And what of you, my lady? Surely you have heard what some have said of your sister."

She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth, but Lady Jocelyn paid them no mind, and said, "They are simply words, and the saying 'words are wind' is often true. That Johanna lacks the golden Reyne curls and has brown eyes is of no matter to me. She is my sister, and will always be, like how it seems you are to the princess."

Alicent felt the flush creep up her neck, burning her cheeks with shame, with embarrassment, with memories of soft kisses and a bronze knight's promise on bended knee. "I apologize, for my words were meant to hurt, and yes, Rhaenyra is a dear friend to me."

"We ladies often use our words to hurt, akin to how we use our courtesy as armor, gossip as false flags and misdirection." Lady Jocelyn shook her head. "It is a pity that we can't all be more trusting, that ambition drives us to tears at each other, just to see who will come out on top."

"King's Landing does have a way of pressing down on everyone."

"Ah, let us talk of lighter matters. We rode to escape it all, not bring it with us." She led them into a trot, taking in the summer air. "Johanna wishes to take the long way back to Castamere, along the roseroad to Oldtown, where she wishes to see the Citadel with her own eyes. Then to take a ship to Lannisport, and horses after that."

"She does know that the maesters don't let women into their precious tower?" Alicent had wanted to visit it once, only to learn of the fact from her father, and then again from Uncle Hobert's own maester.

But Jocelyn Reyne only laughed. "My sister rode in the Heir's Tourney as a mystery knight, unhorsing many of the realm's great knights, all without anyone the wiser, until she herself was unhorsed. I'm sure she'll find a way to sneak in. Mayhaps with the help of some indulging lady who grew up in Oldtown?"

"Me?" The thought bewildered her, but a giggle soon came with it, and Alicent did long to see Oldtown and the Hightower again. "I… my place is with my family, and my lord father is like to be Hand of the King for many years more."

"That he is, but it never does hurt to ask."

Alicent thought nothing of it for the rest of the ride, enjoying the flowing talk as much as the fresh air, and found Lady Jocelyn Reyne kinder by far. She was not so devout as some others were, and she did not look down at bastards like many their station did. Her interests were less of politics and more of the arts, of songs and painting, where her sister enjoyed the more martial pursuits. Indeed, Alicent saw as such when they rejoined the forward pair, the Black Lioness and the Realm's Delight still flushed from the speed of their pace. The sun was waning down by then, but they were smiling, and that was all that mattered.

It's good to see her smile, rare as it is these days.

Their pace was sedate on the return, the sisters Reyne taking the lead, leaving the two of them in the rear. A sadness still lived in those amethyst-colored eyes, but Alicent saw them outweighed by that beautiful smile, and how even windswept her silver hair was still becoming. Yet the gods play with your heart. What cruel plan do they have for you, sweet princess, and why must it torment me so?

"My dear Alicent," Rhaenyra said, peering her way. "What is Oldtown like? I think I'd like to visit."