The smell of incense is near as familiar as the large room that spreads out before Queen Alicent Hightower. It is warm and sweet, touches of wild berries and heavy lilies clashing with the fragrance of cloves.
Welcoming.
Her mother loved daubing the scent of sweet fruits onto her slender wrists when Alicent was a girl. It is one of the few memories Alicent can still muster of her, but even now it leaves a pang of longing. It seems ironic that a place of worship would arouse such sadness within her, especially now with the latest shadow marking Alicent's still short life.
Indeed, the dimness of the Royal Sept seems almost to match the gloom that has blanketed the Red Keep since her husband's death. The candles that still haven't burned out cast eerie shadows across the porphyry marble tiles, shadows that pull and stretch at the seams like ghosts, begging to be freed. In front of her, seven altars juxtaposed with stained glass windows welcome her grimly, once the wonders of a little girl's world. Now naught but another myriad of cold stone faces rife with judgement.
Somehow, always the same cold face staring down at her with betrayed purple eyes.
Alicent knows better than to worry, however. She is more like to find her husband alive and hale again than to see that image come to life.
Still, the thought has taken root, and though she is loath to admit it, Alicent cannot deny that her thoughts seem to circle back to her old childhood friend these days. It's a constant gnawing in her gut that she wishes she could wish away as casually as her father might. Lord Otto Hightower has always been like that after all. He sees not the little girl who once led his own daughter everywhere, always the bolder of the two. Nay, Rhaenyra might as well be some faceless wench thinking above her station. A stranger. He holds no real hatred, nor animosity towards her. The princess is an obstacle to him.
Killing her would have been nothing personal.
The thought alone leaves a sour taste in the Queen's mouth near as much as it decries her for her inability to muster up that same indifference. Her steps echo in the empty hall, stretching into the open courtyard that crosses into the stables. Only the candle that she carries births any light, and even then, it masks all the finery of such a holy place. The Seven Pointed Star of worked gold hanging beneath the slant of each golden-crowned roof, silken tapestries of red dragons and white towers hanging idly, panes of pure crystal all lay obscured in the nothingness of night.
Just like the Queen - Dowager Queen, Alicent reminds herself for the fifth time that night- it feels almost in poor taste. The lustrous green velvet of her gown might as well be wrought of abrasive rough cloth from the wretched pits of the city, its gold stitching as dull as brass in the glint of the candlelight. The Queen supposes this is the Seven's own way of asserting their superiority even over the former Queen consort of the Seven Kingdoms, a fact she will not refute.
She is not Rhaenyra to turn away from her faith and duty in the name of obscene self-indulgence, to elude every test thrown her way by spitting on custom and decorum as if she were a common whore.
But should one truly blame Rhaenyra for turning out the way she did? It was not as if her father - Alicent's husband - had been ever truly involved during her teenage years.
He had been too busy calling me to his rooms to do so, she remembers bleakly, brief flashes of years underneath a slowly rotting, rutting corpse coming to the fore, making her come to a stop. Even now, Alicent fights off nausea at the memories of Viserys' later years. She could remember nights spent in the sept in search of reprieve, though she always did her duty no matter how foul and uncomfortable the bedding was.
All while Rhaenyra did what she always did best: taking to bed whomever she so desired and evading every ill consequence. Where any other woman would have found themselves beheaded, Viserys' daughter by his first wife had practically been the only one he mustered any real love and effort for. If only he had done that before Daemon corrupted her with his wanton ways, those actions that rightfully brought about the Doom of Valyria.
If only he had done the same for our wastrel son, she thinks bitterly, marching the final few steps towards the jade plinth that raises the chryselephantine statue of the Mother above her. Lapis lazuli eyes stare down at her own hazel ones, serene and welcoming. Her smile is just as soft and kind, making even cold ivory seem as soft as a feather where the lips curved. Her gown is elaborately made of multi-coloured fabrics: brocaded red silk, lustrous maroon satin, soft purple velvet; all adorned with an assortment of precious gems and raised golden thread.
Alicent can vaguely remember being told that Aegon the Conqueror had had all the statues of the Mother and Maiden within the walls of King's Landing modelled after his favourite sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys who died in Dorne, patron of bards, smallfolk, and all things kind and gentle.
One lickspittle even went so far to claim that Alicent was the Rhaenys to Viserys' Aegon. The Queen had smiled back at him while her husband laughed, but the woman inside could have heard no greater insult.
What a lie that had been! It was another reminder of her. Darling Aemma, that which made Viserys prize Rhaenyra above all else. The true Rhaenys of his heart. As loathsome a witch as she was, Alicent thinks even Visenya is more deserving of this statue than Rhaenys. Never once did she stray from her husband's bed even after he took their younger sister to bride and named her Visenya's equal, nor did she forsake what she viewed to be her son's right.
But this is not a matter of interpretation, Alicent reminds herself again fervently. Viserys' wishes were clear as day and no room for inane debate. It is Aegon whom he wanted to succeed him. Their son, Aegon.
But will Rhaenyra see it as such? Parchment has hardly ever turned a false ruler's heart, the past experiences of youths even less so. Her sons and father certainly believe it to be so. Even then…
A woman's heart has always been different from that of bloodthirsty men, and it is there where Alicent's hope lies. Her hands clasp together in prayer, wondering if somewhere along the Narrow Sea, the Princess of Dragonstone is doing the same, and sees in the Mother the brown-haired, brown-eyed children she will put at risk if she indulges in her foolish pursuit.
Her son's council convenes always within the later hours of the morn, a time where the city of King's Landing is beginning to buzz around like a bee's hive in spring.
An ugly, stinking nest, but a hive of activity nonetheless. The seat she has gotten used to taking is now occupied by the newly crowned king, one of the few times he has deigned to attend anything deemed a war council. Even now, Aegon is resplendent in his black armour, as if his half-sister has already spat upon his generous offer and he is ready to ride to war. The sight of him arouses amusement from within her as much as that growing familiar sense of dread. Aegon is no Aemond; his skills as a warrior are only passable at best. But since his coronation, Alicent has noticed a change in her son. He no longer drinks his merry heart out at brothels with some girl whore perched over his lap. He carries himself as a king would, tall and proud with the Conqueror's crown and sword on him as always. To those who do not know him, Alicent thinks he might actually look the king.
A boastful king as green as grass with a confidence that will fail to emulate a war-like aura in the field, but a king nonetheless.
And kings want war.
Hotheadedness was the way of boys, and not even a crown could temper it. Instead, all the smokey piece of metal and rubies had done was inflame the once shiftless fire.
"Another missive sent without any such response from the princess, your grace," Orwyle starts as soon as the final sphere is tucked into place, his voice as cadent as always. The new Grandmaester- the product of an illicit affair between an Archmaester of the Citadel and some Summer Island Whore of Oldtown - has never been one to wait.
Aegon's lips curl into a sneer. He is so easily angered for someone who has spent his entire life coddled.
Viserys saw something in him.
Some prophetic dream like the kind his ancestor the Dreamer received surely. Aegon is not even in his second decade. Her father thinks there is still time, and Alicent never disagrees. Yet, that servant girl's trembling voice never seems to fade.
"My half-sister continues to ferment rebellion within my realm despite multiple offers of peace. She dares even to crown herself," Aegon grumbles, looking a child once more. His searing purple eyes turn to Otto immediately as he speaks, as if the woman who birthed him and made him king did not sit just right of him. Not Otto, a landless second son given the title of lord out of courtesy.
Her.
"And still," he intones with a sneer, "we sit here laxly, speaking of pleasantries when we should be gathering swords and heads! The first two being those of my traitor half-sister and uncle."
"Your Grace," her father begins with his usual soothing tone. It is the same voice he had used on her and Gwayne when their mother passed. Only back then, it felt more genuine. "I understand your concern, but we must not let the passions of war overrun our better reasoning. The princess remains your close-kin, and to kill her unprompted will only seek to undermine your reign. We will march, but not without coordinating our attack with that of our allies, the last of which still eludes us. Once Prince Aemond returns-"
Aegon snorts loudly at that. "He seems all the more content to loiter around Storm's End. Mayhaps Baratheon may have actually killed the fool."
"Aegon!" Her intake of breath is sharp and her tone angry. "Do not wish such blows upon your brother!"
Her son's face falters for once. Alicent thinks she sees a little boy again.
"It was a jape, mother."
Alicent's scowl only deepens. "One in bad taste."
Across the table, Tyland Lannister lets out a laugh. Alicent's gaze flickers back to the pompous fool, all dressed up in red and cloth-of-gold with a smug smile matching the one wrought of gold thread on the chest of his doublet. Even sitting in a war meeting, he seems as content as a cat.
"With all due respect, my queen," Tyland says sweetly, bowing his head slightly, "the likelihood our prince should fall is laughable. No creature matches Vhagar in both size and ferocity."
Alicent cannot help but fix him with a glare, her expression murderous. "I am sure Queen Rhaenys Targaryen thought the same before her death. Yet it was a Dornish ballista that killed Meraxes, not another dragon."
"Caraxes is barely half Vhagar's size," Lord Tyland says without missing a beat.
"And Prince Aemond has lived less than Daemon has ridden the Blood Wyrm," Alicent cannot help but retort, her anger rising.
"Mayhaps, lord Tyland," her father interjects, his voice as calm and unwavering as ever, "it is in our best interest to cease this argument." His fingers brush over the golden hand pinned to the breast of his emerald doublet again, as if inviting everyone to remember his position. "We must remember that the Queen, no matter how hardened, still possesses a soft woman's heart. To worry for her child is a mother's prerogative."
Alicent's lips thin at that. Her father's voice suggests it all so kindly, and she can see around the council table that everyone of them - these men - send her gazes of sympathy as if she were a wounded doe they took pity on. Not a Queen herself, a woman who could have sent them to the Wall for even the slightest transgression a week past. Just soft and weak.
Funnily enough, she misses Rhaenyra's presence here for the briefest of moments. However contrarian, Alicent cannot help but think she would have been a welcome change. Rhaenyra is a foolish, selfish woman, but she is also headstrong and most of all, sees Alicent as a worthy rival.
Not some lesser to be coddled by men of inferior rank.
"Of course," Tyland manages, his face the picture of innocence. "I meant no harm, your grace. All of King's Landing prays for his safe return."
Alicent wants to laugh. It is such a farce.
No one in King's Landing knows what they want.
The smallfolk still cower in fear in their homes even though Meleys has not been spotted in weeks. Aegon seems to have forgotten of that, though. The princess's head was just another to add to his list. Alicent, on the other hand, still feels her hands tremble when the memory seizes her brain.
As quiet as a shadow, Larys Strong finally leans forward, his head bowed. "Indeed, your grace. I have spies scuttling about the walls of Storm's End as we speak, relaying information to my messengers. We shall know the cause of Prince Aemond's delay before you know it."
His eyes are on her, as knowing and as lecherous as ever. She has seen that gaze too many a time.
He knows.
Good or bad, Larys Strong always seeks to demand a price from her. Acts of utter denigration she is ashamed of partaking. His slimy voice only serves to inflame her rage. It is always a game to him, one where he pulls all the strings.
Surprisingly, it is Aegon who unknowingly comes to her defense. He cuts off his grandfather before Otto is able to formulate his usual calming response with a wave of his hand, as if his Hand were no more than a scullery boy. Her father's face flickers, into shock, then annoyance, but Aegon has already begun.
"I should hope so for your sake," the king threatens his master of whisperers, his nostrils flared in anger. "You prove to be as useful to me as nipples on a breastplate. Any more of this incompetence and mayhaps you will meet the same fate as your sire and brother." His lips crack into a mocking smile. "Another Aegon burning down Harrenhal? Or maybe I should take the other foot and make you a cripple as well?"
The silence in the room is palpable. Like a frightened mouse, Larys visibly retreats, his confidence fading. Alicent does not know whether to relish in it or to burn with resentment. "Of course… My king. I will see to it immediately."
Her son reclines into his seat, his lips downturned. His fingers drum impatiently over the table's pale ivory surface. "Then what are you standing here, waiting for?" He scowls heatedly. "Go!"
Alicent always thought seeing Larys' head would have brought her greater satisfaction. His lecherous eyes are dim, his softly-spoken voice now gone into oblivion, but all she feels is numbness.
Aegon is livid; Alicent cannot remember the last time she has seen him care so much. If she squints, she may yet see a king.
If.
Her eyes are too wet with tears to see anything, really.
Mayhaps if they weren't, she would have seen the veneer of confidence her father always wears crack under the weight of this news. Not in overt concern as much as in worry. Aemond is not dead, but he may as well be. Burns, amputations, infections.
She hates how the Maester of Storm's End made sure to note that it would have been kinder if he had passed. As if Lord Borros' call for neutrality was not insulting enough.
Even more, she hates herself for not digging that cursed dagger into Lucerys Velaryon when he was still a child. The rational part of her that still lingers in the background is horrified. The missive clearly stated that it was Aemond's foolishness that led him to this state.
It never dulls the venomous hatred, however.
All it does is inflame it.
"The whore is dead!" Aegon's voice booms across the room. "Her and her bastards and every treacherous snake that sides with them."
His council agrees, though Alicent knows half of them are ready to turncloak at this very instant. Vhagar is practically useless without Aemond. Short of putting him out of his misery and having one of her young grandchildren claim her, the old wyrm is deadly as a sword's handle. Besides, she will be a corpse before that happens.
For the first time in her life, Alicent finds herself agreeing with him.
A/N: IT'S ALIVE!
