Archive of Our Own

I.

Alicent cradles a book she took from the Red Keep’s library. The Hightowers have long been patrons of the arts and especially of literature, and are big proponents of recording things over time; Alicent believes, like her father and her ancestors did before her, that writing about someone or something that happened can slow the inexorable march of time. Perhaps in the back of her brain she may feel it is a way to preserve her legacy, make her mark on the world: yes, yes, I was here. Alicent Hightower was here.

She thinks Rhaenyra should read and learn more about history, frankly. If she is to inherit the throne someday, which looks likelier and likelier, she really should know the realm intimately, know the customs of the people and the Seven Kingdoms she’ll command.

“Come in,” Rhaenyra says, because she can see Alicent without twisting her spine, just from the vantage point of the clear dragonglass she’s admiring herself in.

Alicent comes closer, bearing the book.

“What are you carrying with you?” Rhaenyra says, experimenting with fastening a diamond necklace around her perfect collarbones. It is nearly blinding in its shine. What would it be like if Alicent fastened it, she wonders. She does these little things for Rhaenyra all the time, really: fixing her jewelry, tightening her corset. She would do more if she could, if she was allowed to. “A History of the Known World,” Alicent replies, shy suddenly, temporarily tongue-tied. “Thought you might like it,” she nearly whispers, and leaves it on her bed.

“Don’t,” says Rhaenyra, and moves sharply. In one quick movement, she stills Alicent with a hand to her wrist; Alicent, paralyzed, dares not to move. Her pulse is racing, and can Rhaenyra feel it? Should she? Does she wish for her to know her, know the depth of her feelings for her, how they race with abandon through her bloodstream like a jousting horse? The book tumbles on soft covers. Alicent forgets about it, forgets about history and duty and the bloody Seven Kingdoms.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent chokes out, surprised. The force with which Rhaenyra holds her—and the force of her eyes blazing, now, darkness and passion combined in a way Alicent’s never seen before—presses her heart to pound on even faster, louder, until it’s roaring like a dragon at her throat. Alicent thinks: if she moves it will spill out.

“I don’t have time to read,” Rhaenyra says, and lets go of Alicent.

The moment’s over. Lost. Gone. Alicent turns to leave. Rhaenyra really has no use for her anymore. Were they even friends, ever, she wonders, or was she more like a beloved pet?

“Wait,” Rhaenyra says. There’s a pleading edge to her voice. “Stay.”

So Alicent turns again, and stays.

“Close the door,” Rhaenyra says.

So Alicent closes the door.

Alicent looks at Rhaenyra—not directly at her, not basking in her light, but at her reflection in the mirror instead. Rhaenyra, under her gaze, collapses.

“I’m so young, and I have to be everything to everyone. The Realm’s fucking Delight.” To Alicent’s surprise, Rhaenyra is repressing a sob. Alicent, solicitous, rushes to comfort her.

Her arms wrap around her shoulders; her fingers gently dawdle over her collarbones, as if she’s asking permission. Rhaenyra isn’t complaining, so fuck, why not.

“Get me out of this godsforsaken corset, Alicent. Please.”

It’s the please that does it, soft and wet with tears, like Rhaenyra really means it, really needs her, her, not any lady-in-waiting or an aide or whomever but her, specifically her, Alicent Hightower; and so, Alicent, eyebrows furrowed, rushes to oblige her queen. She unties the first two knots delicately, fingers trembling; then, she pulls the ties that bind Rhaenyra fervently, quickly, with precision and urgency and hunger.

Because she must be precise and this is urgent and she is hungry. Testing her luck, she finishes her unlacing with her mouth on Rhaenyra’s bare shoulder; the corset falls to the ground, unremarked upon, like gift wrapping once the gleaming jewelry inside it is revealed. Not even parlors full of tiaras made of pure Lannister gold could satisfy Alicent now; she’s always been ambivalent to power, though not impervious to its proximity; she likes to think she is not like her father, who she suspects wants to win rather than just survive; but what she does think will satisfy her is a bite of her future queen’s porcelain skin. And so she takes it. Rhaenyra gasps. So Alicent gasps as well, into the bite, and licks and sucks at her neck, learning the taste of her, oh so slightly salty and slightly foreign but also familiar, somehow, milky, like Rhaenyra’s always been next to her, always been with her; she’s always belonged to her, will never love again like she loves her.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra says.

Her voice is sharp, commanding, like she’s been training. All her life, she will give orders. All her life, Alicent will obey.

Alicent stops immediately. “Yes?” In an instant, she’s domesticated again, back to her usual and yet unusual shyness.

“Can you help me put on that necklace I was trying on?”

Yes, all her life, Rhaenyra will order her around, and all her life, like a wandering vagrant, Alicent will obey.

II.

“Over an insult? My son has lost an eye,” Alicent says. The righteous indignation in her voice, a trait that’s always been present in most things she says like a weight dangling around a convict’s throat, but is even more obvious and perfected now, sharp like a knife, reverberates. Echoes through the room. Raises the tension, which is already unbearable: it is the taut bowstring of a court band’s terrible high-pitched violin, nearly broken; the moment when she’s riding Syrax and she makes a deep drop.

Rhaenyra stares. Not at Aemond or at anything in particular. Horrors like this no longer daunted her. She’d seen worse. And he deserved it. Only a child and already so vile.

When prompted, she says she could not find sleep last night, which is not a lie at all. She can never find sleep anymore. Alicent, angry and burning like she’s always been, fiery red-brown hair and face twisted in the slightest of micro-contractions which she can always read, which she’s always been able to read. She kept it to herself for so long; still does, still will. But she remembers when those sweet brown eyes looked down at her in her lap so tenderly, remembers how her brows used to curl so slightly upwards, like Alicent loved her and she loved her in return. Remembers when everything was simple even under the specter of the inevitable future and the lure of the ambrosiac, dangerous, multiple-edged power of the Iron Throne. Now Alicent hates her, wants to use Aemond against her, make weapons of her sons.

Well, fuck her to seven buggering hells and the Others take her.

Rhaenyra watches the scene, feels the danger in it. All those lords gathered and not a one worthy of basking in her presence.

Her father, weakened but still holding on to power as it is his birthright, proclaims, “And let it be known anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

Alicent sighs in defeat. It echoes through the room, reaching Rhaenyra’s relieved ears. “Thank you, father,” she says. It’s a genuine expression of gratitude and also a taunt. You married an old man, she thinks, for nothing but power. The power that was rightfully mine and you knew it. Or are you so weak and deluded you think you’ll be Queen? She turns to leave, not sparing Rhaenyra another glance.

Suddenly: a cacophony of noise. The sound of a blade being drawn. Rhaenyra turns.

Alicent, in all her furious glory, comes to her like a whirlwind. Like a dragon when angered, only smaller, and somehow deadlier. She’s holding up her father’s dagger, coming closer to her. Rhaenyra remembers playfighting with her as teenagers, when the world was empty and all that existed in the world was the two of them, remembers the feel of Alicent’s body under hers, blooming breasts under her hardened nubs. Remembers how Alicent would never win. Often it was because Rhaenyra had better training, but she suspected sometimes it was on purpose. Alicent always did like falling under her. Was so quick to get on her knees.

Hit me, she says with her eyes. Hit me like you so clearly want to. But Alicent can’t.

The dagger trembles in her hand. Rhaenyra, stronger now than she used to be, holds her off. The lords, the ladies, her father, and all the sworn knights: they stare, they shout, they fret. But there’s no one else in the world right now. Alicent’s eyes are crazed with incandescent anger. Rhaenyra stares down with what she hopes is coldness and loathing. She finds, with her hand around her wrist, her breath on her breath, something else in Alicent’s eyes: indecent desire.

Late at night, when the king’s asleep, Alicent will slip into her bedroom. Rhaenyra will still be awake, because these days she always is. She will be alone, because everyone knows Laenor does not share her bed. Rhaenyra should be disgusted—Alicent fucked her father, by Old Valyria—but she won’t be. Instead, in the dark, she’ll paw at Alicent like an animal, Alicent who’ll whisper I fucking hate you in her ear, and she’ll say then fucking prove it, and Alicent will look at her with those sweet incandescent indecent brown eyes of hers and say, I don’t know if I should kill you or fuck you, and Rhaenyra, cold as ice, will say, either’s quite alright with me, and Alicent will laugh as if she’s still surprised, as if they don’t do this all the time, and before she knows it, she’ll be untying her corset; and then they’ll both be naked, breasts out, the chill of the wind or the heat of the moment causing their nipples to rise; and she’ll let Alicent take her like she’d won the fight earlier, like she’d ever win a fight against her, fast and violent and crude fingers against and inside Rhaenyra’s royal bloody body. She’ll mouth at Alicent’s neck from under her, precise at first then broken up by fiery breaths; they’ll be writhing already, they’ll both come together, like an eternity has passed, or perhaps no time at all.