Chapter 3: 'Machinations'
Author's Note:
I may not be the best at story-building, but I hope I can make this an enjoyable experience for you. I write because I love sharing this journey with all of you,— and, of course, because writing brings me some sense of joy.
So I hope you guys do enjoy the chapter!
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"If there was one thing I never foresaw, it was meeting the uncle I'd only known through tales,— of his unmatched skill with a sword, his fire-lit charisma, and his romantic spirit. Yet his return altered the course of all our lives, threading his presence through our fates like a relentless storm."
— An older Rhaenyra Targaryen.
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| 105 AC - The Next Morning, Red Keep Guest Chambers - Corlys Velaryon 3rd Person Pov:
The morning light crept reluctantly through the heavy, velvet curtains of Rhaenys Targaryen's chamber. Only faint traces of daylight slipped past the fabric, casting thin, pale streaks along the walls. The air was thick with the lingering scent of incense,— amber and myrrh,— an attempt, perhaps, to mask the tension that hung like smoke between husband and wife.
Corlys Velaryon stood near the chamber's hearth, his back to the room, hands clasped behind him as he stared into the flames. The fire roared steadily, licking at the logs with hungry tongues, casting a warm glow that barely touched the chill in his chest. His face was unreadable, set in that stony expression he wore when his mind weighed matters of consequence.
Behind him, Rhaenys sat by the window in a high-backed chair, her silhouette framed by the reluctant dawn. Her posture was regal, every inch the queen she might have been, though her title remained only a bitter moniker,— the 'Queen Who Never Was'.
She had grown accustomed to such disappointments, to watching the Iron Throne pass her by, yet there was a strength in her gaze, a defiant glint that lingered as she watched her husband in silence.
At last, Corlys spoke, breaking the stillness with a voice low and deliberate. "Viserys has no queen." he said, his tone careful, measured, as though he were gauging each word's weight. "And with Aemma gone, the realm will press him to wed again. Soon enough, they will all clamor for a new queen at his side." He paused, letting his words settle. "There is no better choice than our own daughter."
Rhaenys remained motionless, though her gaze sharpened, her violet eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The suggestion lay between them like a drawn blade.
"You would marry our daughter to a grieving king?" Her tone was mild, but there was an edge beneath the softness, a steel that had been tempered in years of quiet disappointment.
Corlys turned to face her fully, his expression as hard as Valyrian steel. "A grieving king, yes,— but a king nonetheless. The blood of Old Valyria flows in her veins, as it does in ours. Laena is a Velaryon, and she has every right to stand beside Viserys as his queen. Think of it, my love. The union of Targaryen and Velaryon, bound even closer, the bloodlines of Valyria entwined as they should be. This is not merely a marriage. It is the legacy of our house."
Rhaenys tilted her head slightly, a faint, ironic smile tugging at her lips. "And yet, I remember a time when you thought that legacy might have been mine." she said, her voice tinged with something wistful. Her gaze drifted past him, as though she were seeing beyond the walls of this chamber, to a throne and marriage she had once been denied.
Corlys's jaw clenched, and a flicker of frustration passed across his face. "The realm has made its choice, and it has cast you aside. But Laena… she can still take her place."
Rhaenys gave a soft, bitter laugh, a sound that held more weight than words could express. "You speak of unions and bloodlines as if they were pieces on a cyvasse board, Corlys. Have you forgotten that Viserys already has an heir in Rhaenyra? The lords of the realm will do well to name her as his successor."
Corlys's mouth tightened at that. He knew his wife too well, knew that the shadow of her lost crown still darkened her heart, though she bore it with stoic grace. And he knew, too, that Rhaenyra's claim would mean a life of uncertain power, an unstable future for any who tied their fortunes to hers.
"Even if he names her, she will face endless opposition." he replied, his voice unyielding.
"The realm will call for a son, for strength. Men do not willingly place swords in a woman's hand and bid her to lead them. Rhaenyra is his blood, yes, but she is no son. And she was not raised to lead."
Rhaenys's eyes hardened, her gaze like tempered glass. "But our daughter… You would throw her into that den of vipers, into a court that has little love for women in power?"
"Laena is strong, as you are." Corlys countered. "She is of Velaryon blood, worthy of that throne. And she would bear him sons, heirs strong and proud, who could silence any who question their claim."
Rhaenys watched him, her expression softening, touched by something that could have been regret, or pity. "And is that truly what you desire, Corlys? To place our daughter at the mercy of those who see her as no more than a vessel, a pawn for their ambitions?"
Before he could answer, the door burst open, and Laena entered with her younger brother, Laenor, trailing behind her. They swept into the room, laughter on their lips, oblivious to the heavy conversation they had interrupted.
Laena's eyes sparkled as she took in her parents, her wild silver hair bouncing with each step. Even at twelve, she possessed a striking beauty, her silver-gold hair and violet eyes marking her as unmistakably of Valyrian blood. Laenor, younger and bright-eyed, wore a mischievous grin that mirrored his sister's, his cheeks flushed from whatever mischief they had left behind in the halls.
"Mother! Father!" Laena exclaimed, halting before them with a bright smile. She glanced from Corlys to Rhaenys, curiosity flickering in her gaze. "Why do you both look so serious? Are we planning some grand adventure?"
Rhaenys's expression softened as she reached out to stroke Laena's hair, smoothing the wild curls with a tender hand.
"Perhaps an adventure of sorts." she murmured, her tone gentle, though layered with meaning that her daughter would not yet grasp, and Laena's eyes lit up, grinning and turning eagerly to Corlys. "Does this adventure involve dragons, then? Will I be able to ride Vhagar soon?"
Corlys himself managed a faint smile, though a flicker of hesitation crossed his face as he looked upon his daughter. He saw more than her innocence; he saw the weight of what he had just suggested to Rhaenys,— a life bound to a throne, a life that could shatter that innocence forever.
"It may yet involve dragons." he replied softly, his tone almost reluctant. Laenor nudged his sister, a teasing glint in his eyes.
"You'd have to learn patience first, sister. Mother says you lack that virtue." Laena laughed, giving him a playful shove.
"Patience is for septas, not dragonriders!" Yet her gaze shifted back to Corlys, a shrewdness there that belied her years. "But what is it truly, Father?"
Corlys hesitated, torn between the urge to shield her and the weight of his own ambitions. Kneeling before her, he took her hands, his gaze intense. "Laena, you are no septa. You are a Velaryon, and Targaryen blood flows in your veins. Do you know what that means?"
Laena tilted her head thoughtfully. "It means… it means we are close to gods and dragons, closer than anyone else." She looked up at him with a hint of pride. "It means I am my father's daughter."
Corlys smiled faintly, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "It means you are meant for greatness, Laena. There is a king upon the Iron Throne who may yet look to our house for strength, for loyalty… and perhaps, for a queen."
Laena's eyes widened, and she looked to Rhaenys, as if seeking reassurance. Her mother's face was grave, her gaze distant once more. "It is not a fate to be taken lightly, my love." Rhaenys murmured, reaching for her daughter's hand. "If you were to take such a path, you would bear the weight of the realm upon your shoulders."
Laena's gaze shifted back to Corlys, a hint of fear in her voice. "Is that what you want, Father? For me to be a queen?"
Corlys's hand tightened on hers, his expression firm. "What I want, Laena, is for our blood to be remembered through history, for House Velaryon to stand beside the greatest, unbowed and unbroken. That is the legacy I would try and give you."
The chamber fell silent, the crackling of the hearth the only sound. Laenor stood beside his sister, his face uncertain, sensing the gravity of their father's words though he could not fully understand them.
At last, Laena spoke, her voice soft but steady. "If that is our legacy… then I will be worthy of it." A swell of pride mingled with sorrow in Corlys's heart. His daughter was no longer the little girl he had held, no longer the child he could protect from the world's cruel ambitions. She was becoming something more,— something grander and infinitely more vulnerable. She was stepping into a role that would demand more than courage, it would require resilience, sacrifice, and a wisdom beyond her years.
Corlys rose slowly, resting a hand on her slender shoulder, feeling the frail bones beneath the silk of her dress. "Then remember this, Laena..." he said, his voice low, measured. "A dragon may bow to no one, yet even a dragon can be bound by those who know where to press." He glanced toward Rhaenys, who watched him with that familiar blend of pride and doubt.
"Strength is not just fire and fury, it is in knowing when to yield, and when to strike."
Laena's young face took on a look of determination, her chin lifting, though the gleam in her eyes held more uncertainty than she might care to admit. "I understand, Father. I will be strong for our house, for the Velaryons."
With a soft smile, Corlys brushed a lock of hair from her face, a bittersweet pang lodging in his chest. She was so young, barely more than a child, and yet here he was, laying the weight of their family's ambition upon her shoulders. He glanced at Laenor, who watched his sister with a mixture of admiration and unease.
Rhaenys, who had remained silent during this exchange, stepped forward, her gaze softening as she placed a gentle hand on Laena's cheek. "My sweet girl." she murmured, her voice rich with love and quiet resignation, "Do not ever mistake duty for destiny. There are paths that lead to honor and paths that lead to sorrow. Choose with care."
Laena nodded, though her young face remained resolute. She gave her mother a quick hug, then tugged her brother's sleeve, a spark of youthful energy rekindling as she whispered to him. "Come, Laenor! I'm sure Rhaenyra is waiting for us, and we can show her the new dances we learned."
Laenor's face brightened, and he threw one last uncertain look at his parents before following his sister out the door, their laughter trailing behind them, filling the silent, heavy air of the chamber with a fleeting joy. When the door closed, the mirth faded, and only the tension between husband and wife remained.
Rhaenys turned to Corlys, her expression grave, her eyes shining with the weight of unspoken fears. "Corlys… she is but a child. Do you truly believe this course is right?"
Corlys exhaled deeply, moving to the window and looking out across the Red Keep and toward the distant sea. "She is young, yes." he murmured, almost to himself, "But so were we when we began to understand what it meant to be part of these houses, this legacy. We are Velaryon and Targaryen, Rhaenys. Our place is by the throne, in power, not in obscurity."
Rhaenys joined him at the window, her gaze distant as she looked over the courtyard below, where servants moved like ghosts in the morning light. "Yet, power can come at too great a cost. You speak of legacy, but what of the risks? Viserys may name her queen, but he has a daughter of his own,— a girl who may be named heir,— a girl who may one day seek the same throne as whatever sons my cousing may come to have."
Corlys's face darkened, his gaze sharpening.
"Rhaenyra may be the king's blood, but the realm will always look to a son or a queen who can bear sons. Laena would secure the future of the realm as no other could." He softened, taking her hand, his eyes intense.
"Think of what we can give her, Rhaenys. She would be remembered as one of the greatest, as you should have been. Our blood belongs with the Iron Throne, even if it is not yours to sit upon." Rhaenys's face softened, but there was a sadness there, a flicker of something he could not quite read, or understand. "I know you believe this, Corlys..." she said quietly, "... and I know you have always wanted this for our blood, for our children. But remember, ambition has torn greater men apart, and it has led even great dragons to ruin. You speak of legacies, yet you forget that sometimes legacies are measured in tears."
She turned from the window, her gaze heavy with a lingering sorrow as she crossed the room to sit near the fire. The crackling flames cast flickering shadows across her face, illuminating the lines of a woman who had seen dreams of love rise and fall, who had watched the throne she once sought drift ever further from her grasp. Corlys watched her, feeling a pang of guilt,— a subtle ache that he buried beneath the resolve he had honed over years of navigating the stormy waters of court.
After a long silence, he joined her by the hearth, lowering himself into the chair opposite. "Rhaenys." he began softly, his voice carrying a note of vulnerability seldom heard, "I cannot turn from this path. I see the possibilities, the strength that Laena could bring to this realm. I do not want her to be… forgotten, cast aside as you were. I want her to be seen."
Rhaenys studied him, her face softening as she saw the honesty in his eyes. She reached across the space between them, taking his hand, her touch warm and steady.
"Then let us hope, that the gods have chosen wisely." she murmured. "For in this, once the choice is made, there may be no going back." They sat together, hand in hand, as the fire crackled between them. The silence that settled was one of quiet resignation, an unspoken acknowledgment that the path they chose might lead to greatness, or it might lead to ruin.
Either way, the game had begun, and their daughter, young and unknowing as she was, had become a piece in that dangerous dance. In the time to come, Corlys Velaryon would present Laena as a queenly candidate to the king, and they would await Viserys's decision. But in that moment, by the warmth of the fire and the distant cries of gulls beyond the walls, they were simply a mother and father, bound by love and driven by dreams once shattered, hoping the choices they made would bring honor, not sorrow, to their name.
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| 105 AC - Noon (A few days later), Small Council Chambers - Otto Hightower 3rd Person Pov:
The midday sun filtered through the high, narrow windows of the council chambers, casting slanted beams of light across the polished oak table. Dust motes danced in the sunlight, drifting aimlessly, yet Otto Hightower's thoughts were anything but idle.
His mind worked with a singular purpose as he took his seat, hands folded before him, his gaze traveling over the assembled faces of the council. Today, he sensed, words spoken in this chamber would shape the realm's future.
At the table's head sat King Viserys, his gaze shadowed, the pallor of grief still evident upon his face. The lines etched across his brow spoke of sleepless nights and private anguish, his recent loss had drawn years upon him like lines in sand, fragile yet deep.
Yet, beneath the weight of sorrow, Otto sensed a kindling of something else in the king,— an emerging resolve, perhaps, as though his mourning were giving way to a hardened purpose.
Around the table, murmurs rose as the council lords discussed a matter that had been slowly gathering momentum, the need for a new queen. Lord Lyman Beesbury was the first to broach the topic, his voice firm, seasoned by years of service. "His Grace will need to remarry." he said, looking around the table. "The realm will not long abide an empty throne beside him. And we should consider, too, the need for sons,— no kingdom is safe without an heir, and an heir's heir."
Several councilors nodded in agreement, and Otto listened with a thoughtful expression, though his mind was several steps ahead. A new queen would bring stability to Viserys's reign, certainly, but the choice of queen would decide more than just peace at court,— it would determine the very alliances that might one day shape Westeros.
Lyman was already offering names, listing eligible maidens from families of high birth, those with beauty, wit, and ties that could strengthen the bonds of loyalty among the lords of Westeros.
Lord Corlys Velaryon leaned forward then, his eyes sharp and knowing. "His Grace would do well to consider my daughter, Lady Laena." he said smoothly, his tone betraying none of the ambition beneath. "A match with House Velaryon, that would bind the blood of Old Valyria closer still. No truer loyalty exists than that which flows in our shared bloodlines."
The Sea Snake's words hung in the air, potent with implication. Corlys's shrewd gaze flicked toward Viserys, but the king's face remained unreadable, his thoughts veiled. Otto noted the slight tightening of Viserys's jaw, a reaction that others might miss, but which Otto noted with satisfaction.
The king's grief was still fresh, and though a remarriage would serve the realm, Viserys might yet resist the notion of such an immediate union.
Waiting for the right moment, Otto inclined his head, adopting a tone of calm authority as he spoke. "His Grace requires more than merely a bride of beauty or noble blood." he said, his voice smooth as silk, carrying a subtle weight. "A queen of steady character, one who can offer him not only companionship but wisdom and solace, especially in these days of sorrow."
He let his words settle, his eyes fixed on Viserys, gauging his reaction. A younger queen, younger than Aemma had been.
Otto knew, would be more malleable, more attuned to Viserys's needs, someone who could provide not only heirs but a balm to the king's lingering grief. And his own daughter, Alicent,— graceful, kind, and wise beyond her years,— was, in Otto's mind, the perfect choice. Not for Viserys, necessarily, but for Otto's ambitions and the rise of House Hightower.
Viserys gave a slight hesitant nod, though his gaze drifted again, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.
And Otto's mind raced, he could sense the shifting tide, the window of opportunity widening. He would need to tread carefully, yet the path before him was clear.
Seeing the moment, Otto smoothly transitioned to the next matter. "With Prince Daemon… removed from the capital..." he began, allowing the words to hang briefly, as if letting the implication settle, "... the Goldcloaks find themselves without a leader. This position is one that demands an able man,— a loyal one. Lord Harwin Strong comes to mind, a man of experience and unquestionable fidelity."
The suggestion pleased several members of the council, surprisingly.
Lord Beesbury muttered in agreement, noting Harwin's reputation as a man of valor and strength. Lord Celtigar gave a gruff hum of approval, though Lord Lyonel Strong, Harwin's father, remained silent, offering neither support nor objection,— a prudent choice, Otto thought, given the delicacy of the matter.
But as Otto's gaze turned to the king, he saw Viserys's expression harden slightly, a flicker of something like defiance crossing his face.
"No." Viserys said firmly, his tone catching the council's attention. "Harwin Strong is a fine knight indeed, but he will not command the City Watch. I have… other plans."
The king's voice left no room for argument, but his choice of words ignited a murmur around the table.
"Other plans." He had said, and yet he offered no explanation.
Viserys's silence left Otto with a vague unease, a hint of frustration bubbling beneath his composed exterior. It was unlike Viserys to keep such intentions from his Hand. "Of course, Your Grace." Otto replied smoothly, masking his disappointment with a respectful nod. But within him, a subtle tension began to build. Viserys's secrecy was troubling. If the king were planning something of this significance without him, it signaled a shift in trust, perhaps even a new confidence that might make him less malleable, less open to his counsel.
And as the council murmured among themselves, Viserys looked to the Grand Maester. "Maester Runciter." he called, his voice carrying a quiet edge, "Have we received word of when the remaining lords will arrive?"
The Grand Maester nodded, his expression calm and deferential. "Aye, Your Grace. Riders have reported that the Vale, the Riverlands, and the North have all sent representatives who will arrive by nightfall. The final preparations for tomorrow's ceremony will be ready in time."
Viserys nodded, his satisfaction clear, though Otto saw something beneath it,— a flicker of tension, of anticipation. Otto knew that Viserys rarely kept secrets, yet here was the king, tightly guarding something from the council.
The letter.
Otto thought darkly. Since its arrival days ago, Viserys had withdrawn into private meetings, and now, even in the council, he withheld his plans.
And as the council rose, the lords bowing to Viserys and making their way from the chambers, Otto lingered, watching the king closely as he strode from the room.
The confidence in Viserys's step, the assuredness in his bearing, unsettled Otto more than he cared to admit. The once-grieving king seemed newly resolved, driven by some purpose Otto had not foreseen. The departure of Daemon, the secrecy surrounding this "other plan",— it all stirred an unease that gnawed at him.
When the chamber finally emptied, Otto returned to his own quarters in the Tower of the Hand, his mind whirling with suspicions.
He closed the heavy door behind him, resting his back against the cool wood, and allowed himself a rare moment to think openly. If Viserys was keeping secrets, he could not afford to remain blind. His position as Hand depended on his vigilance, and House Hightower's rise depended on his ability to control or at least foresee the king's intentions.
With a slight gesture, he summoned his guards. "Send them in." he ordered curtly.
The door opened, and two figures entered, cloaked and silent. These were Otto's spies, men whose loyalties had been meticulously secured, and whose skills in uncovering secrets were unparalleled.
"Speak." he commanded, his voice a low, controlled murmur.
The first spy, a wiry man with sharp eyes, exchanged a glance with his companion before answering. "The king has been… preoccupied, my lord. Since receiving the sealed Targaryen letter, he has held private meetings,— though we have not learned with whom. His chambers have been guarded heavily, and his visitors closely watched."
Otto's eyes narrowed. Viserys had long been open with him, but this secrecy was unprecedented. The letter lingered in his mind, a dark question mark that tainted his sense of control. It gnawed at him, even as he forced himself to remain expressionless.
"And of Prince Daemon?" Otto pressed, his impatience seeping through.
The spy shook his head. "We know little of his movements since leaving King's Landing. He departed swiftly, under the cover of night, bound for the Vale."
Otto's mouth set in a thin line. Daemon's banishment was both a relief and a complication. The Rogue Prince's removal had paved the way for his own ambitions for Alicent, but he knew Daemon too well to believe the prince would remain idle, especially after such a humiliation.
Too easy. He thought, his lips pressing into a hard line.
With a curt nod, he dismissed the spies, his mind racing. His thoughts lingered on the implications of all he had learned and, more troublingly, on all that remained unknown.
Viserys's newfound secrecy, the arrival of the mysterious letter, and Daemon's shadowy departure all pointed to a shifting landscape.
Westeros was a realm where even whispers could set kingdoms ablaze, and Otto knew that if he was to stay ahead, he would need to unearth every hidden motive, every lurking threat.
The heavy door closed behind the spies, leaving Otto alone in the dim warmth of his solar. He moved to the window, looking out over King's Landing. From this height, the city stretched out before him, its towers and walls rising like jagged teeth, and the smallfolk below looked like little more than ants scurrying along their daily tasks. The scene was almost peaceful, yet Otto knew better. This city was a den of secrets, a place where loyalties shifted with the wind, where blood ties could become nooses around one's neck.
He allowed his gaze to wander toward the distant Red Keep, where the king's private chambers lay hidden behind walls and guards, beyond even his reach. He knew Viserys was not the sort to maneuver in shadows, yet something had driven him to keep his intentions veiled. And the thought that he, Otto Hightower,— the Hand of the King,— was being kept in the dark, unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Otto's fingers drummed against the windowsill, a habit of his when deep in thought. He considered what his next steps should be, weighing his options as carefully as a man preparing for war. Information was his weapon, and if Viserys had chosen to shut him out, he would find other ways to keep abreast of the king's designs.
He paced the room, his mind sharpening with purpose. Daemon's banishment had opened a path, but Aemma's death had widened it. With the throne bereft of a queen, the kingdom's stability was at stake,— and Alicent could be the key to solidifying it. Yet, for her to ascend, Otto would need to play his part carefully, applying just the right pressure, speaking just the right words.
Summoning a servant, he issued an order to prepare a quiet meeting with the most trusted among his own household guard, men who could blend in with the commonfolk of the city, who could hear the gossip among the taverns and markets where the lords and ladies rarely ventured. If the king's confidences could not be pried open within the Keep, perhaps they could be uncovered outside it.
As the servant departed, Otto took a long, steadying breath, already envisioning how he would present Alicent. She was young but composed, a picture of grace and loyalty.
She had spent countless hours with Viserys in these past days, a quiet presence by his side in his grief. She had already begun to work her way into his favor, and Otto intended to see that bond strengthened.
(A/n: Such a blind man, I wish I could kill him some day.)
Turning from the window, he moved to the small desk near the hearth, where an array of parchments lay scattered. He sat down, taking up a quill, and began writing a letter,— a message to his own agents across Westeros. He would need allies, ears in every great house, eyes watching the movements of every lord and lady. He needed to know if there were whispers of discontent, or worse, if anyone suspected the subtle ambitions he was weaving.
As he wrote, Otto's thoughts drifted to the future he envisioned for House Hightower,— a future that reached not only into the Red Keep but onto the Iron Throne itself. Alicent was his weapon, his carefully honed instrument, and he had prepared her for this from the moment he understood the dangers and opportunities that lay within courtly life.
She would sit beside the king, not as a mere consort, but as his closest confidante, his solace, and, if Otto's plans succeeded, the mother of his sons.
The crackling of the hearth was the only sound in the room as he completed the letter, sealing it with the Hightower sigil. With a final glance at the flame-marked wax, he set the letter aside and rose from his seat, feeling the weight of his purpose settle over him like armor.
His ambitions were bold, yes,— but Otto knew that in a world like theirs, only the bold would survive.
Tomorrow, as the king prepared to make his declaration, he would be watching,— every look, every word, every stray thought that flickered across Viserys's face would be noted, dissected. He would be ready, and so would his daughter. The lords of Westeros might think themselves players in this game, but Otto intended to be the hand guiding every move, every shift.
The pieces were once more in motion.
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| 105 AC - Early Afternoon, Tower of the Hand, Otto Hightower's Solar – Alicent Hightower POV:
The stone corridors of the Tower of the Hand were quiet as Alicent made her way to her father's solar, the muted sounds of her footsteps echoing faintly off the walls.
Outside, sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting slanted beams across the stone floor. But within the tower, the air felt cool and shadowed, as if even the daylight dared not intrude too deeply into the Hand's domain. Alicent's heart beat a little faster as she approached the heavy wooden door, guarded on either side by two silent men in the Hightower livery.
"Lady Alicent." one of the guards greeted her with a respectful nod, opening the door for her. She inclined her head politely, masking the uncertainty that gnawed at her. She wondered what her father wished to discuss with her, especially now.
Her father's summons were rare and typically foreboding. They often signaled that he had a purpose for her, one calculated and deliberate, and she could feel the anticipation thrumming in her veins as she stepped inside.
Otto Hightower's solar was as austere as ever, its walls lined with books and scrolls that held the secrets of Westeros, its furnishings chosen more for utility than for comfort. A solitary small fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows along the walls.
Her father sat at his desk, quill in hand, his eyes fixed intently on a piece of parchment before him, as though he hadn't even noticed her arrival. He did not look up, his brow furrowed in concentration as he continued his work, and a faint sense of foreboding stirred in her chest.
Alicent shifted slightly, the silence stretching uncomfortably as she waited for him to acknowledge her. Her gaze drifted around the room, noting the various scrolls and letters piled neatly on the desk, the symbols of power and influence scattered throughout the space. Her father had always wielded authority with a cold, methodical precision, yet there were moments when his ambitions felt like a weight she could not escape.
Finally, she cleared her throat softly, her voice hesitant. "Father." she began, breaking the silence. "You called for me?"
Otto looked up at last, his expression unreadable, though his keen gaze lingered on her for a moment as if assessing her, as if calculating her worth. He set the quill down, folding his hands neatly atop the parchment as he met her eyes, his silence as heavy as stone.
"Daughter." he said at last, his tone measured, almost distant. "I trust you've been… attentive to His Grace these past few days?"
Alicent's brow furrowed slightly, her hands clasped tightly before her. "I have, Father." she replied cautiously, uncertain of where this conversation was leading. "I have done as you instructed, offering him comfort in his grief. He is deeply sorrowed by the loss of the late Queen Aemma."
Otto inclined his head, but there was no warmth in his gaze. "Grief is a powerful thing." he murmured, his voice low, contemplative. "It softens the heart, makes a man vulnerable. It is in these moments that loyalty, devotion… and companionship become all the more meaningful."
Alicent's stomach twisted, a flicker of unease stirring within her. She had spent hours with Viserys over these past days, listening to his sorrows, offering quiet words of solace as he spoke of Aemma, of Rhaenyra, of the weight of the crown that pressed heavily upon him.
She had done so dutifully, hoping only to ease his pain. Yet the look in her father's eyes told her that there was more at stake than mere comfort.
"Father..." she began, her voice cautious, "I am happy to be of aid to His Grace in his time of need. But surely he will need more than companionship as he moves forward. He will need a queen, one who can stand beside him as a true partner, will he not?"
Otto's gaze sharpened then, a glint of calculation flashing in his eyes. "Precisely." he said, his tone cool, clipped. "The king will need a new queen,— a woman of dignity, of loyalty, one who can bring him peace amidst the trials of his reign."
A cold realization dawned upon her, her heart sinking as she began to understand his intent. She felt her hands tremble slightly, though she willed them to remain steady.
"Father… you do not mean…" Alicent saw her father leaning forward, his gaze unwavering, steely. "It is no secret that Viserys will be urged to remarry. The lords will clamor for it, the court will expect it,— and the small council already has. But he does not need some distant lady with no understanding of his grief. He needs someone who is already by his side, someone who can soothe his wounds and, in time, become more to him."
Her voice came out as a whisper, barely audible. "You mean for me to… to court his grace?"
"To do what is necessary, for our family." he corrected, his tone cold and unyielding. "His Grace trusts you, relies on you. You have shown him kindness when he has known only loss. He is a king, Alicent, but he is also a man,— a man who is vulnerable, who needs comfort. This is your opportunity, one that may never come again."
Alicent's throat tightened, her eyes stinging as she realized the full weight of his expectations. The king,— her friend's father.
Viserys had always been kind to her, a steady presence at court, but to look upon him as more than her sovereign, more than the father of her dearest friend Rhaenyra…
The thought made her feel cold, hollow.
"But, Father… Rhaenyra…" Her voice faltered, her fingers instinctively picking at the skin near her nails, a nervous habit she had never been able to break. "She is my friend. How can I,— how can I betray her in this way?"
Otto's expression hardened, his gaze narrowing. "Rhaenyra is a child, Alicent." he replied dismissively, his tone cutting. "She will not understand the weight of what is at stake. This is about the realm. About House Hightower. Our family's position in Westeros hangs in the balance. If you do not act, another will,— and they may not be as… considerate of your friend's feelings."
Alicent felt a tear slip down her cheek, but she quickly brushed it away, swallowing hard as she struggled to steady her voice. "Is this truly necessary? I am content to serve as his companion, to comfort him, but to… to take her late grace's place… I am not ready for such a role."
Otto's gaze bore into hers, cold and unyielding. "You are a Hightower, Alicent. You were raised to serve your family, to advance our house. You may not feel ready, but readiness is a luxury we cannot afford."
He leaned forward once again, his voice dropping to a whisper, laced with a steel edge. "You will wear one of your mother's gowns tonight. Something that will remind His Grace of your beauty, of the grace that you bring to court. You will go to him, offer him the comfort he seeks,— and make him see what he could have by his side, not merely as a companion, but as a queen."
Alicent's hands tightened, her nails biting into her skin as she struggled to hold back a sob. She felt trapped, cornered by the relentless ambition that drove her father, by the weight of expectations she had carried since childhood. She had always been obedient, had always done as she was told, yet this… this felt like a betrayal, not only of herself but of Rhaenyra, of the innocent friendship they had shared.
"Do you understand me, Alicent?" Otto's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and commanding.
"Yes, Father." she whispered, her voice trembling, barely more than a breath. She dared not look up, dared not let him see the fear, the sorrow that clouded her gaze.
Otto nodded, his expression softening by a fraction, though his gaze remained calculating. "Good. Do not let your emotions cloud your purpose, Alicent. What we do now will secure not only your future, but the future of our house. Do not let sentiment stand in the way of your duty."
She managed a nod, her mind numb as his words echoed within her.
Duty. Purpose. Legacy.
Words that held such weight, that bound her as surely as iron chains. She felt as though the walls of the chamber were closing in, suffocating her beneath the weight of expectations she had never asked for.
Otto leaned back, his gaze never leaving her.
"Remember, Alicent..." he said, his tone softer but no less firm, "... the path of a queen is not without sacrifice. If you succeed, you will be remembered as one of the most influential women in the realm. This is the price we pay for greatness."
Alicent rose slowly, her body feeling heavy, as though the burden of her father's words had seeped into her very bones. She managed a nod, her gaze lowered, afraid that he might see the turmoil in her eyes, the doubt, the guilt. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly in the silent chamber.
And as she stepped out of the solar, the door closing heavily behind her, she felt the weight of her father's words pressing down upon her, like a mantle she could never shed.
Her breaths came shallow, each one a silent plea for relief, yet the air felt thin, offering no solace. Her fingers trembled as she clenched them tightly, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to keep the tears at bay. She could not afford to cry here, not within earshot of her father's guards, not where anyone could see the cracks in her composure.
She took one, then two steps down the corridor, the walls closing in around her like the stone walls of a prison. The familiar passageways that led to her own quarters felt foreign now, a maze she had no hope of escaping. Each step was a reminder of the burden placed upon her, a reminder of the choice that had been stripped away.
It was only when she rounded a corner, far from prying eyes, that she allowed her hand to rise, pressing it against her mouth to stifle the sob that had clawed its way up her throat. The sorrow and confusion she had so carefully hidden came rushing to the surface, and she felt hot tears spill down her cheeks, trailing paths of silent misery. Her father's words echoed in her mind, cold and unyielding, each one a bar on the cage that now held her.
The weight of it all was too much,— the betrayal of her friendship with Rhaenyra, the loss of her own agency, the cold knowledge that she was being turned into a tool, a pawn in her father's grand designs. She could feel the splintering inside her, the delicate threads of who she was being slowly unraveled and rewoven into something she could scarcely recognize. The obedient daughter, the loyal friend,— those parts of herself had been stripped away, leaving behind a hollow shell.
Her hand fell to her side, and she stared blindly down the corridor, her vision blurred with tears. The grandeur of the Red Keep loomed around her, but she felt only a crushing sense of smallness, of insignificance, as though her own desires, her own heart, meant nothing in the face of ambition. Her fingers drifted to the skin around her nails, and she began to pick at it yet again, a nervous habit that had always grounded her in moments of uncertainty.
She felt the sting as the skin broke, but the pain was a welcome distraction, a reminder that she was still flesh and blood, still capable of feeling.
Yet the thoughts that swirled in her mind offered no comfort, only a bleak sense of inevitability. She saw herself in her mother's gown, a silken trap designed to ensnare, to bind her to a life she hadn't chosen. She saw herself in the king's chambers, his sorrowed gaze falling upon her, mistaking her presence for solace when in truth, she was no more than a pawn moved by an unseen hand.
A sob escaped her, raw and unchecked, and she pressed her fist to her mouth, struggling to regain control. But the grief, the anger, and the helplessness welled up within her, a storm she could no longer contain. She wanted to scream, to break free of the expectations that had been thrust upon her, to be more than the quiet, obedient daughter who existed only to serve her father's ambitions.
Her mind turned to Rhaenyra, to the easy laughter they had shared, the secrets whispered between friends. How could she betray that trust? How could she look her friend in the eye, knowing she had been complicit in a scheme to take the queen's place, to stand where Aemma had once stood? The thought filled her with a sickening guilt, a shame that burned deeper than any wound.
As she stood there, trembling in the silence, she felt her strength waning, the façade she had so carefully maintained crumbling piece by piece. She was no longer the poised lady of House Hightower, no longer the obedient daughter. She was simply Alicent, a girl caught in the web of duty and desire, trapped in a role she could not escape.
In that moment, alone and unseen, she allowed herself to break, to surrender to the grief that had festered within her. Her shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked her frame, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. The walls of the Red Keep seemed to press in around her, suffocating her beneath the weight of expectation, of a future she had never wanted.
And in that moment of raw vulnerability, a single thought rose to the surface, a plea whispered from the depths of her heart.
Please, someone save me.
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| Fire & Blood |
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