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Here Alicent was again. Marriage. That old, familiar word with its old, familiar tone.
She should have died.
When she tried to kill her new queen, usurp her position for her son, she found herself in quite the predicament. In any ordinary failed coup, she would have been executed. Aegon, Aemond, and so on would have been disappeared, on top of that. Of course, they’d be paraded around, shown to be alive, before being hidden away.
Hidden away until slowly, they would be nothing at all. They would fade, and the commonfolk would forget. They’d forget that that was not how things were done, that Queens didn’t sit the Iron Throne, that Targaryens were mere men after all. Things would fall into place, and the world would be right again.
But life had other plans.
Her hand in Rhaenyra’s, her eyes taking in the sight warily.
“Won’t you accept my suit?” Her gaze was, in a word, intense. Her words were more solemn than she’d ever remembered. For what it was worth, Rhaenyra was serious for once in her ridiculous life. There were no tricks hidden in the offer, no snakes hidden in her skirts waiting to strike.
She knew her options. It was either marry Rhaenyra in the style of Old Valyria or die a traitor. Marry or die. Marry or die.
Alicent scowled, and she ripped her hand away. Her heart twisted in her chest. Her eyes watered.
It hurt too much to look at her, but it hurt too much to look away from her.
Seven hells, Rhaenyra, what are we doing?
Alicent wanted to know.
“Alicent,” Rhaenyra said, her voice steady and certain. “We need you neutralized as a threat. You’re a realist. You know we can’t let you get away free as a newborn dragon, without- without some reason you won’t stand against us.”
“You want leverage,” Alicent muttered.
Rhaenyra’s expression almost looked pained, but, let the Seven fail her, she wasn’t going to pity her. She won her war; she had her throne already. She could do as she bid, no matter how ridiculous and unnatural. It all fell Rhaenyra’s way, but that didn’t mean Alicent had to be part of that. She could have chosen death to spite her.
“Alicent,” she protested. If there was more, the words withered in her mouth, the way all her promises did. She had nothing to offer her but her life, and she knew that. It was all just empty comfort. These promises that she cared and promises that she could help, and it was all for naught.
“Don’t say my name like it’s some spell,” she said. “You might have your dragons, but you’re no sorcerer.” At least, that itself wasn’t in her power. She had no magic, nothing more than the magic of a dragonrider to bond with her steed.
Her hand rose to cradle Alicent’s face, a familiar caress among friends. It was strange that it could be the caress of a betrothed. Her heart felt weak and frail, some poor creature in need of rest. Was that how Rhaenyra saw Alicent? She was another banner to raise, a cause to champion. It would make her look gracious to the public, of course, the merciful Queen. The very idea turned Alicent’s stomach. She wasn’t worthy of any praise. She wasn’t worthy when this was how they got there, through might rather than sheer right. Aegon’s claim was always the stronger one, and he was still owed his due.
But the way she held her, the way she looked into her eyes, it was all so tender. She recognized her expression, the tone of her voice. She even recognized the wavering in her touch.
“I know,” Rhaenyra whispered. Her eyelids fluttered lower. “I know that well by now.” Alicent’s breathing stilled. And she drew Alicent to her.
Her lips were hardened against her own, as if they’d turned to stone by Alicent’s touch. Her skin felt cool against her mouth. The skin was smooth, hard, and cold. She swallowed a protest in her throat, sparks striking down her spinal column. Because Rhaenyra was kissing her, and she was kissing Rhaenyra.
And she’d wanted this. Her eyes stung so hard. She wanted this. It was kiss Rhaenyra or die.
Then, her breath hit her mouth, and it was like Rhaenyra had come alive.
Her hand gripped her face, as her mouth warmed by Alicent’s exhale. Suddenly, it was like her skin was the flames itself, her mouth open and warm as the hearth. It was the hearth of their girlhood, kept warm by the fires and ringing with their child’s laughter, punctuated by the occasional presence of Rhaenyra’s Syrax just outside the window. She swore she could taste the tea and mead they drank on her tongue.
Rhaenyra’s fingers slid into Alicent’s hair, and she couldn’t keep track of her. Suddenly, she was all over her, touching her, making her Rhaenyra’s. Somehow, Alicent’s hands were on her too, and it was like she could not get enough. Heat ran through every point of contact. She was fire. She was the dragon. It killed her how dizzying her every touch was. It killed her how she wasn’t sure she cared.
Rhaenyra won, but Rhaenyra won Alicent. Wasn’t that a distinction worth making?
Alicent’s hand was in Rhaenyra’s again, firm yet gentle. Warmth emanated from the digits as it laced between her own. Her mouth was hot as it trailed down her jawline. Alicent’s head dipped back with a gasp. “Rhaenyra,” she said, which didn’t matter. No, it didn’t, she told herself.
Rhaenyra’s mouth was on her neck, giving the sensitive spots her fullest attention. Her hand was in her own, still, gripping her like she was her last lifeline. Like everything hinged on Alicent’s body in Rhaenyra’s grasp.
“Rhaenyra,” she repeated, even if it didn’t matter.
Another handful of moments, and her lips dragged away from her body. Her gaze met hers, and it looked hazy, even unfocused. “You won’t be harmed,” Rhaenyra croaked. A lie, and she knew it didn’t matter at all in the least. She’d told her so many lies. “Aegon won’t be. None of your children. Please, just trust me, Alicent.”
She couldn’t bear it. It hurt. It hurt so much. Even as Rhaenyra tried to make this better, even as she touched her in all the ways she wanted. It was too much and too late. Rhaenyra always had the most rotten timing, and she wasn’t sure how to make it right for her, for the both of them. Not that she even deserved it.
“I’ll marry you,” Alicent said, finally. Which mattered, for once. What she said had to matter, since, if it didn’t, she had nothing left.
Then, Rhaenyra smiled with a breath of relief. Her shoulders relaxed, and, with a small laugh, she drew her to her again. She held her in her arms, holding her tight. Alicent would give her this small thing. She would give this moment to her, before it all inevitably went to the pits of the earth. Her limbs rose slowly to mirror her embrace, her arms awkwardly folding around her.
Her hands slowly ran down her silver strands. She was to live for another day, possibly.
Her eyes closed. She could afford a fantasy, no matter how brief.
Queen Rhaenyra, her fantasy wife, for another marriage. She would have found it comical, if it didn’t make her feel so miserable. But still, I’ll marry her, she thought. She would marry her as they did in Old Valyria and play the dutiful wife once more. All the better to end her with, if nothing else would do.