While Sunfyre and Sheepstealer laid Tyrosh low in fire and ruin, the Red Keep remained untouched by flame yet heavy with quieter tensions.
King's Landing, The Red Keep, Hand's Tower
The door to the Hand's solar creaked open, its iron hinges complaining softly. Alicent stepped inside, one hand still resting on the latch as she glanced about the familiar chamber. The windows stood open to the afternoon breeze, curtains stirring like pale ghosts. Otto Hightower stood near the table, poring over parchments stamped with wax seals from across the Narrow Sea.
"Father," Alicent said, closing the door behind her. "Did you need me?"
Otto looked up at once. His sharp eyes flicked over her from crown to hem, noting the loose fall of her gown, the way her hair was bound with little care, the faint shadow beneath her eyes that no amount of powder could hide.
"Has Aegon heard of Princess Rhaenyra's remarriage?" he asked, his tone brisk, already moving past pleasantries.
Alicent crossed the room and lowered herself into the Hand's chair, the great oak seat creaking beneath her weight. She leaned back, folding her hands loosely over her stomach.
"After the wedding date was set, His Grace wrote to him," she replied. "Viserys made certain Aegon was informed."
Her mouth twisted faintly. "Even now, he refuses to abandon the hope that Aegon and Rhaenyra might mend what has been broken."
Otto's lips thinned. His gaze lingered on her posture, on the way she lounged in a chair meant for a man who bore the weight of the realm.
Displeasure flashed in his eyes, though it was not the chair itself that offended him. It was Alicent.
Once, she had sat straight as a spear, every movement measured, every word chosen with care. She had been diligent, anxious, driven by duty even when she lacked the instincts of a true political player. She had never allowed herself to appear careless.
Now she looked… tired. Comfortable. Almost indulgent.
"It seems Prince Aegon has spoiled you these past few years," Otto said coldly. "Look at you. Slouched like a lady of the court with no cares at all. Where is your queenly dignity?"
The rebuke was familiar. Once, it would have stung. Once, she would have straightened at once, cheeks flushing, eager to regain his approval.
This time, she barely stirred.
"Father," she said, her voice calm, "you are my father. Why should I play at dignity before you?"
Then, abruptly, she sat upright. The movement was sharp enough to draw his full attention. Her hands came down upon the arms of the chair, fingers curling into the carved wood. Her green eyes hardened, a steel Otto had not often seen turned upon himself.
"Aegon once told me," she said, each word deliberate, "'A mother rises with her son's standing.' I am the mother of Aegon Targaryen."
She lifted her chin. "So long as I do not cross the bounds of propriety, I will live as I please. I have already shown more restraint than most would."
With that, the fire drained from her posture as quickly as it had come. She sank back again, exhaling through her nose, irritation written plainly upon her face.
"Those years after you returned to Oldtown," she continued, quieter now, "Aegon was still a boy. I was alone here, surrounded by smiles that hid knives. I was exhausted, Father. Truly exhausted."
Otto did not answer at once.
In those days, Viserys had stripped him of the Hand's chain and sent him away in quiet disgrace. Otto had expected Alicent to be overwhelmed by the Blacks, to lose ground inch by inch until she was little more than a ceremonial queen.
Instead, she had endured.
The Greens had found their footing. Lords and knights had bent the knee to her influence. Alicent had held her place in King's Landing with stubborn resolve, never yielding more than she must.
Seeing his silence, Alicent pressed on.
"Every day was a battle," she said. "Every word spoken twice over in my head before I dared speak it aloud. Every smile weighed and measured. Then Aegon began to grow. He learned to stand without my hand at his back."
A faint smile touched her lips, softer than before. "For the first time in years, I could breathe."
She waved a hand lazily toward him. "Now he is a man. You wear the Hand's chain once more. Let me rest, Father. Only for a little while."
Her brow furrowed. "And that boy… Seven save me, he has been gone far too long. How difficult is it to mount a dragon and fly home to see one's mother? Does it truly take so many months?"
Otto sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard.
"The Stepstones are no pleasure ground," he said. "There are no towns worth naming, no fields to provision an army. Only rocks, pirates, and rival captains who know the waters better than any lord of Westeros."
He met her gaze. "Aegon must clear them out, establish order, and secure supply lines. That takes time. He cannot simply abandon it all to soothe a mother's loneliness."
Alicent huffed softly and rested her chin upon her knuckles.
"And Rhaenyra's wedding?" she asked. "What of that?"
Otto straightened, folding his hands behind his back.
"That is why I summoned you," he said. "We must speak of it."
Alicent laughed quietly. "Must we? His Grace has been drowning in duties of late. I doubt he expects us to oversee anything."
"We are not to oversee the wedding," Otto replied. "Nor would the princess welcome our guidance."
"Then what concerns us?"
Alicent rose and crossed to the sideboard, lifting a flagon of Arbor gold. She poured a cup for her father first, then one for herself, the wine glinting amber in the light. She took a slow sip before answering.
"This wedding is… irregular," Otto said. "I believed Viserys would keep it modest. Rhaenyra has been widowed only a short while. Decorum alone should have demanded restraint."
He shook his head. "I misjudged him. He intends the opposite. He means to make a spectacle of it. To remind the realm who his chosen heir remains."
Alicent's lips curled faintly. "He has never been subtle where Rhaenyra is concerned."
"More than that," Otto continued. "According to what Larys has uncovered, His Grace intends to bring Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys back into the Small Council. Rhaenyra as well."
Otto lifted the cup, though he did not drink. His fingers tightened around it.
Once, at Aegon's urging, Otto had sought to place Larys Strong as Master of Whisperers. Viserys had refused at every turn, unmoved by logic or necessity.
Now the king seemed eager to restore the Blacks to power.
"Are there seats enough left for them?" Alicent asked, blinking in mock surprise. "Shall he unseat Ser Tyland? Or cast out Lord Jasper?"
"I cannot say," Otto replied. "He has made no formal declaration. It may be that they attend as advisers only."
"Advisers?" Alicent echoed, her brows lifting. "Advisers wield no true authority."
Otto inclined his head. "Perhaps. Yet if he does choose to remove someone, Lord Jasper would be the likeliest. Corlys Velaryon as Master of Laws would please the court and the fleets alike."
Alicent let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Such devotion. One would think Rhaenyra were the realm itself."
"Devotion, yes," Otto said. "And guilt. Viserys is a man who cannot bear his own regrets."
Alicent rolled her eyes and drained her cup.
"At least my Aegon has proven himself," she said sharply. "Rhaenyra lies with men like a hedge knight at a harvest fair. Three sons born with brown hair, brown eyes, and noses flat as Dornish coins, and she expects the realm not to notice."
Her voice dropped, venomous. "I wonder if she will keep bedding others now that she has wed Daemon. Or if he will be enough to sate her appetites."
Otto raised a hand. "Instead of dwelling on her vices, write to your son. Warn him to be prepared when he attends this wedding. There will be eyes upon him."
Alicent considered that, then nodded. "You are right. I will write at once."
She turned toward the door.
"Wait," Otto said.
She paused, glancing back.
"You may only say so much in a single letter," he continued. "Do not waste parchment on trifles. No questions about whether he eats well or sleeps soundly."
Alicent stared at him, speechless.
"I understand," she said dryly. "Truly."
She left without another word.
When the door closed, Otto returned to his desk and lowered himself into his chair. The room felt quieter without Alicent's presence, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Upon the table lay several letters, their seals broken. They bore the marks of salt and travel, sent from the Stepstones by Aegon's own hand.
Otto read them again, slowly.
Since returning to King's Landing, Otto had been struck by the tales of Aegon's name. His renown among the city's people had exceeded all expectation. Dockhands spoke of him with awe. Gold cloaks boasted of serving under his banner. Even lords had begun to weigh his actions carefully.
No wonder Viserys had been so eager to grant him lands and titles. From the king's view, it was a means of containment. From Otto's, it was an admission of fear.
Viserys had underestimated Aegon once.
He would not make that mistake again.
Otto set the letters down, pride flickering briefly across his stern features. From Aegon's own words, the Stepstones would be pacified within a year, their chaos bent into order.
Yet beneath the careful phrasing, Otto sensed something more.
An ambition that did not stop at the Narrow Sea.
An ambition that looked east.
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A/N:
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