In the world where your brother decided to attack a man who was clearly superior with a blade, and from behind on top of that, Viserys thought, though he was wise enough not to voice such an observation aloud.
"In the world where men choose to enter melees knowing the risks," he said instead. "Gwayne was a knight, Alicent. He understood what could happen when he stepped onto that field."
"Did he understand that he would face a man who fights like he was born with steel in his hands?" Alicent's composure finally cracked, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Did he understand that this Daeron—whoever he truly is—would show no mercy to the queen's brother?"
"Alicent," he said aloud, rising from his chair with more effort than he cared to admit, "I understand your grief. Truly, I do. But I cannot—I will not—execute a man for winning a tournament fairly. What manner of king would that make me?"
"It would make you a king who protects his family," she replied, her voice hardening. "A king who values his queen's pain over some nobody's life."
"And what of justice?" he countered. "What of the law? Should I simply ignore both whenever they inconvenience my personal feelings?"
"Justice?" Alicent laughed bitterly. "What justice was there for Gwayne? What law protected him from that monster?"
"The same law that would protect any man who enters combat," Viserys replied. "The same justice that says a man cannot be punished for defending himself in legal combat."
Alicent sank into the chair he had offered earlier, burying her face in her hands. "You don't understand," she whispered through her tears. "There's something wrong about them—about both of them. They're not what they pretend to be."
"What do you mean?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew where this conversation was heading.
Alicent looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes that suddenly blazed with desperate conviction. "The dragons, Viserys. What happened to Vermithor and Silverwing?"
Oh, for the love of— Viserys barely managed not to roll his eyes.
"You cannot seriously believe—" he began, but Alicent cut him off.
"They disappeared shortly after those two arrived at court," she pressed on, her voice gaining strength. "One of them looks exactly like your daughter—the other on looks like you had sex with a Northerner whore. How is that not suspicious?"
"Because," Viserys said with exaggerated patience, "dragons don't simply accept new riders, Alicent. Even those with Targaryen blood often fail and end up dead trying to bond with them. You think some sellsword and his wife just walked up to two of the most ancient dragons in existence and convinced them to play along?"
The very idea is absurd, he thought. Vermithor bonded with my grandfather when he was barely fourteen, and he was as Targaryen as they come. The notion that some northern bastard could simply whistle and have a dragon come running is the stuff of children's tales.
"Stranger things have happened," Alicent insisted. "And even if they haven't claimed the dragons, they killed my brother. Your wife's brother. Your queen's brother."
She leaned forward in her chair, her green eyes boring into his. "What's more important, Viserys? My justice, or some nobody's justice? You are the dragon—you make the justice, not them. What you say and what you do is law and justice. So make justice for your queen, for your wife for the mother of your children."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and Alicent's quiet sobs. Viserys found himself staring into the flames, watching them dance and flicker like the political implications of whatever decision he made.
"My justice is more important than a nobody's justice," Alicent repeated softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm your queen, Viserys. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Of course it means something, he thought, looking at her tear-stained face and feeling his heart clench with sympathy. You're my wife, the mother of my children, my partner in this impossible task of ruling. But if I start executing people because my wife demands it, where does it end?
But even as his logical mind rejected her arguments, another part of him—the part that loved her, that hated seeing her in pain—whispered that perhaps one compromise wouldn't hurt. Perhaps one small exception to prove that House Targaryen protected its own wouldn't be the beginning of people calling him tyrant.
Dangerous thinking, he warned himself. That's how good kings become terrible ones—one compromise at a time, one exception at a time, until justice becomes whatever serves their immediate needs.
Viserys placed his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off, Alicent rose from her chair. "Think about what matters more—a monster sellsword or the people you love."
She moved toward the door, then paused without turning around. "My dead brother deserves justice. And so do I."
After she left, Viserys remained by the fire, staring into the flames as doubt gnawed at his conscience like a persistent ache. He had done the right thing—he was certain of that. The law was the law, justice was justice, and kings who ignored both for personal reasons rarely ended well.
But what if she's right about the dragons? the treacherous voice whispered again. What if there's more to these mysterious strangers than meets the eye? What if I'm protecting potential enemies of the realm because I'm too principled to see the truth?
Madness, Madness and Stupidity, he told himself firmly. Next I'll be executing people for having purple eyes and good sword skills. Alicent is grieving, and grief makes people see conspiracies where none exist.
Laenor Velayron
The wine had turned the world soft around the edges, blurring the harsh lines of grief into something more manageable. Lord Laenor Velaryon stumbled through the corridors of the Red Keep, one hand trailing along the cold stone walls for balance, the other clutching a half-empty flagon of Arbor gold that had become his constant companion since the death of his friend.
Just need to find somewhere quiet, he thought, his silver hair hanging lank in his eyes. Somewhere the whispers can't follow. Somewhere Joffrey might still be waiting...
The rational part of his mind—what little remained undrowned by wine—knew that Joffrey was gone. Buried. Rotting in the ground while the world moved on as if the Knight of Kisses had never existed at all. But the wine whispered sweeter lies, promising that if he just looked hard enough, searched long enough, he might find his beloved around the next corner.
The courtyard stretched before him, mostly empty in the late afternoon light. Most of the servants had finished their daily tasks and retired to whatever hovels they called home, leaving only a few stragglers to tend to the endless needs of the royal household.
One such servant was hauling a massive wooden bucket from the well, his broad back straining against a rough-spun tunic that stretched across shoulders wide as a castle door. He was huge—taller than any man had a right to be, with arms like tree trunks and hands that could probably crush a man's skull without effort.
Now there's a handsome men, Laenor thought, his wine-addled mind fixating on the raw masculinity before him. Built like the Warrior himself. Wonder what those hands would feel like...
The servant straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one massive hand, and Laenor felt something stir in his chest that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the aching loneliness that had consumed him since Joffrey's death.
"You there," he called out, his voice slurring slightly as he approached. "Big fellow. What's your name?"
The servant turned, revealing a face that matched his impressive frame—square-jawed, weathered by hard work, with dark eyes.
"Tomard, m'lord," the man replied with a respectful bow, though his posture remained tense. "Tomard Stone. I serve in the kitchen."
A bastard, Laenor noted with interest.
"Tomard," Laenor repeated, savoring the name as he moved closer. "Strong name. Suits you." He reached out to touch the man's arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the coarse fabric. "Very strong indeed."
Tomard's eyes widened in alarm as he recognized the direction of the conversation. He took a step backward, but Laenor followed, the wine making him bold in ways that sobriety never had.
Laenor was about to do something really stupid, when the servant grabbed his shirt filled with dust an wine and lifted him up in full anger he grabbed his head
"Stop!" The voice cracked across the courtyard like a whip. "He needs his head still!"
Ser Harwin Strong strode into the courtyard with the help of a walking stick.
Tomard immediately stepped back, his fist unclenching as recognition dawned. "Ser Harwin," he said with obvious relief. "I was just—"
"You were just leaving," Harwin said firmly, reaching into his purse and producing a gold coin. "For your discretion, and your... patience."
The servant's eyes widened at the sight of more coin than he probably saw in a year. He snatched the gold and bobbed a hasty bow before disappearing back toward the kitchens as quickly as his massive frame would allow.
Laenor watched him go with bleary disappointment, then turned to glare at his unexpected savior. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to?" he demanded, swaying slightly on his feet.
Harwin Strong, his wine-soaked mind supplied. Rhaenyra's lapdog. Always so bloody noble, so bloody perfect....
Harwin moved closer, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Of course. I'm trying to protect you. I'm your friend."
"Hmm," Laenor said, his voice heavy with drunken speculation. "Only friends? Are you sure?"
Harwin looked annoyed. "Yes."
Harwin took him by the arm, and guided him toward a shadowed alcove where their conversation couldn't be overheard by passing servants or curious courtiers.
"You are in public," Harwin said in a low voice, his brown eyes serious. "You need to protect your image—if not for yourself, then for Princess Rhaenyra."
"Rhaenyra," Laenor repeated with a bitter laugh. "The dragon princess who has everything except the one thing she actually needs—a husband who can give her heirs." He took another drink from his flagon, relishing the burn of the wine. "I already destroyed my image, Harwin. Gods, when I was born, they put a great curse on me. And now I'm sentenced to live with it."
The curse of being born wrong, built wrong, made for love that dare not speak its name. Mother always said the gods had a plan, but what manner of gods would create a man like me.
"You're going to be married to the princess," Harwin pressed, his voice urgent. "You can't destroy your image like this—just before the wedding. Think of your family, your house. Think of the alliance."
The alliance, Laenor thought with another bitter laugh. Everything comes back to that, doesn't it? Not love, not happiness, not even basic human decency—just politics and power and the eternal dance of noble houses seeking advantage. Joffrey understood that. He knew what we were to each other, what we could never be to the world.
Harwin looked down at him with something approaching pity, and Laenor felt his control finally snap. The tears came then—harsh, wrenching sobs that shook his entire frame as he wept for everything he'd lost and everything he'd never been allowed to have.
Joffrey, he thought desperately. I'm sorry. I'm so bloody sorry I couldn't protect you, couldn't save you. I'm just a broken thing now, a walking scandal waiting to destroy everything Father built.
Above him, Harwin Strong watched with the helpless expression of a man who wanted to help but didn't know how, and Laenor wept alone in the gathering shadows of the Red Keep.
Daeron and Daenerys
Daeron winces as he shifts against the pillows, the movement sending fresh spikes of pain through his bruised ribs. The maesters had cleaned and bound the worst of it, but Daemon's Valyrian steel had left it's mark on his chest.
"Stop moving," Daenerys chides from beside him, though her fingers trace gentle patterns around the worst of the bruising. "You'll tear the wrapping."
"I've had worse," he reminds her, catching her hand. *Though not recently. Not since before we came back.*
She straddles him carefully, mindful of his injuries, wearing nothing but moonlight from the window. "I know. I've seen all your scars, remember?" Her hands ghost over the faded marks that tell the story of Jon Snow's life.
"This is different," he says, watching her settle above him. "Gwayne Hightower's death changes things. Alicent was already suspicious, but now..."
"Now she wants your head on a spike." Daenerys rolls her hips slowly, drawing a groan from him despite the pain. "Let her try. The Queen might have her own power but we have dragons."
He grips her waist as she puts his cock inside, both of them sighing at the connection. Always feels like coming home, he thinks, watching her move above him in the candlelight. "She has... fuck... she has influence. The Hightowers control Oldtown, the Citadel, the Faith..."
She clenches around him, making him groan. "But right now, stop thinking and fuck me properly."
She rides him hard, taking what she needs while he watches her chase her pleasure above him. *Beautiful,* he thinks, *and twice as deadly.*
"Gods," she gasps as her first orgasm hits. "Don't stop, don't you dare fucking stop."
He flips them, driving deeper as she wraps her legs tight around him. "Never," he promises against her throat. "Not until every enemy is ash and every dragon soars free."
"Yes," she hisses, already building toward another peak.
She leans down to kiss him, hair curtaining them both. "We need Rhaenyra," she murmurs against his lips. "Daemon suspects too much. We need the heir's protection."
"She wants us." His hands slide up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling slowly. "I saw how she watched during the melee."
"Then we give her what she wants." Daenerys sits back up, increasing her pace slightly. "Both of us, if necessary."
The thought sends an unexpected jolt through him. "You'd share?"
"Dragons don't follow the rules of lesser creatures," she quotes her own words back at him, clenching around him deliberately. "Besides, I've seen how you look at her."
"How I..." He loses his train of thought as she does something incredible with her hips.
"Like she's a puzzle you want to solve." She's riding him faster now, chasing her peak. "It's the same way you used to look at me, before."
He pulls her down for another kiss, swallowing her moan as she comes around him. His own release follows, spilling deep inside her as she trembles above him.
They lie together afterward, her head on the uninjured side of his chest. "The Hightowers will move against us within the week," she says quietly. "We need allies before then."
"The feast tomorrow night," he suggests, carding fingers through her silver hair. "We make our move on Rhaenyra then."
"Mm." She's already half asleep, worn out from their coupling. "Wear the black leather. She likes dangerous men."
And we're the most dangerous of all, he thinks, holding his dragon queen close as she drifts off.
Alicent Hightower
Queen Alicent sat by her chamber window, her fingers tracing the embroidered hightowers on her brother's torn surcoat. The fabric was still stiff with dried blood in places, a tangible reminder of what that northern savage had stolen from her. Her green eyes stared unseeing at the courtyard below, where servants scurried about their evening duties like ants, blissfully unaware that their queen was plotting vengeance.
Father is right, she thought, her grief hardening into something colder and more focused. Patience and cunning will serve better than rage.
A soft knock at her door interrupted her brooding. Alicent hastily wiped her eyes and smoothed her hair, though she couldn't entirely hide the evidence of her tears.
"Come," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
A young serving girl entered with a nervous curtsy, her eyes downcast. "Your Grace, Lord Larys Strong is asking to meet with you."
"Send him in," she said, setting aside Gwayne's surcoat and arranging herself in her chair. She did not know what he wanted with her, but maybe he could help her.
Queen Alicent Hightower sat by her chamber window, her fingers still clutching the bloodstained fabric of Gwayne's surcoat, when the knock came.
"Come," she called, hastily wiping her eyes and tucking the torn fabric beneath a cushion.
The man who entered was like a wounded animal, old and ugly, his walking stick tapping against the stone floor. Lord Larys Strong, she recognized him from court, though they'd never spoken directly. The younger Strong brother, the one they called "Clubfoot" when they thought themselves out of earshot.
What does the cripple want with me? she wondered.
"Your Grace," Larys said, executing a bow that was surprisingly graceful despite his affliction. "I come to offer my deepest condolences on the loss of your brother. Ser Gwayne was a knight of exceptional promise."
Empty words, Alicent thought, but she nodded graciously. "Lord Larys. Your sympathies are... appreciated."
"Forgive the late hour," Larys continued, his voice soft as if speaking with a child. "But I thought Your Grace might appreciate certain... information that has come to my attention."
Alicent's spine stiffened imperceptibly. Information. In King's Landing, information is deadlier than any blade.
"And what information would that be, Lord Larys?"
He shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on his stick. "May I sit, Your Grace? My leg, you understand."
She gestured to a chair, watching as he lowered himself with obvious relief. Playing up the infirmity, or genuine pain? With men like this, one never knows.
"I have certain friends," Larys began carefully, "in various corners of the city. Little birds, one might say, who sing me songs of what they see and hear."
Spies. He has spies. Alicent felt her pulse quicken. How much does he know? About Gwayne's death, about my plans, about—
"These friends of yours," she said, keeping her voice neutral, "they must sing interesting songs indeed to bring you to my chambers at such an hour."
"Indeed they do, Your Grace." Larys's thin lips curved in what might have been a smile. "Just yesterday, one of them sang me a most peculiar song. About a dragon. Silverwing, to be precise."
Alicent's hands clenched in her lap, hidden beneath the fold of her green silk gown. "Silverwing has been missing from Dragonstone for some time. This is known."
"Missing, yes. But perhaps not quite so... untended as one might assume." Larys paused, his eyes dancing with triumph. "My little bird swears he saw her flying near the Kingswood. With a rider."
A rider. Alicent leaned forward. "Did your... bird... see who this rider was?"
"Alas, dragons fly high and fast, Your Grace. But he was quite certain about one thing, the rider was a woman. A beautiful woman with the distinctive coloring of Old Valyria."
Daenerys. The name blazed through Alicent's mind like wildfire. That silver-haired whore has claimed one of our dragons.
"If this is true, I can have their heads, that bastard would never allow his whore wife to be executed," Alicent muttered to herself, her heart filling with joy, while Larys had no reaction as if he hadn't heard her. Alicent knew her foolish husband was a weak man, but even Viserys would not allow Daeron and Daenerys to just own dragons.
"Lord Larys," Alicent said, her voice sweet as honey poured over broken glass, "you understand that lying to your queen is treason?"
"I understand perfectly, Your Grace." His expression remained placid.
Alicent rose from her seat and glided toward him, her smile never wavering. "Good. Because if I discover you've brought me false information..." She reached out and touched his shoulder with deceptive gentleness. "I'll have your tongue cut out and fed to the ravens. They do so enjoy fresh meat."
To his credit, Larys didn't flinch. "Your Grace is most gracious in her warnings. However, might I suggest that the word of a cripple and his little birds may not carry sufficient weight for the kind of... justice you seek?"
"I cannot send Hightower soldiers to investigate," she mused aloud. "Too obvious. And Silverwing would burn them to ash before they got close enough to see anything useful."
"A wise assessment, Your Grace. Dragons are notably protective of their riders' privacy."
Alicent wondered how she could prove to Viserys that Silverwing and Vermithor are no longer riderless, that the rumors were true and not just drunk people talking. She could have people follow Lady Daenerys and catch her in the act. Once she had proof, she would tell Viserys, and if the King decided not to believe her, she would bring her own justice.
We need to make the dragon come to us. But how? Alicent studied Larys's bland expression, searching for any hint of his true intentions. This one is dangerous. But perhaps that's exactly what I need.
"These friends of yours," she said carefully, "how extensive is their network?"
Larys tilted his head modestly. "Oh, I have a few here and there. The poorest districts of King's Landing, where men will sell secrets for bread. The pleasure houses, where wine loosens tongues along with clothing."
"And what purpose brings you to me, Lord Larys? What do you hope to gain from sharing this information?"
"I am merely a servant of the crown, Your Grace. A loyal subject of the rightful King of Westeros." His pale eyes met hers directly. "Those who would steal dragons, who would claim what belongs to House Targaryen without permission... well, such people are traitors to the crown, are they not?"
Pretty words, but men like this don't move without purpose. What's your game, Clubfoot?
"I want information on their movements," Alicent commanded. "Lady Daenerys, Ser Daeron. Where they go, who they meet, what they do when they think no one is watching."
"It will be done, Your Grace."
"You may go, Lord Larys."
But before he could rise, the door opened without warning. King Viserys entered, stopping short at the sight of Larys Strong in his wife's chambers.
Seven hells, Alicent thought, forcing her expression into one of mild surprise rather than alarm.
"Husband," she greeted warmly. "Lord Larys was just leaving."
Viserys's eyes moved between them, curiosity evident in his weathered features. "Lord Larys?"
Larys had managed to stand, leaning heavily on his stick. "Your Grace," he said with another surprisingly graceful bow. "I was merely offering my condolences to Her Grace on the loss of her brother. I'm Lord Larys Strong?"
"Ah." Viserys's expression softened slightly. "You're Lord Lyonel's son, aren't you? The younger one?"
"I am, Your Grace. Larys Strong, at your service."
"Your father serves me well. I trust you share his loyalty to the crown?"
"Absolutely, Your Grace. The crown's interests are my own."
"Well then," Viserys said, clearly dismissing him. "Don't let us keep you."
Larys bowed again to both of them. "Your Grace. Your Grace."
They watched in silence as he made his slow, tapping progress to the door. Only when it closed behind him did Viserys turn to Alicent with raised eyebrows.
"Since when do you receive Lord Larys Strong in your chambers?"
Since I need spies to prove your daughter's new favorites are traitors and butchers, she thought, but said, "He sought me out to offer condolences, as he said. I could hardly turn him away—he is Lord Strong's son, after all."
Viserys made a noncommittal sound, moving to pour himself wine from the flagon on her side table. "Interesting how both you and Rhaenyra have taken to spending time with the Strong brothers. First she's constantly with Ser Harwin, now you're entertaining Lord Larys."
Oh, if you only knew what your daughter did with Harwin Strong, my naive husband. Though I suspect she's already forgotten him now that her new toy has arrived.
"I've spent perhaps five minutes in Lord Larys's company," Alicent said mildly. "Hardly comparable to the hours Rhaenyra spends... training... with Ser Harwin."
Viserys either missed or ignored the implication, settling into the chair Larys had vacated. She could smell the wine on him—not drunk, but certainly not sober. How like him to pickle himself rather than face hard truths.
"Speaking of Kingsguards," Viserys said, swirling the wine in his cup, "Ser Criston Cole, a most unfortunate business, his death."
"Unfortunate indeed," she agreed, pouring herself a modest amount of wine. "To have his throat cut in the very infirmary where maesters were trying to save him... it speaks to a disturbing lack of security in the Red Keep."
"My thoughts exactly." Viserys's jaw tightened. "A member of my Kingsguard, murdered while under the protection of the crown. Such a crime cannot go unpunished."
Cannot go unpunished, he says, while we both know perfectly well who held the blade.
"Have the investigations revealed anything?" Alicent asked innocently, though she knew the answer perfectly well.
"Lord Lyonel is looking into it personally," Viserys replied, his tone carrying a weight of frustration. "The guards who were supposed to be watching the infirmary door were found sleeping. Sleeping! Can you imagine such dereliction of duty?"
"Sleeping," Alicent repeated, her voice flat. "How convenient for whoever wished Ser Criston dead."
Sleeping, or more likely paid to close their eyes and develop temporary deafness. The Velaryons have deep pockets, after all.
"They'll spend a month in the black cells," Viserys continued, his fingers drumming against his wine cup. "After that, exile from King's Landing. I won't have guards who can't perform their basic duties."
"A month seems rather lenient for allowing a Kingsguard to be murdered," Alicent observed, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
Viserys shot her a look that was part warning, part weariness. "What would you have me do, Alicent? Execute them for falling asleep? They claim they remember nothing—one moment they were alert, the next they were being shaken awake to find Ser Criston dead."
Drugged, most likely. Or simply well-paid to develop selective memory loss.
"I would have you find the actual murderer," she said carefully. "Ser Criston was loyal to the crown, to you. Doesn't his service deserve justice?"
"Of course it does," Viserys snapped, then immediately softened his tone. "Forgive me. This whole business has been... trying. First the melee, then this. Lord Corlys is beside himself with worry about his son."
His son who just happened to have the strongest motive for wanting Criston dead. How terribly worrying for Lord Corlys.
"Lord Laenor has had a difficult week," Alicent said with a blank voice. "Losing someone so... close to him. Grief can drive men to desperate acts."
Viserys's eyes sharpened, and for a moment she wondered if she'd pushed too far. But he merely took another drink and said, "Grief is indeed a powerful force. As you well know, my dear."
Was that a threat? A reminder that my own grief over Gwayne shouldn't drive me to 'desperate acts'?
"Speaking of Ser Criston's death," Viserys continued, setting down his cup, "we must select a new member for the Kingsguard. We cannot leave the position empty, especially with the wedding approaching."
"Have you someone in mind?" Alicent asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer from the slight smile playing at his lips.
"I confess, if Ser Daeron weren't married, I would offer him the position immediately. The man is perhaps the finest warrior I've seen since Daemon in his prime."
The finest warrior. The man who murdered my brother.
"Rhaenyra seems quite taken with his martial prowess," Alicent said, unable to keep herself from talking.
Viserys chuckled. "She does appreciate a skilled sword. She mentioned at dinner that she'd never seen anyone move quite like him in combat."
Oh, I'm certain she's imagining all sorts of ways he might move. Your daughter's appetites are hardly subtle, husband.
"A pity he's married then," Alicent said sweetly. "Though I suppose that wouldn't stop some from pursuing what they desire."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing at all, husband. Merely observing that marriage vows seem to mean less and less these days. Look at poor Lord Laenor, about to enter a marriage while mourning his... dear friend."
Viserys's expression darkened. "Laenor will do his duty to his house and to mine. The alliance between our families is more important than personal feelings."
"Of course," Alicent agreed. "Still, we need a new Kingsguard. If not...Daeron, then who?"
Viserys sighed, suddenly looking every one of his years. "I don't know. The position requires someone of exceptional skill, unquestionable loyalty, and noble bearing. Such men are increasingly rare."
An idea sparked in Alicent's mind. "Perhaps... perhaps I might make a suggestion?"
"Oh?"
"Let me choose the new Kingsguard." She leaned forward, placing her hand over his. "You have so many burdens already, husband. The investigation into Ser Criston's death, the wedding preparations, the small council meetings. Let me take this one task from your shoulders."
Viserys studied her for a long moment. "You wish to choose our new Kingsguard?"
"I knew Ser Criston well," she said, which was true enough. "I understand what makes a man truly loyal to the crown. Give me this, Viserys. Let me find someone who will serve you as faithfully as Criston did."
"And what qualities would you look for in this new Kingsguard?" Viserys asked, though she could see he was already warming to the idea.
"Strength, certainly. Loyalty above all. Someone who understands that serving the crown means serving the entire royal family, not just..." she paused delicately, "certain members of it."
Not just your daughter, who seems to collect men like some ladies collect jewels.
Viserys was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Find me a suitable candidate. But Alicent—" his voice carried a note of warning, "—he must be truly suitable. No second sons seeking glory, no ambitious lords looking to place their own men close to the throne. A true knight."
"Of course, husband. I would never suggest anyone who wasn't completely worthy of the honor."
"Good." Viserys rose from his chair with visible effort. "Oh, and Alicent? There will be a feast tomorrow night. In honor of your brother."
Alicent felt her chest tighten. "A feast?"
"To celebrate his life and service to the realm. I thought it would be fitting."
Fitting? To feast and drink while my brother lies in the cold ground?
"How thoughtful," she managed, her voice strained. "I'm sure Gwayne would be... honored."
"You'll attend, of course. At my side, as queen."
"Of course." The words tasted like ash in her mouth. "I'll sit beside you and smile while the court pretends to mourn a man they barely knew, and his killer walks free among us."
"Alicent—"
"I'll be there, Viserys." She turned away, unable to look at him. "I'll play my part, as I always do. The dutiful queen, graciously accepting condolences while my brother rots in his tomb."
She heard him sigh heavily behind her. "I know you're grieving. But Gwayne died in honorable combat. There's no shame in that."
No shame for him, perhaps. But plenty for those of us left behind.
"If you say so, husband."
"I'll see you at the feast tomorrow," Viserys said finally, and she heard his footsteps moving toward the door. "Try to get some rest, Alicent. You look tired."
Tired of pretending. Tired of smiling while injustice walks free. Tired of being the good queen while my enemies multiply.
After he left, Alicent stood alone in her chambers, staring at the candle flames until they blurred through her tears. Tomorrow she would feast. She would smile. She would play the gracious queen.
But she would also remember. And when the time came, when she had gathered enough proof and enough power, she would show them all what happened to those who spilled Hightower blood.
Gwayne, I swear it. Your death will be avenged. Even if I have to tear down the whole realm to do it.
Corlys and Rhaenys
Lord Corlys Velaryon stood at the window of their private chambers, watching the moon's reflection dance across Blackwater Bay. The Sea Snake had faced storms that would terrify lesser men, but nothing quite compared to the tempest his son had become.
"He was drunk again today," Rhaenys said from behind him. "In the middle of the afternoon, stumbling through the courtyard like a common—"
She cut herself off, but Corlys could fill in the rest. Like a common drunk. Like a man who'd forgotten his name and birthright.
"Who saw?" he asked without turning around.
"Who didn't?" Rhaenys moved to stand beside him. "Several servants, two minor lords from the Reach, and worst of all, that Strong boy had to practically carry him away before he could make an even bigger fool of himself."
Corlys's jaw tightened. Twenty years of building their house's reputation, of careful political maneuvering, and his son seemed determined to tear it all down in a wine-soaked rage of grief.
"The wedding is in days," he said, his voice low and controlled. "He needs to pull himself together."
"He needs time to grieve," Rhaenys countered, but she sounded deeply disappointed. "Joffrey was...dear to him."
"Joffrey is dead," Corlys said flatly. "And if Laenor doesn't remember his duty soon, our alliance with the crown will follow him to the grave."
Rhaenys sighed, settling into a chair near the fire. "Once he marries Rhaenyra and they have a child, the rumors will disappear. A son with silver hair and purple eyes will silence every wagging tongue in King's Landing."
Corlys turned from the window, studying his wife's face. She was still beautiful, still the Queen Who Never Was, but the strain of recent events had etched new lines around her eyes.