Chapter Text
Aegon will not stop crying. No matter how close Alicent holds him. ‘Hush,’ she says, as gently as she can. She’s on the verge of tears herself, and there’s an edge to her voice that she cannot smooth down. ‘Please, please, be quiet.’
Most days are spent like this now. Alone, but for the company of a toddler. One who seems to sense her detachment, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.
He shouts, ‘dragon!’
‘Okay.’ Placing Aegon down, Alicent reaches for a carved wooden dragon. It is scarred with teeth marks. ‘Here’s your dragon, sweet boy.’
‘No,’ Aegon’s small fist curls around it. There’s a thud as he throws it weakly across the room. He repeats, ‘dragon!’
‘I don’t understand,’ Alicent says. Lilac eyes stare into hers, welling with fresh tears. She calls out desperately, ‘Jeyne!’
The nursemaid rushes in with a curtsey. As Alicent hands over her son, she cannot help but linger in the doorway. Aegon is demanding to her, in turn, ‘dragon!’
But Jeyne replies easily, ‘of course.’ With a chuckle, she picks him up. Jeyne holds him outwards, and he grasps at the air and giggles. ‘Fly, little dragon.’
Alicent turns and leaves without a word.
Not for the time, she mulls over a myth her mother told. The mother’s mind, many said, shapes the babe - at the conception, her thoughts would set the mould for the person.
Alerie would cup Alicent’s face and tell her how a bright sun had risen out the window, and how her head had filled with its fiery beauty. And sure enough, here you are, Alerie would say. My fiery beauty.
Nothing but an old wive’s tale, her father would say.
Alicent thinks of the act that spawned Aegon - eyes locked on the rat that returns to Viserys’ four poster bed, her body prone and stiff. There was no love to it, no beauty. Just a dirty feeling, and a scorching bath thereafter.
The guilt aches. Who would Aegon be, if his mother had a loving mind?
Once, that might have been her. But these days, Alicent holds an anger that has nowhere to go. It clenches like a fist over her heart.
Back in her chamber, Alicent stabs at her embroidery.
It was a gift, for Rhaenyra’s wedding - she had always said Alicent had such a talent for it. In truth, she was mediocre, the work nothing more than a way to keep her hands from picking at themselves.
Still, the motion is soothing.
It’s supposed to be Syrax, but something about it is off. Alicent requested the pale yellow thread especially, but it doesn’t capture the lustre of her scales, nor does the green quite match her eyes.
As it’s from memory, she supposes she cannot be faulted. Alicent hasn’t seen Syrax up close in years. The thought stings. Syrax had always greeted her as a friend. When she was small enough, Syrax would shove her head under Alicent’s hand, demanding affection.
Even grown, Syrax was just as needy, though her nuzzling head could knock Alicent clean over.
All these years later, Alicent can’t help but smile at the memory.
The title of queen consort is truly a curse, Alicent thinks, as she looks over the budget for Rhaenyra’s wedding.
Three hundred gold dragons set aside for food alone. Resisting the urge to snap her quill, Alicent prays for patience. How many years would such a sum feed a family of smallfolk? A lifetime, perhaps.
But there is no use fighting Viserys on this. Seven days of feasting for the realm’s delight, he had insisted, and so it shall be.
The thought alone makes her nauseous.
Moving on, Alicent suppresses a groan when she sees fifty gold dragons for Rhaenyra’s gown. For pity’s sake, all this expense when Rhaenyra doesn’t even want to take a husband.
Alicent remembers a time, when she was but two and ten, that Rhaenyra had sworn never to take a man to marry.
‘But do you not wish to be loved?’ Alicent had asked, ‘to have somebody by your side, as husband by wife?’
‘I have you,’ Rhaenyra had said, simply. A wicked grin spread across her features, and she declared, ‘we shall be spinsters forever, by each other’s side always.’
Though Alicent had been raised with marriage as an inevitability, she found herself unable to argue.
She merely took Rhaenyra’s hand and squeezed.
Forcing her attention back to the budget, Alicent reminds herself to stay in the present. It is an urge she often fights, nowadays - to retreat into memories.
That night, Viserys summons Alicent to his rooms.
Alicent wakes disoriented. For a moment, she doesn’t know where she is. All she knows is that she aches.
But it comes back to her quickly. Viserys’ bed, his hands on her body, and that pain, so familiar by now.
By her side, Viserys sleeps peacefully.
Alicent scrambles out of bed, reaching for her nightgown. It is a short walk to her chambers, but she is all too aware of her unfixed hair and dishevelled clothes. Thankfully, the halls are near empty this early, and she only sees servants, their eyes politely averted.
Safely back in her rooms, Talya has her bath ready, still steaming. Alicent could cry at the sight. Closing her eyes, sinking in, she tries to forget the night.
Though Alicent tries to focus on the affection she holds for Viserys, her body cannot separate the man from the act. He is kind and good, she tells herself. She thinks of his fingers threaded through hers in the midst of the marital act, his whispered assurances and sweet words.
But her muscles spasm at the memory, trying to push him off, too late.
Alicent forces her attention to the lavender-scented water. The heat of the it burns away the lingering feeling of Viserys' touch.
Part of her hopes that it will burn away the possibility of another babe, too.
When her Talya has dried her off and loosely braided her hair, Alicent slips her rings on. Though she’s tempted to don the emerald green gown she recently commissioned, Alicent opts for the blue of her mother’s house instead.
With a few hours free, Alicent follows an old instinct to the Godswood.
Under the canopy of the heart tree, she is as close as she comes to peace. There are cushions piled against the trunk, and Alicent fits in the groove of the roots. With her eyes closed, it’s almost as if they have grown around her, like they might twine and fold her in.
When she’s here, her duties feel a little further away. It is a little easier to forget herself, here - that is, until a familiar, wry voice cuts through her reverie. ‘My Queen.’
When she opens her eyes, Rhaenyra stands nearby. The sunlight touches her features with gold, complementing the light yellow of her dress.
‘Princess,’ Alicent replies, rising to her feet. The formality of it chafes, even still. ‘Apologies, I did not see you.’
‘That’s fine,’ Rhaenyra waves it off. After a pause, she says, ‘I just needed to get away from… all of it.’
‘Wedding preparations can be tedious indeed.’ Alicent says, her throat tightening around the word wedding. She remembers the fright and loneliness of her own - she feels it still, like the cinch of a corset, pressing the air from her lungs. A quiver of emotion escapes into her voice as she says, ‘but it is sure to be splendid affair.’
Alicent steps closer, till Rhaenyra is close enough to touch. From here, she can see threads of white in Rhaenyra’s lilac eyes. They’re so achingly soft, even still. And her hair like moonlight, spilling from its braid. There’s a part of her that wants to reach out and tuck the errant strands back in.
Instead, Alicent crosses her arms over her chest, as if to keep her heart in check.
Rhaenyra just tilts her head. ‘Is that so?’
It takes her a moment to catch up. ‘Of course,’ Alicent answers, finally. When Rhaenyra frowns, she continues with a brittle smile, ‘Ser Laenor is a worthy match.’ Etiquette, more than anything, compels her on to say, ‘it gladdens my heart.’
Rhaenyra takes her in, with the same notch between her brow as would form when she was four and ten and the septa posed a riddle. Whatever she sees seems to upset her, for she asks, ‘do you not tire of it?’
‘Of what?’
‘This incessant act of yours,’ Rhaenyra steps closer, eyes searching. ‘The obedient daughter, the nurturing wife. The very picture of piety and duty.’ There’s a heaviness to it as she says, ‘you needn’t sacrifice your self in service of others.’
The gall of it. As if Alicent has a weak character, when it takes everything she has to carry on in service, every day. ‘Sacrifice is not a fault,’ Alicent bristles. ‘And indeed, all the qualities you so detest are virtues - ’
‘As is honesty,’ Rhaenyra’s lips twitch down, and she says, ‘it seems you have forsaken that particular virtue, though.’
Flaring with rage, Alicent wishes she could be honest - that she could tell Rhaenyra that sometimes, nowadays, Alicent thinks she resents her. The way Rhaenyra flouts the rules that bind Alicent so. The way she stands back and watches as Alicent is imprisoned, made to squeeze out heirs.
Instead Alicent says, ‘honesty is a privilege afforded to few, Princess.’
‘Is it privilege you lack for, my Queen,’ Rhaenyra’s lips twist distastefully around the title, ‘or courage?’
Courage?
Who is Rhaenyra to speak of courage, when Alicent risked her very life to give Aegon to the realm? When Alicent went back to Viserys, again and again and night after night, though she bled and burned and cried with the pain of it?
‘And what would you know of courage?’ Alicent asks. Abandoning propriety, she pushes further, with the grim pleasure of pressing on a wound, ‘tell me, is it courage that drives you to frequent brothels and break your father’s heart?’
A part of her savours it when Rhaenyra winces, a little.
‘My father’s heart has long since been broken.’ Rhaenyra says, ‘it is your own you should worry about.’
Mine broke long ago, too. The answer lodges in Alicent’s throat. When the words don’t come, Rhaenyra just lets out a scoff.
As Rhaenyra leaves, Alicent makes no move to stop her.
Larys Strong approaches her in the Queen’s gardens.
His presence in the Keep rather reminds Alicent of a gargoyle - a leering set of eyes, forever suspended in his schemes.
‘My Queen,’ Larys greets. ‘It is always such a pleasure.’
Alicent hums. ‘Indeed.’
‘It is good to see you well,’ he says, before she can excuse herself. ‘What with all the illness in the air. And I know yourself and the Princess are so close. It is a relief you haven’t caught it.’
‘I saw the Princess just this morning, she is perfectly well.’
‘How strange,’ Larys says. ‘Only, I heard the Grand Maester prepared a remedy for her, personally, one of these evenings last.’ Letting the implication linger, Larys shrugs. ‘I must be mistaken, though.’
‘You must be,’ Alicent agrees, though dread lurches in her stomach. With a distant nod, she says, ‘good day.’
Though Alicent tries to dismiss them, the words worm at something within her.
When Alicent ordered Ser Criston to her chambers, she had hoped he would dispel Larys’ aspersions.
Instead, he rips her life open at the seams.
‘It happened, your Grace. The sin you allude to.’ The words cleave through her heart. ‘I have committed it. At her instigation, it is true -’
It happened.
Rhaenyra had sworn on her mother’s memory. She had sworn it as a sister, an oath as sacred as their bond. And though their bond is not as it was, Alicent would never profane it so.
When Alicent makes the mistake of glancing at Criston, all she can think of is her hands on him, sliding over his armour, threading through his hair. It’s sickening.
Still, Criston carries on, his words washing over her, ‘if, as a clement Queen you are inclined to pity…’ But then Criston breaks the spiral of her thoughts with a plea, ‘sentence me mercifully to death.’
It hangs in the air between them. There’s a quiet desperation to it. As if she’d be doing him a favour.
Alicent looks at Criston. Really looks, for the first time. There’s a brokenness about him, in his slumped gait and glistening eyes.
Oddly, she feels for him. Recognises some of the same jagged edges in herself. ‘The Princess picks up and discards her playthings at her leisure,’ Alicent says bitterly. Stepping closer, she adds, ‘you’re hardly the first she’s thrown away.’
Criston stiffens. ‘Do you mean to say - the Princess has known other men -
‘No,’ Alicent interrupts, waving a hand to silence him. It is not a thought she wishes to entertain. ‘Merely that she is spoilt,’ Alicent’s fingers trace over the beds of her nails, the ghost of an old habit. ‘And cares not for the consequences of her actions.’
‘That is true enough,’ Criston inclines his head. He cannot meet her eyes as he says, ‘my Queen, I feel the sanctity of my oath, I know I have broken it irrevocably - ’
‘It is not too late.’ Leaning to catch his eye, Alicent says, ‘you can make amends.’
There’s a fervour like fire catching in Criston’s features. He is almost reverent as he repeats, ‘amends?’
The thought is at once impulsive and a lifetime in the making. ‘Get me out of here,’ Alicent says. Though it’s intended as an order, it comes out sounding so small. There’s a tremor running through her voice as she says, ‘I need to get out of here.’
‘Get you out?’
‘Please.’
They agree to leave on the day of Rhaenyra’s wedding. It will be busy enough for the Queen consort’s absence to pass unremarked, at least for a while.
In the meantime, Criston quietly steps down as Rhaenyra’s sworn sword, pledging himself to Alicent instead. His presence outside her chambers is a relief - one of few friendly faces in the Keep, now steadfast at her side.
Before they go, guilt draws Alicent to her husband.
In his chambers, Viserys hunches over his model of Old Valyria. As she enters, he smiles and places down a carved building. ‘Alicent,’ he says. ‘What an unexpected joy.’
Alicent feels a twisted surge of affection, despite it all. The King is among the few people at court to truly smile at her, nowadays. She says, simply, ‘Viserys.’
‘Is there anything I can help you with, dear Alicent?’
‘No,’ Alicent says, with a swallow. ‘I simply… wanted to see you.’
Viserys’ smile spreads, dimpling his cheek. ‘You’re lovely,’ he says, blind to the conflict churning through her. Walking over, enveloping Alicent’s hand in his rough palms, he whispers, ‘a true Queen.’
‘My King,’ Alicent breathes out. As he gazes at her, it is the best she can do to smile softly. When tears spill from her eyes, Viserys cups her cheek and wipes them away with his thumb.
For a few silent moments, they stay like that.
Then he asks, gently, ’is everything well?’
‘Yes, quite - I only - ’
But a gauntleted fist is knocking on the door, and Viserys tucks her hair behind her ear and excuses himself with a string of apologies. ‘I shall come by and check in, later, alright?’
With a nod and a shuddering sigh, Alicent heads to her chambers.
When the day comes around, the Keep thrums with energy. As Queen consort, Alicent should be amidst the action, directing the preparations.
As it is, Alicent has yet to leave her chambers.
Lounging by the window, she looks out on a sweeping view of the grounds. From here, she can even see the dome of the Dragonpit arching over King’s Landing.
Since she was a girl, the walls of the Keep had marked the borders of her life, of her ambitions and dreams. Today, she was to step out of their confines for the last time.
Alicent moves without thinking.
Taking the embroidered Syrax, she sets off to Rhaenyra’s chambers. When Criston’s heavy footsteps follow, Alicent dismisses him.
When Criston protests, she assures him she will not be long.
Rhaenyra still occupies the same rooms as she did, a mere minute away.
Walking the halls in this part of the holdfast is like wandering into the past. Usually, Alicent goes out of her way to avoid them.
When Ser Harrold announces her at the door, there’s a moment’s silence from the other side. And then, as it opens, a group of maids trail out. From the dishevelled state of Rhaenyra, they were clearly readying her for the ceremony.
Rhaenyra’s hair is down, as it was when they were young, and she is wrapped in a gown for modesty.
‘Alicent,’ Rhaenyra breathes out. It is the first time she has called Alicent anything but her proper title in so long, and Alicent doesn’t know what to do with all the softness she says it with. And then, Rhaenyra seems to remember herself, pulling the gown tighter around her waist. ‘Please, come in.’
It is odd, being in Rhaenyra’s rooms after all this time. They smell the same - of citrus, leather and a hint of smoke. It is pure Rhaenyra.
Though she’s mad, and her heart is battered and broken, Alicent is looking at the only friend she’s ever had, for what she’s sure is the last time. The thought emboldens her on.
They both start at the same time.
‘I wanted - ’
‘What brings you - ’
With a laugh, Rhaenyra gestures for Alicent to speak first.
Alicent doesn’t know whether she came to yell at Rhaenyra, or tell her goodbye.
After a breath, Alicent settles on saying, ‘you’re getting married.’ It feels so inadequate, but even before their animosity, her feelings had outweighed any words she tried to put to them. Shifting awkwardly, Alicent asks, ‘how do you feel?’
Rhaenyra’s brow quirks up in surprise. ‘Rather nervous, in truth.’
‘That is only natural,’ Alicent says. ‘Marriage… changes everything.’
‘I don’t intend to let it,’ Rhaenyra replies, lightly. When Alicent only looks down, Rhaenyra reaches to touch her forearm, gently. As ever, the contact flushes through her like dragon fire. ‘Are you okay, Alicent?’
I’m leaving, she thinks. And then, you lied.
In the end, Alicent simply unfolds her embroidery.
Something in Rhaenyra’s cool facade cracks. When she meets her eyes, Alicent is looking at her old friend. Hand sliding down Alicent’s arm, she threads their fingers together. ‘Thank you.’ Rhaenyra’s smile is warm and genuine as she takes it in, ‘it looks just like her.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘I disagree,’ Rhaenyra says, with her extraordinary openness. ‘It is quite something.’
But when Rhaenyra squeezes her hand, Alicent thinks of those fingers in Criston’s hair. And when Rhaenyra says, ‘I have missed you,’ Alicent thinks of the lies that have spilled from those lips.
With all the warring rage and hurt and affection, it is the best Alicent can do to duck her head. In truth, she has deeply missed Rhaenyra. If Alicent’s anger were the waves, missing Rhaenyra was the sea that churns them up.
But Alicent cannot wade through it. Dropping Rhaenyra’s hand, all she says is, ’I’ll leave you to get ready.’
‘Wait,’ Rhaenyra calls out, as Alicent turns to go. ‘Tell me,’ she says, through deep breaths, ‘why did you come?’
Alicent’s voice is small as she replies, ‘I don’t know.’
When she’s safely on the other side of the door, Alicent blinks back tears.
Thankfully, Aegon is fast asleep.
He is sucking his thumb, though Alicent always tells him not to. The sight wrenches through her heart. Pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head, Alicent looks down at her son.
She hopes that one day, Aegon can find it in himself to forgive her.
Guests choke the entrance to the Keep, readying for Rhaenyra’s wedding. Dressed in a maid’s outfit, with her hair bundled in netting, it is so easy to slip by unnoticed.
Pausing by the door to the hall, Alicent takes a last look in. With the candles lit low, the room holds the hallowed glow of the sept. It is furnished magnificently - all the finest silks and table settings.
Soon, Rhaenyra will sit at the high table, all in white. She will take Ser Laenor’s hand, take his oath, take him abed.
Alicent is glad she will never see it.
Forcing herself away, she finds Criston by the small gate. There’s a black stallion by his side, stripped of its armour. He says, ‘once we leave, we can’t come back.’
‘That’s rather the point.’
Criston insists she ride sidesaddle, bracketed by his arms. It is a tricky balance as they move swiftly through the city. More than once, she’s thrown against his clanking armour.
Alicent has never seen a city by night. Cries of street vendors echo through it - invitations to see her death, or gain great fortune, or forget her worries for the night. Some only shout profanities. It is all she can do to keep her gaze down, locked on the mane of the stallion Criston calls Shadow.
They reach a small gate. It is unmanned. Hopping down from Shadow, Criston heaves it open. And then they’re gone.
Alicent wonders how long it will take for them to notice. The banquet has begun. Her absence has surely been noted, but it hasn’t been long enough to send somebody searching just yet. But to be sure, a party will be after them by dawn, when Talya finds her chambers empty.
She considers journeying south.
Though she hasn’t seen Oldtown since her youth, Alicent remembers it as a perennial summer. It was a heat that clung. They spent long mornings breaking their fast, and hid from the high noon heat in the Hightower’s great library. By evening, her and Gwayne often ran through the gardens, forever at play.
And then, her mother’s death. Soon after, a wheelhouse to take her to the Red Keep. And Gwayne, a mere boy, left behind. It wasn’t till her wedding that she saw him again. He was a young man by then, and Alicent soon to be queen.
Gwayne had stiffly called her ‘your Grace’, and when she cried, he had clasped her hand and reminded her what a happy day it was.
No, Alicent decides. Not Oldtown.
It’s Criston who suggests Dorne.
Urging Criston onwards, they ride past the light of the taverns and villages of the Kingsroad. They stop only for Shadow to take a long drink.
When dawn breaks, it is streaked with pink and orange. The light brings with it a cavernous roar, a primal rage loosed across the skies. It takes Alicent a moment to recognise the dragon for what it is.
It’s Syrax. Up high, they're flying circles around King’s Landing, without the leisurely pace Rhaenyra typically favours. When Syrax swoops down, it’s with the focus of a predator on the lookout.
Criston steers them under the cover of the Kingswood. Dismounting Shadow, he undoes the straps around his arms, tearing his shiny armour off. ‘They’ll see,’ he says, frantically. With shaking hands, he struggles with his chest plate. It’s stuck.
Kicking at the earth, Criston curses under his breath, ’Warrior help me.’ When he finally manages to wrest the armour free, he throws it to the ground with a clang. He says, ‘they’ll find us. I’ll hang for this.'
Alicent holds the reins tight. Cautiously, she says, ‘they won’t find us. Not if we keep going.’
‘They will,’ there’s a wild look in Criston’s eyes. ‘Don’t you see? We can’t out pace dragons,’ he hisses, gesturing up. ‘They’ll think I’ve abducted you.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ Alicent assures him, voice low. Hoisting herself from Shadow, she reaches gently for the armour at Criston’s shoulder. Slowly unbuckling it, she says, ‘but if it does, I’ll tell them you saved me.’
Criston looks at her like the world has fallen away.
Alicent takes the armour off, and then the chain mail beneath. Placing a palm to his quilted jacket, over the heart, she says, ‘you swore an oath, and in protecting your Queen, you are fulfilling it.’ When the ardour in his eyes gets too much, Alicent pulls away. ‘I owe you a great debt.’
‘No,’ Criston shakes his head, ‘no, you owe me nothing, my Queen.’ When Syrax roars, this time Criston doesn’t even flinch. ‘It is my honour.’
Off the Kingsroad, small dirt tracks are beaten through the woods. They follow a thin path that winds south east. Gnarled branches curve in overhead arches. Though it is slow progress, Syrax’s roars sound further and further afield.
Criston seems content with the silence, and Alicent gets lost in the birdsong and rhythmic thud of Shadow’s hooves. Leant against the quilt of Criston’s jacket, exhausted from riding all night, it is easy to nod off.
When she wakes, Criston is pulling the reins, guiding Shadow to a halt. There’s a clearing covered by a canopy of leaves, just large enough for a campfire. A thick oak twists upwards, stretching above the other trees. Alicent piles their bags among its roots.
‘We travelled deep. They aren’t like to find us tonight,’ Criston says, with a small smile. ‘No matter how many dragons they send after you.’
Bidding Alicent to sit, he leaves to gather wood. As he ventures out, Alicent sits in the shadows on the mossy earth, hunched in on herself.
When night falls, the woods are blanketed in darkness. Though the fire is reduced to embers, her eyes have adjusted somewhat to the glow. The shadows form shapes, and Alicent reaches around them till she feels Criston’s bag. Digging around, she finds the leather sheathe of a dagger.
Tucking the dagger in her stockings, Alicent lays down on the springy moss. From her pocket, she pulls out Aegon’s wooden dragon. Holding it to her heart, she hopes he won’t miss it too much.
And indeed, the night is full of noise. Far off calls and hoots and howls. Every rustling leaf has her heart hammering. And beneath it all, the low thrum of Criston’s snores.
When sleep comes, it is thin and full of terror.
Alicent wakes to the sight of a strung up rabbit. Glassy eyes stare out and blood drains from its throat, matting its fur.
Nearby, Criston tends to the fire. ‘Thank you,’ Alicent says, throat hoarse from the night. ‘For everything.’
‘It was easy enough,’ Criston shrugs. With bloodied hands, he arranges a skinned squirrel above the flames. Alicent’s lips curl at the sight of sinuous flesh. ‘My father taught me, as a boy.’
Alicent wonders if this is the sort of man Aegon will become without a mother. Though the guilt is like a vice, she thinks he’s better this way. Viserys will remarry, and he will chose someone kind. Someone able to love Aegon as he should be.
The squirrel cooks quickly, and brings with it a distraction. Alicent tears gamey meat off of delicate bones, laying it out on a rock by the fireside. The grease gets all over.
If someone served up such a meal in the Keep, they would lose their job in disgrace. But right now, there’s a pit in Alicent’s stomach that cannot be sated and she’s sure she’s never had anything better.
Once the rabbit is roasted for later, they bundle up their supplies. Shadow lets out a snort at the sight of them. ‘You ready, boy?’ Alicent rubs his velvety ear. He nudges his head gently into her touch. The affectionate gesture reminds her of Syrax, and she pulls her palm away. ‘Let’s go, then.’
They ride further into the Kingswood. The deeper they go, the more tangled the passageway. Rocks and rotting trunks slow Shadow’s path, and branches reach out and scrape them.
‘If I may ask, my Queen,’ Criston starts, hours into the morning, jolting Alicent out of her reverie. ‘What prompted your flight?’
Alicent thinks again of her body prone under Viserys’ weight. She thinks of the betrayal writ across Rhaenyra’s features when he announced they were to be wed, of the coldness and the lies thereafter. She says, simply, ‘I couldn’t stay.’
For a minute, Criston is silent, and Alicent's attention wanders back to woods. Until he says, softly, ‘you were a flower among serpents, there.’
The image reminds her of the Florent sigil, a fox wreathed in blue flowers. Though Alicent often wore the blue of her mother’s house, she thought herself more like to the fox than the flowers. Slinking into Viserys’ chambers as she had, all those months.
Biting her cheek, Alicent hums, weakly. ‘And why did you agree to escort me, really, Ser Criston?’ Though she thinks she knows the answer, she says, ‘nobody else knew of your… involvement with the Princess.’ When he stiffens, she explains, ‘you could well have continued as you were.’
‘My cloak was all I had,’ Criston says, eventually. ‘And I sullied it, on the whim of a whore.’ His voice hardens around whore like a curse, tearing through Alicent in turn. ‘I find absolution, in serving you so.’
If Criston notices Alicent’s lack of response, it does not seem to bother him. They carry on riding in silence.
Deeper in the woods, they settle for another night. Shadow lowers himself to his side, letting out a content snort.
By the fireside, she is almost calm. Despite all the dirt and sweat and shit, all the disgusting realities of fleeing, Alicent knows she won’t be summoned to the King tonight.
At that thought alone, she could weep with relief.
Criston tracks back in with a bird’s nest in hand. ‘I’ve found breakfast,’ he says, with a small smile. ‘There’s enough for the road, too.’
Alicent thinks she might owe him her life. With a quick kiss to the cheek, she thanks him. No man has ever looked at her as he does, then. There’s a devotion to it that quickens her heart - she did not know she could still elicit such a look.
Glancing away, to the flames, Alicent thinks of the only other person to have looked at her like that.
She wonders if Rhaenyra felt her absence, at the wedding - if that’s why Syrax’s roar had followed them through the skies since.
After a few days riding, they reach a tributary that cuts down rocky ledges.
It pulls Shadow’s attention enough that they stop and dismount whilst he takes great gulps of water. When he’s done, Alicent puts a palm to his shoulder, rubbing soft circles there. ‘Thank you, Shadow,’ she says. Shadow’s upper lip quivers, and he lets out a soft snort. ‘Good boy.’
Criston carves out some game. Alicent is starving, and when she takes a bite, tearing meat off bone, she lets out an appreciative groan. 'Would you show me?' She asks, with her hand over her mouth. Just days ago, the sight would have horrified her. 'To hunt, that is.'
Alicent is oddly proud of the gritty image she cuts. Though her days have been spent sleeping in the dirt and eating with her fingers, she thinks she might be happier than she has been in years.
But Criston just frowns. 'It is not an activity fit for a lady.' He says, in a voice she supposes is meant to comfort her, 'I will gladly take the burden on for us both, your Grace. You needn't worry.'
Alicent is tempted to point out that she has been defecating in holes. There's not much lady left in her. But Criston's tone is so final, she bites her tongue.
‘We can follow this to Wendwater,’ Criston continues, as he fills a canteen. ‘And from there to the Bay, it should be easy enough to find a harbour.’ Holding out a hand to help Alicent up, he says, ‘the sooner we get to Dorne, the less chance we're recognised.' Patting Shadow, and readjusting the saddle, he says ‘so we best be off.’
At some point, they must stray back towards the Kingsroad, because a group of voices cut through.
‘… a thousand gold dragons for any information - ’
‘You’re way off,’ a voice interrupts, ‘no woman’s worth that.’
‘I swear it,’ the first voice says. ‘Straight from the crier’s mouth, a thousand dragons.’
‘Makes sense to me,’ another chimes in. ‘Queen goes and cuckolds the king, he’s not just gonna sit around - ’
‘You fucking craven, she was taken - ’
‘Oh, I bet she was,’ a cruel, laughing voice says. ‘And I bet Ser Whatever-the-Fuck took her every which way every day before they left, too.’
Criston’s hand falls to the hilt of his sword. Though Alicent whispers pleas into his ears, he slides off Shadow. When he looks up, he seems a different person entirely. There’s a hatred set deep in his features.
‘Bet she loved it, too - ’ the group is laughing, and it’s too late, because Criston is drawing his sword and he’s already making his way towards them.
‘No, Criston - ’ Alicent hisses, but he’s gone, through the foliage and out of sight. Frozen to the spot, it is all Alicent can do to keep breathing.
‘Say that again,’ Criston’s voice reaches her, hard as steel. There’s shouting, then, before the slaughter and the screams. ‘Say it!’ Criston yells again, over it all. ‘I fucking dare you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ a man cries. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t - please - ’
And then he stops, and there’s a sickening thud.
Locked in place, Alicent’s body is as numb as it was under Viserys’ weight - irresponsive, though some distant part of her is screaming to move, to run.
When Criston reappears, he is wiping his sword clean with a bloody rag. Alicent dimly registers it as a shirt, before he discards it to the forest floor. His own shirt is clean enough - it can’t have been a difficult fight, for a swordsman of his caliber.
Looking up at Alicent, the hardness set into his jaw relaxes. Something like guilt settles in its place, and he whispers, ‘the things they said - I had to - ’ When Alicent doesn’t reply, he says, more firmly, ‘it was a matter of honour.’
Alicent hears herself say, ‘of course.’
The days begin to blur, exhaustion thinning the lines from one to the next. It seems to Alicent that the moment she closes her eyes to sleep, she is up again and mounting an increasingly irate Shadow.
Passing the mouth of the Wendwater, Criston insists a harbour must be near. But they ride for days along the rocky coast of Blackwater Bay, only coming upon small fishing villages.
By her estimate, it has been over a week when they reach Sharp Point. The great watchtower stands high, its fiery beacon igniting pure relief. Though it cannot compare to the Hightower, the sight feels like it’s straight out of her childhood.
When they pull aside to let Shadow nap, and Criston wanders out to hunt, Alicent simply gazes out at it. And then, she starts walking.
Though the heath is thick with brambles, she picks her way through it. The beach beyond is pebbled, looking out onto clear water. Above it all, the tower beckons.
Alicent strips down to her chemise, and wades in to the sea.
It’s cold and she struggles for purchase on the mossy underwater rocks. But her body adjusts, comes alive in the bracing chill, and then she’s kicking off the ground, lunging forward in clean strokes.
It’s the freest Alicent has felt in years.
When she’s back on the shore, she sits on a sun warmed rock, dipping her feet in the water as she had when she was young.
Staring out at the bay, Alicent lets herself think of Aegon. When her moon blood stopped, it was like an omen, heralding the end of her youth.
Viserys had been so proud, he threw a feast when she started showing. But the food had just made her nauseous, and her swollen feet ached, and worse than all that, worse than morning sickness and cramps and fatigue, Rhaenyra had been unable to even look at her.
And then, after all that, the first time she held Aegon - this writhing life, torn from her own body. Wasn’t she supposed to feel love for her baby, for this screaming face? In truth, all she felt was wrecked.
The tears break loose like they’ve been there all along.
Alicent doesn’t know how long she stays there, sobbing by the ocean. But when Criston finds her, he is quietly furious.
‘You really should stay where I tell you, my Queen,’ Criston says, firmly. ‘For your own safety.’ Gesturing around them, he talks as if to a child, ‘the great outdoors are no place for a woman.’
‘I thank you for your concern, Ser Criston,’ Alicent cannot bite back the sarcasm, ‘but I am perfectly capable of going for a walk by myself.’
‘You have been too sheltered in the Red Keep,’ Criston says. ‘You know not what you risk.’
‘I am not a fool,’ Alicent hisses. All the long days holding her tongue with Criston, and all the years shoving down her feelings with Viserys, spill out in rage. ‘Seven hells,’ she says, too exhausted to care if it’s blasphemy. ‘Would you rescue me just to shackle me into another form of captivity, is that it?’
‘Never.’ A muscle shifts in Criston’s jaw. He says, slowly, ‘I’m trying to protect you.’ Reaching for Alicent’s hand, he says, ‘as is my duty.’
Duty. A word that’s defined so much of her life - a word wielded by her father, leading her away from Rhaenyra and into Viserys’ bedchambers, night after night. Alicent is sick of duty. Wrenching her hand from Criston’s grip, she says, ‘then I release you of it.’
‘Your Grace?’
‘It’s just Alicent,’ she says. Turning from Criston’s hard eyes, back to the open expanse of ocean, she sighs, ‘Not your Grace or my Queen - I left those titles in the Red Keep, with all the fetters that attend them.’
‘Alicent, then,’ Criston says. ‘I swore an oath, let me keep this one.’
‘All I want is to breathe the open air,’ Alicent says, quietly. ‘And to walk where I please.’ And finally, today she found that freedom - without Criston. Meeting his gaze, she explains, ‘I don’t want to be a means to your salvation. I want to be myself.’
Though his brows furrow, Criston doesn’t reply. They look out together on the bay, waves crashing against the shore and gulls crying out. When Criston speaks, his tone is gentle. ‘Be yourself,’ he says. ‘Let me serve you as yourself, Alicent Hightower.’
As dawn rises, and Criston snores peacefully, Alicent rummages through their bags. Somewhere, buried amidst all their dirty clothes and weaponry, is her jewellery, bundled in a silk scarf.
Silently, Alicent transfers it to the smallest satchel. Grabbing a canteen and the remains of a squirrel, she takes a last look.
In his sleep, Criston looks every bit the man she had took him for, when she asked him to run. Like this, he is innocent. But Alicent can see past it, now.
The walk to town is easy, the tower guides the way.
And finally, finally, she is free.