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The Red Keep had become too quiet after Queen Aemma’s death.

Not truly quiet, of course. The castle never fell silent. There were always guards posted at doors, servants passing with lowered eyes, courtiers murmuring behind their hands, maesters whispering in corners as though grief were some illness one might catch if spoken of too loudly. The bells still rang. The kitchens still smoked. The small council still gathered in its chamber and spoke of ships, coin, wars, harvests, marriages, heirs.

But the heart had gone out of the place.

Alicent felt it most in the long corridors.

There had once been a warmth to them, or perhaps she only thought so because Queen Aemma had walked them with such ease. Aemma Arryn had never needed to command a room to hold it. She had moved through the Red Keep with a hand resting lightly at her belly, or on Rhaenyra’s shoulder, or wrapped around a cup of tea as she asked Alicent after her stitching, her reading, her father. She had been gentle without being weak, soft-spoken without ever seeming small.

Alicent had not realized how much she had depended on that until the queen was gone.

Now the corridors seemed longer. Colder. The tapestries hung heavier against the walls, the woven dragons and battles dimmed beneath the cloudy daylight coming through the high arched windows. Even the servants walked as if each footstep might disturb the dead.

Rhaenyra, however, did not walk carefully at all.

Rhaenyra vanished.

That was the word the court had begun using for it, though never where the king might hear. The princess vanished on dragonback for hours, sometimes well past sunset, returning with wind-tangled hair and ash on her boots and her face set in such stubborn blankness that no one dared ask where she had been. She missed lessons. She missed suppers. Twice now, she had failed to present herself to the small council, though Viserys had insisted she attend, had insisted she learn, had insisted it would do her good to have purpose.

Purpose, Alicent thought, was a poor poultice for grief.

She knew that better than most.

When her own mother had died, Alicent had not taken to the skies. She had not slammed doors or spoken sharply to lords or disappeared beyond anyone’s reach. She had sat in septs until her knees ached. She had recited prayers until her mouth went dry. She had spoken of her mother in trembling, careful pieces, as though each memory were a shard of glass she had to remove from her own chest.

Rhaenyra did not remove the glass.

Rhaenyra buried it deeper and dared anyone to notice she was bleeding.

That morning, she had not come to the small council again.

Alicent had watched the empty chair beside the king with a strange, twisting ache in her stomach. Lord Beesbury had cleared his throat. Lord Corlys had looked irritated. Ser Otto Hightower had merely folded his hands and said nothing, which was worse. The king had stared at the table as though the painted wood might offer him an answer. And Alicent, standing near the wall where she was expected to be silent and dutiful and useful, had felt something in her tighten.

Not anger. Not quite.

Fear, perhaps.

Rhaenyra had always been wild in small ways. That was part of what Alicent loved about her, part of what unsettled and delighted her in equal measure. Rhaenyra ate sugared plums before supper because she wanted them. Rhaenyra mocked dull lords under her breath. Rhaenyra raced down steps when she was meant to descend like a princess, dignified and watched. Rhaenyra spoke as though rules were merely suggestions made by people too frightened to live.

But this was different.

This was not laughter spilling out of her before the septa could scold her. This was not Rhaenyra stealing lemon cakes from a tray and pressing one into Alicent’s hand with a grin. This was something sharper. Something desperate.

So when the council was dismissed, Alicent did what she always did.

She went to find Rhaenyra.

The walk to the princess’s chambers felt longer than usual. Perhaps because Alicent was moving against the instinct that had been carved into her since girlhood: do not intrude, do not presume, do not force yourself where you have not been invited. Her father often praised her for knowing when to be quiet. He said it made her graceful. Wise. Better suited to court than girls who mistook boldness for strength.

But Rhaenyra had never made Alicent feel praised for silence.

Rhaenyra had always looked at her as though she were waiting for Alicent to speak.

By the time Alicent reached the princess’s door, her palms had grown damp. The door was tall and dark, banded with blackened metal, the dragon carvings along its face catching in the low afternoon light. She had stood before this door a hundred times, perhaps more. As children, she and Rhaenyra had slipped through it laughing, heads bent together over some secret. Alicent had slept in Rhaenyra’s bed on stormy nights when thunder shook the windows. Rhaenyra had dragged her inside by the wrist whenever she had something new to show her: a Valyrian phrase, a stolen book, a necklace, a ridiculous drawing of some lord with ears too large for his head.

She still knocked.

Two soft taps.

No answer.

Alicent waited, listening. From within came a muffled rustle, the thump of something being moved too carelessly, then a low curse in High Valyrian.

Alicent pressed her lips together.

“Rhaenyra?”

Still no answer.

She hesitated only a moment longer before placing her hand against the cool metal and pushing the door open.

The chamber was in disarray.

That was not unusual, exactly. Rhaenyra had never cared for neatness unless someone else had made a fuss over it first. But there was a frantic quality to the mess now. A pair of boots lay overturned near the bed. A riding glove had been tossed onto the floor. Dresses hung half-pulled from a carved wardrobe, silks and velvets spilling over one another in a tangle of red, black, cream, and gold. A hairbrush sat abandoned on the table beside a cup of untouched wine and a plate of bread gone hard at the edges.

And in the center of it all stood Rhaenyra.

She was dressed for riding.

Her pale hair had been braided hastily, unevenly, with loose strands escaping around her face and neck. She wore dark leather trousers tucked into boots, a fitted riding tunic fastened at her throat, and gloves shoved through the belt at her waist. Her shoulders were stiff with purpose as she rummaged through the open wardrobe, one arm buried elbow-deep among folded garments.

For one breath, Alicent simply watched her.

Rhaenyra looked alive in a way she had not in the council chamber. Or perhaps that was not right. She looked as though she were trying to outrun the part of herself that did not.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent said gently.

The princess did not startle. She only glanced over her shoulder, quick and bright-eyed, then turned back to her search.

“Alicent,” she said, as if she had been expecting her. “Good. You’re here.”

Alicent stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I've been looking for you.”

“I gathered.”

“You were meant to be at council.”

“I was meant to be many things,” Rhaenyra replied, tugging a dark sleeve free from the press of clothes. “Most of them tedious.”

Alicent clasped her hands in front of herself. It was an old habit, one her mother had once gently teased her for. Her fingers found each other, twisted, held tight.

“Your father noticed.”

“My father notices many things too late.”

The words landed harder than Rhaenyra seemed to intend.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Alicent watched the back of Rhaenyra’s neck, the pale wisps of hair there, the tense line of her jaw visible in profile. There were things one could say in answer to that. Careful things. Soothing things. Dutiful things. She could say that the king was grieving too, that His Grace loved her, that council was important, that Rhaenyra could not keep disappearing whenever pain became inconvenient.

All of those things were true.

None of them were kind.

“What are you doing?” Alicent asked instead.

“Finding something.”

“That much is clear.”

Rhaenyra huffed, almost a laugh, though there was little humor in it. She pushed a heavy red gown aside, then a black cloak trimmed in silver, then leaned further into the wardrobe. “Something of mine that might fit you.”

Alicent blinked. “Fit me?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I need anything of yours?”

“Because you own nothing suitable.”

“Suitable for what?”

Rhaenyra did not answer at once. She stood on her toes to reach a higher shelf, muttering under her breath as she shoved aside a stack of folded linen. Alicent took a step closer, her confusion sharpening into nerves.

She knew that look. The set of Rhaenyra’s shoulders, the dangerous concentration, the careless energy in her hands. It was the same look she wore before suggesting they sneak into the kitchens at midnight or climb somewhere they ought not climb. The same look she had worn once when she had declared, with absolute certainty, that Alicent would enjoy seeing the dragonpit if only she stopped trembling long enough to come with her.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent said slowly.

The princess pulled something free with a triumphant little sound.

It was a riding coat. Dark blue, so deep it seemed nearly black where the light failed to touch it, with silver clasps down the front and narrow sleeves meant to be worn close to the arms. It was finer than anything Alicent would have chosen for herself, made of sturdy wool and lined for wind. Rhaenyra shook it once, held it up by the shoulders, and inspected it with a tilted head.

“This will do.”

Alicent stared at the coat.

Then at Rhaenyra.

“Will do for what?”

Rhaenyra turned.

And whatever answer Alicent had been preparing vanished.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were red.

Not merely tired. Not irritated from wind or lack of sleep. Red-rimmed and swollen, the skin beneath them faintly puffy, her lashes still clumped in places as though she had washed her face too quickly and hoped no one would notice. Her mouth was firm, almost defiant, but it trembled at the corner before she caught it between her teeth.

She had been crying.

Recently.

Privately.

The sight struck Alicent so fiercely that she forgot the coat, the council, the missed duties, the half-formed scolding that had carried her here. For a moment all she could see was Rhaenyra as she had been the day of the funeral pyre: white-faced and shaking, jaw locked so tightly Alicent had feared she might break her own teeth from the force of holding herself together. She had stood before the dragon with all the eyes of the realm upon her and spoken the command to burn her own mother. A girl made to do a thing no girl should ever have to do.

And afterward, she had not wept where anyone could see.

Not even with Alicent.

That hurt more than Alicent wanted to admit.

Her first instinct was to go to her. To cross the room and take Rhaenyra into her arms, to tuck that proud silver head beneath her chin as if they were little girls again, hiding from storms beneath a blanket. She wanted to press her cheek to Rhaenyra’s hair and tell her she did not have to be brave. Not here. Not with her.

Best friend, Alicent thought.

The words came to her automatically because they always had. Rhaenyra was her dearest friend. Her closest companion. The person she thought of first upon waking and last before sleep. The girl whose moods could alter the shape of Alicent’s entire day. The girl whose laughter made Alicent feel as though some window had been thrown open inside her chest.

Best friend.

And yet the phrase felt thinner than it used to.

It didn't explain the way Alicent’s heart lurched when Rhaenyra looked at her too long. It did not explain why she sometimes forgot what she meant to say when Rhaenyra tucked a loose curl behind Alicent’s ear with careless affection. It did not explain the strange heat that rose in her throat when Rhaenyra leaned too near, or the hollow little ache that opened whenever Rhaenyra turned that reckless smile on someone else.

Best friend was the word she had.

It was not enough.

Rhaenyra must have seen something change in her face, because her own expression hardened at once. She lifted her chin, daring Alicent to mention the tears.

Alicent did not.

Instead, she said softly, “You have been crying.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around the coat. “No, I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“I said I haven’t.”

There was a familiar sharpness in her tone, but no force behind it. It was a blade held by trembling hands.

Alicent took another step toward her. “Rhaenyra.”

“Don't say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm something wounded.”

Alicent’s throat tightened. “Are you not?”

Rhaenyra laughed once, harsh and humorless, and looked away. “Everyone is wounded. That seems to be the way of things, lately.”

“That doesn't mean you must pretend it doesn't hurt.”

“I am not pretending.”

“You disappeared for six hours yesterday.”

“I went riding.”

“You missed council.”

“It was dull.”

“You have hardly eaten.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You won't speak to your father.”

“My father won't speak to me.”

“And you will not speak to me.”

That, finally, made Rhaenyra still.

Alicent wished she had not said it. Or wished she had said it better. Less plainly. Less needfully. She felt exposed the moment the words left her, as though she had opened her hands and revealed something soft and embarrassing resting there.

Rhaenyra looked back at her.

The defiance in her face flickered. For an instant, Alicent saw beneath it. She saw the exhaustion, the grief, the terrible loneliness Rhaenyra had been trying to dress up as anger. Then it was gone again, smoothed beneath that princely pride she wore like armor.

“I am speaking to you now,” Rhaenyra said.

“No,” Alicent said, surprising herself with the firmness of it. “You are making plans at me.”

A corner of Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched.

“At you?”

“Yes. At me.” Alicent pointed, rather helplessly, at the coat. “You have decided something terrible, I can tell, and now you are trying to dress me for it before I have agreed.”

“It's not so terrible.”

“That is what you said before you made me climb the eastern wall.”

“You slipped only once.”

“I nearly died.”

“You bruised your knee.”

“I bled.”

“A heroic amount, I recall.”

Despite herself, Alicent almost smiled.

Almost.

Rhaenyra saw it. Her expression softened in answer, just slightly, and the room seemed to change around them. The mess, the grief, the dread pressing against the walls, none of it vanished, but for a heartbeat Alicent could see the girl she knew inside it all. Her Rhaenyra. Proud, impossible, bright as dragon fire, trying so desperately to turn sorrow into motion because stillness might destroy her.

Then Rhaenyra held the coat out.

“Put it on.”

Alicent looked at it as though it might bite her. “No!” And her voice came out twice as shrill as she meant to.

“You don't even know what it is for.”

“That's why I said no!”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. “You trust me, don’t you?”

It should have been an easy question.

Once, it would have been.

Alicent looked at Rhaenyra’s red eyes, at the stubborn set of her mouth, at the riding clothes and the half-packed satchel on the bed that she had only just noticed. She saw the gloves. The boots. The restless grief dressed as escape.

“Yes,” Alicent said carefully. “But I also know you.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened, something like challenge sparking there. “Then you know I would never let harm come to you.”

The words were spoken lightly, but Alicent felt them low in her stomach.

She did know that. In the way one knows the shape of their own prayers. Rhaenyra could be careless with herself, careless with rules, careless with the delicate things court demanded of her, but never with Alicent. Not truly. Not where it mattered.

Still, Alicent glanced toward the windows. Beyond them the sky lay pale and wide above the city, streaked with thin clouds.

“Rhaenyra,” she said, very quietly, “what is this plan?”

Rhaenyra stepped closer.

She did not toss the coat at Alicent. Did not command her, though she easily could have. Instead, she came near enough that Alicent could smell the faint trace of smoke clinging to her riding clothes, the cold air from outside, and beneath it the familiar scent of the oils Rhaenyra sometimes used in her hair. Something floral. Something sharp.

Rhaenyra lifted the coat and held it open.

The gesture was oddly intimate. More intimate than it should have been. Alicent’s eyes dropped to Rhaenyra’s hands, to the pale fingers curled around dark blue wool, then rose again to her face.

The redness around Rhaenyra’s eyes made her look younger.

No. Not younger.

More honest.

“I am going to Dragonstone, and I'm going to swim,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent’s breath caught. “Dragonstone?”

“Only for the day.”

“That is not only anything.”

“It's a short flight.”

“For you.”

“For us.”

Alicent stared at her. “Us?”

Rhaenyra’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You said I wouldn't speak to you.”

“I didn't mean…”

“I know what you meant.” Rhaenyra’s voice softened, and that was worse somehow. Alicent could defend against sharpness. She had no defenses at all against Rhaenyra being gentle. “But I cannot speak here. Not with guards outside every door and servants listening at the walls and my father looking at me as if I am either a daughter he has lost or a problem he cannot bear to solve.”

Alicent swallowed.

Rhaenyra glanced down at the coat between them, then back up. “Come with me.”

The request hung in the air.

Not command. Not jest. Not one of Rhaenyra’s reckless dares thrown out for the pleasure of watching Alicent blush and protest.

A plea.

Alicent felt it, and because she felt it, she was afraid.

“You want me to ride Syrax,” she said.

Rhaenyra’s brows lifted. “I want you to ride with me.”

“That is worse.”

“It's safer.”

“That's certainly not true.”

“It is. I will be there.”

“As though you being there has ever made anything less dangerous.”

Rhaenyra gave her a look. “You wound me.”

“You terrify me.”

The words slipped out before Alicent could soften them.

Rhaenyra’s expression changed.

Alicent immediately shook her head. “Not like that. I only mean, dragons terrify me. Heights terrify me. Your plans often terrify me. You, yourself, are…” She faltered, heat rising into her face. “You are not terrifying.”

Rhaenyra watched her too closely.

“I'm what?”

Alicent looked away. “Difficult.”

Rhaenyra laughed then.

It was small. Brief. Fragile as a candle flame cupped against wind. But it was real enough that Alicent felt something in her chest loosen painfully.

“Difficult,” Rhaenyra repeated. “How fondly you speak of me.”

“I speak of you with great patience.”

“You adore me, admit it.”

Alicent’s heart gave a violent little twist.

The words were nothing. A teasing remark. The sort of thing Rhaenyra said easily, carelessly, because she did not understand what it did to Alicent to hear it. She did not understand that there were nights Alicent lay awake, staring at the canopy above her bed, trying not to think that very thing in words too clear to deny.

You adore me.

Alicent forced herself to breathe.

“I worry for you,” she said.

Rhaenyra’s smile faded.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant call of gulls beyond the windows. Rhaenyra looked down at the coat again, thumb rubbing once over the silver clasp.

“I know,” she said.

It was the first thing she had said all afternoon that sounded like surrender.

Alicent’s resolve weakened.

She hated it. Hated how quickly Rhaenyra could undo her. Hated that all the dutiful, sensible words her father would expect from her scattered the moment Rhaenyra looked at her like that, like she was standing alone in a burning room and Alicent was the only one she trusted to reach for.

Alicent took the coat from her hands.

Rhaenyra’s fingers brushed hers as she let go.

It was barely a touch. Wool between them, leather at Rhaenyra’s wrist, the brief warmth of skin against skin.

Still, Alicent felt it everywhere.

“I have never flown before,” she said.

Rhaenyra’s eyes remained on her. “I know.”

“If I fall, my father will have you executed.”

“If you fall, I will jump after you.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It should be. I am very brave.”

“You are very foolish.”

“Sometimes.”

Alicent clutched the riding coat against her chest. “And if the king asks where we have gone?”

“He won’t.”

“You do not know that.”

“He has not asked where I have gone for days.”

The quiet bitterness in Rhaenyra’s voice made Alicent go still.

There it was. The wound, showing itself at last. Not all of it. Not even most. But enough.

Rhaenyra looked away almost immediately, jaw tightening as though she regretted the words. Alicent could feel the familiar urge rise in her again: to close the distance, to touch her sleeve, her hand, her cheek. To do something that would make Rhaenyra look at her and not flee back behind pride.

But Alicent had been taught caution in all things.

Even love, before she knew that was what it was.

So she only held the coat tighter and said, “Help me with it, then.”

Rhaenyra looked back.

“What?”

“The coat,” Alicent said, lowering her gaze so Rhaenyra would not see too much in her face. “If I am to be dragged into one of your terrible plans, I should at least be dressed properly.”

For a moment, Rhaenyra did nothing.

Then she smiled.

Not her court smile. Not the sharp, careless grin she gave when she wanted to provoke someone. This was softer. Tired at the edges. Grateful in a way Alicent suspected Rhaenyra would sooner die than speak aloud.

“Turn around,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent did.

The air shifted as Rhaenyra stepped behind her.

Alicent felt the coat settle over her shoulders, heavier than she expected and still faintly warm from Rhaenyra’s hands. Rhaenyra drew the fabric into place with surprising care, smoothing it down over Alicent’s arms, her touch lingering only where the coat demanded it. Even so, Alicent went very still.

Rhaenyra stood close enough that Alicent could feel her breath near the back of her neck.

“Your hair is in the way,” Rhaenyra murmured.

Alicent reached for it at once, but Rhaenyra was faster.

Her fingers brushed the curls at Alicent’s nape and gathered them gently over one shoulder. Alicent’s eyes fluttered shut before she could stop them.

It was nothing.

It was only hair.

It was only Rhaenyra.

That was the trouble.

“There,” Rhaenyra said quietly.

Alicent opened her eyes.

Rhaenyra came around to face her and began fastening the silver clasps one by one. The first at Alicent’s throat. The second just below. Her knuckles grazed Alicent’s collarbone through the thin fabric of her gown, and Alicent looked anywhere but at her face: the wardrobe, the hearth, the boots near the bed.

Rhaenyra noticed. Of course she noticed.

“You are very quiet,” she said.

“I am praying.”

“For courage?”

“For sense.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched. “Ask the gods for some on my behalf as well.”

“I often do.”

Their eyes met.

The last clasp hung between Rhaenyra’s fingers. For a moment she did not fasten it. She only looked at Alicent, and the chamber seemed to fold inward around them, all the world narrowing to the space between one breath and the next.

Alicent saw the grief in her again. The red eyes. The stubborn mouth. The girl who had lost her mother and did not know how to be a daughter to a father who could barely look at her without seeing death. The girl who would rather climb onto the back of a dragon than sit still long enough to break.

Alicent wanted to save her.

She knew, with a sudden and terrible certainty, that this desire would ruin her if she let it.

Rhaenyra fastened the final clasp.

“There,” she said, voice lower than before. “You look like you belong to me.”

Alicent forgot how to breathe.

Rhaenyra seemed to realize what she had said only after she had said it. Her lips parted slightly, the color rising faintly in her cheeks.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “you look like you are dressed for riding.”

Alicent’s fingers tightened at her sides.

“Yes,” she said, though her voice sounded distant to her own ears. “Of course.”

Neither of them moved.

Then somewhere beyond the door, footsteps passed through the corridor, and the spell broke.

Rhaenyra stepped back first.

She turned toward the bed and snatched up the gloves from where she had thrown them earlier, shoving them into Alicent’s hands with renewed briskness, as though motion could erase the moment between them.

“Put those on,” she said. “Syrax will be restless if we keep her waiting.”

Alicent looked down at the gloves.

Then at Rhaenyra.

“She is already expecting us?”

Rhaenyra’s smile returned, sharper now, but not untouched by sadness. “She is always expecting me.”

“And does Syrax know I am coming?”

“I may have mentioned it.”

“You mentioned me to your dragon?”

Rhaenyra shrugged, but there was something almost shy in it. “She knows who you are.”

Alicent did not know what to do with that.

She pulled on the gloves slowly, fingers trembling just enough that she hoped Rhaenyra would not see. But Rhaenyra did see. Rhaenyra always saw. The princess stepped closer again, less teasing now, and caught Alicent’s wrist before she could fumble the second glove.

“Ali.”

Alicent looked up.

No one else called her that. Not anymore. Her mother had, sometimes, when she was very small. Rhaenyra had taken it up years ago and never given it back.

“If you truly do not wish to come,” Rhaenyra said, “I will not make you.”

Alicent almost laughed at that, because they both knew it was not entirely true. Rhaenyra would coax, tease, plead, provoke. She would do everything short of force. And Alicent would follow anyway, because she always had.

Because Rhaenyra was grieving.

Because Alicent understood grief.

Because when Rhaenyra looked at her like this, with all her reckless pride stripped down to something rawer, Alicent felt the answer rising in her before duty could crush it.

“I know,” Alicent said.

Rhaenyra’s thumb rested against the inside of her wrist.

Alicent was certain she could feel her own pulse beating beneath it.

“I am frightened,” she admitted.

Rhaenyra’s expression softened. “I know.”

“But I will come.”

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened once around her wrist.

Just once.

Then she let go.

Alicent told herself she did not miss the touch immediately.

Rhaenyra crossed the room to fetch her cloak, moving quickly now, gathering herself back into the shape of a princess who did not cry, who did not beg, who did not ache so visibly that Alicent wanted to press both hands over the wound and keep the whole world from touching it.

At the door, Rhaenyra paused and looked back.

The afternoon light caught in her hair, turning it nearly white.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Before someone sensible thinks to stop us.”

Alicent took one last look at the chamber: the abandoned cup, the uneaten bread, the open wardrobe, the bed still rumpled from whatever lonely grief Rhaenyra had tried and failed to hide there.

Then she followed.

The two girls slipped out of Rhaenyra’s chambers as though they had done nothing more scandalous than decide to take a turn about the gardens.

Alicent knew better.

She could feel the shape of trouble around them from the very first step. It was in the quickness of Rhaenyra’s stride, in the way the princess kept one gloved hand closed around Alicent’s wrist, not quite dragging her, but certainly not giving her the chance to reconsider. It was in the way Rhaenyra moved through the Red Keep as if the castle belonged to her, as if every corridor and stairwell had been built for the express purpose of letting her escape unnoticed.

Perhaps, Alicent thought, for Rhaenyra it had been.

They took a side passage first, narrow and cool, where the stone smelled faintly of damp and candle smoke. A pair of servants passed them carrying folded linens and immediately lowered their eyes. Alicent’s instinct was to slow, to smooth the front of the dark blue riding coat, to look composed and innocent. Rhaenyra merely tightened her grip and continued on with the confidence of someone who expected the world to part before her.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent whispered once the servants had gone. “We're not going toward the lower gate.”

“No,” Rhaenyra said.

“We're not going toward the yard, either.”

“No.”

Alicent stared at the back of her head. “We are meant to be going to the Dragonpit.”

“We are.”

“This isn't the way.”

“It is a way.”

“That's not reassuring.”

Rhaenyra glanced back over her shoulder.

There it was again. That look.

Mischief.

Not the brittle, defensive sharpness she had worn in her chambers. Not the grief she had been trying so badly to conceal. This was something nearer to the Rhaenyra Alicent knew, eyes brightening, mouth curling at one corner as if she had hidden a secret beneath her tongue and was waiting for Alicent to ask for it.

Alicent felt relief so suddenly that it almost hurt.

“What are you doing?” she asked, suspicious now.

Rhaenyra’s grin widened.

“I... am going to swipe some lemon cakes.”

Alicent stopped so abruptly that Rhaenyra nearly pulled her arm clean forward.

“You're what?”

“Lemon cakes,” Rhaenyra repeated, as if Alicent had objected because she had not heard clearly enough. “There are several trays prepared for some dreadfully important meeting my father is having with Lord Corlys and the Velaryons. They won't miss a few.”

“They absolutely will.”

“They will blame the servants, then.”

“Rhaenyra.”

“What?”

“You cannot steal cakes meant for a royal meeting.”

“I can. I have before.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“It makes it possible, though.”

Alicent closed her eyes briefly, and sighed wearily.

“I want cake,” Rhaenyra said plainly, without even a hint of shame. “So, I will have cake.”

Alicent opened her eyes again and found Rhaenyra watching her, waiting for the protest she knew would come. It always came. Alicent protesting, Rhaenyra grinning, the two of them caught in that familiar pattern of caution and temptation. Usually Alicent’s caution would last longer. Usually she would make at least three arguments before allowing herself to be persuaded into whatever foolishness Rhaenyra had set her heart on.

But Rhaenyra’s eyes were still red at the edges.

And she wanted cake.

Such a small thing. Such a childish thing. Such a Rhaenyra thing, to stand in the wreckage of her own grief and decide with royal certainty that she would steal sweets from her father’s meeting because she could not bear one more hour of being good.

Alicent sighed, softer this time. “You're going to get us both in terrible trouble.”

“Only if you stand there looking guilty.”

“I always look guilty when I am guilty.”

“That is a flaw in your character, my dear Alicent.”

“It is called a conscience.”

Rhaenyra leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Then stand outside and let your conscience keep watch.”

Alicent wanted to object again.

Instead, she followed.

The kitchens were in their usual state of controlled chaos. Even from the corridor, Alicent could hear the clatter of pots, the calls of cooks, the rush of serving girls crossing stone floors with trays balanced in both hands. The air grew warmer as they approached, scented with butter, onions, roasting meat, fresh bread, and sugar. Under different circumstances, Alicent might have found it comforting. Today it felt like one more place where they very much should not be.

Rhaenyra stopped just outside the kitchen entrance and peered inside with the concentration of a general surveying a battlefield.

Alicent stood beside her, clutching her gloved hands together. “This is a bad idea.”

“Most good ideas look that way at first.”

“That's not true.”

“It's often true.”

“It's almost never true.”

Rhaenyra turned her head and smiled at her. “You're pretty when you are cross.”

Alicent’s mouth opened.

No sound came out.

Rhaenyra looked immediately pleased with herself, and before Alicent could recover enough to say something sensible, she slipped into the kitchen.

Alicent remained at the doorway, stunned and burning and trying very hard to appear as though she had not just been unraveled by a single careless compliment.

Pretty.

Rhaenyra had called her pretty before. Of course she had. She had said it while helping Alicent choose ribbons, while lying on Alicent’s bed with her chin in her hands, while laughing at the way one of Alicent’s gowns made her look too much like a septa in training. She said such things easily, almost thoughtlessly.

But lately, nothing Rhaenyra said felt thoughtless to Alicent.

Lately every word seemed to land somewhere tender.

She shifted outside the kitchen door and tried to stand guard properly, though she had no real idea what that meant. She watched the corridor one way, then the other, then looked briefly into the kitchen despite herself.

Rhaenyra moved like a thief who had been born with a crown.

She did not hesitate. She did not flinch. She slipped around a servant carrying a basket of herbs, ducked behind a hanging row of dried sausages, and made straight for the long table where the desserts waited beneath cloth coverings. Her braid had loosened further, pale strands brushing her cheek as she leaned over the table and lifted one corner of the cloth.

Alicent saw her eyes light up.

Then Rhaenyra looked toward the doorway.

Alicent shook her head at once.

Rhaenyra smiled sweetly and ignored her.

She snatched a piece of white cheesecloth from beside the trays, selected four lemon cakes with the solemn care of someone choosing jewels from a vault, and wrapped them quickly. A cook turned suddenly nearby, and Alicent’s heart leapt into her throat.

She stepped forward without thinking.

“My lady?”

A serving girl had come down the corridor behind her, arms full of folded napkins.

Alicent turned so quickly she nearly tripped over the hem of Rhaenyra’s borrowed coat. “Yes?”

The girl blinked at her. “Are you lost?”

“No,” Alicent said, much too fast. Then, because that sounded suspicious, she added, “I mean, I was looking for Princess Rhaenyra.”

That, unfortunately, was worse.

The girl glanced toward the kitchen.

Alicent moved half a step, blocking her view. “She was meant to be here. Or near here. I thought perhaps she had come this way.”

The girl’s expression shifted into polite confusion. “To the kitchens?”

Alicent felt heat rising under her collar. “The princess goes many places.”

“Yes, my lady.”

There was a small thump from inside the kitchen.

Alicent smiled too brightly.

The serving girl looked past her again. “Did you hear something?”

“Hear what?”

“You didn't hear that?”

“No.”

“But you just said..."

“Yes!” Alicent blurted before she could stop herself. 

The girl stared at her.

Alicent, who had been trained since childhood to sit through feasts, prayers, audiences, condolences, and her father’s silences without betraying a single improper feeling, discovered in that moment that she was a terrible liar when Rhaenyra was involved.

Then Rhaenyra appeared beside her.

“Alicent,” she said, breathless and far too delighted. “There you are.”

Alicent turned.

Rhaenyra had the satchel slung innocently at her hip, though the slight bulge near the bottom did not look innocent at all. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and a few loose curls of silver hair had escaped fully from her braid. She looked, Alicent thought helplessly, like trouble made flesh.

The serving girl dropped into a quick curtsy. “Princess.”

Rhaenyra gave her the sort of gracious nod she used only when she was behaving badly. “Were you keeping Lady Alicent company?”

“Yes, Princess.”

“How kind.”

Alicent pressed her lips together.

Rhaenyra slipped an arm through hers. “Come along, then. We are late.”

“For what?” the serving girl asked before she could stop herself.

“For something terribly important,” Rhaenyra said.

Then she pulled Alicent away.

They managed to wait until they had turned two corners before Rhaenyra burst into laughter.

It came out of her suddenly, bright and startled, as if it had been trapped somewhere in her chest and had only just found a way free. She clapped one hand over her mouth, but that only made it worse. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes squeezed shut. She leaned sideways until her head bumped against Alicent’s shoulder, the weight of it warm and familiar.

Alicent should have scolded her.

She truly should have.

Instead, she looked down at Rhaenyra bent against her side, laughing into her gloved hand, and felt her own mouth tremble.

“Don't laugh,” Alicent whispered.

“I can't help it.”

“You nearly got caught.”

“But I didn’t.”

“I nearly got caught.”

“You were magnificent.”

“I was dreadful.”

“You were,” Rhaenyra admitted, still laughing. “You lied as though you were being tortured.”

“I felt as though I was.”

Rhaenyra lifted her head, wiping beneath one eye with the heel of her hand. “Sweet girl.”

Alicent went quiet.

The words had been tossed out through laughter, warm and easy. But they struck her with such tenderness that she could not answer them. Sweet girl. As though Rhaenyra had not just made a criminal of her. As though Alicent were something precious, something to be teased but cherished.

Rhaenyra’s laughter softened when she noticed Alicent’s silence.

For one brief moment, they simply stood there in the corridor, close enough that the sleeve of Rhaenyra’s riding tunic brushed the borrowed coat on Alicent’s arm.

Then Rhaenyra reached down and took Alicent’s hand.

“Come on,” she said, gentler than before.

And Alicent went.

They left the Red Keep by a servants’ passage that Alicent had not known existed and Rhaenyra seemed to know intimately. It spilled them out near a lower gate, where the sounds of the city rushed up to greet them: cart wheels over stone, dogs barking, merchants shouting, the distant crash of waves against the harbor. King’s Landing stank of smoke and fish and people, of sweat, horse dung, warm stone, and the salt air rolling in from Blackwater Bay.

Alicent gathered the borrowed riding coat closer around herself.

Rhaenyra seemed to breathe easier the moment they were beyond the castle walls.

It was not that she smiled exactly. Not fully. But some tightness in her face loosened as they slipped through the narrower streets, choosing alleys where fewer eyes might notice the princess and the daughter of the Hand hurrying hand in hand like children escaping lessons. The city pressed close around them, all leaning buildings, laundry lines, puddled stone, and quick glimpses of sky.

Alicent should have been frightened of that too.

She should have worried about thieves, guards, gossip, her father’s anger, the impropriety of it all. And she did. Her mind presented each concern dutifully, one after another, like septas lining up naughty children for correction.

But Rhaenyra’s hand was around hers.

And Rhaenyra was laughing under her breath again, not loudly now, only in small bursts whenever they nearly slipped on wet stone or had to duck behind a cart to avoid a cluster of gold cloaks. The sound of it eased something in Alicent.

It was not happiness exactly.

But it was proof that happiness had not abandoned Rhaenyra entirely.

Alicent found herself watching her more than she watched the path.

Rhaenyra moved through King’s Landing with the same confidence she carried everywhere, though not the same ease. In the Red Keep, her defiance was polished, honed by expectation. Here, it was wilder. Here, with her riding clothes and stolen cakes and her hand wrapped tightly around Alicent’s, she looked almost like any other girl running through the city.

Almost.

The silver of her hair gave her away. The lift of her chin gave her away. The strange brightness around her, that unmistakable Targaryen quality of being both girl and flame, gave her away.

Alicent loved it.

The thought came too clearly.

She stumbled.

Rhaenyra stopped at once and turned. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You tripped.”

“On a stone.”

“There was no stone.”

“There are many stones. It's a city.”

Rhaenyra studied her face with narrowed eyes. “Aw, you've gone pink.”

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I am warm.”

“Well, it is Summer.”

“I am wearing your coat and it's hot and itchy.”

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted, teasing creeping in again. “And very well, I might add," she said, then added, "though, trust me, over the water you'll be thankful for the warm scratchy coat."

Alicent looked away quickly. “We should hurry.”

Rhaenyra did not move at once.

Alicent could feel her looking at her. Worse, she could feel herself being looked at by Rhaenyra, which was not the same thing as anyone else looking. Rhaenyra’s attention had weight. Heat. It made Alicent feel as though she were standing too close to a candle and pretending not to notice the flame.

Then Rhaenyra’s fingers squeezed hers.

“Very well,” she said. “We hurry.”

By the time the Dragonpit rose before them, Alicent’s earlier anxieties returned with renewed force.

It was not merely a building. Buildings did not loom like that.

The Dragonpit stood massive against the sky, a great stone crown atop Rhaenys’s Hill, its dark arches yawning open like the mouths of ancient beasts. Even after all the years Alicent had lived in King’s Landing, even after all the times she had glimpsed it from afar, it still unsettled her. It was not beautiful in the way the sept was beautiful, or the gardens, or even the Red Keep with its bloody stone and high towers.

It was powerful.

And power, Alicent had learned, was rarely gentle.

Her steps slowed.

Rhaenyra noticed immediately.

She always did.

“We can turn back,” she said.

Alicent looked at her sharply, startled by the offer.

Rhaenyra stood just ahead of her, the city wind tugging loose strands of hair across her cheek. Her expression was guarded, but her eyes were not. There was care in them. Care so plain that Alicent almost wished she had looked away before seeing it.

“You don't mean that,” Alicent said.

“I do.”

“You want to go.”

“I want you to come.” Rhaenyra’s voice was quiet. “That's not the same as wanting you afraid.”

Alicent had no answer for that.

It would have been easier if Rhaenyra had teased her. Easier if she had rolled her eyes and called Alicent a coward, because then Alicent could have been indignant and followed her out of pride. But this gentleness left her defenseless.

She looked up at the Dragonpit.

Somewhere inside, something shifted. A low sound rolled through the stone, deep enough that Alicent felt it first in the soles of her feet before she heard it with her ears.

Her hand tightened around Rhaenyra’s.

Rhaenyra stepped closer. “That's not Syrax.”

“How can you tell?”

“I know her voice.”

“Of course you know your dragon’s voice.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth softened. “You know mine, don't you?”

Alicent looked at her.

The words hung between them, quiet but not careless this time. Rhaenyra seemed to realize it too, because she did not grin afterward. She only held Alicent’s gaze, her face open in a way that made Alicent’s heart ache.

Yes, Alicent thought.

I know your voice.

She knew Rhaenyra’s court voice, bored and edged with impatience. She knew the voice Rhaenyra used with her father, that careful mixture of longing and resentment. She knew her laughter, bright and wicked. She knew the low murmur Rhaenyra used when they sat together over books, close enough for candlelight to touch both their faces. She knew the softness in it when Rhaenyra was tired. The sharpness when she was wounded. The false lightness when she was close to breaking.

Alicent knew Rhaenyra’s voice better than she knew her own prayers.

“That's different,” Alicent said, though it wasn't.

Rhaenyra did not argue.

She only turned and led her inside.

The change was immediate.

The sunlight dimmed behind them. The air grew cooler, then strangely warm again, heavy with the living heat of enormous bodies hidden deeper in the pit. The sound of the city faded, replaced by echoes: distant chains, shifting stone, the scrape of claws, the low rumble of dragons breathing in the dark.

And the smell.

Alicent had heard people speak of it before, usually with awe or disgust or both. Dragon. Smoke and musk and hot metal. Ash, damp stone, old blood, singed leather, something wild and ancient beneath it all. It filled the back of her throat and settled there. She swallowed hard and tasted fear.

Her fingers began to tremble.

Rhaenyra slowed, but did not let go.

“You are squeezing my hand very tightly,” she murmured.

“Sorry.” Alicent loosened her grip at once.

Rhaenyra caught her fingers again before she could pull away. “I didn't say stop.”

Alicent looked at her, startled.

Rhaenyra kept walking, eyes forward, but the side of her mouth had curved faintly.

The Dragonkeepers noticed them, of course. Men in thin, pale robes turned as the princess entered. One inclined his head. Another looked at Alicent with mild surprise, which did not help the queasy turning of her stomach.

Rhaenyra addressed them in High Valyrian, fluent and brisk. Alicent caught only scraps. Syrax. Saddle. No escort. A command hidden beneath the smoothness of a girl born royal.

One of the keepers seemed hesitant.

Rhaenyra squared her shoulders.

The hesitation ended.

Alicent watched with anxious fascination. She had seen Rhaenyra petulant, wounded, delighted, indolent, affectionate, impossible. But there were moments like this when she saw the princess beneath the girl. Or perhaps the future queen beneath the princess. It startled her each time. Rhaenyra could be careless with rules, but never with her own authority. She put it on as naturally as she put on her riding gloves.

Alicent wondered if Rhaenyra knew how dazzling it was.

Then Syrax emerged from the gloom.

Alicent’s breath stopped.

The dragon was gold.

Not the soft gold of jewelry, not the gentle gleam of embroidery, but something deeper and stranger. Her scales caught the low torchlight in flashes of yellow, bronze, and warm shadow. She lifted her head from where she had been resting near the far side of the pit, and the movement alone seemed enormous, like part of the earth deciding to wake.

Her eyes were green in the dim light.

Fixed on them.

Fixed on Alicent.

Alicent took one step back without meaning to.

Rhaenyra stopped at once.

Syrax’s nostrils flared.

The sound she made was not loud, exactly, but Alicent felt it through her bones. A deep, questioning rumble that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Syrax lowered her head slightly and sniffed, hot breath rolling over the stone between them.

Alicent’s heart began to pound so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

Dragons were wonders. Everyone knew that. They were history given flesh. They were conquest and old Valyria and the reason kings bent the knee. They were beauty and terror braided together so tightly that one could not separate them.

But standing before one was not like hearing songs about them.

Standing before one made Alicent’s body remember it was small.

She stared at the great golden creature and thought, wildly, I am meant to climb onto that.

Her knees weakened.

Rhaenyra moved in front of her, not fully blocking Syrax from view, but placing herself between Alicent and the dragon’s focus. She lifted a hand, palm outward.

“Lykirī, Syrax,” she said softly. “Lykirī.”

Syrax rumbled again, but quieter this time.

Rhaenyra continued speaking in High Valyrian, voice low and fluid. The words seemed to change her. Alicent had always liked hearing Rhaenyra speak the old tongue, though she understood little of it. In Valyrian, Rhaenyra sounded older somehow. Stranger. As though part of her belonged to a world Alicent could only glimpse from the edge.

Today, the sound soothed her despite the fear.

Not because she understood the words.

Because she understood Rhaenyra.

The princess’s hand never left Alicent’s.

“She sees you,” Rhaenyra said after a moment.

“I had noticed.”

“She's curious.”

“She looks hungry.”

Rhaenyra glanced back, amused. “She's not hungry.”

“How could you possibly know?” Alicent squeaked. 

“Because if she were hungry, she would be far less polite.”

Alicent made a faint sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. “That's not comforting.”

“You say that often.”

“Because you say many things that are not comforting.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened again, and for a moment she looked less like a dragonrider and more like the girl from the corridor, the one who had leaned against Alicent’s shoulder laughing over stolen cakes.

“She will accept you,” Rhaenyra said. “So long as I am here.”

Alicent stared at her.

“I would hope you would be here,” she said, the words coming out thin and breathless. “Considering it is your dragon.”

Rhaenyra shot her a look.

For some reason, that helped. The absurdity of it. The familiar shape of Rhaenyra’s irritation. Alicent clung to it as she might have clung to a railing on a high stair.

Rhaenyra tilted her head toward Syrax. “Come.”

“No.”

“You haven't even moved.”

“I moved backward.”

“Yes, I saw.”

“That was my body making a wise decision.”

“Your body is being dramatic.”

“My body wishes to live.”

“So does mine.”

“Your body was raised with dragons.”

Rhaenyra stepped closer, still facing her, and her voice lowered. “Ali.”

Alicent’s protests died.

Rhaenyra’s hand found hers again, though Alicent had not realized she had pulled it free. The princess took it gently this time, not with the brisk confidence she had used while hurrying through the halls, but with careful patience. Her gloved fingers folded around Alicent’s trembling ones.

“Only touch her,” Rhaenyra said. “Nothing more.”

Alicent looked past her at Syrax.

The dragon had lowered her head, watching. Her pupils shifted slightly in the torchlight. Her mouth was closed, but Alicent could see the shape of her teeth beneath the line of her jaw.

“Nothing more?” Alicent repeated.

“Nothing more.”

“You swear it?”

“I swear it.”

“As a princess?”

Rhaenyra hesitated, then smiled faintly. “As your Rhaenyra.”

Alicent’s fear changed shape.

It did not lessen. Not exactly. Her heart still battered itself against her ribs. Her palms still dampened inside the borrowed gloves. The Dragonpit still felt too large and too close all at once, filled with heat and shadow and creatures that could reduce men to ash.

But beneath the fear came something else.

Your Rhaenyra.

The words lit in her chest, dangerous and golden.

She let herself be led forward.

One step. Then another.

Syrax watched them come. Her nostrils flared again, drawing in Alicent’s scent. Alicent’s courage nearly deserted her then, but Rhaenyra’s thumb moved once over her knuckles, slow and grounding.

“I'm here,” Rhaenyra murmured.

Alicent nodded, though her throat had gone too tight for speech.

When they reached Syrax’s shoulder, Rhaenyra placed her own hand on the dragon first.

The dragon’s scales were larger than Alicent had imagined, rough and ridged, fitting together like armor. Rhaenyra touched them as easily as she might have touched the neck of a beloved horse, though there was reverence in it too. A private tenderness. She stroked one gloved hand along the golden scales, speaking softly in Valyrian again.

Then she looked at Alicent.

“Here.”

Alicent shook her head once.

Rhaenyra did not laugh at her.

She did not scold. Did not tease.

Instead, she stepped closer until their shoulders nearly touched and guided Alicent’s hand toward the dragon.

Alicent’s breath came too quickly. She knew it did. She could hear it. It embarrassed her, but not enough to make her stop. Her hand trembled so violently that the tips of her fingers brushed uselessly against the air first, never quite reaching.

Rhaenyra’s hand closed more firmly around hers.

“Look at me,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent did.

It was easier than looking at Syrax.

Rhaenyra’s face was only inches from her own now. In the low light, her eyes looked darker, less violet than storm-lit blue. The redness from earlier had not vanished. It still lingered faintly around her lashes, a quiet reminder of what had brought them here, of the grief Rhaenyra was trying to outrun on dragonback.

But her gaze was steady.

For Alicent.

“Breathe with me,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent tried.

“In,” Rhaenyra murmured.

Alicent inhaled shakily.

“Out.”

She exhaled.

Again.

Again.

The Dragonpit did not disappear. Syrax did not become less enormous. But Alicent felt herself return a little to her own body, drawn back by Rhaenyra’s voice, by the warmth of her hand, by the quiet command in her eyes.

Then Rhaenyra guided Alicent’s hand down.

Alicent touched the dragon.

She flinched at first. She could not help it. Syrax’s hide was warm, almost startlingly so, heat pulsing beneath the rough surface like a banked fire. The scales were not smooth. They caught slightly against the leather of Alicent’s glove as Rhaenyra drew her hand across them with slow care.

“There,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Do you feel?”

Alicent nodded.

“She knows you're frightened.”

“That can't help.”

“It does not offend her.”

“I am glad my terror is not impolite.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched. “Still thinking of manners. Even now.”

“It's a sickness.”

“It's one of your charms.”

Alicent let out a breath that almost became a laugh.

Rhaenyra continued guiding her hand over Syrax’s shoulder. Slowly at first, then with less pressure as Alicent’s fingers stopped trembling quite so badly. The heat of the dragon seeped through the glove. The great creature’s breathing moved beneath her palm, vast and steady. Alive. Not a monster from a tapestry. Not merely a weapon. A living thing that knew Rhaenyra’s voice and permitted Alicent’s touch because Rhaenyra had asked it of her.

Alicent found herself looking properly at Syrax for the first time.

Not at the teeth. Not at the claws. Not at the impossible size of her.

At the fine lines between her scales. At the golden color darkening near the shoulder. At the slow blink of her green eyes as Rhaenyra spoke to her. At the strange, almost regal patience with which she allowed this trembling Hightower girl to learn her.

The fear remained.

But wonder joined it.

Alicent’s lips parted. “Oh.”

Rhaenyra watched her, smiling very slightly. “Oh?”

“She's so warm,” Alicent breathed.

“She's a dragon,” Rhaenyra said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I know that.”

“She is also vain, so if you mean to compliment her, do it clearly.”

Alicent glanced nervously at Syrax’s great head. “Can she understand us?”

“Some things.”

“That's not an answer, Rhaenyra”

“It's the only one I have.”

Alicent looked back at the dragon and swallowed. “You are very beautiful.”

Syrax huffed.

Hot air washed over them.

Alicent jumped, and Rhaenyra laughed, not cruelly, but with such delight that Alicent could not help giving a shaky laugh in return.

“She liked that,” Rhaenyra said.

“She nearly blew me over.”

“That means she liked it.”

“You Targaryens have strange ways of showing affection.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked to her. “Do we?”

Alicent realized too late what she had said.

The warmth rising in her face had nothing to do with dragonfire.

Rhaenyra let go of her hand then.

Alicent felt the absence instantly, but she did not pull away from Syrax.

That seemed to please Rhaenyra more than anything. The princess stepped back half a pace and watched as Alicent touched the dragon on her own, her gloved fingers moving hesitantly over the rough gold scales. Alicent was still frightened. Every sound Syrax made sent a jolt through her nerves. Every twitch of the dragon’s head reminded her that courage was a thin thing and easily torn.

But she was touching a dragon.

She, Alicent Hightower, who had spent most of her life being told where to stand, what to wear, how to speak, when to lower her eyes, was standing in the Dragonpit with Rhaenyra’s coat around her shoulders and her palm against living gold.

A laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it.

Small. Breathless. Unsteady.

Rhaenyra’s face changed at the sound.

Alicent saw it and almost looked away. There was too much in Rhaenyra’s expression, too much fondness, too much relief, too much hunger for any scrap of joy between them. It made Alicent feel seen in a way she both feared and craved.

“What?” Alicent asked softly.

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Nothing.”

“It's not nothing.”

“No,” Rhaenyra admitted. “It's not.”

But she did not say what it was.

Neither did Alicent.

Rhaenyra turned away first and moved toward the saddle. It was fitted along Syrax’s back in a series of dark leather straps, bronze fixtures, and handholds worn by use. To Alicent, it looked impossibly high. To Rhaenyra, it seemed no more difficult than climbing onto a garden bench.

She caught a hanging strap, placed one boot against Syrax’s foreleg, and hauled herself up with fluid ease. The dragon shifted beneath her, but Rhaenyra moved with it, sure and graceful. In a matter of moments she was seated in the saddle, silver hair falling over one shoulder, back straight, every line of her suddenly transformed.

Alicent stared.

She had seen Rhaenyra in gowns, in mourning black, in court finery, in nightclothes with her hair loose and sleep-soft around her face. She had seen her angry, laughing, bored, wounded, radiant.

But Rhaenyra on Syrax was something else.

She looked born to the sky.

It frightened Alicent.

It also made her heart ache.

Rhaenyra adjusted the reins, then turned and reached down with one gloved hand.

“Come.”

Alicent looked at that hand.

The choice stood before her with terrible clarity.

She could turn back.

She truly could. Rhaenyra had said she would not make her, and Alicent believed her now. She could step away from Syrax, return through the Dragonpit, retrace their path through King’s Landing, and find her way back to the Red Keep. She could remove Rhaenyra’s coat, return to her chambers, sit with her needlework, and pretend that obedience felt the same as peace.

She could be sensible.

She could be safe.

She could be the girl her father praised. The girl who knew when to be quiet. The girl who did not steal cakes, did not lie badly to servants, did not put her hand on dragons, did not look at princesses and feel something blooming in her chest that no septa had ever given her a prayer for.

Or she could take Rhaenyra’s hand.

Alicent looked up.

Rhaenyra was watching her carefully. Not impatiently. Not mockingly. There was an openness in her face that Alicent suspected very few people ever saw. Hope, though Rhaenyra was trying to hide it. Fear too, perhaps. Not of the dragon. Never that. But of being refused. Of reaching out and finding no one there.

Alicent thought of Rhaenyra crying alone in her chamber.

She thought of Queen Aemma’s empty place in the world.

She thought of her own mother, gone so long now and still somehow present in every ache.

She thought of Rhaenyra saying, as your Rhaenyra.

Something in Alicent stirred.

Not recklessness. Not exactly.

Want.

A want for air. For height. For one hour not shaped by duty. For one memory that belonged only to them, untouched by fathers and kings and councils and all the heavy hands already reaching for their lives.

Alicent placed her hand in Rhaenyra’s.

Rhaenyra’s fingers closed around hers at once.

“Put your foot there,” she instructed, pointing with her other hand. “Yes. Hold the strap. Uhm, and don't look down.”

“Why would you say that? Now I have to think about looking down,” Alicent nearly whined.

“Don't think about it then.”

“That is not how thoughts work.”

“Alicent”

“I am trying.”

“You're doing well.”

The praise steadied her more than it should have.

Alicent set her boot where Rhaenyra had shown her and gripped the strap. Syrax’s body shifted beneath her foot, alive and warm and terrifying. Her stomach lurched. For one awful second she froze halfway between ground and saddle, unable to move up or down.

“I can't”

“You can.”

“I can't”

“You can,” Rhaenyra repeated, firmer now. “I have you.”

Alicent’s breath shook. “Don't let go.”

“I won't, I swear to the Seven.”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

“As my Rhaenyra?”

The words left Alicent before she could stop them.

Rhaenyra went very still above her.

Alicent’s face burned. She wanted the dragon to swallow her. She wanted to climb down and flee. She wanted to take the words back and also to say them again, louder, just to see what Rhaenyra would do.

Then Rhaenyra’s grip tightened.

“As yours,” she said quietly.

Alicent looked up.

For a breath, the fear fell away.

Then Rhaenyra pulled.

Alicent gasped as she was hauled upward, awkward and graceless, nearly colliding with Rhaenyra’s shoulder before landing behind her in the saddle. The moment she was seated, she grabbed for anything solid and found mostly Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra laughed, breath leaving her in a startled rush. “Careful.”

“I hate this.”

“You aren't even in the air yet.”

“I know.”

“That's not promising.”

Alicent’s arms hovered uncertainly, unsure where to go, what was proper, what was permitted. There was very little room in the saddle behind Rhaenyra. Too little. Alicent could feel the warmth of Rhaenyra’s back through the layers between them, the edge of her braid brushing Alicent’s sleeve, the faint movement of her breathing.

Rhaenyra looked back over her shoulder. “Wrap your arms around my waist.”

Alicent stared at her. “What?”

“You'll fall otherwise.”

Alicent looked down by accident.

The ground seemed very far away.

She immediately squeezed her eyes shut.

“Waist,” Rhaenyra repeated, sounding amused. “Tightly.”

“This is improper.”

“This is dragonriding.”

“I doubt that makes it proper.”

“It makes it necessary.”

Alicent opened one eye. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Yes.”

“Rhaenyra.”

“I am enjoying it a little.”

“You are cruel.”

“I am not cruel. I am pleased.”

Alicent’s hands settled gingerly at Rhaenyra’s sides.

Rhaenyra glanced back again, unimpressed. “That will not do.”

“I'm holding on.”

“You are touching me as though I am made of glass.”

“You are a princess.”

“I am the princess telling you to hold on.”

Alicent muttered something that would have horrified her father and tightened her arms around Rhaenyra’s waist.

Rhaenyra went quiet.

So did Alicent.

The change was immediate. Alicent could feel the shape of Rhaenyra beneath her arms, the firm line of her waist, the rise and fall of her breathing. She was warm. Real. Alive. Not the unreachable princess of songs, not the grieving girl seen through half-open doors, not the future heir discussed over council tables as if she were a problem to solve.

Rhaenyra.

Her Rhaenyra, if only in the privacy of Alicent’s own heart.

Alicent’s cheek nearly brushed the back of Rhaenyra’s shoulder. She held herself rigid to prevent it, which only made Rhaenyra turn her head slightly.

“You may breathe,” Rhaenyra said.

“I am breathing.”

“You are not.”

“I am conserving air.”

“For what?”

“Screaming.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, and Alicent felt the sound before she heard it. It moved through Rhaenyra’s body into hers, a warm little tremor that made Alicent’s eyes sting unexpectedly.

She could not remember the last time Rhaenyra had laughed this much.

The thought nearly undid her.

Alicent rested her forehead, just for a moment, against the back of Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

Rhaenyra stilled.

Alicent meant to lift her head immediately. She truly did. But Rhaenyra’s hand came down over one of hers where it rested against her waist. Not to remove it. Not to tease.

To hold it there.

Alicent closed her eyes.

“I can't believe I am doing this,” she whispered.

Rhaenyra’s thumb moved once over her knuckles. “I can't believe it either.”

“That is not comforting.”

“I know.”

“You might try saying something comforting.”

Rhaenyra was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “I would not bring you anywhere I didn't think I could keep you safe.”

Alicent opened her eyes.

The words were simple. No teasing tucked beneath them. No princely arrogance. Just truth, offered softly in the dim, dragon-warm air.

Alicent tightened her hold around Rhaenyra’s waist.

“I know,” she said.

And she did.

That was why she was here.

Not because she trusted the dragon. Not yet.

Because she trusted the girl.

Rhaenyra looked forward again, and her hand lifted to Syrax’s neck. The dragon shifted, the great muscles beneath them rippling. Alicent gasped and clung harder before she could stop herself.

Rhaenyra’s hand covered hers again. “Good.”

“Don't praise my panic.”

“I'm praising your grip.”

“They're the same thing.”

“Then your panic is very useful.”

Alicent gave a weak, disbelieving laugh. Her heart still hammered. Her mouth had gone dry. Every instinct in her body insisted that sitting on the back of a dragon was a terrible, unnatural thing, and that only a Targaryen could possibly confuse terror for pleasure.

But beneath her fear, the other feeling remained.

Freedom.

She could not yet see the sky from where they sat, not fully. The Dragonpit still arched around them, vast and shadowed. But she could feel it waiting beyond the opening. Wide. Pale. Open in a way the Red Keep never was. The thought of it made her dizzy.

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly, all her attention turning to Syrax.

“Sōvēs,” she commanded.

Syrax grumbled.

The sound rolled through the saddle and into Alicent’s bones. The dragon shook her head once, green eyes flashing in the dim light, then began to move.

Alicent made a strangled sound and buried her face against Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

Rhaenyra laughed, but her hand closed firmly over Alicent’s where it clutched her waist.

“Not yet,” she said. “We are only walking.”

“Don't say yet.”

“I have to say yet. It's what comes after walking.”

“I have changed my mind.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I might have.”

“You would have loosened your grip if you had.”

Alicent realized, with some horror, that she was holding Rhaenyra tighter than ever.

“I am only doing that so I don't die.”

“Of course.”

“You sound pleased.”

“I am not displeased.”

“Rhaenyra.”

“What?”

Alicent lifted her head just enough to glare at the side of Rhaenyra’s face. “You are impossible.”

Rhaenyra turned slightly, and though Alicent could not see all of her expression, she saw enough. The curve of her cheek. The flash of her smile. The brightness in her eyes, softer now, less wounded.

“Still here, though,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent’s glare faltered.

Syrax continued forward, each step slow and immense. Dragonkeepers moved aside as she passed. Chains shifted. Torchlight slid over gold scales and dark leather. The mouth of the Dragonpit grew nearer, the light beyond it widening across the stone.

Alicent could feel the outside air beginning to reach them.

Cooler.

Sharper.

Carrying the city, the sea, and the promise of open sky.

Her stomach twisted again. She pressed closer before she could stop herself, her arms locked around Rhaenyra’s waist.

“Rhaenyra,” she whispered.

The princess heard her beneath the rumble, beneath Syrax’s breathing, beneath the echo of claws on stone.

She always heard her.

“I am here,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent swallowed.

“I'm frightened.”

“I know.”

“But I'm still here.”

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened over hers.

“Yes,” she said, voice barely above a breath. “You are.”

Syrax stepped out onto the landing area of the Dragonpit.

Light spilled over them all at once.

Alicent squeezed her eyes shut again as wind rushed across her face, tugging at her curls and the collar of Rhaenyra’s borrowed coat. Beneath her, Syrax lifted her head toward the open sky, wings shifting with a vast leathery rustle that made Alicent’s heart leap into her throat.

Rhaenyra did not give the next command.

Not yet.

She only sat there with Alicent’s arms around her, one hand on Syrax and the other over Alicent’s trembling fingers, and waited while the whole wide world opened before them.

Syrax stood on the landing with her head lifted toward the open sky.

She was waiting.

Alicent could feel it in the dragon’s body beneath them, in the charged stillness of all that muscle and heat and wing. Syrax had gone quiet in a way that felt far more dangerous than her rumbling had. Every part of her seemed gathered, ready, listening for the word that would loose her from the earth.

Alicent’s arms tightened around Rhaenyra’s waist until her own fingers ached.

“Rhaenyra,” she said, though it came out too thin to be much of a warning.

Rhaenyra’s hand covered hers.

“Hold tightly.”

“I am holding tightly.”

“Tighter.”

Alicent made a faint, strangled sound. “How encouraging.”

Rhaenyra laughed, but there was a breathlessness in it too. Not fear. Never fear. Anticipation. Joy. The sort of joy Alicent had only ever seen in Rhaenyra when she was looking at the sky.

It made something in Alicent’s chest twist.

She was terrified. Terrified in a way that made her bones feel hollow and her stomach feel as though it had been left somewhere down in the Dragonpit. But beneath it, pressed close against Rhaenyra’s back with the wind pulling at her hair, Alicent could feel the shape of what this meant to her.

Rhaenyra had brought her here.

Not a lord. Not her father. Not some dragonkeeper or knight or courtier who might boast afterward of having been useful to the princess.

Alicent.

Rhaenyra had stolen cakes, dragged her through secret passages, put her in a coat that smelled faintly like smoke and flower oil, and brought her to the threshold of the sky.

Alicent squeezed her eyes shut.

“Do it quickly,” she whispered. “Before I have the sense to climb down.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was audible in her voice. “That would be a terrible waste of courage.”

“I feel no courage.”

“You're here, aren’t you?”

Alicent had no answer.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, her body settling naturally with Syrax’s. One hand pressed against the dragon’s warm scales, the other closing around the reins.

“Sōvēs,” she commanded.

The word seemed to enter Syrax like fire.

The dragon’s wings spread.

Alicent had thought she understood how large they were. She had seen them folded close to Syrax’s sides in the Dragonpit, leathery and golden and powerful even at rest. But unfolded, they were vast enough to blot out half the light. The air changed around them as the wings opened, rushing cold over Alicent’s face, snapping loose curls free from her hair. Syrax beat them once, and the force of it shuddered through Alicent’s entire body.

She made a sound that was not a word.

Rhaenyra laughed again, bright and wild.

Then Syrax lunged forward.

It was not like a horse. Nothing about it was like a horse, no matter how Rhaenyra had made the saddle look familiar from below. A horse galloped beneath you. A dragon gathered the world beneath her claws and tore herself free from it.

Syrax bounded down the landing, claws striking stone with a force that rattled through Alicent’s teeth. Wind slammed into them. Alicent clung so tightly that she was certain Rhaenyra would have bruises beneath her tunic. The dragon’s wings beat again, once, twice, thunderous and immense.

Then the ground vanished.

Alicent squealed.

She hated the sound at once, but there was no stopping it. It tore out of her as Syrax lifted from the Dragonpit, the city dropping away beneath them in one impossible sweep. Alicent buried her face between Rhaenyra’s shoulder blades and held on as if she could anchor them both to the sky through sheer panic.

“Oh, gods. Oh, gods. Merciful Mother, Father Above, Warrior protect us, Smith mend whatever breaks, Maiden preserve us, Crone guide us, Stranger stay far away, please, please, please.”

Rhaenyra laughed so hard her shoulders shook.

“Are you praying to all seven at once?”

“Yes.”

“That seems excessive.”

“We are on a dragon.”

“A very capable dragon.”

“We're in the air.”

“That is generally the point, yes.”

Alicent only squeezed her tighter.

Syrax climbed.

The motion was brutal at first. Not unpleasant to Rhaenyra, perhaps, who moved with it as though she had been born with wings of her own, but Alicent felt each powerful beat through her stomach, her spine, her clenched jaw. The air grew colder the higher they went. It tore past them in rushing sheets, loud enough that she could barely hear her own frantic prayers.

Rhaenyra called something to Syrax, and the dragon rose steeper.

Alicent made another horrified sound and pressed her face harder into Rhaenyra’s back.

“You are doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Going higher.”

“Yes.”

“Rhaenyra!”

“You can't see anything with your eyes shut.”

“I am very content not seeing my death approach.”

“You're not going to die.”

“You don't know that.”

“I would know if you were falling.”

“That's not the same thing as preventing it.”

Rhaenyra’s hand found one of Alicent’s again where it locked at her waist. Her fingers covered Alicent’s through the glove, warm and steady despite the wind.

“I have you,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent believed her.

That was the terrible thing. Even with the world falling away beneath them, even with her stomach in knots and her prayers tumbling senselessly from her mouth, she believed Rhaenyra. She believed her more than she believed the ground, which had seemed so certain until Syrax proved it was not.

So she didn't let go.

Syrax climbed until the air thinned into sharp cold and the city sounds disappeared entirely. No carts, no bells, no shouting merchants, no waves crashing against the harbor. Only wind. Only wings. Only Rhaenyra’s breathing beneath Alicent’s cheek and the massive, living rhythm of the dragon carrying them higher.

Then, after what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, the movement changed.

Syrax stopped beating her wings so fiercely.

The upward jolts eased. The rushing terror softened into something smoother, slower, still terrifying but less like being thrown by the gods and more like being held in the hand of one. Syrax stretched herself wide and began to glide.

Alicent realized she was still praying.

“Seven save and keep us, Mother have mercy, Father judge kindly, Warrior shield us from poor choices made by princesses…”

Rhaenyra burst into laughter again.

“That last one was pointed.”

“It was meant to be.”

“You're safe, Alicent.”

“I am not sure my body agrees.”

“Open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Ali.”

“No.”

“Just a little.”

Alicent shook her head against Rhaenyra’s back. “You're going to trick me.”

“How?”

“I don't know yet. That is what makes it a trick!”

Rhaenyra’s thumb brushed over her gloved fingers.

“Open them for me.”

Alicent went still.

The wind tore around them. Syrax soared beneath them. Her heart still hammered, but now it was not only fear that made it pound.

For me.

Rhaenyra had not said it with mischief. She had said it softly, almost tenderly, as if she knew exactly where to press her voice to make Alicent’s resolve loosen.

Alicent hated her a little for it.

Loved her for it too, though she did not yet dare give that feeling its name.

Slowly, she opened one eye.

At first, she saw only Rhaenyra. Silver hair whipping loose from its braid, dark riding clothes fitted close, one hand sure on the reins. Alicent was grateful for that. She could look at Rhaenyra. Looking at Rhaenyra was easy. Looking at Rhaenyra was what she did when the rest of the world became too much.

Then, carefully, she lifted her gaze.

Clouds surrounded them.

Not above them. Around them.

Soft white and pale gray, drifting in vast banks across the sky. They looked gentle, almost solid, like great heaps of wool piled across the heavens. Sunlight broke through them in pieces, turning their edges bright and silver. The air was cold enough that Alicent felt it on her cheeks and in her lungs, a clean, startling cold that made the summer heat of King’s Landing seem like a memory from another life.

She opened both eyes.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Rhaenyra heard her somehow, even over the wind.

She looked back, the grin on her face softer now, proud and delighted at once. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

Alicent could not answer.

Her fear had not vanished. Her arms were still locked around Rhaenyra’s waist. Her legs still pressed tight to the saddle, her body painfully aware that there was nothing between her and the world below but Syrax, leather, and Rhaenyra’s confidence.

But wonder had risen above the fear.

It filled her so quickly that for a moment she forgot to be embarrassed by it.

Syrax’s shadow moved across the clouds beneath them, vast and dark and winged, slipping over the white surface as if another dragon flew below. Alicent watched it with parted lips. The shadow stretched, vanished in mist, appeared again when the clouds thinned. It was like watching a creature from some old story chase them through the sky.

“I've never seen anything like this,” Alicent said.

Rhaenyra turned forward again, but Alicent saw the smile remain on her cheek. “I never get tired of the view from up here.”

Just as she said it, the clouds parted.

The world opened.

Alicent sucked in a breath.

Below them lay the sea.

Not the narrow glimpse of Blackwater Bay from a window or battlement, not the glittering line of water seen beyond the city roofs. The sea itself, wide and blue and endless, sunlight scattered across it in a thousand flashing shards. Waves moved like folded silk from this height. Ships that would have seemed grand from the harbor looked small enough to hold between two fingers. The coastline curved away from King’s Landing, pale stone and green land giving way to open water.

Alicent turned her head.

Behind them, the Red Keep had become small.

Impossibly small.

The castle that had always loomed over her life, all red stone and sharp towers and watchful eyes, was shrinking behind them. King’s Landing sprawled around it in miniature, its crowded streets and markets and walls reduced to something almost delicate. From here, the city looked like one of King Viserys’s stone models, careful and intricate, a thing made by hand and placed on a table for admiring.

Alicent stared until her eyes stung from the wind.

All those corridors. All those rules. All those people whispering, watching, expecting. Her father’s chamber. The council room. The sept. Her needlework. The chair where she sat with her hands folded while men decided the shapes of their lives.

Tiny.

All of it looked tiny.

For the first time in a very long while, Alicent felt larger than her fear.

A smile spread across her face before she could stop it.

She didn't try to hide it.

Rhaenyra glanced back again, perhaps expecting to find her pale and trembling still. Instead, she found Alicent staring at the world below with wide eyes and wind-flushed cheeks, smiling as though she had discovered some secret door inside herself.

Rhaenyra’s own expression changed.

Alicent saw it only briefly, but it caught in her chest. Rhaenyra looked at her not with triumph, not with the smug pleasure of having been right, but with something quieter. Something almost reverent. As though Alicent’s wonder had given her back a piece of her own.

“You see?” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent nodded, unable to speak.

She rested her head against Rhaenyra’s back again.

This time, her eyes remained open.

Rhaenyra’s body went still beneath her for half a breath, then softened. One of her hands came down, covering Alicent’s where it held her waist. She didn't say anything. Neither did Alicent. There was no need, not while the sky stretched endlessly around them and Syrax carried them over the clouds like they were something free.

Alicent watched the sea. She watched the clouds. She watched strands of Rhaenyra’s silver hair whip across her own cheek and did not move away from them.

She was in the sky on a dragon.

With her favorite person in the world.

The thought filled her so completely that she had to close her eyes for a moment, not out of fear this time, but because it was too much. Too bright. Too impossible. Too much like happiness, and happiness had become such a fragile thing in the Red Keep that Alicent scarcely trusted it.

When she opened them again, Rhaenyra was still there.

Warm beneath her arms.

Real.

The flight stretched on.

Syrax was swift, swifter than Alicent would have believed even after seeing her rise from the Dragonpit. The wind numbed the tip of her nose and made her fingers ache inside the gloves, but the riding coat Rhaenyra had chosen did its duty. Alicent found herself silently grateful for the itchy wool she had judged so harshly in the chamber. Without it, she was certain she would have been shivering too badly to hold on.

At some point, Rhaenyra shifted one hand from the reins and tapped the satchel at her side.

“Lemon cake survived,” she called.

Alicent laughed before she could stop herself. “You checked?”

“I had to know.”

“At this height?”

“Some matters are urgent.”

“If you drop them, I'm not retrieving them.”

“If I drop them, I will mourn them deeply.”

“You are impossible.”

“You've said so before.”

“And yet it remains true.”

Rhaenyra looked back with that same crooked grin, the one that made Alicent forget every sensible word she knew. “You're less frightened.”

“I'm still frightened.”

“But less.”

Alicent glanced down, and though her stomach swooped, she did not hide her face again. “Yes. Less.”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened.

“I knew you would like it.”

“You didn't know.”

“Well... I hoped you would.”

That was worse somehow.

Alicent looked at her, the wind tearing tears from the corners of her eyes. “Why?”

Rhaenyra frowned slightly. “Why what?”

“Why did you want me to come?”

The question had been in her since the chamber. Perhaps before that. Since Rhaenyra held the coat up and decided it would do. Since she asked Alicent to come with her, not because it was sensible or proper, but because she could not speak in the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra was quiet for long enough that Alicent thought she might not answer.

Then she faced forward again.

“Because everything is quieter up here,” Rhaenyra said. “And I thought perhaps I could bear it if you were with me.”

Alicent’s throat tightened.

The wind whipped the words away almost as soon as they were spoken, but Alicent caught them. Held them. Pressed them somewhere deep inside herself where no one, not even her father, could take them.

I could bear it if you were with me.

She tightened her arms around Rhaenyra’s waist.

Rhaenyra’s hand came down over hers again.

They flew on.

Dragonstone appeared slowly at first, a dark shape against the sea. Then it grew, rising out of the water like something forged instead of built. Black stone, sharp towers, volcanic rock, the ancient seat of House Targaryen crouched upon its island with a kind of grim beauty that made the Red Keep seem almost new. Smoke trailed faintly from places Alicent could not see. The island was green in patches, black in others, wild and jagged and utterly unlike the ordered gardens and polished courtyards of King’s Landing.

Alicent had heard of Dragonstone all her life.

She had not imagined it like this.

The closer they drew, the more she understood why Rhaenyra had wanted to come here.

The place felt old. Older than court, older than the Iron Throne, older than the careful games men played in council chambers. The wind around it seemed freer, harsher. The sea struck the rocks below in white bursts of foam. Birds scattered as Syrax soared over them.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, eyes scanning the island with familiarity.

“Not the castle?” Alicent called.

Rhaenyra shook her head. “No. Somewhere better.”

Alicent might have asked what could possibly be better than a castle, but then Syrax banked left and Alicent’s words dissolved into a gasp.

Rhaenyra laughed. “Hold on.”

“I am holding on.”

“Good.”

The dragon curved away from the main fortress, flying over black cliffs and grassy slopes. Alicent caught glimpses of winding paths, steaming fissures, low shrubs bent by sea wind. The island seemed less barren than she had expected. Harsh, yes, but alive. The land rose and fell in ridges, and nestled between them were valleys where green had taken root in defiance of stone.

Rhaenyra gave Syrax another command in High Valyrian.

The dragon’s wings tilted.

They began to descend.

Alicent immediately regretted every brave thought she had entertained.

“Oh, no.”

Rhaenyra glanced back. “What now?”

“We're going down.”

“Yes.”

“We are going down very quickly.”

“We are descending.”

“That is a prettier word for falling.”

“We aren't falling.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm not screaming.”

“I am!”

“You're whimpering a little.”

“That is because I am dignified.”

Rhaenyra’s laughter rang out over the wind.

Alicent buried her face against her back again, though not as completely as before. She peeked once, regretted it, then peeked again despite herself.

The valley opened below them.

It was beautiful.

That was the first thing Alicent understood, even through the fear. A lush green hollow tucked among dark stone ridges, protected from the worst of the sea wind. A small lake shone at its center, clear and bright, fed by a waterfall spilling down from a black rock ledge in a silver-white sheet. Around it grew patches of grass, wildflowers, low trees twisted by the island weather, and ferns gathered thick where mist from the waterfall dampened the ground. Outcrops of stone jutted over the water, perfect for sitting, hiding, watching the light move.

It felt secret.

As Syrax descended toward it, Alicent wondered how many people knew this place existed.

She hoped very few.

The dragon circled once, wings spread wide, then lowered toward an open stretch of grass and stone near the lake. The ground rushed up in a manner Alicent found deeply alarming.

“Rhaenyra.”

“I know.”

“Rhaenyra.”

“I know.”

“Rhaenyra.”

“Ali, I am landing the dragon.”

“That's what frightens me.”

Syrax’s back legs struck first.

The impact jolted through the saddle so hard Alicent’s teeth clicked together. She gasped, lurched forward, and collided with Rhaenyra’s back. Syrax’s front claws came down next, scraping over stone and earth. Her wings beat once, twice, scattering grass and lake mist, then folded slowly against her sides as she came to a complete stop.

For several seconds, Alicent did not move.

Neither did Rhaenyra.

Syrax shook her head with a rumble, as if pleased with herself.

Rhaenyra muttered something in Valyrian that sounded affectionate and mildly scolding. Syrax huffed in answer, hot breath stirring the grass.

Alicent was still clutching Rhaenyra with all the desperation of someone who had survived a shipwreck.

Rhaenyra laid one hand over hers. “You can let go now.”

Alicent opened her eyes.

The world was still.

Not truly. The waterfall murmured nearby, birds called from some hidden place, Syrax’s breathing remained a vast and steady sound beneath them. But compared to the sky, compared to wind and clouds and terror, the valley felt impossibly still.

“I'm alive,” Alicent said faintly.

Rhaenyra smiled. “You are.”

“I didn't die.”

“You sure didn't.”

“I touched a dragon, flew on a dragon, and did not die.”

“An impressive morning.”

“I think I may be ill.”

“Less impressive.”

Alicent laughed weakly, the sound trembling out of her. She loosened her arms at last, though her hands remained resting at Rhaenyra’s waist for a breath longer than necessary. Rhaenyra noticed. Alicent knew she did.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Rhaenyra swung one leg over and climbed down from the saddle with practiced ease, landing lightly on the ground. The wind had wrecked what remained of her braid. Her hair spilled around her face in pale, tangled strands, cheeks flushed from flight, eyes brighter than they had been all morning.

Alicent stared down at her.

Rhaenyra looked more like herself here.

Or perhaps she looked like a version of herself Alicent rarely got to see. Not the princess hemmed in by walls and expectation. Not the daughter grieving beneath courtly eyes. Not the heir or the problem or the girl men spoke around as though her life belonged already to politics.

Here, in the valley, Rhaenyra looked wild.

And happy.

Alicent’s heart turned over.

Rhaenyra held up a hand. “Come down.”

Alicent looked at the distance to the ground.

“No.”

“You can't stay up there forever.”

“I disagree.”

“Syrax will not.”

Alicent glanced at the dragon’s golden neck. “Would she mind terribly?”

“She might decide to roll.”

Alicent’s eyes widened. “Don't say such things.”

“Then come down.”

“I dislike how often you are right today.”

“I like it very much.”

Rhaenyra’s hand remained outstretched.

Alicent took a breath, then placed her hand in Rhaenyra’s.

Getting down was worse than getting up in some ways. At least climbing on had involved a clear denial of the danger until she was already in the saddle. Climbing down required seeing the ground, seeing the dragon, seeing precisely how high she had been sitting. Her foot missed the first hold. Rhaenyra caught her more firmly around the waist.

“I have you.”

“I know,” Alicent said, and realized again that she meant it.

She slid the last little distance with very little grace, boots hitting the ground too hard. Her knees wobbled at once. Rhaenyra caught both her hands and steadied her, laughing softly.

Alicent glared at her, though it lacked force. “Don't.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking you did very well.”

“I landed like a sack of turnips.”

“A brave sack of turnips.”

“That's not better.”

Rhaenyra’s laughter escaped her again, and Alicent found herself smiling despite every aching muscle in her body.

Then she realized Rhaenyra still held her hands.

They stood close beside Syrax, with the dragon’s warm golden bulk behind them and the valley spread out around them. Rhaenyra’s thumbs rested lightly over Alicent’s knuckles. Alicent could feel her own pulse still racing, but it no longer belonged only to fear.

Rhaenyra looked down at their joined hands.

So did Alicent.

For a moment, the world narrowed again. Not to the sky this time, but to skin and leather and breath. To the fact that there was no one here to tell them to step apart. No septa to clear her throat. No father watching. No king grieving behind a council table. No court to turn gentleness into gossip.

Only Syrax, who snorted and began lumbering away as though bored by whatever strange human ritual was taking place.

The dragon moved toward a broad outcrop near the lake, claws heavy over stone and grass. She circled once with surprising delicacy for something so enormous, then settled herself at a comfortable distance. Her wings stretched out, leathery and gold in the sun, before folding loosely at her sides. She rested her great head on the warm rock, eyes half-lidded but still watchful.

Rhaenyra turned to look at her. “She likes it here.”

Alicent followed her gaze. “Do you come here often?”

“When I can.”

“Alone?”

“Usually.”

Alicent looked back at her.

Rhaenyra’s face had softened as she looked over the valley, but the question drew some shadow through it. Not enough to ruin the brightness entirely. Enough to remind Alicent why they had come.

Usually.

The word made Alicent ache.

She imagined Rhaenyra here alone, sitting on one of the stone outcrops above the lake, Syrax dozing nearby, the waterfall covering the sound if she cried. The thought was so clear and painful that Alicent almost reached for her.

Almost.

Instead, she asked, “And today?”

Rhaenyra looked at her.

“Today I brought you.”

Alicent’s mouth went dry.

The answer was simple. It should have been simple.

It did not feel simple.

Alicent glanced away, toward the lake, because there were times when looking directly at Rhaenyra felt like leaning too close to a flame. “It's beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“I didn't know Dragonstone had places like this.”

“Most people don't look for them.”

“Did you?”

Rhaenyra shrugged, though her eyes stayed on the water. “I found it years ago. Syrax was younger and far less patient. She nearly threw me into the lake trying to land.”

Alicent stared at her. “And you came back?”

“Of course.”

“Why would you come back to a place where your dragon nearly threw you into a lake?”

“Because it was quiet .”

That silenced Alicent.

The waterfall spilled down the black rock face in a steady silver stream. Mist gathered near its base, glimmering in the afternoon sun. The lake was clearer than Alicent expected, dark in the center but glass-bright near the shore, with small ripples moving where the wind touched it. Wildflowers grew in stubborn clusters between stones, pale blue and yellow and white.

No one else knew about it.

Alicent understood that too.

The Red Keep had many rooms, but very few places where one could truly be unseen. Even solitude there felt supervised. Someone was always outside a door, beyond a curtain, around the next corner, ready to report or interpret or misunderstand.

Here, the air itself felt private.

Rhaenyra released one of Alicent’s hands at last, but not the other.

“Come on,” she said.

Alicent allowed herself to be led down the slope toward the lake.

Her legs still felt unsteady. Part of it was the flight, she was sure. Part of it was the landing, which she had no intention of repeating in memory unless absolutely necessary. But part of it was Rhaenyra’s hand around hers, the warmth of it lingering through both their gloves, the easy way Rhaenyra held on as though there were no question of whether Alicent belonged at her side.

They walked past Syrax, though Alicent gave the dragon a wide berth.

Syrax opened one green eye.

Alicent froze.

Rhaenyra looked over and smiled. “She's only watching.”

“I wish she wouldn't.”

“She likes you.”

“You can't possibly know that.”

“She would have been much ruder if she disliked you.”

“I dread to ask what rude means to a dragon.”

 That got a small chuckle out of Rhaenyra.

Alicent hurried a little closer to the silver-haired girl.

The princess’s smile deepened, but she had the mercy not to tease her further.

They reached one of the outcrops overlooking the lake, a broad shelf of dark stone warmed by the sun. Rhaenyra dropped down onto it without ceremony, unlatching the satchel at her side. Alicent lowered herself more carefully, arranging the borrowed coat beneath her as best she could before realizing the effort was pointless. The hem was already dusty from the Dragonpit, damp at one edge from the grass, and touched with ash from Syrax’s saddle.

Rhaenyra watched her with amusement. “You know, clothes can be cleaned.”

“I'm wearing yours.”

“I gave it to you to wear, not worship.”

“I'm attempting not to ruin it.”

“Well, you look better in it than I do.”

Alicent’s hands stilled in the wool.

Rhaenyra seemed very focused on unwrapping the cheesecloth from the stolen cakes.

Alicent looked at her profile. “You only say such things to unsettle me.”

Rhaenyra glanced sideways. “Does it work?”

“Yes.”

At that, Rhaenyra went quiet.

The honesty surprised them both.

Alicent felt heat rush to her face, but she did not take it back. She was too tired from fear to lie properly. Too full of sky to make herself small again so quickly. The flight had shaken something loose in her, and though she knew she would likely regret it later, here in this valley regret felt very far away.

Rhaenyra looked at her for a moment longer.

Then she looked down and pulled the lemon cakes free.

“Good,” she said softly.

Alicent’s heart stumbled.

Rhaenyra placed two cakes on the cheesecloth between them, then selected one and held it out.

“For your bravery.”

Alicent accepted it with exaggerated dignity. “Stolen cake as a reward for surviving your madness.”

“It is excellent cake.”

“It had better be.”

Rhaenyra bit into hers first and closed her eyes with obvious satisfaction.

Alicent watched her, fondness rising so strongly that it hurt.

There was a crumb at the corner of Rhaenyra’s mouth. A very small one. Alicent noticed it at once and then hated herself for noticing. Rhaenyra sat cross-legged on the warm black stone, hair tangled from the wind, riding clothes creased, cheeks flushed, stolen cake in hand. She looked nothing like the picture of solemn royal grief the court seemed determined to make of her.

She looked like a girl.

A beautiful, infuriating, grieving girl who had wanted cake and sky and Alicent.

Alicent looked down at her own lemon cake before her thoughts could show too plainly.

The first bite was sweet and sharp, the lemon bright against the buttery softness. It tasted better than it should have. Perhaps because it had been stolen. Perhaps because she had nearly died to eat it, though Rhaenyra would object to that phrasing. Perhaps because Rhaenyra was beside her, smiling faintly at the lake, and for the first time in weeks her face did not look carved around the effort not to weep.

They ate in silence for a little while.

It was not an empty silence.

The waterfall filled it. Syrax’s occasional rumble filled it. The wind moving through the valley filled it. And beneath all of that, something gentler settled between them. A quiet that did not demand performance from either of them.

Alicent realized she had not had such a quiet in years.

Perhaps not since her mother died.

Rhaenyra finished her cake and brushed crumbs from her gloves. “Was it worth the terror?”

Alicent considered this seriously.

Then she looked out over the lake, where sunlight broke across the water in shifting gold.

“Yes,” she said.

Rhaenyra turned to her, surprised.

Alicent smiled, small but real. “Don't look so pleased with yourself.”

“I am very pleased with myself.”

“I know.”

“You smiled.”

“I smile often.”

“Not like that.”

Alicent’s smile faded, but not from sadness. From the sudden awareness of being seen again.

Rhaenyra leaned back on her hands, eyes fixed on Alicent with a softness that made the air feel warmer than it was. “You should smile like that more.”

Alicent looked down at the half-eaten cake in her hand.

“So should you,” she said.

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted.

There it was again. The shadow. The grief waiting beneath every bright thing.

Alicent wished she had not said it, then knew she had needed to.

Rhaenyra looked toward the waterfall.

The wind moved through her hair.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Alicent sat beside her, heart still unsteady from flight and feeling, and waited.

For a while, Rhaenyra said nothing.

She sat with her knees drawn loosely up, damp silver hair clinging to her cheeks and neck, crumbs of lemon cake still caught on the edge of her glove. Her eyes remained on the waterfall, but Alicent could tell she was no longer truly looking at it. Rhaenyra had gone somewhere inward, as she often did when grief pressed too close.

Alicent knew that look now.

She hated that she knew it.

The valley had been full of laughter only moments before. Their stolen cakes had tasted sweeter for all the rules broken to reach them. Syrax dozed nearby on sun-warmed stone, one green eye opening now and then as if to ensure her rider remained where she had left her. The lake glittered. The grass smelled warm beneath them. The world felt impossibly far from the Red Keep.

And still, Queen Aemma’s absence had followed them.

Not loudly. Not with the choking hush of court. But gently, like a hand resting on the back of Rhaenyra’s neck.

Alicent watched the line of Rhaenyra’s profile. The stubborn chin. The too-firm mouth. The redness still faint beneath her eyes, softened now by sun and wind and flight.

Then Rhaenyra rose suddenly.

Alicent startled. “What are you doing?”

Rhaenyra had already begun tugging at the fastenings of her riding coat. “It is warm.”

“It is summer.”

“Exactly.”

Alicent looked up at her, wary. “Rhaenyra.”

The princess glanced down with a spark of mischief returning to her face. “What?”

“You have that look again.”

“What look?”

“The look you wear before doing something improper.”

Rhaenyra shrugged one shoulder out of her coat. “I wear many looks.”

“This one is unmistakable.”

Rhaenyra laughed under her breath and peeled the riding coat off completely. She tossed it over a nearby patch of grass, then began working at the cuffs of her gloves. “I want to swim.”

Alicent stared at her.

“What, here?”

“Yes, here.”

“In the lake?”

“That is where one usually swims.”

Alicent turned to look at the water. It was clear and bright where the sun touched it, darker near the center where the lake deepened. Mist from the waterfall drifted across the surface in silver threads. It was beautiful, certainly, but beauty did not mean safe. Alicent had learned long ago that beautiful things were often where danger hid best.

Rhaenyra was proof enough of that.

“You mean to wade?” Alicent asked, though she already knew the answer would be worse.

Rhaenyra’s grin widened. “No.”

“Of course not.”

“I mean to jump.”

Alicent’s heart sank. “From where?”

Rhaenyra turned and pointed.

Up the slope, beside the waterfall, stood one of the dark stone outcrops Alicent had noticed from the air. From below it seemed high enough to make her stomach twist, jutting over the lake like the edge of the world. Sunlight shone across the wet black stone, and the water beneath it rippled where the waterfall fed the lake.

Alicent looked at the outcrop.

Then at Rhaenyra.

Then back at the outcrop.

“No.”

Rhaenyra’s brows rose. “No?”

“No.”

“You have not even considered it.”

“I considered it very quickly and found it foolish.”

“I have done it before.”

“That does not comfort me. You have done many foolish things before.”

“And survived them all.”

“By luck, not wisdom.”

Rhaenyra sat down on the grass to tug off her boots, entirely unbothered. “It is deep there. I know the spot.”

“You know the spot because you have hurled yourself from it?”

“Yes.”

“That is not how I prefer to learn things.”

Rhaenyra looked up at her. Her hair, still damp from wind and lake mist, had fallen loose around her face. “Come on, Ali. You rode a dragon. Jumping into water will be simple compared.”

Alicent opened her mouth.

Then shut it.

It was deeply annoying when Rhaenyra was right.

She had ridden a dragon. Not gracefully. Not bravely, perhaps, though Rhaenyra would argue otherwise. But she had done it. She had climbed onto Syrax’s back, held tightly to Rhaenyra, felt the earth vanish beneath her, and opened her eyes above the clouds. She had looked down upon King’s Landing and seen the Red Keep made small.

And she had survived.

More than survived, some secret part of her whispered.

She had loved it.

Alicent sighed.

Rhaenyra’s whole face lit with triumph. “That is a yes.”

“It is not a yes.”

“It sounds very much like a yes.”

“It is a surrender.”

“Better.”

“It is not better.”

“It is to me.”

Alicent looked toward Syrax, as though the dragon might offer some judgment. Syrax merely shifted her head and exhaled a plume of warm smoke through her nostrils, unimpressed with both of them.

“You are both terrible influences,” Alicent muttered.

Rhaenyra laughed and rose again, beginning to undo the heavier layers of her riding clothes. “Syrax has done nothing.”

“She carried me here.”

“She did that beautifully.”

“She flung me into the sky.”

“I asked her to.”

“That is precisely my point.”

Rhaenyra only smiled.

Alicent stood more slowly, suddenly very aware of herself. The sun was warm overhead, softened by thin clouds that drifted like pale ribbons across the sky. The air smelled of grass, lake water, and distant sea salt. Removing the borrowed riding coat felt like shrugging off half the day’s fear. The wool had protected her in the sky, but now, under the summer sun, it clung too heavily to her shoulders.

She unfastened the clasps carefully, because it was still Rhaenyra’s, because some foolish part of her felt that anything belonging to Rhaenyra ought to be treated with more care than her own things. When she slid it off, the breeze touched the linen sleeves of her gown and cooled the dampness at the back of her neck.

Rhaenyra noticed.

“You look relieved.”

“It itched,” Alicent whined.

“I told you it was practical, not comfortable.”

“You did not tell me that.”

“I implied it,” Rhaenyra retorted with a raise of a brow.

“You implied nothing. You shoved it at me.”

Rhaenyra’s smile turned fond. “And you wore it.”

Alicent folded the coat and laid it on the grass with more care than necessary. “I was under duress.”

“You were under adventure.”

“That's not a condition recognized by the maesters.”

“It ought to be.”

Alicent shook her head, but she was smiling despite herself.

They undressed to their shifts with the awkwardness of girls who had known each other all their lives, and yet no longer felt quite like children. They turned slightly away from one another at first, more out of instinct than true modesty. There was nothing scandalous in it, not here, not for swimming, not with linen still clinging to shoulders and knees. And yet Alicent’s fingers fumbled at her laces.

She told herself it was because of the flight. Because of the jump waiting for her. Because the whole day had been one long assault on her nerves.

It was not only that.

She tried not to glance at Rhaenyra.

Then she did.

Only once.

Rhaenyra had her back half turned as she pulled her dampened tunic over her head, leaving her in her pale shift. Her hair spilled forward, silver-white in the sunlight, the ends catching on the linen at her shoulders. There were faint marks along her arms where riding gloves and straps had pressed into her skin. She looked less like a princess then. Less untouchable. Barefoot in the grass, sun-warmed and wind-tangled, she looked painfully real.

Alicent’s face flushed at once.

She looked sharply down at the grass and began fussing with the folded layers of her gown as if they required her full attention.

Rhaenyra glanced over. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I'm warm.”

“You're always warm when I accuse you of blushing.”

“That is because you accuse me in warm weather.”

Rhaenyra laughed. “It was raining the last time.”

Alicent folded her gown again, though it was already folded. “I don't remember it that way,” with an indignant fold of her arms.

“I do.”

That made Alicent’s hands still.

She felt Rhaenyra watching her and dared not look up immediately. The air had changed in that strange way it had several times already that day, thickening around words too small to hold what was beneath them.

Then Rhaenyra stepped close and took Alicent’s hand.

Alicent looked up.

Rhaenyra’s smile was softer now. Not teasing. Not entirely.

“Come on,” she said.

Alicent let herself be led.

The path up toward the outcrop was narrow and uneven, winding between patches of grass and black stone slick in places from waterfall mist. Alicent followed carefully, one hand holding Rhaenyra’s, the other lifting the hem of her shift enough to keep from tripping. The stone was warm beneath her bare feet where the sun had touched it, cold where spray from the waterfall had darkened it.

The higher they climbed, the louder the water became.

It filled Alicent’s ears, rushing and endless. By the time they reached the outcrop, her stomach had already begun to twist again. From below the jump had seemed alarming. From above it seemed utterly deranged.

The lake spread beneath them, dark and gleaming. The waterfall crashed beside the ledge, sending up cool mist that dampened Alicent’s cheeks and eyelashes. Wind tugged at the thin linen of her shift. The drop was not as high as the Dragonpit had been, not even close, but staring down at water from the edge of stone made her legs feel weak in a very different way.

Rhaenyra released her hand and stepped toward the edge.

Alicent made a panicked sound. “Rhaenyra.”

The princess turned. “What?”

“Don't simply walk to the edge like that.”

“How else should I walk?”

“With fear. With hesitation. With any regard for your life.”

Rhaenyra smiled, bright and impossible.

Before Alicent could say another word, Rhaenyra ran.

“Rhaenyra! Oh Gods...”

The princess reached the edge and leapt.

For one suspended heartbeat, she was in the air.

Sunlight caught on her hair. Her shift fluttered around her knees. She tucked herself in, arms wrapping around her legs, knees drawn to her chest, and for that one breath she looked like something made not of flesh and duty and grief, but of pure defiance.

Then she plunged into the lake.

The splash rose high enough to glitter in the sun.

Alicent rushed to the edge despite herself, heart in her throat. “Rhaenyra?”

The water churned.

For one awful second, nothing.

Then Rhaenyra resurfaced with a gasp, shaking wet hair out of her face. She turned in the water and looked up at Alicent, laughing.

“It's perfect!”

“You are mad!”

“Jump!”

Alicent stared down at her.

Rhaenyra floated easily in the water below, one arm cutting through the ripples, face upturned, eyes bright with exhilaration. She looked alive. So alive that it made Alicent ache. The grief was still there, Alicent knew. It had not disappeared into the lake any more than it had disappeared into the clouds. But here, for a moment, Rhaenyra’s joy was stronger.

And Alicent wanted to meet her there.

Even if it meant jumping off a cliff.

“Why,” Alicent called down, voice trembling, “do you always make me do crazy things?”

Rhaenyra’s smile softened, as if she heard the surrender beneath the complaint.

“Because you always look so pleased afterward.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I look traumatized.”

“You look free.”

Alicent’s breath caught.

The waterfall roared beside her. Mist dampened her lips. Far below, Rhaenyra waited in the water, patient now, no longer laughing, only watching her.

Alicent stepped back from the edge.

Her heart pounded wildly. She could feel it everywhere: in her chest, her throat, her fingertips, even in the soles of her feet against the warm stone. She clasped her hands once, then released them, then clasped them again.

“Alright,” she whispered.

She backed up farther, giving herself space to run.

Then, because she could not help herself, she looked toward the sky.

“Stranger,” she said, breathless and very serious, “you leave me be, or I shall be very cross with you.”

From the lake below, Rhaenyra laughed.

That laughter did it.

Alicent ran.

For three steps, she could pretend she was only running. Then the edge came toward her too quickly, and sense screamed at her to stop, and instead she leapt.

The world dropped away.

Alicent screamed.

Not a dignified scream. Not a small one. A full, startled, helpless scream that tore out of her as the air rushed past and the lake surged up to meet her. She had one dizzy glimpse of Rhaenyra below, eyes wide and laughing, before water swallowed everything.

Cold closed over her head.

The shock punched the breath from her lungs. For one terrifying second she didn't know up from down. Her shift tangled around her legs. Water rushed into her nose, sharp and unpleasant, and she kicked wildly until her head broke the surface.

She came up sputtering.

“Oh! Oh, Gods.”

She coughed, wiping at her face, trying to clear water from her nose while also staying afloat. Her hair had come half loose, curls plastered to her cheeks and brow. She blinked through droplets clinging to her lashes.

Rhaenyra was beside her within seconds.

“You did it!”

There was laughter in her voice, yes, but also wonder. Pride. Something so warm that Alicent forgot to be properly angry.

“I have water up my nose,” Alicent gasped.

“You jumped.”

“I may never breathe properly again.”

“You jumped, though.”

“I know that.”

“You did it.”

Rhaenyra reached for her, and Alicent let herself be pulled into an embrace.

The water made everything weightless. Rhaenyra’s arms came around her shoulders, steadying her, holding her close while the ripples from Alicent’s landing spread outward across the lake. Alicent clutched at her at first for balance. Then, slowly, she relaxed.

Rhaenyra was laughing softly against her wet hair.

Alicent smiled before she could stop herself and leaned into the embrace.

She had ridden a dragon.

She had flown above the clouds.

She had jumped from a stone ledge into a lake beneath a waterfall.

All because of Rhaenyra.

It should have made her furious. It should have made her vow never to follow the princess into anything ever again.

Instead, her heart felt too large for her chest.

Rhaenyra drew back just enough to look at her. Water clung to her lashes. Her cheeks were flushed from cold and laughter. She looked delighted, and Alicent thought, with a sudden aching clarity, I would jump again if it made you look like that.

“What?” Rhaenyra asked, smile fading slightly. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Alicent said quickly.

“You looked strange.”

“I feel strange.”

“You did just leap from a cliff.”

“It's probably that, then.”

Rhaenyra studied her face for another moment, then seemed to accept it. She began treading water, turning in place to look around them. “We should swim back before you decide you hate me.”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“You haven't drowned, so I remain hopeful.”

“I nearly did,” Alicent breathed, shivering from the adrenaline still coursinng through her.

“You did not nearly drown.”

“I had water in my nose.”

“A tragedy for the histories, I'll be sure to send a raven to the maesters in the citadel.”

Alicent splashed her.

Rhaenyra gasped, offended, then splashed her back at once.

The little battle lasted only a moment, but it left them both laughing again, breathless and wet, drifting in the cool water while the waterfall thundered nearby.

Finally Rhaenyra pushed damp hair away from her face and looked toward the shore. “Come on. Let's swim back and eat the other lemon cakes.”

Alicent lifted a brow. “Other cakes?”

“I stole four,” Rhaenyra admitted sheepishly.

“Of course you did.”

“I plan ahead.”

“You steal ahead.”

“It's a useful skill.”

Alicent smiled, still treading water. “More cake sounds grand.”

Rhaenyra grinned. “I agree.”

They swam back toward the shore side by side.

Rhaenyra was better at it, of course. Rhaenyra was better at most physical things, especially the reckless ones. She cut through the water easily, pausing every few strokes to make sure Alicent followed. Alicent moved more carefully, still recovering from the cold shock of the jump, but the water felt pleasant once she had adjusted. It held her gently, cooler than the summer air, washing away the sweat and fear of the flight.

When their feet found the lakebed near the shore, Alicent nearly stumbled from relief.

Rhaenyra caught her elbow. “Steady.”

“I am beginning to think I have spent most of today being caught by you.”

“You may repay me by not telling anyone about the cakes.”

“I may repay you by eating one.”

“Fair.”

They pulled themselves from the water and settled on the warm grassy bank near the stone where they had left their clothes. The sun had climbed high overhead, though thin, wispy clouds softened its heat. Alicent tipped her face up to it, letting warmth spread across her damp skin and linen shift.

Clouds.

She opened her eyes slightly and looked at the pale streaks above them.

She had been in the clouds.

The thought felt impossible and true.

Rhaenyra rummaged through her satchel with solemn determination and produced the remaining two lemon cakes, still wrapped in cheesecloth and only slightly crushed.

Alicent looked at them. “Those survived the flight?”

“And the landing.”

“And the swimming?”

“I hid the satchel from the splash.”

“That cannot be true.”

“It's true enough.”

Rhaenyra handed her one.

Alicent accepted it and took a bite. The cake was a little damp at the edge, and some of the icing had stuck to the cloth, but it tasted even better than the first. Lemon and sugar and stolen freedom.

Rhaenyra ate hers in two decisive bites, then leaned back on one hand. “Isn’t it grand?”

Alicent glanced at her. “The cake?”

“The cake. The lake. Eating whatever we like without your father appearing to breathe down your neck over it.”

Alicent’s smile faltered before she could prevent it.

Rhaenyra noticed at once. “What?”

“It's nothing.”

“Ali.”

Alicent looked down at the cake in her hand, thumb brushing a crumb from the soft yellow edge. “He does not breathe down my neck.”

Rhaenyra’s expression said plainly that she did not believe her.

Alicent sighed. “Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

Alicent hesitated.

It felt foolish here, in this wild and private place, to speak of such a small cruelty. But then, perhaps small cruelties were the ones that found the deepest places to settle, precisely because one felt silly for naming them.

“He only said I should be mindful,” she said quietly. “That sweets are childish. That indulgence shows in the body before it shows in the soul. That in a few years I shall be expected to make a good match, and I ought not make myself less desirable before I have even begun.”

Rhaenyra’s face changed.

The softness vanished first. Then came anger.

Not loud anger. Not the bright, careless irritation she showed at boring lords. This was sharper. Protective in a way that made Alicent’s breath catch.

“He said that to you?”

Alicent shrugged one shoulder, trying to make it small. “He says many things.”

“That doesn't answer me.”

“Yes,” Alicent admitted. “He said it.”

Rhaenyra stared at her. “Over cake?”

“Over sweetcakes. Almond ones, I think.”

“Your father is an ass.”

Alicent gasped despite herself. “Rhaenyra.”

“He is, I'm not sorry.”

“You cannot say that.”

“I just did.”

“He is my father.”

“And an ass.”

Alicent tried to look disapproving, but the laugh escaped before she could stop it. It came out small and startled, then grew when Rhaenyra’s expression remained fiercely serious.

“It's not funny,” Rhaenyra said.

“No, but you are.”

“I am not.”

“You look as though you mean to challenge him to single combat.”

“I might,” Rhaenyra said matter-of-factly.

“You would lose.”

“I ride a dragon.”

“That is not single combat.”

“It would be very brief combat.”

Alicent laughed again, though something in her chest ached beneath it.

Rhaenyra leaned closer. “Eat the cake.”

“I am eating it.”

“Eat all the cakes you like.”

“I may grow fat.”

“Good.”

Alicent looked at her in surprise.

Rhaenyra lifted her chin. “Then there will be more of you to annoy your father.”

Alicent’s laugh was freer this time, warm and helpless. “That is a dreadful thing to say.”

“It is an excellent thing to say.”

“I don't care if they make me fat,” Alicent said, surprising herself with the boldness of it. She looked down at the cake, then took another bite, almost defiantly. “I could live on nothing but lemon cakes.”

Rhaenyra smiled, something tender and delighted passing over her face. “There. That's the spirit.”

“It would be a short life.”

“A happy one.”

“With very bad teeth.”

“I would still think you fair.”

Alicent froze.

Rhaenyra seemed to realize what she had said, but this time she did not take it back.

The lake sloshed softly beside them.

Alicent stared at the remaining bite of lemon cake in her hand. Her face had gone warm again, but she was wet enough from the lake that perhaps Rhaenyra would not notice.

Rhaenyra noticed.

Of course she noticed.

“If it's any consolation,” Rhaenyra said, perhaps to save them both from the sudden silence, “I don't think you have anything to worry about.”

Alicent looked up. “What does that mean?”

Rhaenyra reached out and poked lightly at Alicent’s exposed side through the damp linen of her shift.

Alicent twitched violently.

Rhaenyra’s eyes lit. “Oh.”

“Don't!”

Rhaenyra's pale brows lifted with mischief. “It tickles?”

“No.”

Rhaenyra poked her again.

Alicent jerked away, laughing despite herself. “Rhaenyra!”

“It does.”

“It does not.”

“You just laughed.”

“Because you startled me.”

Rhaenyra’s grin turned wicked. “Did I?”

Alicent scrambled backward on the grass. “Don't you dare.”

But Rhaenyra had already lunged.

It was like being ten again.

For a few breathless moments, all the years between girlhood and whatever this new, aching thing was seemed to vanish. Rhaenyra caught Alicent around the waist and tickled her side with ruthless precision, exactly as she had when they were children hiding from lessons in some forgotten corner of the Red Keep. Alicent shrieked and laughed, twisting away, trying to catch Rhaenyra’s wrists.

“Stop!”

“Yield.”

“Never.”

“Then suffer.”

“You are horrible.”

“You are losing.”

Alicent managed to grab for Rhaenyra’s side in return, fingers finding the spot that used to make the princess squeal when they were small. Rhaenyra jolted, laughing, but she was stronger than Alicent expected. Or perhaps Alicent was weaker from flying, swimming, screaming, and having her entire heart rearranged by the girl currently attacking her with merciless delight.

They tumbled sideways onto the grass.

Alicent ended up on her back, laughing so hard tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Rhaenyra was beside her, half leaning over her, one hand braced in the grass, the other still tormenting Alicent’s side.

“I yield,” Alicent gasped. “I yield.”

“Say it properly.”

“I lose. I lose.”

Rhaenyra stopped.

The silence that followed was not silence at all.

The waterfall continued its steady rush. The lake lapped softly at the stones. Somewhere in the trees, a bird called once, distant and clear. Syrax rumbled in her sleep.

But between the two girls, everything stilled.

Rhaenyra was still leaning over Alicent, one hand planted in the grass beside her shoulder. Damp silver hair had fallen forward, curtaining part of her face. There were droplets of lake water caught on her lashes. Her cheeks were pink from laughter and sun, her mouth parted slightly as her breath slowed.

Alicent stared up at her with those enormous doe brown eyes.

Her own laughter faded by degrees, leaving behind something softer and far more frightening.

Rhaenyra looked at her mouth.

Alicent saw it.

She knew she saw it.

Her heart began to pound again, but it was nothing like the pounding from the Dragonpit, nothing like the terror of Syrax’s wings or the drop from the outcrop. This was quieter. Closer. A fluttering, bright thing trapped beneath her ribs.

Rhaenyra’s gaze lifted back to hers.

There was a question there.

Alicent didn't know how to answer it.

She didn't even know what the question was, not in words. But she felt it. She felt it in the space between their faces, in the warmth of Rhaenyra’s hand near her shoulder, in the way Rhaenyra had gone very still as though the slightest wrong movement might ruin everything.

Alicent forgot how to breathe.

Then Rhaenyra bent down and kissed her.

It was soft.

So soft that for half a second Alicent didn't understand what had happened. Rhaenyra’s lips touched hers, warm and damp from the lake, gentle in a way Alicent had never imagined Rhaenyra could be gentle. There was no command in it. No demand. Only a brief, trembling press of feeling that seemed to pass through Alicent like lightning.

Her whole body went still.

The sensation spread from her mouth outward, bright and strange and impossible. It moved through her chest, down her arms, to the very tips of her fingers. It made her feel charged, as though the sky they had flown through had somehow entered her.

Then Rhaenyra pulled back.

Her eyes were wide.

For once in her life, Rhaenyra Targaryen looked frightened.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly.

Alicent stared at her.

Rhaenyra shifted back slightly, color rising in her cheeks. “I shouldn't have done that. I was too forward. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It was such an odd thing to hear from her. Rhaenyra apologizing for boldness. Rhaenyra apologizing for being Rhaenyra. Alicent had seen her apologize before, but usually with reluctance, usually because some septa or lord or her father had demanded it. This was different.

She was afraid she had hurt Alicent.

The realization broke something open in her.

Alicent sat up.

Rhaenyra withdrew a little more, perhaps taking the movement for rejection. Her face closed, or tried to. Alicent saw the old armor coming back down, saw pride and shame rising together to cover whatever softness had led her to kiss in the first place.

Before it could settle, Alicent leaned forward and kissed her.

Rhaenyra made a tiny startled sound against her mouth.

Alicent drew back after only a moment.

Now she was the one breathing too quickly.

They stared at one another.

Alicent felt as though she had leapt again, but this time there was no lake below, no water to close over her head, no Rhaenyra waiting to pull her into laughing arms. Only the two of them on the grass, damp and sun-warmed and trembling at the edge of something neither of them had words for yet.

Rhaenyra’s eyes searched hers.

Alicent didn't look away.

Then, as if some invisible thread had pulled them both at once, they leaned in together.

The third kiss was slower.

Still sweet. Still gentle. Nothing hurried or heavy. Only a warm, soft meeting of lips, a careful learning of something they had both somehow known and not known for years. Alicent’s hand came to rest lightly against Rhaenyra’s wrist. Rhaenyra’s fingers curled in the grass beside Alicent’s knee. Neither of them moved closer than that, as if even this small tenderness was enough to fill the whole valley.

When they parted, the world seemed brighter.

Or perhaps Alicent was only seeing it differently.

Rhaenyra looked away first, cheeks pink, mouth fighting a smile. Alicent looked down at her own hands, to her wrecked cuticles, suddenly unable to bear the full force of what had just happened and also unable to think of anything else.

For a moment, they were shy with each other.

It was almost funny.

After dragons and stolen cakes and cliff jumps, after years of shared beds during storms and secrets whispered beneath blankets, a kiss had made them shy.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat softly. “Well.”

Alicent pressed her lips together, because if she smiled too much she feared she might never stop.

“Well,” she echoed.

Rhaenyra glanced at her from the corner of her eye.

Alicent glanced back.

They both laughed.

Not loudly. Not wildly. A small, breathless laugh, full of embarrassment and wonder and relief.

Rhaenyra leaned back on the grass, stretching out beneath the sun as though she had not just altered the shape of Alicent’s entire life. Her silver hair fanned damply around her head, catching the light. She lifted one hand and patted the grass beside her.

“Come here.”

Alicent hesitated only because everything in her had become too full. Then she lay down beside her.

The grass was warm beneath her back. The sun pressed gently through the thin clouds, warming the damp linen of her shift. A breeze moved over her skin, cool where the lake still clung to her, soft enough to raise gooseflesh along her arms. Nearby, their discarded clothes lay drying in a heap of dark wool, leather, and colored fabric. The last crumbs of stolen lemon cake rested on the cheesecloth between them.

Rhaenyra found Alicent’s hand in the grass.

Their fingers laced together.

Neither spoke.

Alicent stared up at the sky.

Thin, pale clouds drifted overhead, wispy and delicate, nothing like the vast cold banks they had flown through. She watched them move and thought, with a strange little thrill, I have been there.

In the clouds.

Above the city.

On a dragon.

With Rhaenyra.

Then her mind returned, as it inevitably did, to the kiss.

To Rhaenyra’s lips on hers. To the way she had apologized afterward, frightened and unguarded. To the way Alicent had kissed her back, not because it was dutiful, not because it was expected, not because anyone had told her to, but because she wanted to.

Alicent Hightower did so few things simply because she wanted to.

Her heart was still racing.

She turned her head slightly.

Rhaenyra was looking at her.

Of course she was.

“Are you thinking very loudly?” Rhaenyra asked.

Alicent blinked. “What?”

“You have a face you make when you're thinking too much.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“What sort of face?”

“A very serious one. Like a tiny maester trapped in a pretty girl.”

Alicent laughed in surprise. “That's horrible.”

“It's accurate.”

“It is not.”

Rhaenyra’s thumb brushed lightly over Alicent’s knuckles. “What are you thinking?”

Alicent’s laughter softened.

She looked back at the sky.

A dozen answers rose in her, most of them too honest to survive being spoken. I am thinking that I love you. I am thinking that I have loved you longer than I understood. I am thinking that if my father knew, he would send me away. I am thinking that I do not want to go back. I am thinking that I want you to kiss me again.

She swallowed.

“I am thinking,” she said carefully, “that I cannot believe I did all of this today.”

Rhaenyra turned onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “The dragon or the jump?”

“All of it.”

“The cake theft?”

“Especially the cake theft.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “You were a very poor lookout.”

“I distracted a serving girl.”

“You almost confessed to her.”

“I did not.”

“You had the expression of someone awaiting execution.”

“I was under strain.”

“You were adorable.”

Alicent’s face warmed. “You shouldn't say such things so easily.”

Rhaenyra’s smile faded a little, not from hurt, but from attention. “Why not?”

“Because I never know whether you mean them.”

Rhaenyra went quiet.

Alicent regretted it immediately. She had not meant to say that. Or perhaps she had, but not so plainly. Her mother used to tell her that truth required gentleness, that one could cut someone with honesty as surely as with a blade.

But Rhaenyra did not look cut.

She looked thoughtful.

“I do mean them,” she said.

Alicent looked at her.

Rhaenyra’s gaze held hers, unusually steady. “When I call you pretty. Or sweet. Or brave. Or adorable, though I can stop that one if you prefer.”

Alicent’s mouth twitched despite herself.

Rhaenyra continued, softer now. “I mean them.”

Alicent felt those words settle somewhere deep.

“Oh,” she said.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly. “Yes. Oh.”

The bird called again from somewhere beyond the trees.

Alicent turned her face toward Rhaenyra fully. “I didn't know.”

“I know.”

“How could you know that I did not know?”

“Because you always look as if I have thrown something at you.”

“That is because you do.”

“With words?”

“Yes.”

Rhaenyra seemed pleased by that. “Good.”

Alicent rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

For a little while, they only lay there.

The sun dried their shifts slowly. The damp fabric clung less with each warm breath of wind. Alicent’s hair, half loosened from its pins, spread in auburn waves over the grass. Rhaenyra watched a single curl beside Alicent’s cheek move in the breeze, then reached out as if she meant to touch it.

She stopped herself.

Alicent noticed.

Her heart beat faster again.

“You may,” Alicent said quietly.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked to hers.

Alicent could barely believe she had spoken. Yet she did not take it back.

Slowly, Rhaenyra brushed the curl away from Alicent’s cheek. Her fingertips were gentle. Careful. Nothing like the bold girl who had leapt from the outcrop without hesitation. This Rhaenyra moved as though Alicent were something delicate enough to bruise.

Alicent leaned into the touch without meaning to.

Rhaenyra’s breath caught.

There was such wonder in the sound that Alicent’s chest ached.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra whispered.

Alicent closed her eyes briefly.

There was no one else in the world who said her name like that. No one else who could turn three small syllables into a secret.

When Alicent opened her eyes again, Rhaenyra was closer.

Not kissing her. Not yet. Only close enough that Alicent could see the tiny droplets still caught in her lashes, the faint freckles the sun had drawn across the bridge of her nose, the softness in her mouth that she usually hid behind smirks and commands.

Alicent wanted to kiss her again.

She also wanted to stay like this forever, with wanting still new and unspoiled between them.

Rhaenyra seemed to understand, because she did not move closer. She only let her fingers rest near Alicent’s cheek.

“I was afraid,” Rhaenyra said.

Alicent’s brow furrowed. “Of the jump?”

“No.”

“The flight?”

Rhaenyra smiled without humor. “No.”

Alicent’s voice softened. “Then what?”

Rhaenyra looked down at their joined hands in the grass. “That you would hate me.”

Alicent’s heart squeezed painfully.

“For kissing me?”

Rhaenyra nodded once.

Alicent sat with that for a moment. She thought of Rhaenyra apologizing, of the fear in her eyes, of the suddenness with which the princess had tried to retreat into herself. Rhaenyra, who faced dragons without flinching, had feared Alicent’s disgust.

“Oh, Rhaenyra,” Alicent whispered.

Rhaenyra looked at her.

Alicent turned slightly onto her side so they faced one another. “I could never hate you.”

“You might.”

“No.”

“You don't know that.”

“I do.”

“I make many poor decisions,” Rhaenyra admitted.

“You do.” Alicent nodded at her in solemn agreement.

“I dragged you onto a dragon.”

“You did.”

“I made you jump from a cliff.”

“You did.”

“I stole cakes.”

“That one I forgive entirely.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched.

Alicent’s thumb brushed over the back of Rhaenyra’s hand. “I have been frightened of many things today. I have been frightened of Syrax, of falling, of drowning, of being caught, of what my father would say if he knew where I was. But I was not frightened when you kissed me.”

Rhaenyra’s smile vanished.

Alicent’s own courage trembled, but she kept speaking.

“I was surprised. But not frightened.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes searched her face, almost desperate for the truth of it.

“And now?” she asked.

Alicent looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“Now I am only frightened because I liked it too much.”

Rhaenyra went very still.

Then she smiled.

It began small, disbelieving at first, then grew until it lit her whole face. Not the sharp grin of mischief. Not the brittle smile she used at court. This was something unguarded and radiant, so full of relief that Alicent nearly forgot how to breathe.

Rhaenyra laughed once, quiet and overwhelmed, and dropped her forehead lightly against Alicent’s shoulder.

Alicent froze, then brought her free hand up to touch Rhaenyra’s damp hair.

The gesture felt natural. More natural than almost anything had ever felt.

Rhaenyra leaned into her.

Alicent stroked her hair carefully, drawing her fingers through the wet silver strands, untangling what the lake and wind had made wild. Rhaenyra made no sound, but her shoulders eased.

For a moment, Alicent thought of Queen Aemma again.

She wondered if Aemma had ever seen this part of her daughter clearly. The girl beneath all the fire. The soft, frightened, loving part Rhaenyra kept hidden because the world had taught her that softness invited wounds. Alicent thought Aemma must have seen it. Must have loved it. Must have tried to protect it for as long as she could.

The thought brought tears to Alicent’s eyes before she expected them.

Rhaenyra felt the change somehow. She lifted her head. “What is it?”

Alicent shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Ali.”

Alicent smiled sadly. “I was thinking of your mother.”

Rhaenyra’s face closed a little.

Not completely. Less than it would have before. But enough.

“I'm sorry,” Alicent said quickly. “I didn't mean to spoil it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I only thought…” She hesitated, choosing each word with care. “I thought she would have liked this place.”

Rhaenyra looked toward the lake.

For a long while, she did not answer.

Then she said, “She did.”

Alicent turned to her. “She came here?”

“Once. Years ago. I was little. Syrax was too young to carry us both then, so we came by ship with my father. I hated the ship. I kept saying Syrax would have been faster, and Mother kept telling me that not everything needed to be done the fastest way.” Rhaenyra’s mouth softened at the memory. “She found this valley with me. Or perhaps I found it and dragged her here. I don't remember.”

Alicent listened quietly.

“She took off her shoes,” Rhaenyra said. “I remember that. She walked in the water and lifted her skirts like she was a girl. I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen. My mother, the queen, ankles in the lake.”

Her voice had grown thin.

Alicent squeezed her hand.

Rhaenyra looked down at their fingers. “I came here after the funeral.”

Alicent’s throat tightened.

“I thought if I came here, I would feel her,” Rhaenyra said. “Or remember her properly. Or be less angry. I don't know. Something foolish.”

“It's not foolish.”

Rhaenyra swallowed, her gaze still on the water. “But she wasn't here. It was only me. And Syrax. And all this quiet.”

Alicent wanted to say something that would mend it.

There was no such thing.

So she only moved closer until their shoulders touched.

Rhaenyra leaned into her after a moment.

“I am glad you brought me,” Alicent said.

Rhaenyra turned her head slightly. “Even with the dragon?”

“Even with the dragon.”

“The jump?”

“Even with the jump.”

“The cake theft?”

“That remains my favorite part.”

Rhaenyra laughed softly, though her eyes had gone wet.

Alicent pretended not to notice, because Rhaenyra’s pride was still a tender thing. Instead, she rested her head lightly against Rhaenyra’s.

They sat like that beneath the sun, damp and warm and hand in hand, while Syrax dozed and the waterfall kept speaking for them where words could not.

Alicent knew, then.

Not in the sudden way songs spoke of love, all thunderclaps and fate. It was quieter than that. Older. Something that had been growing in her for years, rooted in shared books and secret smiles, in Rhaenyra’s laughter beneath blankets during storms, in the ache she felt whenever Rhaenyra turned away hurt and would not say why.

She loved Rhaenyra.

Not as a friend. Not only as a friend.

She loved her in a way that made the world feel both more dangerous and more beautiful than it had that morning.

The knowledge should have frightened her more.

Perhaps it would later.

But here, with the sun drying their clothes and Rhaenyra’s fingers warm around hers, Alicent only felt strangely calm.

Rhaenyra turned her palm upward in the grass, fitting their hands together more fully.

Alicent looked down.

Then she looked at Rhaenyra.

The princess was already watching her.

Alicent smiled, small and shy.

Rhaenyra smiled back.

And for once, neither of them looked away.

The sun had climbed directly overhead by the time either of them admitted the day could not last forever.

For a while, they pretended otherwise.

They lay on the warm grass beside the lake, their shifts drying slowly in the summer air, their fingers still threaded together as though neither girl wished to be the first to let go. Syrax slept nearby, stretched out across black stone like a heap of living gold, her wings folded loosely, one green eye opening now and then whenever Rhaenyra laughed too loudly.

The waterfall kept spilling into the lake with its endless silver rush. The clouds thinned above them. The air smelled of water, grass, sun-warmed stone, and the faint smoke of dragon.

Alicent tried to memorize all of it.

She didn't know why. Not clearly. Only that some part of her understood this moment was rare, perhaps rarer than either of them could bear to say aloud. She wanted to keep the feel of Rhaenyra’s hand in hers. The way the grass tickled the back of her bare calves. The ache in her cheeks from laughing. The strange, bright tenderness still humming beneath her skin where Rhaenyra had kissed her.

She wanted to keep Rhaenyra like this.

Not princess. Not heir. Not grieving daughter. Not a girl being watched and measured by the court.

Just Rhaenyra.

Beside her, sunlit and damp-haired, looking almost peaceful.

Then Rhaenyra sighed.

It was a small sound, but Alicent felt it like the first cold touch of evening.

“We should probably pack up and leave soon.”

Alicent kept looking at the sky.

“No.”

Rhaenyra turned her head. “No?”

“No.”

“That's not like you.”

“I am aware.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth twitched, but the smile did not fully form. “Ali.”

“I know.” Alicent closed her eyes. “I know we have to.”

The words hurt more than she expected.

Going back meant walls.

It meant the Red Keep and all its corridors that felt longer after Queen Aemma’s death. It meant guards and servants and whispers. It meant court gowns fastened too tightly, meals taken beneath watchful eyes, prayers recited because they were expected rather than because they gave comfort. It meant her father’s voice, calm and low and impossible to disobey, directing her steps before she had even chosen where to place them.

It meant being Lady Alicent Hightower again.

Dutiful. Polite. Careful.

A girl who did not steal cakes. A girl who did not ride dragons. A girl who did not leap from cliffs or kiss princesses beside hidden lakes.

Alicent’s fingers tightened around Rhaenyra’s.

“I don't want to go back,” she admitted.

Rhaenyra went quiet.

When Alicent opened her eyes, Rhaenyra was watching her with a small frown, not of annoyance but of understanding. The sun caught in the pale strands of her hair, making them shine nearly white against the grass.

“I know,” Rhaenyra said softly.

Alicent gave a sad little laugh. “Do you?”

Rhaenyra looked toward the lake. “More than you think.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Rhaenyra sat up and glanced at the position of the sun. The practical truth of it settled over her face. Afternoon would not wait for them. The sky would not remain theirs forever. Fathers would notice. Servants would whisper. The world below had not disappeared simply because, for a few hours, they had risen above it.

Rhaenyra sighed again. “You're probably right.”

“I usually am.”

“That is a hideous trait.”

“It is one of my charms.”

Rhaenyra looked at her then, and her smile returned, soft and sad. “It is.”

Alicent felt the words settle beneath her ribs.

They dressed quickly after that, though nothing about it felt quick enough to make the parting easier. Their clothes were still slightly damp at the edges. Alicent’s gown clung to her calves, and Rhaenyra’s riding clothes had gathered grass and dust from where they had been left on the bank. Neither girl commented on it.

They were too busy trying not to look at each other.

And failing.

Alicent fastened the front of the dark blue riding coat and glanced up just as Rhaenyra was pulling her own tunic over her head. Their eyes met.

Both of them looked away at once.

Alicent’s cheeks burned.

She heard Rhaenyra laugh under her breath, shy and pleased and still a little uncertain.

“What?” Alicent asked, though she knew.

“Nothing.”

“It's not nothing.”

“You have said that to me several times today.”

“Because you keep lying poorly.”

Rhaenyra turned, fastening her gloves. “I am only thinking.”

“That is dangerous.”

“I was thinking,” Rhaenyra said, stepping closer, “that my coat brings out your eyes.”

Alicent’s hands stilled on the clasp at her throat.

Rhaenyra’s smile softened. “And that I mean it.”

Alicent looked down, but she could not hide her smile. “You shouldn't say such things when I am trying to be sensible.”

“I like you better when you are not sensible.”

“You would.”

Rhaenyra reached out and adjusted the collar of the coat with unnecessary care. Her fingers brushed Alicent’s throat, light as breath, and both of them went still.

The kiss returned between them without either of them moving.

Alicent felt it in the silence. In the nearness. In the heat rising to Rhaenyra’s cheeks. In the way Rhaenyra’s eyes dropped, just briefly, to Alicent’s mouth.

Then Syrax rumbled behind them.

Both girls startled.

Rhaenyra stepped back first, laughing softly. “Impatient lady.”

Alicent pressed a hand to her chest. “She did that deliberately.”

“She might have.”

“Can dragons be smug?”

“Syrax can.”

The dragon lifted her head, as though accepting this as a compliment.

They gathered the satchel, the cheesecloth, the last crumbs of lemon cake, and whatever small evidence remained of their afternoon. Alicent lingered for one last look at the lake.

The waterfall still shone in the sun. The outcrop waited beside it, dark and wet from the mist. The grass where they had lain was pressed flat in two places, side by side.

Alicent wondered if anyone would be able to tell.

She wondered if the valley would remember them.

Rhaenyra came to stand beside her.

“We can come back,” she said.

Alicent looked at her.

Rhaenyra’s expression was earnest in a way that made her look younger. Hopeful, almost. As though saying it aloud could make it true by force of wanting.

Alicent wanted to believe her.

So she did.

For that moment, she did.

“Yes,” Alicent said. “We can.”

Rhaenyra smiled.

Then she led Alicent up the slope toward Syrax.

The golden dragon watched them approach with her half-lidded green eyes, her tail shifting lazily over the stone. Alicent’s heart still gave a nervous leap at the sight of her, but it did not become panic this time. Not quite. She remembered the warmth of Syrax’s scales beneath her palm. The shadow of her wings over the clouds. The impossible beauty of the sea below.

Rhaenyra climbed first, swift and easy, as if she had never belonged anywhere but on a dragon’s back.

Then she turned and reached down for Alicent.

Alicent looked at her hand.

She had taken it so many times that day. In the Red Keep. In the Dragonpit. On the outcrop. In the lake. On the grass after the kiss, though neither of them had spoken of it again. Each time, it had led her somewhere she would never have gone alone.

She took it again.

The climb was awkward, but less awful than before. Alicent found the foothold more quickly this time, gripped the strap without being told, and let Rhaenyra haul her up with only one undignified stumble into the saddle.

Rhaenyra glanced back, smiling. “Better.”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I'm impressed, that's all.”

“You are impossible,” Alicent laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, but you are improving.”

Alicent shook her head, but when Rhaenyra faced forward, she settled behind her as though she had done it a hundred times. Her arms wrapped around Rhaenyra’s waist without hesitation. She rested her cheek against Rhaenyra’s back, closed her eyes, and smiled to herself.

Rhaenyra’s hand covered hers.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn't need to.

Syrax rose into the sky with a powerful beat of her wings, and this time Alicent did not scream.

She gasped, certainly. She clung tighter when the ground dropped away, and the first rush of wind still stole the breath from her lungs. But she kept her eyes open. She watched Dragonstone fall beneath them, black cliffs and green valleys shrinking into the sea. She watched the lake disappear among the ridges, the waterfall turning to a silver thread before vanishing entirely.

Alicent looked until she could no longer see it.

Then she looked forward.

The sky welcomed them again.

The flight back was different.

Not because Syrax flew more gently. She was still swift and powerful, still a creature of wing and fire carrying them far above the world. But Alicent was different now. Fear still sat inside her, but it no longer filled every corner. There was room beside it for wonder. For laughter. For the warmth of Rhaenyra beneath her arms.

She kept her eyes open for the entire ride.

Rhaenyra noticed.

Of course she noticed.

“You're looking,” she called back over the wind.

Alicent lifted her chin. “I am.”

“Not praying?”

“I may still pray later.”

“To thank the Seven for my excellent flying skills?”

“To forgive me for following you.”

Rhaenyra laughed, the sound carried back against Alicent’s cheek.

The clouds around them turned slowly golden as the afternoon deepened. Beneath them, the sea darkened in places where shadows passed over it. The sun began its descent toward the west, stretching light across the water in long, shimmering paths. Alicent watched Syrax’s wings rise and fall, rise and fall, each beat steady enough that she began to trust the rhythm.

By the time King’s Landing appeared ahead, the sky had begun to blush.

The city looked almost beautiful from above in the evening light. The ugliness softened. The stink could not reach them. The crowded streets became lines and shapes, the harbor a basin of molten gold, the Red Keep a sharp red cluster rising above it all.

Alicent felt her smile fade.

There it was.

The world waiting for them.

Rhaenyra seemed to feel the change in her. Her hand found Alicent’s again and squeezed.

Alicent closed her eyes for only a moment, pressing her forehead against Rhaenyra’s back.

Then Syrax descended.

The landing was smoother this time, or perhaps Alicent had simply learned not to fight the motion. Her teeth did not click. She did not crush Rhaenyra quite so brutally. When Syrax settled in the Dragonpit with a low rumble, Alicent let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

Rhaenyra turned as far as the saddle allowed. “No screaming.”

“I am very accomplished now, I will have you know,” Alicent huffed.

“A natural dragonrider.”

“Don't tell anyone that. They may expect me to do it again.”

Rhaenyra’s smile lingered. “Would that be so terrible?”

Alicent looked at her.

The answer rose softly.

No.

But she couldn't say it yet. Not here, with dragonkeepers nearby and the city waiting beyond the stone. So she only smiled.

Rhaenyra understood anyway.

They climbed down. Alicent stumbled less, and Rhaenyra caught her anyway. Syrax lowered her head once, close enough that Alicent felt the heat of her breath stir her damp curls.

Alicent froze.

Rhaenyra stroked the dragon’s snout. “She's saying goodbye.”

“She has a terrifying way of doing it.”

“She likes you.”

Alicent looked at Syrax, still wary, but no longer entirely afraid. “Goodbye, then.”

Syrax huffed.

Alicent took that as an answer.

The walk back through King’s Landing felt slower than their escape had. Evening gathered in the alleys, turning the stones blue and purple in shadow. The city was louder now, full of supper smells, closing market stalls, children being called indoors, and the distant clatter of horses pulling carts toward the gates.

Rhaenyra and Alicent walked close together.

Their hands found each other almost immediately.

At first Alicent told herself it was only to keep from losing one another in the crowd. Then the streets widened and neither of them let go. Rhaenyra’s thumb brushed the back of her hand. Alicent looked down at their joined fingers, then up at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra didn't look away.

By the time they slipped back into the Red Keep, the sun was beginning to set. The castle windows burned orange. Servants moved briskly through corridors lighting lamps. Somewhere, distant music drifted from a chamber where some lord or lady had decided life must resume whether grief permitted it or not.

They took the same side passages back, quieter now.

Every step toward their chambers felt like a stitch closing over the day.

Alicent’s hand remained in Rhaenyra’s until the last possible moment.

Near the turn that would separate them, they stopped.

Neither girl spoke at once.

Alicent looked down the corridor leading toward her own rooms. She could already imagine what waited there. A bath drawn by servants. A clean gown. Perhaps a message from her father asking where she had been, though he would not ask with anger if he could ask with disappointment instead. That was always sharper.

Rhaenyra stood beside her, still in her riding clothes, wind-tangled and sun-flushed, but with the shadows of the Red Keep already touching her face.

Alicent’s fingers tightened around hers.

“I should go,” Alicent said.

“I suppose.”

Neither moved.

Rhaenyra looked at the blue coat Alicent still wore. “You can return that later.”

Alicent touched the sleeve. “I should give it back now.”

“No.” Rhaenyra’s voice came too quickly, then softened. “Keep it. For now.”

Alicent looked up.

Rhaenyra’s eyes held hers. “Just in case we go flying again.”

The words were light, but Alicent heard what sat beneath them.

Just in case this was not the only time.

Just in case they could have another day.

Just in case the world was kinder than it had ever promised to be.

Alicent swallowed. “Then I shall keep it safe.”

“I know you will.”

Their hands remained joined between them.

For one foolish second, Alicent wondered if Rhaenyra might kiss her there in the corridor. Her heart leapt at the thought, then quailed from it. Anyone could turn the corner. Anyone could see.

Rhaenyra seemed to think of it too.

Her gaze dropped to Alicent’s mouth.

Then she looked away with a faint, sad smile.

“Goodnight, Alicent.”

It was not night yet.

Not quite.

But the day was ending.

“Goodnight, Rhaenyra,” Alicent said.

They let go.

Alicent walked away first. She managed three steps before looking back.

Rhaenyra was still standing there.

When their eyes met, Rhaenyra smiled.

Small.

Secret.

Alicent smiled back, then turned the corner before her courage failed entirely. Rhaenyra watched the empty space where Alicent had vanished for a moment longer. Then she hurried to her own chambers.

The room looked different when she returned.

Nothing had changed. Not truly. The wardrobe still hung open, gowns spilling from it. The untouched wine remained on the table. The uneaten bread had gone harder at the edges. The bed was still rumpled from the grief she had tried to leave behind that morning.

But Rhaenyra was different.

That made the room different too.

She closed the door and stood with her back against it, breathing in the quiet. For a moment she could still feel Alicent’s arms around her waist. Alicent’s mouth against hers. Alicent’s laughter beneath her hands. Alicent’s cheek resting between her shoulder blades as Syrax carried them home.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together.

Then she laughed softly, once, to herself.

It sounded nearly like a sob.

She removed her riding coat and tossed it over a chair, though she paused before letting it fall. Alicent still had the blue one. Alicent, who had worn it through the sky and over the grass and back into the Red Keep as if she belonged to Rhaenyra in some small, impossible way.

You look like you belong to me.

The memory made Rhaenyra’s cheeks heat again.

She was still standing there when a knock came at the door.

Her body tensed.

For one wild heartbeat, she thought it might be Alicent.

But the knock came again, heavier this time, and she knew.

“Come in,” Rhaenyra said.

The door opened.

King Viserys entered slowly.

He looked older than he had that morning. Perhaps it was only the evening light. It caught in the hollows of his face, deepening them, turning his skin sallow beneath the gold of his crownless hair. His hand rested briefly against the doorframe before he stepped inside, as though even the walk to her chambers had tired him.

Rhaenyra straightened at once.

“Father.”

Viserys looked at her riding clothes. At her wind-tangled hair. At the faint traces of lake and grass and sky she had not quite managed to hide.

His expression shifted into disappointment.

Not anger. Somehow that was worse.

“You were not at the small council today.”

Rhaenyra lowered her eyes. “No.”

“No,” he repeated quietly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and found that she meant it more than she had expected. “I needed some air today.”

Viserys gave a weary sigh.

Rhaenyra prepared herself for rebuke. For the reminder of duty. For the lecture about responsibility, heirs, appearances, grief, the realm. She had heard such words before and expected to hear them many more times.

Instead, he said, “Lady Alicent was nowhere to be found either.”

Rhaenyra’s heart stopped.

She lifted her head too quickly. “Father, she…”

Viserys raised one hand.

The words died in her throat.

For a moment, father and daughter only looked at one another.

Rhaenyra did not know what he saw on her face. Guilt, perhaps. Defiance. Fear for Alicent before fear for herself. Whatever it was, Viserys’s expression softened with an exhaustion so deep that it stole the sharpness from the room.

“I do not ask,” he said quietly, “because I do not wish to hear whatever lie you are preparing.”

Rhaenyra swallowed.

He rubbed a hand over his brow. The gesture was so tired, so human, that for a second Rhaenyra saw not the king, but only her father. A man grieving his wife. A man who had lost Aemma and did not know how to speak to the daughter who remained because looking at Rhaenyra meant remembering what had been taken.

Or perhaps what had been chosen.

Pain moved through her chest before she could stop it.

Viserys lowered his hand. “Be at the next small council meeting.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “I will.”

“Rhaenyra.”

She looked at him.

His voice softened. “You must be.”

There was something in those words that nearly sounded like pleading.

Rhaenyra’s throat tightened. “I will be there.”

Viserys nodded.

He seemed as though he might say something else. Something about Aemma, perhaps. Or about grief. Or about how the halls had grown colder and quieter and neither of them knew what to do with the empty space she had left behind.

But he did not.

He only looked at Rhaenyra for one more tired moment, then turned and left the room.

The door closed softly behind him.

Rhaenyra stood still for a long while.

Then she exhaled.

The happiness of the day had not vanished, but it had changed. It sat inside her now beside everything else. Beside grief. Beside anger. Beside the heavy, inescapable knowledge that morning always returned after even the most beautiful day.

She dressed for bed with slow hands.

The nightclothes felt soft against her sun-warmed skin. Her hair had dried almost entirely, curling slightly at the ends from lake water and wind. She sat before her mirror and drew a gold comb through it, working gently at the tangles.

Alicent would have scolded her for pulling too hard.

The thought made her smile.

Then ache.

She imagined Alicent in her own chamber, perhaps sitting very straight while a maid brushed out her damp curls. Perhaps hiding the blue riding coat somewhere safe. Perhaps touching her own mouth when no one watched, wondering if Rhaenyra was thinking of the kiss too.

Rhaenyra was.

She feared she would think of little else for the rest of her life.

Outside her window, the sky darkened from violet to deep blue. The last of the sunset faded beyond the city, taking with it the gold from the rooftops, the harbor, the high clouds they had flown through together.

Rhaenyra set the comb down.

She went to the window and looked out.

Somewhere beyond the darkening horizon lay Dragonstone. The hidden valley. The lake. The outcrop. A patch of grass where two girls had lain hand in hand, believing, for a few foolish hours, that the world might allow them to keep what they had found there.

Rhaenyra pressed her fingers lightly to her lips.

She hoped she would fly with Alicent again.

She hoped there would be more stolen cakes. More secret smiles. More afternoons where Alicent looked at her with wind in her hair and wonder in her eyes. More kisses given softly in places no one else knew.

She hoped many things that night.

For now, there was only the darkening sky, the memory of Alicent’s hand in hers, and one golden day held carefully between them, bright and fragile as a flame cupped against the coming dark.