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Rhaenyra still has so much fondness in her heart for Alicent. Too much, sometimes. Alicent has chosen a path she cannot follow, and when it comes to Rhaenyra’s children, she will defend them without a doubt. She knows Alicent understands this. Children are not their parents, but they are moulded into what their parents expect of them. Alicent spins this web for her own children, and hasn’t realised they are trapped, desperately clawing at tendrils to escape, but the thread binds them tighter, until they start to choke.
(Perhaps they are more akin to roots. Those have always been there, planted by Alicent’s father.)
She cannot blame her. She doesn’t think Alicent realised she was choking too.
The insult to her family, to her son, to her, is not something she can ignore. Alicent is not so pretty when she is calling Rhaenyra’s children bastards.
This pushing and pulling they’ve always done since Alicent wedded her father, is all so familiar to dancing. If Alicent just wanted to dance, she should have only asked. Rhaenyra is quite fond of dancing. She is also quite fond of her eye.
‘Release the blade, Alicent!’ Rhaenyra recognizes the voice of Otto Hightower shouting from within the crowd behind Alicent. She doesn’t care. He’s far enough. It’s just me and her now. Only a blade between them, and Rhaenyra considers letting Alicent slip the blade into her flesh, if it means she’ll feel that warm breath against her face. She hasn’t been this close to Alicent in years.
Like warm sunlight, Rhaenyra thinks deliriously. Brown hair that glows red in the sun. Blazing, unrelenting fire.
Alicent grunts against Rhaenyra’s grip on her arm, like she can hear Rhaenyra’s thoughts, feel her desire. Rhaenyra almost loses her grip on Alicent’s arm, but the blade comes a few centimetres closer. Close enough for it to swipe by her right eye. She’s not scared. She hopes she knows Alicent enough to guess that she’d aim for her heart instead. Just to open it up, to see if Alicent's name is still there.
It beats for you. Rhaenyra stares into Alicent’s eyes. Her irises are brown, like the leaves of the weirwood tree they spent their summers reading under. ‘Alicent read, remember,’ she tells herself. ‘You only accompanied her because the sunlight danced so beautifully around her, eyes shining and hair glistening. She looked beautiful.’ Rhaenyra was never one to pay any attention to the Septas, but from their descriptions, Alicent is the reincarnation of one of those Gods she was always so fond of. The Maiden, if Rhaenyra remembers correctly. Alicent would’ve been proud of her for remembering.
But Alicent has spent too much time in the dark and, like a flower, has wilted. Her eyes are darker now. They’re brimming with rage, fear, and regret. Longing and desire.
It will only ever beat for you.
Alicent’s gaze searches her eyes. What are you searching for? Rhaenyra wants to whisper. She’s close enough that only Alicent will hear. She’d get away with it. She does regret her son’s transgressions, but she loves him. She cannot let her cut out his eye. She knows that’s not what Alicent wants. She sees Alicent. Maybe she hasn’t seen her for a while now, but she does now.
“Exhausting, wasn’t it?” Rhaenyra starts, and she hopes Alicent can forgive her, but she often did have a hard time hearing the truth. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. But now they see you as you are.” I see you.
Alicent yells out, and the blade comes down in a great, final swoop. Her heart is still tucked inside her chest safely, but she starts to feel a sharp sting on her wrist. She had not gone for the heart then, Rhaenyra thinks dumbly as she turns, staring at the blood that now drips down her wrist. The room is silent, and Rhaenyra feels the press of her family behind her, her youngest son clutching to the back of her dress.
Alicent just stands there, tears welling up in her eyes as they drift to the blood now gushing from the fresh wound. Her eyes look like glass. Her gaze is unwavering, and slowly, they fill with horror the more she studies the scene before her. Her emotions are drifting from her now, leaving her tired and disorientated. Like coming down from a high, she is left to confront her actions. She mustn’t have realised she was capable of violence. As if she didn’t believe she would do such a thing (especially to Rhaenyra, of all people.) Which is true, she isn’t.
But so much has changed in these past years.
The blade drops from her hand and clatters to the floor. Rhaenyra finally looks up, her expression shocked, but her gaze is focused on the woman in front of her. Alicent’s composure breaks. Between the cracks, she can almost see a glimpse of Alicent Florent.
No words are spoken, and no apology comes. It’s not needed. The blade had already drawn its line between them years ago.
And Rhaenyra has already forgiven her.