Archive of Our Own

***

Fifteen isn’t exactly a terrible age, but to Rhaenyra, it felt somehow inconvenient. No rights, no freedom, no sense that you’re a person. Not quite a child anymore, but from the perspective of adults, still a “little girl.” Especially when they shove you into a car without warning and drive you to the Hightower house because, you see, they’re celebrating: a baby girl was born.

That’s exactly what they told Rhaenyra: “Come on, let’s go congratulate Otto on his daughter’s birth; you love babies, don’t you?” She didn’t. Especially not when that very evening there was a party at Baela’s—with music, lights, and older kids. She had almost picked out what to wear. Almost figured out what she’d say when she walked in. Almost believed it would be fun.

And now, here she was—in a stranger’s house, in a stranger’s room, with a stranger’s baby.

Downstairs, the adults were shouting over each other and clinking glasses. Someone turned on music, and dishes clattered. The air smelled of wine and appetizers. Rhaenyra sat on a bed in a room where a dim nightlight glowed. In the corner was a crib with lowered sides, where the newborn lay.

A baby. A girl. Alicent.

Rhaenyra glanced at her sideways. She had to admit, the baby was calm. No tantrums, no fuss. A tiny, pink creature, wrapped in a blanket like a cocoon, softly snoring, scrunching her face as if something in her dream was off, then relaxing again. Her face was round, smooth, her nose barely noticeable, her eyelashes like little wisps.

“What am I even doing here?” Rhaenyra thought. “Why do I care about this baby? I could be sipping a cocktail from a plastic cup right now, listening to Daemon yell along to The Neighbourhood…”

She tapped her foot on the floor. Quietly, so as not to wake the baby. Nearby was a teddy bear, a rocking chair, a onesie with bunnies. Rhaenyra looked at it all with a sense of longing. Like she was trapped.

“This is some kind of torture,” she said aloud, no longer expecting anyone to hear. “What am I now, a babysitter?”

A soft sound came from the crib. The baby stirred. She opened her eyes—big, wet, clear. She looked straight at Rhaenyra. No fear, no surprise. Just… as if seeing her for the first time and instantly accepting her.

Rhaenyra propped herself up on her elbows. “What? Can’t sleep, huh?”

The baby didn’t respond, of course. She only moved her little hand. One tiny finger brushed against the crib’s edge. Then—stillness again.

For a while, Rhaenyra just looked at her. Then, stepping closer, she leaned on the crib’s edge and cautiously peered inside.

“Do you even know how old I am? Fifteen. I’m practically an adult. I’ve got my own life, you know. Nobody asked me. And here you are, lying there, all… tiny. And now, because of you, I’m stuck in these four walls.”

Alicent looked at her again. Didn’t blink. Didn’t cry.

And then Rhaenyra—without knowing why—slipped her hands under the baby’s back and head, carefully lifting her as she’d seen in movies, and held her to her chest.

The baby was light. Surprisingly light, like she was made of something airy. Warm. Soft. Smelling sweetly of something baby-like—not quite milk, not quite vanilla. Some kind of tender comfort.

“Alright, fine. Just don’t scream, okay?”

But Alicent didn’t scream. Didn’t squirm. She just… settled. Curled up like a tiny kitten. Her head nestled against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. Breathing softly.

Rhaenyra froze, standing in the middle of the room, then slowly sank back onto the bed, moving carefully, as if holding not a baby but a glass vase.

“Now what?” she muttered, unsure who she was talking to. “Am I supposed to sit like this till morning?”

Silence surrounded her. Downstairs, the clink of glasses and someone’s drunken laughter echoed. But here—peace. Absolute peace.

The baby stirred, lifted her head, and looked at Rhaenyra. Her forehead wrinkled slightly, then her face seemed to light up—she broke into a toothless, utterly happy smile.

Rhaenyra was caught off guard. “Are you serious?”

Alicent responded… with a finger. A tiny, almost transparent little finger poked Rhaenyra’s cheek. Gently, as if checking if she was real.

And then, satisfied, the baby nestled closer, her nose against Rhaenyra’s neck. As if in a gesture of trust.

Rhaenyra sat in silence. The room was warm. Cozy, even, though that annoyed her. She wanted to be angry. Wanted to feel like a victim. But in her arms was a little bundle. Not a burden. Not a reason. Just… life. Small, real.

“You’re alright, I guess,” Rhaenyra said. “But if I tell anyone tomorrow where I was, they won’t believe me. They’ll be like, ‘What, you were babysitting?’”

She snorted. “Not exactly a glamorous night, to be honest.”

Alicent breathed evenly, as if soothed by her complaints.

“Nobody gets me,” Rhaenyra went on. “Adults just drink and think I don’t understand anything. But I do. I just don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to be trapped in houses like this. To have kids and… just cook soups. You get it?”

She didn’t expect an answer, of course. But then she felt it: a tiny hand gripped her sweater. As if in support.

Rhaenyra fell silent. She stared at the floor, rocking slightly. The baby snored softly.

And so they sat—one, fifteen, not allowed to be herself, and the other, brand new, not even knowing what “being herself” means. Just living, breathing, warming up against someone’s shoulder.

Rhaenyra thought about joking that since the party was ruined, this could be a “girls’ night.” But she didn’t say it. She just held the little bundle a bit closer.

Sometimes life gives you strange evenings. When you expect dancing, lights, and loud music, but instead, you get silence, arms, and soft breathing against your neck.

And, oddly enough, that’s exactly what you need.

***

“Are you sulking again?” Rhaenyra’s mom asked with a restrained smile, adjusting her blazer in front of the mirror. “Is it really going to be that awful of an evening?”

“Oh, yeah. Sounds like a dream come true: a house, candles, adults, wine, a baby. Party of the century,” Rhaenyra drawled, rolling her eyes. “Thanks for not making me wear a dress.”

Her father chuckled. “It’s not an interrogation. Just congratulate the family, eat something tasty, chat a bit.”

Rhaenyra snorted and pulled on her jacket. Deep down, she knew she was grumbling out of habit. Of course, she wasn’t about to admit it—not out loud, not even to herself. Because the truth was this: the last time she held little Alicent, with her tiny hands and fleeting but warm attachment, Rhaenyra had felt something… strange. Comfort? Familiarity? Peace? Something like that.

And now, as they were heading to the Hightowers’ for dinner for the second time that month, she grumbled but quickly walked to the car. She tapped her foot in the air to some rhythm. Her fingers reached for her phone but didn’t play any music. She listened as her mom and dad discussed who’d bring the cake and who forgot the toy.

Alicent had probably grown a bit by now. Maybe she could sit up, maybe babble. Maybe she’d nuzzle into her neck again?

Rhaenyra brushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. It was just an evening. Just a kid. Just uncomfortable furniture and talk about how time flies.

The Hightower house smelled of baking, as always. A bit stronger of cinnamon this time. Guests were already there: a couple of aunts, one guy clearly tipsy, a few older kids. The hum of voices, laughter, the scent of perfume, and somewhere in the background—children’s toys jangling like bells.

Alicent was in the living room—on the floor, in a playpen with soft walls and a pile of rubber blocks. Small, in a pink onesie with a bunny on the chest. She sat, swaying like a fledgling, enthusiastically chewing the edge of a toy ring.

When Rhaenyra walked in, everything happened quickly.

Alicent looked up. Froze. Recognized her. A second later, she melted with joy and burst into loud, clear, delighted laughter. And—reached up with both hands. No hesitation.

“Oh my gosh,” Rhaenyra muttered, trying not to smile. “What, you remember me?”

The baby raised her hands higher and let out an excited “Eeee!” rolling onto her knees. It was as if every muscle in her body knew: This one’s mine. I want her.

“Alright, alright,” Rhaenyra said, stepping closer, glancing around—her parents were already chatting with the Hightowers, not paying attention to her. “Come here, little bundle.”

She lifted Alicent easily. The girl instantly settled on her hip, as if it were her rightful place. Tiny fingers clutched the collar of Rhaenyra’s hoodie. And again—that same warm little nose against her neck, those same sighs and tiny, shamelessly happy giggles.

“You’re impossible,” Rhaenyra muttered. “You stick to me like… syrup.”

“Syrup,” Alicent said suddenly. Or rather, something vaguely resembling the word. “Sipo!”

Rhaenyra nearly choked with laughter.

“Alright. Now you’re talking. Great. A little more, and you’ll be blackmailing me like every other woman in my life.”

Alicent laughed, poked Rhaenyra’s nose with her finger, then nestled closer, kicking her little leg.

Half an hour passed like that. Then another. Rhaenyra wandered half the house with Alicent, dodging adult conversations. She sat on the windowsill, scrolling through her phone, while the baby poked at the screen and exclaimed “Wow!” every time a cat appeared in a video.

They built a tower of blocks, and Rhaenyra theatrically complained when Alicent knocked it down. They drank water from the same bottle—because the baby refused her sippy cup unless Rhaenyra drank too.

When her father approached to “take her to rest,” Alicent cried. For the first time that evening.

“Well, damn,” he chuckled, stepping back. “Looks like you’re the honorary babysitter now.”

“I’m not a babysitter,” Rhaenyra snapped, but her eyes didn’t leave Alicent. “We just… get along.”

The baby nodded. Or at least, seemed to.

From that evening, things fell into a rhythm. Every couple of weeks—a trip to the Hightowers’. Conversations, glasses, cakes, new toys. And then—her. Rhaenyra. Sitting in a corner on the carpet, with the baby on her lap.

And every time, it was the same.

“Come on, grumble,” her mom would say before they left. “Pretend you’re being forced again.”

Rhaenyra would snort, pull on her jacket. But at the Hightowers’, she was always the first to show up in the nursery. And she always heard that same joyful laugh. And saw Alicent reach for her—without hesitation, like she was her personal sun, arriving on schedule.

The baby started walking—her first steps were to Rhaenyra. She started babbling—“Nii,” “Niira,” “Ra,” “Nina,” anything to name her.

One evening, Rhaenyra, now sixteen, sat on the floor, legs stretched out, with Alicent perched on her stomach, arms draped over her shoulders, studying her face.

“You can’t be this cute,” Rhaenyra whispered. “It’s illegal.”

Alicent pressed her palm to Rhaenyra’s cheek, gently, with some incredible, almost innate care.

“Bobo?” she asked.

“It’s not bobo,” Rhaenyra smiled. “You just… do something to my heart, little bundle.”

“Bundle?” Alicent clarified, nodding.

“Little bundle. A tiny, clingy bundle of happiness.”

The baby giggled and pressed her nose to Rhaenyra’s chin.

One November evening, when it was especially cold, and Rhaenyra showed up in a thick scarf, nose pink and expression sour, she finally snapped. She tossed off her jacket, put her shoes back on, muttered, “I don’t have to do this,” and then—ended up in the nursery. And there…

Alicent ran to her. On steady little legs now. Hugged her. As best she could. With all her might. Tiny arms around her neck.

And whispered, so quietly: “Rhae… ra.”

Rhaenyra froze.

“What?”

Alicent pulled back slightly and repeated: “Rhae-ra. love… u.”

Too many feelings for one teenager. Too much warmth for one fragile heart.

Rhaenyra scooped her up, held her tightly—not like usual. Not just holding a kid anymore. She wouldn’t let go if anyone tried to take her.

“I love you too, little bundle,” she whispered. “I love you too.”

Spring came quickly. Alicent started speaking in sentences. A personality emerged, along with stubbornness. Sometimes she frowned. Sometimes she was fussy. But to Rhaenyra, it all felt… familiar. Like they’d known each other forever. Like they shared something important.

By summer, Rhaenyra stopped grumbling. Stopped pretending she didn’t want to go. If they were heading to the Hightowers’, she walked to the car herself. If it was dinner, she went to the nursery first. If it was a birthday, she bought a gift. If it was bedtime, she rocked Alicent to sleep, humming softly.

Alicent only fell asleep next to her. Sometimes, in her sleep, her little hand still reached for Rhaenyra’s cheek. To check if she was there.

And she always was.

***

Twenty-year-old Rhaenyra sat in the living room in a large armchair that, for some reason, she always associated with Alicent—perhaps because of how Alicent would curl up in it like a cat, immediately chattering about dolls or cartoons where no one died, everyone lived together, and no one ever left.

Right now, Alicent was sitting on her lap. Almost asleep, warm, heavy, her cheek pressed against Rhaenyra’s shoulder. Her chestnut hair smelled of strawberry children’s shampoo, and Rhaenyra held her gently, as if she were something fragile and precious. Then she exhaled and finally started speaking.

“You know, I’m leaving soon,” she said, her voice too soft, almost uncertain, not at all like an adult’s. “To study. In another country. For a long time.”

The little girl didn’t react. She only stirred slightly in Rhaenyra’s arms, her breathing growing quieter.

“It’s… It’s important. Really important. I… I won’t be able to visit often. But you’ll find new friends, right?” Rhaenyra swallowed. “Maybe someone will play with your dolls, and you won’t even notice how quickly I’ll be back…”

She didn’t finish. Because she knew: it wouldn’t be quick. Because she knew everything she was saying was a lie. Alicent would notice. She would wait. And every day without her would feel not just like time to her, but an eternity.

And yet, even knowing this, she was leaving. Because if she didn’t, that was it—she’d be stuck in her parents’ house, with her mother’s reproaches, her father’s silence, endless exhaustion, and the feeling that life was happening in another room.

In short—a life where she’d stop being herself.

But for now—here was little Alicent. She hugged Rhaenyra’s neck, almost sleepily. Then she whispered, her voice so faint, barely audible, like a breeze: 

“Did I do something wrong?”

Rhaenyra flinched. At first, she didn’t even understand. Then her heart jolted so sharply it felt like a punch.

“What? No! No, what are you…” She pulled the girl closer, burying her nose in her hair. “God, Alicent, no. You’re the absolute best. You’re my joy. I just… I have to go. It’s not because of you. Not at all because of you…”

Alicent was silent for a long time. Then she nodded. Very quietly. But she didn’t cry. She just froze, as if something inside her had shut down.

And that was even worse.

A few days passed.

Rhaenyra barely slept. The closer the departure date got, the more she wanted to cancel everything. But her parents were excited, packing things, making lists, sending money to her account—things that always seemed impossible were suddenly becoming real.

Alicent… stopped asking to be held. Stopped dragging her favorite toys to “show Rhaenyra.” Stopped peeking from the kitchen to call her to play. She sat quietly, too quietly for a four-year-old, as if trying not to be a bother.

“Is everything okay?” Otto asked one day, frowning when his daughter refused sweets and hid behind a chair. “Is she sick?”

Rhaenyra, standing nearby, already knew: no. She wasn’t sick. It was Rhaenyra’s fault.

That evening, she finally made up her mind: 

“Can I stop by to say goodbye?”

“Of course,” Alicent’s mother replied. “I think she’d be happy.”

But Alicent didn’t look happy. She didn’t cry. She didn’t say anything at all. She just took Rhaenyra by the hand, led her to her room, and showed her a doll.

“She’ll miss you,” she said quietly.

Rhaenyra sat down on the carpet beside her, nearly choking on the child’s accusation.

“I won’t stop being your… your…” She faltered. What was she? A sister? A friend? Nobody?

“Then can I give you something?” Alicent said suddenly, pulling a small box from under the bed. She took out a hair tie. A simple, childish one with a heart. She reached out and placed it in Rhaenyra’s palm.

“So you won’t forget me.”

And Rhaenyra took it. Because there was nothing more to say.

A month passed.

Rhaenyra was living in another country, among beautiful streets and new people, studying, writing essays, finally breathing freely. But…

Every evening, she stared at her phone, waiting for Alicent’s mother to send a photo. Sometimes one came. Alicent with ice cream. Alicent in rubber boots. Alicent with autumn leaves in her hair. But in the photos, she rarely smiled.

“She misses you,” Otto wrote. “She’s counting the days.”

Rhaenyra missed her too. More than she expected. She didn’t even admit it to herself.

She bought a postcard. A childish one, with cartoon animals. She wrote:

“Alicent, you’re my favorite girl. I haven’t forgotten you. And I never will.
I have your hair tie.
And every time I look at it, I think of you.
Be happy. Be brave. And play for both of us.
Hugs, so so tight—

Your Rhaenyra.”

She sent it. Hoped it would arrive.

A few weeks later, she received a drawing.

Colorful, covered in neon hues, with a childish, uneven signature: “Rhaenyra and Ali.”

Rhaenyra cried. For the first time in weeks. Because she understood—she was needed. Someone was waiting for her.

And being needed by someone was the most important thing.

She visited when she could. Every few months. Alicent ran to her each time, as if she’d been frozen in anticipation all along. She hugged her so tightly that Rhaenyra felt—no matter what happened in the world, she had an anchor. A small, warm one—four years old, then five, then six. And still the same, with eyes that held boundless affection.

Something real.

And there were letters, drawings, evening calls when Alicent would ask:

“Tell me a story. Like before.”

And Rhaenyra would tell one. On the other end of the line—breathing, a faint laugh, a yawn.

“You haven’t forgotten me, right?” Alicent would ask.

“Never.”

***

Rhaenyra stood at the door of the Hightower house, unsure how to breathe.

Her fingers gripped the handle of a gift bag—inside was a sketchbook, expensive watercolors, and a tiny flower-shaped hair tie. Almost like the one Alicent had given her long ago. Almost—because the exact same one was impossible to find. But maybe she’d recognize it? Maybe she’d remember?

Her heart pounded.  
She was twenty-five.  
A degree, job offers, plans for a new country, articles, a career—everything she’d left for, dreamed of, endured.  
And yet, standing on the doorstep now, Rhaenyra felt younger than she had when she first left.

Because behind that door was Alicent.  
And they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year and a half. The last time was at Christmas, when the girl was nine. Back then, she still jumped into her arms, laughed, begged her to stay longer, whispered, “I’m counting the days.”  
But now… now she was almost eleven.  
Almost a teenager.  
What if she’d grown up? Moved on? Forgotten?

Rhaenyra raised her hand and knocked.

Alicent’s mother opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Rhaenyra?”  
“Hi,” Rhaenyra smiled weakly. “I… I finished early. Wanted to stop by. If I’m not intruding?”  

“Of course you’re not intruding. Come in. God, you’re… all grown up,” she said, stepping aside to let her in. “Wait, I’ll call her…”

But Rhaenyra already heard footsteps. Light. Cautious.

And there she was.

Alicent stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. The same slender figure, hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a printed T-shirt and leggings. She’d grown taller. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips slightly more defined. There was something adult about her, unfamiliar.

But her eyes were the same.

Large. Green. Filled with silence and a sharp, trembling hope.

She looked at Rhaenyra, unmoving. As if she couldn’t believe it. As if her brain hadn’t yet connected the image with reality.

“Hi,” Rhaenyra said softly.

And in the next moment, Alicent rushed toward her.

Quickly, decisively, as if she were four years old again. She wrapped her arms around Rhaenyra’s waist, burying her face in her stomach, pressing her nose into her shirt.

“You came…” she whispered. “You came…”

Rhaenyra lowered her hands, hugging her. Hesitantly at first, then tighter. Like holding something long lost but still warm and alive.

“Of course I came,” she exhaled. “How could I not?”

“You didn’t answer my letters…” Alicent said suddenly, her voice trembling slightly. “Just one postcard. Then nothing. I thought… maybe that’s it. Maybe you didn’t want to anymore…”

“No. God, no.”  
Rhaenyra knelt down to be at eye level, cupping the girl’s face in her hands.  
“It was just… everything was hard. My thesis, then an internship, then exams. I wrote to you in my head every day. I swear.”

“I thought you changed your mind about loving me,” Alicent said quietly, her eyes unwavering.

Those words hit like a blow to the chest. Pure, direct, too honest.

“No, no, listen,” Rhaenyra whispered. “I still love you. Probably even more than before.”

“But you kept leaving…”

“Yes. Because… sometimes you have to leave to come back right. To become someone.”

Alicent was silent for a long time. Then she nodded. And hugged her again. Not impulsively this time—slowly, firmly, thoughtfully. Like someone who doesn’t want to let go.

Later, they sat in Alicent’s room.  
She’d grown up. Her shelves were filled with books, paints, figurines, and small animals she’d assembled herself. Rhaenyra ran her finger along the spines—fairytales, then novels, then fantasy. Just like her own childhood.  
On the desk was a drawn portrait. Two figures. One tall, with long blonde hair. The other smaller, with green eyes.

“Is this us?” Rhaenyra asked, her chest tightening.

“Yes. I drew us every month. So I wouldn’t forget what you look like.”

“Do you… want to show me your drawings?”

Alicent perked up. She jumped to a drawer, pulled out sketchbooks, and opened one at random.

Rhaenyra flipped through—childish drawings at first, then sharper, more expressive. Smudged eyes in some places, captions in others.  
“8 months.”  
“9.”  
“1 year and 2 weeks.”

“You kept track?”

“Of course.” Alicent shrugged, as if it were obvious. “I was waiting for you.”

And again—no need to say more.

Dinner was quiet.

Rhaenyra sat next to Alicent, who still wouldn’t stray far from her. Subtly, unobtrusively—she brushed her elbow against Rhaenyra’s, rested her hand on her arm, fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, as if checking she was real.

Alicent’s mother watched with a faint smile. Otto was reserved, as always, but his eyes held approval.

“She’s been… quieter this year,” Otto said when they were alone in the kitchen. “Not worse. Just… like she was waiting for something. And now—she’s come alive. Thank you for coming.”

Rhaenyra only nodded. Speaking was hard.

That evening, at goodbye, Alicent hugged her again.  
“Will you leave again?”

“Yes. I got an offer for a graduate program. Two years. But I… I can visit. More often. And now—I’ll write. I promise.”

Alicent nodded.

“I’m not a baby anymore. I understand. But… can I still wait for you?”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra whispered, pulling her close. “I’m waiting for you too. Every day.”

Later, on the train, she untied the paper bag. Inside, among the sketchbooks and sweets, was a sheet of paper. A new drawing.

On it—two figures. One tall, one small. But both with wings.

And a caption:  
“Now you’re here again. Even if you’re far away.”

Rhaenyra pressed the drawing to her chest.

She knew: no matter what happened—she had a home.  
Small. Warm. With green eyes.

Its name was Alicent.

***

Rhaenyra returns for good after three years.

Her internship is over, and a job, a family business, and an apartment an hour’s drive from the Hightowers await her. Not close, but not on the other side of the world either.

And she’s changed.

Her hair is short now, framing her face, accentuating her cheekbones. On her collarbone—a tattoo: a stylized bird with outstretched wings. Another along her ribs, known only to a few. And one more—on her wrist, a delicate inscription in Valyrian. Not flashy, not provocative—just a memory.

She’s an adult. No longer the girl with suitcases and naive hopes. She’s a woman who knows what she wants.

But when she arrives at the Hightowers’, her heart still races like mad.

Otto opens the door and smiles.

“You’ve changed completely,” he says, pulling her into a hug. “And yet—you’re the same.”

“Hopefully in a good way,” Rhaenyra chuckles.

“In the best way. Come in. She’s upstairs. I’ll call her.”

“Wait,” Rhaenyra suddenly fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “What’s she like now? I don’t even know anymore. She’s a teenager.”

He looks at her closely. Then says softly:  
“She’s the same. Just grown up. Come, you’ll see for yourself.”

Alicent comes down a minute later.

And Rhaenyra freezes.

The girl… isn’t quite a girl anymore.

A slender, almost fragile figure. Hair tied in a bun, sharp cheekbones, a slightly tense gaze. She’s wearing a loose T-shirt and jeans. Her nail polish is chipped.

And then, in the same moment—a smile.  
That same smile.  
Bright, piercing.

“Rhaenyra?”

She nods. And suddenly feels her throat tighten.

“Hey, little bundle.”

“God…” Alicent steps off the last stair and approaches. Slowly. Tilts her head, studying her.  
“You have a tattoo.”

“A lot of things now,” Rhaenyra laughs. “Short hair, plenty of experience, and…”

She doesn’t finish—Alicent hugs her.  
Quietly. Carefully. Her shoulders tremble with restrained emotion.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back,” she whispers.

“I’m here for good,” Rhaenyra replies, hugging her back. “This time, for real.”

They drink tea on the veranda. 

Rhaenyra looks at her intently.

“You’re too skinny.”

“I’m fine,” Alicent brushes it off.

“I know better. Do you even eat?”

“I’m smart, not dumb,” she smirks. “It’s just… school’s stressful. Biology’s awful, and I want to apply to medical school.”

“Really? Will I get a discount, Dr. Hightower?”

The next day, they go for a walk.  
Alicent leads her to a park, then a local gallery, then a bridge overlooking a lake.

“I come here when everything sucks,” she says, sitting on the railing. “Sometimes I just stand here. Think.”

“About what?”

“Different things. Who I want to be. Or… who I want to be with.” She looks away, casually. “Or I remember how you taught me to read. You said words were spells.”

Rhaenyra smiles.

“They are.”

Silence. Long. Peaceful.

Then Alicent says:

“I always waited for you. You know?”

“I know. I still have your drawings. I kept them even in Sweden.”

“And I… I kept thinking: if you don’t come back, I’ll come find you. Even if you don’t want me to.”

“I’d always want you to find me.”

And again—that same silence. Deep, full. No longer childish.

When they return, it’s raining.  
Rhaenyra runs downstairs for a blanket. Alicent heads to the kitchen for cocoa.  
They sit by the window. Under the blanket. Cocoa in cat-patterned mugs.

Alicent rests her head on Rhaenyra’s shoulder.  
Quietly. Calmly.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I think… I love you. Not like before. But… differently.”

Rhaenyra freezes.

Inside—a hurricane. But her face is calm. Her voice steady.

“Like an adult?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just… when I think about you, my chest aches. And when you smile, my stomach flutters. And I want… to be with you. All the time. Even if you don’t feel anything. I still wanted to say it.”

She looks straight ahead. Fearless.  
Fourteen—and already so honest.

Rhaenyra places a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you for saying that. That’s really brave.”

“Are you mad?”

“No. I’m proud of you. But, sunshine, I’m twenty-eight. I’m an adult. And you’re still growing. What you feel—it’s real, I don’t doubt that. But let’s just… not rush. Okay?”

Alicent nods. Her face buried in Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

***

“I have a boyfriend,” fifteen-year-old Alicent says at dinner, as casually as if she’s talking about switching the color of her pen for class.

Rhaenyra nearly chokes on her potato.

“What?”

“Yeah, a boyfriend,” Alicent shrugs. “We’re… kind of together. Like, dating.”

They’re sitting in the kitchen. It’s evening, warm outside, the lights long turned off—only the soft glow of a lamp under a shade illuminates the house. Rhaenyra holds a fork, but inside, it’s like a gust of wind: sudden, sharp, sweeping everything away.

“Seriously?” She takes a sip of water because her voice cracks slightly.

“Yeah. His name’s Criston Cole. He’s in the parallel class. Really smart. Kind of a nerd, but cute.”

Rhaenyra nods. Very slowly. She feels as if someone’s placed a hand on her chest and pressed down.

“For… how long?”

“A week. We just hang out. And, maybe, we’ll kiss soon. I don’t know. He’s waiting for me to want it.”

Rhaenyra stays silent.

Then, struggling to keep her face calm, she asks:

“Do you like him?”

Alicent pauses to think.

“He’s… nice. Warm. I feel calm with him. And I think I need to try it.”

“Try it?” Rhaenyra repeats, tilting her head slightly. It comes out sharper than she intended.

“Yeah,” another shrug. “To… figure out what it’s like. To be with someone. To kiss. It’s experience, right? I can’t just… you know…”

She trails off. Looks straight at Rhaenyra. For a long time. Too knowingly.

And for the first time, Rhaenyra feels her face isn’t a mask. That it’s giving everything away.

“Are you jealous?” Alicent asks.

Her voice is calm, without teasing. Just knowing. Observing. She always notices everything.

“No,” Rhaenyra says. Then immediately adds: “Yes. Damn it. Sorry.”

She leans back in her chair, covering her face with her hands.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t. This… it’s not right.”

“But you know I’m growing up. And that I like you. For real. For a long time now.”

“It doesn’t change anything, Alicent.”

“It does,” she says calmly. “Because I want to kiss you. But I can’t yet. I’m not grown enough. You’re right. You have your own life. You can’t wait. And you shouldn’t. So… I’m kissing Criston. So I don’t mess up when the time comes.”

Rhaenyra freezes.

“What?”

Alicent smiles. Softly. Sincerely.

“He’s nice. And I like being with him. But it’s not that. It’s just… practice. I want to know how it works. So when it’s real, I don’t ruin it.”

“You’re insane,” Rhaenyra whispers. “You’re… you’re fifteen.”

“Yeah,” Alicent shrugs. “And I can make decisions. I’m not provoking you. I’m not asking for a reaction. Just… I like you. Always have. And I know you’re scared. So I’m growing. Learning everything. To be ready when you stop being scared.”

Rhaenyra is silent. For a long time. Staring at the table. Then at the mug of cold tea. Then at Alicent.

“This is so wrong.”

“I know. But it’s still true.”

She doesn’t sleep all night.

First, she just lies there, then goes to smoke on the balcony. Then drinks water. Then stares at the ceiling.

Inside—jealousy. Deafening, raging. She imagines some teenage boy taking Alicent’s hand. Touching her hair. Kissing her. And Rhaenyra wants to punch something. The universe. Herself. The mirror. That boy.

And at the same time—shame. Just as raging, bitter. She’s twenty-nine. She’s not allowed.

But Alicent’s voice echoes in her head: “I want to know how it works. So when it’s real…”

When it’s real.

Damn it.

She meets Criston by chance two weeks later. He comes to pick up Alicent after school, and Rhaenyra opens the door.

He’s a head shorter than her. His jacket’s too big, his ears red from nerves. He has the polite look of boys taught to say “hello” and not stare at cleavage.

“Hello… I’m, uh, here for Alicent.”

“I’ll call her,” Rhaenyra says, restraining herself from squinting like a predator.

When she closes the door behind them, it almost hurts.

“He’s cute,” she tells Alicent that evening. “Really.”

“Yeah. A bit boring. But… nice. Not pushy.”

“Have you…?”

“Kissed him. Once.”

Inside Rhaenyra—an explosion. Like lightning. In her throat.

“And?”

“Dry,” Alicent says, sipping her tea. “But careful. I’m learning.”

“You keep saying you’re learning. Like you’re studying for an exam.”

“Aren’t I?”

Rhaenyra falls silent.

Then whispers:

“What if I can never do it?”

“Then I’ll still know I could have. And that I waited.” She looks at her with resolve. “I’m not scared to wait.”

“And you’re sure you want me?” Rhaenyra asks. “I’m an adult. I have my own fears. Maybe I’ll never be the person you dream I am.”

“And are you sure you want me to go to someone else?”

She doesn’t answer.

Because the answer is too obvious.

In the fall, Alicent breaks up with Criston.

“I told him it’s not my thing. He’s nice, but I don’t feel anything. We’re just friends now.”

“Sorry.”

“No need. It was just an experiment.”

“And…?”

“And now I know I don’t want a kiss like that.”

Rhaenyra smiles wryly:

“You’re too smart for your age. It’s scary.”

“It’s a good thing. You don’t think I’m just dreaming. I understand.”

“You make me fight myself all the time.”

“I’m just giving you time.”

***

Alicent is seventeen, and Rhaenyra is thirty-two.

Rhaenyra is a grown woman with a job, friends, exes, and lovers who come briefly and leave behind the scent of perfume and a faint annoyance. She’s not seventeen, not even twenty-two. She’s long past being the reckless girl who snuck flasks into parties and kissed whoever because she could. Now she has a lease, taxes, a beloved old dog, and a girl with eyes Rhaenyra has been drowning in for years.

Alicent lives nearby. Just like before: she stops by in the mornings for sugar, leaves her books on Rhaenyra’s couch, picks up her laundry, drinks tea by the window, fills the air with herself.

But now she’s grown up. Rhaenyra notices it too sharply.

When Alicent laughs, throwing her head back, her collarbone trembles slightly. When she sits with her legs crossed, her skirt rides up above her knee, and Rhaenyra, damn it, looks. She hates herself for it—and still looks.

Alicent is beautiful. No longer a girl, but not yet a woman—in transition, in between, waiting for something big. Her body… a body that needs to be forgotten. Breasts, waist, hips—everything as it should be. And more than it should be.

And she’s soft. She speaks so gently, listens so attentively. She doesn’t seduce, doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t even seem to notice what she’s becoming in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

But Rhaenyra notices everything.

Especially that Alicent doesn’t do anything deliberate. She doesn’t use her looks. Doesn’t provoke. She could—and Rhaenyra is sure it would work. But no. She just smiles, leans over, sets down a mug, wipes her lips with a napkin—and it’s all as if there’s nothing sexual about it. Though to Rhaenyra, everything Alicent does feels like a provocation.

Rhaenyra closes her eyes when Alicent is near. Often literally. Sometimes she shields her face with her hand, as if from the sun. Sometimes she steps into the bathroom, breathes into her palms, looks in the mirror, and repeats to herself:

“You’re an adult. She’s not. You’re an adult. She’s not.”

Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t.

One day, the eve of Alicent’s eighteenth birthday, they’re at Rhaenyra’s place. It’s Friday, rain pours outside, and the apartment smells of jasmine and something warm—maybe pastries, maybe skin.

Alicent reads aloud. Rhaenyra listens, pretending she’s just tired. But really, she loves that voice. She could listen to it for hours. And, it seems, she has—for three years straight.

“You never change,” Alicent says suddenly. “Still the same… beautiful. And intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” Rhaenyra chuckles. “In what way?”

Alicent doesn’t look at her. She flips through the book.

“In the way that being around you always makes me want to be better. To prove something. To make you see me differently.”

Rhaenyra freezes. Then shifts her gaze to the window.

“I saw you when you were a baby. Changed your diapers, by the way.”

“Don’t remind me,” Alicent snorts. “It’s embarrassing enough as it is. Though you never acted like… you know. A lot of people in your position would’ve…”

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra interrupts. “Stop.”

She falls silent. Looks at her. Long, direct, slightly from under her brows.

“I’m turning eighteen in two weeks.”

“I know.”

“And you still act like I’m ten.”

“No. I act like I’m a grown woman, and you… you’re still too good.”

Alicent smiles.

“What if I want to be bad?”

“Then you definitely shouldn’t come to me,” Rhaenyra says hoarsely, standing up as if movement could hide her thoughts.

In those two weeks, Rhaenyra loses her mind.

She avoids her. Doesn’t reply to messages right away. Leaves for work earlier than usual. Declines when Alicent invites her for tea. She’s built an internal framework—here’s where you can look, here’s where you can talk, here’s where you absolutely can’t touch. And she sticks to those boundaries.

Almost always.

But the night before Alicent’s eighteenth birthday, she shows up at Rhaenyra’s place. Almost at midnight.

“This is illegal,” Rhaenyra says, standing in the doorway in her pajamas. “Breaking into a grown woman’s house at night.”

“It’s my birthday,” Alicent says simply.

“Not yet. Ten minutes till midnight.”

“Want to wait?”

And so they sit in the kitchen, the kettle humming, moonlight filtering through the curtain, time slowing down.

“I thought about you,” Alicent says suddenly. “Always. From the very beginning. Even when I didn’t understand what I was feeling. I just wanted to be near you. Wanted you to be proud of me. Wanted you to… just look at me.”

“I’m looking,” Rhaenyra whispers. “All the time. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Alicent steps closer. Her face—right there.

“It’s midnight.”

“Alicent…”

“I’m an adult.”

“I can’t… I shouldn’t…”

“Then don’t kiss me,” she says softly. “Just look.”

Rhaenyra looks. Long. Slow. Her gaze traces her eyes. Her cheek. Her lips.

And she gives in.

The kiss is a storm.

Not gentle, not tender—no. Immediate, hungry, raw, honest. As if all eighteen years were waiting for this moment. As if someone flipped a switch.

Alicent kisses confidently. Like she’s practiced. Like it’s not her first time. Though, technically, it isn’t. Damn Criston Cole.

Rhaenyra doesn’t remember how she ended up pinned against the wall. How she moaned. How she grabbed Alicent’s waist, her neck, everything at once. It’s all too fast. Or too right.

Then—a pause.

“If you don’t want…” Alicent starts.

“I want,” Rhaenyra interrupts. “I want, and I hate myself for it. But I still want.”

Alicent presses closer.

“I know. I waited.”

And that’s the end. And the beginning.

Morning comes sooner than desired. The room smells of skin and jasmine, the blanket’s slipped to the floor, and a strand of auburn hair lies on the pillow. Alicent sleeps, curled up, pressing against her even in sleep.

Rhaenyra lies still, thinking she’s never felt such peace.

She waited for this. Long. Scared. Ashamed. And—honest.

Alicent is an adult. That’s a fact.

Now she can love her. Without fear.

“You know,” Alicent says later, “I always thought you’d leave.”

“Why?”

“Because people like you don’t stay. They have others—grown, beautiful, independent.”

“And you?”

“And I’m yours.”

And Rhaenyra, for the first time in years, believes.

***

Alicent sleeps, curled up under the sheet, her hand stretched toward Rhaenyra, as if even in sleep she knows where she is. She’s beautiful even now—especially now, without makeup, without pretense, disheveled, with a damp strand of hair at her temple. On her pale chest—several fresh marks left from the night, in the heat of the moment, when Rhaenyra finally allowed herself to take what she wanted. She looks at those marks, and her heart skips a beat.

Eighteen. Alicent is an adult now. A woman.

And yet… Rhaenyra remembers her in diapers.

She remembers that toothless smile, pink little hands, the smell of milky porridge and rubber toys. Remembers her babbling “Rey-ra,” climbing up with wet kisses on her nose, falling asleep on her chest. Back then, Rhaenyra was maybe fifteen, maybe a bit older. She called Alicent her “little cling-on”—but secretly loved being her favorite. Back then, it was innocent. Pure. Without layers.

And now…

Now the taste of this girl-woman lingers in her mouth. Her skin still smells—of body, sweat, something sweet and intoxicating. Rhaenyra knows every curve of her. Her breasts fit perfectly in her hand. Her hips—smooth, firm. Her neck—soft, slender, yielding.

And it would be terrifying if it weren’t so inevitable.

Rhaenyra sits on the edge of the bed, naked, hugging her knees. The sun slowly fills the room, gliding across the floor, reaching the blanket. Alicent winces in her sleep and parts her lips slightly.

Rhaenyra thinks: I’m a monster.

Because she’s known her all her life. Because she watched her grow. Because she held her, changed her, helped her learn the multiplication table. Because until recently, this was just Alicent—beloved, dear, but impossible.

But now—possible.

Now her lips have kissed Rhaenyra’s chest, her fingers have been inside her. Now Alicent whispered in her ear, “Don’t let go,” and something inside Rhaenyra broke from happiness. Now she can’t step back.

“You’re going to run, aren’t you?” Alicent asks over breakfast.

She’s wearing Rhaenyra’s T-shirt—too big, slipping off one shoulder, revealing a mark from a kiss. Her hair is mussed, a pillow crease on her cheek. She eats toast like nothing happened, smiling—as if the night didn’t turn their lives upside down.

“I’m not running,” Rhaenyra says dryly. “I’m thinking.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s always bad when I think about you.”

“Why?”

Rhaenyra lowers her eyes to her coffee mug.

“Because I remember you little. Because I’m an adult. Because I don’t know what you want from me—now that you got… well, what you wanted.”

Alicent pushes her cup aside and leans forward.

“You think I just wanted to sleep with you?”

“I don’t know. You’re young. And beautiful. And you want to try a lot of things. That’s normal.”

“You’re not just the first. You’re the one.”

Rhaenyra lifts her eyes to her. Slowly.

“I knew I wanted to be with you before I even understood what that meant,” Alicent continues. “I’m not trying you out. I’m choosing you.”

Rhaenyra’s breath catches.

“And if I say this is wrong? That you’re too young to…”

“I’m an adult. And you’re a coward.”

Alicent’s smile is soft. But her eyes are steel.

“Don’t you think I see it? You look at me like I’m a sin. Like I’m temptation. But I’m not a mistake. I’m your future, if you’d just stop being afraid.”

Rhaenyra is silent. Her heart pounds in her temples. Her voice trembles:

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Love me,” Alicent says simply. “Start with that.”

They don’t advertise it. Not yet.

Alicent finishes school. She has exams, preparations, college applications. Rhaenyra works, goes on business trips, meets friends. But now everything’s different. There are secret texts, sneaky photos in lingerie, kisses by the entrance when no one’s watching. And, of course, nights.

Nights when Alicent stays. When she sheds her clothes with the ease others take off a coat. When she kisses Rhaenyra so fiercely that she loses her bearings. When she whispers:

“You’re allowed.”

And Rhaenyra thinks: No, I’m not. But I take it anyway.

One day, Alicent comes over after her graduation.

Her dress—black, form-fitting, with bare shoulders. Her hair styled, lips brightly painted. She knocks on the door—at two in the morning. When Rhaenyra opens it, she freezes in the doorway.

“God,” she breathes.

“You never told me how I look,” Alicent smiles, stepping inside. “I wanted to hear it in person.”

Rhaenyra presses her against the wall right in the hallway. Lips on lips. Hands under the dress. A breath—and everything vanishes.

Then, panting, she whispers:

“You’re beautiful. Dangerous. Mine.”

Alicent smiles into the kiss:

“Always have been.”

She gets into college successfully. Stays in the city. Says she chose the local university for its good program.

Rhaenyra laughs.

“Really?”

“No,” Alicent says honestly. “I just don’t want to be far from you.”

And that’s a blow. Straight to the heart. Because Rhaenyra feels the same. But doesn’t know how to say it. How to let herself want.

“I don’t deserve someone like you,” she says one day.

Alicent narrows her eyes:

“Stop talking nonsense.”

Time passes. Fall turns to winter. In the mornings, Rhaenyra brews tea, and Alicent wanders the apartment in her robe. Sometimes they argue—over little things. Who didn’t wash a cup, who forgot to buy bread. Sometimes Rhaenyra loses herself—in guilt, in fear, in old rules.

“We’re too different,” she says one day.

Alicent shakes her head.

“We’re just—you and me.”

And that, as it turns out, is enough.

***

“They know,” Rhaenyra says.

Alicent stares silently out the window. Rain drizzles outside, droplets sliding down the glass as if someone is still crying. Or about to.

Rhaenyra sits on the windowsill, clutching a mug of cold coffee. There’s no surprise or panic in her voice. Just exhaustion. The kind that follows a sleepless night, a heavy conversation, or a confession that always leads to something irreversible.

“Who?” Alicent asks finally, her gaze still fixed on the street.

“My mom and dad. Your dad.” A bitter smirk. “They’re not guessing anymore. They know.”

Alicent turns. Calmly. Almost without emotion. Just a slight tilt of her head and something attentive in her eyes.

“What did they say?”

Rhaenyra looks at her for a long time. As if she can’t believe Alicent can be so composed—now, when the world is starting to crumble.

“Everything we could’ve expected. And worse. Your dad didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there with a face like I’d personally spat in his soul. Then he got up and said, ‘If you touched her before she was of age, I’ll have you locked up.’”

A pause.

“My mom wasn’t exactly defending me, but she tried to speak softly. Like, ‘You two were just very close… but it was just attachment, right, Rhaenyra?’ And then: ‘You’re older, you should’ve… held back. How could you let this happen?’”

Alicent frowns but says nothing. She moves closer, placing a hand on Rhaenyra’s knee.

“And you? What did you say?”

“That it’s all true. That you’re dear to me. That I love you.” Rhaenyra sighs. “That nothing happened before you turned eighteen.”

Then, quietly, she adds:

“But that barely matters, does it? They still think it’s dirty. I’m an adult. And you—you’re you. Younger. Your face is still childish in family photos. I could’ve been more patient. Smarter. I knew I had no right.”

“But you didn’t do anything until I grew up,” Alicent says calmly.

“Does that absolve me?”

“It matters.”

Rhaenyra lets out a shaky, hoarse chuckle.

“Legally?”

“Humanly,” Alicent replies evenly. “You didn’t seduce me. You didn’t force me. You didn’t confuse me. You were scared, you held back, you acted like a saint.”

Rhaenyra lifts her eyes to her.

“I’m no saint.”

“But you were honest.” Alicent takes her hand. “You didn’t push me. I came to you. I wanted you. I waited for my birthday like it was liberation, because only then could I finally touch you—not as a ‘kid,’ but as a woman.”

She says it softly, but with a firmness that carries their entire history.

“Your parents, my parents—they’re wrong. They’re angry because they’re scared. Because you’re older. Because ‘it shouldn’t be like this.’ But I’m not a child.”

Rhaenyra looks at their intertwined fingers. Alicent’s fingers are no longer girlish—slender but strong. Soft but certain. Not the hands of a schoolgirl, but of an adult.

“But I remember you little,” she whispers. “And every time you touch me, a part of me still feels like a monster.”

“Because you’re too good. Because you have a conscience.”

“Because I love you,” Rhaenyra says dully.

The conversation continues a couple of days later—with Alicent’s father. He asks to meet. No accusations. No scenes. Just: “Come.”

They meet in the park where Rhaenyra once pushed Alicent on the swings. Back then, everything was simpler. Now, the air is taut, like before a storm. Otto stands with his hands in his pockets, looking past her.

“I… couldn’t believe it for a long time,” he says finally. “I knew you were close. I always thought you were a good person. You’d protect her. Help her. But when they told me…”

He pauses.

“The first thing I thought was—you broke her.”

Rhaenyra freezes.

“I didn’t—”

“I know.” He nods. “I talked to her. And she’s… certain. Says she loves you. That it’s mutual. That you didn’t do anything until she was eighteen.”

He says it quietly, with bitterness. As if he still hopes it’s a mistake. That his little girl just got lost. That it’ll pass.

“But you’re still not happy,” Rhaenyra says.

He looks at her.

“I remember you both. You took her to children’s theater. Bought her ice cream. She used to say, ‘I want to be like Rhaenyra.’ You were her role model. Almost an adult. And now you’re her lover.”

He doesn’t say it with judgment. Only pain.

“If I saw this in a movie,” he admits, “I’d say, ‘This is unhealthy.’ Because you can’t help but think: she’s older. She knew her as a child. It creates an imbalance. A story that gives you chills.”

He steps closer.

“But my daughter isn’t stupid. Not broken. And if she says this is her choice… then I have to be ready to accept that her desires are hers. Not yours. Not forced.”

He sighs.

“I can’t say I’m happy for you yet. But… I won’t stand in your way.”

And that’s more than Rhaenyra dared hope for.

With her mother, it’s harder.

“It’s wrong,” she says. “You’ve known her since she was born, Rhaenyra! Since she was born! Why didn’t you fall for someone else?”

Rhaenyra stays silent. Because she can’t explain. It wasn’t a choice. There was no moment when she “decided.” It happened drop by drop. First—tenderness. Then—need. Then—love.

And at some point—inevitability.

“Because she’s mine,” she says. “I didn’t seek her out. I didn’t pursue her. I tried to avoid it. But love doesn’t ask. And if I deserve punishment—I’ll take it. But I can’t feel any other way.”

Her mother is silent for a long time. Then, heavily, she says:

“I hope you don’t break her heart.”

“She’s stronger than she seems,” Rhaenyra says. “But I’ll try not to hurt her. Ever again.”

Alicent hugs her that night, quietly, half-asleep:

“They won’t stay mad forever. They’ll get used to it. They’ll accept it.”

“You think?”

“I’m sure.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t choose just anyone. I chose you.”

Rhaenyra holds her tighter.

“And I choose you every day.”

And in the darkness, it suddenly feels lighter.

Over time, reactions soften. They no longer feel Otto’s piercing gaze. Rhaenyra’s mother sends a link to an article about “controversial” couples and writes: “Well, you’re not the only ones. Maybe I don’t get it. But I love you.”

It’s reconciliation. Not complete. But real.

And at some point—on a bus, in the back seat, when Alicent rests her head on Rhaenyra’s shoulder—she suddenly feels not guilt, but pride.

That she waited. That she held back. That now—she’s holding the hand of the woman she loves. Not a girl. Not a fantasy. But the real, adult Alicent—confident, free, brave.

And maybe it’s not just love.

Maybe it’s—after all—fate.

***

Epilogue. Twenty Years Later.

The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and coffee. A soft jazz instrumental played on the radio, gentle, almost imperceptible, like the background hum of a life long settled.

Alicent stood by the window in a light housecoat, holding a mug. Her hair was slightly shorter than in her youth, resting softly on her shoulders. Her gray-green eyes gazed out at the backyard, where roses bloomed, planted by Rhaenyra some ten years ago. A few bushes didn’t take, but a couple—those in the corner—grew stubbornly, with character. Just like her, Rhaenyra had laughed back then.

“Up already?” Rhaenyra came up behind her, wrapping her arms around Alicent’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder. Her voice had grown deeper over the years, a little raspy, but still laced with that familiar tenderness.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Alicent whispered. “Too quiet.”

“The house?”

“Life.”

They fell silent. Outside, a bird fluttered from the fence. The neighbor’s sprinkler hummed to life.

“It happens,” Rhaenyra replied, kissing her wife’s cheek. “Silence comes to show how much we hold inside.”

Alicent gave a faint smile. She still didn’t know how to respond to such words right away—not because she didn’t understand, but because they were like a sip: cool at first, then warming from within.

They had a home. Small, but cozy. A living room, dining room, two bedrooms, a study, a backyard. A library on the second floor. Everything had been built slowly, piece by piece: furniture, books, framed photos. On the kitchen wall hung a list with handwritten notes about which herbs to plant in spring. It was twenty years old but still relevant.

They both worked. Rhaenyra at her own company now, though with delegated responsibilities. Fewer hours, more depth. She was respected, loved. Her back ached sometimes, especially in autumn, but Alicent knew where the ointment was and how to rub her lower back just right to ease the pain.

Alicent ran a private medical practice. She was slowly but steadily recognized as one of the best in her field. She was invited to give lectures, interviews, but she didn’t care for the spotlight. She preferred coming home on time for dinner, sipping wine on the veranda.

Their home was filled with photos. New ones and old.

Some evenings, they sat on the couch, pulling out albums. The old covers were worn, but inside—stories. First, their wedding—simple, intimate, but warm. Then that party after Rhaenyra’s first big deal, where Alicent stood beside her, beaming with pride. Then trips—to Edinburgh, Rome, Kyoto. Then domestic moments—Alicent in pajamas with the cat, Rhaenyra in the kitchen in an apron, covered in flour.

And, of course, the photos where it all began.

“Do you remember carrying me when I was three?” Alicent would sometimes whisper, tracing her fingers over a yellowed photo.

“I could still do it,” Rhaenyra would smirk, “if my knees hold up.”

They’d laugh.

Sometimes they had visitors. Old friends—not as often as they’d like, but still. Their relationships with their parents… had they mended? Or rather, settled. The pain had faded, leaving a warm distance where no one pretended everything was “normal,” but no one tore the past apart either.

Alicent rarely recalled those evenings when, as a child, she fell asleep on Rhaenyra’s chest, hiding from the world. Now she fell asleep beside her—in a warm bed, under a blanket, in a room that smelled of lavender and wind.

But sometimes—especially on rainy days—memories brought images: a child’s hand in a teenager’s, a voice calling her name, still hesitant but full of love.

“You were everything to me,” Alicent said once, staring out the window. “Mother, sister, home.”

“And then?” Rhaenyra asked, sitting on the floor, sorting through books.

“And then—wife.”

“And now?”

Alicent slid down to her, sat beside her, and pressed her forehead to her shoulder.

“My whole life.”

A week later, they went to the lake. The place where they used to vacation in their youth. Everything had changed—new cabins, new cafés. But the lake was the same. Its surface mirrored the sky. Stones lined the shore. A boat you could rent.

Rhaenyra took her hand as they walked along the wooden boardwalk. Alicent turned to her, and despite the years, her eyes held that same warm, shy smile as when she was eighteen, when she first said: I love you.

“We’ve gotten old,” she said with a smirk, sitting on a bench.

“We’ve gotten real,” Rhaenyra corrected.

In autumn, their home smelled of cinnamon and apples. Alicent baked a pie; Rhaenyra wrote an article. In the evenings, they lit candles, sat under a blanket, and listened to old records.

And on those evenings, when the wind howled outside and the fire crackled in the hearth, the silence wasn’t empty—it was full.

They didn’t talk much.

They didn’t need to.

One day, flipping through an album, Alicent said:

“Have you noticed I’m asleep on you in almost every photo?”

Rhaenyra smirked:

“You always picked the best pillows.”

Alicent rested her head on Rhaenyra’s chest. Listened to her heartbeat. The same one she’d heard decades ago, when she was tiny.

“I still love that sound,” she said.

“And I still love you.”

When they turned thirty-eight and fifty-three, they realized time doesn’t take love away. It deepens it. Roots it. Makes it quiet but unbreakable. And when Rhaenyra lost her glasses or Alicent forgot to turn off the stove, they just laughed. Because they were together. Because everything else was trivial.

Their home now held silence. Not lonely, not frightening. The kind where everything had already been said.

And there was no need to prove anything anymore.

Just to be.

Together.

“Do you think we’d recognize each other if we met for the first time now?” Alicent asked once.

Rhaenyra looked at her, running a hand through her hair.

“Of course. I’d find you in any life.”

On the wall hung a photo, old, from their very first album. Baby Alicent—in teenage Rhaenyra’s arms. And in that gaze—everything they’d carried through decades.

And then they just lived.

Day by day.

In their story.

Which they knew by heart.

But still retold—with love, with new shades, with that tone only understood by those who’ve already lived a whole life—together.

***

Bonus. Paris

“And now, right here, please.” Rhaenyra, suppressing a smile, handed her phone to an elderly man in a hat. He nodded politely, a bit flustered but ready to help, taking the smartphone.

“Hold it like this. See—there, we’ll stand here. Right in front of this tree.”

“Ah, oui, je vois, madame,” the man said with a wink, peering over his glasses. “Vous êtes très belles.”

“Merci,” Alicent replied softly, almost a whisper, already settling into Rhaenyra’s arms. She either dove or melted into her wife’s embrace—nose tucked into her neck, arms around her shoulders, as if afraid of falling. Though after so many years, she knew well: you don’t fall from this woman. Even if the step is into an abyss.

Rhaenyra stiffened slightly for show, standing tall and pulling a theatrically stern face, as planned, staring over Alicent’s head into the distance, like an indignant revolutionary hero. But her eyes sparkled with laughter. Soft, warm, the kind only Alicent could ever draw out.

“Voilà. One, two… three!”
Click.

“It worked,” the man said with a touch of pride, handing the phone back. “Très romantique. You’re, as they say, the love of a lifetime, non?”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra replied.
“Without a doubt,” Alicent added.

And in that moment, they both let out a quiet chuckle, in unison. As they had for decades. As if the resonance of their voices was part of their marriage vow.

When the passerby left, they stood on the cobblestone path under the trees. The sky was a faded blue, warm, like a well-worn handkerchief. Paris hummed somewhere behind them, but for now, everything else vanished except the phone screen.

Alicent tapped the image—zoomed in. There she was, curled in Rhaenyra’s arms, almost like a kitten, hiding in her neck, while Rhaenyra held her, one hip supporting her weight, gazing sternly forward with that impossibly familiar expression.

Rhaenyra muttered something, glanced at the photo, then pressed her lips to her wife’s temple.

“Wait. Hold on.”
She opened the gallery, scrolled up. Years, cities, faces. Children’s drawings. Coffee cup snapshots. Passports. Wet cats. Graduations. Anniversaries. Sunlight on carpets. And finally, the first one.

A photo taken thirty-eight years ago, on the strangest day of Rhaenyra’s life.

She was a teenager then, too angry to cry, too stubborn to back down. On her lap—a baby. That baby’s face slightly scrunched, with a wrinkle between her brows. And Rhaenyra herself—with that same feigned sternness in her eyes, as if she already knew how many years would pass before that look softened into true tenderness.

“You hold me the same way,” Alicent said.
“And you still hide your face in my neck,” Rhaenyra replied.

They fell silent.
Evening crept toward the Seine’s banks. At the foot of the bridge, someone played an accordion—slowly, unhurried, as if Paris could wait.

“I was… so tiny,” Alicent whispered.
“I remember. You always leaned into my neck. Even then.”
“Because you smelled like home.”

Rhaenyra snorted.
“You still say that. Meanwhile, I’ve been on my feet all day. This is the smell of exhaustion.”
“No. It’s still home. My favorite home.”

She nestled closer, tighter, hugging her.
Rhaenyra’s heart gave a soft pang. At how familiar it was. How deeply it had sunk into her skin.

“When I held you back then…” Rhaenyra said after a moment, “you felt like paper. Fragile. Like you could vanish if I didn’t hold you tight.”
“I was paper. I would’ve vanished without you.”

Rhaenyra nodded. She didn’t argue.
She’d grown used to these conversations, filled with what could never be forgotten.
They had too much shared history to gloss over the past.

“Twenty years.” Alicent lifted her head, meeting her eyes. “And eighteen before that. Almost forty years together, Rhaenyra.”
“Yeah. I’ve lived more of my life with you than without you.”
“Me too. Even if you raised me. Still. You’re my life.”

The words came like a breath. Direct. Easy.
But they still tightened something between Rhaenyra’s ribs. That same emotion she felt when she caught Alicent’s first glance on a street—in a new city, in a new dress, after a fight, after a night, after exhaustion, after joy.

“Take another picture,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Right now. Not of us, but the screens. Both photos.”
“So they’re side by side?”
“So it’s clear almost forty years passed. And nothing’s changed.”

Alicent did it.
A screenshot—two images, one above the other. The top: teenage Rhaenyra and baby Alicent, a bundle in a blanket. The bottom: adult Rhaenyra, strong, gray at the temples, and Alicent, face tucked in her neck, with faint lines around her eyes but the same tender mouth.

“Will you show it to anyone?” Alicent asked.
“Only you. Every year. As long as we’re both alive.”

And again, they stood in silence.
Evening settled over the city, maples rustled, the Seine’s waters flowed slowly, watching it all like an eternal fairytale.
And only two women on the bridge knew the fairytale was real. Because they’d written it themselves.

Later, in their hotel, under the warm glow of a desk lamp, Alicent flipped through old photos while Rhaenyra peeled an orange.

“Want to see more?”
“No. I remember them all.”
“Even this one?” She showed a photo from their first year of marriage, both drunk, in the bathroom, with champagne flutes and lipstick on Rhaenyra’s nose.

“Especially that one,” Rhaenyra smirked. “Because after it, you didn’t leave the bedroom for three days.”
“Because you didn’t let me for three days.”

They both laughed.
The laughter—the same as forty years ago. Only deeper, quieter, calmer. Like wine aged on love.

“We won’t have kids,” Alicent said suddenly. “And still… this is a family album.”
“Because we’re family. Just us.”
“Do you think someone will open it someday? The photos, notes, videos.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. What matters is we were. We are.”
“And these two photos say it all.”

They opened the image again—two photos side by side.
A girl holds a baby. A woman holds her wife.
Strength and tenderness.
The same pose.
The same love.

“And yet…” Alicent said, yawning, snuggling closer. “You always hold me.”
“Because you’re mine. From the first glance.”

Outside, it was quiet. Paris slept.
And two women, no longer young but just as real as the day it all began, went to bed.
Embraced.
Like in that photo.
Again.
And forever.