Chapter Text
"I had presumed women in your condition kept to their chambers," he remarked. It was a cold observation, carrying the sharp edge of a reprimand.
"Only the firstborn demands such coddling, my prince. This is my second," Alicent managed to retort. She ascended the stairs with hurried steps, masking her labored breath, loath to let the prince witness her struggle for air.
He likely noticed her exhaustion by now but chose silence—perhaps a small mercy to let her retain some shred of dignity before their young son.
Maekar reached out without a word, his hand firm upon her arm as he guided her toward the final step. "Continue this defiance if you wish, provided you care nothing for the life of the child you carry."
"Hush—not before the boy," she hissed, glancing back at Daeron as he clutched the fabric of her gown. She prayed he was too young to grasp the grim weight of his father’s warning.
"I would never bring harm to my own blood, Maekar. You would do well to guard your tongue in my presence, lest you find yourself a widower—unable to father even one child without my guiding hand."
He offered a dry, mocking scoff at the sheer audacity of her words. "I am a Prince of the Realm, wife. Do you truly believe the High Septon would grant you a release from our vows without my consent?"
Alicent fought to keep her gaze steady; she would not grant him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Yet, like so many fragments of her life, her own composure was slipping beyond her reach.
"There was a time we held love for one another, Maekar. But the years have been unkind; they have unmasked truths in us both that are bitter to swallow. May the Mother watch over this union long enough for us to learn a grace we clearly lack."
The Hightower girl was far from whole, or so the court whispered. She kept company with ghosts in Oldtown and often drifted from the reality of her station; she would forget the gold ring upon her finger, or the title of Princess she wore like a heavy shroud. At times, she even struck the name of her own son from her memory, calling him Aegon—invoking the ghosts of four dead kings.
Even the woman who brought her into the world had been consumed by the same shadows. Her mother had died screaming that the babe taken from her womb was a changeling—a thief who had devoured her true child’s place. The Maesters, in their cold wisdom, surmised she had perhaps consumed her own twin in the womb, driven by a primal hunger; they called it a natural occurrence, though it felt like a curse.
Yet Lady Hightower’s disdain never wavered; she loathed the girl with a chilling intensity. It was this hatred that prompted Lord Hightower to send his five-year-old daughter to the Red Keep, intended merely as a companion to the youngest princess. Instead, Alicent found herself bound in marriage to the youngest prince at the age of seven-and-ten.
She could never fathom why the King had chosen her, for the Hightowers’ loyalty was already a proven thing, bought and paid for in blood and gold.
The years that followed were a blurred tapestry of grief. She held no memory of her pregnancies, the agony of labor, or the first cries of her supposed firstborn. The only anchor in her mind was a melody—a lullaby, though not in her mother’s voice. It was a dreamy, ethereal strain. She tried to remember her mother’s true voice, but the harder she reached, the further it receded.
‘Helaena... if it is a girl, let her be Helaena.’
She clung to those few words, though they offered no solace and made little sense in the waking world.
"My boy loved wine," she would sob against Maekar’s chest, her mind fractured. "That creature is a parasite; my boy would never do such a thing."
Maekar’s patience wore thin, frayed by her hollow stares and nonsensical grief. He would have gladly consigned her to the care of the Silent Sisters, yet he remained by her side—a steadfast presence that left her wondering why.
It was not love that stayed his hand, despite what the romantics claimed. Even in her madness, Alicent could recognize the shape of good intentions, and her husband’s were not among them.
Daeron was a precious boy, at least until he decided that drowning himself in wine was the only way to become the son his mother truly desired. It was a futile metamorphosis; he never became the boy of her dreams.
Aerion followed soon after. Alicent looked at the babe and saw nothing of herself in his features. For a time, she convinced herself she was merely a host, a parasite inhabiting a body that wasn't hers. But then the thoughts would settle; Alicent knew better. The Seven knew better.
Aemon was the only one who brought her a fleeting peace—a brief, quiet respite in a life of storms.
But the darkness returned with the birth of Daella. Alicent wandered the halls losing track of time, mumbling about a daughter she was certain she could never have had. She felt a desperate need to name the girl after her mother—or the memory of her—Helaena. It was a name of grace, soft and fitting for a girl so fragile.
But Maekar denied her even that. He named the child without her leave, leaving her to care for a daughter who felt like a stranger in her arms.
Then came Aegon. Her husband finally relented, allowing her to choose the name only after realizing that further defiance might shatter what little remained of her mind. Yet, seeing the boy swaddled in a cradle of soft gold drove her back into the abyss.
She was never meant to wed a Targaryen. In her life as a lost soul, Jaehaerys had warned her of the madness that ran in their veins. She simply couldn't recall which Jaehaerys it had been.
Eventually, Maekar’s endurance broke. After five children, they retreated to separate chambers, leaving a cold silence in the halls between them. Alicent finally drew a breath of relief; she wanted nothing more than to bury herself beneath the heavy blankets and let the air go still forever.
But Aegon was there, watching her. She could not reach out for him—her firstborn, her golden sun. He deserved a mother who was whole. She should never have allowed her "rotten womb," as she called it, to bear fruit.
Their misfortune was a direct result of her existence—an indelible stain she could not wash away. After all, was she not the favorite child of the Seven?
The Mother kept her children alive only to suffer; the Maiden watched as men slowly drained her of her purity; and the Stranger claimed the lives of everyone she cherished, one by one, ensuring their loss was etched forever into the decaying corners of her mind