Memory
She is looking at herself in the full-length mirror, and I am standing behind her, tying her dress closed.
It is not just any dress. It is rich and red, like a flourishing rose. It is what she will wear when King Viserys presents her as his heir. In an hour, all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms will swear fealty to her, promising to honor and defend her rights of succession. They will clap and chant Rhaenyra’s name and bend their old, wobbly knees.
But for now, it is just us in the silence of Rhaenyra’s bright chambers. The candles here are countless. The evening is humming with rain. The window is open. The air is sweet.
The heir is even sweeter.
With fumbling fingers, I tie the topmost ribbon of her dress into a tight bow. Guiltily, my fingers linger across her narrow shoulder blades.
If Rhaenyra notices, she says nothing. Instead, she sighs.
It is not a sigh evoked by my trembling, chaste touches. It is just a sigh. For a moment, I pretend that it is meant for me.
“Are you nervous?” I ask her, because I can tell that she is.
“Don’t be stupid. Of course not,” she lies.
Her voice drifts over me like smoke. Even so close to the heat of her, I shiver.
“I can always tell when you're worried,” I say, hovering behind her body. “You become contrary.”
“I’m not being contrary, Alicent,” she snaps, “I’m…I’m being…”
Her voice fades. She tilts her head slowly and examines the intricate seams of her dress, the fabric, the thread work. She looks at anything but my face, floating in the mirror.
I gaze at the feathered hairs at the base of her skull, at the curve of her waist, and the sharp points of her elbows. She is twisting the rings on her fingers—a habit she indulges in when she is fretting.
I try not to look at the green ring I once gifted her. She has put it back on, but it is no longer on her left hand. She has reserved that position for a gift from Daemon. I try not to let this demotion damage me, but my sadness has a way of feeding on itself. The more that there is, the bigger it becomes.
“Your father has faith in you,” I tell her. “He has chosen to bestow this honor upon you-”
“To spite Daemon. Not because he sees qualities in me worthy of…of…”
I see you, I want to say. Even if you do not see me.
“You will be a fine queen, Rhaenyra,” I sigh. “You are fierce and determined and intelligent and beautiful and-”
And I have said too much.
I bite my tongue and step away. With my back turned to her, I move towards the table where her golden ceremonial neckpiece lays in wait. When I lift it up, it is heavy and cold in my hands, like a set of manacles.
Rhaenyra waits for me beside the mirror. She is silent.
I approach and move to stand before her with my back to the mirror. I do not wish to see my face. I do not wish to see how flushed with blush I know it to be.
Rhaenyra, it seems, doesn’t want to look at her reflection either. Instead, she is looking at me.
“Do not mishear me. This is what I want. He may be giving this title to me, but I have chosen it too,” she mutters.
Something in her voice makes me hesitate as I lift the collar to her neck. Something in her purple gaze is low and lonely—a mist choked twilight.
“You know you can abdicate, if you wish,” I whisper. “You can still leave this all behind. You could fly across the narrow sea and eat every kind of cake.”
As I say it though, I shackle the heavy bridle of kings around her throat.
Rhaenyra’s eyes find mine. “Would you come with me?”
All the world seems to wait for my answer. Mice whisper within the walls. The candlelight leans closer.
I feel my heart jump in my chest—that fleshy nest where I have put all my secrets to sleep.
“I couldn’t, Rhaenyra,” I laugh softly.
Set yourself free, but remember me, I think. Remember the footprints we've left behind in the tender grass of the Godswood. Let that be what is left of us when you leave.
“My place is here. It always has been,” I say, sadly this time. “My Father is getting older. My duty-”
“Piss on duty,” Rhaenyra smirks. “I’m to be queen one day. I could give you different duties.”
She holds my hands in hers, but I know it is just a fantasy. We won’t fly across the sea and we won’t decide our own duties. Her very palms against mine are a fantasy all of their own.
“Like what?” I ask, playing along so she doesn’t let me go.
Touch me more, I muse. Touch me on the parts of my body that ache for you—there, on my hands which I’ve picked raw. There, on my stomach which is always sick. There, on my eyes which wander ceaselessly back to yours.
Rhaenyra grips me harder. She grins. “Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you want.”
Whatever I want.
I glance away, but I can feel her still watching me. I can feel her in my bones. So, I look back.
She stands before me in the shadows, hair like bleached barley, honeyed words dripping from her mouth and onto our tangled fingers. We are so close. I can see each of her pale lashes, her wet teeth.
Whatever I want.
I am humiliated by what I want. Who I want. There is nothing so shameful as being the one who waits for romance.
She breathes my name, and I am weary of waiting.
Lips cold and closed, I lean forward. I kiss her.
It is just a brush, just a breath. It is a kiss like a passing sunshower, bright and brilliant and then gone.
Nervous, I pull back to look at her.
Rhaenyra has closed her eyes. She has gone as still as a hunted deer. Her hands in mine have become clammy.
“Alicent,” she says. Her voice has changed. It is as if she is speaking to a wounded animal.
My breath catches. My chest tightens. I release her hands and step away.
She does not look at me. She does not tug me against her slender body.
Now we’ve come to it. Here is where she breaks my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I don’t know what came over me-”
Our shadows shift across the floor as she lunges for me. She takes me firmly by the wrists. She hauls me close and kisses me. She kisses me and kisses me and I wait for her to stop. I wait for her hands to release me. I wait for her tongue to slide out from between my teeth, for her chest to lift away from mine. I wait for her to remember that The Seven are watching.
But her slow, sugared mouth can kiss even the wrath of the Gods off me.
I lean into her, into the curve of her hips, the chill of her fingertips, and the petal pink of her lips. I kiss her back.
She tastes of embers and incense. She rests the weight of her body against me as if I am what anchors her to the known world.
I encase her in my arms and fall into the cadence of her kiss.
I wonder if we will ever speak of this again, or if this moment will become a mourned memory.