Like the process of breathing, Rhaenyra rarely had to take a moment out of her day to think about how to function in the life she is living; it's automatic, a routine only slightly tinged with melancholy and a deep-rooted nostalgia that tapered off just before she truly fell into it. Like a waning alertness before falling asleep at night.
She likes to think that she feels a measure of real contentment — sure, inheriting her father’s company, and by extension, her family’s burdening legacy, wasn’t exactly what she had envisioned herself to end up doing when she was younger — but the work is important, as is fulfilling responsibilities to their partners and to their employees, albeit both difficult to manage at times. The worst thing about it might be how isolating it can sometimes feel. Having to be on edge, anticipating business-related battles and double-edged deals all the time has weighed on her and altered her ability to open up to others a bit. It’s fulfilling when she succeeds in her endeavors, however, and the memory of her father telling her how proud he is of her sustains her enough during trying times and makes good times feel even better. She is doing fine, really, the breathing of it all left to go smoothly enough in the background.
Nonetheless, there are certain moments that go off like a light bulb in her mind — glaring and pointed in the way it forces her into a state of awareness that leaves her feeling bereft once more of the thing from her memories she has never quite succeeded in blurring out.
The aforementioned thing is the phantom of Alicent Hightower that clings to the edges of her being, so much so that it's almost normal – a fixture on her night stand, a book never opened, but always on display. A shrine to what could have been. Or perhaps, what was. Her old … friend … occupies the spaces of Rhaenyra’s mind that is not taken over completely by data charts and graphs with unending numbers. The redhead has never quite left mentally, not since the day that she did so physically, and the Targaryen has grown quite used to the invasion in her thoughts — always a string of something distinctly Alicent-esque woven into her senses.
This is why Rhaenyra almost doesn't believe it when the universe conjures up a flash of soft, red curls in her vision. There, just across the doll aisle of the toy store, stood the most beautiful ghost she had ever seen.
As if catching sight of a mirage in the desert, the Targaryen can't help but move closer, trying to see if the image flickers when she does, if touching her would dissolve this likeness of her — Rhaenyra doesn't quite know if such an outcome would bring her peace or mark her full descent into insanity. She is not sure if this is the one thing she has always wished for, or the one thing she has always wished for to never, ever occur.
Before her lithe fingers could graze the soft green cashmere of maybe-Alicent's sweater, the redhead turned her head towards her. Familiar warm brown eyes widen just a fraction at the sight before re-shaping themselves into something less shaken, but more guarded. A curtain being drawn shut somehow.
“Rhaenyra?” The cadence of her voice is richer than anything Rhaenyra has consumed this season. Not even Laena's signature roasted duck, or Daemon's incredibly spicy “special” eggnog can come close. Little somethings of Alicent will always trump big anythings in her life, despite the fact that the time that has passed is a bit too long to still be hung up on her and what went down between them.
Even now, after over five years of thinking her gone to the wind, lost to her forever. By the work of her own hands.
“Alicent.” Rhaenyra didn't utter so much as breathed. There are moments, moments, moments — the tick in her brain picks up just a little, gives her a tad more breath of life than she has grown used to.
☆
Inside a miraculously empty coffee shop, Rhaenyra tries to defrost her tongue by dipping it into a scalding cup of peppermint latte. It has remained her drink of choice no matter the endless teasing she had to endure during her school years from various groups of friends who had never understood the appeal of a hot drink with a cool flavor.
Beside her, Alicent takes delicate princess-like sips of her earl grey tea, the corners of her lips tugging up at the taste. That was new. For as long as she had known her, which often felt too short in retrospect, the Targaryen had known Alicent’s signature drink to be any cup of hard caffeine.
Then again, Alicent’s hands no longer shake with the tremors of the world like they used to. Her cuticles are thin, but not bloodied. For a moment, the memory of tiny pricks of blood smeared on the coat Rhaenyra kept by the front door plays out in her mind. The look in Alicent’s eyes, the taste of vitriol on her own tongue.
Alicent tilts her head at her, thoughtful. “The buzz cut suits you. I wouldn’t have recognized you if your back was towards me, but I would have found it a nice view.” A smile slightly bigger than the ones coaxed by her tea punctuates the end of her sentence.
Rhaenyra sputters, absolutely chokes, holding back the true extent of her cough to avoid splattering liquid all over her companion. Something about her soul just lurches in time with Alicent's hums of life.
She doesn't quite know what to do about it. Once upon a time, she had thought she did and look where that got her.
When Alicent left, the Hightower was sallow. Worn down. Rough and harsh because of it — and no one has ever accused Rhaenyra of being the kind of person who smooths out edges with tenderness. She's a bit more like sandpaper, a certain consumption imbued in having her in your life. Perhaps Alicent was bigger before her, and now she is bigger after her. The thought comes and goes like a shooting star — too sour for this moment, too raw for the season.
When she thinks of that time, the before of it all, Rhaenyra always feels like blacking out. Wanting to pretend it didn't happen the way it did. Knowing she can't change any of it now. That she can't take back anything, nothing. The story is written, the pages glued shut, no turning back to even caress the words of it, cruel and regrettable they may have ended up being.
Especially the night she turned around and walked away from that sprawling house Otto Hightower had been so proud to live in. Rhaenyra had not been back ever since, and she knows through the grapevine that it has long been sold. Owned now by a Tully, of all people. There was a time when Rhaenyra had driven past it, hoping for a glimpse of something she used to have. Of course, nothing remains.
Maybe Alicent had found the fire of her too much to bear. Maybe she was right not to allow herself to plunge into the heat. Rhaenyra fights the urge to scratch at her left ring finger, which shouldn't feel hollow by now, but still does.
“How are you?” Alicent is finally looking at her. Really looking at her. It seems like the redhead had a small moment of brightness, before realizing it was wasted on her. A quick glance at her cup tells Rhaenyra only half of her drink is left. Should she offer to get her a refill, or give the Hightower the grace of letting it end?
“Busy.” Absent-mindedly, she pushes the napkins closer to the other woman. “But not burdened, so much as occupied. You?” The small talk stings because of its unfamiliarity.
“A bit of the same, really. Have you put up your holiday decorations yet?"”
Rhaenyra is a bit stunned that Alicent brought that up. Still. Of course, Alicent remembers. Aemma had loved her so much because she was sweet like this — the kind of person who held onto the knowledge that Rhaenyra put up her mother’s decorations for her every year since she passed.
“Um, well. The house has been rented out, hasn't been my home in over two years now. Closer to three. I moved into the Dragonstone building.” She fidgets. It’s relevant to mention because of the location.“The penthouse.” That makes her sound so ridiculous. Rhaenyra is, gods. She grits her teeth at herself.
“Oh. With—”
“Alone.” The silver blonde hastened to say. Unsure, really, of why. Surely, Alicent must know. It’s not exactly a secret that her marriage to Harwin Strong has long been over. No matter what trashy tabloids speculate, there is no getting back together for them. There is a pinch of guilt at the thought — not only at the thought of the lost baby, but also because seeing Alicent in the flesh has made the decision to end it feel lighter all of a sudden.
Perhaps, that is merely wishful thinking, though. How would Alicent even know? Why would she even care to?
To be honest, Rhaenyra is a bit surprised that Alicent didn’t pour her drink over Rhaenyra’s head. Her designer blouse is thankful, but her soul is desperate to see something more than a distant and polite version of this woman she had known so intimately, once upon a time.
Alicent blinks for a few seconds, before giving her a small nod. It’s not angry or sad or even pity. It was just a nod. Then she tilts her cup towards her.
“I'm all out, it seems. I guess I should—”
“Get a refill, of course.” Rhaenyra hastened to say, getting up a bit too enthusiastically. “On me, just wait here for a bit.”
Alicent doesn’t protest but her fingers curl inwards, grasping at the sleeves of her sweater. Rhaenyra shot her eyes away before she took real notice of the movement.
☆
In the end, it was the same as in the beginning.
Alicent gives her the grace of finishing her unwanted second cup of tea at a fair pace, her movements poised and with an effort to hide the stiffness she must feel at having to be with Rhaenyra for so long — talking about the most inane things. The Targaryen has never felt as old as she did then, as weary of the passage of time which just yesterday felt so slow and now was going too fast.
Rhaenyra doesn’t blame her. If she were in Alicent’s place, Rhaenyra knew she would do way worse things to the woman who dumped her with words meant to belittle and strike at the most tender parts of her, and who then was in the papers announcing her engagement just a short half year later. It’s fucked up. It’s an insane thing to ever even think of forgiving. Rhaenyra knows she hasn’t been.
The Targaryen knows it’s too late, she had known way before seeing Alicent again, and in fact, spending this short late afternoon with her had only solidified that fate. If Alicent had been just the tiniest bit of foul towards her, perhaps she would be able to hold on to some hope.
And yet, Alicent had been nothing but pleasant. Kind, even. Not a hint of malice in her voice, nor a twitch that would betray a sense of something towards Rhaenyra. This was the worst thing of all. To know, for sure, the nothingness of what remains between them.
She thinks of this as they walk out of the cafe, too-little minutes away from an intersection that would have them part ways. A bit lost in grief, she is surprised when her companion abruptly stops in front of a bakery stall.
The scent is warm, and reminds her of childhood. Alicent tapped the glass case gently with the fingers of her left hand.
“Is that one still your favorite?” She turned to Rhaenyra with the sweetest smile.
Rhaenyra swallows a lump in her throat at the bittersweet sight of the last piece of lemon cake on the display case.
The glint of Alicent’s teeth matched the one of the stone on her left hand. Rhaenyra feels time rush past her before slowing down to a stop, like catching the brunt of the waves when they hit the shore and standing still as they pull back into the sea. There is a final exhale in her, she is sure. Before she might tackle the need to truly breathe.
“Yes. Still. Always.”
Alicent hums, turning away and catching the attention of the seller, pointing out the last piece of old, buried happiness they might ever share again, and asks for it to be packaged.
She looks at Alicent and feels the love in her throat ache. There are moments, fleeting moments, moments of unfiltered, raw living —
Rhaenyra lets herself move one step closer, only just the one, to her side. Alicent takes the brown paper bag, tied with a ribbon, and gives it to her.
Their fingers catch. It is warm, it is soft — then it’s over for real.