The cries of a newborn echoed through the stone halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, sharp and piercing like the edge of a Valyrian blade. Maesters rushed in a flurry of bloodied linen and trembling hands, their grim expressions betraying the truth before a single word was uttered. Queen Aemma Arryn, first wife to King Viserys I Targaryen, lay lifeless on the birthing bed, her body pale and still, soaked in her final offering to the realm.
She had died in agony—sliced open by the hands of men who claimed to serve the gods and king alike. Viserys had made the choice, that impossible decision: wife or child. And even then, the gods mocked him. For all the sacrifice and suffering, it was not a long-awaited male heir who wailed into the world, but another girl.
Princess Helaena Targaryen.
A girl born in sorrow. A girl born beneath a shadow. A girl her father could not look upon.
While King Viserys locked himself away in his solar, carving and sketching the ancient towers of old Valyria in miniature as if lost time could be rebuilt with stone and glue, his daughters lived in the wreckage of a shattered home. Princess Rhaenyra, barely past girlhood herself, mourned her mother in silence and rage. She had sat beside Aemma for hours in the final days, held her hand, whispered to her swollen belly, and kissed her goodbye when she still breathed.
Rhaenyra blamed him. She blamed her father for the butchery that took her mother from her. And perhaps, in some cruel, unspoken way, she blamed the child as well.
Helaena was not held by her sister when she first opened her violet eyes. She was not kissed by her father. She was not rocked in the cradle of kin.
Instead, she was handed to nurses. To wet nurses and midwives. She became a swaddled secret tucked into the corners of the Red Keep. A babe that no one wished to look at too long, lest the memory of her mother’s screams came clawing back to the surface.
Until Alicent Hightower.
She was still Rhaenyra’s dearest friend in those days, the Lady of the Tower, beautiful and composed beyond her years. She had always been near, reading aloud to the king in the small council chamber, or walking arm in arm with Rhaenyra through the godswood. But it was not the crown or duty that pulled her to Helaena—it was something older, deeper.
Pity. And love.
Alicent began by visiting the nursery late in the evening. At first, just to watch. Then to help. She soothed the child’s cries when the wet nurse had grown tired, and wiped tears from cheeks too soft for sorrow. She sang lullabies passed down from the Hightower kitchens, humming into the darkness when Helaena stirred from fever or fear.
In time, the child came to prefer her voice. Her arms. Her scent.
It was Alicent who was there for Helaena’s first smile. Alicent who shrieked with joy when the princess stumbled through her first steps. Alicent who was covered in mashed squash and pear when Helaena decided to redecorate her highchair with reckless glee.
She stayed up whole nights when Helaena fell ill, dabbing sweat from her brow with cool cloths, whispering, “You’re not alone, little star.” And she never let the maesters scold her for overstepping. Helaena was a princess of the realm. But to Alicent, she was simply… hers.
Time passed, and the little girl who had been left behind bloomed beneath her care. Hair the color of moonlight, eyes like twilight amethysts, and a mind that sparkled with wonder. Helaena laughed easily and often, her favorite word becoming, “Mama.” And when she said it, she looked at Alicent.
The Red Keep barely whispered of the king’s second daughter. There was no grand naming day, no celebratory tourney, no gifts from across the Narrow Sea. Only the ghost of Queen Aemma lingering in every corridor, and a child too bright to see the shadows that loomed above her.
Until one afternoon in the gardens.
The skies were clear, and the scent of blooming myrrh and red jasmine wafted through the air. Alicent sat beneath the shade of an ash tree, Helaena perched in her lap, toddling her fingers through the petals of a dandelion crown. The princess giggled as Alicent kissed her cheek.
That was when the voices came.
A group approached, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons in the wind. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen led the way, dressed in deep purple and gold, flanked by a gathering of familiar faces—Prince Daemon, lounging in his casual arrogance; Ser Harwin Strong, ever watchful; Ser Laenor Velaryon, bright as the sea; and Lady Laena Velaryon, laughing into her cup.
They did not notice Alicent at first. Not until Helaena squealed, tossing her flower crown toward them with unsteady arms.
Rhaenyra’s eyes landed on them.
“Gods,” she said, surprised. “Alicent—?”
Her voice was warm, nostalgic. Like a friend from another lifetime. She stepped forward eagerly, a smile breaking through the shield of years.
“I did not expect to see you here,” Rhaenyra said, reaching out. “Who is—?”
She paused.
Her gaze shifted to the child.
Helaena tilted her head, curious, peeking from behind Alicent’s sleeve.
Rhaenyra blinked.
And then it hit her.
Recognition.
But too slow. Too late.
“You don’t know her?” Alicent’s voice trembled, but not from fear. From fury. “You don’t recognize your own sister?”
The words hung in the air like a guillotine.
Rhaenyra paled.
Daemon whistled low. Harwin looked away. Laenor muttered a curse. Laena winced.
Alicent stood, lifting Helaena into her arms.
“She cried for you,” Alicent hissed, “in the night. In the cold. While you played at war and drank sweet wine and forgot.”
Then, without another word, she slapped Rhaenyra across the face. The sound cracked like thunder. Rhaenyra stumbled back a step, stunned.
Helaena clung to Alicent’s neck.
And they left.
Later that evening, long after the fire in her blood had cooled, Alicent returned to Helaena’s chambers, as she always did. A book of stories in hand. Her favorite—Nyra and the Moon Maiden.
The room was lit by soft candlelight, flickering shadows dancing across the walls. And there, sitting on the floor, was Rhaenyra.
She was making faces at Helaena—silly ones. Cross-eyed, tongue-out nonsense that had the toddler in fits of giggles.
Alicent stood in the doorway, frozen.
Rhaenyra rose slowly.
“I came to apologize,” she said quietly. “I did not… I hadn’t seen her. Not since she was born. I wasn’t there. I know.”
Alicent said nothing. She sat beside Helaena and opened the book, ignoring her.
Rhaenyra watched the two of them. The closeness. The way Helaena leaned into her shoulder. The soft smile Alicent gave the child.
“I was grieving,” Rhaenyra whispered. “I still am.”
“And so was she,” Alicent murmured, her voice sharp as ice. “But unlike you, she had no one.”
Rhaenyra sank to her knees.
“I was angry. At Father. At myself. At the world. I didn’t know how to look at her without seeing… without remembering.”
“She is not a ghost,” Alicent replied. “She is the last thing your mother gave you.”
There was silence. Only the soft flutter of turning pages.
Then, Helaena looked between them, her violet eyes wide and searching.
“Mama?” she asked, reaching for Rhaenyra.
Alicent stilled.
Rhaenyra blinked.
“Mama?” the child repeated, her tiny hand tugging at Rhaenyra’s sleeve.
Tears filled Rhaenyra’s eyes.
“Yes,” she said, gathering Helaena into her arms. “Yes, little stardust. I’m here.”
And from that day forward, the Red Keep began to shift.
Alicent and Rhaenyra—two women who once shared whispers in the godswood and now bore scars both visible and not—came together for the sake of the child neither could bear to lose.
They read to her together. Taught her to ride. Walked the halls with her between them, holding her hands. They fought sometimes, yes. Old wounds still bled.
But for Helaena, they were something new.
Two mothers.
“Mama and Mother,” she called them, with no rhyme or reason to who was which.
Only love.
And beneath the stars of King’s Landing, when Helaena twirled in a dress of lilac and lace, her laughter echoing like bells, the court could almost believe she had been born from joy—not grief.
⸻