Chapter 1
Rhaenyra Targaryen was everything people admired—wealthy, gorgeous, brilliant, and effortlessly charming. She had a magnetism that drew people in, the kind of person who could light up any room she walked into. Everyone adored her. Well, almost everyone.
Alicent Hightower didn’t hate Rhaenyra—she didn’t know her well enough to hate her. But she couldn’t quite understand the fuss, either. Maybe it was because they’d barely exchanged a dozen words, or maybe it was the way Rhaenyra seemed so... untouchable. She didn’t dislike her, not really, but she wasn’t charmed by her, either.
The Hightowers weren’t quite as rich as the Targaryens, but they weren’t far behind. Alicent had grown up with luxuries most people only dreamed of—a private driver, a sprawling estate, and a family name that opened doors. It was no surprise she and Rhaenyra ended up at the same elite private college, where only the wealthiest families could afford the tuition.
But now, thanks to her father, Rhaenyra was no longer just a distant, glittering presence in the background of Alicent’s life. She was about to become a problem.
“The Targaryen Healthcare Organization is looking for a new supplier for their technical equipment,” Otto Hightower announced, swirling the wine in his glass as the family sat together on the terrace, bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. “It’s a deal we cannot afford to miss.”
Alicent leaned back in her chair, already sensing where this was going. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“You share Real Property class with heirness, don’t you?” Otto asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Alicent admitted reluctantly, setting her glass down. “But I can’t just walk up to her and suddenly be her friend, Father. That’s not how it works.”
Her mother glanced up from her book, her tone calm and measured. “Alicent’s right, Otto. She’s an alpha, and Rhaenyra is an omega. People will talk. It might come across as manipulative—or worse, desperate.”
Alicent nodded in agreement, grateful for her mother’s intervention. Her mother always knew the right thing to say, and in moments like this, Alicent felt a deep sense of gratitude for her.
Otto, however, was not so easily dissuaded. “I’m not asking you to manipulate her. I’m asking you to use your position wisely. Make a connection. Open the door.”
“And what if she slams it shut?” Alicent countered, her tone sharper than she intended. “She doesn’t even know me.”
“That’s exactly why you need to change that,” Otto said firmly, his voice brooking no argument.
Despite the prestige of their private college, students were still expected to meet physical education requirements to graduate. For most, it was an annoyance, but for Alicent, it was a rare reprieve. She excelled at sports—not because she loved them, but because her father had drilled discipline into her from an early age. Among the options, tennis was her favorite, offering her just enough solitude in its rhythm and precision.
Apparently, it was Rhaenyra’s favorite too.
The court was where Alicent saw Rhaenyra most often outside of class. She was a natural, moving with an effortless grace that drew as many eyes as her laugh did. Of course, Rhaenyra was rarely without an audience, and today was no different. A group of alphas lingered near the edge of the court, all pretending to focus on their warm-ups but clearly hoping to catch her attention.
Criston Cole, one of their classmates and a fellow alpha, leaned closer to Alicent as they walked toward a free court. His eyes were locked on Rhaenyra, who was adjusting the visor over her silver-blonde hair.
“Look at her,” Criston muttered, his voice low but thick with desire. “Damn, for that I’d give up all my wealth.”
Alicent froze mid-step, her grip tightening on the handle of her racket. The casualty of his comment made her stomach churn.
“You’re acting childish, Criston,” she said sharply, shooting him a glare as they reached their court. She adjusted her grip on her racket.
“What?” Criston laughed, entirely unrepentant. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about her. Look at her.” He nodded in Rhaenyra’s direction.
Alicent didn’t want to look. She really didn’t. But her resolve faltered, and she stole a glance. Rhaenyra was mid-serve, her form perfect as she arched her back and sent the ball flying across the net. The movement was fluid, commanding. The bright white of her tennis shorts and the golden glow of her tanned skin caught Alicent’s attention despite herself.
She swallowed hard, yanking her gaze back to the court in front of her. “She’s just another student, Criston. Maybe try treating her with some respect.”
Criston grinned at her, spinning the tennis ball in his hand as he moved to his position. “Respect? Sure. I just thought you had a bit more... imagination, Hightower.”
Alicent adjusted her stance, gripping her racket tighter. “I guess not all of us have the same taste.”
Criston smirked, tossing the ball lightly in the air. “Alright, then. What’s your type, Hightower? What kind of omega gets your blood running?”
Alicent rolled her eyes, stepping back to her baseline. They were far enough apart now that their voices had to carry a little, but Criston clearly wasn’t about to let the conversation die.
“I don’t know,” she said flatly, setting her stance and keeping her eyes on the court. “Dark hair, I guess.”
Criston raised an eyebrow, grinning even wider. “Dark hair, huh? Mysterious.” He bounced the ball once, then twice. “Didn’t peg you for the brooding type.”
“Will you serve already?” Alicent snapped, her patience thinning.
Criston chuckled but finally tossed the ball into the air. He served, sending it hurtling toward her with enough force to make it clear he wasn’t holding back. Alicent was ready, though, returning the ball with a sharp forehand that sent it skimming just over the net.
They settled into the rhythm of the game, the sound of the ball hitting the court and their rackets filling the air. Still, Criston couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Dark hair,” he muttered as he lunged for a return. “You mean like that Baratheon girl? Or is it Stokeworth? Nah, you’re too picky for them.”
Alicent ignored him, focusing on her footwork as she returned his shot. The ball sailed past him, landing neatly on the edge of the court.
“Point, Hightower,” she said, straightening and wiping her brow with her wrist.
Criston groaned, retrieving the ball. “You’re no fun, you know that?”
Alicent enjoyed the quiet solitude of free periods between classes. Most of the time, she spent them in the library, losing herself in old religious texts. The weight of history, the steady rhythm of words written centuries before her time—it was comforting. Solid. Something that never changed.
On occasion, though, she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t a stranger to tutoring classmates, and more often than not, that classmate was Frida Baratheon.
They had been courting, in a way. It was unspoken but understood, a lingering awareness between them that Alicent hadn’t yet acted on. Not fully. She planned to. Eventually.
For now, she enjoyed their quiet moments together.
“Frankly, I don’t know how you manage to learn all this, and explain it ten times easier,” Frida said, flashing her a bright smile.
Alicent barely heard her. Gods, she’s beautiful.
Alicent tapped her pen lightly against the open textbook between them, drawing her focus back to Frida. “It’s not as complicated as it seems,” she explained. “Intervals are just the measured spaces between property transfers. Think of them like—” She paused, searching for a simpler analogy. “Like steps on a staircase. Each step is a defined measure, and the law dictates how many steps you can take before you have to stop and reassess ownership.”
Frida scrunched her nose, tilting her head slightly. “So, if land is transferred from one house to another, the law ensures there are only so many ‘steps’ before it needs to be reevaluated?”
Alicent nodded approvingly. “Exactly.”
Frida grinned. “You really do make this sound easy.”
Before Alicent could reply, the door to the study room opened, and Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped inside.
But unlike her usual self-assured entrance, today she looked… off. Her shoulders were tense, her silver hair slightly out of place as though she had run her hands through it one too many times. There was no lazy smile, no effortless charm. Just a quiet sort of distress, carefully masked but still noticeable to anyone paying attention.
Alicent and Frida both instinctively glanced in her direction, their gazes flickering toward her just for a moment before they turned back to their books. They weren’t the type to pry.
Rhaenyra crossed the room and settled at a table in the farthest corner, dropping her bag onto the surface with a little more force than necessary. She pulled out her notes, flipping through them aimlessly before settling on a random page. But Alicent could tell—she wasn’t reading them. She was just staring, eyes unfocused, posture rigid.
Alicent didn’t mean to keep looking. It was just… curiosity.
She stole another glance. Then another. It was rare to see Rhaenyra anything less than composed, and the sight of her so unlike herself was strangely fascinating. What could possibly have unsettled her so much?
She was caught before she could figure it out.
Rhaenyra let out a quiet sigh, tilting her head slightly and locking eyes with Alicent from across the room. The meaning in her gaze was unmistakable.
You done staring, or what?
Alicent blinked, quickly turning back to her book, her grip tightening slightly around her pen.
Frida didn’t seem to notice the exchange, still scribbling notes beside her.
“She’s something, right?” Frida finally said, her voice light with amusement.
Alicent, still caught in the moment, barely processed her words. “Huh?” she said, blinking as she turned to face her.
Frida rolled her eyes, leaning in slightly. “The Targaryen girl,” she whispered. “Rhaenyra. The one that just walked in. I mean, every alpha here is dying to have her.”
Alicent stiffened slightly, her grip tightening on her pen. She didn’t dare look at Rhaenyra again—not after being caught staring the first time. If she did, Rhaenyra would probably march over and demand to know what her problem was.
So instead, she exhaled slowly and muttered, “Not every alpha.”
Frida raised an eyebrow, smirking. “No?” she teased. “That almost sounded personal.”
Alicent hesitated for a beat too long. Then, finally, she admitted, “It is.”
Frida tilted her head, intrigued. “Interesting,” she mused. “So, what is it? You don’t like her?”
Alicent stared at her book, but the words blurred together. “I don’t know her,” she said, a little too carefully. “She’s just…” She shook her head, unwilling to finish the thought. "Not my type."
A few moments later, the sharp sound of a phone ringing cut through the quiet of the study room. Instinctively, Alicent glanced down at her own phone, but the screen remained dark. Not hers.
Frida, unfazed, didn’t even react. That ruled her out too.
Alicent lifted her gaze, and her eyes landed on Rhaenyra.
The omega had already answered, her voice tense as she pressed the phone to her ear. “How long?” Alicent heard her say, the sharp edge in her tone unmistakable.
A pause. Then, frustration laced her voice. “Then take a different route, dammit.”
Alicent watched as Rhaenyra abruptly stood, shoving her notes into her bag with little care. Her movements were quick, impatient, as though she couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.
Within seconds, she was gone, disappearing through the door in a blur of silver hair and restless energy.
Alicent stared at the empty space she left behind, her curiosity now a quiet hum at the back of her mind. Something was wrong.
Frida, beside her, sighed dramatically and stretched. “Well, that was interesting.”
Alicent smiled at Frida.
Finally, they were alone again.
Rhaenyra’s sudden departure had left the room quieter, more intimate. The moment was perfect—if there was ever a time to ask, it was now.
She should just say it. Frida, would you like to go out with me? Simple. Direct. She was an alpha; confidence should come naturally.
But instead of speaking, Alicent lowered her hands beneath the desk, her fingers absentmindedly pressing against the skin of her opposite palm, a nervous habit she had never quite shaken. She wasn’t nervous—she had no reason to be. She was sure Frida liked her.
Still, her fingers kept pressing, small, quick pinches against her skin as she hesitated.
Frida, oblivious to Alicent’s internal war, flipped through her notes with a casual ease, completely unbothered.
Just say it.
Alicent took a slow breath, steadying herself.
“Frida, I—”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
A sudden buzzing from her phone pulled Alicent’s attention away. She glanced down, frowning when she saw the caller ID—Criston.
Technically, she supposed they were friends, but Criston could be a lot at times. Too much, if she was being honest. She didn’t exactly want to be known as his constant companion.
With a sigh, she gave Frida an apologetic look and stood up, taking a few steps away for privacy. There had been far too many times when Criston called her just to complain, or worse—to moan dramatically about whatever inconvenience had ruined his day.
She answered anyway. “Criston?”
“Hightower!” His voice came through, rushed and borderline panicked. “Thank the gods you answered. Listen, I’m in a bit of an… uncomfortable situation right now. Be a friend and come to the bathroom on the second floor, next to the A study classroom.”
Alicent blinked, turning slightly toward the door of the study room. The sign on it was clear—‘A’.
She was literally right next door.
She exhaled, already regretting picking up. “A minute,” she said flatly. “It better be serious.”
Turning back to Frida, she gave her another quick, apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back. Just a minute.”
Frida, used to Alicent’s occasional disruptions, only nodded with a curious tilt of her head.
Without wasting more time, Alicent left the room and headed for the bathroom to see what ridiculous mess Criston had gotten himself into this time.
“Criston?” Alicent called out cautiously as she pushed the restroom door open.
The moment she stepped inside, a wave of foul air hit her square in the face.
“Gods!” She recoiled instantly, gagging. “Did a rat die in here?”
From one of the stalls, Criston let out a long, suffering sigh. “No, Hightower. I just had some damn beans and chocolate milk. Didn’t think it through.”
Alicent grimaced, immediately covering her nose with her hand. “You disgust me.”
“Well, I suffer for my poor decisions, don’t I?” he shot back.
She rolled her eyes. “And you called me for what? To wipe your ass? If you need to talk, I’ll meet you outside, Cole.”
She had already turned to leave when Criston let out a panicked yell. “Wait!”
Alicent froze, eyes narrowing.
“I literally called you because there’s no paper in this stall,” he admitted, his voice filled with the kind of regret that only truly terrible life choices could bring. “And I sure as hell am not walking out bare-assed to check the other stalls.”
For a long moment, Alicent just stared at the door, then sighed deeply.
“I hate you,” she muttered, already scanning the stalls for a spare roll.
Alicent checked every single stall, hoping—praying—for at least one spare roll. But the gods were clearly not on Criston’s side today. There was nothing. Apparently, a lot of people had made the same unfortunate dietary choices.
“Tough luck, Cole,” she called out. “There’s literally none.”
From inside the stall, Criston groaned dramatically. “What?! No way. Did you check every stall?”
Alicent rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “No, Criston, I just checked one and immediately decided to lie to you. Of course I checked them all, smart guy.”
“Okay, okay, don’t turn on me now!” he whined. “I’m sorry! Just—do you have a napkin or something?”
Alicent patted her pockets, but she already knew the answer. “Not with me,” she admitted.
Criston groaned again. “Look, I’m begging you here. Just—can you check the omega bathroom?”
Alicent immediately shook her head. “No way.”
“C’mon, Hightower—”
“If anyone sees me, it’s going to look really bad, Criston.”
He sighed dramatically. “Okay, but consider this—you walking in there for two seconds is way less embarrassing than me waddling out of here with my pants around my ankles.”
Alicent pinched the bridge of her nose. This was officially the worst part of her day.
Alicent knocked on the omega bathroom door, silently praying that someone—anyone—would just hand her the damn paper so she could get out of this mess. But no one answered.
With a resigned sigh, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The first stall she checked, thank the gods, had a full roll of toilet paper. She grabbed it quickly, already turning to leave—
And then she froze.
Standing there, in flesh and bone, was Rhaenyra Targaryen.
Alicent’s breath hitched. The heir to the Targaryen legacy, the untouchable golden girl, the omega every alpha on campus wanted, was right in front of her. And she didn’t look well.
Alicent wasn’t sure whether Rhaenyra looked more angry or sick. Her usually radiant face was flushed, her breathing uneven, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to her forehead.
“Wrong bathroom,” Rhaenyra muttered, wiping her brow. Her voice was a little hoarse, and despite the sharpness of her words, she seemed… off. “Hightower, right?”
Alicent swallowed. “Oh. Yes. Sorry. There’s no toilet paper in the alpha stalls, so I just—”
Before she could finish, Rhaenyra let out a low, irritated sigh and shoved her.
Alicent barely had time to react before she was being pushed deeper into the stall. The sudden closeness caught her completely off guard.
“Wh—?”
Rhaenyra turned, locking the door behind them.
Alicent’s pulse kicked up.
What the hell is happening?
“I took the wrong suppressants earlier today,” Rhaenyra said, leaning against the stall door. Her breath was quick, uneven. “Long story. The right ones will take some time to kick in, so—”
She clenched her jaw, closing her eyes as if trying to fight through a wave of pain.
It clicked.
“You’re in heat?” Alicent asked, voice quieter now.
Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped open. And gods—those violet eyes were looking straight through her, burning, pleading.
“I need your help,” Rhaenyra whispered.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Alicent said, keeping her voice even as she tried to push past Rhaenyra. She was acting calm—forcing herself to act calm—but the scent of Rhaenyra’s omega pheromones was thick in the air, and no matter how much she didn’t like Rhaenyra, it was impossible to ignore.
“Move,” she said firmly, trying to step around her.
But Rhaenyra didn’t budge.
“Just—”
Before Alicent could react, Rhaenyra pushed her down onto the closed toilet seat.
Before Alicent could react, Rhaenyra pushed her down onto the closed toilet seat.
“Stay here,” she murmured, her breathing uneven. “Your type of pheromones… they calm me down somehow.”
Another shudder ran through her, her whole body tensing as another wave of heat overtook her.
Alicent’s breath hitched as Rhaenyra suddenly climbed into her lap.
The warmth of her body was instant—overwhelming. Rhaenyra pressed in close, burying her face into the crook of Alicent’s neck, inhaling deeply.
Alicent went rigid.
She wanted to push her away—she should push her away—but Rhaenyra was trembling, her body visibly fighting against the pain.
“Just a moment,” Rhaenyra whispered against her skin. “Just to get control.”
Alicent swallowed hard, her hands hovering, unsure where to place them.
She hated this.
She hated that she was hesitating.
Criston had been waiting for a good fifteen minutes, fuming.
Did Alicent really just abandon him here? Left him to fend for himself in his most vulnerable moment?
Unbelievable.
Just as he was preparing himself for the ultimate humiliation—bracing for the moment he’d have to waddle out of the stall, pants around his ankles, and pray no one saw—the door finally creaked open.
A second later, a roll of toilet paper soared through the air and landed right in his lap.
“Finally!” he shouted, relief flooding his voice.
From the other side of the door, Alicent’s voice was dry, unimpressed. “You owe me.”
Before he could respond, the bathroom door swung open again—and then slammed shut.
Criston scowled, but as he reached for the toilet paper, he muttered, “Yeah, yeah. You’re a damn saint, Hightower.”