Chapter 8
It was strange. That was the consensus—on campus, online, even whispered between professors in half-closed offices. Strange, jarring, and impossible to look away from.
Rhaenyra Targaryen, ever the storm in designer boots and blood-red lipstick, didn’t do soft. She didn’t do subtle either. Her world was sharp edges and smoke, full of biting laughter, veiled threats, and the weight of legacy that cloaked her like expensive perfume. She had always moved through the university like she owned it—because, in many ways, she did. Or at least her name did. The Targaryen Healthcare Organization was old money, old power, and Rhaenyra had been bred to carry it like a sword.
So when Alicent Hightower started sitting next to her, casual and easy, kissing her cheek like it wasn’t the most shocking political statement made on campus since the protests last spring—it turned heads.
At first, people thought it was a dare. A joke. Some fucked-up social experiment. But it kept happening.
One day, the usual group was huddled on the benches outside the economics building—Laena sprawled out in her usual half-dozing sun-worshipping pose, Joffrey arguing with Baela over a philosophy reading none of them had done—and Rhaenyra was sipping a coffee like she always did, chin propped in one palm, bored out of her mind.
And then Alicent came.
Not storming, not tense, not in one of those charged silences that always used to announce their presence in the same room. She just walked up. In a pale green sweater and those perfectly ironed slacks she always wore when she wanted to look like she wasn’t trying.
She sat next to Rhaenyra without asking, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. No drama. No smirk. Just a casual press of lips that made Joffrey drop his croissant.
Laena’s sunglasses slid down her nose.
Baela muttered, “What the fuck.”
And Rhaenyra? She barely blinked. Just gave a little sideways grin and said, “You’re late,” like it was the most normal thing in the world.
From then on, nothing was normal.
They didn’t hide. They weren’t exactly parading around, either—but it was undeniable. Alicent resting her hand on the back of Rhaenyra’s neck when she leaned in to whisper something. Rhaenyra dragging her thumb across Alicent’s jaw when she thought no one was looking. The way they didn’t argue anymore—at least not in public. And if they did, it was quieter. Meaner. But always ending in a kiss.
The media caught on fast, because of course they did.
“Omega Heiress Rhaenyra Targaryen Linked Romantically to Daughter of Otto Hightower, CEO of Hightower Tehc,” one headline read.
“Enemies to Lovers? Inside the Campus Romance Shaking Corporate Alliances.”
“Star-Crossed or Strategically Screwed: What Does Alicent Hightower Want from the Targaryen Legacy?”
There were pictures now. Of them walking together, sometimes hand-in-hand. Of Rhaenyra standing too close to Alicent at some gallery opening. Of Alicent glaring at some man who’d gotten too friendly at a party.
Otto Hightower, of course, had no comment. And that silence said everything.
But the whispers weren’t just in the press. They were everywhere. In the study halls, between bites of lunch in the cafeteria, across the library tables where people pretended to do coursework while sneakily watching them walk by.
Because everyone remembered how they used to be. The ignores. The cutting looks. The time Alicent yelled at Rhaenyra outside the law building months ago. The time Rhaenyra showed up to class with a bruiced neck and a smile and wouldn’t say why.
This new version of them didn’t make sense.
Except… maybe it did. If you looked closer, past the politics, past the history. Past Otto’s empire and Viserys’s fading grip on his company’s future.
Because Rhaenyra smiled more now. Less fake. Less sharp.
And Alicent? She looked lighter. Like she’d put something heavy down and hadn’t looked back.
The media called it scandal. The campus called it gossip.
But the truth?
It was war. Dressed in kisses. Rewritten in touch. And they were winning.
Criston saw it first.
He was halfway through a lukewarm coffee on the quad lawn, talking shit with some of the other seniors, when the moment landed like a goddamn thunderclap.
Alicent.
Sitting on the stone benches, hair tucked behind her ear, that reserved Hightower polish still perfectly intact.
And next to her—Rhaenyra.
Not across. Not a seat away. But next to her. Knee to knee. A hand brushing hers. Rhaenyra laughing at something and leaning in, pressing a kiss to Alicent’s cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like weeks of silence, of Jason, of aching distance had never happened.
Criston froze mid-sentence.
“What the fuck?” someone muttered near him.
All across the quad, heads turned like dominoes tipping into disbelief. The omega heir to Targaryen Healthcare Organization, hair shining under the sunlight, openly nestled into the alpha daughter of Otto Hightower, one of their biggest suppliers. The same two girls who had nearly torn each other apart with icy glares for an entire semester. Who’d gone silent. Who’d exploded.
Now? They were public.
It hit like a scandal. Like a twist in a show you thought you had figured out.
Criston blinked once. Twice. Then let out a long breath.
“About fucking time,” he muttered into his coffee.
Jason did not take it well.
He found Rhaenyra later that afternoon, alone near the parking structure, typing something into her phone with an unreadable look on her face.
“You used me,” he snapped, voice loud and brittle. “The fuck was I, huh? A rebound? A placeholder?”
Rhaenyra didn’t even flinch. She slid her phone into her jacket pocket and tilted her head.
“You knew what this was,” she said, calm. Sharp. That cold, dragon-glint in her eyes.
Jason stepped closer. “Everyone’s talking, Rhaenyra.”
“Let them.”
“You humiliated me.”
She shrugged. “You volunteered.”
His mouth opened—then closed. He stared at her like he’d never seen her before.
She brushed past him without another word.
Frida was waiting outside the library steps when Alicent found her. Rain was just beginning to threaten the sky, a soft gray haze hanging overhead. Frida had her arms crossed, face unreadable.
“I wanted to say sorry,” Alicent said. Her voice was low. Unsteady. But not uncertain.
“For what?” Frida asked, lifting a brow.
A beat of silence.
“You know.”
Frida didn’t blink.
Then—slap.
It wasn’t hard.
It didn’t even sting, really.
But the sound of it was enough to make three bystanders on the path freeze in place.
Alicent didn’t move.
Frida’s face twitched. Not with anger—but something more broken. More final.
“I hope she’s worth it,” Frida said, voice tight.
“She is,” Alicent answered without hesitation.
Frida stepped back. Turned. Walked away.
Alicent stood there, rain threatening to fall, cheek tingling—not from the slap, but from the weight of it.
It had been three months since they’d gone public.
Three months since the viral explosion of a grainy, flash-lit photo of Rhaenyra Targaryen straddling Alicent Hightower in the front seat of a black Porche outside some late-night café—her fingers tangled in that soft brown hair, Alicent’s hand suspiciously low on her thigh, their mouths fused like they were trying to eat each other alive.
Twitter had gone insane. Someone zoomed in and swore Rhaenyra wasn’t wearing a bra. A few fan accounts theorized it was a PR stunt to distract from the upcoming merger between Targaryen Healthcare and Hightower Tehc. The meme pages were even worse.
But none of that compared to what it unleashed back home.
From that moment on, Rhaenyra couldn’t go a full day without a message from her mother, her father, or sometimes both in a shared group chat, begging to meet Alicent.
Demanding.
"Sweetheart, we just want to know the girl who's seen everywhere with you," Viserys texted once.
"Don’t make me beg, Rhaenyra. She looks like such a nice girl! "
"Let us have her over for dinner. Please. No ambushes. Just food and wine. You can even pick the playlist."
Rhaenyra wanted to die.
“I should’ve just sucked you off that night,” she muttered to Alicent while scrolling through another guilt-ridden message from Aemma. “Then at least we wouldn’t have had a photo.”
Alicent, who was lying on her stomach doing flashcards, smirked. “You say that like you didn’t try.”
They lasted another week dodging her parents. Then Viserys resorted to emailing Alicent directly from his work account.
The dinner was...
Well, “hell” would be too generous.
It was chaos. Elegant, passive-aggressive chaos with a three-course meal and imported wine.
Alicent showed up early. Rhaenyra was still in the shower.
Aemma opened the door and gave her the kind of warm, measured smile that made Alicent immediately feel like she was being evaluated for a scholarship and interrogated by MI6.
“Come in, dear. Would you like sparkling water or something stronger?”
She chose water. Mistake number one.
By the time Rhaenyra appeared—damp hair, oversized sweater, zero fucks—Viserys was already seated at the head of the dining table, grill mode activated.
“So, Alicent,” he said, after appetizers. “What are your long-term intentions with my daughter?”
Alicent blinked. “I, um—”
“Do you see yourself as married type in few years?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, marriage and all that,” he added with a chuckle, like this was a light-hearted topic.
“Dad,” Rhaenyra warned, half-laughing, half-murderous.
Viserys waved her off. “I’m just curious. You are our only child. We’ve invested a lot in you.”
“I'm not a startup, dad.”
At one point he tried to show Alicent a slideshow on his iPad about Targaryen bloodlines and their "unique hormonal configurations".
“I didn’t know if you were aware,” he said, tapping through bar graphs. “But Rhaenyra’s physiology is rather rare.”
Alicent had no words. None.
Except maybe get me out of here.
The highlight, however, came after dessert, when Aemma gently pulled her aside under the pretense of showing her family photos.
She didn’t.
Instead, she closed the door to the sunroom, sat down across from Alicent, and folded her hands like a guidance counselor with a knife hidden in her purse.
“I think you’re a lovely girl, Alicent. And you clearly care for our daughter.”
“I really do, ma’am.”
“And I respect that. Which is why I’d like to ask—very kindly, very respectfully—that you refrain from intercourse with her.”
Alicent blinked. Her ears started ringing.
“I—uh—we—”
“I understand these things happen,” Aemma said, voice velvet smooth. “And the bond can be intense. I just want you to be mindful.”
Alicent wanted to sink into the carpet.
“Mindful of what, exactly?”
Aemma smiled in that terrifyingly maternal way. “Well. Have you discussed protection?”
“...Protection?” Alicent whispered, wishing the earth would open and swallow her whole.
“Rhaenyra doesn’t respond well to hormonal suppressants, and she tends to react strongly during her cycles. We’ve found that magnesium helps. And you’ll want to avoid anything with synthetic lavender—her body chemistry is very sensitive.”
Alicent could only nod. Trapped in a very tasteful prison.
“Oh,” Aemma added, almost casually, “and if you’re ever unsure, it’s perfectly acceptable to engage in other forms of intimacy. Oral stimulation, for example.”
Alicent made a choking noise.
She didn’t speak on the car ride back.
Didn’t speak in the elevator.
Didn’t speak even after Rhaenyra pressed her into the hotel room door and tried to kiss her senseless.
“What’s wrong?” Rhaenyra asked, pulling back slightly.
Alicent just stared at her. Then, flatly: “Your mother gave me the sex talk.”
Rhaenyra blinked. Then—slowly, painfully—her lips curled.
“She did not.”
“She told me to avoid lavender and use magnesium and that oral sex is acceptable.”
Rhaenyra howled.
She doubled over, wheezing, nearly collapsed on the bed from how hard she was laughing.
Alicent folded her arms. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s hilarious.”
“She said I should ‘refrain from intercourse.’ Like we haven’t already—”
“You’re traumatized,” Rhaenyra wheezed. “I love it.”
“I feel violated.”
“Wait till you hear what she told Laenor’s boyfriend. She made a PowerPoint.”
Alicent narrowed her eyes. “I’m never going back there again.”
Rhaenyra grinned, eyes glittering. “That’s fine. We’ll just keep fucking in my car.”
Alicent groaned, but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at her lips.
God help her.
She was in love with a Targaryen.
And there was no magnesium strong enough to stop it.
Alicent had been mentally preparing for one family dinner. Just one polite, awkward, mildly humiliating evening with the Targaryens after that cursed car photo of her and Rhaenyra went viral. Her goal had been simple: show up, behave, survive.
She did not plan to be adopted.
Because after that dinner — which involved Viserys asking if she believed in soulmates and Aemma coolly requesting that she “respect her daughter’s dignity” in public — something shifted.
She became… included.
Not just tolerated. Not just “the girlfriend.” But invited. Expected. Folded into the chaos like someone who’d always been there.
Dinners turned into brunches. Brunches turned into weekend stays. Weekend stays turned into family trips. And before she could blink, Alicent was sitting on the Targaryens’ porch, helping Baela untangle fairy lights while Rhaenyra smuggled glances at her from across the yard like a teenage delinquent.
It was on one such trip — a long weekend at the Targaryen cabin — when Alicent truly understood what she’d gotten herself into.
The invite had been innocent enough.
“Dragonstone’s beautiful in spring,” Aemma said over tea.
“You should come. Rhaenyra always forgets her coat — you’ll remind her.”
Alicent agreed before she could think about it too hard. She figured it would be a few awkward meals, some carefully monitored eye contact, and a strict bedroom arrangement. Easy.
She did not expect to be greeted by matching wool sweaters in their room.
She did not expect Viserys to beam at her like she was the missing piece of some royal prophecy.
She definitely did not expect Aemma to give her a long, unsmiling look after dinner and say quietly:
“I know young people rush into things. But I trust you’ll show my daughter the respect she deserves.”
Alicent nodded. Bit her tongue. Tried not to combust.
They were given separate bedrooms.
Of course.
Aemma was too composed to say it directly, but the message was clear: she didn’t want them sharing a bed. Not under her roof. Not under any roof she’d personally arranged.
And Rhaenyra, predictably, thought it was hilarious.
“She thinks I’m some delicate virgin about to be defiled,” she whispered while sneaking into Alicent’s room at midnight. “We’ve literally done things I can’t even name without summoning demons.”
“You’re being disrespectful.”
“I’m being efficient.”
Alicent groaned. “Do you want her to kill me?”
“Only a little.”
They were careful. Quiet. The kind of desperate that made everything sharper. Softer. They muffled laughter into pillows, bit back moans against each other’s shoulders, whispered “go slow, don’t make a sound” like a prayer.
In the morning, they’d straighten the bedsheets and pretend nothing happened.
Aemma never said anything. But her eyes lingered. Her lips pressed tighter than usual. And once, she passed Alicent a folded blanket with a very pointed, very quiet “Sleep well?”
The rest of the trip was a balancing act.
Viserys adored her. He took her on long walks and talked about Rhaenyra’s childhood, how she never liked bedtime, how she used to collect seashells and demand they call her “Queen of the Shore.”
Alicent listened. Smiled. Let herself be charmed.
The cousins liked her too. Baela made snarky jokes about Rhaenyra being “whipped.” Helaena asked if Alicent had ever tried lucid dreaming. Aegon made inappropriate comments and got tackled by Joffrey before he could finish them.
It was chaotic. But warm. Almost normal.
Except for the tension that never quite went away.
Every time Aemma looked at her, Alicent straightened her spine. Smoothed her tone. Said ma’am even when it felt awkward. And every night, when Rhaenyra slipped into her room with a smirk and cold toes, she felt that pulse of guilt. Of what if she finds out.
Rhaenyra would kiss her neck and say, “She knows. She just doesn’t want to hear about it.”
Alicent believed her. Mostly.
After Dragonstone, it didn’t stop.
The Targaryens just kept inviting her. To dinners. To family outings. To weddings and birthdays and spur-of-the-moment beach days where Viserys insisted on bringing a volleyball he hadn’t used since the ‘90s.
And every time, Aemma would greet her with that same sharp poise. A kiss on the cheek. A slight nod. A carefully chosen sentence like:
“It’s good to see you again. I hope you’re still remembering your studies.”
Or:
“You look tired. Sleeping well?”
Alicent would smile, nod, thank her.
And wonder if she meant something else entirely.
The irony was: she’d started to love them.
Even the discomfort. Even the watchful glances and unsaid warnings. Even Aemma, who terrified her — but also made her tea exactly the way she liked it.
They were maddening. Overbearing. Too much.
Just like Rhaenyra.
But they were hers, now.
And despite everything, she wanted to be around.
Even if she had to pretend she wasn’t going to sneak into her girlfriend’s room later and be pinned against a guesthouse mirror by the very daughter Aemma was trying to protect.
Even if the whole house was playing a game of polite denial.
Even if she knew, in her heart, that Rhaenyra would never stop grinning about it.
“You’re the one who said yes,” Rhaenyra whispered once, pressing a kiss behind her ear.
“You knew what you were getting into.”
Alicent smiled.
Yeah.
She really, really did.
///
Officially, it was just dinner.
No special occasion, no family holiday, no urgent announcement. Just a quiet evening with the Hightowers at their estate — linen napkins, gold-rimmed wine glasses, and a dinner table so long it looked like it could seat an entire board of directors.
Unofficially?
It was the night Alicent introduced Rhaenyra as her mate.
Not just “Rhaenyra, my girlfriend.” Not just “she’s coming with me, hope that’s cool.” But the capital-M, universe-ordained, formally acknowledged Mate.
Alicent tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. She dressed simple. Classic. She didn’t overdo her makeup, didn’t fuss over her shoes. Rhaenyra, mercifully, had taken her hint and dressed just as understated — dark blazer, minimal jewelry, not a trace of her usual smug chaos.
They looked… respectable. Civilized.
Which was exactly what they needed to survive the Hightower dining room.
They arrived just a few minutes early. Enough to be polite, not desperate. Otto greeted them at the door — tight-lipped but not unkind. The handshake he gave Rhaenyra was firm. Measured. His version of diplomacy.
“I appreciate you coming,” he said as he led them into the house. “We’ve… met before. Briefly. Under different circumstances.”
Rhaenyra smiled, unfazed. “The garden party, wasn’t it? You gave a speech about inter-sector negotiations. I remember the part about supply-side reform.”
Otto blinked, surprised. “Yes. Exactly.”
She had him — just slightly — off balance. Alicent nearly exhaled for the first time in ten minutes.
The dinner itself was civil. Too civil.
The conversation skimmed the surface of everything safe: trade, education, politics. Otto asked Rhaenyra about her major, her thesis, her future plans. He never quite smiled, but he listened. Nodded. Acknowledged her responses with neutral approval.
“You’re ambitious,” he said at one point. “Focused. I suppose I can see the appeal.”
“Thank you,” Rhaenyra replied, voice smooth. “I try not to be boring.”
That made Alicent choke slightly on her wine.
Her mother, meanwhile, was far easier to read.
She was cool but warm, if that made sense — gentle in tone, but precise in her phrasing. She asked about Rhaenyra’s upbringing, her hobbies, the story of how they met. She even laughed at Rhaenyra’s joke about how “driving lessons turned into road rage turned into love.”
There was no aggression. No interrogation. Just polite curiosity, like someone taste-testing something she already suspected she might like.
Rhaenyra handled it beautifully.
By the end of dessert, she had Alicent’s mother telling her where to find the best bookstores in Oldtown and offering her a slice of her “famous Hightower lemon tart.”
Alicent could barely sit still. Her chest was warm with relief. It had gone well. Nobody had died. Nobody had argued. Rhaenyra hadn’t sworn once. Otto hadn’t broken into a cold sweat.
She let herself smile for real as they stepped into the hallway to leave, her fingers brushing against Rhaenyra’s wrist as they reached for their coats.
And then—
“Alicent,” her mother called, voice calm. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
She followed her to the sitting room — the one with the ridiculous white couch no one was allowed to sit on unless it was a holy day or the queen herself showed up.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Alicent turned. “Yes?”
Her mother was silent for a beat. Then:
“She’s impressive,” she said softly. “I can see that. And she cares for you.”
Alicent blinked. “Yes. She does.”
A nod. Then a pause. Then, with all the quiet intensity of a woman who’s had four daughters and zero tolerance for bullshit:
“I assume this relationship is… intimate.”
Alicent’s soul left her body.
“I—what—I mean—”
“You don’t have to explain. But you do need to be cautious.”
“Mum.”
“I’m not naïve, darling.” Her mother’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t shift. “I know you’re adults. I know how strong these bonds can feel. But emotional connection doesn’t erase risk. Physicality carries weight. And your future matters. I want you to have one.”
Alicent’s face was molten. “We’re—careful.”
“Be more than careful. Be thoughtful.” Her mother stepped forward and placed a small card into Alicent’s palm. “If you need something—information, or support—don’t guess. Ask.”
Alicent stared at it.
It was a discreetly packaged contact for a high-end omega care clinic. With a personal note written on the back.
She wanted to melt into the expensive carpet.
Her mother, ever composed, gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“You’re intelligent,” she said. “Don’t forget to be wise, too.”
When they finally got in the car, Alicent couldn’t even look at Rhaenyra.
“What?” Rhaenyra asked, confused.
Alicent started the engine. “Don’t.”
“What happened? You look like you saw a ghost.”
She tightened her grip on the wheel.
“My mother gave me the sex talk. Similiar to your mothers one.”
There was silence. Then a laugh. Then wheezing.
“No.”
“Oh yes. She told me to be thoughtful. Gave me a clinic card.”
Rhaenyra was doubled over, practically in her lap.
“She knew we were already—”
“Yes.”
“And she still—”
“Yes.”
Rhaenyra was useless. Tears in her eyes, shoulders shaking.
“You’re not helping,” Alicent muttered.
“Oh, Ali. I am. This is the best day of my life.”
Alicent hit the gas harder than necessary.
“Shut up.”
It was getting harder and harder to find any damn privacy.
After their relationship went public — not because of some heartfelt statement, but because of a grainy, flash-lit photo of them aggressively making out in Alicent’s car outside campus parking garage C — the world decided to become deeply, personally invested in their sex life.
It hadn’t even been a full-on hookup. Just a heated, reckless kiss that had spiraled into hands in each other’s hair and thighs pressed too close and Rhaenyra straddling her lap like the leather seat was home. But someone snapped a picture. It hit Twitter. Then Reddit. Then gossip blogs. Suddenly the internet was flooded with headlines like "Power Heiresses Gone Wild: Targaryen and Hightower Heat Up Behind the Wheel."
Rhaenyra had laughed.
Alicent had wanted to die.
And worse — worse — were the parents.
Viserys and Aemma started watching Rhaenyra like a hawk. Every time she so much as touched Alicent’s hand in front of them, Aemma’s eyebrow twitched in visible disapproval. Viserys wasn’t even subtle. He’d drop lines like, “You girls studying together?” and “Best not to stay up too late” with the most painfully obvious knowing smirk.
Rhaenyra just smiled through it. Played the innocent, affectionate daughter with a twinkle in her eye and hands kept exactly where they were supposed to be. Which only made Aemma more suspicious.
As for Alicent’s house?
That wasn’t an option either.
Not after that dinner. Not after that conversation with her mother. She couldn’t bring Rhaenyra home and risk her parents assuming they were climbing into bed the second the doors shut. Her mother already looked at her with the expression of someone quietly praying nothing sticky ever touched their imported Egyptian cotton sheets.
So. Privacy?
Privacy had to be bought.
Alicent started renting hotel rooms.
Not every day. Not recklessly. Just… enough. Enough to keep them sane. Enough to give Rhaenyra a place to push her down onto a mattress and kiss her like she was starving. Enough to stop whispering shut up shut up shut up someone might hear you while Rhaenyra moaned into her mouth like a goddamn symphony.
The first place she booked was a boutique hotel downtown — marble lobby, soundproof rooms, no questions asked at the front desk. She gave them a fake name the first time. Just in case. It felt ridiculous, like she was cheating on a tax exam instead of just trying to get laid without ending up on TikTok.
Rhaenyra had loved it.
“This place has robes,” she had whispered, already shirtless, pulling Alicent onto the bed with a grin. “You didn’t tell me we were doing rich girl porn.”
“Shut up,” Alicent hissed, kissing her just to shut her up properly.
It became their routine.
They were discreet. Careful. Well—Alicent was careful. Rhaenyra? Rhaenyra was reckless. Louder than she needed to be. Handsy in the elevator. Too flirtatious with the front desk girl once. When Alicent hissed at her to tone it down, she just laughed and said, “They know why we’re here. Might as well make it worth the noise complaints.”
There were no complaints, though. Not with the thick walls and heavy doors. No one could hear Rhaenyra’s laugh. Her moans. The way she whined Alicent like it was a prayer and a dare and a fucking command all at once.
Alicent didn’t know how she kept functioning in class. Or at meetings. Or around her parents.
Because they kept doing it.
Week after week.
Sometimes after a particularly intense debate on Rhaenyra’s end. Sometimes just because they’d catch each other’s eyes during lunch and realize, without speaking, that they needed to. Now. Right after Alicent finished her appointment. Between lectures. Late at night. Early in the morning. Whenever they could.
She booked the rooms on her card. Always the same place. Always the same suite.
And that was her first mistake.
It came in the form of a text.
Alicent was walking out of class, phone in hand, when her mother’s name popped up on screen.
You know we can see your transactions, dear.Maybe next time use cash.It’s getting a little embarrassing for us too.
She stopped mid-step.
Read it again.
And again.
And then died inside.
She didn’t even tell Rhaenyra right away. Not until they were in the car, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her entire existence shriveling with secondhand shame.
“You’re quiet,” Rhaenyra said, picking at the cap of her iced coffee.
“My mom texted me.”
“Uh-oh.”
“She told me to start paying for our hotel rooms in cash.”
“…oh.”
Rhaenyra blinked.
And then laughed.
Hard.
“Alicnet—”
“She said it was embarrassing. For them. My parents are embarrassed by my transaction history.”
“I mean… it’s kind of hot that you’ve got a tab running at that place.”
Alicent glared. “You’re not helping.”
“Your mom is literally tracking our sex life through your AmEx.”
“I KNOW.”
Rhaenyra leaned back, smug. “Guess we gotta start budgeting. Cash-only. Love on the low. Secret rendezvous. You know — romance.”
Alicent buried her face in her hands.
“Never speaking again.”
“Oh, come on. You’re just mad I’m worth the shame.”
She peeked through her fingers. “Are you?”
Rhaenyra just smirked. “Ali, I’m priceless.”
And so, the strategy changed.
Cash tucked into her wallet like she was some teenager sneaking into clubs. Bookings made in person.
///
“We’ve been thinking,” she said, wine glass in hand during one of those tight, uncomfortable dinners where every bite felt like you were eating someone else’s expectations. “Now that you’re in your third year, and your schedules are intensifying... wouldn’t it be good to have your own space?”
Alicent froze, fork halfway to her mouth.
Across the table, Rhaenyra blinked.
Own space?
They already had Rhaenyra’s apartment — more like a glorified closet — and the scattered, inconsistent comfort of boutique hotel suites with soundproof walls and white robes. But own?
“Like a house?” Alicent asked slowly.
Her mother smiled. “Something near campus. Quiet. Private. You girls need privacy.”
There was a long, long pause.
Then Viserys, with all the subtlety of a dragon in a china shop, added, “You’ll be living together eventually. Might as well get used to it.”
Rhaenyra choked on her drink.
Two months later, they moved into what was definitely not just a house.
It was a mansion. A sleek, two-story, modern glass-and-stone fortress that sat just five minutes from campus. Technically walking distance, though Rhaenyra still insisted on driving because, as she claimed, “This house deserves a dramatic entrance.”
It had five bedrooms. Four bathrooms. A garden that made Alicent’s mother sigh with relief because finally, somewhere the gardeners can actually work. A sprawling open-concept kitchen that neither of them would touch except to snack while watching their chef prepare meals like they were in a reality show. A cleaner came by three times a week. The fridge was always stocked. There were backup robes in every bathroom.
It didn’t even feel real at first.
Rhaenyra walked around the place for the first week with her mouth slightly open, stunned by how luxurious everything was. She’d grown up rich — opulent, name-brand, legacy-money rich — but something about this felt different. Intimate. Hand-picked. Custom-made for them.
“This is fucking nuts,” she muttered the first morning, standing in front of the massive glass shower with six pressure settings and a rainfall head. “Like... they just gave us this.”
Alicent, brushing her teeth in a vanity lit like a film set, only nodded.
Living together changed everything.
They no longer had to sneak. No more carefully timed exits. No more makeup smudges hidden behind dark sunglasses. No more awkward run-ins with their parents the day after a late hotel night, wondering if their mothers had seen the room charges.
They could touch. Kiss. Linger. Fuck against the marble kitchen counters or on the chaise lounge in the sunroom. Loudly. Shamelessly. Without worrying about soundproof walls or who was listening.
It was a revelation.
Rhaenyra thrived in the space. She sprawled across couches, claimed the biggest room as their shared bedroom without asking, and hosted impromptu wine nights that turned into make-out sessions under the skylights.
Alicent, despite her usual tight posture and constant schedule, relaxed. Slowly. She started leaving her hair down more. Stopped wearing heels indoors. She even laughed freely when Rhaenyra danced around the kitchen wearing nothing but her sleep shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks, pretending to be a trophy housewife while sipping orange juice.
“This is disgusting,” Alicent muttered once, watching Rhaenyra grind against the refrigerator to an old Rihanna song.
The cleaning lady came Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The gardener showed up Tuesday mornings. The chef making fresh meals everyday.
And sometimes, Rhaenyra forgot just how rich they were. Until she walked into the kitchen to find a personalized grocery delivery unpacked and labeled, or until Alicent waved her away from chores with a casual, “Just leave it for Maria.”
They were young. Wild. Still in college. But everything about their home screamed adulthood in a way neither of them had quite been prepared for.
It was Aemma’s idea, obviously.
“We thought,” she said gently, voice sweet like frosting on poison, “since you two now have that lovely home, it would be only right if you hosted the New Year’s dinner this year.”
Rhaenyra blinked at her across the phone screen. “We don’t even own a dining table big enough for ten people.”
“We’ll send ours,” Aemma replied, serene. “It’ll be delivered a day early. With the flatware.”
And just like that, the Targaryen-Hightower parental unit declared war on Rhaenyra and Alicent’s peace.
Alicent didn’t even flinch when the giant wooden table arrived.
“It’ll be fine,” she said, kneeling to check the linens Aemma had also helpfully shipped over. “One night. They eat, they drink, they go to bed, we survive.”
“They’re sleeping over,” Rhaenyra reminded her, perched on the arm of the couch with her fourth cup of coffee. “Your parents and mine. Under this roof. All at once. In our house. Our house where you quite literally railed me over the marble kitchen island last week.”
Alicent looked up. “We have four guest bedrooms. It’s not that serious.”
Rhaenyra pointed a dramatic finger. “You’re not the one whose mother still thinks we sleep in twin beds like we’re in some 1950s sitcom. She’s going to separate us like we’re horny toddlers.”
Alicent looked very much like she wanted to deny that. But then she sighed. Because, unfortunately, Rhaenyra was right.
Aemma arrived the morning of December 31st wearing a pearl necklace and the look of a woman who could command a military fleet if handed a clipboard. Viserys followed behind her, cheerfully oblivious, while Otto and Alicent’s mother arrived ten minutes later and immediately offered to help in the kitchen.
The dinner was... fine. Tense in the way only family dinners could be. Aemma asked pointed questions about Alicent’s coursework. Otto subtly grilled Rhaenyra about her “post-grad ambitions.” Alicent’s mother brought a pie, offered unsolicited advice about herbs for digestion, and cornered Rhaenyra near the wine rack to ask how she handled Alicent’s moods.
Rhaenyra, tipsy but holding it together, only smirked and said, “Oh, I like the moods.”
By 11:45 p.m., the tension had softened — dulled by wine, the warmth of the fireplace, and a shocking moment where Viserys successfully made everyone laugh with a genuinely good joke about family politics and goats. Alicent had just refilled the sugar bowl, her cheeks pink from wine and heat, when Aemma — already in her sleep robe — reentered the kitchen and gave them the look.
“I hope you’ve prepared separate rooms,” she said firmly. “I don’t want any... confusion tonight.”
It was said politely. Kindly. But it landed with the weight of a medieval decree.
Rhaenyra, who’d had just enough to drink, didn’t even try to resist.
“Of course, Mother,” she said with the sweetest, fakest smile she’d ever worn. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, she added, “Although, frankly, it’s a little late to pretend. We’ve been fucking since, what, week two?”
Alicent dropped the sugar spoon.
The silence was thick.
Aemma blinked. Viserys’ eyebrows shot up. Otto tilted his head slightly like he’d heard something unexpected but not entirely surprising.
Rhaenyra, cool as ice and half-drunk on wine and defiance, stirred her tea.
Alicent, meanwhile, had gone completely still. She stood frozen next to the sugar bowl, face going from wine-flushed pink to deep, mortified crimson. In a move born purely of survival instinct, she picked up the sugar with trembling fingers and turned to her girlfriend’s parents, her voice high and brittle.
“Would you like more sugar?”
Aemma still hadn’t moved.
Viserys cleared his throat. “No, darling, thank you.”
Rhaenyra kicked Alicent’s ankle under the table.
Alicent gritted her teeth, kept her smile fixed, and asked Aemma, “...You?”
“No. I’m fine.”
The tension didn’t break. It just settled. Like dust after an explosion. Everyone went back to sipping their tea as if they hadn’t just heard Rhaenyra Targaryen declare her early sex life with her mate with the casual confidence of someone announcing the weather.
Alicent didn’t speak again until they were in the hallway, walking to their assigned bedrooms — separate ones, for the performance.
She turned to Rhaenyra with an expression of pure betrayal.
“I’m not talking to you until next year.”
Then the door clicked shut.
Rhaenyra just laughed. Loud and unrepentant.
It was 11:59 p.m. anyway.
She’d only have to wait a minute.
Ofcouse, around 2am Rhaenyra did sneak into Alicnet's room.
It wasn’t supposed to be this intense.
A quick kiss, maybe. A few minutes of tangled limbs, hands down shorts, pressed mouths and panting breaths. But Rhaenyra never played fair. She moaned into her palm when Alicent pushed her down into the pillows, and that’s when Alicent snapped.
One of her hands shot up, clamping down over Rhaenyra’s mouth—firm, steady, commanding. Her other hand yanked Rhaenyra’s thigh higher, locking her in place as she moved inside her, slow at first, then not at all.
“Nyra” Alicent whispered, lips brushing Rhaenyra’s cheek. “Be still.”
Rhaenyra tried. She really did. But she couldn't help herself—she was writhing under Alicent’s touch, every shift and grind of her hips drawing sounds she shouldn’t be making. The problem was, being silenced just turned her on more. She bit the hand over her mouth. Not hard—just a warning, just a tease. Her tongue flicked out, slow and deliberate. She licked the inside of Alicent’s palm and smirked against it.
Alicent froze for a moment.
Then she shoved her harder into the mattress.
“You.”
The rhythm picked up. Every movement was fierce, desperate, a retaliation—Alicent’s breath ragged in her ear as she thrust faster, as if proving a point Rhaenyra was too far gone to argue with. Her hands stayed firm, even as Rhaenyra writhed and moaned against her, even as Rhaenyra’s nails dug into her arms and her legs locked around Alicent’s waist.
Rhaenyra was being fucked like Alicent was trying to erase the memory of that dinner. Every awkward glance, every sugared-laced silence, every fucking smirk Rhaenyra had tossed across the table like a live grenade.
And Alicent was determined to silence her in every way.
Minutes passed. Then more. Neither of them paid attention to time anymore—not when Rhaenyra was arching her back so sharply the headboard creaked (and Alicent had to quickly slam a hand against it to keep it from knocking). Not when Alicent came with a muffled groan buried in Rhaenyra’s throat, biting down against her shoulder so no one heard.
When it was finally over, when they lay tangled in damp sheets and stolen breaths, Alicent slowly removed her hand from Rhaenyra’s mouth.
“You bit me.”
///
It started, like most things did in the Targaryen-Hightower household, with silence.
A slow, creeping silence that followed Rhaenyra through the front door like fog. Her parents were waiting for her in the sitting room—both of them. No wine poured. No fire lit. Just Viserys and Aemma seated side by side, backs straight, expressions unreadable. That was the first bad sign.
The second was the printout resting on the coffee table. A photo, cropped and enlarged. Rhaenyra in profile, head tilted as she reached to open the car door. Hair pushed back. Collar slightly off-center.
And there it was.
The mark.
Not just a bruise. Not something that would fade with a good night’s sleep and aloe. This was deeper. Dark, reddish-purple and beginning to scar already. A bite. Clean and deliberate. The kind of mark that meant something.
The kind of mark you didn’t hide with a scarf for a few days and move on.
“Sit,” Aemma said quietly.
Rhaenyra did.
No one spoke for a long minute. Then:
“Is it permanent?” Viserys asked. His voice was even. Cold.
Rhaenyra’s mouth was dry. “Yeah.”
“And this happened when?”
She hesitated. “A week ago, or so?”
Neither parent reacted outwardly. They just stared at her, a little longer than was comfortable.
“She didn’t mean to—” Rhaenyra started, but Aemma cut her off.
“That’s not the issue,” she said, and her voice was like fine glass. “The issue is that it happened at all. That you let it happen. That you didn’t stop her.”
Rhaenyra sat up straighter. “I wasn’t exactly coherent at the time.”
“You knew what it meant,” Aemma said, tone clipped. “Don’t insult us by pretending otherwise.”
Viserys leaned forward then, folding his hands together. “Do you have any idea what message that sends? Not just to us. To the families. To the press. You’ve been marked, Rhaenyra. Permanently. By an alpha you’re not even engaged to.”
Rhaenyra opened her mouth, then shut it again.
The weight of their stares was unbearable.
Rhaenyra looked away.
Silence again.
Then Aemma leaned in, voice lower now, and far more dangerous.
“She needs to propose. Immediately.”
Rhaenyra blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. We can’t have you walking around with a permanent mark from an unbonded partner. It’s humiliating. For you. For us.”
Viserys nodded. “It’s not about appearances anymore. It’s about accountability. You’re not children. You want to act like mates? Then act like it. Make it official.”
“And if she’s not ready?” Rhaenyra asked, a little sharper than she meant to.
“Then why the fhell did she mark you?” Aemma’s words were so soft they almost didn’t register—but the venom in them did. “Because this family won’t tolerate half-measures. You don’t get to be half-mated. Not with a scar like that.”
Rhaenyra stood. Her jaw was set tight, her hands curled into fists at her sides.
Aemma’s eyes narrowed. “If she doesn’t propose soon, we will intervene.”
///
It had rained the night before.
The sky was still grey when they saddled up, low clouds swaying like heavy fabric across the horizon, but the fields behind the estate were soft and green and warm with dew. Rhaenyra’s boots sunk slightly into the mud as she guided Syrax by the reins, her hair already curling from the moisture. Alicent watched from the stable doors, gloves half-pulled on, helmet under her arm.
“You look like a fairytale,” Alicent said, not even trying to hide her grin.
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, but she smiled too, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Do fairytale princesses smell like hay and horse sweat?”
“Yes,” Alicent said, stepping forward. “The good ones do.”
They rode without urgency, Syrax responding to Rhaenyra’s commands with more trust than she had in those first few lessons. The golden mare was temperamental, strong-willed—fitting, really—but she’d softened. Like Rhaenyra had. Or maybe Rhaenyra had always been soft, just covered in layers of armor no one ever thought to peel back.
Alicent followed close behind on Moondancer, her silver-grey mare, who flicked her ears constantly, always alert. The quiet suited them. There were no phones out here, no press, no parents. Just wind, and the subtle squish of hooves through wet grass, and the occasional chuff of breath from their mounts.
They didn’t talk much.
Alicent kept glancing at her gloved hand, fingers twitching toward the pocket of her jacket. It was ridiculous how nervous she felt, even now. After years. After ruts and silences and fights and laughter and sleepovers that turned into full cohabitation.
Alicent cleared her throat. “Let’s stop for a bit.”
Rhaenyra glanced back. “Tired already?”
“No, just… here. It’s nice.”
A small hill sloped out into a clearing, thick with wildflowers. The remnants of summer hung heavy in the air—sweet, earthy, damp. Rhaenyra dismounted first, patting Syrax’s flank before letting her graze. Alicent followed, tying Moondancer’s reins loosely around the branch of a young tree. The horses snorted and huffed, happy to rest.
Rhaenyra was already lying down in the grass, arms folded beneath her head, watching the clouds like they were old friends. “If you dragged me out here to say something sappy, I’m going to pretend I hate it.”
Alicent’s heart beat like war drums.
She knelt beside her. Quiet. Watching Rhaenyra’s profile—the lazy smirk, the stubborn line of her jaw, the faint curve of the scar on her neck. A mark she'd made. A promise unspoken, until now.
“I’ve been thinking,” Alicent said, fingers trailing over the ring box in her pocket.
Rhaenyra cracked an eye open. “Dangerous.”
Alicent huffed out a laugh, but it caught in her throat. Her hand slipped into her jacket. Felt the shape. Pulled it free.
“I bought this a week after we started dating.”
Rhaenyra blinked.
“Seriously,” Alicent continued. “I was walking back to campus, after our first real date—the one where you dragged me into that shitty diner at 2am and ordered four milkshakes. I walked past a jewelry store. And I saw this ring. And I don’t know what possessed me. I just—bought it.”
She opened the box.
The ring wasn’t flashy. A simple gold band, sleek and warm in the morning light, with a tiny sunstone set into the middle. Golden-red, like a flame caught in amber.
“I kept it hidden for years. Moved it every time you were a bit to close to it. Thought I’d lose it a hundred times. But I never did.”
Rhaenyra was silent. Her face unreadable.
Alicent swallowed. “I know we don’t do anything traditionally. And I know our parents think we’re insane. But i want to change that mouthfull last name of yours”
She held the box out.
“Marry me, Rhaenyra. Please. Gods, just say yes before I throw up.”
Rhaenyra stared at the ring for a long moment, and then she reached up—fast—hooked a hand around Alicent’s collar and dragged her down into the grass beside her, laughing, breathless, lips finding hers in a kiss that said everything and then some.
She broke the kiss just long enough to whisper:
“You’ve been carrying that ring around for two fucking years?”
Alicent nodded, dazed.
“You’re such a romantic loser,” Rhaenyra grinned. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
Alicent let out something between a laugh and a sob, ring still clutched in her hand.
Rhaenyra bit her lip. “Now fuck me before the horses fall asleep.”
Alicent stared at her.
Rhaenyra smirked. “It’s your fiancée now. You better get used to doing whatever she says.”
So she did.