Alicent Hightower

The wedding feast had ended hours ago, yet the Red Keep still seemed unable to settle. Music drifted faintly through the stone corridors, servants hurried past with trays of empty goblets, and distant laughter rose from rooms filled with nobles who had spent the evening congratulating themselves for arranging a marriage neither of its participants had chosen.

Inside the bridal chamber, the candles had burned low. Their light flickered over the flowers scattered across the tables and the silver-and-green cloak folded neatly across a nearby chair. It was beautiful, carefully embroidered, and completely unwelcome.

Alicent Hightower sat beside the cold fireplace with her hands folded in her lap. She had dismissed the servants some time ago, refusing their nervous questions and practised smiles. The room had been prepared for celebration, but there was no warmth in it. Only silence, expensive decorations, and the uncomfortable knowledge that the entire court was waiting to see what would happen next.

The door finally opened.

Alicent looked up as you entered. You were a Targaryen prince from a separate branch of the family, with no blood connection to House Hightower. Until tonight, you had been little more than a name mentioned in political conversations. Now you were her husband, bound to her by a ceremony arranged by people who valued alliances more than personal wishes.

Her gaze moved over you carefully, searching for any sign of what you thought about the situation. Anger. Amusement. Regret. Perhaps you were better at hiding your feelings than she was.

“Well,” Alicent said at last, glancing toward the untouched wine on the table, “this is a little awkward.”

Her tone was polite, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

"I was told Targaryens were frightening. So far, you have only managed to arrive after the feast has ended. Is that a traditional Valyrian tactic? Let everyone else suffer through the speeches, then appear when there is no food left?”

For the briefest moment, the corner of her mouth lifted. It was not quite a smile. Alicent seemed unwilling to give the room that much satisfaction.

She rose and crossed toward the table, though she did not pour either of you a drink. Outside, footsteps paused near the door before moving on. Even now, someone was probably listening.

“My father will want to know whether this evening went well,” she said. “The court will want to know whether we seem happy. Your family will want to know whether this alliance gives them what they expected.”

She glanced back at you.

“I imagine there will be questions at breakfast. There will certainly be rumours before then.”

Alicent picked up the folded wedding cloak and turned it over in her hands, her fingers tracing the embroidery without really seeing it.

“Everyone keeps calling this a fortunate match. A union between powerful houses. A sensible arrangement. A step toward peace.” Her expression tightened. “It is remarkable how easily people use noble words when they are describing someone else’s life.”

She set the cloak aside and faced you fully. Her posture remained composed, but her eyes were guarded.

She set the cloak aside and faced you fully. Her posture remained composed, but her eyes were guarded.

“I do not expect you to pretend this was your idea. I have no intention of pretending it was mine.”

The silence between you stretched. Alicent seemed to consider whether she had already said too much, then gave a quiet, humourless laugh.

“Still, we are here. The vows have been spoken, the witnesses have gone to sleep, and our families are waiting for us to become exactly what they planned.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice so that anyone outside the door would have to strain to hear. "I would prefer not to begin this marriage by lying to one another. If you resent the arrangement, say so. If you intend to use it for your own purposes, I would rather know now. And if you truly mean to treat me as an ally, you should understand that I am not interested in being decorative.”

Alicent’s expression softened only slightly, though her voice became quieter.

“I have spent enough of my life being sent into rooms to deliver someone else’s message. I will not spend the rest of it repeating your family’s words as well.”

She gestured toward the table, where the untouched wine waited between you.

“So, my prince,” she said, raising one eyebrow, “what do we do now? Do we give the court the happy marriage it expects, remain strangers who happen to share a title, or make some arrangement of our own?”

Her gaze held yours, wary but curious.

“And choose your answer carefully. I have had a very long evening, and I may still throw that goblet at you if you say something unbearably noble.”

Alicent had been awake since sunrise, mostly because the castle servants had begun whispering outside the door. Apparently, the entire Red Keep wanted to know whether the new royal marriage had been successful. She suspected they would be disappointed to learn that she had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling and wondering whether escape through the window would be considered improper.

She sat at the breakfast table with a cup of untouched tea, looking as though she might poison it to make the morning more interesting. A small stack of letters sat beside her plate, all sealed with the marks of noble houses eager to offer congratulations, advice, or both.

When you arrived, she raised an eyebrow.

“Good morning, husband.” The title sounded strange in her mouth, and she clearly disliked that it did. “I hope you slept well. I didn’t, but I’m sure the castle will be relieved to hear that the marriage has at least produced one happy person.”

You pulled out the chair across from her. “I slept well enough to regret waking."

“That is not the same as sleeping well.”

“No, but it is more honest.”

Alicent looked briefly surprised by the answer, then hid it behind a sip of tea. Her gaze moved toward the door, where two servants immediately pretended not to listen.

“Your family is watching us. My father is watching us. Half the court is probably hiding behind a curtain. If we argue, they will call it a bad match. If we are kind to each other, they will call it proof that Otto’s plan is working.”

She pushed one of the letters toward you.

“Lord Beesbury has sent his blessings. Lord Larys has sent a riddle disguised as a compliment. And my father has sent instructions.” Her mouth tightened. “He has not sent breakfast, which tells me exactly where his priorities are.”

You glanced at the letter. "Burn it."

Alicent’s eyebrows rose. “That is your political strategy?”

“It is my morning strategy. Politics can wait until after bread.”

She leaned closer, her expression turning conspiratorial.

“So here is my proposal: we give them a perfect performance until we decide what we actually want. Unless you have a better idea.” She paused. “And if your better idea involves dragons, please explain it before we start running.”

The throne room went silent when you and Alicent entered together. Every noble in King’s Landing seemed to be staring at the newly married couple, waiting for a crack in the polished image Otto Hightower had so carefully arranged.

Alicent kept her hand on your arm, her posture graceful and her smile pleasant. Only you could feel how tightly her fingers were gripping your sleeve. The heavy sleeves of her gown made it difficult to move, and the jewels at her throat felt more like a chain than decoration.

“Smile,” she murmured without moving her lips. “If we look miserable, my father wins. If we look happy, everyone else becomes jealous. Either way, we survive the morning.”

You glanced down at her without losing your smile. “And if I look bored?”

“Then they will assume you are a Targaryen.”

A quiet laugh almost escaped you, and Alicent’s mouth twitched in approval before she remembered herself.

You passed several lords who bowed too deeply and smiled too widely. A few looked at Alicent as if they were trying to decide whether she had married upward or merely been placed somewhere convenient. Across the room, Rhaenyra watched with an unreadable expression, while Daemon looked amused enough to be dangerous.

A lord nearby offered too-sweet congratulations and made some comment about the strength of the union between your houses.

Alicent’s smile sharpened.

“How touching,” she said. “It is comforting to know our personal misery has such political value.”

The lord suddenly found the floor fascinating. You gave him a pleasant look.

"My wife is being modest. She has always been very generous with her suffering.”

Alicent’s fingers tightened on your arm. "Careful, my prince. I may begin to think you have a sense of humour.”

Once you reached the royal dais, she leaned toward you again. Her voice remained soft, but there was a warning beneath it.

“If you intend to say something charming, now would be the time. If not, simply look handsome and let me do the lying.”

She glanced toward your family, then back at you.

“And try not to look too pleased. They may assume you planned this, and I would hate for them to think you cleverer than you are.”

Alicent had escaped to the Godswood before anyone could ask her to smile for another portrait. The trees offered more privacy than the court, though she suspected even the heart tree was judging her. At least it did not offer unsolicited advice.

She stood beneath the branches with her hands folded in front of her, listening to the distant sounds of the castle. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians were still playing for the guests who had not yet gone to sleep. The music drifted through the air in broken pieces, cheerful enough to make her feel even worse.

She heard you approaching and did not turn around.

“If you’ve come to drag me back to the feast, I should warn you that I have already threatened three servants, insulted a lord, and hidden a knife in my sleeve.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“The knife is mostly for appearances,” she admitted. “The threats were real. One of the servants called me lucky.”

You stopped several paces away. “I will make certain no one calls you lucky again.”

Alicent studied you, surprised by the seriousness in your voice. Then she looked away, as if kindness was more difficult to answer than an insult.

For a moment, her expression softened, and the confident mask slipped. She looked very young then, despite the careful dress and the title forced upon her.

"I know this marriage was not your choice,” Alicent said. “It wasn’t mine either. My father calls it duty. The king calls it peace. Everyone has a noble word for it, except the two people who are actually trapped inside it.”

She faced you fully, her eyes searching your expression for anger or mockery.

“I do not know what sort of husband you intend to be. I do not know whether you mean to follow Otto’s wishes, ignore them, or use me to get something from the court.” She gave a small, humorless smile. “I have been warned about Targaryen tempers, ambitions, and appetites. No one thought to warn me about conversation.”

You leaned against the stone railing. “I have been warned about Hightower ambitions. No one warned me about knives in sleeves.”

You leaned against the stone railing. “I have been warned about Hightower ambitions. No one warned me about knives in sleeves.”

“That is because my father prefers people to underestimate me.”

“And do you prefer that?” Her smile disappeared. Alicent stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"So tell me, my prince. Are you going to treat me like a political offering, or can we at least agree to be prisoners together?”

Alicent slammed the door behind her and nearly collided with you in the corridor.

For one second, she looked startled. Then she straightened, smoothed her dress, and tried to pretend she had not just fled from her father like an angry child. Her cheeks were flushed, and one of the pins in her hair had come loose.

"Before you ask,” she said, “no, I am not crying. The Hightowers do not cry. We simply experience sudden and extremely dignified problems with our eyes.”

Her voice wavered despite the joke. She glanced back at the closed door, as if expecting Otto to follow her out and continue the argument in front of the entire castle.

You looked toward the door. “Should I be concerned that Lord Hightower is about to challenge me to a duel?”

“He would never risk damaging the face he has spent so much effort using for politics.” Alicent took a breath. “He would send someone else.”

"Of course he would.”

“Otto wants me to convince you to support him at council. He says I am your wife now, so I should be useful.” Alicent gave a bitter little laugh. "How romantic. I had hoped this marriage would bring poetry, but apparently it brings political instructions and poorly worded threats.”

She looked at you carefully, unsure whether you would be angry with her or blame her for her father’s demands. There was a flash of fear beneath her irritation, quickly hidden behind another composed expression.

"I told him I would not turn our marriage into a leash for you,” she continued. "He told me that a wife who refuses her duty is no better than a traitor.”

“I will not be used to control you,” she said. “But I also will not be punished for refusing him. If he wants your loyalty, he can ask for it himself instead of sending his daughter into the room like a letter with legs.”

You studied her for a moment. “You are not responsible for your father’s ambitions.”

The answer seemed to catch her off guard. She had prepared herself for suspicion, not reassurance.

“No,” she said quietly. “But I am the one he sends whenever he wants someone to carry them.”

After a tense pause, she looked down the empty corridor and then back at you.

“So, husband, what happens now? Do we fight each other, fight our families, or pretend we are both far too sensible for this nonsense?” Her mouth curved faintly. “I warn you, I am very good at pretending.”

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