Chapter Text
“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen arrives at Oldtown today for the final stop of her diplomatic tour,” the announcer declared over the radio. “The heir to the Iron Throne will pay a visit to the renowned Starry Sept before continuing her other engagements.”
Banners bearing the three-headed dragon snapped in the breeze from Whispering Sound, and somewhere in the alleyways of the old city, a young journalist named Alicent Hightower switched off her radio, knowing her editor would soon be demanding coverage she had no heart to write.
—
Princess Rhaenyra sat in the backseat of her car, her hands folded in her lap in the way she'd been taught since childhood. Through the tinted windows, crowds of people gathered along the route to the hotel she would be staying, tourists and locals alike hoping to catch a glimpse of the silver-haired heir to the Iron Throne.
“Your grace, we'll be arriving at the hotel in ten minutes,” Elinda, Rhaenyra's handmaiden, announced from the front seat. “Your first engagement is the tour at the Sept, then the evening beneficent gala.”
Rhaenyra closed her eyes. Months of this diplomatic tour across Westeros and beyond. Months of feeling the tightness of her shoes, the ache in her jaw from smiling for cameras in King's Landing, Gulltown, White Harbor, Lannisport and now here. Beyond years of being the perfect princess, the dutiful heir, the symbol rather than the person.
“And tomorrow?” she asked, though she already knew.
“The children's hospital in the morning, lunch with the merchant guilds followed by a visit to the new trade center at half past three. Then there's the ceremonial ribbon cutting for the harbor restoration project at five and cocktails with the regional governors at seven.”
Rhaenyra pressed her fingertips to her temples, where a terrible headache was beginning to bloom.
“I need a rest,” she said, but nobody heard her.
Instead, Elinda spoke, “Your grace, we're approaching the largest gathering. The window, if you would.”
Before she could protest, the tinted window beside her began to lower. The sounds of the crowd exploded into a roar that made her temples throb worse. Thousands upon thousands of faces pressed against the barriers, voices calling her name in a cacophony that seemed to shake the very car.
“Princess Rhaenyra! Over here!”
“Your grace! Look this way!”
“We love you, Princess!”
Her hand moved automatically in a wave, lips stretching into a smile that the photographers called ‘radiant’ and ‘captivating’ in the morning papers.
The crowd surged forward despite the barriers, a sea of reaching hands and flashing cameras, strangers screaming her name and fighting to capture her image.
Rhaenyra felt less a woman than a dragon in chains, paraded before others for their delight.
—
The evening news in Oldtown led with footage of Princess Rhaenyra's arrival. The cameras captured her wave from the car, her reverent tour of the Sept, where she'd lit candles for the souls of fallen dragons. The final segment showed her at the evening gala.
“This evening's charity gala raised over fifty thousand gold dragons for the city's literacy program,” the broadcast continued, showing brief footage of the princess in an elegant midnight blue gown, applauding politely as children from local schools performed traditional Reach folk songs. “Princess Rhaenyra's grace and dedication to public service continues to inspire citizens throughout the realm.”
The camera then switched to street interviews with local residents. A baker wiped flour from her hands before speaking: “My little ones were so excited to perform for the princess tonight. She stayed after to speak with each child personally! In these uncertain times, it's good to see the crown still cares about the common folk. Education lifts us all.”
The news anchor returned on screen as footage played of the princess departing the gala.
“The Princess appeared in excellent spirits,” the anchor shuffled his papers. “Tomorrow promises another full day for her grace, including a visit to Oldtown Children's Hospital and more! We'll have complete coverage of all the Princess Rhaenyra's activities. This has been Oldtown Evening News. Good night.”
—
Hours later, in the opulent hotel suite overlooking Oldtown's harbor, Princess Rhaenyra finally allowed her shoulders to sag. The door had barely closed behind her entourage before she was reaching behind her neck, removing the clasp of her heavy dragon necklace.
“Let me help you, your grace,” said Elinda.
Rhaenyra winced as the ornate jewelry came away from her skin, leaving red marks where it had pressed against her collarbone all day.
Elinda’s gentle hands were already working on the dozens of pins holding Rhaenyra's elaborate hairstyle in place. One by one, the silver-gold waves tumbled free, and Rhaenyra couldn't suppress a sigh of relief.
Rhaenyra kicked off the torturous heels that had been pinching her feet for fourteen hours straight, wiggling her toes against the plush carpet.
“Seven hells, I think my toes have forgotten what it feels like to lie flat.”
As Elinda helped her out of the formal gown—a process that involved unlacing, unhooking, and removing layers upon layers of silk and stays—Rhaenyra caught sight of herself in the full mirror. Her reflection looked pale and tired, purple shadows under her blue eyes that no amount of powder had been able to conceal.
“Your nightgown, your grace,” Elinda said, holding up a conservative cotton garment that fell nearly to the floor, with long sleeves and a high neckline.
“Why must I dress like a septa even in my own bedchamber?” Rhaenyra's noise wrinkled. “Look at this thing, it's what my great-grandmother probably wore to bed. I'm twenty-four years old, not eighty-four.”
“It's proper, your grace. The—”
“Proper,” Rhaenyra repeated bitterly, sinking onto the edge of the massive four-poster bed. “Do you know what I would like to do, Elinda? I would like to sleep completely naked. Feel the silk sheets against my skin without layers of cotton in the way.”
Elinda's cheeks flushed pink. “Your grace, I... perhaps we could find another piece of the same sort, yet somewhat more comfortable? There might—”
“No,” Rhaenyra rubbed her temples again, the headache that had been building all day was now pounding behind her eyes. “It's fine, Elinda. Everything is always fine.”
Rhaenyra stood and allowed Elinda to slip the offending nightgown over her head. It pooled around her feet like a tent, thoroughly unsexy, she was dressed like an old aunt from the Faith of the Seven.
When was the last time she had chosen what to wear? When was the last time she had done anything simply because she wanted to?
“I need a break, Elinda. I must vanish for a while, have a holiday of some sort.”
Elinda paused in her tidying, looking confused. “But your grace, you are already on a holiday. This entire tour it's meant to be a vacation from your duties in King's Landing.”
Oh yes, a holiday that was not a holiday. A vacation where she was more scheduled than at home. The itinerary being cutting ribbons, visiting places she did not desire, having lunch with merchants. Smile, wave, repeat. How was that different from being in the Red Keep?
She was so tired. Tired in her bones, tired in her soul.
“Elinda, I am in desperate need of release from these routines. Not another appointed rest between appointments.”
Elinda's brows furrowed, her hands stilling on the silk chemise she'd been folding. She was visibly struggling to comprehend what her princess could possibly need that wasn't already being provided.
Rhaenyra did not expect her to understand. How could she? Elinda would never be the one to bear the weight of the crown.
Rhaenyra moved to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes to look out at Oldtown's skyline. The harbor glittered in the moonlight, and she could see people moving about in the streets below, ordinary people going about their ordinary lives. A couple walked hand in hand along the waterfront. A group of young people laughing loudly enough that she could hear their joy even from her tower.
If this were the old days, the true days of House Targaryen, she would not be trapped behind these windows like a caged songbird. She would have a dragon of her own, hatched from an egg placed in her cradle as an infant, bonded to her very soul. She could be flying above the clouds right now, wind tearing through her hair, the world stretching vast and endless beneath her. Nobody could tell her no. The sky would be hers.
The Targaryens had once been conquerors, their dragons carrying them across seas and kingdoms alike, binding the realm in awe and fear. They had lost their dragons first slowly, then all at once, all of them extinguished as if the gods themselves had decreed it. Some said the magic had simply left the world. Others whispered that the Targaryens had grown too far from their Valyrian roots, that generations of marriage with other noble houses had diluted the dragonblood until it ran too thin to wake the ancient fire. Nevertheless, even without their winged beasts, the dragonlords had not lost their power entirely. Fire lived in their veins, and the people of Westeros had not forgotten to kneel before a Targaryen.
When Rhaenyra dreamed, she sometimes soared above clouds on wings that weren't her own. The blood of Old Valyria ran in her veins, dragon-hot, as it had been for generations past and those still to come.
“Do you ever wonder, Elinda, what it would feel like to simply leave? To go wherever you wished, whenever you wished, beholden to no one?”
Below, the couple had stopped waking, the woman laughing as the man spun her in a circle.
“I suppose I've never thought much about it, your grace. I've always known my place was here, serving you.”
Your place. Everyone had their place, their role to play. Including Rhaenyra, even though it seemed a burden to carry more often than not. Yet within that burden there smoldered a fire she could not put out, the same fire that had once set dragons soaring.
She wanted the throne itself. She wanted more than freedom. To be not merely daughter, not merely consort, but sovereign. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the first of her name. She would be the very first woman to rule the Seven Kingdoms, whether the men of the small council willed it or not, for the crown was her birthright.
And the same blood that made her heir also made her wild, restless, impossible to be fully contain.
The moonlight spilling across the room caught her eyes and set them alight. Rhaenyra studied the window more carefully, noting how it opened outward with ornate brass handles. The hotel was elegant but not fortress-like—this wasn't the Red Keep with its impossible walls and ever-present guards. Her suite was only on the third floor, and there was decorative stonework below the window, carved dragons and vines that could almost serve as a ladder if someone were desperate enough.
“Elinda,” she said slowly, “how many guards are posted outside my door tonight?”
“Two, your grace. There is also the security detail in the lobby, and—why do you ask?”
Rhaenyra traced the window latch with one finger, testing how easily it moved. “Just curious.”
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; nearly midnight. In a few hours, the guards would change shifts, and there would be that brief moment when their attention might be elsewhere.
A little escape never killed anyone, has it? Just one night beyond the endless rehearsals of duty. To taste freedom, if only for an hour, to walk among the living as one of them rather than the queen-to-be.
“Shall I braid your hair, your grace?”
“Leave it,” Rhaenyra said, running her fingers through the silver-gold waves. At least her hair could be free, even if nothing else about her could be.
A knock on the door filled the room. Elinda moved to answer it, and the royal physician entered.
“Your grace,” he said with a small bow. “Time for your evening medication.”
Rhaenyra did not move away from the window. “I do not want it tonight.”
“Your grace, the stress of so many public appearances—”
“I'm tired enough to sleep without being drugged into unconsciousness,” Rhaenyra said. “Please, one night. Let me just be a normal person and fall asleep naturally.”
“Your schedule tomorrow is demanding,” the physician remembered. “The children's hospital visit alone will require significant emotional reserves. You need to be at your absolute best.”
“But I'm not at my best!” The words burst out of her. “I haven't been at my best in months! I'm exhausted, I can barely think straight, and every day feels exactly like the last one! Maybe if I could sleep normally, dream normally, wake up naturally instead of being chemically reset like some sort of… of wind-up toy!”
She turned back to the window. By the corner of her eye, she could see Elinda and the physician exchanging the kind of looks adults gave each other when discussing a difficult child.
Rhaenyra let out a heavy sight. “I want to be left alone.”
The physician cleared his throat. “Your grace, I understand your concerns, truly I do. But the king was quite specific about your need for proper rest, as he feared you might become even more of a problem. Consider how disappointed he would be if you were unable to fulfill his wishes.”
Rhaenyra froze at the mention of her father. She had spent her entire life filling a void that should have been occupied by the son he'd always wanted. The son he'd lost. The son he'd never gotten.
Her father had been stuck with her instead, a daughter who would never be Baelon. So she had thrown herself into being better than any son could have been, willing to sacrifice every piece of herself on the altar of his approval.
And still, no matter how hard she tried, in his eyes she would always be ‘more of a problem’ for him to handle it.
Elinda moved closer. “It might be for the better, your grace. You've seemed quite agitated these past few weeks.”
The physician was already approaching with the needle, and Elinda was gently pulling her away from the tantalizing glimpse of freedom that the window offered.
Rhaenyra felt the walls closing in around her. Even at twenty four she still wasn't allowed to make decisions about her own body.
“This will help you sleep deeply, your grace,” the physician promised. “You'll wake refreshed and ready for tomorrow's duties.”
With no real choice, Rhaenyra sat heavily on the ornate bed, its silk coverlets as confining as everything else.
She felt the sharp prick of the needle, and she rubbed the spot on her arm where it had gone in. The medication would take a few minutes to work, she'd noticed that pattern over the weeks.
“There,” the physician said, packing away his supplies.
As he left, Elinda settled into the chair beside the bed with her embroidery, preparing for her nightly vigil.
“I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, your grace.”
Rhaenyra lay back against the pillows, forcing her breathing to become slower and deeper.
“Actually, Elinda, I'm feeling asleep already. You don't need to stay.”
“Are you sure, your grace? I always stay until—”
“Please,” Rhaenyra murmured, turning slightly away from Elinda and letting her voice grow thick. “I feel so... peaceful tonight.”
She let her eyelids fall and forced herself to lie still. Through barely cracked eyelids, she watched Elinda taking hesitating steps toward the door.
“Your grace?” Elinda whispered.
Finally, Rhaenyra heard the sound of the door closing, and her eyes snapped open as soon as the handmaiden left.
Moving as quietly as she could, she slipped out of the ridiculous nightgown and padded barefoot to the enormous wardrobe. Row upon row of formal gowns, ceremonial robes, and structured day dresses. All of them screaming ‘princess’ to anyone with eyes. But there, at the very back, she found a long blue skirt and a simple white blouse. It was the most ordinary piece of clotting she owned, a thing a shopkeeper's daughter might wear to the market.
Off came the ridiculous nightgown, and on went the plain clothes.
Her hair. Her silver-gold Targaryen hair would give her away instantly. So she grabbed a headscarf dotted with polka dots from the bottom of a trunk and wrapped it around her head, tucking every telltale strand out of sight.
She slipped her feet into a pair of simple black flats, still with a modest little heel, yet far from the towering heights she was used to.
In the mirror, a different woman looked back at her. Not Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, but just someone. Anyone.
The window opened more easily than she'd dared hope. The night air was cool against her face as she climbed out onto the narrow ledge, her feet finding purchase on the carved stonework. Hand over hand, foot by foot, she descended the ornate facade of the hotel.
When she landed on the cobblestones, Rhaenyra stayed in the shadows, trying to steady her breath and think through the medication's growing fog.
That's when she heard it: the rumble of wheels and the soft lowing of cattle. A supply wagon was making its way toward the hotel's service entrance, delivering fresh meat and vegetables for tomorrow's meals.
Without allowing herself to think about the madness of what she was doing, Rhaenyra crept closer. The wagon paused at the service gate while the driver spoke to the guard. In that moment, she slipped under the canvas covering and nestled herself between sacks of grain and crates of vegetables.
The cart bumped and swayed over the cobblestones, carrying her deeper into the city, farther from the luxury of her suite.
She had done it. She was outside. Alone. For the first time, no one knew where Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was.
—
“Hightower!”
The annoying voice of Alicent’s editor, Larys Strong, disturbed the quiet clacking of typewriter keys.
Alicent sighed. At this hour, a summons from Larys rarely meant good news. She looked up to see him approaching her desk.
Alicent was intelligent enough to know what this was about without him uttering a single word. He dropped a folder of press releases onto her cluttered desk, and said what she already suspected:
“I need you to cover the Princess Rhaenyra's visit. I want a full feature: what she means to the common people of Oldtown, what she eats for breakfast, her thoughts on marriage, her favorite color.”
“I thought Talya was covering this one,” Alicent said, already knowing it was a futile attempt. “She usually handles all the royal visits.”
Larys raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that knowing smirk she'd grown to despise.
“Talya had to leave for Dorne this morning, there was an emergency with the Martell trade negotiations.”
Alicent had known about Talya's assignment to Dorne, the newsroom gossip traveled faster than wildfire. She'd just been hoping that someone else might step up.
“The Princess arrived early this morning,” Larys continued. “Which means you're already behind schedule. Tomorrow, you need to shadow her entire itinerary. I need you to get that interview set up.”
Alicent looked at the photographs in black in white. Princess Rhaenyra smiled back at her from every image, perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, and also perfectly manufactured.
“Everyone writes about her, Mr. Strong. Every columnist from here to Essos. What could I possibly write that hasn't been written a thousand times already?”
“Something that sells papers,” Larys replied bluntly. “I know you think you're above this kind of reporting—”
“It's not about being above it,” Alicent interrupted, pushing the folder back toward him. “It's about having something worthwhile to say. 'Princess Rhaenyra smiled and waved at crowds today', how is that journalism? How does that help anyone?”
Larys leaned against her desk. “It helps keep this newspaper running and your paycheck coming. You want to write hard-hitting exposés about city corruption and social inequality? Great. But first you need to prove you can write stories people actually want to read.”
Alicent thought about her tiny shared apartment with Criston, they landlord had already given them one extension on the rent.
She couldn't afford to be principled. Not when her last ‘important’ story about housing conditions had been buried on page six below an advertisement for ladies' corsets.
Larys was right. Princess Rhaenyra stories sold papers. An exclusive with the Princess would sell even more. And Alicent needed this job, needed the money that came with bylines people actually read.
“Fine,” she said, pulling the folder back toward her. “But how exactly am I supposed to get close enough to the princess to write anything more substantial than what we'll get from the official press releases? It's not like I can just knock on her hotel room door.”
Larys smiled, and Alicent immediately regretted asking.
“That's your problem to solve, isn't it? Maybe charm your way past security, find a maid who'll talk, hang around the places she's supposed to visit tomorrow. Use that pretty face and sweet smile of yours.”
Alicent's jaw tightened at the casual sexism, but she bit back her response. She needed this job, even if it meant swallowing her principles along with her pride.
Larys was already turning away. “And Hightower? Make it good. Make it the kind of story that makes people feel like they know her. Like they've spent the day with Princess Rhaenyra themselves.”
—
When the cart finally stopped and Rhaenyra heard the driver climbing down, muttering about needing to ‘find the privy before I piss myself,’ Rhaenyra slipped out from under the tarp.
Brine and salt swirled in the night air. Saltwater stung at the back of Rhaenyra's throat, that intertwined with the oily perfume of fish freshly hauled from the hold.
She was surrounded by the masts of ships and the yellow light spilling from the building’s windows. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, different from the refined chamber music of court, that made her feet want to move.
A pair of young people rumbled past on a motorcycle. The girl riding behind the driver caught sight of Rhaenyra, her long hair streaming behind her like a banner. Rhaenyra waved cheerfully, a genuine smile spreading across her face, so different from the waves and smiles she usually gave to a full crowd.
The couple returned the gesture with a grin, and then they were gone, swallowed by the shadows and the glow of the next lamppost.
The streetlights cast warm pools of golden light, bouncing off the stones and glinting on the water in the harbor.
She'd made it perhaps twenty steps from the cart when her legs began to wobble. The music from the nearby bar seemed to be coming from underwater now, distant and warped. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she realized that the physician's injection was winning the battle she'd been fighting since leaving her room.
A wooden bench sat beneath a flickering street lamp, probably meant for fishermen waiting for the morning boats. Rhaenyra collapsed onto it, her body too heavy to hold upright any longer. Her head lolled back against the rough wood, and she could feel her mouth going slack.
So close. She was so close to freedom she could taste it in the salt air, could hear it in the laughter spilling from the windows. But her eyes kept sliding shut despite her desperate attempts to force them open.
Fight it, she told herself desperately. You're free. You're finally free. Don't waste it sleeping like a drugged prisoner.
Her body, however, had other plans.
—
The newsroom of The Oldtown Herald had emptied considerably. Alicent was still hunched over her typewriter, surrounded by crumpled papers and cold coffee, when Criston Cole appeared at her desk with his camera bag slung over his shoulder.
“Come on,” he said, jangling his keys. “Orwyle and the others are meeting at The Sailor's Rest. You look like you could use a drink.”
Alicent didn't look up from the blank page in front of her. “Can't. I'm working.”
“Working on what? You've been staring at that same empty page for twenty minutes.”
“Princess Rhaenyra,” she said with obvious distaste. “Larys wants an exclusive interest piece.”
Criston whistled low. “Good luck getting within fifty feet of her. Her security detail looks like they could bench press a horse.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” Alicent muttered. “Go on without me. I need to do some research.”
After Criston left, Alicent pulled out every back issue of society magazines and royal coverage she could find in the newspaper's morgue. She spread them across her desk like a detective working a case. The coverage was as tedious as she'd expected. Princess Rhaenyra at charity galas, Princess Rhaenyra cutting ribbons, Princess Rhaenyra in an endless parade of designer gowns.
The basic facts were straightforward enough: twenty-four years old, heir to the Iron Throne, educated at the finest institutions in Westeros and beyond. But the more personal details were scattered and often contradictory depending on the publication.
The princess apparently enjoyed reading history and poetry, spoke three languages fluently, and had strong opinions about educational reform. She was patron of several charities focused on orphaned children and had once publicly criticized the Faith Militant's treatment of women. Progressive views for royalty, though always couched in diplomatic language.
Still unmarried despite numerous suitors, read one headline from six months ago. The article quoted the princess as saying she had ‘no immediate plans for marriage’ and wanted to ‘focus on serving the realm’ first. Another piece from a society magazine claimed she'd turned down proposals from no fewer than seven eligible lords, including a Lannister and two Tyrells.
Her favorite colors were consistently reported as black and red, hardly surprising for a Targaryen. Favorite foods seemed to vary by interview: one article claimed she loved lemon cakes, another insisted she preferred red wine and meat pies, a third suggested she was practically herbivore.
Alicent rubbed her temples as she waded through the contradictions. Half of these ‘exclusive insights’ were probably made up by journalists desperate for content, just like she was now.
Alicent leaned back in her chair. She'd never particularly cared about the royal family or the politics of the realm, it all seemed so distant from her own concerns about rent and deadlines and whether she'd ever make it as a serious journalist. But now, staring at all these glossy photos of the princess, she found herself genuinely curious.
They called the princess ‘the Realm's Delight,’ and it wasn't hard to see why. Even in these staged photographs, there was something magnetic about her. She had that rare quality that made you want to keep looking, to try and figure out what was going on behind those eyes.
No doubt about it, everyone loved seeing a beautiful woman on the front page of a newspaper. Including Alicent.
To anyone, Rhaenyra looked every inch the princess fairy tales were made of.
And that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? All anyone ever saw was the surface; the perfect smile, the designer gowns, the gracious waves to adoring crowds. What did Princess Rhaenyra actually think about when the cameras weren't rolling? Did she ever get tired of being the realm's beautiful, perfect darling?
The more Alicent read, the more frustrated she became. It was all so superficial. Favorite colors and foods; what did any of that really tell you about a person? Nothing about what Princess Rhaenyra thought about when she was alone, what made her genuinely happy or sad, whether she ever felt trapped by her title.
Alicent finally pushed back from her desk at one in the morning. She gathered up the scattered articles about Princess Rhaenyra and shoved them into her satchel, she could continue reading at home if sleep refused to come.
The building was quiet as she made her way through the empty hallways, where the security guard nodded at her without looking up from his crossword puzzle. She'd done this routine so many times she could navigate to the exit in complete darkness.
First one in, last one out—that had been her pattern since she joined the office.
The street outside was nearly deserted, only a few late-night revelers stumbling home from the pubs and the occasional taxi cutting through the narrow cobblestone roads. The city was beautiful at night, all shadows and lamplight painting the old buildings in shades of gold and amber.
Alicent pulled her suit jacket tighter against the cool air as she began the fifteen-minute walk to her apartment. The route took her through some of the older parts of the city, along the harbor where fishing boats bobbed in the moonlight.
She was mentally thinking about her approach for tomorrow's assignment when she spotted the figure on the bench.
At first glance, it looked like just another unfortunate soul who'd had too much to drink, not an uncommon sight in this part of town. The woman was curled up on one of the wooden benches that lined the small park near Alicent's apartment building, her body positioned at an awkward angle that suggested she'd passed out from drinking.
As Alicent drew closer, she could make out more details. The woman appeared young, around Alicent's own age, with pale skin and a headscarf hiding her hair. She was dressed simply; a blue skirt and white blouse.
Alicent's first instinct was to keep walking. She'd lived in the city long enough to know that getting involved with strangers, especially intoxicated ones, was usually more trouble than it was worth.
But something about the woman's posture struck her as vulnerable rather than threatening. The woman looked too clean, too well-cared-for to be a typical street drunk. And she was alone, vulnerable, in a part of town that wasn't always safe after midnight.
“Miss?” Alicent called, approaching cautiously. “Are you alright?”
No response. The woman didn't stir at all, even when Alicent's footsteps grew louder on the cobblestones.
Up close, Alicent could see that despite her disheveled state and plain clothes, the stranger had a skin that looked like it had never seen a day of hard labor.
Probably some lord's daughter who'd had drink more than she should and gotten separated from her friends, Alicent decided. She would wake up tomorrow with a splitting headache and a story she'd never tell her parents.
“Excuse me,” Alicent tried again, gently touching the woman's shoulder. “You can't sleep here. It's not safe.”
“Mmm, yes, right,” the woman murmured, eyes closed. “First the children's hospital at nine, then lunch with the merchant guilds and after that…” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What comes after lunch? Elinda usually reminds me.”
The woman eyelids fluttered open to reveal the most striking blue eyes Alicent had ever seen.
“Oh,” the stranger murmured, still lying prone on the bench. “How absolutely enchanted I am to make your acquaintance.”
Alicent was taken aback by the woman's oddly courteous manner of speech. Most people who passed out drunk on park benches didn't sound like they were addressing a formal dinner party.
The woman extended one pale hand toward Alicent in a gesture that was unmistakably regal, as if expecting it to be kissed rather than shaken. She was clearly out of her mind on something.
Alicent stared at the offered hand in bewilderment. After a moment's hesitation, she gently took the woman's hand and shook it.
“I'm Alicent,” she said carefully. “And you are…?”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Alicent,” the woman replied. “You have such lovely hands. Quite lovely indeed. I do hope we shall be great friends.”
“Miss,” Alicent said gently, “I think you need to get somewhere safe. Do you have family nearby? Someone I can call?”
The woman's expression grew wistful. “Family,” she repeated. “Yes, I suppose they'll be looking for me soon. They always are, you know. Watching, scheduling, planning. But not tonight. Tonight I'm—”
“Look, you can't stay here,” Alicent said. “It's cold, and it's not safe. Where do you live?”
“I live...” she began slowly, as if the words were swimming up from some great depth, “in the Red Keep.”
“The Red Keep? You mean the royal castle? In King's Landing?”
“Yes,” the woman said with dreamy certainty. “Red Keep. My chambers overlook the Blackwater Bay, and there are tapestries of dragons on the walls.”
Alicent sighed heavily. The girl wasn't only drugged, she was also completely delusional.
Alicent gently guided the woman by the elbow. “Come on, sit down.”
The stranger obeyed lazily, slumping against Alicent, as if the chair and Alicent’s presence were one and the same. Her eyelids drooped, and she rested her head against Alicent’s arm, letting out a contented sigh.
“You… you smell good,” she murmured.
Alicent’s lips pressed together, a faint flush creeping up her neck as she tried to stay calm and collected.
“Hey, stay awake. I need you to focus for a minute,” Alicent patted the side of the woman’s face lightly to rouse her to fuller consciousness. “The Red Keep is hundreds of miles from here. Where do you actually live?”
The woman giggled as Alicent patted her cheek. “Red Keep,” she insisted again.
“Seven hells,” Alicent muttered under her breath. She shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be getting involved with some drugged stranger who thought she lived in a royal castle. She had her own problems, her own deadlines, her own barely-manageable life to worry about.
Yet, looking at this vulnerable young woman completely helpless in her current state, Alicent couldn't bring herself to walk away and leave her on a bench where anything could happen to her.
The smart thing would be to find a constable, or call for medical help. Let someone else deal with whatever family drama or personal crisis had led the woman to this situation.
Alicent looked around the empty street, weighing her options. The local constabulary would throw her in a cell to sleep it off, assuming they bothered to respond to a call about a drunk woman at all.
In the end, Alicent made a decision she was almost certainly she was going to regret.
“Alright, your grace,” Alicent said with more than a little sarcasm, “looks like you're coming home with me. At least until you sober up enough to remember where you actually live.”
Getting the woman to her feet proved to be a challenge. She was cooperative but unsteady, swaying dangerously and requiring Alicent to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her upright.
“You're very kind,” the woman murmured as they began the slow journey toward Alicent's apartment building. “I don't believe anyone has ever...people don't usually...” She seemed to lose track of her thought, leaning more heavily against Alicent's shoulder.
“Don't mention it,” Alicent said dryly, already wondering how she was going to explain this to Criston when he inevitably come home to find a strange woman on their couch.
The three-flight climb to her apartment was an adventure in itself. The woman, who still hadn't provided a real name, kept stopping to admire architectural details that most people wouldn't notice, commenting dreamily about ‘the craftsmanship of the stonework’ and ‘how refreshingly ordinary’ everything was.
“Glad my poverty meets with your approval,” Alicent muttered. She saves one delusional rich girl from getting mugged, and now said rich girl was touring her apartment like it was some museum.
“It does very much!” the woman exclaimed.
By the time Alicent managed to get her key in the lock and maneuver them both inside, she was beginning to seriously question her life choices. Whatever this girl's story was, she was far from home and completely out of her depth.
“Is this the staff quarters?” she asked, stepping inside and immediately swayed on her feet.
“Staff quarters? No, this is my apartment.”
“Oh how lovely, might I sleep here tonight?”
“That was the idea,” Alicent said, closing the door behind them and turning the deadbolt. “Unless you've suddenly remembered where you actually live?”
The woman was quiet for a moment, then asked with startling directness, “May I sleep without clothes?”
Alicent raised an eyebrow. “You sure may, but you should reconsider. My flatmate Criston will probably be stumbling in drunk sometime before dawn, and I can't guarantee he won't see you.”
“Criston?” the woman's head tilted with interest. “Is he your betrothed?”
“My what? Gods, no. He's a friend.”
“Where is this gentleman now?”
“At the pub getting properly drunk on a Friday night,” Alicent glanced toward the window. “Well, Saturday morning now, technically.”
“I see. Then perhaps I should remain clothed.”
“Wise choice.”
Alicent disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a set of simple cotton pajamas, soft yellow with tiny white flowers. “You can change into these, they should fit you well enough.”
To her surprise, the woman's entire face transformed with excitement, as if Alicent had offered her golden jewels.
“They're beautiful,” she breathed, and Alicent couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or genuinely meant it.
“They're only pajamas.”
The woman's eyes suddenly focused on Alicent, scanning her from head to toe. “You're wearing a suit.”
“Yes, I am,” Alicent replied, wondering where this was going.
“A proper suit. Tailored trousers, fitted jacket…”
The woman moved closer, studying the cut of Alicent's blazer.
“I've never seen a woman wearing a suit before. Are you...” she paused, her drug-addled mind struggling. “Are you perhaps a man in disguise?”
Alicent could not help but laugh. “No, I'm definitely a woman. I just prefer trousers to skirts for work. They're more practical.”
“Oh.”
Then, the woman lift her chin with an oddly regal bearing despite her disheveled state. “Would you be so kind as to help me undress?”
“I... what?”
“My blouse and skirt,” the woman clarified. “If you would be so obliging?”
Against her better judgment, Alicent stepped forward and undid the top button of the white blouse, then immediately stepped back.
“There. You can manage the rest in the bathroom, it is just there,” Alicent pointed to a door barely wider than a closet. “There are clean towels on the shelf if you want to wash up.”
The woman nodded graciously, and Alicent made a beeline for the kitchen and poured herself a generous glass of the cheap wine she kept for emergencies. She was far too sober for whatever this night was turning into.
She'd barely taken a sip when her guest reappeared behind her, still only having undone that single button.
“Might I have some wine as well?” she asked hopefully.
“Absolutely not,” Alicent said, moving the bottle out of reach. “Now go to the bathroom and actually undress this time. All the way. Put on the pajamas. It's not complicated.”
The woman crossed her arms. “Most people don't speak to me like that.”
Alicent rolled her eyes. Who this woman think she was?
“Most people probably aren't harboring strange women in their apartments at the middle of the night,” she shot back, taking another sip of her drink.
“Are you absolutely certain I can't have just a tiny bit of wine?” the woman asked, stepping closer and battling her eyelashes.
Clearly Alicent’s mysterious guest was used to getting her way through sheer beauty alone.
Alicent couldn't help but notice, irritatingly, that even disheveled and clearly not firing on all cylinders, the woman was absolutely stunning. Those blue eyes were perhaps the most beautiful thing Alicent had ever seen, like looking into clear ocean water. And the stranger knew it too. Women who looked like that always did.
“I'm sure you're used to batting those pretty eyes and having people fall all over themselves to accommodate you,” Alicent said, “but that's not happening here. Go to the bathroom now before I change my mind about letting you stay.”
A slow smile curved Rhaenyra's lips as she executed a bow. “As you wish, Miss Alicent.”
After a moment, she actually turned and walked toward the bathroom.
Alicent finished her glass of wine and retreated to her bedroom to change into her own nightclothes. She was exhausted, and tomorrow she still had to figure out how to approach Princess Rhaenyra for that impossible interview Larys wanted.
When she'd left the office tonight, the most exciting thing on her agenda had been leftover takeaway and maybe reading a few more royal boring pieces before bed. Now she had a mysterious, possibly delusional woman getting comfortable in her bathroom.
Alicent was just pulling a spare pillow from her closet when she heard a voice behind her.
“This bed is quite comfortable,” came the drowsy observation. “Not very spacious, but the mattress is soft. I shall sleep very well here.”
Alicent turned around to find her guest sitting on her bed, now dressed in the yellow pajamas. They were a bit large on her body, the sleeves hanging past her wrists and the pants pooling around her bare feet, but she didn't seem to mind. With her hair loose now, cascading in waves down to her waist, the woman looked even more ethereal than before. The color was so distinctive, a particular shade of silver-gold that Alicent had only ever seen in tapestries and portraits of the members of House Targar—
Oh, seven hells. This woman might very well be connected to the royal family.
Golden possibilities began dancing through Alicent’s mind. If she was harboring someone from the Targaryen line, surely there would be a reward for her kindness? A generous purse of gold coins would certainly improve her circumstances. Perhaps even a position at the most prestigious newspaper of Westeros, or at the very least, enough money to move to a better part of the city.
“Your hair,” Alicent commented. “That color is rather unusual. Is it natural?”
“Oh, this?” Her guest touched the pale strands absently. “It's dyed.”
Alicent's dreams of golden rewards crumbled like sand castles at high tide. There went her visions of rivers of money filling her pockets.
“Right, so, that's my bed,” Alicent said. “You're sleeping on the couch, remember?”
The woman looked confused by this distinction. “Surely there's room for both of us? I don't take up much space.”
“No. Couch. You. Me. Bed. Separate sleeping arrangements for complete strangers.”
Alicent went to the linen closet to fetch an extra blanket for the couch. She spent a few minutes arranging the pull-out bed, fluffing the cushions and making sure everything was as comfortable as possible for her unexpected guest.
“Alright,” she called toward her bedroom, “your bed is ready. It's actually very—”
She stopped in the doorway, staring at the sight before her. The woman was fast asleep in Alicent's bed, curled up with her hair spread across the pillow, face relaxed in sleep.
The stranger looked so peaceful, and after the obvious distress she'd been in when Alicent found her, it seemed cruel to disturb her rest.
With a resigned sigh, Alicent headed back to the couch. The cushions were lumpy in all the wrong places, and she could already tell her back would be complaining in the morning.
Alicent thought of the unknown woman lying in her bed like a lost kitten curled up on her quilt.
At least someone would have a good night’s sleep.
—
Alicent woke to the smell of coffee. Sunlight was streaming through the small windows, and she could hear the sounds of the Saturday morning market setting up in the street below.
“Morning,” Criston called from the kitchen.
She groaned as she sat up, her neck stiff from the awkward angle she'd been sleeping at, and squinted toward the kitchen where she could hear the radio playing.
“What time is it?” she mumbled, trying to work out a crick in her neck.
“Nearly eleven,” Criston said, settling into the armchair. He was already dressed and looked far too alert for someone who'd supposedly been out drinking until closing time. “Why are you sleeping on the couch? Rough night at the office?”
“You could say that,” Alicent ran her hands through her hair. “Actually, we have a... situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
“I brought a woman home last night.”
“Ah, I see. Should I make myself scarce, or—?”
“It's not like that,” Alicent explained quickly. “I found her passed out on a bench near here. She was drugged or drunk or something, claiming she lived in the Red Keep of all places. I couldn't just leave her there.”
“So you brought a strange, intoxicated woman back to our apartment? Please tell me you at least checked she wasn't carrying a knife or anything.”
“She's harmless,” Alicent insisted, though she realized she actually had no evidence to support that claim. “I need to get ready for work.”
“Work? Alicent, it's Saturday!”
“So? I always work on Saturdays. Besides, I have that Princess Rhaenyra story to write, remember?”
“Right, the princess exclusive thing. I forgot.”
“Can you just... keep an ear out? Make sure our stranger guest doesn't steal anything?”
“Fine,” Criston sighed. “What's her name?”
“I have no idea. She never—”
“Hold on,” Criston interrupted, standing up from his chair. “You brought home a complete stranger and you don't even know her name? How does that conversation even happen? ‘Hello, unconscious woman, would you like to come sleep in my bed? Oh, don't worry about introductions!’”
“She was really out of it, and I was tired. It just never came up naturally.”
“Naturally? Alicent, asking someone's name is literally the first thing humans do when they meet!”
“Okay, okay, you're right. We’ll figure out her name when she wakes up.” She stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back. “Right now I need to shower and get to the office before Larys starts calling.”
Alicent padded to her bedroom, pushing the door open to slip inside. Her mysterious guest was still fast asleep in the exactly same position she'd been in when Alicent had retreated to the couch around two in the morning.
Alicent grabbed her work clothes from the closet as quietly as possible and went to the bathroom. The shower washed away the stiffness from a night on the lumpy couch.
After that, she went to the small table where she'd left her notebook and research materials from the night before. She had work to do.
“Any signs of life?” she asked Criston, nodding toward the bedroom.
“Not a peep. Whatever she took last night, it's keeping her well under.”
As Alicent opened her notebook, the radio in the kitchen continued its morning news program, the announcer's voice a steady backdrop to her thoughts.
“In other news, there has been an unexpected development in Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen's visit to Oldtown,” the male voice informed. “The princess has taken ill with a sudden fever that developed during the night, forcing the cancellation of all today's scheduled engagements.”
Great. A fever. As if Alicent’s chances of getting anywhere near Princess Rhaenyra couldn't get any worse.
She stared at her notebook full of useless research. She had only a few days to get an exclusive story about the princess, and now the woman was locked away in her hotel suit feeling sick. Any hope of finding a fresh angle or getting close enough for anything resembling real journalism was gone.
“This includes her highly anticipated visit to the Oldtown Children's Hospital and her lunch with the merchant guild, along with the other plans she had for the rest of the day.”
Alicent frowned. The woman on her bench last night, drugged and disoriented, mumbling about children's hospital visits and merchant guild lunches.
“Princess Rhaenyra's private secretary released a statement early this morning expressing regret for any inconvenience caused by these last-minute cancellations,” the radio continued. “Royal physicians are attending to her grace, though palace sources suggest she may have had an adverse reaction to prescribed sleeping medication.”
The notebook slipped from Alicent's suddenly nerveless fingers.
She grabbed the newspaper clipping from yesterday's coverage and stared at the photograph of Princess Rhaenyra at the charity gala. The image was in black in white, yet, her elegant manner, the shape of her nose and eyes; were very similar to the woman currently asleep in her bed.
The pieces were clicking together. The woman who'd asked her to help undress her as if it were natural to have servants. Who'd been delighted by simple cotton pajamas as if she'd never owned anything so ordinary. Who'd claimed, repeatedly and with conviction, that she lived in the Red Keep. Her groggy state, suggesting that she was under the influence of something…
The radio droned on about the ‘mysterious illness’ and the ‘concern for her grace's wellbeing,’ while Alicent stared at her bedroom door. If that was really Princess Rhaenyra sleeping in her bed, then Alicent had unknowingly stumbled into exactly what she needed; an exclusive access to the royalty.
“Criston.”
“Yeah?” he called back from the kitchen, distracted.
“I think... I think I have Princess Rhaenyra in my bed.”
She heard the laughter creeping into his throat.
“I'm serious,” Alicent insisted, standing up with the newspaper photograph clutched in her hand. “The woman from last night, I think she's actually Princess Rhaenyra.”
Criston appeared in front of her. “Alicent, I think you need to lay off the wine before noon. Or maybe you hit your head when you fell asleep on that couch.”
“I'm not drunk, and I didn't hit my head,” Alicent said firmly. “The timeline matches.”
“The timeline of what? The princess is in her hotel suite with a fever. The radio just said so.”
Alicent grabbed his arm. Criston allowed himself to be dragged toward the bedroom.
“This ought to be good. What's your theory? That Princess Rhaenyra decided to go slumming in Oldtown and ended up passed out on a—”
He stopped talking as Alicent slowly opened the bedroom door.
The woman was sleeping, the morning light streaming through the window caught the silver-gold of her hair, which had dried in soft waves around the covers.
Alicent held up the front page photo next to the sleeping woman's face, and Criston's smiled died completely.
“Gods be damned,” he whispered.
It was harder to recognize her at first without the jewels, the formal gowns, the arranged hair and makeup that appeared in every photograph. But looking at her face more closely, i was unmistakable that she was, indeed, Princess Rhaenyra.
“That's...” Criston whispered, looking at the newspaper photograph Alicent was still holding. “That's actually her! That's actually Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen! In your bed, wearing your pajamas!”
“I know.”
“How did you not recognize her last night?”
“It was dark, she was drugged out of her mind, and she was dressed like a peasant,” Alicent hissed. “Besides, what was I supposed to think? That the princess was wandering around Oldtown alone at two in the morning?”
They both stared at the sleeping woman for a long moment until they backed out of the bedroom slowly, closing the door. Neither of them spoke until they were safely in the kitchen, and even then Alicent was still whispering.
“We need to call someone,” Criston said, running his hands through his hair. “The constabulary, the hotel security, someone. They must be looking for her.”
“Wait,” Alicent grabbed his arm as he reached for the telephone. “Just... wait a minute. Let me think.”
“Think about what? Alicent, this is the heir to the Iron Throne. We can't just—”
“This is my chance,” Alicent interrupted. “Don't you see? This is the interview I could never get. The real Princess Rhaenyra with no prepared statements, no security detail keeping journalists fifty feet away.”
Criston stared at her in disbelief. “You want to interview her while half the royal guard is probably tearing Oldtown apart looking for her? They will think you kidnapped her!”
“I'm not kidnapping anyone. If she wants to leave, she leaves. Though if she's willing to talk—”
“And what makes you think she'll want to talk to you? She's royalty. You're nobody. No offense.”
“None taken, because you're right. I am nobody. But I'm also the nobody who found her passed out on a park bench and brought her somewhere safe instead of calling the authorities or selling the story to the highest bidder.” Alicent began pacing the small kitchen. “Maybe she'll appreciate that.”
Criston shook his head. “If you come at her like a journalist, she’ll clam up.”
“You’re right,” Alicent stopped at her pacing. “I’ll have to play it differently.”
“No, that’s not—”
“I need to be… normal. Friendly. Someone she can trust,” Alicent said, almost to herself. “Make her feel safe, get her talking.”
“Even if she does trust you enough to talk to you, who's going to believe it? You think Larys is going to print an interview with Princess Rhaenyra with no real proof?”
“That's where you come in.”
“Me?”
“Pictures,” Alicent said simply. “Your camera. Proof that it actually happened.”
Criston took a step back. “Oh no. No, no, no. I'm not taking unauthorized photographs of the heir to the Iron Throne. That's probably treason or something.”
“Look, I'm not talking about compromising photos or anything invasive. Only evidences that I actually spoke to her.”
Criston went quiet, and Alicent could see him wavering. She pressed her advantage.
“This could change everything for us, Criston. Both of us. A real exclusive about Princess Rhaenyra? That's front page news everywhere. Book deals, job offers at major publications, actual recognition for our work instead of scraping by on local crime reports.”
Criston let out a long sigh before nodding. “Alright, I’m in.”
Alicent’s shoulders relaxed. It was better to have her friend in favor of her scheming than against it.
“I do believe I require some breakfast,” came the sudden announcement through Alicent’s bedroom. “And someone may please tell me why my chambers look so different this morning?”
“Your move,” Criston whispered. “Go attend to your grace's breakfast needs.”