The Father’s face is stern and strong,
He sits and judges right from wrong.
He weighs our lives, the short and long,
And loves the little children.
-
In the hours following the death of King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, Alicent picked the skin from her thumb until it bled.
As she sat in her father’s solar in the Tower of the Hand, she had never felt so small; a mere weed growing in the dragonpit. The only daughter of a second son, her destiny was never meant to lead her here, throat tight and skin raw, making a King of her son in the dark of night. But her lord husband had spoken, and Alicent felt her fate twist within her again. Queen, Dowager Queen, Queen Mother. Alicent had given up long ago on believing that she was anything other than what the Realm demanded. When the King speaks, the Realm listens, and Viserys whispered about a Prince that was Promised.
Alicent felt her veins itch to break free from her skin. Was her suffering worth it, at long last? Had she done right by her father, who led her to her King’s bed, who led her to her many labours? These children, whom she could hardly cast her eyes upon without her father’s warnings echoing, had she done right by them as well?
A drop of blood, red and sweet, fell from her thumb onto her green dress, and she almost smiled. Alicent had never loved her husband more than tonight. The father of the Realm, the father of her children, and he had saved them all. With Aegon on the throne, surely the great lords and ladies of Westeros will realise that this was the way it was supposed to happen all along. Rhaenyra felt so far away right now; a childhood dream born in gentle winds. Alicent was lightheaded, almost drunk with grief and love, as she ripped the skin from the tips of her fingers.
She was half relief, half foreboding. She was a Kingmaker. Viserys had made her a Kingmaker. Her father, who had made her Viserys’ in the first place, was questioning her, interrogating her. It mattered not whether he believed her or not, he would crown Aegon all the same. He had planned this, and through the winding years had made it so – her father, the Queenmaker, his daughter, the Kingmaker.
Alicent brought her thumb to her mouth, tasting the blood, and, as she did, she prayed to the Father. Let not my suffering be in vain, let not my suffering be suffering at all. Father, who is just. Father, who is strong. Father, who is wise. Father, who had loved me.
The Father loves the little children, Alicent had reminded herself, as the King slid his hand down her trembling arm. The Father loves the little children, Alicent had repeated to herself, as the bed creaked beneath her, and tears stung from behind her eyes. The Hand my father loves that the King loves me, and the Father of us all loves the little children.
-
The Mother gives the gift of life,
And watches over every wife.
Her gentle smile ends all strife,
And she loves her little children.
-
How slow the hours pass, Alicent mused, in this unstable interregnum we have made for ourselves. Her son was to be crowned on the morrow. The hordes of King’s Landing would see her Aegon, silver-haired and tall, anointed before their very eyes. Surely that is why Viserys bestowed upon him the conqueror’s name? Her son was born to rule, and she would guide him to peace and light. Damn her father’s wishes, Alicent thought wildly. For over half her life she had played as his pretty pawn, but not for this. Daughters of widowers are phantom wives, this Alicent knew. But she was not her father’s wife to command, nor solely his daughter, shrouded in filial piety. As he reminded her, she was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and would not sentence Rhaenyra Targaryen to an unjust and unnecessary death.
As Alicent lay in her bedchamber, she reached out to the empty space beside her, where oftentimes her lord husband would sleep after they had laid together. The dent that his body, old and ailed, would leave always felt wrong; too wide, too tall.
Alicent remembered the sunshine years of her youth. Long days of lessons and games, laughter that rung around the Red Keep like a bell in the spring air. Rhaenyra, who had never encountered a rule that she did not want to bend, would sneak into her chambers at night, and lay beside her. These were different chambers, but the memory remained unaltered.
Oh, how she made Alicent laugh! It was thoroughly unladylike, the cackles that Rhaenyra could drag out of her, muffled by her pillow, in the black dead of night. How many hours had they passed, two young girls with not a care in the world between them, telling each other tales and exchanging whispered gossips and jests? Alicent sometimes felt that she had lived a lifetime in bed with Rhaenyra; a kinder and simpler reality that the Gods bestowed unto her before her real life began.
Time and betrayal and children and strife had come between them, but Alicent would be damned before putting Rhaenyra and her children to the sword to accomplish what could be done in peace.
Unbidden, and with little warning, Aemma Arryn came to her head. How often had her lord husband looked to Alicent and sought out his late wife, just as Alicent had imagined that in bed beside her was Rhaenyra with her easy laughs and violet eyes? Alicent wondered if Aemma ever kissed her husband’s eyelids when he slept, as Rhaenyra oftentimes did to her, when Alicent feigned sleep.
Did Rhaenyra know that Alicent was often awake, and did she kiss her all the same? How sweet childhood memories become when time shrouds troubles in its mist. As a woman grown Alicent felt as different to Rhaenyra as a blade of grass does to a star in the sky, and yet the memories of two motherless girls, unaware yet of what the future held for them, remained.
How soon after Aemma died did Rhaenyra drift from Alicent’s bed? She can hardly remember now.
What Alicent wouldn’t give to feel Rhaenyra’s kiss again, unburdened by the years of betrayal and bloodshed. Rhaenyra’s kisses were like the sun itself. To be a girl again, to feel brave enough to kiss Rhaenyra back, all etiquette be damned…
Alicent shut her eyes tight. Her suffering and her sacrifices would not be brought into question on childish whims and whispers of kisses.
Still, she ghosted her hand over the echo of Rhaenyra’s shape in her bed. Viserys would never wish for the murder of his daughter, not in a thousand years. She closed her eyes and prayed to the Mother. Mother, who loves. Mother, who protects. Despite the dark and treacherous blood that runs between their two families, Alicent would not allow Aegon to spill Rhaenyra’s blood. Nor the blood of Rhaenyra’s children, whom the Mother loves, whom the Mother protects.
“Mother of the motherless,” Alicent whispered aloud. “Watch over us. Guide us to be merciful.”
-
The Warrior stands before the foe,
Protecting us where e’er we go.
With sword and shield and spear and bow,
He guards the little children.
-
Alicent can nary remember ever being as angry in her life, nor as shrouded in grief and guilt.
“Aemond has sullied our coronation,” her father muttered bitterly, pacing the small solar of the Tower of the Hand. It is perhaps the hundredth way he has phrased his discontent in the last hours, and Alicent was quickly tiring of hearing it.
“I know, Father.”
“More so than Rhaenys on her dragon, and I had not thought that possible.”
“I know, Father,” Alicent repeated, louder this time. “But we can do nothing about it until the morrow at least. Sit, please.”
“Errors. Errors and follies,” her father spat, sitting down across from her. “Errors and follies that could have been avoided if we had acted swiftly, and with the good sense to look ahead.”
“Do not blame me for -”
“I shall lay the blame where it took root and grew! Daughter, your ignorance, your… compassion for Rhaenyra has put our family in a perilous situation. You are no fool, you see this. You know this. And now that Aemond has killed the son, the mother will grow only angrier, more determined to hurt what is mine and yours.”
Her father stood once more and glared down at her, eyebrows knotted and shoulders tense.
“No memories of childhood embraces can jeopardise what must be done, Daughter.”
“I know, Father,” Alicent whispered, and then he was gone.
That evening, kneeling in the Great Sept of Baelor, Alicent felt the flickering lights of the candles mocking her. How dare she show face here, they seem to say, the mother of a prince-slayer?
How to speak to her children, to make them understand the tremendous danger they were in every second of every day, simply by virtue of their birth? How many Targaryens have gone mad, flown too high, fell too fast? Her children, all silver-hair and ivory skin, were as strange to her as the moon and stars above. Who are these people, these adults who once clutched at her hand and sucked at her breast? Has she ruined them, poisoned them? They had grown up too fast to teach them, for she was growing up too. Now here Alicent knelt, widow and Kingmaker, and still felt half a child herself.
There was one candle left to light, she knew it in her heart’s core. She pictured the young boy, dressed in red and black, falling through the clouds. Why was he sent alone, in a storm? Some call him the first soldier to fall in this war, but Lucerys Velaryon was no warrior. Gods, he looked so young the last time Alicent saw him, the baby-faced brute who slashed her son’s eye. An eye for an eye, that was all Alicent wished for. Only an eye, not a life.
What was becoming of her, this poison in her veins? No choice was right, no road ahead seemed clear. Targaryens fighting kin was a terrifying spectacle, and Alicent had stoked its flames. What would it be to add one more flickering light to this budding inferno? She lit the candle; she whispered his name. To the Warrior, she prayed.
Warrior, who is strong. Warrior, who is brave. Guard the little children. Forgive me my sins.
-
The Crone is very wise and old,
And sees our fates as they unfold.
She lifts her lamp of shining gold,
To lead the little children.
-
The Red Keep was dark and dead when she returned to her bedroom and to the knight in it. How does Rhaenyra’s ghost haunt them so when the woman is still alive and breathing? Alicent could live one hundred years and never be free from her memory.
Where am I going, and along what path? The night is dark, as the red priests say, and full of terrors.
Oh Crone, eternal Crone, who has seen worse than me and will see worse again, guide me with your light. I know not who I am. Light my way.
Crone, who is wise. Crone, who will take pity on even the most worthless little children. Crone, guide a sinner like me, Alicent begged, as she kissed and rode and f*cked her knight in Rhaenyra’s old room.
And then her door burst open.
-
The Smith, he labours day and night,
To put the world of men to right.
With hammer, plow, and fire bright,
He builds for little children.
-
When Alicent was told that the ratcatchers hang from the walls, she could do nothing but nod. Anger may come later, or sad*stic glee, or grief. Any emotion, she supposed, would be a welcome one. Any emotion other than the empty pit in her soul, filled with the blood of her grandson, and her daughter’s tears.
The wailing of mothers, wives, and daughters ring from the street, and Alicent, sat underneath her window, legs drawn up to her chest, listened. For every sob, she felt her hand twitch, aching to scratch at her skin, tug at her hair, bleed the rot out of her body. She could not remember the time when she last felt clean.
Would these women, weeping and wailing outside her walls, understand why Aegon had done what he did? He was a sweet boy, Alicent desperately thought. He wanted to give them all more sheep…
A more insidious voice rose in her, whispering of young serving girls with ripped clothes, and threats of dragonfire and war. Aegon, child of a child, child of a King, her sweet Aegon, who came quickly and without fuss, had murdered half a dozen men today.
“They are without pain,” Alicent said aloud, speaking to no one, with nobody listening. “The dead cannot feel pain.”
Her sweet Aegon, who pledged money to local working men. Her baby boy Aegon, with his baby boy dead.
“Forgive us our sins,” Alicent whispered quickly, though she could not hear herself over the crying outside. “Smith, mend what was broken.”
The poison in her veins must course through her sweet baby. The tears shed in her marital bed must have taken perch in his soul. Is that why he treated those girls so? Alicent heaved, feeling her pain echo through a generation.
“Smith, protect your men in their death. Smith, mend my boy. Mend me. Please.”
An almighty scream rang up from the street, a mother dropped to her knees. She shrieked for her murdered son. A handmaiden was knocking on her door, news about the Hand her father.
“Smith, mend what we have broken.”
The mourning mother wailed on.
-
The Maiden dances through the sky,
She lives in every lover’s sigh.
Her smiles teach the birds to smile,
And gives dreams to little children.
-
Helaena did not wail. Alicent had sat beside her daughter that morning, before the men were hung from the walls, before the King made mothers sonless and wives widows. Alicent sat beside her daughter as little Jaehaerys was paraded before the masses.
Helaena did not wail, but she did mutter.
“Light falling from a tower window,” she said, as they passed under archways and through the narrow streets, at last nearing the Red Keep once more.
“Rubies in the river, horses in the east,” she bit out, tears of frustration in her eyes. “Mother!”
“Hush, my girl. Hush now, almost over.”
“Mother!” she gasped, and then moaned, and then keened. Her violet eyes were unseeing, stuck in an eternal plea. “Stitches with a needle, loop back over again.”
“Hush, Helaena. Quiet now,” Alicent soothed as best she could, reaching for her daughter’s hand, feeling as if she was grasping thin air.
“Don’t,” Helaena snapped. “Stitches with a needle! Mother, Mother.”
She moaned again. “Mummy, please.”
“Hush now. Hush now. Home now,” Alicent said, more to herself than to anyone else. The instant that they were out of the eyes of the million mourners, crying for a child they had never met, Helaena bounded out of their carriage, climbing over to reach for Jaehaerys’ body. She clawed at his shroud until it ripped and gathered her infant son in her arms.
Alicent called off the knights who sought to separate the two and ordered the goldcloaks to leave them be. She sat, as a soft rain began to putter against the ground and stick her veil to her face. Alicent sat, and watched her only daughter clutch her only son, hand supporting his head, so as to not disturb the stitches.
He looked like the baby dolls that Alicent would play with as a girl, long before she learned that babies grew into adults faster than girls grow into mothers. Alicent raised her eyes to the sky, and saw only the towers of the Red Keep, its light bricks dripping blood red in the rain. It was so dark it almost looked black. Jaehaery’s blood, Alicent thought wildly. The very castle was bleeding for the boy.
“Black snow in the tower,” Heleana muttered slowly, looking behind her. “Mother, I’m scared.”
“I know, sweetling.”
“My head hurts. Black snow in the tower and red rocks in the sky.”
She was whispering to Jaehaerys now, snippets of her little stories, her ramblings that Alicent never understood. She was filling her son’s empty soul with her dreams.
Alicent ripped her veil off, and her hand came flying to her mouth, picking and tearing at her lip until blood rained down her chin. Neither sinners nor babes were safe in this land. Alicent has been both, and yet neither wholly.
“Maiden,” she begged, blood staining her teeth, “Maiden, who is innocent, protect my dearest love.”
Helaena had fallen asleep clutching her child’s dead body, and two stitches had become undone, leaving his head turned at an unnatural angle.
“Maiden, I know I am a sinner. Maiden, you do not have to forgive me. Only protect my girl, my only girl, my dearest, dearest love…”
Alicent’s right hand dropped to her left wrist and scratched it raw and bloody.
-
They sing no songs for the Stranger.
-
Alicent knelt at the foot of her bed, bloody hands with white knuckles clasped in front of her.
“Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death.”
She repeated her refrain over and over, until her tongue felt heavy and sore.
“Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death.”
Her sweet baby boy, father to a murdered son, murderer to a half dozen men. Her angry little boy, disfigured and impulsive and brave. Her darling little girl, with her own darling little girl, and the ghost of a bed in her room.
“Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death.”
Alicent collapsed to the floor, forehead touching the cool ground beneath.
“Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death. Stranger, who is death.”
She wanted her mother. She was so far from home.
“Stranger, seek her out. I beg of you, seek her, and tell her… tell her…”
Alicent gasped around a sob as if stabbed.
“Mama, please help me. Mama I am frightened.”
The silence of the stranger was all that greeted her. Little children sang the Stranger no songs.
