Maegor's Holdfast, The Red Keep.
The air here was a world away from the Dragonpit, infused with the heavy scent of medicinal herbs and sweet incense.
Alicent sat by the window of the King's chambers, a letter in her hand.
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass panes, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across her deep green skirts.
She read slowly, her voice soft as if afraid to disturb a fragile peace:
"...Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra have arrived safely in Tyrosh and reached an agreement with the Volantene envoy, Eluna Lanthe. The three parties will form a joint fleet to purge the remaining pirates from the Stepstones and rebuild the trade routes... The Archon of Tyrosh has agreed to surrender in exchange for military protection from the Blacks..."
She was reading a forgery.
Alicent didn't utter a single word of the true, bloody reports.
This letter had been meticulously crafted by Grand Maester Orwyle to mimic Rhaenyra's handwriting, every word tailored to fit Viserys I's desperate vision of peace.
It painted a picture of a world where the Blacks accepted the East and the Greens ruled the West, a world where House Targaryen avoided the tragedy of civil war.
On his sickbed, Viserys I lay propped up by pillows.
His eyes, visible behind the golden mask, were half-closed, but they flickered with a faint light of relief at certain passages.
"Good," Viserys whispered, his voice thin as a guttering candle.
Alicent finished the reading. She folded the parchment, set it on the small bedside table, and held a cup of medicine to his lips.
"It is time for your draught, husband."
The King took a sip, but much of it escaped the corner of his mouth, soaking into his collar.
"Shall I rest?" Alicent asked gently, dabbing his face with a silk handkerchief.
Viserys shook his head, his movements shaky and uncoordinated.
"No... stay a while longer. The sun is beautiful..."
He looked out the window. From this vantage point in Maegor's Holdfast, one could overlook the entirety of the Red Keep.
Alicent followed his gaze, a tide of complex emotions rising in her chest. She no longer loved this man; perhaps she never truly had.
Their marriage had begun as politics and was sustained by duty, leaving only a hollow habit of companionship.
Yet she pitied him, this Monarch withered by disease, a man determined to die within a beautiful fantasy.
"Alicent..." Viserys said suddenly.
"I am here, Majesty."
"Do you hate me?"
Alicent went rigid. She turned to look into the cloudy but still sharp eyes behind the golden mask.
"Why... why would you ask that?"
Viserys reached out a skeletal hand, his skin loose and mottled with age spots, and lightly touched her cheek.
"Because I owe you... much. The crown of a Queen, children, the glory of your House, I gave you those. But there are things... I could not give."
He paused, his breathing becoming labored.
"I know there is resentment in your heart. Resentment for my favoritism toward Rhaenyra. For my neglect of Aegon and Aemond. For never truly putting you first. I failed Aemma, and I failed you, Alicent."
Tears welled up in Alicent's eyes without warning.
She blinked hard to force them back, but a single tear escaped, rolling down her cheek to land on the back of Viserys's hand.
"I do not hate you, Majesty," she said, her voice thick.
It was the truth. Hate was exhausting, and she was already too weary from this marriage to sustain it.
Viserys seemed to exhale in relief. He leaned back against the pillows, his voice growing fainter.
"That is good... very good... call the children. I want to see them..."
Alicent nodded, walked to the door, and whispered instructions to the handmaidens. She returned to the window and picked up Baelon from his cradle.
The infant was only a year old, named after his father, his soft silver hair shimmering in the light.
His large purple eyes brightened as he giggled at his mother.
"Here, let your father hold you."
Alicent placed the boy gently on Viserys's lap. The King's eyes softened.
He tried to touch the child's face, but his arm lacked the strength and fell back.
Little Baelon curiously grabbed one of his father's fingers and tried to put it in his mouth.
"He looks so much like my father..." Viserys sighed, a sound filled with infinite regret.
The door pushed open quietly. Aelyn entered.
Aegon's wife was nine months pregnant, her abdomen heavy.
She wore a loose blue gown, but her face was pale and her eyes were rimmed with red. She forced a smile and a shallow curtsy.
"Father. Mother."
"Aelyn," Viserys nodded.
"Come, sit."
Aelyn sat, her expression strained. Alicent gave her a warning glance: do not speak out of turn.
But Viserys noticed. "What is it? Are you unhappy?"
Viserys knew Aelyn harbored resentment. He had even written to Rhaenyra, asking her not to harm the Rogare family if Lys fell.
"No... no," Aelyn shook her head, her smile turning brittle.
"It is just... the morning sickness is quite severe. I am not myself."
"And where is Aegon?" Viserys asked.
"Why is he not with you?"
Aelyn looked at Alicent, a silent plea for help in her eyes. Alicent took over smoothly.
"Aegon is attending a name-day feast for Lord Hayford's heir, Majesty."
A lie.
Aegon was currently in his own chambers, delirious with a high fever from his broken leg.
"A feast is good," Viserys accepted.
"As the heir... he must socialize. He will need the love of his vassals when he is King."
Aelyn lowered her head. She thought of the previous night, of Aegon thrashing in his sleep, mumbling:
"The dragons... they are burning me... so hot... Mother, save me..."
She hated Aemond for dragging Aegon into that nightmare. She hated that her own family in Lys was being besieged by the Blacks and Volantis while the Greens stood by.
And she hated that Viserys had permitted it all in a vain hope for reconciliation.
Now, she had to swallow that bitterness and play the part of the dutiful daughter-in-law.
"Take me to the gardens," Viserys said suddenly.
Alicent nodded. Servants brought in a specially made chair with soft cushions.
They moved the King with great care and carried him out of Maegor's Holdfast, through the long galleries, and into the Godswood.
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