The Red Keep, Maegor's Holdfast.
The air here was utterly unlike the Dragonpit—thick with the scents of herbs and incense.
Alicent sat by the window of the king's bedchamber, a letter in hand. Sunlight filtered through the colored glass, casting mottled patterns across the deep green of her gown.
She read slowly, her voice soft, as though afraid to disturb something: "…Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra have arrived safely in Tyrosh and have reached an accord with the Volantene envoy, Eluna Lanser."
"The three parties will form a joint fleet to clear the remaining pirate forces in the Stepstones and restore the trade routes…"
"The Archon of Tyrosh has agreed to surrender in exchange for the military protection of the Blacks…"
She was reading a forged letter.
Not a single word of the true intelligence had she read.
This letter had been meticulously forged by Grand Maester Orwyle in Rhaenyra's hand, every word shaped to match the peaceful vision King Viserys I longed for.
The Blacks would accept a division of east and west, turn their ambitions toward the eastern continent; the Greens would rule Westeros. The two sides would not interfere with one another, and House Targaryen would be spared the tragedy of civil war.
On the sickbed, Viserys lay half-reclined.
Behind his mask, his eyes were half-closed; at certain passages, they would open slightly, revealing a faint glimmer of relief.
"Good…" Viserys' voice was frail, like a candle flickering in the wind.
Alicent finished reading.
She folded the letter and set it upon the small table beside the bed, then lifted a cup of medicine to his lips.
"Your Grace, it is time to take your draught."
The king took a sip, but most of it ran from the corner of his mouth, soaking into his robes.
"Shall you rest?" Alicent asked softly, wiping the moisture from his face with a silk cloth.
Viserys shook his head, the motion so slight it was like a tremor. "No… let me sit a while longer."
"The sunlight is good…"
He looked out the window.
From this window in Maegor's Holdfast, the whole of the Red Keep could be seen.
Alicent followed his gaze, a complicated feeling stirring within her.
She no longer loved this man—perhaps she never truly had.
Their marriage had begun in politics, endured through duty, and now remained only as a habit of companionship.
Yet she pitied him—this husband worn down into something scarcely human by disease, this king who would live until his last breath within a beautiful illusion.
"Alicent…" Viserys spoke suddenly.
"I am here, Your Grace."
"Do you hate me?"
Alicent stiffened.
She turned her head and looked at the pair of clouded yet still sharp eyes beneath the golden mask.
Viserys was looking at her.
"Why… do you ask that?" Her voice was dry.
Viserys raised a hand—thin as bone, the skin slack and marked with age—and gently touched her cheek.
"Because I have wronged you… in many ways."
"The crown of queen, children, the honor of your house… these I have given you."
"But there are things… I could not give."
He paused, his breathing growing uneven. "I know… there is resentment in your heart. Resentment that I favored Rhaenyra, that I once overlooked Aegon and Aemond."
"Resentment that… I never truly placed you first."
"I failed Aemma, and I failed you, Alicent."
Tears welled up in Alicent's eyes without warning.
She blinked hard, trying to hold them back, but failed.
A tear slipped down her cheek and fell upon the back of Viserys' hand.
"I do not hate you, Your Grace," she said, her voice breaking.
It was the truth.
Hatred was too wearying, and she had long since been exhausted by this marriage.
Viserys seemed to relax. He leaned back against the pillow, closing his eyes, his voice growing ever fainter. "That is good… that is good… call the children…"
"I would see them…"
Alicent nodded. She rose and went to the door, giving quiet instructions to the maidservants outside. Then she returned to the window and lifted the cradle, taking up little Jaehaerys.
The boy was but a year old, his silver hair soft, gleaming in the sunlight.
Those purple eyes were wide and bright; at the sight of his mother, he broke into a delighted giggle.
"Come, let your father hold you," Alicent said, gently placing Jaehaerys upon Viserys' lap.
Viserys opened his eyes and looked upon his youngest son, his gaze softening.
He tried to lift a hand to touch the child's face, but his arm lacked the strength; it fell halfway.
Jaehaerys, curious, grasped one of his father's fingers and tried to put it into his mouth.
"He is much like me…" Viserys sighed, and in that sigh lay boundless regret.
At that moment, the door opened softly.
Alyn Rogare entered.
The wife of Prince Aegon, now nine months with child, her belly already swollen.
She wore a loose dark blue gown, yet her complexion was poor, her eyes red-rimmed, as though she had been weeping.
Seeing the king and queen turn toward her, she forced a smile and made a curtsey. "Father, Mother."
"Alyn…" Viserys nodded. "Come, sit."
Alyn took a seat beside the bed, her expression strained.
Alicent cast her a glance, warning in her eyes—say nothing out of turn.
But Viserys noticed his gooddaughter's mood. "What is it? Are you unhappy?"
Viserys I was well aware that this daughter-by-marriage harbored resentment within her.
Yet he had also instructed his daughter Rhaenyra in a letter—if Lys were taken, the Rogare family was not to be troubled.
"No… no," Alyn said quickly, shaking her head, her smile growing more forced. "It is only… the sickness of pregnancy has been severe. I feel unwell."
"And Aegon?" Viserys asked. "Why has he not come with you?"
Alyn looked to Alicent, her plea for help plain.
Alicent took up the answer, her tone calm and natural. "Aegon has gone to attend the naming feast of Lord Harrowfield, Your Grace."
It was a lie.
At this very moment, Aegon lay in his chamber, his right leg broken, burning with fever.
Yet none of this did Viserys know.
"A feast is well enough," Viserys accepted the explanation. "As heir to the throne… he ought to be seen more among the lords."
"Aegon will one day be king. He must win the support and affection of his bannermen."
Alyn lowered her head and fell silent.
She thought of the night before—of Aegon, injured and feverish, muttering in delirium upon his sickbed: "The dragon… the dragon is burning me… it is too hot…"
"Mother… save me…"
She resented Aemond, and she resented the king and queen.
It was not resentment toward her husband's brother as a man, but toward all that he had done.
She resented that he had dragged Aegon into that cursed dragon battle and left him wounded, that he treated Aegon as a puppet.
And most of all, she resented her own house—Rogare—now in Lys, besieged by the Blacks and Volantis alike.
Yet the Greens—her husband's own house—while Queen Alicent chose to stand aside.
All of it had been permitted by Viserys, sacrificing her family in the hope of reconciliation between Black and Green.
But in the end, that night, Aemond had still slain those three Strongs without the slightest hesitation.
Now, in this war, Black and Green—one side must perish.
She hoped the Greens would prevail, and more than that, that Aegon would prevail.
For now, all that resentment she must swallow like bitter fruit, and before the king and queen, she must wear the mask of a dutiful daughter.
Viserys, lying upon his bed, looked out the window and suddenly said, "Take me to the garden for a walk."
Alicent paused, then nodded.
She gave orders to the maidservants at the door. Soon, four attendants entered bearing a specially made chair, with soft cushions and armrests, allowing one to recline.
They carefully lifted Viserys from the bed and set him upon the chair, covering him with a blanket. Then they bore him out of Maegor's Holdfast, through the corridors, and into the godswood garden.
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