124 AC
"How sweetly the fox speaks when it's been cornered by the hound."
"She is sincere," the King expressed, his voice a weary murmur that barely cut through the thick tension cloaking the chamber. Each word fell heavily in the stifling air, laden with fatigue and trepidation.
"She is desperate," his wife corrected him sharply, the conviction in her tone slicing deeper than her words like a dagger through flesh. "She feels the proposal is washing away all of her sins—sins that are no small matter, mind you—and now, she expects us to ignore her transgressions and demand that I marry one of my own daughters to one of her plain-featured sons," the defiance in her declaration weaved through the tension, amplifying her frustrations.
"The proposal is a good one, my Queen," he countered, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled as he sought out logic amidst the maelstrom of emotions swirling around them. "We are family, and that's precisely how we can end this childish quarrel," he claimed, tone tinted with an optimism that felt increasingly out of place. "Joined hands make us stronger," the king's words waded through the currents of doubt, struggling to find solid ground.
"You may do as you wish, husband," Alicent declared firmly, a finality in her voice that brooked no argument. "When I am cold in my grave," the rawness of her statement hit him harder than a physical blow, punctuating the gravity of their shared unease.
With a swift, purposeful stride, she climbed the stairs, desperate to escape this bitter discussion with him, seeking solace away from their fracturing connection.
"Alicent..." he called out after her, desperation tinged with disbelief coloring his voice as if he were trying to grasp at a fading thread, the fraying piece of fabric that held their lives together.
The queen entered her husband's bedchamber, her heart heavy with the burden of his declining health, a reality that gnawed at her insides. She fetched a thick blanket, hands steady despite the turmoil swirling within her. He followed her with a loud cough that echoed ominously in the stillness, a grim reminder of his steadily deteriorating condition.
"I do not need the blanket," he protested, his voice a gravelly remnant of past authority, tenacity clinging to his words as stubborn as the man himself.
Finding her anger surging against the confines of her decorum, she let the blanket slide from her grip, the fabric falling to the floor like a discarded notion, regret pulsing through her. How could he even consider giving Helaena or Alyssa away? They were their daughters, their flesh and blood, and yet she felt as though they were slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
Was it not enough that she had given him the son he had always wanted? Aegon, their only true legacy, was destined to bear the weight of the Iron Throne, a role he would no doubt fulfill with ease under the relentless scrutiny of the realm. And yet, Viserys's heart still seemed ensnared by the lingering shadows of Aemma's memory. Rhaenyra had birthed bastards, and while no one in the realm dared entertain the thought of voicing their disdain aloud, Alicent wrestled daily with the bitter reality of it. The notion of one of her daughters marrying a son of that line—that line which bore such a curse—was simply abhorrent to her. Her blood had a more legitimate claim to the throne than that of Rhaenyra's; she would ensure it remained so, no matter the cost.
"The Hand, Your Grace," a guard announced, sharp and unyielding, disturbing the tense silence that hung in the chamber.
"The king is resting," she replied, her voice a wall constructed of discontent and fatigue, the firmness of her tone a desperate plea for peace.
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Whispered Serenade
Fanfiction"The only thing that could tear down the house of the dragon was itself." Long ago, the Old King Jaehaerys I Targaryen held a council where all of the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms were summoned. There, they would choose which one will inherit t...
