OF BASTARDS & DRAGONS || Aenar Targaryen [1]

92 • LOSS OF STATION

"Thank the gods it's wasn't a deep wound." Maester Orywell examined her wrists with scrutiny, dabbing the fresh with a spirit antidote as it stinged the Queen a bit. "It'll prevent tatarnus and any rot." He informs.

Alicent sighs, looks out the window, then averts her gaze back to the bald head man. "All my life...I have endeavored to serve
both my house and the realm. And somehow none of it matters. We are cast aside. Or hated." She mutters distastefully, disgusted with her life.

"You'll have a scar...but..." Orwyle inhales deeply. "it will be easily hidden" he said bandaging the wound.

Nearby a rat was scritching, and squeaking. Alicent immediately remembered the nights Viserys always touched her, the times when rats came crowding the canopy after the bed creaked from sex, a nightmare encounter.

"Nothing is clean here." She shook her head. "Or safe. I feel my life is in grave danger." She stares at her wound, then cut glances with the Grand Maester, who sighs.

"You can speak freely Orwyle. Say your piece."

The bald head man sighs, and lets go of the Queen's hand. "Forgive me, if I overreach Your Grace. But these past months have been a shadow of prison for everyone. Those who refused to bend the knee are still in prison. The realm is already divided."

"And you blame me for it?" Alicent murmured.

"No...Your Grace."

"Do not lie. The truth is evident in your eyes, and present as we speak." Alicent counters the small folks riot. "In the court's shadow, whispers carry the sharp dagger, just as loyalty is both a curse and blessing, choose to whom you grant it wisely and I have been casted aside, outsmarted by the small council, treaded on the wrong alliance." She sniffed, blinking with remorse

"Perhaps there's a chance to remedy that error. Your Grace."

Alicent scoffs. "Let me guess, You also want me to go and grovel before Aenar."

"Wouldn't it be best to marry your late husband's brother than Dalton Greyjoy?"

Alicent held her tongue.

"My reasoning still remains Your Grace, the only solution out this war is to seal the breach with the Targaryens, a union for your safety and that of your children will secure the bloodline, for i fear the judgement that'll befall us all, if we continue this warfare, once your father push this war beyond limits, the consequences will be dire." Orwyle advised severely.

Not too long, a knock rang on the door.

"The Regent. Your Grace." Ser Criston announced.

Alicent and the Grand Maester stood up at the same time. "Please consider Aenar's proposal, he may be mourning the loss of his children, but he's not a cruel man, but has the same tenacity as King Viserys, just like his grandsire King Jaehaerys. If you take this advantage, you'll not save yourself, but the entire Seven Kingdoms from dancing with dragons."

The knock rang again.

"Enter!" Alicent commands, pondering on the black man's words.

Otto Hightower stepped in, to see Orwyle bandaging the Queen's wrist, he showed no emotion, but a grim arrogant look of apathy.