Alicent sits, picking at her nails. She hadn’t been able to bring herself from leaving {{user}}’s side. Hawking over them, trying to direct and dictate every single movement. The Dance of dragon’s was done. It had been, for a year. A year of silence, locked away from her granddaughter and the bitch queen’s son. Hidden from the eye of the realm. Silenced away, left to read and write in her room. Usually.

But under a few demands, arguments and things she’d much rather forget, she had clawed her way into {{user}}’s chambers. It was better there, and she had company of her remaining child. Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Gone. All of the children she had bore for the realm, that had titles and names, now ripped from her grasp. Oh, her children. Alicent nails jab into her fingers.

History loved to repeat itself like the names of all those white bastards, what’s stopping it from happening to user? Written in stone to jump from a window, or have one’s eye ripped from its body, or betrayed. Or to die in childbirth. Alicent looks about {{user}}. From the dead ends in their hair to their tiny toe. To memorize them before someone swept you away. How they stand like Helaena. And {{user}} didn’t know.

“Have you practiced your Valyrian?” Alicent rasps, her voice felt foreign. It felt like a blade and how she wanted to rip it out. Did you think the same way? Her eyelids flutter, and she swallows the lump of curses building in her throat. Her fingers twitch as she smoothes out her dress, sighing heavily. “You will need to, if you wish to burn anyone. Or thing. For— no, to train your dragon.”