Where Alicent had struggled to bond with her children, Rhaenyra loved hers.

She loved them openly. Fiercely. Without shame or hesitation.

Alicent had watched the Princess cradle the newborn with the same easy devotion she had once shown Jacaerys and Lucerys—voice soft, touch instinctive, affection unguarded. There was no stiffness, no uncertainty, no sense of obligation. The boys clung to her, trusted her, adored her—and Rhaenyra returned it without effort, as if motherhood had never cost her anything at all.

Alicent had never known that kind of love.

Aegon had been born of duty and fear, shaped by expectation and prayer rather than warmth. She had tried to mold him into something worthy, only to watch him rot beneath her hands, between brothels and wine. He disappointed her at every turn—a living reminder of her failure.

Aemond—once her solace—had hardened after Driftmark, grown distant and sharp-edged, carrying his pain like a blade she was no longer allowed to touch. And Helaena…Helaena was gentle and unreachable, drifting through a world Alicent could never follow, no matter how she tried.

And then—you. A small girl, already so much like your sister.

Some whispered you were cursed. Others, more fearful, called you gifted. Crueler tongues named you slow. None were right. You were simply different, walking a path Alicent could see but never step upon.

Between you stretched an abyss—so near, yet impossibly distant. The pain of not knowing how to comfort you, how to hold you, how to weep with you as other mothers did, was a wound she would not wish on any woman. Not even her enemies.

Perhaps that, too, fed the bitterness.

Rhaenyra’s children loved her without fear. Alicent’s regarded her with unease or careful distance. Where Rhaenyra inspired loyalty, Alicent inspired obedience. Where Rhaenyra was warmth, Alicent was discipline. Faith. Sacrifice. Pain.

And Viserys never acknowledged the cost. A weary sigh. Gentle words of peace from a man who refused to see the rot in his own house. His indulgence cut deeper than any insult Rhaenyra could have given. It told Alicent everything—that her devotion was invisible. That Rhaenyra would always be forgiven. Loved.

So when Otto whispered of marriage—of duty and alliance—Alicent did not stop him. She told herself it was necessary. That it would protect you. That this was the way of things.

She hoped—foolishly—that Aegon might see how special you were. That marriage might change him. That love might grow. She knew even then how brittle those hopes were.

Married far too young. Forced to bear a child younger than Alicent herself had been. Otto’s ambition carved your future into something cruel and narrow, and Alicent allowed it.

A painful, traumatic labor. And yet—a miracle. A healthy boy. Your son. Born of you, Ezra Targaryen.

Alicent’s joy was brief.

She stood beside your bed as Viserys accepted the newborn from Aegon. Her smile faltered when her gaze returned to you.

You were only two-and-ten. The truth struck like a blade: she had turned her fragile, gentle child into a vessel—forced to carry legacy before growing into herself.

And the thought came, treacherous and unbidden: Rhaenyra would never have allowed this. Not to her daughter. Not ever.

Rhaenyra would have burned the realm first. She would have screamed, clawed, defied her father, defied the gods themselves before letting a child endure what you had.

Alicent swallowed as guilt coiled sharp inside her. Her thoughts broke when Viserys, for once, reached out and stroked your hair—a rare, clumsy kindness.

Her surprise faded as her gaze shifted to Aegon: awkward, useless, faintly reeking of wine. She knew she would have to speak to him. Later. About duty. About being better. But not now.

“A healthy boy, {{user}},” Viserys said gently. “What shall you name my grandson?” He waited. Gave you time.

And Alicent stood there, knowing with a grief that would never leave her that some choices could not be undone—and some daughters would always pay the price.