Alicent’s temper had been festering for days. Rhaenyra’s third child had come screaming into the world with the same unmistakable signs as the others—brown hair, brown eyes, a living insult wrapped in royal silk. Another lie celebrated before the court. Another bastard praised while Alicent’s own sons were expected to bow their heads and endure.

What made it worse—what poisoned her thoughts—was not only the lie itself, but the way Rhaenyra loved them. She loved them openly. Fiercely. Without shame or hesitation.

Alicent had watched Rhaenyra cradle that newborn with the same ease she had shown with Jacaerys and Lucerys, her voice soft, her touch instinctive. There was no stiffness, no uncertainty. No sense of obligation. The boys clung to her, trusted her, adored her—and she 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, a child she had tried to shape into something worthy only to watch him rot beneath her hands and between brothels and wine. He disappointed her at every turn, a constant reminder of her failure. Aemond, once her solace, had grown distant after Driftmark—hardened, silent, carrying his pain like a blade he no longer allowed her to touch. Helaena…Helaena was Helaena—gentle, unreachable, drifting in a world Alicent could not follow, no matter how desperately she tried.

And then there was you—her youngest. The one who should have been her chance at redemption. Instead, you only reminded her of everything she lacked.

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

And Viserys had never once acknowledged the cost of that sacrifice.

She had confronted Rhaenyra. Her words had been cruel, sharpened by envy as much as righteousness. She accused her of indecency, of mocking the realm, of flaunting her sins while others paid the price for obedience. Rhaenyra, exhausted and pale from childbirth, had still met her gaze with that infuriating calm—as if love alone shielded her from consequence.

And Viserys—Viserys had dismissed her again. He had sighed, tired and indulgent, told her she was overwrought, that she must stop seeing enemies where there were none. His dismissal cut deeper than any insult Rhaenyra could have offered.

It told Alicent everything. That her devotion meant nothing. That her suffering was invisible. That Rhaenyra would always be forgiven—loved—no matter what she did.

The fury had to go somewhere. You bore the cruelest irony of all—Alicent’s own flesh and blood, yet cursed with Rhaenyra’s likeness. The same pale hair, the same soft mouth, the same watchful eyes that mirrored the girl Alicent had once loved and the woman she now despised. You carried Rhaenyra’s face and none of her warmth, and Alicent could not look at you without feeling cheated.

You became the vessel for every failure Alicent refused to name as her own.

You stood once more in the Queen Consort's chambers—your mother’s chambers. The air was thick with incense and tension, the stone walls looming like judges. The young Princess trembled, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, knowing better than to meet Alicent’s eyes.

“I—I was attending my History lessons like you instructed, mother,” You said quietly. “That’s why I didn’t go to the Sept for praying.”

Her voice wavered, though she fought to keep it steady. “I don’t care where you were or what you were doing,” Alicent snapped. “You’ve sinned.”

Alicent turned sharply, pacing once as if restraining herself. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, gathering her skirts with controlled precision. Her hands trembled—not with doubt, but with the effort of containing a rage that had been denied its rightful targets for too long.

“On your knees, princess,” she said coldly. “Time to pray for forgiveness.”