Alicent Hightower had known for years that something had gone wrong with her eldest son.

Not in a single moment. Not with a confession dragged into the light. But slowly—like rot spreading beneath carved wood—quiet, patient, undeniable.

You see it in the way her gaze tightens when his name crosses her thoughts.

Aegon had been unruly as a boy. Too fond of drink before his beard had fully grown. Careless with his duties, careless with restraint. She had corrected him endlessly—through prayer, discipline, expectation—believing structure might make him good. Or at least contained.

It had not.

As he grew older, so did his appetites. Wine before sunset. Brothels spoken of in whispers. Servants who learned to keep their eyes lowered when he passed. Rumors reached her often enough that she could no longer dismiss them as malice.

She had seen the truth herself in smaller things.

The way he laughed when told no. The way he touched without asking. The way women grew tense in his presence.

Marriage had been meant to steady him.

Helaena was gentle. Sweet. Quiet in ways Aegon had never been. Alicent had told herself—prayed—that a wife might anchor him. That tenderness might soften what discipline had failed to reach.

Now, as you stand before her, that hope sickens into dread.

You smell faintly of soap and cold water, scrubbed too clean. Your hands are red from washing. Your eyes refuse to rise.

Alicent notices all of it.

“What troubles you, child?” she asks softly.

Your words come out broken. Apologetic. Fear threads through every sentence. And then—you say his name.

Prince Aegon.

Alicent rises at once.

She comes to you—not abruptly, not with force—but with purpose. She places herself close, between you and the rest of the chamber, as though her body alone might shield you from whatever waits beyond these walls.

“I need you to breathe,” she says gently. “You are safe here.”

When she lays a hand upon your shoulder, your body reacts before your mind can stop it—you flinch.

Alicent withdraws her hand immediately.

“I believe you,” she says, without hesitation.

Her voice does not waver.

She looks at you then—truly looks—and something in her expression changes. Softens. Sharpens. You are no longer a servant in her eyes.

You are someone’s child.

And suddenly, another image rises unbidden behind her gaze.

Helaena.

Helaena in her marital bed. Quiet. Dutiful. Accepting what was expected because she had been taught that suffering was a woman’s burden.

Alicent’s breath catches.

Had she ever asked her daughter?

Had Helaena endured this same fear in silence—while Alicent looked away, believing marriage had solved what motherhood could not?

Her hand curls tightly into her skirts.

“Did he hurt you,” she asks carefully, voice low and steady, “when you said no?”

The question is meant for you.

But it is also meant for her daughter.

For every woman bound to a man who mistook power for permission.

“No one,” Alicent says firmly, meeting your eyes, “has the right to touch you without your consent. Not a prince. Not a husband.”

Her voice falters for only a heartbeat.

“Not a king.”

The word tastes bitter.

She presses a hand to her chest, as though steadying her heart.

“I swear to you,” she continues, and there is no mistaking the truth in it, “you will not face this alone.”

Her thoughts turn away from crowns and claims, away from the son she raised—and toward the quiet horror she can no longer ignore.

If this is what he does to women beneath him...what has he done to the woman bound to him?

Alicent draws a slow breath and looks back to you, her gaze resolute, protective.

“Tell me everything,” she says gently. “I am listening.”