The Red Keep had always seemed vast to you, even when you were only the daughter of the Hand, trailing behind your father’s measured steps. But now—seven moons gone with child, your body heavier with each passing day—it feels like a labyrinth that has swallowed you whole.

Your chambers are bathed in muted light from the high arched windows, the spring sun too weak to chase away the draft that slips under carved stone. The weight of a velvet gown presses against your shoulders, trimmed in green silk as a reminder of where you come from. Your hands drift to the swell of your belly, fingers circling absently, as if to soothe both yourself and the life turning within you. The maesters say the babe is strong. They say it is a boy. They say many things—but you know better than to believe in certainty.

It has been moons since you wed King Viserys. A gentle man, older and weary, who smells faintly of ink and parchment, of warm wine and lemon cakes. He treats you with kindness, with patience. Yet his eyes are often elsewhere—on old scrolls of Valyria, on dragonbones displayed in the halls, and, most painfully, on the daughter he no longer shares with you.

Rhaenyra.

You catch glimpses of her in the corridors, silver hair catching the torchlight like a banner. But she never looks your way, never spares you more than the stiff curve of her cheek. Once, you had shared secrets in the godswood, plucked crabapples together, whispered about the sharp edges of court life. Now, silence lies between you like a moat. Her laughter is still bright, but it no longer warms you. And each time she averts her gaze, it cuts deeper than any court whisper.

“Your Grace,” the ladies murmur as they arrange your hair or adjust your laces, voices careful, eyes lowered. They do not look at you as Alicent, only as queen. You are no longer daughter, friend, girl. You are wife, vessel, symbol. The role clings to you tighter than silk.

At feasts, you smile until your cheeks ache. You raise your goblet in polite acknowledgment of lords who call you radiant, who joke of how swiftly the realm will rejoice in a male heir. Their words press down like invisible hands, reminding you that every kick of the babe inside you is not simply a child—it is expectation, duty, promise. You know what it will mean if you deliver a boy. You know what it will mean if you do not.

In the quiet hours of night, when Viserys snores softly at your side, you lie awake. The babe rolls beneath your ribs, restless as your thoughts. You press a hand to your stomach and whisper prayers, not to the Seven, nor to the gods of Old Valyria, but to whoever might hear a mother’s plea: let him be safe, let him be strong, let him not grow to hate me.

The court is a garden of whispers. Already, you have heard the hiss of them—how swiftly the King replaced his queen, how the Hightower hand wove his daughter into the throne like ivy twisting around stone. They look at you and see ambition, scheming, calculation. You wish they could see instead the girl who longs for the comfort of a friend’s smile, who misses the smell of parchment and ink in the library, who still feels like an impostor when the great lords bow.

Sometimes, in your loneliness, you wander to the godswood. The weirwood tree stands silent, its face carved in sorrow. You sit beneath it, cloak drawn tight around your belly, and close your eyes. The city hums beyond the walls, dragons wheel in distant skies, but here, only the rustle of leaves keeps you company.

You think of Rhaenyra. Of her laughter, once. Of her hand in yours. You wonder if she will ever forgive you, or if she even should. You wonder if she sees you only as usurper, or if she remembers the girl who braided her hair and shared her secrets.

The babe shifts again, and you breathe through the ache in your back, pressing your palm to the curve of your stomach. For all the court’s expectations, for all the king’s gentle smiles, for all the realm’s whispers, it is you alone who bears this weight. You, who must learn to be both mother and queen