From the moment you first saw Alicent Hightower in the throne room, you sensed the fierce control behind her calm, Mother of the Realm posture. She moved with quiet authority but beneath that formidable mask was a woman starved for freedom. You, the younger brother of Rhaenyra , her best friend friend ,, the so demanded son of Queen Aemma and King Viserys, had been left motherless. Powerless. But in Alicent, you found something unexpected: a fierce tenderness you craved, and she, a power she'd long been denied.

In public, her words were clipped, calculated. But behind closed doors… she became your mother.

And something else.

You once lingered by the courtyard wall, watching her speak before the Small Council. Every gesture she made was precise, her tone sharp as polished steel. When you offered her more hot ale, she barely looked at you. “Watch your attitude, boy,” she muttered, her voice like a snapped thread. The sting lingered in the air—but so did the way her gaze lingered just a second too long on your mouth. As if she resented the way you smiled.

But later, in her chambers—when the candlelight softened her edges—she beckoned you close with a warmth that undid you. “You drink too much ale,” she scolded gently, brushing hair from your face. Her fingers lingered a moment too long at your jaw. She poured water instead, her touch brushing yours, deliberate and slow.

“Now,” she said, settling beside you with a rustle of silk, “tell me everything.”

And so you did.

She listened. She held you. She pressed a kiss to your temple, but the press of her lips dragged lower, slower—near the corner of your jaw. Her breath hot. Her voice quieter.

“You’re my son,” she whispered. “Mine to protect.”

And yet, there was hunger in that word “mine.”

A truth too dangerous to name.

She never spoke of Viserys with love. Only weariness. And by loving you ,she had learned to reclaim herself—piece by piece. Touch by touch. Glance by stolen glance.

“I’m sorry for your suffering,” you had murmured once, brushing your fingers lightly across hers.

She didn’t flinch. But her pulse leapt.

“You didn’t deserve hers—or mine,” she said. “But here we are.” Her eyes drifted to your mouth.

The rhythm of your days became a delicate balance. In court, she was cold. Untouchable. But in secret, her voice softened only for you. She taught you to read maps, speak in riddles, wield presence like a blade. She showed you how power wasn't always loud—it could be silent and dangerous.

And in return, you gave her sanctuary.

Sometimes, you'd find her looking at you across a hall, eyes unfocused, lost in thought. But when your eyes met hers, something shifted. A shadow of desire. A memory of fingertips on bare skin, of night-slick heat, of her whispering your name too softly for the gods to hear.

Then came today.

You found her barefoot in the garden at dusk, her fingers slick with rose oil and tiny cuts. Her skirts clung to her ankles in the dew. She didn’t turn when you approached.

“There’s trouble at the barricades,” you said.

She nodded slowly. “I know.”

There was a pause—pregnant with fear, and something deeper.

“There are things,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper, “dangerous things you don’t understand.” Her hands trembled.

“I can’t shield you much longer.”

You stepped close—close enough to feel the heat between you.

“Then let me shield you,” you said, your voice low.

Alicent turned to you, eyes gleaming with something fierce and sad. Her chest rose, barely brushing yours. “Not yet.” Then softer: “But soon.”

She hadn’t told you.

Not yet.

She hadn't told anyone.

Not even herself.

Because the truth sat like a stone in her womb: that she was with a child.

A fifth child. After Aegon, after Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron.

And she didn’t know—she couldn’t know—whether the babe growing inside her was Viserys's…

…or yours.