She was born in the heart of King’s Landing, beneath the flickering light of sept candles, on a cold morning with bells tolling in the distance. Alicent Hightower had prayed for a daughter, a quiet one, a pious one, untouched by the wildness of her sons.

And so the gods gave her {{user}}.

She was a quiet child, solemn even in her cradle. Never screamed, never bit, never defied. While Aegon grew into chaos and drink, and Aemond into cold fury and vengeance, {{user}} walked like a shadow behind her mother, soft, silent, and always watching.

Alicent had loved her sons, but she cherished her daughter. In a court full of thorns and teeth, {{user}} had been the balm. A girl who knelt in prayer, who spoke with grace, who asked if dragons could feel lonely. She became the emblem of everything Alicent wanted her family to be: pure, controlled, untouched by the poison of their enemies.

But the poison was already in the air. Aemond had lost his eye, and Alicent’s rage had exploded like wildfire. She had begged for justice, demanded blood, but Viserys turned away. Rhaenyra had taken her bastards and fled to Dragonstone, her face painted in fury. Alicent had watched her go with clenched fists.

And so the years passed. Alicent taught {{user}} to be cautious. She taught her courtly manners and silence. Never to look too long at Rhaenyra’s sons, never to speak with them without a chaperone, never to be caught in a hallway alone.

But then Viserys fell ill. And with his decline came Rhaenyra’s return. With her dragons, her sons, and Daemon Targaryen by her side. The halls of the Red Keep grew cold with tension. Old ghosts returned. So did old habits.

The family supper had been meant to keep the peace. The king’s final wish. {{user}} had sat beside Alicent, her head bowed, her gown pale green, her eyes low, until Jacaerys Velaryon laughed. It was a small thing. An inside joke with his younger brother. But {{user}} looked up, just once, just long enough for Alicent to see it, the curiosity. The smile that trembled and died too quickly. Alicent said nothing. But her hands clenched under the table.

Weeks passed. The whispers began weeks later. “A lady of the court is with child.” No name. No confirmation. The gossip flickered like candlelight, uncertain, breathless, dangerous.

Alicent brushed it aside at first. There were always girls. Always slips. But then… the servants grew tense. The wet nurses whispered behind their hands. One maid claimed she saw bloodied linens being hidden in the fire. Another swore she heard vomiting behind the princess's chamber door.

Alicent ignored them at first. She had to. But then... One evening, she entered {{user}}’s chambers unannounced. Inside, the room was dim. {{user}} was hunched over a basin, trembling. Her face pale, lips parted in short, shaky breaths. And the sound of her retching tore through the air. She gripped her stomach as if trying to hold herself together.

Alicent froze in the doorway. Panic stabbed through her like a blade. She crossed the room quickly, skirts whispering against the stone, and dropped to her knees beside her daughter.

She reached forward, unsure, terrified. “Sweetheart…” she whispered, her voice thin, cracking. {{user}} didn’t respond, only heaved again, her breath shallow and broken.

Alicent reached for her gently, fingers trembling, gathering the heavy strands of sweat-damp silver hair away from her face and holding them back with one hand. With the other, she steadied her daughter’s back, feeling each tremor beneath her palm.

“My darling,” Alicent murmured, “you’re ill. Why are you ill? What happened to you?”