huramuna - Tumblr blog

huramuna · 9 days ago

Text

Fire on the Mountain - Chapter Three: Lucky Ones

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, canon typical sexism, mentions of pregnancy, allusions to smut. Word count: ~10.3k

Chapter summary: Lia settles into life in Oldtown, but all is not what it seems.

Author's note: Header by @foxinthegodswood who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

Lia groaned. The sunlight that streaked through the small gap in the curtains made her wince as she blinked her eyes slowly open; the soft golden hues that she would ordinarily find comforting, sliced through her head like Valyrian steel. Memories of wine, far too much wine, accompanied the foul taste in her mouth as she smacked her lips with her tongue, rolling laboriously onto her side to reach for the pitcher of water upon her bedside. She collided with the warmth of a body, the sensation startling her fully into wakefulness. Her eyes felt swollen as she attempted to open them wider – an unwanted reminder of having cried herself to sleep.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Alicent told her, as she sat upright against the headboard. The morning sun illuminated her loose curls, a sea of vibrant auburn, so much like the floor of the Godswood when the weirwood tree shed its reddened leaves.

Her soft smile and the kindness reflected within the honeyed depths of her brown eyes felt like more than Lia deserved. She cringed, swallowing back a wave of nausea as she remembered how she had fled from the wedding feast, stumbling against the stone walls of the Keep as she had hiccuped around sobs the entire way back to her chambers. She barely remembered falling into bed, and for the briefest of moments had allowed herself to hope it had all been a terrible dream. The solid and sympathetic presence of her friend was both an embarrassing and horrifying realisation that this was in fact her reality.

Lia allowed herself to fall heavily down against the pillows once more, her body prone and face tilted towards the girl that sat beside her. “You should be with the king,” she groused, her voice still thick with sleep.

Alicent hummed softly, reaching across to the bedside table to fill a pewter cup with water, before handing it to Lia. Slowly, she pulled herself into a sitting position, accepting it gratefully before drinking long and deep. The cool liquid was a welcome relief to her parched lips, making her drink with such desperation that it dribbled down her chin and onto the front of her white cotton nightgown. She did not miss the way that Alicent tutted quietly as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the empty cup back to her.

“The King had long been asleep before I came to you,” Alicent told her, setting the cup back down upon the table, “I have only been here an hour or two.”

Lia swallowed thickly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she plucked absentmindedly at the fabric that covered her legs. Alicent was no longer a maiden, and a thousand questions raced through her mind. Had it hurt? How did she feel? Was Viserys gentle with her? The thought of the old man rutting atop her friend made Lia’s nose wrinkle in revulsion, and when she lifted her eyes to see Alicent staring expectantly back at her, all curiosity died upon her tongue. Lia would not want to speak of such a horrible ordeal, so she would not expect Alicent to either.

“I ruined your wedding feast,” she admitted, her voice an apologetic whisper as she watched Alicent smooth her hands over the bed sheets either side of where she sat.

Alicent shook her head, reaching out to grasp Lia’s hand. The sight of her fingers picked bloody was almost too much to bear in Lia’s delicate condition, and she forced her attention away to where dust danced in spirals in the shaft of light between the curtains.

“You did not,” Alicent reassured her, squeezing gently. “Truthfully, I do not think anyone noticed.”

Lia scoffed quietly to herself, her gaze drifting back to where her hand joined with her friend’s upon the bed. She supposed she should be grateful that no one had paid her sudden departure any mind, but the stark reminder of how utterly inconsequential she was hit like a dull blow to her already bruised ego.

“You are queen now,” Lia said, lips quirking into a playful smile as she glanced up at Alicent. She wanted to change the subject, to talk about literally anything else but her betrothal to Gwayne. “Shall I call you Your Grace?”

“Well,” Alicent began, leaning in conspiratorially, “since you are to marry my brother, you could call me sister.”

Any hope Lia had had of skirting around the subject sank like a stone, and she yanked her hand away, sighing heavily as she flopped onto her back, eyes fixed upon the canopy as resentment burned hot and bitter in her chest. “I do not want to go to Oldtown,” she insisted, the tightness in her throat forcing her voice to come out as a whine.

“Please do not be sad,” Alicent pleaded, and in an instant she shifted over on the bed, looming over her as she stared down at her with wide, imploring eyes. A curtain of chestnut ringlets fell around either side of Lia’s face, shrouding her in their soft warmth and floral scent, her own personal shelter from the forces that wanted to tear her away from her home and everything she knew. “I cannot bear it if you are sad. You have always been the bravest of us, and you make me want to be brave too. I feel like I could be queen…a good queen because of you, and that heartens me, even if you are not at my side. But to know that you are a thousand miles away and heartbroken…I cannot…I–”

Lia reached up, cradling Alicent’s face in her palm, putting a stop to her emotional ramble, seeing that tears had begun to well up in her eyes. “I am not sad,” she told her, stroking her thumb across the apple of her cheek, “I am angry, but I am currently in no condition to adequately express my rage without being violently ill in the process.”

She offered a wolfish grin to Alicent, a pearly white flash of teeth, in an attempt to lighten the mood, and it appeared to work, as Alicent laid down, resting her head upon Lia’s chest. “You know, our children would be cousins,” Alicent told her quietly, her fingers twirling the lacings of Lia’s nightgown around her fingers, “I would be aunt to yours and you would be aunt to mine. They could be friends.”

“They would never see each other,” Lia replied bitterly, rolling an auburn curl between thumb and forefinger.

“We could visit each other,” Alicent offered, “and write letters…I…I did not know. I pressed my father to tell me why you had fled so suddenly. He did not want to tell me at first, but I did not know until after you did. I hope you know that.”

Lia was not foolish, she knew precisely what the girl she held in her arms meant; ‘I have not betrayed you as I betrayed Rhaenyra.’

“I believe you,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against the top of her head. “Did he say when Gwayne and I are to depart to Oldtown?”

“In a week,” Alicent told her, raising up on her elbow to look down at her.

Lia’s heart sank and she pressed her lips together tightly, fighting back the wave of anguish that rolled through her body, creating a lump in her throat and making her want to howl hysterically at the unfairness of it all.

I must be brave.

She exhaled shakily, before forcing a tight lipped smile. “A week and you shall be rid of me.”

“I could never be rid of you.” Alicent rolled her eyes, drawing herself up onto her knees. “Here–,” she removed the ring from the middle finger of her left hand, a gold band engraved with delicate leaves and an emerald at its centre, “so you have a part of me with you always.”

Lia’s breath hitched as she took the ring offered to her, the simple gesture crumbling the dam she had built up to hold back her tears. She distracted herself from the urge to cry by taking the ring from the index finger of her right hand – gold with an obsidian stone – and replacing it with Alicent’s. She offered the ring she had taken off to her. “And so you don’t forget me.”

Alicent laid down beside her, placing her head upon Lia’s pillow as she slipped on the ring, holding her hand up to examine it. “What do you think?”

“It suits you, Your Grace,” Lia teased, and Alicent kicked her shin gently, causing them both to burst into peals of laughter.

Lia’s tears were forgotten for now, but the fate that awaited her loomed larger than ever.

The week slipped by like sand through Lia’s fingers, the days passing with a swiftness that felt like a deliberately cruel joke. She had not spoken to Rhaenyra since the day that the princess had forcibly ejected her from her chambers, and she wondered if she was even aware of the fact that she would be leaving the capital. Any chance of a reconciliation had been squandered, with Rhaenyra spending much of her time since the wedding with her dragon.

Truthfully, Lia could not blame her friend for favouring the skies over the walls of the Red Keep; she could not imagine how jarring it must feel to have her best friend suddenly become both her stepmother and queen in one fell swoop. However, there was still an ache that lay behind Lia’s ribs, a hollow that deepened each day with her friend’s absence. She wondered if it would widen enough to swallow her whole entirely by the time she reached Oldtown.

While the chasm that lay between Lia and Rhaenyra had never been wider, she and Alicent were closer than ever. They spent Lia’s remaining week as two entwined vines, utterly inseparable and unwilling to be parted. She knew that the new queen’s desire to be at her side was not rooted entirely in her impending upheaval from King’s Landing; it was an avoidance of the king during daylight hours, a means to occupy her mind from the fate that awaited her every evening when the rest of the castle slept. The haunted look that lingered in the depths of her dark eyes each morning when she came to Lia’s chambers told her everything she needed to know. They did not speak of it, every conversation existed within the negative space of the fact that Viserys had called her to his bed each night since they were wed.

“Come with me,” Lia suggested, one afternoon as they sat in the solar. She could not bear the thought of leaving her all alone in the Keep, with both the king and his hand plucking at her as though she were carrion. She would not even have Rhaenyra for company. Only the Gods knew how long that wound would take to heal, if it healed at all.

Despite the vibrancy of the sunshine that filled the space, warming her skin through the large bay window, Lia was uncomfortable. Her spine felt too rigid sitting upright in the high backed armchair, a book open in her lap that she had not even bothered to attempt to read. Alicent mirrored her in the armchair opposite, her fingers leafing restlessly through the pages of her own tome. Long gone were the days of lounging beneath the weirwood tree without purpose, basking in the sun, or squeezing onto the same chaise to giggle over badly written romance stories they had found hidden within the back shelves of the Keep’s library. Alicent was queen now, and such childish fancies were considered improper. She had to conduct herself with the poise that was befitting of royalty. Sadly, poise meant sitting in high backed, uncomfortable chairs and being surrounded by a gaggle of ladies and attendants. Growing up, Lia, Alicent, and Rhaenyra had all shared a set of maidservants, tasked with assisting them in dressing and bathing. Now that Alicent was queen, she had been appointed her own staff to attend to her, as well as four ladies in waiting, all desperate to pry on whatever they might talk about. Lia was grateful that, on this occasion, Alicent had dismissed them all so that they could talk freely.

“You know I cannot,” Alicent told her quietly, her gaze apologetic as it lifted from her lap to meet Lia’s eyes. “I could be with child, and I must remain here to perform my duties.”

Lia could not hide the disgust on her face as her nose wrinkled. Alicent’s relationship with Viserys was one she tried not to think about, the thought of it sickened her, so on the occasions where its mention was unavoidable she found it impossible to mask her distaste. She twisted to the side in her chair, attempting to turn her attention to the window and what lay beyond instead.

Alicent sighed, snapping her book shut as she leaned forward, placing a gentle hand on Lia’s knee through the fabric of her skirts. “You will not want me in the way of your courtship with Gwayne,” she urged, fingertips stroking the smooth taffeta. “You have a year to get to know each other before you are wed, and I am sure you will grow to like him, perhaps even love him.”

It was a battle to swallow back the bark of laughter that attempted to force itself from her throat, as Lia thought of the single interaction she had had with Gwayne since he had arrived in King’s Landing for his sister’s wedding. It had been two days after the ceremony, and they had taken a walk in the gardens together, at the behest of Otto. It was the only time she had seen him parted from his father’s side since he arrived, the two always seemed to be together, talking in hushed tones, looking serious. He was no longer the chubby boy they had left behind in Oldtown all those years ago. He was tall now, almost his father’s height, and the baby fat was no more than a whisper of a memory, his body now hard and lithe, moulded by the rigorous training required of a knight. He was certainly handsome, but there was something about Alicent’s older brother that did not feel quite right to Lia. Familiarity could be found in the sharp cut of his profile that reminded her so much of Otto, and a fire in the auburn hues of his hair not unlike Alicent’s, but his eyes unsettled her. Their icy blue was paler than the vibrant cerulean of her own, and they yielded no emotion, gave nothing away. They were Alyrie Florent’s eyes, the same ones that would stare with an unreadable expression as Alicent, Rhaenyra, and Lia once giggled and threw cake at each other after supper, only to find that for the next week after that, no cake at all accompanied their evening meals. It was the unnerving stare of a silent assassin, and she hated the uncertainty she felt when he gazed upon her.

When made to interact with Lia on their walk in the gardens, it was as though a mask had fallen upon his usually cold features. His smile was suddenly charming, his posture not quite so rigid, though as he had lifted her hand to his lips, his mouth brushing gently against her knuckles, uttering a polite “my lady”, his eyes had remained cold, betraying the truth of his feelings – or lack thereof – for her. All of it was performative. Even as they had strolled slowly, arm in arm, around the paths lined with neatly manicured hedges and colourful flower beds, his questions were superficial, his interest in her disingenuous. He may as well have been enquiring about how much the grass had grown in the last year, she decided; in fact the answer to that likely would have interested him more than hearing about Lia’s leisurely pursuits. No love could ever blossom in such frost; she had seen Rhaenyra look upon honeyed dates with more lust in her eyes than Gwayne could fathom for her.

Lia stood rooted to the spot, watching as attendants hoisted trunks filled with her belongings from her chambers. She wanted to throw herself upon them, scream and claw at them, demand that they stop dismantling her world, to keep their filthy hands off of the very fabric of what made her who she was. She did none of those things. She had shut down the moment the first dress had been taken from the armoire, folded and packed away. For an entire week she had existed in denial, refusing to give any thought to her leaving King’s Landing. Now the day had arrived and she did not know what to do. Where was the brave girl that Alicent had told her she was? Who would look after her when Rhaenyra was a thousand miles away, and she only had the cold stare of Gwayne for company? She felt that she had been placed into a trap from which she could not escape, no matter how hard she struggled. This was not acceptance, it was defeat.

A shadow fell across her from the open doorway, and she turned to see Otto standing there, his expression impassive as his eyes moved around the now empty space, where only furniture remained. Lia looked away, clasping her hands in front of her. Her fingers stroked across the emerald of the ring that had found its home upon her index finger for the last week. She had not spoken to Otto since he had told her of the betrothal, she did not want to, and mercifully he had not attempted to seek her out either. Until now.

She swallowed thickly as she sensed him advancing towards her, even without looking at him she could feel how he loomed over her, the familiar scent and warmth enveloping her. Would she forget that once settled into The Hightower? Or did his presence linger there too? She would never be free of him, every part of her had Hightower influence woven throughout. To attempt to remove it would be to slough the very skin from her bones.

“I trust you are ready to depart?” Otto asked, his voice a soft rumble. It made her heartbeat quicken, though she did not know why.

“No,” she said quietly, straightening her spine, though her gaze remained upon her fingers.

“Are there things that still need to be packed? I shall send for the steward to–”

Lia’s loud sigh of exasperation cut him off, as she finally turned to look at him, her brow furrowed in annoyance at his misunderstanding, yet her blue eyes betrayed the sorrow that her anger attempted to hide.

Otto’s head tilted slightly, his hazel eyes softening in understanding, and he reached up, his large hand gently cupping Lia’s cheek. Despite herself, she leaned into its warmth. “This is not a punishment, Lia.”

“Then why does it feel like one?” she whispered, her voice tight as she fought back the tears that threatened to burst forth.

Otto’s thumb stroked across her cheekbone. “You will be closer to your family. I have arranged for a visit, so they will be awaiting your arrival. You will surely be glad to see them.”

‘I do not know them, I do not want to see them,’ she longed to scream back. Instead her bottom lip trembled, her voice pitiful to her own ears as she pleaded, “Please do not make me go.”

He lifted his other hand, cradling her face in both of his palms as he tilted her tearful eyes to meet his, filled with adoration that made her chest ache. “You are one of the most precious gifts to ever have been bestowed upon this family. I hope in time you see your marriage to my son as the honour it is intended to be.”

“Let me stay with you. Please.”

Lia hated how pathetic she sounded, but hiding behind denial, anger and defiance had gotten her nowhere. She hoped that if she laid her feelings bare at his feet, threw her anguish upon his mercy, then perhaps he would reconsider. Instead, Otto leaned in, pressing his lips gently to her forehead in a tender kiss, before turning and leaving. The room felt as empty as the aching void in her chest, and as she began to cry in earnest, the sound amplified within the space that she had once called home.

The wind whipped around Rhaenyra’s head, the strands that had been blown loose from her tight braid fluttered around her eyes, obscuring her vision, making her growl in frustration. Syrax rumbled impatiently with her, the great golden beast she sat atop seeming to understand the sense of urgency, even before her rider had had the chance to utter “Aderes, Syrax!”

The princess had spotted the small convoy of carriages departing the city via the King’s Gate as she had hovered her dragon over the Blackwater Rush that morning. She had been desperate to get away from the Keep, unable to bear the sight of her father and her best friend – now his wife – breaking their fast together. She had taken to the skies, allowing the rush of air around her ears, and the sight of the water that sparkled from miles beneath her to bring her peace. The three carriages rolling slowly away from the city towards the South East piqued her curiosity. All of the wedding guests had already departed, and they had had no further visitors that she was aware of. As she had brought Syrax to land beside the entrance to the Dragon Pit, Ser Criston Cole had been dutifully awaiting her arrival, just as he always did since she had appointed him to his place in the kingsguard. His white cloak fluttered gently in the breeze, his dark eyes watching her carefully as she dismounted, always ensuring she was safe. And she did feel safe with him. While the presence of Ser Harrold Westerling had always been steadfast, there was a warmth in the presence of Criston, a sense that he looked out for her as more than a mere sense of duty and obligation. He protected her because he wanted to, and Rhaenyra felt that now, more than ever, she needed to be protected.

She had casually inquired about the carriages she had seen being pulled by horses away from the city, not expecting a particularly interesting answer. However, no sooner had Criston informed her of their occupants, than she was shoving the dragon keepers aside, and hastily mounting up onto Syrax’s back once more with a cry of “Sōvēs, Syrax!”, ignoring the shouts of protest from below, letting them filter off into nothing as each powerful wingbeat drove her higher.

Lia could not leave, not like this. Rhaenyra had not felt ready to speak to her, the wound of her secrecy regarding Alicent’s relationship with her father still too fresh, but there was not a day that had passed where she had not thought about her. Truthfully, Rhaenyra had never felt lonelier, and she had allowed pride and hurt feelings to keep her from the one person she knew would bring her comfort. Now that person was being taken away. She cursed Otto Hightower’s name towards the Heavens as the wind rushed past her, making her eyes water with the speed at which the cold air hit her face. He had taken her father from her, and Alicent. Now he was trying to take Lia. What else would Rhaenyra have left? Would she arrive at the Dragon Pit one morning to find he had laid claim to Syrax too?

Finally the convoy came into view, and she tugged at the reins, urging her dragon lower. Syrax’s claws scraped ungracefully across the roof of a carriage as she banked around the formation, the looming bulk of her causing the horses to whinny and rear up in fright. They came to a jarring halt as Rhaenyra landed on a grass verge, paying no mind to the frantic driver who was trying to calm his mounts. She dismounted quickly, picking her way through the grass and then out onto the road, the loose gravel of the track crunching beneath her riding boots. She smirked when none of the retinue dared to approach.

Cowards.

Instead, it was Lia who clambered hastily from the middle carriage, her dark hair pulled away from her face in a low bun, and a grey, woolen travel cloak wrapped around her. She tugged it tighter around her body as her feet touched the ground. Her blue eyes were wide, displaying first shock, then confusion and finally settling upon anger as she marched towards Rhaenyra. The smirk never left the princess’ face, she could not help it, Lia had always been so funny when she was angry.

“Are you trying to kill me?!” she demanded, swiping an errant curl away from her forehead as she came to stand before her.

“This does not concern you, Ser Hightower. Stay where you are,” Rhaenyra called out, watching as Gwayne’s red crop of hair disappeared back inside the coach as quickly as it had peered out. She turned her attention back to Lia. “You were trying to leave without saying goodbye,” she argued, standing straighter as she clasped her hands behind her back.

Lia scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You have not spoken to me in weeks, what would you have me do?”

She would have spoken to her, when she felt ready. She hated this, hated the lack of control, she wanted this to be on her terms, not forced by the whims of Otto Hightower. She loathed that man. Rhaenyra sighed, her posture softening, shoulders sagging as she reached out, taking Lia’s hands. She tutted, unable to feel them through the leather of her gloves, and snatched them away, before tugging them off by the fingertips with her teeth, letting them drop to the ground, before grasping for her friend once more. Warmth bloomed in her chest at the familiar feeling of her hands in hers. “You could stay,” she offered softly.

Lia squeezed, her thumbs stroking gently over the backs of Rhaenyra’s hands. “I have tried to, believe me, I have. But Otto wishes for me to marry Gwayne, and that is that.”

The words struck Rhaenyra like a physical blow, her eyes pricking with tears as she pursed her lips, lowering her gaze momentarily, before staring desperately into her friend’s eyes, as though if she looked hard enough she could change their fate. “You cannot marry him, he is–”

He was what? Handsome? Charming? The perfect match?

‘He is not good enough for you. No one is.’

“He is a Hightower,” she finally said.

Lia laughed bitterly, looking down to where their hands were joined. “And I am a Costayne. Not all of us can be Targaryens.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes fell upon the ring on Lia’s index finger, watching the way the emerald glinted in the sunlight, immediately recognising it as Alicent’s. A parting gift, no doubt, but it made jealousy burn bitter and acrid in her throat. She had no jewels to give her, no token of remembrance; she never wore jewellery when she was riding. She had long since learned her lesson after losing a priceless Valyrian brooch somewhere over The Gullet.

She would give Lia something else to remember her by. She cared nothing for who might see, she was heir to House Targaryen, and no simple coach driver, nor the pompous knight he was charged with ferrying would deter her. Surging forward, she pressed her lips against her friend’s, feeling the way she gasped sharply and stiffened for just a moment, before she kissed her back. Her mouth felt pillowy soft against her own, a similar sensation to when she bit into a peach and made first contact with the juicy flesh beneath the skin. It stole her breath away, made her heart flutter, and when they broke apart, flushed and breathless, foreheads pressed together as they grinned, it felt all too soon.

“I am sorry I did not tell you, I–”

“No, do not spoil it,” Rhaenyra whispered, closing her eyes, not wanting the moment to end. She did not need an apology, not now. There was no more hurt or anger, at least not when it came to Lia.

“I will miss you,” Lia said, her voice watery with unshed tears, as she drew her hands back, only to wrap her arms tightly around her, enveloping Rhaenyra in her familiar scent of vanilla and honeysuckle.

She breathed deeply, allowing her own arms to drape around the woolen fabric of Lia’s cloak. “You will not.”

“I will!” she insisted, squeezing tighter.

“I will not allow it. You are not so easily rid of me,” she teased, drawing back to smile softly at her.

“What do you mean?” Lia asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Oldtown is not so far away on dragonback.”

A grin spread across Lia’s face, and Rhaenyra returned it with one of her own, unable to contain her joy at their reconciliation, even if it had not been on her own terms.

“You will visit? Do you promise?” the dark haired girl asked, her tone rushed with excitement.

“I promise.”

“My dearest Alicent,

I do so look forward to your weekly letters, and was glad to receive your last.

Are you terribly fat yet? I can scarce believe I am not there to watch as you waddle about the Keep. Are you excited to be a mother?

Upon Rhaenyra’s last visit, I urged her to speak to you. I hope the two of you have reconciled, it has been too long. She will be an aunt to your child, so the two of you must make amends.

My family have finally departed back to the Whispering Sound.It was a long three months. It is unfortunate that my mother took ill again during their visit, but Maester Harlaw says that it is nothing too serious, simply fevers that accompany her moon’s blood no longer occurring. She would be so cross if she knew I wrote of such things to you! My brother, Robert, is now a father. He wrote to me three days ago to let me know that Cassana gave birth to a girl. Leon’s visit to Oldtown was fortuitous too, he is now betrothed to Bethany Redwyne and they are expected to be wed next Spring.

Gwayne is well. He spends much of his time in the training yard, or out on hunts with his squire, Leyton.

Your father writes to me often. I know he is angry that I do not reply, but I do not know what to say to him.

I miss you, even if you are fat.

Your friend always,

Lia.”

Alicent read over the letter once more, frowning in disapproval at Lia’s playful words, though an involuntary smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She wondered if she would be disappointed when she learned that she had not begun to show yet. It had been three moons since she had last bled, and Maester Mellos had confirmed that she was with child after two. She had waited another month before informing Lia, wanting to break the news to Rhaenyra first. She knew the princess made a monthly visit to Oldtown, and was fearful of creating further tension between them if she learned of her impending sibling as secondhand information.

Rhaenyra had not responded well to the announcement; the look of shock and upset upon her face as she had blinked rapidly before turning and walking away, worsening the feelings of nausea that Alicent was already afflicted by.

She stroked her right hand over the barely noticeable swell of her belly as she leaned back in the chair of her writing desk, Lia’s letter still held loosely in her left upon the tabletop. Despite the fact that she was not noticeably pregnant yet, Alicent felt as though she carried the weight of the world in her womb. Any expectant mother would have felt excited for the gift to be bestowed upon her, but between the frequent bouts of sickness, the upset that her marriage and subsequent pregnancy had caused to Rhaenyra, and the crushing sense of loneliness, she truly did not know how she felt about the life that grew inside of her.

Rhaenyra had approached her upon her return from her last visit to Lia. They had attempted small talk that felt awkward and stilted, until the topic had turned to her pregnancy. The mere suggestion that the babe could be a boy sent Rhaenyra into a rage, convinced that Alicent was attempting to supplant her as heir. They had not spoken since. She did not know how to tell Lia that, at least not in a letter. How could she explain that she had never asked for any of this, was merely doing what was expected of her, and how unfair it was that she was being made to feel so guilty for all of it that she could not even find simple joy in the act of becoming a mother?

Lia’s letters always seemed void of anything real, as though there were huge parts of her life in Oldtown that she was holding back on. She missed when she was here, and would tell her everything. She never spoke very much of Gwayne in her letters, and she wondered how their courtship was progressing, and if Lia was warming to him. She envied Rhaenyra and her ability to be with her within a day, to watch the way her blue eyes became animated when she was excited, to see the crafty smirk that would spread across her face when she said something witty, even just to casually observe the frustrated manner in which she would swipe her hair back from her face. Rhaenyra was getting to see and hear it all, while Alicent was stuck within the walls of the Red Keep, destined to grow fat with the king’s children.

“Perhaps you will be my friend one day,” she whispered down to her belly as she splayed her hand across it.

Alicent looked up as the door to her chambers creaked open and her father stepped inside. His eyes drifted to the parchment in her hand, his brow raising expectantly. “News from Oldtown?”

“A letter from Lia,” she said quietly, stashing it between the pages of a book, and out of his sight. She knew that Otto wrote to her, and was growing increasingly frustrated with her lack of response. She could understand Lia’s reluctance to speak to him, but did not wish to be placed in the difficult position of having to relay information between the two of them.

“It seems she does not have time to write back to me,” he commented, coming to stand behind her, placing his hands upon the back of her chair. “I suppose your girlish exchanges would be of little interest to me.”

She loved her father, but she hated the ability he had to make her feel small and insignificant. He loomed over her, a constant shadow, even more so now that she was pregnant. His attitude was one of prideful anticipation. She was not quite certain of what he wanted of his unborn grandchild, but felt it was unfair to place any sort of expectation upon a child before it had even left the womb. She wondered if he had hovered around her mother, placing similar pressure upon her when she had carried both her brother and her.

“I am sure she means to write to you,” she reassured him, “but I expect Gwayne keeps her quite busy.”

Otto hummed, the sound more of low, rumbling disapproval than of acknowledgement. “You know, you are queen now, Alicent, and soon to be mother to the king’s heir. You would do well to find better ways to spend your time than exchanging idle gossip.”

Alicent swallowed thickly, placing a hand upon her chest in an attempt to stay the wave of nausea that rolled through her body. “The king already has an heir,” she whispered, allowing her gaze to drop to her lap.

“You will tell Lia to write to me,” Otto said, ignoring what she had said as he walked from the room, “and let her know it is not a request.”

“Lia,

I am troubled that a date remains to be set for your wedding to Gwayne. A two year betrothal is unheard of. Gwayne informs me that Septon Rowan has fallen ill, and that the two of you wish to wait until he is recovered so that he may perform the ceremony. While I appreciate the sentimental value that the Septon holds for our family, I must insist that you delay no further and seek alternative arrangements.

Awaiting news of your progress,

O.H.”

“What does it say?” a voice thick with sleep rumbled against the pillows beside her shoulder.

Lia tutted at the interruption, crumpling the parchment in one hand, allowing it to drop to the floor beside the bed, grateful for the fact that her bedmate could not read.

“Nothing that concerns you,” she quipped softly, turning to face him as she prodded at the smattering of dark hair dusted across the broad expanse of his chest, “and you should not still be here.”

Alyn Thatcher was the stablehand of The Hightower, and the older brother of her handmaiden, Marybel. Though he had not been part of the welcome party that had gathered to greet her and Gwayne on the day they had arrived at the castle – a gathering that had consisted of her mother, her father, both of her brothers, Gwayne’s squire, Leyton, Marybel, and Maester Harlaw – Alyn had been quick to catch Lia’s attention. While Gwayne’s every interaction with her was for show, a carefully curated act to prevent her from seeing whatever lay beneath the perfectly polished veneer he presented to the rest of the world, Alyn was too stupid for any such deception. What she saw was what she got, and Lia liked what she saw very much.

Alyn had long, mousy hair that he kept pulled back into a low ponytail, and gentle, light brown eyes. His strong, chiseled jaw was never cleanly shaven, and she took great delight in running her fingertips over its roughed edge whenever they kissed. She had been in Oldtown for six months when she stole her first kiss from him, and another six after that when she invited him into her bed for the first time. They had nothing in common, but it was not his conversational skills that Lia was interested in, moreso the physical sensations he elicited from her and the pleasant ache he left her with between her thighs when he departed from her bedchamber most mornings. He was easy to manipulate, and that was what she wanted. She had settled into life in Oldtown, not by allowing it to mold her to its surroundings, but rather by forcibly carving out a life that she found comfortable. There was nothing that Lia could not bend to her will, or would not discard if it refused to yield to her.

Though Alyn was her first,her only,she did not love him. She held no expectation of anything more than their continued trysts and his warmth in her bed, until she had decided what to do about her betrothal to Gwayne.

The initial year-long engagement had passed uneventfully, with tedious walks along the coastline, tiresome displays of cheering for him in the training yard, and laborious dinners with her family on the occasions when they decided to visit. However, she felt she did not know him any better than the first walk they had taken together back in King’s Landing. She had only managed to get his mask to slip on two occasions. The first had been on the journey from the capital to the coast.

“Did you not wish to ride the journey on horseback?” she had asked from her seat opposite his in the wheelhouse, as the rickety carriage had bumped its way along the Kingsroad.

He had cleared his throat, blinking as though caught off guard, before sitting straighter and offering her a tight smile. “My father suggested I keep you company, my lady. ‘Tis a journey of considerable length, so it would provide us with the opportunity to get to know one another better.”

Lia had rolled her eyes, unable to suppress the sarcasm that laced her tone. “How lucky for us.”

For the briefest of moments, she had seen his pale eyes flash with irritation, his nostrils flaring as he snapped indignantly, “I did not ask for you either.”

She had stared at him with intrigue, eager to needle her way beneath the surface and poke around at whatever lay hidden, but as quickly as it had fallen, the mask was back up again, his expression yielding nothing as he uttered a quiet apology and turned from her to stare out of the small window.

The second time had been on one of their coastal walks. The breeze that blustered around the clifftops had wafted the scent of him beneath her nostrils – a fresh smelling combination of spiced apples and cedarwood – she had complimented him upon it, and her words had been met with a sharp raise of his eyebrow.

“You sound surprised, my lady, does the company you keep ordinarily not find the act of bathing a favourable one?”

“Rhaenyra certainly does not,” she quipped with a smile.

The bark of laughter that had left him was almost cruel sounding, and it had turned her smile to a grin. His eyes sparkled as they had crinkled with mirth, the flash of his teeth as he threw his head back was utterly carefree. This was a man she could be friends with, perhaps even learn to care for more deeply than that. But she had been unable to make him laugh like that again, at least he had not allowed her to. There was some part of him that he was determined to keep hidden from her, that he did not want her to know, and so their interactions had remained superficial. He made a show of asking for her favour whenever she watched him in the training yard, they made strained conversation over their evening meals, and once a week they took walks together, either around the castle gardens or, on clear days, along the coast where they could see out to the Arbor.

When the first year had come to its end, Lia had lied and told Gwayne they could not marry as she had yet to have her moon’s blood. She had delighted in the way he had attempted to hide his blatant disgust at being presented with such a topic – all of the blood and injury that came with being a knight, and still he could not bear to talk of the ichor that trickled forth from a woman. Was it only acceptable when accompanied by violence? It had been enough to put their nuptials off for a further six months, and when Septon Rowan had taken ill it had been Gwayne who had suggested they delay them further to allow time for his recovery. It seemed as though he had as little desire to marry her as she did him, so she did not argue. Instead, she found entertainment in the arms of the Hightower’s stablehand. They were discreet, and if Gwayne knew, he did not say.

Usually, Alyn crept from her chambers each morning before sunrise, slipping away before anyone could notice he was there. This morning, he had not, and when the steward had knocked softly upon her door to deliver Otto’s missive, she had thrown the bedclothes over him, hoping to hide him from view, as she had opened the door no more than a crack to accept the rolled up parchment.

Now, as he stared at her with that lazy smirk upon his face, his honey coloured eyes still heavy lidded with sleep while she poked at his chest in an accusatory manner, she was glad he was still there, as she felt the familiar stirrings of arousal throb within her. Such a pretty creature, and not a single thought in his head.

Just as she was about to lean further into him, the door creaked open and Lia looked up to see Marybel step through. Her eyes, so much like her brother’s, widened momentarily before narrowing in annoyance. “Out, you lazy lump,” she commanded him, jerking her thumb back toward the door, “they are looking for you out in the yard. Get down there. Now.”

The balcony doors to Lia’s chambers were thrown open, the briny scent of the sea breeze filling the space, airing out the heady aroma of sex and sweat. The room that Lia occupied in The Hightower was smaller than her former dwelling in The Red Keep, but no less opulent. A large four poster bed was situated at the centre of the bedchamber, with a plush, forest green coloured velvet serving as its canopy and privacy curtains. She had a vanity table, a small seating area with couches positioned around a low set, rectangular table, and high windowed double doors that opened out onto a balcony with a view that overlooked the castle’s verdant gardens and further out to where the land ended at the vibrant blue waters of The Summer Sea.

The stunning view was obscured momentarily as Lia flinched, squeezing her eyes shut at the painful tug upon her scalp.

“Ouch!” she groused at Marybel, attempting to pull away from her handmaiden who stood behind her, tightly braiding her hair.

“Stop fussing,” Marybel scolded gently, placing a hand on Lia’s shoulder to still her before her deft fingers continued their work, “I have to pull it tightly.Your hair is so bloody unruly, it will come loose otherwise.”

Lia smirked to herself, her gaze dropping to the emerald ring that sat upon the index finger of her hand that was settled in her lap. Alicent and Rhaenyra were the only people that she had ever allowed to speak to her that way. She supposed it was why she liked Marybel so much. Upon arriving in Oldtown, Lia had been horrified to find that she would only have one person attending to her – a stark contrast the host of maidservants that rallied around her in King’s Landing – however, Marybel’s sharp tongue and quick wit were refreshing to Lia, and she found she enjoyed having only her to ready her in the mornings, quickly beginning to see the older girl as a friend rather than a servant. Marybel was eighteen, two years younger than Alyn, and shared her brother’s light brown eyes and mousy hair, but that was where their similarities ended. Marybel had a delicate bone structure, her weak chin was compensated by the plush ruddiness of her rosebud mouth. Lia could scarce believe the profanity that often tumbled from such pretty lips.

But as well as being foul mouthed, her handmaiden was trustworthy. She breathed a word to no one about Lia’s illicit relationship with her brother, and was the person entrusted to discreetly deliver moon tea to her room every few days. Having Marybel around helped to quell the ache of loneliness that was rooted within the very marrow of her bones. The pain of missing Alicent and Rhaenyra did not feel quite so fierce with her around.

“I do not see the point of making a show of going down to the training yard anyway,” Lia sighed, lifting her eyes back up to the open balcony doors, watching as a gull in the distance swooped towards the surface of the sea. “Gwayne will not care if I am there or not.”

Marybel hummed in acknowledgement, pushing a hairpin into the thickness of Lia’s curls to keep a loose strand in place. “You could always remain here and write a reply to his father.”

Lia gasped in indignation, her head whipping round to glare at her handmaiden, ignoring her annoyed tut at having lost her grip on the braid she was working on. “Have you been reading my letters?”

The older girl rolled her eyes, forcing Lia back into position. “It is difficult not to when you leave them on the floor for me to clean up. It seems you spend more time discarding his letters than you do writing ones of your own.”

Lia scowled, the ache in her chest suddenly much more painful than the tugging at her scalp. “I am cross with him,” she muttered, her voice sounding more like a petulant child’s than she cared for it to.

“You have to forgive him eventually,” Marybel insisted.

“I miss him,” Lia sighed, “I did not think I would. I have my family back now, I can visit them as often as I’d like, and yet I miss him. I do not know why, and I cannot bear to write that into a letter.”

Marybel moved to face her, her hands smoothing over the front of Lia’s hair. A knowing smile played upon her pout, as her honey coloured eyes sparkled with mischief.

“What? What is it?” Lia asked in annoyance, feeling herself prickle at the way Marybel had responded to her admission.

“Oh, nothing, my lady. Just thinking how funny it is when you are so far into the forest that you cannot see the trees.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she enquired, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Marybel’s eyes met hers and she grinned. “‘Twas a joke about your scruffy hair.”

Lia gasped in mock offence, swatting playfully at her handmaiden’s arm, before the two of them began to giggle.

Lia was bored. The wooden bench she sat upon was hard beneath her bottom, and no matter how much she fidgeted, she could not seem to get comfortable. She sighed, idly twisting the rings upon her fingers as she stared blankly at the display within the centre of the courtyard. Gwayne bowed to the audience after besting his opponent once again. The rapturous applause of the spectators gathering made her wince, exacerbating the headache that bloomed heavily within her skull, brought on by the tightness of her braids. She would have sooner left her hair loose, and remained within the castle.

Of course, Gwayne had made a show of greeting her, referring to her as ‘my beloved’ and requesting her handkerchief for luck before squaring off against the opposing knight. The moment his sword was drawn, she was forgotten. His affection towards her was for appearances sake only, and her patience wore thin for it.

Her attention drifted to his squire, Leyton Cooper, all sandy blonde curls and piercing green eyes as he stood off to the side, his gaze never once faltering from Gwayne’s skillful movements. There had been a time when Lia had found herself enamoured with Leyton, when she had first arrived in Oldtown. He stood half a head shorter than her betrothed, and was slightly built, yet muscular in a way that was wiry from long hours spent sparring with the knight he served. At first, Lia had enjoyed the way his alluring emerald gaze always seemed to affix upon her, assuming he was looking at her out of admiration, but as the time passed she had felt more like she was being studied. It unnerved her, the way he would observe her whenever she came out to watch Gwayne spar. He never acknowledged her beyond a courteous dip of his head in greeting, and any interest she had had in him faded to indifference as she decided it would not be wise to pursue anything with someone who shadowed the man she was supposed to marry so closely. Leyton accompanied Gwayne on hunts, and helped him to keep his sword and armour polished. It was rare that the knight and the squire were not seen together, so getting to know him, let alone attempting to seduce him would have been impossible. She wondered if he ever got to see behind the mask that the Hightower knight wore so fastidiously.

A shout of “dragon!” pulled Lia’s focus towards the skies, the courtyard turning momentarily dark, as the golden bulk of Syrax passed overhead, banking towards the grassy cliff top that she liked to roost upon when Rhaenyra made her visits. They were usually once a month, and always unannounced. It did not seem to occur to the princess to inform anyone at The Hightower of her impending arrival, and so they were always taken by surprise.

Today, her surprise interruption could not have been more welcome, and Lia leapt from the bench, the tightness in her scalp and the soreness of her bottom long forgotten as she grinned excitedly and rushed to meet her friend.

“How is Alicent faring?” Lia asked, “I expect she will be due to give birth soon.”

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, the memory of Alicent in the wheelhouse on the way to the Kingswood making her frown. She had been certain that the bumpy ride would have brought upon early labours; it would have been better for her to stay behind.

“Yes, she’s enormous, you’ll be pleased to know,” she replied, raising an eyebrow as Lia muffled her laughter behind her hand.

“And Aegon?” she asked, once she had finally composed herself.

“He’s two now, as you are probably aware. He still cannot say my name properly, but he can eat porridge by the fistful.”

She stretched her legs out, wiggling her toes, grateful to have her feet free of her riding boots. Her heart ached at the way Aegon babbled her name – “‘Nyra”; the only person to ever have called her that before him was Lia, and every utterance of it reminded her of the girl a thousand miles away, making her more resentful of the grandfather of the babe that had sent her friend away in the first place. She found it difficult to maintain her anger towards Alicent, seeing her in such a vulnerable condition, filled with discomfort. And in truth, though she had feared that Aegon meant to supplant her as heir, she could find no malice within herself for the rosy cheeked little boy. He was blissfully unaware of what his existence meant for hers.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, plucking a purple grape from the silver platter placed on the table that she reclined on a chaise in front of, examining it as she rolled it around between thumb and forefinger, before popping it into her mouth. “Could you not have put cake out?” she asked, as she chewed, dabbing with her fingertips at a stray dribble of juice that attempted to make its way down her chin.

“You did not tell me you were coming,” Lia protested, as she laid upon her side on the chaise opposite, mirroring Rhaenyra’s position. “Should I just keep an endless supply of cake around, on the off chance you might deign to grace me with your presence?”

The princess smirked, settling her head back upon the curved arm of her seat. “That would be preferable, yes.”

“I am surprised you have not requested wild boar, bloodthirsty huntress that you are,” Lia teased, plucking free a grape of her own.

Rhaenyra grinned, flexing her fingers against the fabric of her riding trousers. She had been breathless with excitement when recounting the events of Aegon’s name day riding hunt to Lia, sparing no detail when it came to recalling how she had slain the boar that had attempted to take her life. She could still smell the copper scent of its blood, feel the warmth and viscosity of it upon her skin when she closed her eyes. It had been liberating, but it was not the news she had flown to Oldtown to relay – that news was far less exciting to her, but needed to be said nonetheless.

“I may not be able to visit for a month or two,” she finally confessed, her gaze apologetic as she lifted it to meet Lia’s.

“Why not? What has happened?” Lia questioned, her brows drawing together in concern.

Rhaenyra sighed, lacing her fingers together across her stomach as she thought about where to begin. “My father…he has assured me that he will not replace me as heir, but he wants me to marry, to shore up my succession. So, I am to tour the realm and meet with potential suitors until I find one I like.”

“Lucky you, getting to choose,” Lia spat, and Rhaenyra did not miss the bitter tone of jealousy in her friend's voice.

Sitting up, she crossed her legs, placing her hands upon her knees as she looked earnestly across the table at her. “It is not luck. It is duty. Truly, Lia, you should see some of these men. Jason Lannister…I have never seen a man more…more delighted with himself. You should consider yourself lucky that your betrothal is already settled.”

“I do not want Gwayne and he does not want me,” she admitted quietly, slowly beginning to loosen her braid.

Such a stubborn thing she was. Rhaenyra had visited Oldtown enough over the last two years to know that Lia had not made any real effort with Gwayne, her distance from him a means to spite Otto, and while the princess had no love to spare for her father’s hand, she knew that her friend’s betrothal to his son was a fortuitous one.

“And where did you arrive upon that certainty?” she asked, grasping for her wine cup. “Upon the end of Alyn’s cock?”

She grinned, before drinking deeply from the cup of Arbor gold, enjoying the shocked expression that Lia wore as her mouth fell open.

“Look,” she continued, setting her wine back down upon the table, “you’re seventeen, Lia, there will not be a better match for you. At least you know you would be free to pursue whatever you wanted while married to him. You could even come home.”

Rhaenyra knew she had struck a chord with Lia at the mention of returning to King’s Landing. Her expression softened, becoming wistful.

“I do not think Otto or Gwayne would allow that,” she said quietly.

“They would if it was at the command of the queen,” Rhaenyra urged, “you could even be my hand.”

Lia snorted, sipping from her own wine and shaking her head. “A woman has never been hand before.”

“Nor heir to the Iron Throne,” Rhaenyra added with a shrug, “and yet…”

The two grinned at each other over the table, all time and distance melting into nothing as they fell back into each other’s company with the ease of a well oiled sword returning to its sheath.

Rhaenyra’s scent of dragon smoke and bergamot still lingered upon Lia’s bed sheets long after she had departed the following morning. Lia never had a room made up for her when she visited, content for the princess to share her bed. They would spend the entire night wrapped around each other, whispering secrets, until the sun rose and Rhaenyra had to depart for King’s Landing once more.

This time when Rhaenyra left, it was not just the smell of her that remained with Lia, but also her words. The urgency that she had impressed upon her to marry Gwayne had not left her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. Lia could do worse, he was at least from a family that she was friendly with, and he was somewhat familiar to her. Perhaps he was just shy, and if she pressed for marriage then he would realise that she was warming to him, and would do the same for her in turn. Maybe, given time, they could learn to love one another.

Once Marybel had readied her for the day, dressed in a gown of pale pink taffeta, her hair loose around her shoulders, though meticulously combed, Lia made her way out towards the training yard. It was still early, no one had gathered to watch as the knights sparred, but she knew that Gwayne rose before the sun most mornings, to strap on his armour and tend to his weapons.

She walked quickly towards the armory, the loose shingle crunching beneath her slippered feet, as her heart pounded with nervous anticipation of what she was about to propose. She had not even given thought to what she might say, too filled with restless energy to wait and compose it in her mind, instead she trusted that she would be able to blurt the right words when she saw him, and hoped that he would not refuse her.

Flinging the door to the armory open, she stepped inside, immediately freezing as she blinked, trying to make sense of the sight before her. In the gloom of the armoury, between the shelves of polished breastplates and oiled chainmail, illuminated only by a thin beam of light that shone through from a high window, Gwayne stood locked in a tight embrace with Leyton. Dressed only in their breeches and undershirts, their mouths moved against each other with a frenzied hunger as they held each other close. They sprang apart as they heard Lia’s approach, both breathless and wide eyed with surprise.

Realisation clicked into place for Lia, a combination of humiliation and shock bubbling up in her throat and forcing its way out of her mouth as a loud yelp of laughter. At last the mask was torn free.

<< Previous chapter | Series masterlist | Next chapter >>

62 notes · View notes