Chapter Text
BAELA #6
“I think it will do you good to get out of the castle.” Baela said, humming a tune whilst she combed through her husband’s hair. He bore the task with impatient grace, keeping his fidgeting to a minimal whilst she made him representable. Compared to the amount of effort required to do her own hair, Aegon’s was a piece of cake. It puzzled her why it sometimes seemed such an impossibility for him to do the bare minimum.
“Mayhaps.” Aegon allowed, scratching his wrist.
She tried working diligently, hoping to see him off as early as possible. The sooner he got o the ship, the sooner she could go to the Dragon Pit. Though it wasn’t flying with Moondancer that held her anticipation; but their destination.
By invite of Prince Aemond, the King and his family were travelling to lord Rubeus Hagrid’s new castle. Invited to judge for themselves what the royal coin had been spent on — as well as to celebrate Aemond’s coming of age, to mark the imminent birth of his heir, and because Hagrid had ideas which may allow Aegon to mount Sunfyre again.
“It’ll allow you to fly again, love. How can it not?”
Aegon sighed. “Only if it works.”
“I have faith.” She stopped brushing, and walked around to face him. “Hagrid wouldn’t write if he wasn’t confident. He knows the challenges of dragons. Knows better than anyone what’ll be required for your saddle to work. You’ll have to suffer a boat ride, and the fitting might need some time, but think how brilliant it’ll be to finally fly back home astride Sunfyre?”
Her husband straightened his posture, nodding mutely to himself.
She almost added on a:“We could fly together as we haven’t since our wedding.” But held her tongue. This wasn’t a good time to bring up their wedding.
There was never a good time to bring up their wedding.
Back when the maester’s completed a new dragon saddle - one which made allowances for his missing leg - it’d lifted Aegon’s spirit in ways nothing had before. He became more upbeat, the hope of flying giving him quicker smiles, a lesser thirst and more chatter.
Only for his hopes to get brutally dashed during the trial day.
They’d arrived in the Dragon Pit, Aegon with his cane and wooden leg, steeling himself for pain and strain – but it would be a price worth it if it meant success.
The issue became glaring at once though.
As pristine as the new saddle looked, it turned out Aegon couldn’t actually get into it. Or out.
Not without being carried into the saddle by an assist, and heaving him up there was not a smooth task… There wasn’t an even surface to support against, the dragons moved, fidgeted and the saddle was high off the ground. The dangling rope they’d tried attach rolled up underneath Sunfyre, and it’s not like they could take a proper ladder against the dragon’s wing and expect him to stand still and suffer the insult – and that was within the controlled environment of the dragon pit. What if Aegon flew off, but Sunfyre landed somewhere remote where there were none available to aid him? How was he supposed to get out?
Was Aegon supposed to just roll over the side and smash into the ground?
But they’d tried – just to see, though everyone regretted it in hindsight. The humiliation aside, Sunfyre had not accepted their clambering. None died, but a dragonhandler broke both his arms trying to cushion the impact of Sunfyre bashing his wing into him.
The failure pulled Aegon deeper into himself. Baela hadn’t known what to say but try remind him the maesters were working on a saddle that could fit two people. One seat for him, and another seat for the person who’d risk their life dragging him on and off for each trip. It was better than nothing - though now there was hope.
Hagrid said he may have a solution, even if her husband couldn’t make himself hope. It was but a shield. Aegon needed to guard himself against the crushing disappointment if it failed. For someone who generally treated most of life as if it was a jest; Aegon was one of the most jaded men she’d known. On par with her father, but holding a slightly different flavour of jadedness. Aegon was genuinely of the belief that everything that could go wrong, would go wrong – particularly to him.
Since the world would make a joke of him, he judged it a fair exchange to make a joke of the world.
Yet Baela felt good about this. She could feel it in her bones: this would work out for him.
She knew him better now. Partly because it was unavoidable after more than a year and a half married whilst basically working as his caretaker, and partly because she’d started making an effort.
Baela was stuck in this marriage, so was it so bad to make the best of it? To try make it work?
Initially, Baela thought that’s what everyone wanted – Rhaena had even said as much to her – but the whole lot of them were a hypocritical bunch of liars. And it seemed every other person would answer wildly contrary to such a basic question. When she treated Aegon kindly, the Queen became suspicious, but when she tried to avoid him, she was “skirting her duty”.
Rhaena would say she should try be happy with Aegon – for her own sake – but when Baela tried comply, that was wrong too?
Baela felt like she was being watched and judged by everyone, half where the Queen’s spies, the other half seemed to report back to her father, and personally, she suspected the Gold Cloaks there.
As their founder and the first commander, she’d noticed there was lingering loyalty to her father ahead of the King. Initially it made her feel safer amongst all the Hightowers, believing the loyal soldiers would look after their Commander’s daughter -- now though, Baela felt like she was constantly being spied on. That her guards were reporting whenever she looked “too happy” in Aegon’s company.
That had not been “fun”.
Because her sister would come, requesting her obedience to their father — and as predictable as how night follows day, she’d be visited by the Queen, reminding Baela of her duty to her husband.
As if she’d forgotten?
Everyone was so fucking contrary.
She’d done everything that everyone demanded of her – yet it was impossible to please a single one of them. Not her father, not her stepmother, certainly not the Queen -- her friends, her sister, her husband, her grandparents – everyone found faults with her conduct in one way or another. Then whenever she tried correct herself; they’d find fault with that too.
Baela was being torn in every direction, but what could she do but endure? She knew her duty to both her father and her husband, and she had somehow been able to fulfil them both – but mostly she received complaints. There was no aid or understanding, except mayhaps from Aegon.
It’s not like they shared their inner woes and hardships with one another, but existing in a mutually miserable situation had been a bonding experience.
Which is more than she could say for Rhaena.
“You may look too happy.”
The memory rang like a dull throb in her head.
Too happy?
Her sister had no inkling. To Baela, it was staggering to stand at the heart of a slowly crumbling castle, and just see the tearing growing larger. To experience for herself how blinded Rhaena was for not doing the same.
It reminded her of what Aegon once said:
“I’m not suffering that senile lickspittle. The Lord honey head is but an obedient bitch awaiting orders at his master’s heel. He’d forget to eat unless reminded it’s a requirement to continue living, and he can’t fathom doing anything but what he’s told. That’s why he’s survived so long in this fucking vipers nest; because everyone’s aware he’s never mustered a single thought of his own. I’ve never heard him do anything but parroting whatever mine father said in the last hour; even if it was regarding the contents of the King’s bowel movements. Word for word – you’d think he was the scribe, not the Master of Coin – but none has the guts to send him on a ship back to the Reach. Rather leave him to rot in his seat than inconvenience my father for an afternoon whilst they find someone capable.”
Aegon had been referring to lord Lyman Beesbury.
Because the lord was admittedly… a bit lost. Everyone could see – and hear - that his mind was slow. He was ancient, and struggled to do anything but exactly what he was ordered, and couldn’t fathom seeing the larger ramifications – not before someone told him of such first, and then he’d repeat it without fail.
Everyone politely pretended it wasn’t happening, but Aegon had never been tactful -- especially when he was in pain, making him lose with his scorn.
“The King is a fool, but a mighty fool, and what fools Viserys makes of us all.”
Wounded and raw, he’d stared her right in the eyes, making the words hit like a slap.
He’d shut up afterwards and demanded more wine, but Baela knew Aegon hadn’t been talking of Beesbury at all.
She couldn’t call it a lie either way. Honestly; she didn’t want to.
Because listening to her sister’s fierce defence that there was no way their cousins were bastards… it felt so… empty. The more she protested, the more it convinced Baela it was actually true. And her twin’s excuses were getting irritatingly defensive; outright illogical at times. So naïve and trusting and like Rhaena thought everything would go swimmingly perfect, granted everyone merely fulfilled their instructions with a pretty smile – and ignored the cracks tearing the royal House apart. Tearing the realm apart.
Sometimes Baela compared it to a literal thing. As if there was a literal tear ripping open the ground, creating a huge crater and stuff kept falling in, sacrificed to the black pit growing gradually larger and larger. Though when Baela pointed to it, distressed and wondering what to do and how to mend the destructions – Rhaena just kept pretending it wasn’t there.
What did she mean it wasn’t there? It was! Look: Baela herself had fallen over the edge – no, they’d actually pushed her into it– and now she was screaming for their aid to get back up, but it fell on deaf ears. Because according to Rhaena? According to the King? According to the fools walking around with their eyes shut?
For how they acted one would think Baela was the one talking nonsense. As far as they were concerned; Everything was perfect.
But how did that bold faced lie help anyone? Not even the fools themselves were safe.
Rhaena could close her eyes and keep strolling along the edge of the crater like nothing was amiss, but chances were she’d merely end up walking straight off the edge, and go tumbling into the pit she insisted didn’t exist.
That’s what happened to Baela.
And what hurt… what truly made her bleed, was that what happened to Baela wasn’t enough to open her twin’s eyes. And why? Just because she was still fine and safe?
Was it because Baela had already fallen into the crater, so the ones pretending it wasn’t there just… couldn’t be bothered with her anymore?
In her bitter moments, Baela thought Rhaena conducted herself nothing like a dragonrider, but just like lord honey head. Like a painfully obedient lapdog, parroting her master’s orders.
Is that how Baela had been?
She’d been misinformed and lied to, but surely, she’d been more reasonable? Had she been a fool too?
In their year and a half as husband and wife, Baela had seen some shit – literally – but she’d also learned to know Aegon.
He had little patience for court. He was far too fond of wine, and if he drank more than three cups it was safer to stay clear of him. Not only because it reminded her of the belfry tower, but once Aegon started, it was hard to reel him back. Asking him to stop drinking usually just… made it worse. So Baela learned it was easier to avoid a happy drunk than trigger an angry drunk.
Then again, when Aegon wasn’t in his cups, he had good humour and a sense of irony to nearly everything, which could be as frustrating as it could be refreshing. He also craved approval. A compliment about doing a puzzle well, or a kind observation, or even just a smile if he was being funny went such a long way. It had eased their relationship from awkwardly strained into companionable resignation.
She didn’t know why it took her so long to start doing that. It wasn’t a big ask… especially of a wife - but in the beginning, it’d been difficult to treat Aegon with the same patience and understanding as she’d most others. Mayhaps because any real smile Aegon could tease from one of his jokes, felt like betraying her father.
Though today, she wasn’t letting it keep her down. Neither guilt towards her father or anything court threw at her. Today would be a good day. A great day.
“I have a gift for you.”
“You do?” Aegon tilted his head, curious at this novelty.
Baela skipped across the room to the entrance, where she’d left the gifts mindfully draped over the back of a chair. She lifted the coat and doublet, brushing off imaginary dust and arranging it to have the right effect. She strolled around the corner, holding it aloft.
“I made this for you.” Baela said, a wave of anticipation bubbling in her stomach.
The coat and tabard were yellow and pink in an imitation of his dragon. Baela had worked so hard on it for two moons, and barely slept the last three days rushing to finish.
“…” Aegon looked at it - and looked.
The moments passed by in a pronounced silence. He glanced between her face and the attire, mouth opening as if he was about to say something - then closed it.
His hesitancy made her heart plunge into her stomach.
Oh no.
It was too much, wasn’t it? Grayce warned her the yellow and pink combination might be a bit too bold… but Baela liked bold. Or was it something else? The fit?
Mayhaps Rhaena, the Queen or Princess Helaena could do it better. It’s true she hadn’t expected the colour combination to be quite so… feminine, but thought she’d done well. Baela could sew and embroider decently enough; though sometimes she struggled with composing something new that looked good together. Usually she followed pre-existent guidelines, and she hadn’t have to make up the designs herself. It was hard. It seemed she didn’t have the same natural knack for putting together artfully beautiful garments the way her twin could – but she’d hoped her hard work and effort made up for some of it.
“I just thought it’d make you look like Sunfyre. You don’t need to wear it at court, but I thought… when you’re flying? I know yellow isn’t the same golden colour as your dragon, but I used all my remaining gold thread on these embroideries here, see? It reflects better out in the sun than you can see in here, it has this shimmering hue. I hoped together with the yellow fabric as backdrop, it’d give the illusion it was all gold. The inside has pink lining, and I wanted it to be a set that matched Sunfyre’s scales, and-”
“I like it, Baela” Aegon cut her off, nodding, “You’re right. It does suit my dragon. I’ll be proud to show my lady wife’s favour when I fly again.”
The relief was instant, and Baela beamed.
He licked his lips, reaching out and rubbing the fabric. “Why wait? I’ll wear it now.”
“But you’re only going to be on the ship?”
“Anything to brighten up the drab company.” He smiled.
Baela hid her grin behind a hand. That was a terrible insinuation to make about the king – and his own family… but true.
Aegon grabbed the table and used it to heave himself up. Discretely, she remained just long enough to make sure he kept his balance. He removed his dark green doublet, handing it to her to set aside, before she helped him into the tabard first, and then the coat. The bright yellow fabric with golden threaded embroidery of dragons made his hair appear a brighter shade of silver in contrast, whilst the pink flowers and lining made the lilac hue of his eyes more pronounced. It suited him. It really, really suited him - even Aegon saw it.
With a slight smile, Aegon watched her potter around him, which confused her. Unlike him, she was flying to their destination, and was dressed in the bulky riding gear for warmth and padding. Not at all the gracious gowns he normally preferred. He liked those a lot… so she only wore them strategically if she required him to be agreeable, and when she’d rather he ignore her, she’d found it effective to dress like his mother. But riding gear?
“What?” She asked quietly.
“You are in a rather good mood,” Aegon shook his head. “You’re happy today.”
Baela’s face broke into a full toothy smile. She couldn’t help it.
“I too am looking forwards to enjoying a break from the Red Keep,”
And she was, but it was probably not the real cause for the skip in her steps.
She hadn’t seen Hariel in so long, and now she’d be a guest in Hagrid’s new castle – possibly for a while. They first had to check the equipment worked, but if it did, it’d likely have to be adjusted to Aegon’s particular fit. They were packing for a lengthy stay. Even if it was an utter failure, they had enough packed so they could remain until Hariel’s babe was born.
When it’d been announced the royal court were travelling to Hagrid’s castle on Crackclaw, she’d been nervous and felt at odds -- but now she knew it’d be fine. Everything had seemed a little easier, a little brighter, since the letter.
Naturally, Baela had been distrustful when she’d been visited by Prince Aemond. It was but hours after he created a stir at court by inviting the King to Crackclaw. Making the bold claim that after only a year and a half, the castle was finished, far beyond the expectations the crown had set to happen within the next decade.
So when the prickly Prince knocked at her door, she’d wondered if he’d come to brag personally. Instead, he’d declined Baela’s hollow offer to come inside as rank dictated. He’d merely handed her a letter, then taken his leave.
Because this invite was for Baela alone, from Hariel alone. She’d read it so many times Baela could probably recite it from heart.
Dear Baela,
I hope this letter reach you in good health. By now, court have received an invitation from Hagrid to visit our new home, Castle Point, to see for themselves what the Crown’s coin has been spent on. Your station means I expect to see you amongst the royal retinue, but I must address the dragon in the barn.
Time has passed swiftly for me. They say spring is near its end with summer impending, but I am aggrieved the last we spoke was in winter.
I only hear of you from Rhaena, the Queen or the Princesses, or from any tales I can wrangle out of my husband after his visits at court. Though your less amicable relationship always makes me suspicious if he’s exaggerating. He may say you slipped in the Dragon Pit into a pile of dragon dung, but I am sceptical to believe it. For all I know, he pushed you. For all I know, there was no dung. Of course, I won’t be able to name my honourable husband a liar without your version of events.
Which brings me to the point of this letter. A point before you come to the Point (get it?) The one I’d wish to hear from regarding your latest endeavour isn’t any of them - it is from you. A letter or twenty – Anything is better than this, and all the better if we could talk face to face. Though as the babe keeps me grounded to lands and nearby chairs whenever I get dizzy, I must beg you fly to me.
We used to be friends, and even though I don’t belittle the seriousness of our disagreements, I hope to move past it. What is the alternative?
I sit here planning for the future. I don’t know how to be a mother, and it’s a frightening, uncertain feeling to carry -- but there are also wistfully imaginings of what it’ll bring too. I can make guesses, and I have plenty of them: I believe our child will have my hair, even if Aemond is less agreeable to that possibility. I wish to name the child after one of my parents: Lily if it’s a girl, and James if it is a boy – even if the former is common and the latter sounds unusual for the Westerosi tongue, and Aemond claims both unsuitable for a Targaryen. The child will have his family name, is it too much to request I have a say in the other?
Regardless of sex, looks or name, I believe Hagrid will love them. I believe the Queen will dote on them. I think Helaena will teach them all about bugs, and when they’re older, I hope they’ll be great friends with Prince Viserys and your newborn sister.
But where are you in this imagined future of mine?
The possibility you may remain a named stranger to my child pains me. I can’t make guesses on your feelings, I know little of your opinions anymore, but I can’t make myself believe our differences are insurmountable.
I hope it’s more than duty bringing you to my door, though even if it’s but a responsibility, know greeting you will not be a duty to me. It will be a relief and a joy. Wherever I have a roof and table, you will always have a seat.
You’re going to be an aunt, and nothing would make me happier than for my child to know you. So much has changed. I have much I wish to share with you, and there’s so much I want to hear of your life. Mayhaps I’m being presumptuous; but I think you’d like it here.
I miss you,
Yours, Hariel.
Baela’s vision had been a blurred blob when she reached the bottom, brought to tears despite not catching half the words on the first read through. She couldn’t even explain why. The relief was pronounced, like each step was suddenly ten stones lighter. She danced around her apartment with blurry vision, until Treeskipper joined in -- jumping up her leg and onto her shoulder as Baela laughed.
Hariel had written her.
Baela had wanted to reach out, but no longer knew how. She wanted to, but it’d been a line she hadn’t been able to make herself cross. She was keeping up with Aegon, balancing precariously on the tearing line fracturing her family. And the only thing everyone agreed upon was that true dragons never needs apologise.
I miss you,
It didn’t escape her notice Hariel’s letter was not strictly speaking an apology either, but it was a plea. She’d reached out — she missed her — and what did it even matter who said sorry? What had they been arguing over? Hariel hadn’t really been the one to push Baela into the crater. She’d not suggested anything regarding Baela’s future. It was that Hariel was of those who’d actually acknowledged the crater, and thought something should be done about it. She’d seen it too, but unlike Baela, she hadn’t told anyone.
No. That was wrong. Baela had been angry because Hariel hadn’t told her personally – and it felt she was owed that much from her friend -- but she had told the King.
Not that any good came of it. How large would the crater be before the King heeded the danger? The fact he didn’t was frightening, begging the question: would he ever?
So Baela couldn’t find it in her to be angry at Hariel for misjudging the situation. Baela had too. It wasn’t like Hariel had done like her grandmother and stepmother, who had been playing Baela for a lackwit for years on end.
All this time later the injustice still hurt and upset her. There were days Baela desperately wished her father never married her. She wished they’d never left Pentos.
So Baela had read Hariel’s letter several times a day until the time finally came, and it was today.
In a few hours she’d be at Crackclaw. At the Point.
Gripping his cane, Aegon lifted his wooden leg, placing it at the point of balance, and rolled his weight over it, catching himself with the other foot. There was a tightness in his mouth, a strain to his jaw.
Though his amputation was “healed” and the wound closed, Aegon would still get wounded by walking. The stump would rub against the wooden attachment, causing rifts, tearing and bruising. There were days he got so fed up Aegon would rather go without, and jump around on his one leg instead. If it wasn’t for all the stairs in the castle and demands to look presentable, he might never wear the wooden leg at all.
But they were going outside, down narrow stairs and uneven ground – and then there’d be the challenges of the ship itself. It was hard enough to keep his footing on ground that didn’t move under his feet.
Baela didn’t particularly look forwards to tending to him this evening. She already knew Aegon’s stump would be raw, tender and he’d be exhausted – but if he started drinking to numb the pain, he’d get difficult too.
Aegon reached the mirror, taking in the bright effect of the attire.
“It suits you,” Baela adjusted his collar so it laid right; “Though mind it’s a light-coloured fabric, and staining from food and drink shows easily.”
“I’ll mind it,”
“Mayhaps you could stick to cider?” She suggested, careful with her wording. “Even water? Since you’ll be on a rocking ship, and it’d be a shame to show there with wine stains.”
Aegon made a vague hum, busy rolling back his shoulders and inspecting the effects of her work in the mirror. He adjusted the coat so the bottom folded over his chopped leg. It was long enough to reach below the knee. If they put a boot over the wooden leg, it could almost appear like Aegon was whole.
“Is your sister visiting too?” Aegon asked, “I heard mine was sent an invite by father.”
“I don’t know whether Rhaena will make it,” Baela didn’t know if she wanted to see her twin or not. She loved Rhaena, but it hurt.
“-but if Princess Rhaenyra and father attends, we’ll meet the babe,”
“Aemond’s?”
“No. My … half-sister.”
The new Princess was born three moons ago, and it was time for her to be blessed by the King. If her stepmother didn’t show at Castle Point whilst the King was there, they’d have to come to court instead for the babe to be blessed – which they might, but Baela already knew they had errands at the Point.
If Rhaena was there too with her stepmother’s babe - would it be the final straw?
Rhaena liked children, and she’d been given a new “sister”. One that was not Baela. One that had never fallen into any crater. Her stepmother’s baby was Baela’s replacement. The babe with the right mother – as far as their father was concerned. A Princess daughter.
Though would Rhaena think the half-sister the easier sister to handle? Would that be the excuse she used to brush her hands free of Baela completely?
Would their father?
Once upon a time Baela would have boldly claimed there was no way that could happen, and be insulted it was ever suggested. Absolutely not.
But there was a lot she’d thought impossible, and the only thing to come of it was being proven wrong.
Rhaenyra took her father.
Helaena took Jace.
That babe very well might take Rhaena.
With Baela long sold off to the highest bidder, they had no further use of her.
“My niece,” Aegon mused, “- or should I address her as mine good-sister?”
“Your cousin?” Baela suggested.
Aegon’s reflection gave her a peculiar look. Knowing. Then again, her husband would know better than anyone what it was like to be dismissed by a father and sister.
“Our loving family,” He said drily. “Reunited under Aemond’s roof. Surely that can be nothing but a delight.”
She bumped his elbow with hers, tone sardonic; “–as always.”
ALICENT #5
His frail health made travelling with Viserys a stressful affair. She worried the carriage jostled his brittle bones, she was concerned the rocking ship was too nauseating, she feared the weather would take a turn – that the warm weather would morph to rain and cold, and the King would suffer an illness he couldn’t handle.
But a whole day voyaging with both her frail husband and crippled son?
As much as they complained about their separate discomforts, they were fooling themselves if either thought they were more relieved than Alicent herself to finally see land.
Fortunately, after a day on ship, Aemond had been considerate to his father’s health. The wheelhouse was fitted with a feather mattress for the King to rest on. The road from the port to the castle was long, but the pristine, even state of the paved road meant the carriage hardly jostled. Viserys slept the hour away.
Aegon wasn’t granted the same consideration. There were no bed in his wheelhouse, but the seats were cushioned and soft. Besides, with Alicent seeing to the King in another carriage, it was left to her father to see to Aegon’s comforts.
They’d ridden through the town, past the fields, around the lake, and the last stretch alongside a river in the woodlands until she finally got her first glimpse of Castle Point.
Gradually the passing pine trees, elm and red maples of Bloodbark woods lessened, and she could sporadically catch glimpses of the ocean in one direction, and the castle walls encircling the keep in the other.
Already there, Alicent was left wondering, and then the terrain opened up to the final hill, and she could see clearly.
Normally, the outer walls protecting a castle were made of thousands of stone blocks, stacked atop of each other. Here though, the entire wall -- which stretched to enclose acres – was made of what looked like one enormous stone. She didn’t know how, but it appeared carved out of a continuous, massive, stretching piece of boulder. Chipped and hollowed into the shape of an outer wall with an even 30 feet height and 10 feet thickness, ramparts with crenelations, watch towers and a gatehouse.
The shape was “right”, but even Alicent knew that’s not how walls were built.
But it’d be harder to climb, She had realised. With one, perfectly smooth surface, there are no gaps to grab hold of.
The carriage rode through the open gates into the lower baily. Alicent peered out the window, Ser Criston and Ser Harrold both trying to peak around her whilst her husband snored. The entrance to the Keep was well maintained, but in the distance she could see the baily lead to the stables, blacksmith, yet even with all these necessities fitted behind the castle walls, the remaining space seemed spacious enough even Vhagar could land.
The wheelhouse steered directly for the main keep of Castle Point, situated at the edge of a tall cliff. The placement gave the illusion of the castle precariously balancing along a drop – like it was about to tip into the ocean far below. There wasn’t a moat but there was a mountain river streaming through the middle of the castle, splitting the entrance part of the baily from the keep itself, before spilling into a waterfall.
It was a dramatic placement, spacious yet defendable. The outer walls barricading against the forests, whilst the cliffside acted as a natural defence, leaving no choice but to cross over the waterfall by a bridge to get to the entrance.
She was pleased to see lord Rubeus had not forgotten who’d granted him the lands and gold for this, because the tall double doors were carved with the three headed Targaryen dragon, but set with stylised stars all around it. It took Alicent a moment to recognise the stars were actually the same type of star as on the sigil of House Hagrid. She thought the overall effect was pleasant though; as if the dragon was flying amongst stars.
There was a group waiting for them there, and even from across the baily, Alicent could easily pick out lord Rubeus – towering taller than the rest of the crowd – waiting to greet the King. The next she recognized was her son at his side, unchanged from his last visit at court, and the woman next to him – oh. Alicent smiled. She was harder to recognize, though only because Hariel was a lithe lady, and looked quite different at such a late stage of her pregnancy.
Alicent stirred her husband awake, and there was a fuss as everyone got out of the carriages.
Rubeus would never be a gracious talker, but none could fault his sincerity, hard work, and staggering efficiency.
Because how in the Seven Hells had they completed this in a year and a half?
They received a warm greeting, and they didn’t dally to invite everyone inside for food and shelter.
“We understand you’ve had a long voyage, an’ we thought these might help make yeh’ comfortable, yer Grace. Only if it’d please yeh’, yer Grace.” Lord Rubeus offered, waving someone forwards from the crowd. A tall man – or would have been tall, if it wasn’t for the lord he was approaching – with dark hair wearing a maester’s chain stepped out. He kept his eyes on his feet whilst pushing along a chair with wheels ahead of him.
“This is a wheelchair. We have a selection of ‘em too. Regardless if yeh wish ter use them, please accept it as a welcome gift. Havin’ yeh’ visit is an honour, yer Grace.”
The wheelchair was a game changer.
Alicent might have been more ecstatic about it than her husband – though it was hard to say for sure. They had chairs with wheels at home too, but not like this. Firstly, this was light enough the user themselves could roll the wheels around and get where they needed effortlessly. How the smaller front wheels turned, combined with how the larger back wheels could be turned individually, meant Viserys could turn around in circles without requiring anyone to lift up the chair to change the direction.
Alicent met Aemond’s eye over his wife’s shoulder, wordlessly ordering him to provide 10 more at his earliest convenience. Aemond nodded, as if her look alone was enough. Alicent knew she needed to be more precise, but for now the couple they had for her husband and Aegon would do.
Whilst Aegon and the King tried their chairs, the castle itself drew questions and admiration from the courtiers. They were standing on a wide bridge, but nearly everyone went up to the railing to peer at the waterfall and down to where it crashed into the ocean.
Alicent couldn’t fathom how the bridge was put in place. The risk of the builders slipping during the built and falling to their death seemed far too high - though she assumed the explanation was: “magic”.
Yet despite her suspicions, once they actually went inside, Castle Point could trick a less informed visitor into believing it was “normal”.
Certainly, the wall raised a lot of questions, and the bridge had been dramatic, the ceilings were unusually high and all the hallways spaciously broad -- but the lord happened to be an unusually tall and broad man. It made sense he’d build a home where he fit. She admired how even the stone blocks were set, and how symmetrical the layout was, the fine craftmanship of the columns, the grand staircase leading to the upper floors, and just how many windows they’d fitted - all displaying beautiful scenes made from stained glass, depicting tales Alicent wanted to hear at a later time. Yet everything was recognizable. If one ignored the dizzying speed this had come together, on the surface, nothing jumped out at Alicent, screaming:
A wizard lords over these halls.
Not at first.
Not until Aemond revealed this was; “just the Point.”
“What do you mean?” Alicent hadn’t understood.
“We refer to the upper floors, the parts of the castle sitting above ground level, as; ‘The Point’,” Aemond explained, “But the rest of the castle is underground, and it’s rather distinctly different. We found out whilst we were working that giving them different names made it easier for everyone to know which part of the castle was being referred to. Whether something was in the Point or the Fang.”
“It’s named after the dead dog?” Aegon asked, perplexed. Alicent shared his incredulity – but then lord Rubeus was the sort to name a dragon “Norbert”. Mayhaps they should have expected he’d name the dungeons of his castle after a dog.
A bit morbid too, considering where the dog was murdered.
Aemond shrugged. “Yes and no. You’ll see.”
Aemond had not been exaggerating. They’d not seen half of it.
The Fangs consisted of 7 levels of varying sizes, burrowing deeper and deeper into the ground, hidden under the castle sitting atop. It was accessed by going down a side passage from the entrance hall which Alicent had dismissed earlier.
And there, the name started making sense. Even if she had never had heard of Fang the boarhound, she would have assume the name stemmed from the intimidating, fanged shaped entrance to the lower levels.
“It’s like walking into the jaws of a beast.” Her husband laughed, suddenly energised as he rolled forwards. Alicent was right there with him.
The entrance was carved out of the jagged stone of the cliff the castle stood upon. Shaped like the gaping maw of a monstrous beast – there was even light glowing out from something in the depths. It was clearly shaped to look like a dragon building fire at the back of the beast’s throat – except it was really just daylight reflecting up the shaft from the lower levels.
Following along with the crowd, Alicent expected something akin to the halls of Dragonstone. There were similarities in the jagged surfaces, but there was a distinct different feeling. Dragonstone felt enclosed, heavy and dark. Even the larger halls had an emptiness, scaled to hold something bigger than humans, leaving echoes clashing around the hall, and magnifying the effects of winds and waves. It was a stronghold of dungeons and heat.
These halls were more spacious – anything that could fit Hagrid required that – and unlike the darkness from the rough corridors at Dragonstone, these ones were unexpectedly well lit. Since the upper castle stood at the edge of the cliff, it meant the lower level was running alongside the cliff wall, and they’d hammered out openings in the rock side.
It was a constant mixture of earthy, almost whimsical tunnels, that was as illogical as they could be charming, and seaside based fittings; closer in style to Driftmark than Dragonstone.
It was jarring how different the castle above ground was compared to the underground. Nothing was straight, making it feel as mysterious as exploring an exceptionally well carved cave. If caves came with chandeliers, torches, carpets, generous windows, tapestries, fully furnished and with portraits. Some which Alicent could swear was moving.
It was such a change of atmosphere too. Compared to the neat, orderly system upstairs, where everything looked precisely as a castle should -- down here: inside the Fangs, everything turned into twisting hallways, spaciously crooked ceilings, oval rooms and wavy walls. With dragon carvings along the ceiling guiding lost wanderers to different sections.
For the fun of it, Alicent had noticed the path they were taking kept having continuous carvings of the same yellow dragon holding a book on the wall, as if it was leading them along. It suddenly stopped at a door, and even though the twisting corridor continued ahead, Alicent decided to look inside. Wondering if the book dragon had a purpose, and behold: she found a study.
When she noticed a similar pattern with a fire bird holding a pie, it led the way to a tea room. There was a griffin carrying a bucket of water, and when she peaked her head into that room.
“You put a pond down here?” Alicent spluttered, and lord Tyland, who’d been right behind her. Did a double take when he glimpsed the insides too.
“They’re pools, my Queen.” Hariel said, a hand resting on her stomach and the other at her lower back. So far she’d kept up with the crowd, friendly and hospitable as was expected of her -- but Alicent recognized the strain the lady was trying to hide. Aemond kept offering her his arm to lean on, but with the demands to answer question, they kept being separated.
“That is the men’s pool.” She said matter of factly, as if that was a reasonable thing to find 3 floors underground. “There’s another at the other end of this level for women. The water is heated through the pipes on the way from the river you crossed in the bailey, since it gets directed through the kitchen boilers. The kitchens have access to the water for cleaning and food preparation too, so they don’t need to go to the wells. The warm water can then be channelled into the women’s or men’s pool, depending on which shutters are in use.”
“You bathe in that? With the servants?” Her father asked, “What of contamination?”
“We remembered to put in a drain.” Aemond said evenly, slightly unimpressed the Hand assumed they wouldn’t have considered something that basic. “There are shutters that can be opened, which empties the used water. It gets flushed out into the ocean through pipes.”
Did that mean they didn’t need servants to go fetch water, boil it up, and use it for baths? They could merely go to the pool? A self-filling, self-heating and self-draining, pool?
They were guided through the rest of the tour, and by the Seven, everything achieved was fascinating as it was perplexing. It was the work of decades and should have cost several times more gold than the crown had spent.
Merely digging this far down should have taken decades.
Over supper served in the Great Hall of the Point, Alicent sat the head table, eating whilst listening to the courtiers and staff around the hall talk. Several compared the Point to the Rock -- in which Ser Tyland would heatedly disagree. The Rock was far taller – which was true, but the comparison wasn’t unfounded. Casterly Rock was also a castle inside a mountainside – but it was grand. This had its own flavour of strength, but a more… mystical thing. One never knew if walking into a room would lead to a pool or a star shaped kitchen. Which was probably why others argued Castle Point was better compared to Dragonstone.
Alicent had visited both, and didn’t agree it was quite like either. The dual effect of the Point and the Fang and the stark contrasts from pristine ballrooms to magical caves was too jarring.
They’d arrived in late noon, and the rest of the evening was spent settling in. Aemond offered everyone a choice where they’d prefer to stay. There were guest chambers in both the Point and the Fangs, and it was a matter of preference. Like Alicent, most picked the Point. The Fangs had an atmosphere that felt a little too much like Hagrid and Hariel’s magic for her to properly relax.
Alicent and her husband were housed in the top apartment of the highest tower of Castle Point, with a far stretching view in every direction. She could see all the way to the town in the distance. In the other direction, she could gaze out the Narrow Sea, and the view of the stars was the most prominent.
Standing in the round chamber, views in every direction, Alicent was reminded of a long lost childhood memory… as if she had chambers inside a light house. Not terribly dissimilar to the Hightower.
She’d slept well.
As she was at the top of the castle, Alicent had to walk down what felt like endless flights of stairs to reach Aemond and Hariel’s apartment down in the depth of the Fangs.
Though tracking back her steps on the following morn, bathed in the warm sun, it felt even airier and brighter than the evening before. Nearly quaint in ways seaside gardens sometimes were. It was perfectly fine for a relaxed stroll, but when one noticed what may be a secret passage, it would never fail to spark a curiosity to go exploring. It brought to mind the unpredictability and beauty of nature instead of magic. Whilst Dragonstone was jagged to feel threatening and opposing, the Fangs was jagged the way nature just happened to be, and softened with warmth and organic shapes.
Alone to make her own judgement, Alicent found it a calm and curious place, and wondered if mayhaps the handful who opted to stay in the Fangs had made the better choice.
When Alicent finally found her way to Aemond and Hariel’s apartments, and was welcomed to tea served at their private veranda, enjoying a piece of pie with her son on his six and tenth nameday, Alicent didn’t feel like she was underground at all. Looking out over the railing, she could either look up, and could follow the cliffside stretch upwards, and the outline of the castle atop -- but she could also look down, and despite being five floors underground, there remained a significant drop to the crushing waves below. Their apartment was somewhere in the middle of the cliff side.
Alicent enjoyed the rich and creamy desert. Taking a liking to the earthy dough holding a favourable blend of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. She’d never tasted pumpkin pies before, but Hagrid had a private garden of them. According to her son, Alicent was tasting the results of his first harvest.
There was so much they needed to talk about, and she was sure Aemond looked forwards to it all. Alicent did too. They had yet to have a proper look at Portpoint, and then there was the Dragon Point they’d yet to see -- but what they’d achieved with the castle alone was remarkable.
But that would happen later. In important meetings with the council and lord Rubeus, and would last hours.
It would not happen on her son’s nameday. Besides, with lord Rubeus off with Aegon to see to his saddle, her husband exploring the castle, while Hariel was off with lady Baela -- Alicent had manoeuvred her son into a private, undisturbed tea. For this, there was only one burning question she wanted clarified:
“Have you decided on names for the babe yet?”
Little had Alicent anticipated the floodtide such a basic question would unleash.
“She wants to use the name James.” Her son whined, sounding like he’d just reverted back in age to a lad of five. In an instant, Aemond went from politely nibbling at his own pie, to melting into the contours of his seat.
“What?”
“For our child – if a boy – Hariel wants to name him James.” Aemond forwent any care for propriety or posture, acting a puppet which strings were abruptly chopped off.
It was the slouching posture she’d expect from Aegon, not Aemond, and it was so out of his custom it made Alicent straighten reflexively. As if willing her son to mimic her, though Aemond seemed unobservant to anything but his latest spat with his wife.
“James?” She pronounced it carefully, twisting her tongue around the strange wording. She knew that was the British name of lady Hariel’s father, but it was certainly not a name she’d ever come across in Westeros. Or anywhere.
“It sounds like a drunk with a stutter trying to say the name ‘Jaime’, doesn’t it?” Aemond reflected.
“It’s not… that, bad.” Alicent tried for diplomacy.“But it is an unfortunately foreign sounding thing. It won’t do. It won’t be well accepted for a Prince.”
“I’m aware,” He griped.
And he still hadn’t straightened up. “Mind your posture. Are you trying to imitate Aegon’s slouching?”
It was a low blow, but it worked like a charm. Aemond straightened nearly instantaneously.
“Why’s this even an issue?” Alicent asked, “Hariel may express her wishes, but the name is not her decision. It’s your child, your heir.”
“She’s carrying it,” Aemond pressed, “I can’t dismiss her opinion out of hand.”
He could. As the father Aemond had the final say… Unless Viserys got involved. If the King named the babe, there wouldn’t be a choice but to respect his preference - but she doubted her husband would. Besides, she understood what Aemond was trying to say. He had a preference that clashed with Hariel’s. Neither were budging, yet he wanted to please his wife. It was sweet… and frustrating… and slightly intriguing.
Alicent had spent the better part of a decade trying to reason with Aemond when he got into one of his “moods” -- she knew little less but the threat of death could make him back down. Not when he first decided on something. The fact this sounded like an ongoing argument, one where Aemond hadn’t simply put his foot down: That wasn’t how her son tackled conflicts. He operated by some rather basic principles: things were either done his way, or no way. The trick to managing him was to make Aemond believe what he wanted was the same as what Alicent wanted.
“Honestly; I carried four children, and I didn’t name any of you.” Alicent shared, “As a young lady, I used to imagine I’d one day name a son Triston – but life didn’t go that way. I married the King, and his son was to be named Aegon, honouring the traditions of House Targaryen. His Kingship aside, it was his lawful right as the father. What do you want to name the child, Aemond?”
“Jaehaerys.” Aemond said immediately, a choice Alicent could’ve predicted in her sleep. She knew it was the placeholder of the name Aemond truly wanted. If it wouldn’t get confusing whether he was talking of his dragon or his heir, the babe would be named Vermithor.
“Jaehaerys is a wonderful name for a fine Prince. What if she gives you a Princess?”
“Alysanne,”
Colour her surprised.
“But Hariel is opposed?”
“She claims too many in my family has been named the same. That it’s confusing who’s being talked about.” Aemond rolled his eyes. “At least neither of my suggestions are in use – unlike Rhaenyra’s custom. If they’re bastards, she’ll steal family names of Houses she intends to usurp – but if they’re trueborn, she steals already used first names. I can’t argue Hariel’s point when it’s actually valid in some cases. But Jaehaerys isn’t in use.”
“Isn’t Hariel trying to name the child after her own parent? How is that any different?”
Aemond looked at her meaningfully. “It’s not. Try telling her that though.”
Alicent almost smiled at his petulance, but she understood the seriousness of this. She did.
She herself had wanted the name Triston for Aegon, but she accepted the ways of the world didn’t play out like the songs and fairytales. As the King’s son, he belonged to the realm, not her - and it’d been the same with the other three. Though in hindsight… Alicent wondered whether she’d given in too easily. Mayhaps she should have named him without the King’s leave, and ignored his opinions.
But as a new wife and untested Queen, overwhelmed with a newborn at the age of five and ten; she’d wanted to please. She’d wanted everyone to be happy, and find some semblance of stability; but somehow the more she tried, the more they felt comfortable trampling over her.
Looking at her son, Alicent felt something tight in her throat. It may have been envy.
Had Viserys ever contemplated asking what Alicent wanted to name their son?
He’d never asked, so she never told. Then he’d named him Aegon, and everyone agreed it was the perfect name for the heir. Everyone except Rhaenyra; likely because she’d expected the choice of name meant the same as Alicent had believed at the time: That it was a symbol of his intentions.
The King finally had a true born son, the boy he always wanted. The son Viserys killed Queen Aemma to have. The son which was the only reason he’d married Alicent at all. Which she had carried in numb dread. Counting down the moons as term approached, whilst terrified something would go wrong, and she’d end up killed during the birthing just the same as his first wife was. To get gutted like a fish so the King could drag the boy he desperately wanted directly from the womb. It was thoughts she’d tried not contemplate. Especially whenever the King got her with child, but Alicent wondered what her last moments had been like. The Queen before her. Rhaenyra’s mother.
She must have been so scared.
But Alicent survived the birthing, and Aegon had come out with minimal fuss. It had eased something guttural in her, and afterwards she’d thought…
Viserys had once talked of a prophecy of having a son who’d become a great king, and then he’d named their eldest son Aegon… It had seemed like a sign of his intentions. Everything had aligned perfectly, and it seemed Rhaenyra’s time as placeholder heir had come to an end, as the law dictated. Everyone thought so. Even Rhaenyra herself, which is why she’d acted an unbearable, sullen, disagreeable brat for years afterwards. Acting as if nothing would please her better than for her baby brother to die before infancy was over.
Alicent hadn’t wanted to see it. Had ignored it, and told herself this was about her - not her babe. They’d been friends once, close as kin, and Rhaenyra was hurt after she married her father. Alicent tricked herself into thinking if she kept smiling and kept trying to please, it would pass.
It never did.
Whatever Alicent expectations, whatever she’d hoped, it was for naught.
Any sacrifices and diligence made no difference. It only left Viserys feeling comfortable enough to double down on his most destructive political mistakes. Spitting on the laws and traditions of Westeros and steadfastly trampling his own trueborn sons below bastards and traitors in the line of succession.
Alicent was so tired.
Why did she keep striving to uphold dignity and law within a House where no one else did?
Mayhaps she’d get things done if she simply did as she pleased. It was Viserys custom to reward and honour lawbreakers more than acknowledge rule followers. Mayhaps he’d favour Alicent the way he did Rhaenyra ifshe merely began betraying kin or the realm or her very own soul.
Is that what it took?
Alicent reached over, patting his thigh sympathetically. “What about a compromise? To not name the child after anyone? Pick a new name, not commonly used?”
“Hagrid suggested the same.” Aemond sighed, “But they need a proper Valyrian name. They’ll be a Targaryen.”
“Alysanne is a fine name, but it’s admittedly become a common one in the last fifty years. No Targaryen holds it at present, but I can name three of my cousins who does. Mayhaps you could choose something less used? What about; Jaehaera? It honours King Jaehaerys, but I can’t think of anyone who has that name.”
“Mm,”
She could tell it hadn’t rung as pleasantly in his ears as it did hers. It was disappointing. Mayhaps she shouldn’t have begun listing her favourite first. Alicent should have started with a lesser name, and once he became a bit more open minded, worked up to a suitable option.
“There’s several Valyrian names that’s not been used, but which follows the traditions.” She said, “For a boy, there’s Baelys, Aemor, Maelor, Vaelor, Silverys and for girls, there’s Laenyra, Elaena, Aerya, Naerys--”
As she listed up her names, her son watched her with dawning realisation, his brow arching into a knowing expression.
“I see you came prepared. How many names do you have ready for our perusal?”
“Did you expect differently?” Alicent huffed, “Of course I came prepared: This is my first grandchild. Do you want me to write the suggestions down so you and Hariel can look them over in private?”
Aemond chuckled, “The issue isn’t making her agree other names can sound pleasant. The issue is she’s unreasonably determined to honour her parents. Her dead parents.” Her son shook his head. “Why is it the opinions of long dead men is treated as more vital than the quality of life of the living? I’m sure ‘James’ sounds perfectly suitable for the people of Britain, but this isn’t her homelands. I’m not suggesting names like Kholorhiuseus poko Shie or Chrack, because names from Norvos isn’t suitable for a Targaryen either.”
“Kholorhiuseus poko Shie?” Alicent asked. Now that was a mouthful. Surely she hadn’t suggested that?
Aemond waved it away, “Of course that was not a genuine suggestion, just something from an argument. Either way, it’s too foreign, and such a choice will set them back in life -- especially when it’s so easily fixed with a proper, traditional name. What if the babe takes after her in looks? And then they’d be stuck with a foreign name too? It’s-”
“I agree.” Alicent said, reminding herself she needed to pray that evening for the Seven to grant her grandchild silver hair. With such a foreign mother, they'd need it. “It won’t do,”
“Why don’t you bring your suggestions to her in person?” Aemond asked, “I don’t see how it can make it any worse. We have been at an impasse for moons.”
“Don’t fret, I will make her see reason.” Alicent assured him, ignoring the sceptical side eye from Aemond. “I will. Hariel is a first time mother, and she’s trapped in a sense of nostalgia. There’s many firsts, and it makes your wife plan and speculate far more on the future, but at the same time it’s making her reminisce back to easier times. With less at stake and less stress. I believe this will sound more reasonable from the mouth of another mother. One who also happened to marry into House Targaryen.”
