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“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen arrives at Oldtown today for the final stop of her diplomatic tour,” the announcer declared over the radio. “The heir to the Iron Throne will pay a visit to the renowned Starry Sept before continuing her other engagements.”

Banners bearing the three-headed dragon snapped in the breeze from Whispering Sound, and somewhere in the alleyways of the old city, a young journalist named Alicent Hightower switched off her radio, knowing her editor would soon be demanding coverage she had no heart to write.

—

Princess Rhaenyra sat in the backseat of her car, her hands folded in her lap in the way she'd been taught since childhood. Through the tinted windows, crowds of people gathered along the route to the hotel she would be staying, tourists and locals alike hoping to catch a glimpse of the silver-haired heir to the Iron Throne.

“Your grace, we'll be arriving at the hotel in ten minutes,” Elinda, Rhaenyra's handmaiden, announced from the front seat. “Your first engagement is the tour at the Sept, then the evening beneficent gala.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes. Months of this diplomatic tour across Westeros and beyond. Months of feeling the tightness of her shoes, the ache in her jaw from smiling for cameras in King's Landing, Gulltown, White Harbor, Lannisport and now here. Beyond years of being the perfect princess, the dutiful heir, the symbol rather than the person.

“And tomorrow?” she asked, though she already knew.

“The children's hospital in the morning, lunch with the merchant guilds followed by a visit to the new trade center at half past three. Then there's the ceremonial ribbon cutting for the harbor restoration project at five and cocktails with the regional governors at seven.”

Rhaenyra pressed her fingertips to her temples, where a terrible headache was beginning to bloom.

“I need a rest,” she said, but nobody heard her.

Instead, Elinda spoke, “Your grace, we're approaching the largest gathering. The window, if you would.”

Before she could protest, the tinted window beside her began to lower. The sounds of the crowd exploded into a roar that made her temples throb worse. Thousands upon thousands of faces pressed against the barriers, voices calling her name in a cacophony that seemed to shake the very car.

“Princess Rhaenyra! Over here!”

“Your grace! Look this way!”

“We love you, Princess!”

Her hand moved automatically in a wave, lips stretching into a smile that the photographers called ‘radiant’ and ‘captivating’ in the morning papers.

The crowd surged forward despite the barriers, a sea of reaching hands and flashing cameras, strangers screaming her name and fighting to capture her image.

Rhaenyra felt less a woman than a dragon in chains, paraded before others for their delight.

—

The evening news in Oldtown led with footage of Princess Rhaenyra's arrival. The cameras captured her wave from the car, her reverent tour of the Sept, where she'd lit candles for the souls of fallen dragons. The final segment showed her at the evening gala.

“This evening's charity gala raised over fifty thousand gold dragons for the city's literacy program,” the broadcast continued, showing brief footage of the princess in an elegant midnight blue gown, applauding politely as children from local schools performed traditional Reach folk songs. “Princess Rhaenyra's grace and dedication to public service continues to inspire citizens throughout the realm.”

The camera then switched to street interviews with local residents. A baker wiped flour from her hands before speaking: “My little ones were so excited to perform for the princess tonight. She stayed after to speak with each child personally! In these uncertain times, it's good to see the crown still cares about the common folk. Education lifts us all.”

The news anchor returned on screen as footage played of the princess departing the gala.

“The Princess appeared in excellent spirits,” the anchor shuffled his papers. “Tomorrow promises another full day for her grace, including a visit to Oldtown Children's Hospital and more! We'll have complete coverage of all the Princess Rhaenyra's activities. This has been Oldtown Evening News. Good night.”

—

Hours later, in the opulent hotel suite overlooking Oldtown's harbor, Princess Rhaenyra finally allowed her shoulders to sag. The door had barely closed behind her entourage before she was reaching behind her neck, removing the clasp of her heavy dragon necklace.

“Let me help you, your grace,” said Elinda.

Rhaenyra winced as the ornate jewelry came away from her skin, leaving red marks where it had pressed against her collarbone all day.

Elinda’s gentle hands were already working on the dozens of pins holding Rhaenyra's elaborate hairstyle in place. One by one, the silver-gold waves tumbled free, and Rhaenyra couldn't suppress a sigh of relief.

Rhaenyra kicked off the torturous heels that had been pinching her feet for fourteen hours straight, wiggling her toes against the plush carpet.

“Seven hells, I think my toes have forgotten what it feels like to lie flat.”

As Elinda helped her out of the formal gown—a process that involved unlacing, unhooking, and removing layers upon layers of silk and stays—Rhaenyra caught sight of herself in the full mirror. Her reflection looked pale and tired, purple shadows under her blue eyes that no amount of powder had been able to conceal.

“Your nightgown, your grace,” Elinda said, holding up a conservative cotton garment that fell nearly to the floor, with long sleeves and a high neckline.

“Why must I dress like a septa even in my own bedchamber?” Rhaenyra's noise wrinkled. “Look at this thing, it's what my great-grandmother probably wore to bed. I'm twenty-four years old, not eighty-four.”

“It's proper, your grace. The—”

“Proper,” Rhaenyra repeated bitterly, sinking onto the edge of the massive four-poster bed. “Do you know what I would like to do, Elinda? I would like to sleep completely naked. Feel the silk sheets against my skin without layers of cotton in the way.”

Elinda's cheeks flushed pink. “Your grace, I... perhaps we could find another piece of the same sort, yet somewhat more comfortable? There might—”

“No,” Rhaenyra rubbed her temples again, the headache that had been building all day was now pounding behind her eyes. “It's fine, Elinda. Everything is always fine.”

Rhaenyra stood and allowed Elinda to slip the offending nightgown over her head. It pooled around her feet like a tent, thoroughly unsexy, she was dressed like an old aunt from the Faith of the Seven.

When was the last time she had chosen what to wear? When was the last time she had done anything simply because she wanted to?

“I need a break, Elinda. I must vanish for a while, have a holiday of some sort.”

Elinda paused in her tidying, looking confused. “But your grace, you are already on a holiday. This entire tour it's meant to be a vacation from your duties in King's Landing.”

Oh yes, a holiday that was not a holiday. A vacation where she was more scheduled than at home. The itinerary being cutting ribbons, visiting places she did not desire, having lunch with merchants. Smile, wave, repeat. How was that different from being in the Red Keep?

She was so tired. Tired in her bones, tired in her soul.

“Elinda, I am in desperate need of release from these routines. Not another appointed rest between appointments.”

Elinda's brows furrowed, her hands stilling on the silk chemise she'd been folding. She was visibly struggling to comprehend what her princess could possibly need that wasn't already being provided.

Rhaenyra did not expect her to understand. How could she? Elinda would never be the one to bear the weight of the crown.

Rhaenyra moved to the window, pulling back the heavy drapes to look out at Oldtown's skyline. The harbor glittered in the moonlight, and she could see people moving about in the streets below, ordinary people going about their ordinary lives. A couple walked hand in hand along the waterfront. A group of young people laughing loudly enough that she could hear their joy even from her tower.

If this were the old days, the true days of House Targaryen, she would not be trapped behind these windows like a caged songbird. She would have a dragon of her own, hatched from an egg placed in her cradle as an infant, bonded to her very soul. She could be flying above the clouds right now, wind tearing through her hair, the world stretching vast and endless beneath her. Nobody could tell her no. The sky would be hers.

The Targaryens had once been conquerors, their dragons carrying them across seas and kingdoms alike, binding the realm in awe and fear. They had lost their dragons first slowly, then all at once, all of them extinguished as if the gods themselves had decreed it. Some said the magic had simply left the world. Others whispered that the Targaryens had grown too far from their Valyrian roots, that generations of marriage with other noble houses had diluted the dragonblood until it ran too thin to wake the ancient fire. Nevertheless, even without their winged beasts, the dragonlords had not lost their power entirely. Fire lived in their veins, and the people of Westeros had not forgotten to kneel before a Targaryen.

When Rhaenyra dreamed, she sometimes soared above clouds on wings that weren't her own. The blood of Old Valyria ran in her veins, dragon-hot, as it had been for generations past and those still to come.

“Do you ever wonder, Elinda, what it would feel like to simply leave? To go wherever you wished, whenever you wished, beholden to no one?”

Below, the couple had stopped waking, the woman laughing as the man spun her in a circle.

“I suppose I've never thought much about it, your grace. I've always known my place was here, serving you.”

Your place. Everyone had their place, their role to play. Including Rhaenyra, even though it seemed a burden to carry more often than not. Yet within that burden there smoldered a fire she could not put out, the same fire that had once set dragons soaring.

She wanted the throne itself. She wanted more than freedom. To be not merely daughter, not merely consort, but sovereign. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the first of her name. She would be the very first woman to rule the Seven Kingdoms, whether the men of the small council willed it or not, for the crown was her birthright.

And the same blood that made her heir also made her wild, restless, impossible to be fully contain.

The moonlight spilling across the room caught her eyes and set them alight. Rhaenyra studied the window more carefully, noting how it opened outward with ornate brass handles. The hotel was elegant but not fortress-like—this wasn't the Red Keep with its impossible walls and ever-present guards. Her suite was only on the third floor, and there was decorative stonework below the window, carved dragons and vines that could almost serve as a ladder if someone were desperate enough.

“Elinda,” she said slowly, “how many guards are posted outside my door tonight?”

“Two, your grace. There is also the security detail in the lobby, and—why do you ask?”

Rhaenyra traced the window latch with one finger, testing how easily it moved. “Just curious.”

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; nearly midnight. In a few hours, the guards would change shifts, and there would be that brief moment when their attention might be elsewhere.

A little escape never killed anyone, has it? Just one night beyond the endless rehearsals of duty. To taste freedom, if only for an hour, to walk among the living as one of them rather than the queen-to-be.

“Shall I braid your hair, your grace?”

“Leave it,” Rhaenyra said, running her fingers through the silver-gold waves. At least her hair could be free, even if nothing else about her could be.

A knock on the door filled the room. Elinda moved to answer it, and the royal physician entered.

“Your grace,” he said with a small bow. “Time for your evening medication.”

Rhaenyra did not move away from the window. “I do not want it tonight.”

“Your grace, the stress of so many public appearances—”

“I'm tired enough to sleep without being drugged into unconsciousness,” Rhaenyra said. “Please, one night. Let me just be a normal person and fall asleep naturally.”

“Your schedule tomorrow is demanding,” the physician remembered. “The children's hospital visit alone will require significant emotional reserves. You need to be at your absolute best.”

“But I'm not at my best!” The words burst out of her. “I haven't been at my best in months! I'm exhausted, I can barely think straight, and every day feels exactly like the last one! Maybe if I could sleep normally, dream normally, wake up naturally instead of being chemically reset like some sort of… of wind-up toy!”

She turned back to the window. By the corner of her eye, she could see Elinda and the physician exchanging the kind of looks adults gave each other when discussing a difficult child.

Rhaenyra let out a heavy sight. “I want to be left alone.”

The physician cleared his throat. “Your grace, I understand your concerns, truly I do. But the king was quite specific about your need for proper rest, as he feared you might become even more of a problem. Consider how disappointed he would be if you were unable to fulfill his wishes.”

Rhaenyra froze at the mention of her father. She had spent her entire life filling a void that should have been occupied by the son he'd always wanted. The son he'd lost. The son he'd never gotten.

Her father had been stuck with her instead, a daughter who would never be Baelon. So she had thrown herself into being better than any son could have been, willing to sacrifice every piece of herself on the altar of his approval.

And still, no matter how hard she tried, in his eyes she would always be ‘more of a problem’ for him to handle it.

Elinda moved closer. “It might be for the better, your grace. You've seemed quite agitated these past few weeks.”

The physician was already approaching with the needle, and Elinda was gently pulling her away from the tantalizing glimpse of freedom that the window offered.

Rhaenyra felt the walls closing in around her. Even at twenty four she still wasn't allowed to make decisions about her own body.

“This will help you sleep deeply, your grace,” the physician promised. “You'll wake refreshed and ready for tomorrow's duties.”

With no real choice, Rhaenyra sat heavily on the ornate bed, its silk coverlets as confining as everything else.

She felt the sharp prick of the needle, and she rubbed the spot on her arm where it had gone in. The medication would take a few minutes to work, she'd noticed that pattern over the weeks.

“There,” the physician said, packing away his supplies.

As he left, Elinda settled into the chair beside the bed with her embroidery, preparing for her nightly vigil.

“I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, your grace.”

Rhaenyra lay back against the pillows, forcing her breathing to become slower and deeper.

“Actually, Elinda, I'm feeling asleep already. You don't need to stay.”

“Are you sure, your grace? I always stay until—”

“Please,” Rhaenyra murmured, turning slightly away from Elinda and letting her voice grow thick. “I feel so... peaceful tonight.”

She let her eyelids fall and forced herself to lie still. Through barely cracked eyelids, she watched Elinda taking hesitating steps toward the door.

“Your grace?” Elinda whispered.

Finally, Rhaenyra heard the sound of the door closing, and her eyes snapped open as soon as the handmaiden left.

Moving as quietly as she could, she slipped out of the ridiculous nightgown and padded barefoot to the enormous wardrobe. Row upon row of formal gowns, ceremonial robes, and structured day dresses. All of them screaming ‘princess’ to anyone with eyes. But there, at the very back, she found a long blue skirt and a simple white blouse. It was the most ordinary piece of clotting she owned, a thing a shopkeeper's daughter might wear to the market.

Off came the ridiculous nightgown, and on went the plain clothes.

Her hair. Her silver-gold Targaryen hair would give her away instantly. So she grabbed a headscarf dotted with polka dots from the bottom of a trunk and wrapped it around her head, tucking every telltale strand out of sight.

She slipped her feet into a pair of simple black flats, still with a modest little heel, yet far from the towering heights she was used to.

In the mirror, a different woman looked back at her. Not Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, but just someone. Anyone.

The window opened more easily than she'd dared hope. The night air was cool against her face as she climbed out onto the narrow ledge, her feet finding purchase on the carved stonework. Hand over hand, foot by foot, she descended the ornate facade of the hotel.

When she landed on the cobblestones, Rhaenyra stayed in the shadows, trying to steady her breath and think through the medication's growing fog.

That's when she heard it: the rumble of wheels and the soft lowing of cattle. A supply wagon was making its way toward the hotel's service entrance, delivering fresh meat and vegetables for tomorrow's meals.

Without allowing herself to think about the madness of what she was doing, Rhaenyra crept closer. The wagon paused at the service gate while the driver spoke to the guard. In that moment, she slipped under the canvas covering and nestled herself between sacks of grain and crates of vegetables.

The cart bumped and swayed over the cobblestones, carrying her deeper into the city, farther from the luxury of her suite.

She had done it. She was outside. Alone. For the first time, no one knew where Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen was.

—

“Hightower!”

The annoying voice of Alicent’s editor, Larys Strong, disturbed the quiet clacking of typewriter keys.

Alicent sighed. At this hour, a summons from Larys rarely meant good news. She looked up to see him approaching her desk.

Alicent was intelligent enough to know what this was about without him uttering a single word. He dropped a folder of press releases onto her cluttered desk, and said what she already suspected:

“I need you to cover the Princess Rhaenyra's visit. I want a full feature: what she means to the common people of Oldtown, what she eats for breakfast, her thoughts on marriage, her favorite color.”

“I thought Talya was covering this one,” Alicent said, already knowing it was a futile attempt. “She usually handles all the royal visits.”

Larys raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that knowing smirk she'd grown to despise.

“Talya had to leave for Dorne this morning, there was an emergency with the Martell trade negotiations.”

Alicent had known about Talya's assignment to Dorne, the newsroom gossip traveled faster than wildfire. She'd just been hoping that someone else might step up.

“The Princess arrived early this morning,” Larys continued. “Which means you're already behind schedule. Tomorrow, you need to shadow her entire itinerary. I need you to get that interview set up.”

Alicent looked at the photographs in black in white. Princess Rhaenyra smiled back at her from every image, perfectly coiffed, perfectly dressed, and also perfectly manufactured.

“Everyone writes about her, Mr. Strong. Every columnist from here to Essos. What could I possibly write that hasn't been written a thousand times already?”

“Something that sells papers,” Larys replied bluntly. “I know you think you're above this kind of reporting—”

“It's not about being above it,” Alicent interrupted, pushing the folder back toward him. “It's about having something worthwhile to say. 'Princess Rhaenyra smiled and waved at crowds today', how is that journalism? How does that help anyone?”

Larys leaned against her desk. “It helps keep this newspaper running and your paycheck coming. You want to write hard-hitting exposés about city corruption and social inequality? Great. But first you need to prove you can write stories people actually want to read.”

Alicent thought about her tiny shared apartment with Criston, they landlord had already given them one extension on the rent.

She couldn't afford to be principled. Not when her last ‘important’ story about housing conditions had been buried on page six below an advertisement for ladies' corsets.

Larys was right. Princess Rhaenyra stories sold papers. An exclusive with the Princess would sell even more. And Alicent needed this job, needed the money that came with bylines people actually read.

“Fine,” she said, pulling the folder back toward her. “But how exactly am I supposed to get close enough to the princess to write anything more substantial than what we'll get from the official press releases? It's not like I can just knock on her hotel room door.”

Larys smiled, and Alicent immediately regretted asking.

“That's your problem to solve, isn't it? Maybe charm your way past security, find a maid who'll talk, hang around the places she's supposed to visit tomorrow. Use that pretty face and sweet smile of yours.”

Alicent's jaw tightened at the casual sexism, but she bit back her response. She needed this job, even if it meant swallowing her principles along with her pride.

Larys was already turning away. “And Hightower? Make it good. Make it the kind of story that makes people feel like they know her. Like they've spent the day with Princess Rhaenyra themselves.”

—

When the cart finally stopped and Rhaenyra heard the driver climbing down, muttering about needing to ‘find the privy before I piss myself,’ Rhaenyra slipped out from under the tarp.

Brine and salt swirled in the night air. Saltwater stung at the back of Rhaenyra's throat, that intertwined with the oily perfume of fish freshly hauled from the hold.

She was surrounded by the masts of ships and the yellow light spilling from the building’s windows. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, different from the refined chamber music of court, that made her feet want to move.

A pair of young people rumbled past on a motorcycle. The girl riding behind the driver caught sight of Rhaenyra, her long hair streaming behind her like a banner. Rhaenyra waved cheerfully, a genuine smile spreading across her face, so different from the waves and smiles she usually gave to a full crowd.

The couple returned the gesture with a grin, and then they were gone, swallowed by the shadows and the glow of the next lamppost.

The streetlights cast warm pools of golden light, bouncing off the stones and glinting on the water in the harbor.

She'd made it perhaps twenty steps from the cart when her legs began to wobble. The music from the nearby bar seemed to be coming from underwater now, distant and warped. Her vision blurred at the edges, and she realized that the physician's injection was winning the battle she'd been fighting since leaving her room.

A wooden bench sat beneath a flickering street lamp, probably meant for fishermen waiting for the morning boats. Rhaenyra collapsed onto it, her body too heavy to hold upright any longer. Her head lolled back against the rough wood, and she could feel her mouth going slack.

So close. She was so close to freedom she could taste it in the salt air, could hear it in the laughter spilling from the windows. But her eyes kept sliding shut despite her desperate attempts to force them open.

Fight it, she told herself desperately. You're free. You're finally free. Don't waste it sleeping like a drugged prisoner.

Her body, however, had other plans.

—

The newsroom of The Oldtown Herald had emptied considerably. Alicent was still hunched over her typewriter, surrounded by crumpled papers and cold coffee, when Criston Cole appeared at her desk with his camera bag slung over his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, jangling his keys. “Orwyle and the others are meeting at The Sailor's Rest. You look like you could use a drink.”

Alicent didn't look up from the blank page in front of her. “Can't. I'm working.”

“Working on what? You've been staring at that same empty page for twenty minutes.”

“Princess Rhaenyra,” she said with obvious distaste. “Larys wants an exclusive interest piece.”

Criston whistled low. “Good luck getting within fifty feet of her. Her security detail looks like they could bench press a horse.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Alicent muttered. “Go on without me. I need to do some research.”

After Criston left, Alicent pulled out every back issue of society magazines and royal coverage she could find in the newspaper's morgue. She spread them across her desk like a detective working a case. The coverage was as tedious as she'd expected. Princess Rhaenyra at charity galas, Princess Rhaenyra cutting ribbons, Princess Rhaenyra in an endless parade of designer gowns.

The basic facts were straightforward enough: twenty-four years old, heir to the Iron Throne, educated at the finest institutions in Westeros and beyond. But the more personal details were scattered and often contradictory depending on the publication.

The princess apparently enjoyed reading history and poetry, spoke three languages fluently, and had strong opinions about educational reform. She was patron of several charities focused on orphaned children and had once publicly criticized the Faith Militant's treatment of women. Progressive views for royalty, though always couched in diplomatic language.

Still unmarried despite numerous suitors, read one headline from six months ago. The article quoted the princess as saying she had ‘no immediate plans for marriage’ and wanted to ‘focus on serving the realm’ first. Another piece from a society magazine claimed she'd turned down proposals from no fewer than seven eligible lords, including a Lannister and two Tyrells.

Her favorite colors were consistently reported as black and red, hardly surprising for a Targaryen. Favorite foods seemed to vary by interview: one article claimed she loved lemon cakes, another insisted she preferred red wine and meat pies, a third suggested she was practically herbivore.

Alicent rubbed her temples as she waded through the contradictions. Half of these ‘exclusive insights’ were probably made up by journalists desperate for content, just like she was now.

Alicent leaned back in her chair. She'd never particularly cared about the royal family or the politics of the realm, it all seemed so distant from her own concerns about rent and deadlines and whether she'd ever make it as a serious journalist. But now, staring at all these glossy photos of the princess, she found herself genuinely curious.

They called the princess ‘the Realm's Delight,’ and it wasn't hard to see why. Even in these staged photographs, there was something magnetic about her. She had that rare quality that made you want to keep looking, to try and figure out what was going on behind those eyes.

No doubt about it, everyone loved seeing a beautiful woman on the front page of a newspaper. Including Alicent.

To anyone, Rhaenyra looked every inch the princess fairy tales were made of.

And that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? All anyone ever saw was the surface; the perfect smile, the designer gowns, the gracious waves to adoring crowds. What did Princess Rhaenyra actually think about when the cameras weren't rolling? Did she ever get tired of being the realm's beautiful, perfect darling?

The more Alicent read, the more frustrated she became. It was all so superficial. Favorite colors and foods; what did any of that really tell you about a person? Nothing about what Princess Rhaenyra thought about when she was alone, what made her genuinely happy or sad, whether she ever felt trapped by her title.

Alicent finally pushed back from her desk at one in the morning. She gathered up the scattered articles about Princess Rhaenyra and shoved them into her satchel, she could continue reading at home if sleep refused to come.

The building was quiet as she made her way through the empty hallways, where the security guard nodded at her without looking up from his crossword puzzle. She'd done this routine so many times she could navigate to the exit in complete darkness.

First one in, last one out—that had been her pattern since she joined the office.

The street outside was nearly deserted, only a few late-night revelers stumbling home from the pubs and the occasional taxi cutting through the narrow cobblestone roads. The city was beautiful at night, all shadows and lamplight painting the old buildings in shades of gold and amber.

Alicent pulled her suit jacket tighter against the cool air as she began the fifteen-minute walk to her apartment. The route took her through some of the older parts of the city, along the harbor where fishing boats bobbed in the moonlight.

She was mentally thinking about her approach for tomorrow's assignment when she spotted the figure on the bench.

At first glance, it looked like just another unfortunate soul who'd had too much to drink, not an uncommon sight in this part of town. The woman was curled up on one of the wooden benches that lined the small park near Alicent's apartment building, her body positioned at an awkward angle that suggested she'd passed out from drinking.

As Alicent drew closer, she could make out more details. The woman appeared young, around Alicent's own age, with pale skin and a headscarf hiding her hair. She was dressed simply; a blue skirt and white blouse.

Alicent's first instinct was to keep walking. She'd lived in the city long enough to know that getting involved with strangers, especially intoxicated ones, was usually more trouble than it was worth.

But something about the woman's posture struck her as vulnerable rather than threatening. The woman looked too clean, too well-cared-for to be a typical street drunk. And she was alone, vulnerable, in a part of town that wasn't always safe after midnight.

“Miss?” Alicent called, approaching cautiously. “Are you alright?”

No response. The woman didn't stir at all, even when Alicent's footsteps grew louder on the cobblestones.

Up close, Alicent could see that despite her disheveled state and plain clothes, the stranger had a skin that looked like it had never seen a day of hard labor.

Probably some lord's daughter who'd had drink more than she should and gotten separated from her friends, Alicent decided. She would wake up tomorrow with a splitting headache and a story she'd never tell her parents.

“Excuse me,” Alicent tried again, gently touching the woman's shoulder. “You can't sleep here. It's not safe.”

“Mmm, yes, right,” the woman murmured, eyes closed. “First the children's hospital at nine, then lunch with the merchant guilds and after that…” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What comes after lunch? Elinda usually reminds me.”

The woman eyelids fluttered open to reveal the most striking blue eyes Alicent had ever seen.

“Oh,” the stranger murmured, still lying prone on the bench. “How absolutely enchanted I am to make your acquaintance.”

Alicent was taken aback by the woman's oddly courteous manner of speech. Most people who passed out drunk on park benches didn't sound like they were addressing a formal dinner party.

The woman extended one pale hand toward Alicent in a gesture that was unmistakably regal, as if expecting it to be kissed rather than shaken. She was clearly out of her mind on something.

Alicent stared at the offered hand in bewilderment. After a moment's hesitation, she gently took the woman's hand and shook it.

“I'm Alicent,” she said carefully. “And you are…?”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Alicent,” the woman replied. “You have such lovely hands. Quite lovely indeed. I do hope we shall be great friends.”

“Miss,” Alicent said gently, “I think you need to get somewhere safe. Do you have family nearby? Someone I can call?”

The woman's expression grew wistful. “Family,” she repeated. “Yes, I suppose they'll be looking for me soon. They always are, you know. Watching, scheduling, planning. But not tonight. Tonight I'm—”

“Look, you can't stay here,” Alicent said. “It's cold, and it's not safe. Where do you live?”

“I live...” she began slowly, as if the words were swimming up from some great depth, “in the Red Keep.”

“The Red Keep? You mean the royal castle? In King's Landing?”

“Yes,” the woman said with dreamy certainty. “Red Keep. My chambers overlook the Blackwater Bay, and there are tapestries of dragons on the walls.”

Alicent sighed heavily. The girl wasn't only drugged, she was also completely delusional.

Alicent gently guided the woman by the elbow. “Come on, sit down.”

The stranger obeyed lazily, slumping against Alicent, as if the chair and Alicent’s presence were one and the same. Her eyelids drooped, and she rested her head against Alicent’s arm, letting out a contented sigh.

“You… you smell good,” she murmured.

Alicent’s lips pressed together, a faint flush creeping up her neck as she tried to stay calm and collected.

“Hey, stay awake. I need you to focus for a minute,” Alicent patted the side of the woman’s face lightly to rouse her to fuller consciousness. “The Red Keep is hundreds of miles from here. Where do you actually live?”

The woman giggled as Alicent patted her cheek. “Red Keep,” she insisted again.

“Seven hells,” Alicent muttered under her breath. She shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be getting involved with some drugged stranger who thought she lived in a royal castle. She had her own problems, her own deadlines, her own barely-manageable life to worry about.

Yet, looking at this vulnerable young woman completely helpless in her current state, Alicent couldn't bring herself to walk away and leave her on a bench where anything could happen to her.

The smart thing would be to find a constable, or call for medical help. Let someone else deal with whatever family drama or personal crisis had led the woman to this situation.

Alicent looked around the empty street, weighing her options. The local constabulary would throw her in a cell to sleep it off, assuming they bothered to respond to a call about a drunk woman at all.

In the end, Alicent made a decision she was almost certainly she was going to regret.

“Alright, your grace,” Alicent said with more than a little sarcasm, “looks like you're coming home with me. At least until you sober up enough to remember where you actually live.”

Getting the woman to her feet proved to be a challenge. She was cooperative but unsteady, swaying dangerously and requiring Alicent to wrap an arm around her waist to keep her upright.

“You're very kind,” the woman murmured as they began the slow journey toward Alicent's apartment building. “I don't believe anyone has ever...people don't usually...” She seemed to lose track of her thought, leaning more heavily against Alicent's shoulder.

“Don't mention it,” Alicent said dryly, already wondering how she was going to explain this to Criston when he inevitably come home to find a strange woman on their couch.

The three-flight climb to her apartment was an adventure in itself. The woman, who still hadn't provided a real name, kept stopping to admire architectural details that most people wouldn't notice, commenting dreamily about ‘the craftsmanship of the stonework’ and ‘how refreshingly ordinary’ everything was.

“Glad my poverty meets with your approval,” Alicent muttered. She saves one delusional rich girl from getting mugged, and now said rich girl was touring her apartment like it was some museum.

“It does very much!” the woman exclaimed.

By the time Alicent managed to get her key in the lock and maneuver them both inside, she was beginning to seriously question her life choices. Whatever this girl's story was, she was far from home and completely out of her depth.

“Is this the staff quarters?” she asked, stepping inside and immediately swayed on her feet.

“Staff quarters? No, this is my apartment.”

“Oh how lovely, might I sleep here tonight?”

“That was the idea,” Alicent said, closing the door behind them and turning the deadbolt. “Unless you've suddenly remembered where you actually live?”

The woman was quiet for a moment, then asked with startling directness, “May I sleep without clothes?”

Alicent raised an eyebrow. “You sure may, but you should reconsider. My flatmate Criston will probably be stumbling in drunk sometime before dawn, and I can't guarantee he won't see you.”

“Criston?” the woman's head tilted with interest. “Is he your betrothed?”

“My what? Gods, no. He's a friend.”

“Where is this gentleman now?”

“At the pub getting properly drunk on a Friday night,” Alicent glanced toward the window. “Well, Saturday morning now, technically.”

“I see. Then perhaps I should remain clothed.”

“Wise choice.”

Alicent disappeared into her bedroom and returned with a set of simple cotton pajamas, soft yellow with tiny white flowers. “You can change into these, they should fit you well enough.”

To her surprise, the woman's entire face transformed with excitement, as if Alicent had offered her golden jewels.

“They're beautiful,” she breathed, and Alicent couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or genuinely meant it.

“They're only pajamas.”

The woman's eyes suddenly focused on Alicent, scanning her from head to toe. “You're wearing a suit.”

“Yes, I am,” Alicent replied, wondering where this was going.

“A proper suit. Tailored trousers, fitted jacket…”

The woman moved closer, studying the cut of Alicent's blazer.

“I've never seen a woman wearing a suit before. Are you...” she paused, her drug-addled mind struggling. “Are you perhaps a man in disguise?”

Alicent could not help but laugh. “No, I'm definitely a woman. I just prefer trousers to skirts for work. They're more practical.”

“Oh.”

Then, the woman lift her chin with an oddly regal bearing despite her disheveled state. “Would you be so kind as to help me undress?”

“I... what?”

“My blouse and skirt,” the woman clarified. “If you would be so obliging?”

Against her better judgment, Alicent stepped forward and undid the top button of the white blouse, then immediately stepped back.

“There. You can manage the rest in the bathroom, it is just there,” Alicent pointed to a door barely wider than a closet. “There are clean towels on the shelf if you want to wash up.”

The woman nodded graciously, and Alicent made a beeline for the kitchen and poured herself a generous glass of the cheap wine she kept for emergencies. She was far too sober for whatever this night was turning into.

She'd barely taken a sip when her guest reappeared behind her, still only having undone that single button.

“Might I have some wine as well?” she asked hopefully.

“Absolutely not,” Alicent said, moving the bottle out of reach. “Now go to the bathroom and actually undress this time. All the way. Put on the pajamas. It's not complicated.”

The woman crossed her arms. “Most people don't speak to me like that.”

Alicent rolled her eyes. Who this woman think she was?

“Most people probably aren't harboring strange women in their apartments at the middle of the night,” she shot back, taking another sip of her drink.

“Are you absolutely certain I can't have just a tiny bit of wine?” the woman asked, stepping closer and battling her eyelashes.

Clearly Alicent’s mysterious guest was used to getting her way through sheer beauty alone.

Alicent couldn't help but notice, irritatingly, that even disheveled and clearly not firing on all cylinders, the woman was absolutely stunning. Those blue eyes were perhaps the most beautiful thing Alicent had ever seen, like looking into clear ocean water. And the stranger knew it too. Women who looked like that always did.

“I'm sure you're used to batting those pretty eyes and having people fall all over themselves to accommodate you,” Alicent said, “but that's not happening here. Go to the bathroom now before I change my mind about letting you stay.”

A slow smile curved Rhaenyra's lips as she executed a bow. “As you wish, Miss Alicent.”

After a moment, she actually turned and walked toward the bathroom.

Alicent finished her glass of wine and retreated to her bedroom to change into her own nightclothes. She was exhausted, and tomorrow she still had to figure out how to approach Princess Rhaenyra for that impossible interview Larys wanted.

When she'd left the office tonight, the most exciting thing on her agenda had been leftover takeaway and maybe reading a few more royal boring pieces before bed. Now she had a mysterious, possibly delusional woman getting comfortable in her bathroom.

Alicent was just pulling a spare pillow from her closet when she heard a voice behind her.

“This bed is quite comfortable,” came the drowsy observation. “Not very spacious, but the mattress is soft. I shall sleep very well here.”

Alicent turned around to find her guest sitting on her bed, now dressed in the yellow pajamas. They were a bit large on her body, the sleeves hanging past her wrists and the pants pooling around her bare feet, but she didn't seem to mind. With her hair loose now, cascading in waves down to her waist, the woman looked even more ethereal than before. The color was so distinctive, a particular shade of silver-gold that Alicent had only ever seen in tapestries and portraits of the members of House Targar—

Oh, seven hells. This woman might very well be connected to the royal family.

Golden possibilities began dancing through Alicent’s mind. If she was harboring someone from the Targaryen line, surely there would be a reward for her kindness? A generous purse of gold coins would certainly improve her circumstances. Perhaps even a position at the most prestigious newspaper of Westeros, or at the very least, enough money to move to a better part of the city.

“Your hair,” Alicent commented. “That color is rather unusual. Is it natural?”

“Oh, this?” Her guest touched the pale strands absently. “It's dyed.”

Alicent's dreams of golden rewards crumbled like sand castles at high tide. There went her visions of rivers of money filling her pockets.

“Right, so, that's my bed,” Alicent said. “You're sleeping on the couch, remember?”

The woman looked confused by this distinction. “Surely there's room for both of us? I don't take up much space.”

“No. Couch. You. Me. Bed. Separate sleeping arrangements for complete strangers.”

Alicent went to the linen closet to fetch an extra blanket for the couch. She spent a few minutes arranging the pull-out bed, fluffing the cushions and making sure everything was as comfortable as possible for her unexpected guest.

“Alright,” she called toward her bedroom, “your bed is ready. It's actually very—”

She stopped in the doorway, staring at the sight before her. The woman was fast asleep in Alicent's bed, curled up with her hair spread across the pillow, face relaxed in sleep.

The stranger looked so peaceful, and after the obvious distress she'd been in when Alicent found her, it seemed cruel to disturb her rest.

With a resigned sigh, Alicent headed back to the couch. The cushions were lumpy in all the wrong places, and she could already tell her back would be complaining in the morning.

Alicent thought of the unknown woman lying in her bed like a lost kitten curled up on her quilt.

At least someone would have a good night’s sleep.

—

Alicent woke to the smell of coffee. Sunlight was streaming through the small windows, and she could hear the sounds of the Saturday morning market setting up in the street below.

“Morning,” Criston called from the kitchen.

She groaned as she sat up, her neck stiff from the awkward angle she'd been sleeping at, and squinted toward the kitchen where she could hear the radio playing.

“What time is it?” she mumbled, trying to work out a crick in her neck.

“Nearly eleven,” Criston said, settling into the armchair. He was already dressed and looked far too alert for someone who'd supposedly been out drinking until closing time. “Why are you sleeping on the couch? Rough night at the office?”

“You could say that,” Alicent ran her hands through her hair. “Actually, we have a... situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“I brought a woman home last night.”

“Ah, I see. Should I make myself scarce, or—?”

“It's not like that,” Alicent explained quickly. “I found her passed out on a bench near here. She was drugged or drunk or something, claiming she lived in the Red Keep of all places. I couldn't just leave her there.”

“So you brought a strange, intoxicated woman back to our apartment? Please tell me you at least checked she wasn't carrying a knife or anything.”

“She's harmless,” Alicent insisted, though she realized she actually had no evidence to support that claim. “I need to get ready for work.”

“Work? Alicent, it's Saturday!”

“So? I always work on Saturdays. Besides, I have that Princess Rhaenyra story to write, remember?”

“Right, the princess exclusive thing. I forgot.”

“Can you just... keep an ear out? Make sure our stranger guest doesn't steal anything?”

“Fine,” Criston sighed. “What's her name?”

“I have no idea. She never—”

“Hold on,” Criston interrupted, standing up from his chair. “You brought home a complete stranger and you don't even know her name? How does that conversation even happen? ‘Hello, unconscious woman, would you like to come sleep in my bed? Oh, don't worry about introductions!’”

“She was really out of it, and I was tired. It just never came up naturally.”

“Naturally? Alicent, asking someone's name is literally the first thing humans do when they meet!”

“Okay, okay, you're right. We’ll figure out her name when she wakes up.” She stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back. “Right now I need to shower and get to the office before Larys starts calling.”

Alicent padded to her bedroom, pushing the door open to slip inside. Her mysterious guest was still fast asleep in the exactly same position she'd been in when Alicent had retreated to the couch around two in the morning.

Alicent grabbed her work clothes from the closet as quietly as possible and went to the bathroom. The shower washed away the stiffness from a night on the lumpy couch.

After that, she went to the small table where she'd left her notebook and research materials from the night before. She had work to do.

“Any signs of life?” she asked Criston, nodding toward the bedroom.

“Not a peep. Whatever she took last night, it's keeping her well under.”

As Alicent opened her notebook, the radio in the kitchen continued its morning news program, the announcer's voice a steady backdrop to her thoughts.

“In other news, there has been an unexpected development in Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen's visit to Oldtown,” the male voice informed. “The princess has taken ill with a sudden fever that developed during the night, forcing the cancellation of all today's scheduled engagements.”

Great. A fever. As if Alicent’s chances of getting anywhere near Princess Rhaenyra couldn't get any worse.

She stared at her notebook full of useless research. She had only a few days to get an exclusive story about the princess, and now the woman was locked away in her hotel suit feeling sick. Any hope of finding a fresh angle or getting close enough for anything resembling real journalism was gone.

“This includes her highly anticipated visit to the Oldtown Children's Hospital and her lunch with the merchant guild, along with the other plans she had for the rest of the day.”

Alicent frowned. The woman on her bench last night, drugged and disoriented, mumbling about children's hospital visits and merchant guild lunches.

“Princess Rhaenyra's private secretary released a statement early this morning expressing regret for any inconvenience caused by these last-minute cancellations,” the radio continued. “Royal physicians are attending to her grace, though palace sources suggest she may have had an adverse reaction to prescribed sleeping medication.”

The notebook slipped from Alicent's suddenly nerveless fingers.

She grabbed the newspaper clipping from yesterday's coverage and stared at the photograph of Princess Rhaenyra at the charity gala. The image was in black in white, yet, her elegant manner, the shape of her nose and eyes; were very similar to the woman currently asleep in her bed.

The pieces were clicking together. The woman who'd asked her to help undress her as if it were natural to have servants. Who'd been delighted by simple cotton pajamas as if she'd never owned anything so ordinary. Who'd claimed, repeatedly and with conviction, that she lived in the Red Keep. Her groggy state, suggesting that she was under the influence of something…

The radio droned on about the ‘mysterious illness’ and the ‘concern for her grace's wellbeing,’ while Alicent stared at her bedroom door. If that was really Princess Rhaenyra sleeping in her bed, then Alicent had unknowingly stumbled into exactly what she needed; an exclusive access to the royalty.

“Criston.”

“Yeah?” he called back from the kitchen, distracted.

“I think... I think I have Princess Rhaenyra in my bed.”

She heard the laughter creeping into his throat.

“I'm serious,” Alicent insisted, standing up with the newspaper photograph clutched in her hand. “The woman from last night, I think she's actually Princess Rhaenyra.”

Criston appeared in front of her. “Alicent, I think you need to lay off the wine before noon. Or maybe you hit your head when you fell asleep on that couch.”

“I'm not drunk, and I didn't hit my head,” Alicent said firmly. “The timeline matches.”

“The timeline of what? The princess is in her hotel suite with a fever. The radio just said so.”

Alicent grabbed his arm. Criston allowed himself to be dragged toward the bedroom.

“This ought to be good. What's your theory? That Princess Rhaenyra decided to go slumming in Oldtown and ended up passed out on a—”

He stopped talking as Alicent slowly opened the bedroom door.

The woman was sleeping, the morning light streaming through the window caught the silver-gold of her hair, which had dried in soft waves around the covers.

Alicent held up the front page photo next to the sleeping woman's face, and Criston's smiled died completely.

“Gods be damned,” he whispered.

It was harder to recognize her at first without the jewels, the formal gowns, the arranged hair and makeup that appeared in every photograph. But looking at her face more closely, i was unmistakable that she was, indeed, Princess Rhaenyra.

“That's...” Criston whispered, looking at the newspaper photograph Alicent was still holding. “That's actually her! That's actually Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen! In your bed, wearing your pajamas!”

“I know.”

“How did you not recognize her last night?”

“It was dark, she was drugged out of her mind, and she was dressed like a peasant,” Alicent hissed. “Besides, what was I supposed to think? That the princess was wandering around Oldtown alone at two in the morning?”

They both stared at the sleeping woman for a long moment until they backed out of the bedroom slowly, closing the door. Neither of them spoke until they were safely in the kitchen, and even then Alicent was still whispering.

“We need to call someone,” Criston said, running his hands through his hair. “The constabulary, the hotel security, someone. They must be looking for her.”

“Wait,” Alicent grabbed his arm as he reached for the telephone. “Just... wait a minute. Let me think.”

“Think about what? Alicent, this is the heir to the Iron Throne. We can't just—”

“This is my chance,” Alicent interrupted. “Don't you see? This is the interview I could never get. The real Princess Rhaenyra with no prepared statements, no security detail keeping journalists fifty feet away.”

Criston stared at her in disbelief. “You want to interview her while half the royal guard is probably tearing Oldtown apart looking for her? They will think you kidnapped her!”

“I'm not kidnapping anyone. If she wants to leave, she leaves. Though if she's willing to talk—”

“And what makes you think she'll want to talk to you? She's royalty. You're nobody. No offense.”

“None taken, because you're right. I am nobody. But I'm also the nobody who found her passed out on a park bench and brought her somewhere safe instead of calling the authorities or selling the story to the highest bidder.” Alicent began pacing the small kitchen. “Maybe she'll appreciate that.”

Criston shook his head. “If you come at her like a journalist, she’ll clam up.”

“You’re right,” Alicent stopped at her pacing. “I’ll have to play it differently.”

“No, that’s not—”

“I need to be… normal. Friendly. Someone she can trust,” Alicent said, almost to herself. “Make her feel safe, get her talking.”

“Even if she does trust you enough to talk to you, who's going to believe it? You think Larys is going to print an interview with Princess Rhaenyra with no real proof?”

“That's where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Pictures,” Alicent said simply. “Your camera. Proof that it actually happened.”

Criston took a step back. “Oh no. No, no, no. I'm not taking unauthorized photographs of the heir to the Iron Throne. That's probably treason or something.”

“Look, I'm not talking about compromising photos or anything invasive. Only evidences that I actually spoke to her.”

Criston went quiet, and Alicent could see him wavering. She pressed her advantage.

“This could change everything for us, Criston. Both of us. A real exclusive about Princess Rhaenyra? That's front page news everywhere. Book deals, job offers at major publications, actual recognition for our work instead of scraping by on local crime reports.”

Criston let out a long sigh before nodding. “Alright, I’m in.”

Alicent’s shoulders relaxed. It was better to have her friend in favor of her scheming than against it.

“I do believe I require some breakfast,” came the sudden announcement through Alicent’s bedroom. “And someone may please tell me why my chambers look so different this morning?”

“Your move,” Criston whispered. “Go attend to your grace's breakfast needs.”

Chapter Text

The ceiling was wrong. Plain, unadorned, white, with only a few dark damp stains creeping into the corners. No golden frescoes, no paintings of dragons or scenes of the Conquest.

Rhaenyra's stomach grumbled, reminding her of the hours since her last meal. Eyes half-closed, she let them drift over the pale ceiling as her lips moved, forming words that she wasn't certain if anyone could hear her.

Still drowsy, she turned her head upon the pillow. The bed was also wrong. It was narrower than she was used to, the mattress hard beneath her back. Sunlight poured through a bare window with no velvet canopy to shut it away.

Where in the Seven Hells was she?

Fragments of memory drifted through her consciousness. A window. The cold night wind. Her feet walking through the streets of Oldtown at night. And then, a woman in a suit who smelled of moonbloom flower.

It had been a dream, only her mind could conjure such things.

Rhaenyra shifted in the bed once more and became aware of a presence near the bedside. Broad shoulders beneath a gray suit, with curly hair reminiscent of one of her guards.

“Harwin?” she mumbled.

The figure moved, and the morning light fell across the stranger’s face. It was definitely a woman, despite the suit. Brown hair cascading in soft waves down to her shoulders, face with delicate though firm features. And round brown eyes, a dense amber like wild honey, shining with the same melancholy of a wounded doe, yet with a spark of alertness, ready either to flee or to face her fate.

“Good morning,” the woman said, hovering uncertainly in the bedroom.

The plain ceiling above Rhaenyra was real. The narrow bed was real. The woman standing in front of her was very, very real.

Which meant...

Rhaenyra sat up abruptly, her heart beginning to race as reality crashed down upon her. Her long silver hair fell forward in a tangled mess, catching on her shoulders and the fabric of whatever she was wearing. She grimaced, reaching up to touch the disheveled strands. Gods, it was everywhere. Knotted and wild, no doubt looking like a bird's nest after a storm.

This was precisely why she needed three handmaidens to manage it properly every morning. Left to its own devices, her hair became an absolute disaster. She tried to finger-comb through a particularly stubborn tangle near her temple and winced. This would take forever to fix.

Rhaenyra stared at the woman in front of her, mind scrambling to make sense of the situation, her thoughts were moving slowly, like walking in a heavy storm.

“I...Forgive me, but where is Elinda?”

It was the first coherent thing Rhaenyra could think to say. Elinda would know what to do. Elinda always knew what to do.

The woman looked confused. “Whom?”

“Elinda,” Rhaenyra repeated, glancing around the bedroom as if her handmaiden might materialize from behind the simple wooden dresser or emerge from the corner.

“Sorry, I have no idea who that is.”

Rhaenyra's stomach dropped. She glanced around the bedroom again. Perhaps she'd had some kind of episode last night and been taken to a hospital—a cheap one, given the accommodations.

“Has there been some sort of accident?” Rhaenyra asked, her mind grasping for explanations.

“No, nothing of the sort,” the woman assured her. “You don't remember last night?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, and as she did, her tangled silver hair fell forward like curtains, covering her eyes and half her face. She had to reach up with both hands to hold it away from her face.

“I don't... I mean, I remember—”

As Rhaenyra held her hair back, her eyes fell on the sleeves covering her arms. Long sleeves decorated with adorable little flowers scattered across the material like a spring meadow on a baby blue background.

The bewilderment was so strong that it made her lower her hands and look at the rest of her body. With a hesitant movement, she pulled the blanket aside. What she saw made her release a small gasp. Trousers. She was wearing trousers in an equally soft material that covered her all the way down to her ankles. She had never worn anything like this. Nightgowns, yes. Silks and satins, certainly. But pants? Not once in her entire life.

Rhaenyra looked back up at the woman. “These are yours, I presume?”

“Yes, they are,” the stranger confirmed, sounding apologetic, as if she thought Rhaenyra might be offended by the sleepwear.

But Rhaenyra was far from offended. She looked back down at the trousers, at the charming flowers that covered every inch of the fabric that allowed her legs to move independently. A smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth.

“Do you remember how you got here?” the woman questioned, drawing Rhaenyra's attention back to the present situation.

“I remember feeling trapped. There was a window, and...”

Rhaenyra's smile faltered. She did remember bits and pieces, but should she admit to any of that?

Her earlier delight about the trousers faded as caution crept in. This woman seemed kind enough, but who was she really? For all Rhaenyra knew, she could be anyone. An enemy of the crown. One of Daemon’s loyalists, sent to clear the way for him to take her place. The woman could have found her vulnerable and brought her here for gods knew what purpose.

Rhaenyra's hand instinctively went to her throat, checking for signs of injury, evidence of foul play. She found nothing but smooth skin and the collar of the borrowed pajama top.

“Did you bring me here by force?” Rhaenyra leaned in, her body coiled to strike if she had to.

“No, nothing like that,” the woman said quickly, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “I found you on a bench near here last night. You were almost unconscious, and it wasn't safe to leave you there alone.”

The woman seemed honestly concerned, almost worried that Rhaenyra might think poorly of her.

“Uh, yes, I think I remember that,” Rhaenyra said. The memory was fuzzy, but she could recall the feeling of someone helping her, of being guided somewhere warm. “Where exactly am I?”

“You're in Oldtown, in my apartment. In the harbor district.”

A stranger's bed. A stranger's clothes. Rhaenyra's mind began to piece together possibilities.

She and this woman might had... well. Rhaenyra could hazard a guess at what conclusion most would draw. Those sorts of things happened; women with women. Her cousin Laenor, for instance, preferred company of other man.

Rhaenyra's eyes traveled over the stranger's face, she certainly looked like someone who might be... what was the word people whispered? Quean? No, that wasn't right. Queer? Yes, that was it.

Not that it mattered to Rhaenyra in the slightest. Her father's court whispered about such matters as though they were scandals, but she had never understood why it should matter whom one chose to take to bed, so long as all parties were willing.

Still, if that was what had happened between them, surely Rhaenyra would remember, wouldn't she?

The woman shifted under Rhaenyra's scrutiny.

“Did we...” Rhaenyra motioned between them. “That is, did you and I spend the night together?”

The woman's eyes went wide, and a deep blush spread across her face, making her freckles stand out. “In a way, yes. You were in my bed, and I slept on the couch. But nothing happened, if that's what you're asking.”

Rhaenyra wasn't sure if she felt relieved or disappointed. She'd never been with a woman before. Had never even considered it, really, though now that the possibility had presented itself, she wondered why she hadn't.

A smile spread across Rhaenyra's face as the absurdity of her situation sank in. What an adventure this was turning out to be. The other royal guards must be tearing Oldtown apart looking for her by now.

The thought only made her smile widen.

“I don't believe I've ever had such an informal evening,” she said, delighted.

“It wasn't exactly planned.”

“No, I imagine not.” Rhaenyra shifted to sit more comfortably. “I should thank you for not leaving me on that bench. That was very kind of you, Miss...”

“Alicent,” she supplied, extending her hand. “Alicent Hightower. And your name is?”

Then Rhaenyra remembered: the gentle pat against her cheek, rousing her from sleep. Being told she couldn't sleep naked because of Criston, the flatmate. And, most insulting of all, being rudely denied a cup of wine when she'd requested one.

“Nyra,” the name tumbled out before she could think better of it.

The moment she said it, she wanted to curse her own stupidity. She might as well have announced herself as the Princess of Dragonstone. Could she have been any less obvious? As if her silver-gold hair wasn't suspicious enough, a flag of her house for all to see.

Alicent’s lips pressed together, and Rhaenyra was unable to interpret what that reaction might mean. She did not seem to suspect Rhaenyra was the princess, however. Perhaps silver-blonde hair wasn't quite so rare in Oldtown as it was in other parts of the realm.

Rhaenyra reached out and finally took Alicent's hand, and was startled by how cold the woman's fingers were.

“Your hand is freezing,” Rhaenyra said, clasping Alicent's fingers between both of hers in an attempt to warm them. “Are you unwell?”

“Oh, no, I'm fine,” Alicent avoided Rhaenyra's gaze. “I just... I run cold, always have.”

Alicent gently withdrew her hand, tucking them both in her pantsuit pockets. The loss of contact left Rhaenyra oddly bereft.

“Nyra,” Alicent repeated. “That's a beautiful name.”

“Thank you. It's a family name.”

Alicent remained standing there, hands still buried in her pockets, shifting her weight as though unsure what to do next.

“You may sit down,” Rhaenyra gave permission, gesturing to the space beside her on the bed with the same commanding tone she might use in the Red Keep.

Alicent's eyebrows lifted slightly. “Uh, thank you,” she didn't sit. Instead, she cleared her throat. “You mentioned breakfast earlier. I can offer you coffee and toast. Maybe some eggs.”

Rhaenyra blinked. Had she mentioned breakfast? She didn't remember saying anything of the sort.

The morning sunlight streaming through the bare window grew warmer against her face, and Rhaenyra's thoughts turned to her father. Had they told him yet about her disappearance or were her guards desperately searching Oldtown in secret, hoping to find her before word reached King's Landing?

Now, more than ever, Rhaenyra was proving herself to be exactly what the court whispered she was: reckless, irresponsible, unfit for the responsibilities that would one day be hers.

“Thank you, but it is unnecessary,” Rhaenyra said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “I have already caused you more than enough trouble.”

“Trouble?” Alicent frowned. “I would hardly call you a trouble.”

Rhaenyra paused, one foot touching the wooden floor. That was not a sentence often bestowed upon her. “I am not?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“You may think differently once I’ve imposed longer.”

Alicent shook her head at once, as though the very idea deserved no place in the air between them. “No. You are a guest here, and it costs me nothing to offer what little I have.”

Rhaenyra smiled shyly. “If that's the case then, coffee sounds lovely. I don't suppose you have jam? Any sort will do.”

“I think there's some strawberry jam in the kitchen.”

“Perfect,” Rhaenyra stretched, her borrowed pajamas shifting around her frame. “This is all very charming, you know. Your home.”

“I'm glad you think so,” Alicent said. “I'll run you a bath. You'll probably feel better once you've had a proper wash.”

“A bath? By myself? Without anyone attending me?”

“Yes,” Alicent gave her an odd look, “that's generally how baths work.”

“Ah, yes. I only meant—it's very generous of you. To allow me the use of your bath.”

Rhaenyra rose to her feet and stared at her very divided legs feeling they belonged to someone else. She took a few experimental steps, then did a small turn, as if modeling a grand gown at court.

Alicent leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, watching Rhaenyra examined herself.

“I’m wearing trousers!” Rhaenyra announced, like she'd just discovered she'd sprouted wings.

“You are,” Alicent confirmed, the corner of her mouth quirking upward.

“I can see my feet,” Rhaenyra marveled. “I could run in these. Not gather my skirts and pray I don't trip over the hem and—” she straightened, laughing softly at herself. “I must look absurd.”

Alicent’s lips held no reply, shoulder still resting against the frame, arms loosely crossed as her patient eyes were looking at Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra found herself staring too, her gaze traveling from the tie at Alicent's throat down to those impeccably shoes. Did Alicent always dressed herself like a man?

“You're wearing a suit,” she commented.

“You made the exact same observation last night,” Alicent sounded amused. “Right down to asking if I was a man in disguise.”

Rhaenyra winced. “I said that?”

“Among other observations about how ‘wonderfully ordinary’ my apartment was.”

“I'm mortified. That's... that's terribly rude of me. I apologize.”

“It's fine,” Alicent let out a chuckle, a soft little sound that barely escaped her lips. “You were clearly out of your mind on something.”

Rhaenyra shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to piece together what other embarrassing proclamations she might have made.

“And what did you reply?” Rhaenyra asked. “About the suit, I mean.”

“That I wear it for work.”

“Work?” Rhaenyra's eyebrows lifted with interest. “What sort of work do you do?”

Alicent faltered for just a fraction of a second. “I'm a saleswoman.”

“A saleswoman?”

“Yes. I sell things. To people. For money.”

“What manner of things?”

“Products, merchandise. You know, the usual.”

Rhaenyra nodded earnestly. “And you travel to meet these clients? In your suit?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

Rhaenyra sensed she was pushing into a territory Alicent would rather not discuss. Were work matters a delicate topic for the working class? She'd heard that some trades were considered less respectable than others.

“Let me show you where the bathroom is,” Alicent said, pushing off from the doorframe.

Rhaenyra glanced down at the clothes she'd arrived in; now folded in a somewhat rumpled pile on the chair by the bed. She waited for Alicent to gather them up as any lady's maid would do.

But Alicent simply stood there.

“My clothes,” Rhaenyra gestured toward the pile. “For after the bath.”

“Right. They're... there.” Alicent pointed at the very same chair.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra agreed, still waiting.

Alicent followed her gaze to the clothes, then back to Rhaenyra's face, her brows furrowing. “Is there something wrong?”

“Should I bring my things?”

Alicent gave her the same odd look she'd given earlier about the bath. “Yes, if you plan to change into them after.”

Rhaenyra hesitated. There would be no lady's maid here to carry things for her, to lay out her clothes, to attend to such details. She was expected to simply... do it herself.

“Do you need help?” Alicent asked, and there was no judgment in her voice.

“No,” Rhaenyra refused, pride stinging. “No, I can manage.”

She moved to collect the garments herself, bundling them awkwardly in her arms, and turned to face Alicent.

“Lead the way.”

—

Alicent watched as Rhaenyra clutched the clothes like they might escape at any moment, the headscarf already sliding precariously to one side. A line of annoyance appeared between Rhaenyra's eyebrows as she had to readjust her grip.

It was such a bundle of clothes that weighed practically nothing. Yet Rhaenyra handled it as though she'd been asked to carry a sack of grain across town.

Breaking news at eleven: the heir to the Iron Throne, one of the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms, has no idea how to carry her own clothes.

Alicent could already picture the headline.

Rhaenyra probably had servants to carry everything for her—her clothes, her books, her meals. Alicent doubted the woman had carried so much as her own hairbrush in years.

They emerged into the living room just as Criston was coming out of the kitchen. The three of them froze in an awkward tableau.

“Oh,” Rhaenyra said. “Hello.”

“Nyra,” Alicent started, “this is Criston Cole, my flatmate. Criston, this is Nyra.”

Criston, to his credit, managed a normal smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Nyra. I hope you slept well.”

“Very well, thank you,” Rhaenyra replied. “I remember vaguely that Miss Hightower mentioned you last night. I thought you were her betrothed.”

Criston nearly choked on his own saliva. “Oh, no, not me. Believe me, I've tried, but Alicent is more into—”

Alicent shot him the sharpest look she could manage, her eyes practically screaming shut up across the room.

“What I'm trying to say,” he amended quickly, “is that we're just friends.”

Rhaenyra looked between them sensing there was more to that exchange, but she was too polite to push. Instead, she offered him a smile, “Well, Mr. Cole, I should mention that you're the reason I couldn't sleep nude last night, as I'd wanted to.”

Criston's face went through several shades of red in rapid succession. “I… oh, please, don’t hold yourself back on my account. If you want to… walk nude, by all means, don't let me stop you.”

Alicent stifled a laugh behind her hand. Did Rhaenyra enjoy making everyone around her squirm like this? It certainly seemed so, judging by the way her grin widened.

After a beat, Rhaenyra tilted her head, letting the teasing ebb into curiosity. “So, what do you do when you’re not keeping women from walking around as they please? Do you work? Are you also in sells?”

Criston glanced at Alicent with confusion. “Sales? No, I'm a photographer.”

Alicent wanted to strangle him. Right there, in front of Rhaenyra, wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze until he learned the concept of following a lead.

“What do you photograph?”

“All sorts of things,” Criston said, completely oblivious to Alicent's murderous glare. “Weddings, events, sporting matches. I work with the news—”

COUGH COUGH COUGH.

Alicent suddenly doubled over in a violent coughing fit, the sound filled the apartment like a fire alarm. She hacked and wheezed, one hand clutched to her chest, the other waving frantically in Criston's direction.

“Oh my,” Rhaenyra said, concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” Alicent gasped between exaggerated coughs, her eyes bored into Criston. “Just... cough... something caught in my throat.”

Criston stared at her like she'd lost her mind, then focused his attention on Rhaenyra once more. “I could show you some of my work later if you want to. I've got some interesting shots of the harbor at sunset, and some candids from the—”

COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH.

“Water!” Alicent croaked. “I need water!”

“I'll get you some,” Rhaenyra offered, moving toward the kitchen, the clothes she was holding almost slipping from her hands.

“No!” Alicent practically shouted, then softened her tone. “I mean, no need. Criston can get it. Can't you, Criston?”

Criston looked between them, baffled. “Yeah, sure. I can do it.”

“Right then,” Alicent cleared her throat. “Let me get that bath started for you, Nyra.”

Rhaenyra looked really concerned about Alicent's coughing episode. “But your water—”

“I’ll grab it later,” Alicent said, waving her hand dismissively.

She practically dragged Rhaenyra toward the hallway, desperate to separate her from Criston before he could say anything about photographing royal events or harbor ceremonies or whatever other truthful details might slip out of his mouth.

They entered into the tiny bathroom, which looked even smaller now, especially to someone accustomed to royal luxury.

Alicent turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature, trying to find the sweet spot between scalding and freezing that her plumbing provided.

“The water pressure isn't great,” she apologized, “and it takes a while to fill up, but it gets hot enough.”

When Alicent glanced over her shoulder, she found Rhaenyra standing in front of the mirror above the sink, staring at her reflection. The oversized pajama top hung loosely on her frame, the sleeves extending past her wrists. Rhaenyra lifted one arm, watching the excess fabric swing back and forth like a bell. Then she did it with the other arm, creating a swaying motion.

Alicent felt a smile tugging at her lips before she could stop it.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked up, meeting Alicent’s in the mirror and immediately lowered her arms, like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t, then tucked her hands behind her back as if to hide the evidence.

Alicent looked away, busying herself with testing the bathwater again to hide the fact that she was finding the princess far too endearing for her own good.

“There,” Alicent said, once the water was ready. “I'll be outside if you need anything.”

Alicent left Rhaenyra with towels and soap, then hurried back to the living room where Criston was standing.

“Here's your water,” he said, extending the glass toward her.

Alicent nearly shoved it back in his face. “What is wrong with you?”

“What do you mean what's wrong with me? You were having some kind of coughing fit—”

“I was trying to stop you from talking, you absolute idiot!” she whispered furiously. “Why couldn't you just go along with the sales thing?”

“Alicent, she's not going to figure out we're taking advantage of her being a princess just because I said I'm a photographer. You heard her the name that she come up with? ‘Nyra’? Off all the—”

“Shh, keep your voice down,” Alicent hissed. “She'll hear you.”

“Do you realize what we've gotten ourselves into?” Criston lowered his tone. “Princess Rhaenyra is about to take a bath in our tiny, terrible bathroom with the leaky faucet and the tile that's falling off the wall.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

From down the hall came a delighted laugh, followed by Rhaenyra's voice calling out, “How long should I stay in the bath?”

“As long as you like!” Alicent called back.

There was a pause, then: “Your shampoo smells wonderful!”

A subtle curve touched the corners of Alicent's mouth.

“You're going soft,” Criston observed.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Alicent said, the smile vanishing instantly as she crossed her arms. “Come on, help me figure out what to feed a princess for breakfast. Do we have anything that isn't stale bread and questionable eggs?”

—

Alicent was standing over the stove, trying to make their meager breakfast supplies look presentable. She'd managed to find some decent eggs and unexpired bacon. There were also a half-loaf of bread. The strawberry jam she'd promised was down to the last few spoonfuls in the jar.

Earlier, Alicent had moved quickly through the apartment removing every piece of evidence that might reveal she was a journalist. All of it was now safely secured in her leather satchel, tucked away in her wardrobe. Even the scattered newspapers she'd been using for research were bundled and shoved in her bedroom closet.

“Should we be using the good plates?” Criston asked, hovering nervously nearby.

“We don't have good plates,” Alicent reminded him. “We have plates with only minor chips in them, and plates with major chips in them.”

“Minor chips it is.”

Criston retrieved three plates from the cupboard, examining each one before selecting the least damaged.

“Should I set out the nice mugs?”

“Again, we don't have nice mugs.”

“The ones without stains, then?”

“Good luck finding those,” Alicent muttered, flipping the bacon. The smell was already taking over the apartment, and she hoped it would help mask the general shabbiness of their living situation.

“Do you think she knows how to get out of a bathtub?” Criston whispered. Rhaenyra had been in the bathroom for nearly twenty minutes now.

“Don't,” Alicent warned, pointing the spatula at him.

“Fine,” He busied himself with wiping down the already-clean table. “This is surreal. I mean, you're cooking for her.”

“Yes, thank you, I can see what I'm doing.”

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra's voice came from down the hall, sounding uncertain. “Would you mind coming here for a moment?”

Alicent and Criston shot each other a quick look.

“You take over,” Alicent said, shoving the spatula into Criston's hands. “Don't burn anything.”

“I know how to cook bacon, Alicent.”

Alicent wiped her hands on a towel and made her way to the bathroom. The door wasn’t locked, only pulled to, and she gave it a cautious knock.

“Come in.”

Alicent pushed the door open and was greeted by a sight that made her froze in place: Rhaenyra standing in front of the mirror, damp hair sticking out in all directions, a brush in one hand and an expression that looked far more dire than the situation deserved. She was wearing only a forest green towel wrapped around her torso, water droplets clung to her shoulders and collarbones.

Alicent's mouth went dry. “What's wrong?”

“I seem to be making rather a mess of this,” Rhaenyra pointed at her hair, a mass of tangles. The cheap comb wasn't up to the task. “It won’t do what I want. It’s a nest.” She extended the comb to Alicent. “Would you?”

Alicent took the brush from Rhaenyra's hand before she even realized what she was doing, careful not to let their fingers linger.

“Sit down,” Alicent gestured to the closed toilet lid. “This will be easier if you're not standing.”

Rhaenyra obeyed, perching on the edge of the seat with her back to Alicent. Her posture was formal, shoulders straight, hands folded in her lap. The towel rode up slightly on her thighs and Alicent forced herself to look at anywhere else.

She started at the ends, working as gentle as she could through the knots with her fingers before attempting the comb.

“You can't just brush from the top down,” Alicent explained. “You have to start at the bottom and work your way up. Otherwise you just push all the tangles together.”

Rhaenyra hummed low in her throat.

“Do you brush your own hair?” Rhaenyra asked after a moment of silence.

Alicent almost laughed at the question. “Yes. Every day, actually.”

“By yourself?”

“By myself.”

“Who taught you?”

Alicent paused for a moment. “My mother, I think. When I was little.”

“You think?”

“I don't really remember. I was young when she—” Alicent stopped herself. “Anyway. It's just something you learn.”

Alicent worked through a particularly stubborn knot and her fingers ended up brushing against Rhaenyra's neck. She felt Rhaenyra shiver, saw the small hairs stand on end where her fingers had touched.

“Sorry, my hands are too cold.”

Rhaenyra twisted to glance at her, eyes catching Alicent’s over her shoulder. Her iris were the color of a summer sky just before noon, shimmering like sunlight on a calm ocean. Alicent got lost in their deepness, so blue she could drown in them without ever reaching the bottom.

“Your hands are fine,” Rhaenyra murmured.

“Turn around,” Alicent said, her fingers getting sweaty all of the sudden. “I'm not done.”

Rhaenyra turned back around, but not before Alicent caught the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Alicent stroked her palm down the length of Rhaenyra’s locks, checking for more tangles. The silver-blonde strands were thick and seemingly endless, but Alicent managed, her fingers learning the texture and weight of Rhaenyra's hair as she went.

It would be one of the easiest jobs in the world, Alicent thought, being paid to take care of Rhaenyra. To brush her hair each morning, to help her dress, to simply be near her. Though she supposed Rhaenyra's handmaidens might disagree with that assessment right now, given that their charge had run away.

“I could fall asleep like this,” Rhaenyra said, drowsy and content.

Alicent brushed through one final tangle, then continued anyway, the hair now completely smooth but her hands unwilling to stop. Long, languid strokes from crown to ends, over and over.

From the kitchen, Criston's voice: “Um, Alicent? What temperature is the stove supposed to be on?”

“Medium!” Alicent responded, not taking her eyes off her work.

“Which one is medium?”

“The middle one, Criston, use your brain!”

Rhaenyra chuckled. “You're very patient with him.”

“I've had practice”

There was a crashing sound coming from the kitchen.

“We don't usually cook,” Alicent admitted, continuing the soothing strokes through Rhaenyra's hair even though there were no tangles left to work through. “This is a rare occasion.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head back then, almost resting it against the fabric of Alicent's suit, and looked up at her. The movement exposed the long line of her throat, still glistening with droplets of water, looking like little diamonds on her skin. Alicent's gaze followed one drop as it traced down from behind Rhaenyra's ear, sliding along her neck, disappearing into the towel that pressed tightly between her large breasts, barely holding them in place.

“Because of me?” Rhaenyra sounded pleased. Her lips were parted, their color reminding Alicent of cherry blossom pink.

“I—” Her voice came out hoarse. She tried again. “Yes. Because of you.”

Alicent’s fingers lingered in Rhaenyra’s damp hair, brushing it back over her shoulders. The hair fell in a perfect curtain down Rhaenyra's waist.

“There, it’s done,” Alicent stepped back.

Rhaenyra shifted on the toilet lid, crossing her legs. The towel slipped a little, drawing attention to the delicate line between her breasts as she turned to face Alicent fully, looking like she had all the time in Westeros and nowhere else to be.

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra said.

“It was nothing,” Alicent was already backing toward the door. “I should—Criston is going to burn the apartment down.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “I'll be out in a moment."

Alicent practically stumbled into the kitchen, her face burning. Criston looked up from where he was staring at the stove with the expression of a man facing down a dragon.

“Finally! Look at this—”

“Move,” Alicent said, shouldering him aside and taking over. The bacon was a bit too crispy but salvageable. The pan was fine. Everything was fine.

“You were gone for a really long time!” Criston had the audacity to look accusatory. “What were you even doing in there?”

“Brushing her hair,” Alicent replied shortly.

“For that long?”

“Brushing takes time,” Alicent cracked eggs into the pan. “And she had a lot of hair.”

Criston gave her a look but wisely said nothing. He moved to where the coffee pot sat—a simple metal percolator that had seen better days, which he’d started earlier, before their entire morning derailed with the discovery of a princess in Alicent’s bed.

He touched the side of the pot. “It's cold.”

“Then reheat it.”

Criston placed the pot on the burner and adjusted the flame. “So. You were in there just brushing hair?”

“Yes, Criston. Just brushing hair. What else would I be doing?”

“I don't know, you tell me. Your face is very red.”

Alicent sighed. “Don't start.”

“I'm just saying—”

“You're always ‘just saying.’ Maybe try just not saying.”

“Someone has to point out when you're being—”

The sound of the bathroom door opening made them both straighten up. Footsteps padded down the hallway, and then Rhaenyra appeared in the kitchen. She'd changed back into her clothes from the previous night,—the blue skirt and white blouse that looked so ordinary but had probably cost more than Alicent made in a month—the headscarf was now tied around her neck in a loose bow. Water still clung to the ends of her hair, occasionally dripping onto the blouse and creating dark spots on the fabric.

Criston froze, his mouth fell open like he’d just seen a vision descend from the Seven themselves.

“Cole,” Alicent warned. “Table.”

He blinked, shaking himself out of whatever trance he'd fallen into, though his ears had gone red.

Rhaenyra looked around the tiny kitchen and approached the breakfast table, moving on their cheap linoleum, like she belonged anywhere she happened to be standing. “May I?”

“Please, help yourself to anything,” Cole said, grabbing forks from the drawer—three different patterns because they'd never bothered to buy a matching set—and placed them down.

“How is your cough?” Rhaenyra asked Alicent. “Are you feeling better?”

“Oh, yes, much better.” Alicent replied, setting down a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.

“It came on so suddenly,” Rhaenyra continued as Criston sat down in the chair next to her. “One moment you seemed fine, and then...” She made a gesture to demonstrate the violent coughing fit.

“Yes, well. These things happen, must have been something in the air. Seasonal allergies, you know. Coffee?” Alicent offered.

“Please,” Rhaenyra replied, watching as Alicent poured from their coffee pot into three mugs. She took a sip of coffee and clicked her tongue. “This is a bit strong.”

“I can make it weaker—”

“No, I like it,” Rhaenyra interceded. “It's just different from what I'm used to. I usually drink tea in the mornings.”

“We don't have tea,” Alicent apologized, sitting on the table. “But Criston could run out and buy some if you—”

“Me?!” Criston exclaimed.

Alicent kicked him under the table.

“Ow—oh. Yes. I can, Nyra, if you want.”

“It's fine,” Rhaenyra said, her tone gentler. “Do you two eat breakfast together every morning?”

“When our schedules allow,” Cole answered. “We're both usually rushing out to work, but weekends are more relaxed.”

“Charming,” Rhaenyra murmured, bringing the coffee cup to her lips.

Alicent wondered what breakfast was like in the Red Keep. Probably formal affairs with multiple courses and strict protocol, eaten alone or with silent servants. Fresh fruit from the royal gardens, pastries from the finest bakers in King's Landing, imported teas from across the Narrow Sea. Everything Rhaenyra could possibly want, arranged before she even had to ask.

Rhaenyra set down her coffee mug and glanced between Alicent and Cole. “Now, which of you will be so kind as to serve me my toast? I like it with a lot of jam.”

Alicent and Criston exchanged glances. Then they both looked at the plate of toast sitting in the middle of the table, exactly three feet from where Rhaenyra was sitting.

With a small sigh, Alicent reached for the bread. “How many pieces?”

“One will be enough.”

Alicent began spreading what little jam remained. The knife scraped against the bottom of the jar, producing a mortifying loud sound as she tried to gather enough for a proper coating.

Criston pressed his lips together so hard they disappeared into a thin line, fighting back a smile.

Alicent spread the jam as evenly as she could, then placed the toast on Rhaenyra's plate. “There.”

Rhaenyra took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and smiled. “Delicious.”

Alicent doubted that very much.

A bit of jam had caught on the corner of Rhaenyra's mouth, and she dabbed at it with her napkin; at least she could do that much herself.

Alicent drink the too-strong coffee, letting the bitterness ground her.

This was going to be a very long day.

—

They ate with Rhaenyra making commentaries of appreciation over what was, by any objective measure, an ordinary breakfast, complimenting everything as if they'd served her a feast.

“You were pretty out of it yesterday,” Alicent commented once she finished her coffee. “You kept talking about the Red Keep.”

“Did I?” Rhaenyra looked surprised. “How odd. I've never even been to King's Landing.”

The lie came so smoothly that Alicent almost believed it, despite everything she knew. Rhaenyra was now playing her role as a liar perfectly.

“This jam is delicious,” Rhaenyra said, licking a drop from her finger in a way that was utterly un-princess-like. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Uh, no,” Alicent said. “It's just from the market.”

“What do you do for work, Nyra?” Criston asked, and Alicent held the urge to kick him under the table again.

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Rhaenyra replied. “I help with... family business. Very tedious administrative work, really. Always the same routine, day after day. That's why I ended up having such an adventurous evening.”

“So what are your plans for today?” Criston kept probing. “I assume you'll need to get back to... wherever you came from?”

The joy that had been on Rhaenyra’s face slowly faded. “Yes, I really must get back to my... to my house. I have important things to attend to.”

“More administrative work?” Criston inquired.

“Something like that,” Rhaenyra said vaguely, pushing her remaining toast around her plate.

Criston leaned forward. “If you're interested, I'd be happy to show you around the city. I know all the best spots for photographs; hidden corners, great views most tourists never see.”

“Criston's quite the tour guide,” Alicent said dryly. “He's shown half the women in Oldtown his ‘special photography locations.’”

“Only the interesting ones,” Criston protested. “And Nyra seems very interesting.”

Rhaenyra looked flattered, a soft blush coloring her cheeks. “I don't get many opportunities to explore places freely.”

“Then how about we go out and have some real fun?” Criston suggested.

Alicent told herself that the irritation crawling up her spine was completely reasonable. She was the one who'd found Rhaenyra on that bench. She was the one who'd given up her bed, lent her pajamas, brushed her hair. If anyone should be showing Rhaenyra around, it was her.

“I appreciate the invitation,” Rhaenyra said, “but I really should—”

“What would you like to do?” Alicent interrupted, leaning forward, matching Criston's casual pose.

Rhaenyra stared out the window that overlooked the busy street below. People were walking to work, vendors were setting up their stalls, children were running between the market stands.

“I'd like to do that,” she answered finally, pointing to the scene outside. “Just walk around. Go wherever I wanted to go.”

“Then let's do that,” Alicent said, before Criston could jump in with another offer. “Come with me. We could wander through the parts of the city you haven't seen.”

Rhaenyra's face lit up like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Then reality seemed to crash back down on her, and her expression fell.

“I couldn't possibly impose on you any further. You have your own work to attend to, your sales appointments—”

“Nothing that can't wait,” Alicent guaranteed, which was true since she had no actual sales appointments. What she did have, however, was an exclusive story about princess Rhaenyra to chase and the very same sitting in her kitchen.

Rhaenyra's fingers traced the rim of her coffee mug, around and around in a nervous circle.

“I wish I could accept your offer. Truly, I do, but my family will be worried if I'm not back soon. They probably already are.” She looked down at her finished breakfast. “Last night was wonderful, in its way. An adventure I'll never forget. But I can't just disappear from my life, no matter how much I might want to sometimes.”

“Are you sure?” Alicent pressed. “It's just one day. And you seemed so excited—”

“Alicent,” Criston cut off, giving her a meaningful look.

She caught his expression and remembered their earlier conversation about not keeping someone who didn't want to be kept. If Rhaenyra wanted to leave, then she would leave.

Alicent sat back in her chair, swallowing down the disappointment that rose in her throat. “Of course, I understand.”

“I should probably be going, then,” Rhaenyra said. “The sooner I leave, the less trouble I'll be in.”

Alicent noted the way Rhaenyra's jaw was set with determination even as her eyes kept drifting back to the window. She was like a bird with an open cage door, wanting desperately to fly but too afraid of what might happen if she did.

“At least let me walk you out,” Alicent offered, standing up. “The city can be confusing if you don't know it well.”

—

“Which direction do you need to go?” Alicent asked, though she had a pretty good idea where the princess would be heading.

“The hotel district,” Rhaenyra said vaguely.

“That's about half hour walk from here,” Alicent said, pointing down the main street. “If you follow this way until it intersects with Guild Way, you will find the trolley stop. Takes you straight to the upper district where most of the hotels are.”

Rhaenyra looked in the direction Alicent was pointing, committing every word to memory. “And I just... get on it?”

“Yes, the trolley comes every twenty minutes or so. You'll need a fare for a ticket to give to the driver when you board. You can always hail a taxi, too.” Alicent paused, watching Rhaenyra's face. “Do you have any money with you?”

Rhaenyra's hand went to her skirt pocket. “I... no. I don't think I brought any with me.”

Alicent reached into her own pockets and pulled out several coins, more than enough for covered a fare anywhere in the city.

“Here,” she said, pressing them into Rhaenyra's palm. “Take this. And there's extra, in case you want to buy something at the market. A souvenir of your adventure.”

Rhaenyra stared down at the coins. “You're incredibly generous. I can only imagine how awful it must be, sleeping on that narrow couch because of me.”

“It was nothing—” Alicent began, but Rhaenyra shook her head.

“I want you to know that I will repay you, every bit of it.” Rhaenyra tucked the bills into her skirt pocket. “If I wanted to see you again, how would I find you?”

“I spend most of my days at work, but I'm usually back here in the evenings,” Alicent said, a flutter of hope rising in her chest, thinking of her repayment. “On Honeywine Street, near the harbor park. The apartment building is easy enough to find, the one with the green door and the flower boxes in the windows. I lived on third floor, 3B.”

“Honeywine Street. Green door. Third floor, 3B. I'll remember that, Miss Hightower.”

“Please, only Alicent will do.”

“Alright, Alicent.”

Rhaenyra glanced past her, through the open doorway where the stairwell was visible. Her gaze traveled up the narrow steps, taking in the peeling paint on the walls. Then her eyes returned to Alicent, moving slowly down to her arms, covered by the gray suit jacket.

“How did you manage to get me up to the third floor?” Rhaenyra asked suddenly. “Did you... carry me in your arms?”

“No, nothing quite so dramatic,” Alicent denied, shaking her head. “You walked, tripping a little, but you walked. I just made sure you didn’t fall down the stairs.”

“Oh,” Rhaenyra’s shoulders slumped, a frown tugging at her lips.

Silence stretched between them. Rhaenyra made no move to start walking, and Alicent certainly wasn’t going to suggest she leave.

Then, surprising Alicent, Rhaenyra took a step forward, rising up on her toes to press a soft kiss to Alicent’s cheek. Alicent’s knees went weak, her cheek tingling where Rhaenyra's lips had touched. A beautiful woman—a princess, no less—had just kissed her.

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra whispered, pulling back, her warm breath a ghost against Alicent's skin.

“That... you're very welcome,” Alicent stammered, every coherent thought scattered like leaves in the wind.

Rhaenyra smiled, a hint of mischief in her blue eyes as she noticed Alicent's flustered state. And then she was walking away, her figure growing smaller as she navigated the busy street.

—

Rhaenyra couldn't stop smiling. She walked down the cobblestone street with a lightness in her shoulders that she hadn't felt in years.

The bath she took in Alicent’s apartment had been possibly the most peaceful one of her life. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to soak in hot water without someone hovering nearby, asking if she needed assistance or reminding her of her next appointment.

The market square opened up before her. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, making the dust motes dance in the air like tiny fireflies. Around her, a cacophony of voices layering over one another, merchants shouting about the freshness of their fish, the sweetness of their peaches, children laughing and chasing each other between the stalls while their mothers called after them. Someone was playing a fiddle near the fountain, the cheerful tune barely audible over the general din. A fishmonger tossed a silvery catch onto his ice-covered table with a wet slap. Two men argued loudly over the price of pottery. A dog barked and darted between the legs of passersby, chasing after a scrap of meat.

Rhaenyra had to navigate the crowded cobblestones herself, dodging around clusters of people who showed no inclination to move aside for her, sidestepping two women who stopped in front of her to examine a bolt of fabric. A portly man with a basket under his arm brushed roughly past her shoulder, nearly knocking her off balance, and didn't even glance back, let alone apologize. She could have his head for that.

That was how invisible she was; nobody opened a path for her, stepped aside or bowed. No one stared, no one whispered behind their hands, no cameras flashed in her face.

She did catch occasional glances from men; some lingering longer than others. One nearly walked into a lamppost while turning to look at her, another leaned against a bakery wall, his eyes tracking her movement as he let out a low whistle.

“Lovely morning, isn't it?”

Rhaenyra kept walking, unsure how to respond. At court, such behavior would have been unthinkable, no one would dare speak to her so forwardly.

Despite that, Rhaenyra was invisible, anonymous, only a young woman going about her business.

Her feet were beginning to ache in yesterday's shoes—delicate things designed more for appearance than walking—so she stopped at a cobbler's stall tucked between a bakery and a bookshop. The elderly man behind the counter smiled as she approached.

“Something for the young lady?”

“I need shoes,” Rhaenyra said, wiggling her toes uncomfortably. “A pair that won't pinch or leave blisters.”

“Ah, you work on your feet, do you?” the man asked, pulling out several pairs in Rhaenyra's size. “These are my best sellers for working girls. Good leather, proper support, and they'll last you years.”

She tried on several pairs, marveling at how different it felt to choose footwear based on comfort rather than how they looked with a particular gown. Finally, she settled on a pair of flat shoes that laced up the ankle.

“Perfect choice,” the vendor said. “Those'll serve you well.”

Rhaenyra smiled and stood, ready to leave when the man called after her.

“Miss? The payment?”

Rhaenyra stopped. “Oh. Yes, of course. How much?”

“Three silver stags,” the cobbler said.

Rhaenyra pulled out the coins Alicent had given her and held them out to the man. Her first real purchase, made entirely by her own choice.

As she walked away in her new shoes, Rhaenyra felt like she was walking on clouds. She wasn't wobbling on ridiculous heels, and she could actually feel the ground beneath her feet instead of being elevated above it.

Further down the market street, she passed a barbershop with its red and white striped pole spinning in the morning breeze.

Rhaenyra paused to look at the photos of the model’s hairstyles in display, all had a short cut. She ran her fingers through the silver-blonde waves that Alicent had so carefully brushed out. Her hair had always been praised, just as it had always been difficult to manage. It took hours to wash, comb, and style, and even longer to braid into the elaborate patterns she was expected to wear. Still, everyone insisted she keep it long, it was part of the Targaryen mystique.

What did it matter if her hair fell to her waist or her shoulders? Would she be any less her father's daughter, any less a dragon, if she cut it short? Her ancestors hadn't conquered Westeros because of their hair; they'd done it with fire and blood.

Rhaenyra studied her reflection in the barbershop window, turning her head from side to side. She glanced around at the women passing by; most of them really did have short hair, or medium-length, like Alicent’s. Different from Rhaenyra's that reached past her waist.

Was long hair not in fashion anymore? She was the princess, she should be setting trends, not falling behind them.

On impulse, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Let her cut away what she could, while she could.

A bell chimed overhead, and the barber looked up from sweeping.

“Hello there, miss. Please, have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

Rhaenyra lowered herself onto the worn leather chair. Not much longer after that, the barber draped a clean cloth around her shoulders.

“What can I do for you today, miss?” he asked, running the length of her hair through his fingers. “Trim? Styling?”

“I want it cut,” Rhaenyra said decisively. “Very short.”

The barber's hands stilled. “But miss, you have such beautiful hair. It's like silver silk, reminds me of Princess Rhaenyra herself! Speaking of which,” he picked up his comb, “did you hear the poor thing's taken ill? All over the morning news, it is. Some kind of fever, they say. Had to cancel all her engagements.”

So that was the excuse they'd concocted for her disappearance; a convenient fever. She wondered how long they could maintain that lie before someone started asking more questions.

“Sick?”

“Aye, a real shame. She was supposed to visit the children's hospital today, too. The little ones were so excited.” He shook his head. “Even princesses get poorly sometimes. Now, about this haircut—are you sure you want to cut it? Hair like this is a gift from the gods.”

“I'm sure,” Rhaenyra said, meeting her own eyes in the mirror.

“How short are we talking?”

“To here,” Rhaenyra indicated a point just below her ears.

“That short? Miss, that's a lot of hair to lose. Perhaps just a trim to start with?”

“Short,” Rhaenyra said firmly.

The barber sighed. “I have to say, it seems a crime to cut hair this beautiful, it's like cutting golden silk!”

Rhaenyra felt a flicker of irritation. What was his problem? Why couldn't he just do what she asked? Usually, when she gave an instruction, people simply obeyed. That was the natural order, the way of things since before she could remember.

“I've considered it thoroughly. My mind is set.” Rhaenyra said, trying to keep the edge of command out of her voice.

It was merely hair, was it not? Shear it away and it would resurrect itself regardless of today's decision. The heaviness would return to pull at her scalp, the tangles would reform their labyrinths, the ritualistic hours of care would reclaim their place in her days. Just as waves returned to break upon the shore. Just as her obligations, the crown that waited for her head, no matter how much time she borrowed.

She would remain who she had always been.

In a life where so much had been decided before she drew her first breath, she could at least choose to free herself from these tangles, even if only temporarily.

“Alright then, miss, if you're sure. But we'll take it in stages, yeah? That way if you change your mind partway through, we can stop.”

“That's fair,” Rhaenyra agreed.

He picked up his scissors, and Rhaenyra watched in the mirror as he gathered a section of her hair. The first cut made a snipping sound, and a strand fell to the floor.

Then another, and another.

Rhaenyra watched in the mirror as her transformation began. Long waves that had required hours of styling each morning were being replaced by something sleek and modern, framing her face without overwhelming it.

“You know,” the barber said, stepping back to assess his progress, “I was wrong to hesitate. This is actually going to be stunning on you.”

When he finally set down the scissors and stepped back, even he looked satisfied by the result. The woman in the mirror had a pixie cut that made her blue eyes appear larger and more striking. She lifted her fingers to touch it, surprised at the lightness. It shifted and moved easily under her hand, falling just around her ears and forehead.

She shook her head experimentally, and the hair moved with her in a gentle dance, swaying and settling back into place rather than the heavy cascade that used to follow seconds behind every movement.

“I'll be damned,” the barber said, running his hand through his own hair in amazement. “Forgive my language, miss, but you look absolutely gorgeous. Even more beautiful than before, if that's possible.”

He held up a hand mirror so she could see the back, and Rhaenyra was delighted with what she saw. She looked like someone confident and modern, who belonged in Alicent's community of working women.

“It's perfect,” she said, running her fingers through the shorter strands. “Absolutely perfect.”

“I have to admit, you were right to insist,” the barber said, removing the cape. “Sometimes the customer knows best, even when the barber thinks he knows better.” He began brushing the last few stray hairs from her shoulders. “I don't suppose I could ask your name?”

Rhaenyra hesitated to answer. She'd told Alicent her name was ‘Nyra’, which in retrospect had been embarrassingly obvious. She'd been so nervous, standing there in that small apartment with those warm brown eyes watching her, that her mind went completely blank.

“Anya,” she said, a common name that belonged to seamstresses and shopkeepers' daughters. “My name is Anya.”

“Anya, you've made my day. In fact...” he paused. “I hope you don't think me too forward, but there's a lovely boat just down the Citadel street that has music on Saturday nights. Dancing, good ale, friendly people. It would be nice if you showed up. I'd be honored to dance with you.”

“I'm not sure I'll be able to make it,” Rhaenyra said honestly. “I have some family obligations that might keep me tied up this evening.”

That was certainly one way to describe her royal duties and the inevitable reckoning that would come when she returned to the hotel.

“Ah, a shame.” He mourned. “If your circumstances change, ask anyone on Citadel street for Willem's boat. Everyone knows it.”

“I'll consider it,” Rhaenyra said, even though she knew she wouldn't be able to come. By tonight, she'd have to resume being Princess Rhaenyra. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Thank you for letting me give you that haircut. Best work I've done in months.”

She paid for the haircut, leaving a generous tip to the barber, and walked to the door.

Rhaenyra wandered through the market for another hour and as she did, she became aware of official-looking cars cruising slowly through the streets—black sedans with tinted windows that seemed to be searching for something, or someone. Her heart rate quickened each time one passed, but drivers looked right past her. Her new haircut seemed to be working as a disguise.

She bought herself a cone of vanilla ice cream from a cheerful vendor, eating it while her feet carried her nowhere in particular. The people at court could wait a bit longer.

She wandered toward the waterfront, following the sound of gulls and the salt-tinged breeze. Eventually, she settled on the wide stone steps leading up to the Citadel, finishing her ice cream while watching the people pass by. The sun light bathed her upturned face, asking nothing, promising nothing, giving its warmth freely.

“Oh, you're still here.”

Rhaenyra glanced up and felt her heart tripping in her chest the way one might miss a step on the stairs. Alicent was standing behind her, looking slightly out of breath as if she'd been walking quickly.

“Alicent!” Rhaenyra said, unable to keep the delight out of her voice. “What are the odds of running into you here?”

“I was just... I had some errands in this part of town. I thought you'd be halfway home by now.”

Rhaenyra gestured vaguely toward the busy street. “I got a bit distracted. The city is so interesting. I couldn't resist exploring a little.”

Alicent moved closer, and Rhaenyra waited for her to comment on the dramatic change of her hairstyle. Surely it was obvious, she'd lost nearly a foot of hair.

“It's a great day to go out,” Alicent agreed, settling onto the step next to her. “Though I did spot a few of those official cars rolling by. There seem to be more of them than usual today.”

“Official cars? I hadn't noticed,” Rhaenyra said with what she hoped was convincing nonchalance. “I suppose there are always government vehicles around a city like this.”

She turned fully toward Alicent, unable to contain her excitement about her transformation any longer. “What do you think of my hair? I had it cut quite a lot, as you can see. Don't I look pretty?”

Alicent’s brown eyes took in the sleek new hairstyle that framed Rhaenyra's features. “You do look pretty,” she said. “Though your long hair was beautiful before too.”

Rhaenyra's face fell, her lips almost formed a pout. “So you don't like it that much?”

“No, that's not what I meant at all,” Alicent rushed to say, reaching out as if to touch the shorter strands before stopping herself. “It's just with your hair like this, nobody would recognize you.”

“But you did,” Rhaenyra pointed out, tilting her head. “You recognized me right away.”

Alicent’s cheeks flushed a mortified pink. “I would recognize your face anywhere.”

Although flattered, Rhaenyra really hoped that was not entirely true. If Alicent ever saw her not just as a woman she stumbled across, but as the princess, it would change everything between them.

“You really think I'm pretty?” Rhaenyra asked, wanting to see Alicent squirm with her question.

Brown eyes darted away before returning with a quiet steadiness. “Yes, anyone would think so.”

“Anyone, huh? What do you think?” Rhaenyra pressed. “Do I look more beautiful than last night?”

“I think you were just as beautiful then as you are now. Hair or no hair, that doesn’t change,” Alicent said, then let out a low sigh. “Now, can you please stop fishing for compliments?”

Rhaenyra’s smile spread so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes. She had never met a woman like Alicent, everything about her was so gentlemanly in its courtesy. Was Rhaenyra absolutely certain she wasn't actually a man in disguise?

“You’re very proper,” Rhaenyra said, between licks of her ice cream. “I could believe you’re a knight from some storybook, sworn to serve and never indulge.”

Alicent let out a little laugh that made Rhaenyra smile too. As Alicent’s mouth curved, twin dimples surfaced, fleeting things Rhaenyra hadn’t known were there.

“A knight,” Alicent repeated as she shook her head in amusement. “That's a new one.”

“Would you like some?” Rhaenyra offered her ice cream cone. “It's vanilla. Quite good, actually.”

Alicent's eyes widened a fraction. “No, thank you.”

Rhaenyra shrugged and returned to her ice cream, licking faster before the sun melted it away. A drop of vanilla had already begun sliding down the side of the cone, and she caught it with her tongue just in time. Her lips grew sticky with the sweetness, and she could feel a bit of it at the corner of her mouth.

She caught Alicent watching her and wiped at her lips with the back of her hand. “I'm making rather a mess of this, aren't I?”

Alicent blinked, seeming to come back to herself. “You're fine,” she said, her voice a touch quieter than before. Then, out of nowhere, “What about me? Don't you think I'm pretty?”

“Eh,” Rhaenyra said, tilting her head and shrugging one shoulder. “Not so bad, I suppose.”

“Not so bad? That's it?”

“Well,” Rhaenyra paused mid-lick, pretending to consider this very seriously, “your hair is a bit messy, and you have this very serious expression most of the time.”

“My hair is not messy,” Alicent protested, reaching up to smooth down her auburn waves. “And I don't have a serious expression.”

“Mhm.”

Rhaenyra bit into the edge of her cone, the crisp shell cracking between her teeth. The taste of vanilla lingered on her tongue as she watched Alicent’s face catch the sunlight. Alicent looked rather fetching in that suit of hers, showing off her shoulders.

“I was thinking,” Alicent interrupted Rhaenyra’s musings, “since you're still here, and you seem to be enjoying exploring the city, why don't we walk together as I suggested earlier? It's such a lovely day. I could show you around properly.”

The offer was tempting.

“I need to start heading back, actually,” Rhaenyra said reluctantly.

“Did you at least have lunch? There's a little café near the harbor. They serve the most amazing fish, and they have tables outside where you can watch the boats come in.”

“I really shouldn't,” Rhaenyra declined, even as every part of her wanted to say yes.

“One meal, between friends. You can spare an hour or two, can't you?”

Alicent leaned forward as she said it, and it reminded Rhaenyra of the men at King’s Landing balls, the way they would lean in when asking her to dance.

Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow. “Ah, so are we friends now?”

“Are we not? I thought—”

“I'm just teasing you, Alicent.”

“Right,” Alicent straightened up. “So is that a yes or a no for the lunch?”

Rhaenyra knew the longer she stayed away, the more complicated her eventual return to the hotel would become. She knew that every minute she spent with Alicent was another thread tying her to a life she couldn't have.

And why was Alicent insisting on it so much anyway? She had already been more than generous—giving up her bed, her clothes, her money. Most people would be relieved to see their unexpected houseguest finally leave. Yet Alicent was practically pleading for Rhaenyra to stay.

Was it loneliness, perhaps? Or was it Alicent's…queerness showing itself?

Either way, Rhaenyra was flattered.

The trolley bell clanged in the distance, growing closer. Rhaenyra could picture herself boarding it, returning to the hotel, slipping back into her life as if this morning had never happened.

But Alicent's brown eyes were so pretty and inviting, that Rhaenyra wished she could spend the whole day just looking at them, memorizing every detail so she could carry the memory with her when she inevitably had to return to her duties.

“I guess I could stay for lunch,” she heard herself saying. “Just lunch, though. After that, I must get back.”

“Wonderful,” Alicent said, standing and offering her hand to help Rhaenyra up from the steps.

—

After Rhaenyra had walked away from the apartment that morning, Alicent had stood still for thirty seconds before making a decision.

She couldn't just let the story of a lifetime walk out her front door.

Keeping a reasonable distance, she had followed Rhaenyra through the winding streets of Oldtown. Alicent had witnessed everything; the shoe purchase, noticed the men’s hungry eyes tracking Rhaenyra's movements. It made her want to cross the street and position herself between Rhaenyra and their leering gazes.

She'd lingered outside the barbershop, pretending to read a newspaper while Rhaenyra sat in the chair inside. Through the window, Alicent watched the silver-gold hair fall to the floor in shining strands. From across the street, she also watched as Rhaenyra bought ice cream like a child who'd never been allowed such simple pleasures.

The whole time, Alicent felt like an absolute idiot. And a predator. Mostly a predator.

Lurking behind corners, ducking into doorways, pretending to examine shop windows while keeping Rhaenyra in her peripheral vision; it was all part of the job of being a journalist, even though she never did such a thing before.

Now, as they walked toward the restaurant, all Alicent had to do was draw Rhaenyra out, get her talking. It would be the exclusive that would make editors fight over her byline.

She only needed to be careful. Rhaenyra was naive about some things, but she was far from stupid. One wrong question, and those blue eyes would narrow with suspicion.

Alicent stopped walking when she spotted a public telephone booth near the harbor.

“Excuse me for just a moment,” she said to Rhaenyra, who was marveling at the seagulls wheeling above the harbor. “I need to make a quick call.”

She slipped into the booth and dialed Criston's number, feeding coins into the slot.

“Cole speaking.”

“Criston, it's me.”

“Alicent? Where in the Seven hells are you? You disappeared this morning without a word!”

“That's what I'm calling about,” Alicent said urgently. “I'm with Princess Rhaenyra right now.”

There was a pause on the other end. “You followed her.”

“Of course I followed her! She's walking around Oldtown like any other person, buying things, talking to people, being completely normal. Can you imagine what photographs of this would be worth?”

“Alicent—”

“Bring your camera,” she pressed on. “We're having lunch at that little seafood restaurant by the harbor. Meet us there in about twenty minutes.”

There was another paused, longer this time. Alicent could hear him sighing heavily.

“Fine, I'll be there. If this goes badly, don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Thank you,” Alicent breathed. “And Criston? Be discrete.”

The line went dead. Alicent quickly fed more coins into the slot and dialed another number.

“Larys Strong.”

“Mr. Strong, it's Alicent. I nee—”

“Miss Hightower, I was just about to head to your flat.”

Alicent frowned. “You were coming to my house?”

“Yes. You know how I feel about tardiness, especially on Saturdays when it's just the two of us holding down the fort.”

Alicent's heart skipped. If Larys had come to her apartment and found it Rhaenyra there…

“I'm so sorry I didn't call earlier, something unexpected came up.”

“This wouldn't have anything to do with those reports about the Princess being ill, would it? The palace has been unusually quiet about her condition.”

Alicent glanced through the booth's glass at Rhaenyra, who was still gazing out at the harbor, seemingly lost in thought.

“More or less,” Alicent chose her words carefully. “It's complicated.”

“I do hope these complications resolve themselves favorably. You understand how important this story could be for your career.”

Not just for her career; for his as well. Alicent wasn't foolish. She'd seen how these things worked at the paper. Junior reporters did the legwork, took the risks, and senior editors reaped the rewards. If she handed Larys this story, her name might appear in the byline, but his would be plastered across the front page as the editor who broke the biggest royal scandal in decades.

“I understand the urgency,” she replied, while Rhaenyra was unaware that the secrets of her life was about to be dissected and sold to the highest bidder. “But I want to make sure we get it right.”

“Yes, yes. Accuracy is paramount. Where are you? I'll come to you. We can work on this together.”

Alicent's grip tightened on the phone. This had been a terrible mistake. She should never have called Larys.

“I should go,” she said abruptly. “I'll be in touch when I have more.”

Alicent hung up the phone and stood for a moment in the booth, watching Rhaenyra laugh as the seagulls grew bolder in their pursuit of crumbs.

“Sorry about that,” Alicent said, returning to Rhaenyra. “Just had to check in with work.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Perfect. Shall we?” Alicent pointed to the restaurant a few meters ahead. “I promise you, it'll be a lunch you'll never forget.”