Wallow

'Words be hollow as thine own heart.'

-The Red Prince, performed by the Mummers Guild.

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It was the second night of what should have been a week-long celebration.

To rejoice in the birth of a new prince, the strength of House Targaryen, and all the usual fanfare of feasts and festivities.

Instead, it was somber. 

Queen Aemma was gone, and her newborn son Baelon had died just hours later.

A double blow of grief.

48 hours had King Viserys withdrawn to seclusion, speaking only to his closest advisors as they planned the funeral.

He could afford to retreat because Prince Rhaenar was there to shoulder the burden.

Rhaenar faced them all, greeted every noble family, and accepted their condolences with a nod of his head.

He smiled when expected, grimaced when appropriate, and endured the endless stream of handshakes, back pats, and empty promises. Sorry after sorry after sorry.

He offered as much comfort as he received, supporting the families as they supported him, the crown, and the royal family.

It was a monotonous charade of bullshit.

But it had to be done.

Rhaenar rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept, up all all night riding and howling through King's Landing, and all day dealing with the aftermath of his mother's death and the loss of his brother.

It fell upon him to represent his family at the feast. 

Just the night after his mother's passing, the noble families of the realm still gathered for the planned festivities. 

They were here, so they may as well be fed.

Rhaenar moved through it all in a haze. 

Faces blurred together, voices mixed into one. 

Alicent watched from afar, seated with her family. Ser Otto had gone to mingle with the other Hightowers at their table, so she joined along.

"If someone looked at me like that, I'd die a happy man."

Her brother, Ser Gwayne Hightower, took the seat beside her, his auburn hair swept back, eyes a dazzling blue that stood out against his green tunic.

"You seem in good spirits after yesterday," Alicent remarked. Gwayne had taken quite a fall during his bout with Prince Daemon.

Ser Gwayne ignored the diversion. 

Despite his family leaving him to ward in Oldtown for over half a decade, he still knew his sister well enough.

"What are you looking at?"

He followed her gaze.

"Ah, Prince Rhaenar himself. You too, eh?" Gwayne sighed. "I do hope his grief passes soon. Then all the maidens can look elsewhere."

"You have no trouble finding suitors, surely."

Alicent was sincere. Her brother was a handsome man.

"Even so, more options never did hurt," he replied with a playful grin.

A slight smile curved her lips, her gaze  fixed on Rhaenar.

Gwayne's eyes widened.

 "By the Seven! You really care for him, don't you, sister?"

"What gave it away?"

He chuckled. "We all know you're close, but I had no idea the extent."

Alicent barely heard him. 

Every passing minute seemed to weigh more heavily on Rhaenar, as though each heartbeat added another stone to his back. 

He might have been putting up a strong front, but it didn't fool her.

Rhaenar had just finished receiving condolences from Lord Baratheon.

From the vacant look in his eyes, she doubted Rhaenar even saw the man.

"...Sister?"

"Hmm?"

Alicent blinked, realizing she'd completely tuned out Gwayne's words. 

"I beg your pardon?"

He laughed. "Seven hells, Alicent! Go and talk to him, I know you want to."

Part of her agreed, but it seemed she wouldn't have the chance. 

Prince Rhaenar  finished his duties and was now rising, making  way to leave the hall.

That's when Ser Otto appeared, patting his children on the shoulder. 

He leaned down and spoke quietly into Alicent's ear.

"Perhaps the Prince shouldn't be alone right now. Visit his chambers. He'll be glad for the company."

Would he? 

Alicent couldn't think of a single gesture or word that could ease Rhaenar's pain.

But she knew this wasn't a suggestion. It was a command from her father.

"If you wish it."

As she quietly slipped out of the hall, the idea of visiting Rhaenar felt more and more right.

It gave her a reason to escape the feast early, and at the very least, she could bid Rhzenar goodnight and remind she was there, just as he did when her own mother passed. 

With each pace she took through the corridors, the weight of the feast and politics lifted. 

To be free of those prying eyes, those relentless whispers. 

Why was it, she wondered, even when she was given an order… when Rhaenar'a involved, she felt a sense of freedom?

Mere association. By simply being with Rhaenar, Alicent was allowed to leave behind the expectations. 

Some days, he embodied a beast that refused to be chained. A creature that longed, above all else, to be. 

Those simple dinners where everyone shared stories of their days, their weeks, their adventures, pilgrimages~

On others he was like a songbird in a cage. Only the door was always open.

Why didn't he step outside the cage?

Each thought quickened Alicent's steps, until she finally reached Rhaenar's wing of the royal apartments.

Calling it "Rhaenar's wing" wasn't entirely accurate. 

For security reasons, and at the King's insistence, the royal family shared quarters that were closely connected. They essentially had an entire floor to themselves.

But the hallway leading to Rhaenar's room was… interesting.

The walls adorned with paintings, aristocratic furniture lined the space. Nothing too out the ordinary.

It was the soldiers. They lounged on couches, sharpened blades.  Others played cards at tables. 

The rest either stood sentry or leaned on the railing and gazed at the courtyard below. 

Everything but act like men on guard duty.

Alicent felt their eyes on her. 

Despite the appearance of revelry, this was all a charade. A front. Bait for anyone who might be watching too closely. 

A hornets nest. How ready they were to strike and sheathe their steel.

Even so, these hardened men knew Alicent well. They paid no mind as she walked the hall, undisturbed.

To them, she was family — or rather, an extension of Rhaenar. 

A cute pup they tolerated, perhaps?

Alicent gave up trying to understand the peculiar, almost hive-like nature of the Rhaenari. The meaning of the word 'Legion'.

 They were unified in their loyalty yet constantly competing among themselves — as if each one aspired to be the man who saved their prince from an assassin.

'Always ready. Ready for what?'

Oddly enough, it gave a sense of confidence.

She raised her chin and glided down the hall, knocking on Rhaenar's door.

No answer. Strange. He usually replied right away. 

Asleep already?

She knocked again. Still nothing. A disheveled glance toward the soldier on duty was met with a casual shrug.

"I've a right mind to check on him," she said.

The soldier muttered something in reluctant approval.

As she opened the door, a chill swept past her.

 The fire in the hearth had died down to embers. Odd. Maybe he doused it with wine.

Her eyes scanned the book-filled room but found no one.

Then she saw him — a figure on the balcony, slumped against the railing. The silken curtains swayed lightly in the breeze, giving Rhaenar's silhouette an ethereal, ghostlike figure.

He was gazing out over the city,  the full moon beaming overhead, stars scattered like freckles around that silver eye. 

Below, the city danced with twinkling flame. 

Alicent moved toward him tentatively. 

As she stepped onto the balcony, Rhaenar spoke, his voice hollow, as if he had recognized her steps.

"It's all so empty. Is this how you felt when your mother passed?"

Alicent joined him at the railing, gazing out over the expanse of houses and the shimmering eastern coast of the Blackwater.

"It wasn't all empty," she said quietly. "I had you and Rhaenyra, after all."

"Not your father?" 

Rhaenar's question carried a bitter edge.

Alicent swallowed hard. His grief mirrored her own — how distant Ser Otto truly was from her. 

Had that happened between the King and Rhaenar now that Aemma had died? 

Alicent couldn't believe it.

"I think it's a mother's lot to give us love and compassion," she said. "And a father's to give strength and justice."

"And the daughter's to do their bidding?"

Alicent fell silent. It was not a provocation. Merely Rhaenar airing grievances against the world. 

Still, it stung her so that he had to do pointedly and briefly compare and sum his situation to hers.

But it was like he took much more responsibility.

'As if Queen Aemma had died on his watch...'

"I should have been there," he said darkly, "She told me to go. I wanted to go. So I left."

"It's not your fault."

"I'd like to believe that. Words can be hollow as my heart."

There it was, the cycle of grief that was all too familiar. All the questions we ask ourselves, the doubt and helplessness. 

Alicent placed a hand on his and was staggered by the heat of it.

'Though flowers may wither and towers do tumble, may love forever last.'

"That's what you wrote to me. Do you remember?"

Rhaenar showed hint of a rueful smile as he remembered.

The day he'd received the news of Lady Hightower's passing.