The Dragon & The Wolf - 40 (Patreon)

Chapter XL: Parents and children

Alicent Hightower’s waters broke the moment she saw Syrax at her window. The chills that ran down her spine sent waves of terror and anxiety through her body, triggering the early birth of her third child.

Had she been lucid, she might have realized she had overexerted herself preparing for her husband and stepdaughter’s return—not to mention Rhaenyra’s wedding to Arthur Stark in the Great Sept. The news of Rhaenyra’s northern marriage before the Heart Tree of Winterfell had shaken Alicent to her core.

The very idea of Rhaenyra, of all people, wed before the Old Gods was disturbing enough. But the repercussions—the scandal, the outrage—had been overwhelming. What had Rhaenyra been thinking? She had rejected countless suitors, wasted months, and squandered a fortune on tours and courtships, only to marry the man who had been at her side all along. The lords felt deceived, having spent vast sums of gold and silver to court their princess, only for her to choose a Northerner who followed the wrong gods and offered her none of the wealth the southern lords had lavished. Behind closed doors, some called it thievery; others whispered of treason.

The harshest words came from the septons and septas. Most were horrified, decrying the Targaryens’ continued perversion of the Faith of the Seven. Jaehaerys’ Doctrine, which had made inbreeding acceptable to the Faith, had been a bitter pill to swallow, but they had accepted it. Now, to ask them to bless a marriage between an inbred woman and a heretic might be the final straw. What Alicent feared most, however, was the minority of septons who saw the union as an opportunity to convert the first Stark in history to the Faith of the Seven.

It was a foolish hope—Alicent knew Arthur Stark would never bend. Once this minority realized he would remain unbowed, they would rally the Faith to preach against the union and Rhaenyra’s claim, urging Alicent and her children to oppose them.

This was Alicent’s greatest fear. As she labored under the midwives’ instructions, pushing her third child into the world, her mind played cruel tricks.

She screamed in agony and horror, the pain in her lower belly worse than it had been with Aegon or Helaena, compounded by the haunting yellow eyes of Arthur Stark’s direwolf. Alicent was afraid—terrified—feeling utterly powerless, as if she and her children were doomed to suffer the consequences of others’ decisions and selfishness. The final push, bringing her child into the world, came with the deepest, most desperate scream she had ever uttered. It echoed through the delivery room, the same one where Queen Aemma had died years ago.

Hot tears streamed down Alicent’s cheeks as her world went dark. The midwives, focused on her newborn, paid her no mind. She wanted to cry for help, but her strength was gone.

“It’s a boy!” one of the women exclaimed.

Those were the last words the Queen heard before she passed out.

Even in unconsciousness, her mind remained tormented. She dreamt of the Starks and their weirwoods, of Arthur Stark’s cold grey eyes and his massive direwolf. She saw Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, her icy stare fixed on Alicent and her children. She dreamt of Helaena screaming as Northerners tore her from her mother’s arms. She saw Aegon, her firstborn, crying in agony as a direwolf and a dragon clamped their jaws on either side of his frail body, tearing him apart, leaving only his guts on the floor. She dreamt of the weirwood in the royal gardens, of the babe she had just birthed—“A boy!” the midwives had said—now in Arthur Stark’s arms. Alicent’s eyes widened in horror as the white tree came to life, its bark mouth opening. She cried out in despair as the Stark tossed her babe into the tree’s maw.

She had lost all her children. All her sacrifices had been for naught. Everything she held dear had been taken from her—for what? So Rhaenyra and Arthur could do as they pleased, consequences be damned. She was doomed to suffer, powerless to stop them from plunging the realm into chaos. She couldn’t protect her children because her father had been right: she was too weak to act.

Then she woke.

Covered in sweat, her hair and sheets clung to her skin. Even her eyes stung from the perspiration. She was so exhausted she struggled to lift her arms, as if her bones were rusted and her body heavier than ever. Yet she fought to sit up. Just as she nearly succeeded, a sharp pain radiated from her lower belly, and worse, she realized Rhaenyra was in her room, asleep at the foot of her bed. Alicent let out a cry of surprise and fear as images from her nightmares flashed through her mind. Her arms gave out, and she collapsed back onto her pillows, her breath heavy and rapid.

Rhaenyra woke with a start, nearly knocking over her chair. Seeing Alicent’s open eyes, she rushed to her side, only for the Queen to recoil in terror.

“Shh, it’s alright,” the Princess said, grabbing Alicent by the armpits to help her sit up. “You’re safe now. Your son is fine. Don’t overdo it.”

The same chills that had broken her waters ran down Alicent’s spine again as Rhaenyra touched her. Once more, she felt powerless, at the mercy of her stepdaughter. “M-my baby,” she muttered, remembering the weirwood.

“Your son is fine, Alicent. He’s healthy. The maester says he’s strong.”

Alicent would have sighed in relief if Rhaenyra weren’t by her side.

“The King…?”

“He’s resting,” Rhaenyra replied, biting her lower lip. “Traveling from the North on dragonback was better for his health than a journey by wheelhouse and ship, but he was exhausted when we landed. He had to be brought to his quarters for the maester to examine. Melos says he needs rest to recover. He doesn’t even know you’ve given birth.”

Alicent’s heart sank. She hadn’t seen her baby either. She was about to ask for him but hesitated, realizing Rhaenyra would likely bring him herself. She needed someone else—someone she could trust. “I-I need to use the restroom.”

Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows. “I’ll fetch your handmaidens.”

She did, but to Alicent’s quiet dismay, she lingered by the door until Alicent was done and returned after the Queen instructed her handmaidens to bring her son.

Why won’t she leave me alone?

“Rhaenyra… you don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”

“I know,” the Princess replied quickly. “I know I’m kind of useless here. I just… I need to talk to you about something. Are you well enough to talk?”

Alicent didn’t want to talk. She wanted to hold her baby and forget the chaos her stepdaughter had caused. By the Seven, I haven’t even named him! He’s a nameless prince! I have a living son, and he doesn’t have a name!

She opened her mouth to make an excuse, but her handmaiden returned with her son before she could. Relief washed over Alicent as she saw him, and she eagerly extended her arms to take him. He was asleep, and her arms were weak from the birth, but she didn’t care. This was her boy, her second son. She had only seen him in her nightmare, swallowed by a weirwood. Now she needed to hold him, to feel his breath, to know he was alive.

He was beautiful, his hair pure silver-gold, like his father’s—a true Targaryen prince. Her son… her perfect little darling boy.

When she looked up to ask for water, she saw the door closing. The handmaiden must have assumed the Queen and Princess needed privacy.

Idiot! Alicent cursed inwardly.

“Rhaenyra, I’m thirsty. Can you get me a cup of water?”

Her stepdaughter nodded and complied. After quenching her dry throat, Alicent cleared it and said, “I’m sorry, but I…”

“I’m with child.”

Alicent blinked, once, twice. The news stunned her, throwing her thoughts into a whirlwind. Rhaenyra was with child!

“I haven’t felt well these past few weeks. The maester said my symptoms match a pregnancy… Arthur’s seed must have taken root quickly after our wedding night, if not on the night itself. I just… I don’t know what to do. Arthur doesn’t know yet, and I’m terrified. How do you deal with this? How did you do it?”

Anger stirred within Alicent, a feeling she hadn’t known in some time. Here she was, lying in bed after a painful birth and a horrific nightmare, holding her nameless son, desperate for peace. Yet Rhaenyra was denying her that, consumed by her own impending motherhood, seeking the comfort she had withheld from Alicent when she carried Aegon.

Alicent wanted to scream, to tell Rhaenyra to leave her alone so she could tend to her son. But she had no strength left. Instead, she gently rocked her newborn and kissed his forehead. A long, tired sigh escaped her lips, easing the tension Rhaenyra’s presence had brought.

Regaining her composure, she whispered, careful not to wake her boy, “Rhaenyra… I’m exhausted. I need to rest. I haven’t even named my son—your brother. I’d like a moment alone with him. I can’t help you right now.”

Rhaenyra’s expectant expression crumbled like a house of cards. Alicent couldn’t deny a flicker of grim satisfaction. The Princess mumbled an apology and left the room.

“Congratulations,” Alicent called after her, receiving only a nod in response.

Unfortunately, she had spoken too loudly, and her babe began to cry. She breastfed him to soothe him.

“Shh, it’s alright, my sweet. You’re fine now. She’s gone.”

A name—she needed to give him a name. With her husband asleep, she was free to choose. He had named Aegon without her input; now was her chance to decide. She thought hard despite her exhaustion. Her son needed a Targaryen name, as a prince of the blood. She disliked many of the traditional names, but he needed one to carry his family’s legacy, a symbol of greatness to inspire the lords and people.

Naming him Jaehaerys would have been the smartest political move, cloaking her sons in the prestige of Westeros’ greatest kings. But, just as she hadn’t named Helaena “Alysanne,” she disliked Jaehaerys as a name. Jaehaerys had many sons, though not all reached manhood, each carrying part of his legacy.

She refused to name her babe Baelon, the name of Queen Aemma’s ill-fated son, fearing it might curse him.

But Baelon had an older brother, Princess Rhaenys’ father: Prince Aemon. It was almost perfect. Alicent wanted her son to have a unique name, one that would inspire future queens. She tweaked it slightly and spoke it aloud to test its sound. Satisfied, she summoned her handmaidens.

“Let it be known throughout the realm: the King has been blessed with a second son, Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

(-)(-)(-)

“I’m with child… and no one cares.”

Such were Rhaenyra’s thoughts as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, heading to her chambers to rest and hide the storm of emotions seizing her heart and mind. Nearly two moons had passed since her wedding to Arthur. Morning sickness had begun three weeks after their wedding night. At the time, she attributed it to the strain of weeks in the North—fighting beyond the Wall, her confession, the wedding, and frequent couplings with her husband. She had thought she simply needed rest. Returning to the South, her natural environment, was supposed to help.

But at every inn where she and her father stopped, Rhaenyra found herself hunched over a chamberpot, cursing her body for rejecting all but water and porridge—and she loathed porridge. After returning to the Dragonpit, and after Maester Melos tended to her father, Rhaenyra confided in him about her symptoms. Though not as experienced as Grand Maester Runciter, Melos quickly deduced the cause: she was carrying Arthur’s child.

Rhaenyra froze, unable to speak. She should have known—she and Arthur had certainly been diligent—but imagining herself pregnant had been daunting enough. Realizing it was true unleashed a storm in her mind. She swore the maester to secrecy. Though married, she knew many lords and septons would deem her northern marriage invalid. That was why she and Arthur planned a second wedding in the Great Sept before a septon. No one could know of her pregnancy, and Arthur needed to reach King’s Landing quickly. She couldn’t trust a raven with such news; her northern husband needed to hurry before anyone noticed her condition.

But the secret was too heavy to bear alone. With her father exhausted and asleep, Rhaenyra turned to the one person who might understand: Alicent. The timing, however, was abysmal. Alicent’s waters had broken the moment Syrax landed in the Dragonpit, and her labor had been far longer than her previous ones. Rhaenyra was terrified by Alicent’s screams and the ordeal’s duration. Arthur was far larger than her father; her own child could be bigger than Alicent’s, prolonging her labor, increasing her pain, and raising the risk of death.

But Alicent rejected her, and Rhaenyra couldn’t blame her. Had Alicent come to her right after labor, before she could hold or name her child, Rhaenyra would have dismissed her too. Now, though, she was alone—utterly alone. As she walked the corridors, resisting the urge to touch her belly, she saw them: the looks, the stares, the disdain, the anger, the disgust, the jealousy, the mockery. Every courtier’s eyes seemed to gleam with those emotions. They smiled, bowed, wished her a good day, some even congratulated her on her northern wedding, claiming they couldn’t wait for her proper marriage in the Sept. But gods, what she saw in their eyes sent shivers down her spine, threatening to freeze her rigid.

She needed to reach her chambers, to lock herself away and quell the storm within. She couldn’t stay exposed, vulnerable, with a babe to protect. She needed her husband desperately.

Unfortunately, she ran into three men she had all but forgotten, men she had never truly cared for—but they had not forgotten her. Owen Fossoway, Adrian Tarbeck, and Amos Harlton: a Reachman, a Westerman, and a Riverman.

Three suitors from three kingdoms, now three enemies, their anger and humiliation palpable. Thankfully, Ser Harrold Westerling’s presence kept them civil, but their barely concealed disdain made it clear they would demand reparations. Rhaenyra didn’t blame them. She had used them to feign duty while grieving Arthur’s absence. They had invested heavily in courting her, only for her to abandon them for her heart, flying to the North.

That move, though glorious in her fight against the wildlings, was now deemed “pitiful” by many.

Worse, her trials beyond the Wall were diminished. The court believed she had merely burned a few dozen defenseless, naked savages. Her blood boiled. They live beyond the Wall, you idiots! How could they be naked or weaponless? How do you think they hunt or fight? What do you know of the hell the Wall protects us from?

Finally reaching her chambers, she locked the door and let hot tears stream down her cheeks. Placing both hands on her belly, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, weeping. She cursed them all—those ignorant fools angry at her for defying their will. She was with child—her first child, hers and Arthur’s! Yet she had to hide her pregnancy for her own safety, with no support in this wretched keep.

“Arthur…” she breathed, as distressed as she was angry. “Hurry, please… I can’t handle this alone. If you don’t come soon, you might find nothing but a mountain of ash.”

(-)(-)(-)

Arthur Stark.

The name haunted Prince Qoren Nymeros Martell since he learned of his son’s death. He had cursed it, cursed his son’s foolishness. His people had roared for war when news of Qyle’s death spread through Sunspear’s streets. War for a boy’s pettiness, for his son’s pride. In private, Qoren had wept for his son, the boy he had held twenty years ago.

A trial by combat against a Stark… How had his perfect son grown so arrogant? What had Qyle hoped to gain? Glory? A wolf’s pelt? The prestige of mocking Stormlanders, Northerners, and Targaryens? What had he gained in the end? His throat torn out by a savage’s teeth. Qoren imagined his baby boy, once cradled in his arms, butchered by a barbarian.

Standing alone in his solar, gazing at Sunspear, he wiped a single tear from his cheek. Arthur Stark. His spies in King’s Landing had sent constant reports since Qyle’s death. Despite descending from the Kings of Winter, Arthur held no real power: not heir to Winterfell, his role at court was meant to be a mere northern ambassador. He entered the Red Keep without an escort but climbed the ranks faster than any non-Targaryen player of the game. From advisor to the heir to Hand of the King, only to fall in disgrace, tried for attempted rape, then exonerated by his supposed victim. After a tourney that echoed across the realm, he resigned as Hand. Yet Princess Rhaenyra flew to the North, fought wildlings beyond the Wall, and married him, shocking the realm—including Qoren.

“It seems the gods favor this man,” he said grimly, staring out at Sunspear. “And opposing him has become more dangerous than ever.”

Qoren had planned vengeance since learning of his son’s death. He might have acted, had he not received a raven from Rickon Stark, Warden of the North and Arthur’s uncle. The letter revealed Rickon’s poisoning and slow death, stating he sought no vengeance for his murder. It mentioned a forged letter in a woman’s handwriting sent to Winterfell under his name. Qoren understood the implication, though he couldn’t be certain if Rickon was playing him. The Warden urged burying the Stark-Martell conflict to avoid war over two boys’ foolishness. The words, hard as they were, resonated with Qoren, tempering his resentment.

But news of Arthur’s marriage to Rhaenyra awoke something else—not vengeance, but justice. Why should his son rot while the other thrived? At two-and-fifty, Qoren’s position as Prince of Dorne demanded caution. He had lost one child; he would not lose another.

He needed to confront the one locked in the highest room of the Spear Tower, where she couldn’t act rashly, like murdering a Warden. His daughter, Esmera, was brought before him minutes after his command. One look told him her isolation had not calmed her; she glared at him as if he were an obstacle, a shame to their family, a disgrace as a father. It hurt deeply.

“Leave us,” he told his guards. Alone with Esmera, he frowned, his tone stern. “Do not give me those eyes, Esmera. You know how foolish you’ve been.”

“Spare me your reprimands, Father. Has the old man died yet?”

“If he has, I’ve heard nothing of it. No, I summoned you to tell you Princess Rhaenyra has married Arthur Stark and taken him as consort.”

For a moment, Esmera’s disdain and hatred gave way to shock and confusion. “Avenging your brother is now far more complicated. If Arthur Stark dies by our hand, the wrath of the Seven Kingdoms will strike Dorne to its core. For now, it isn’t worth it.”

Her anger surged tenfold. “Not worth it? My brother is dead—DEAD! Murdered by a savage who tore out his throat with his teeth! How are you so calm?”

“Because I have other children to think of!” Qoren snapped, fed up with her narrow-mindedness. “How do you think Rhaenyra will react if we kill her husband? She’ll be as furious as you and stop at nothing for vengeance. Avenging Qyle now is foolish and pointless; we’d lose more than we’d gain. You’re lucky Rickon chose not to be avenged, or we’d already be at war.”

“Oh, please!” Esmera scoffed. “The kingdoms despise each other and the North most of all.”

“They despise us most of all, you fool. And they unite when there’s profit in it. We mustn’t give them cause to unite and wait until they’re so divided we can use them against each other for vengeance. You, foolish girl, want to spill blood regardless of the cost. Answer me: is avenging Qyle worth sacrificing your siblings?”

Esmera’s anger intensified; she clenched her fists until her palms bled. Qoren watched the drops fall in despair. Mother Rhoyne save me, this girl follows her heart in a blink rather than thinking for a second.

“You’ll return to your room and stay there until you’ve cooled down and started thinking. I warn you, Esmera: if you trick me into believing you’ve understood, only to go behind my back again, I’ll disinherit you and exile you to Essos. Is that clear?”

Fear mingled with her anger, enough for now, he hoped. “You’d deny me my rights and lose another child just for seeking justice for my brother?”

“No, I’d send you far from Dorne and your siblings before you sacrifice them for fleeting satisfaction. If you can’t see your folly, you’re unfit to rule our lands if you’d ruin them so easily.”

With that, Qoren called his guards to escort Esmera back to the Spear Tower, praying she’d find sense. Her anger wasn’t lost on him—he felt it too, but hid it better, refusing to let it cloud his judgment. He needed to stay sharp, or he’d lose everything, and his son would never rest in peace.

Qoren was patient, a lesson passed down since Meria Martell. He had failed to teach it to his daughter, but she would learn in time. Arthur Stark would pay—perhaps in a decade, perhaps after Qoren’s death, but he would. The North wasn’t the only kingdom with a long memory.