ALICENT
The whispers had become impossible to ignore.
Alicent stood at her window, watching the training yard below. Her daughter walked arm-in-arm with the bastard guard, the children trailing behind them like ducklings.
Scandalous. Shameful. Dangerous.
"She's happy."
She turned. Larys Strong sat in his usual chair, that twisted leg stretched before him, those knowing eyes missing nothing.
"Happiness isn't relevant. Propriety is."
"The queen's children are alive because of him. The court knows this. The servants know this. Even the Gold Cloaks who found the bodies know this." Larys tilted his head. "Propriety seems a small price for living heirs."
"She spends nights in his chambers."
"She spends nights sleeping peacefully for the first time in years. The maesters have noted the improvement in her... condition."
Alicent's jaw tightened. Helaena's "condition"—the visions, the prophecies, the episodes where she seemed to leave her body entirely. For years, they'd called it madness. Kept it quiet. Managed it.
Now it seemed to be fading. Or at least, controlled.
"You're suggesting I accept this?"
"I'm suggesting you consider whether opposition serves your interests." Larys rose, leaning on his cane. "The bastard has proven useful. He kills threats before they reach your grandchildren. He provides stability for your daughter. And he has a dragon."
The dragon. The dragonkeepers reported that Silverwing had accepted him—not as a rider yet, but as something. More than she'd accepted anyone since Queen Alysanne.
"What would you have me do?"
"Nothing, for now. Watch. Wait. If he becomes a liability, I'll handle it. If he remains an asset..." Larys smiled thinly. "Assets are useful in war."
He limped toward the door.
"One more thing," Alicent said.
He paused.
"My husband—my son—Aegon. Does he know about his wife's... attachment?"
"King Aegon knows. King Aegon doesn't care." Larys's smile widened. "His Grace has other interests. The queen's happiness is not among them."
He left.
Alicent returned to the window. Below, Helaena laughed at something the bastard said. The children raced ahead, chasing some game only they understood.
She looks alive, Alicent realized. For the first time in years, she looks truly alive.
Perhaps that was worth something.
Perhaps.
ULF
The small council chamber felt different with Helaena present.
She sat to Aegon's right—closer than the queen usually positioned. I stood behind her chair, technically a guard, actually something far more complicated.
Otto Hightower led the meeting. Reports on troop movements. Supply requisitions. Raven dispatches from lords pledging loyalty.
Aegon slouched in his throne, bored and visibly hungover. He'd acknowledged me with a grunt when we entered—more than most got.
"The Riverlands situation deteriorates," Otto said, spreading a map across the table. "Daemon has united most of the river lords under Rhaenyra's banner. Our allies in the region are being picked off one by one."
"Then burn the region," Aegon muttered. "Isn't that what dragons are for?"
"Indiscriminate burning creates enemies, Your Grace. We need allies, not ashes."
"You need allies. I need wine." Aegon waved a hand. "Continue without me."
He rose. Stumbled slightly. Left.
The room sat in uncomfortable silence.
Otto recovered first. "As I was saying. The Riverlands require a strategic response. Prince Aemond has proposed—"
"A word, Lord Hand."
Everyone turned. Helaena rarely spoke in council.
"Your Grace?"
"My... protector has studied the situation. His perspective may be valuable."
More silence. Heavier.
Otto's eyes found mine. Calculating. Measuring.
"Very well. Speak."
I stepped forward. Studied the map.
"You're treating the Riverlands as a single problem. It's not." I traced the river systems with my finger. "The Tullys control the crossings. Without the crossings, armies can't move effectively. Instead of attacking the lords, attack the infrastructure. Burn the bridges. Poison the fords. Make the region impassable."
"That would harm our own forces as much as theirs."
"Our forces don't need to move through the Riverlands. We need to keep theirs from moving out of it." I tapped Harrenhal. "Daemon's strength is mobility. Take that away, and he's just a man with a dragon trapped in a castle."
Otto studied the map. The other council members exchanged glances.
"It's not... without merit," Otto admitted.
"It's ruthless," Criston Cole added. But his tone carried approval, not criticism.
"War is ruthless." I stepped back. "You asked for perspective. That's mine."
The meeting continued. My suggestion wasn't adopted—Otto preferred his own plans—but it wasn't dismissed either.
Progress. Small steps.
When the council ended, Criston Cole intercepted me in the corridor.
"You've made powerful enemies, being here."
"I know."
"The Rogue Prince doesn't forgive."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"What will you do when he comes for you?"
"Kill whoever he sends. Again."
Criston studied me. That warrior's assessment—measuring skill, measuring threat, measuring usefulness.
"You truly believe you can stop him?"
"I believe I'll die trying if I have to. Same result either way—the people I protect stay safe."
"And if Daemon comes himself? On Caraxes?"
"Then I meet him on Silverwing. And one of us doesn't fly home."
He held my gaze for a long moment.
"You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Probably both."
A ghost of a smile crossed his face.
"At least you're honest about it."
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