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RHAENYRA

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[perzo]

[ With Alicent turned to linger over her, Rhaenyra doesn't similarly draw herself upward — in this, she thinks, she deserves to be below, looking upward, her gaze finding Alicent's wide, brown eyes in the dark. Her girlhood friend's words cut deep, but true; a piece of her does mourn Daemon's absence, and always will, as she inwardly mourned their separation after his retreat to Harrenhal. But there is the piece that she has tried to conceal and failed in — the piece that looks at Alicent and mourns what could have been, all that was lost, as well as what could still be. ]

Easy? [ The laugh that escapes her, more of a breath, is an incredulous one, even as she grasps the meaning of Alicent's answer. It never will be easy, not these desires that she has only just brought herself to give voice to, not the love she has buried and unearthed and buried and unearthed again. ]

After all that has transpired... [ The slings they have thrown at each other, accusations both dishonest and true, the scars that linger deeper than a dagger can cut. ] The pain of being without you, truly, somehow feels so much greater.

[ But words will only offer so much assurance, she knows, when they are just as capable of being betrayed by actions. It would be all too convenient for her to lay in this bed, to make certain promises, and then behave in complete opposition to them. She is here, but still, she can feel Alicent's doubt, see it written in her gaze. This night is not merely for Rhaenyra herself to selfishly seek comfort in the arms of one she has not been able to forget, despite attempts. It must be for Alicent, too.

Her movements are careful, but deliberate, as she reaches out to cross what seems a shrinking distance between them, one finger catching beneath the thin strap of Alicent's nightdress and slowly drawing it down. The reason for it will become clearer once Rhaenyra rolls forward, just enough, to softly press lips to that bare curve of shoulder, once and then again, a slow trail of kisses that traverse skin in an ascent toward the side of Alicent's throat. ]

Try as I might otherwise, I cannot hold anything in my heart for you save love. [ Her arm wraps around Alicent's frame for fingers to trail through reddish curls and lower, tracing between shoulderblades and over lace trim. The words are less muffled when Rhaenyra relents and retreats, looking up from her own pillow. ]

And I no longer want to.

[unapparent]

[ When has Rhaenyra ever laid beneath her, at her mercy? The perfect princess, exalted even while flouting every law, has never fallen so low. When her boys maimed Alicent’s own, Viserys only sought to punish Aemond and Aegon. When Rhaenyra allowed herself to be spoilt — she gained a husband who would never touch her (who would never force himself upon her). In her darkest hours, Alicent has wanted to inflict all that pain upon Rhaenyra. The same, terrible instinct that led her to grasp Valyrian steel in her delicate hand.

And yet Alicent arches into her friend’s mouth, baring the length of her neck. When will you learn? A lamb that so loves the slaughter. The dragon’s maw. The wolf’s teeth. Are they not the same? Yes, when this creature would have her wretched husband and the lover he harms with his every act. Yes, when these hands will take her son’s head for the boon of men’s respect, as if she will become adequate with one less royal cock in the vicinity.

(Alicent knows better — her father’s ilk will follow whatever son remains and their sons after that. They will not bend the knee to a woman queen, least of all to the tyrant she must become to eradicate her challengers.)

Ultimately, she chooses to disregard of all that, as Rhaenyra disregards her pride and position in coming here. Alicent splays a hand at the centre of her chest, pushing her back with surprising force. She chases the momentum to straddle her at the waist, curls tumbling after her, over Rhaenyra. Her cunt, bare and wet, presses flush to her nightgown. ]

So cease your struggling.

[ — against their desires, chafing within the confines of their roles. ]

You are a dragon, are you not? You have never ceased to take what you wished — except — except —

[ in the matter of Alicent. ]

[perzo]

[ It should hardly come as a surprise, suddenly finding herself on her back with Alicent rearing atop, eyes wider and wilder than they had even been as they'd struggled with Viserys' blade between them, and yet Rhaenyra's breath practically punches out of her, stolen by the view from above. There is a fleeting moment when Alicent is all she can perceive — the spill of her curls introducing a wave of tantalizing scent, the heat of her center bleeding through the cotton of Rhaenyra's longer nightgown, leaving a damning spot of dampness behind that rapidly cools in its lingering.

And what if she did not cease, Rhaenyra thinks — because she suspects, within herself, that Alicent secretly enjoys the struggle, the way they have been forced to grapple with each other for the most meager scraps of power. The scar on her own forearm, ugly and raised, sits as proof of it. What would she do, then, if Rhaenyra brought that struggle to bed while Alicent sits astride, wrestled her down into the mattress and breached her with the relentless thrust of her fingers?

The quirk of one eyebrow hints as much, but Rhaenyra will not permit Alicent to finish her thought aloud — not when she can surge upward, hands sliding over silk and skin as she draws Alicent into the circle of her embrace, mouth brazenly seeking in the darkness. She inhales, sharply, at the softness that meets her, the warmth, but this is only the first kiss of an intended many tonight, and it doesn't take long for her initiated rhythm to become deeper, hungrier, tongue sweeping over Alicent's lower lip until Rhaenyra can lick into her mouth, greedily devouring.

If Alicent desires the dragon, then the dragon is what she will receive. In truth, the dragon is less complicated, impulse-driven, taking without remorse — and Rhaenyra sees no reason to apologize, especially while her lips are otherwise occupied. She suspects Alicent won't protest, either, when one hand skims upward to cup over the curve of her breast, kneading slowly through the fabric of her nightdress. ]