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85 AC
Aegon, third son of Baelon, survives the infection of his first year. He coughs and cries horribly for such a young babe, and pusses out the eyes no matter how often the Maesters wash his face, but he lives. Blessedly, Viserys and Daemon - kept away from the babe - do not catch any such illness. Alyssa watches over their sons, even in death. Baelon is glad of it.
As the boy grows, the effects of the babe’s infection are obvious, immediate, and devastating. The boy’s eyes are a washed out shade of Baelon’s own beloved sister-wife’s - there is no pupil, no response when his nursemaids fuss over him. These eyes, the eyes of his unfortunate third son - they are unfocused, they are unnerving, and they are blind. A blind Targaryen prince. Was there ever such a jest in all of Westeros?
Baelon laments the loss of his wife, and he laments the loss of his son, though the boy still breathes.
112 AC
She has never been to the king’s chambers before, so she doesn't know what they would look like, but Alicent is certain that the chambers of a king would not be so dark.
The servants had left her there, at the intimidating door of carved wood - and she won’t dare call out to them, from where they’ve bowed into the shadows. They’ve done their job. Now, she must do hers. Alicent knocks at the door, calls out, and hearing no reply, no response - wants to flee into the shadows, back to the Godswood tree, back to Rhaenyra. She does not want to be a part of this. Instead, maybe foolishly, she opens the door, and she enters the dark chambers.
Her mother’s dress hangs uncomfortably low on her shoulders. She squints against the low light of the space. She is not such a fool to be unaware of her Father’s intentions in sending her here, in comforting a grieving man who has just lost his lady-wife in the dress that shows she is a woman grown. Her stomach curdles like milk, and the feeling is not helped by the press of her stay against her ribs.
“Your grace?” She calls out to the dark room at large, searching for any sign of a figure in low candlelight, and almost jumps out of her skin at the responding call. “I think you must be in the wrong chambers, maid. I am certainly not my brother,” the man sitting near the open window calls, and Alicent feels herself flush up to her ears.
The darkness of the room, the open window despite the pitch blackness of the night - it is explained by the moon-illuminated figure of the man sitting in the armchair. She was not led to the chambers of the King, but of the Prince Aegon.
She has seen her friend’s youngest uncle in passing - at the funeral of Queen Aemma, or the occasional important celebration, but the man is largely absent from court life. It is no wonder, her father tells her, that the Prince Aegon is a recluse, hardly leaving his chambers. A blind prince - though no one dares to say it to his face, it’s unseemly. The prince is hidden away, when he’s not hiding - when he walks about, he is led by a man-servant in dark robes, dressed as simply as a prince can manage, being fed like a babe with chopped pieces of veal at the few events he attends. Even Rhaenyra finds absurdity in it, in the crippled prince - her friend adores the odious Prince Daemon, but the very uncle who lives in the same castle as her goes unspoken.
A man of twenty-and-seven, a prince at that, she hears the girls at court giggle, who should by all accounts be dashing - blind. A cripple. She swallows around the lump in her throat, flushed up to her ears. He snorts at her silence, and she sees the smile on his lips - how his head does not face her as he speaks, just off-kilter. “Leave me, maid. These are the wrong chambers.”
In a moment, the lump in her throat evaporates to heat that makes her ears flush hot. She speaks despite herself, aware of how loud her voice is in the silence. “I am not a maid, your -” she flushes harder at her fumbling, “...my lord. I am Lady Alicent Hightower. I did - well, I did think that these were the chambers of your brother. The servants mistakenly took me here, instead of…there.”
She prepares to turn around, to flee, but stops at the sound of his low laugh. She freezes, foot pressed against stone, and listens to him speak. His voice is reedy, almost boyish, in the dark, cold room. “Lady Hightower. Yes, the friend of my niece - you do not speak often, do you? At the events I’ve gone to, I only might know it’s you from the rustle of your skirts. Large skirts, I presume. You are my niece’s silent shadow, yes? Almost a lady’s companion?” He questions, and Alicent can hear the humor in his tone. It chafes her. Her cheeks are red. Large skirts. Silent shadow. Lady’s companion.
She turns around, and she allows herself to give into an uncomely habit - she crosses her arms, expression falling. What use is there in looking pleasant for a blind man, even if that man is a prince? “Well, maybe that’s true, but - you do not attend many events, do you?” She says, and realizes a moment later that it is a slight. She’s almost taken aback at her own rudeness. The prince laughs again, and she watches his hand fumble in the moonlight, before it pats at the arm of a neighboring chair.
“Well said. Sit, and tell me why your skirt does not rustle the same,” he says, and Alicent hesitates, but he continues, voice humorous but tense, “And tell me why a maiden without her large skirts might be visiting my poor widowed brother in the dead of night.” It is not a request, no matter how it’s phrased. Though he is a cripple - he is a Targayen prince. Alicent remembers that simple fact suddenly.
Alicent’s heart drops. She moves, and she sits. She stares at her finely slippered feet, and can’t think of a response. She cannot honestly tell the Prince of her Father’s ideas - so she doesn’t. Instead she asks, viewing the glimmering lights of King’s Landing far beyond the window - “How do you know it’s night?”
Now that she’s closer, his head leans towards her voice. She has never been this close to the Prince Aegon - she sees that the strange, peculiar resemblance of her friend’s family did not skip him. He’s as silver-haired as any of the others, though his is cut short. He is clad in a heavy, dark robe and leans against his armchair like it’s a familiar place for him. He is thin - and his sightless eyes are pale purple, unnerving, just like all the whispers say. He considers her question, and jabs his finger at his own chest - a rude gesture for a prince, but she supposes no one will reprimand him.
“The servants have dressed me in bed clothes,” He says, his tone dry, and Alicent’s face colors. The way he says it is - well, it’s funny. She feels a little like an idiot for asking, but lets out an amused huff of air. His visage twitches, and she gets the feeling that he’s amused. He parrots the question back to her, “How do you know it’s night?”
Alicent thinks it a little bit of a stupid question, but considering that she herself asked it moments before, she answers honestly. “It’s dark outside. You can see the lights from the smallfolk in their homes, out beyond the window,” She says, and feels her shoulders tense. You can see - she’s said to the blind man.
The prince does not seem to take amusement or offense to her words. Instead, his head lolls against the armchair, as relaxed as he could ever be. He makes a request of her, eyelids fluttering. “Tell me about it. How the night looks outside the window, and how the lights look,” he bids. Alicent hesitates.
The situation is highly improper. A maiden and a crippled prince, alone in a room at night, speaking to each other alone - but then again, she thinks, if she had reached the king’s chambers tonight - would the situation really be much better? No. No. It is a betrayal of her Father, but she’s glad she is here instead. Her skin crawls at the thought of where she should be.
She nods, and realizing he cannot see it, considers the best way to start. There is no best way, so she just starts talking, and she does not stop until much, much later in the evening. The prince interjects to ask her - clarifications, questions, all the like - about the way the night of the Red Keep looks, and Alicent, having let down her posture in the face of a man who cannot see it, clad in her ill-fitting dress - is content to be here, and content to speak.
Late 112 AC
She prays to the Seven to forgive her for her deception of her Father, but at night - instead of the King’s Chambers, she visits the Prince Aegon’s.
They don’t always sit at the armchairs and talk about the night, the way things look in darkness - in the months following their initial meetings, their location in his chambers changes. Sometimes they sit at the large oaken table and she reads a favorite scroll of poetry to him - this is how she learns that he likes poetry, particularly nature poems - and more recently, he will ask her to pick the scroll, so she feels a tad embarrassed but picks out the stories of dashing knights and happy endings and reads to him, and he listens.
Other times, they will play a poorly constructed game of chess, where the Prince makes moves at random, misaligning pieces, and Alicent humors him, holding back her laughs, and the whole charade is shattered when he declares himself the winner after succeeding only in knocking two of his own pieces to the left. It’s simple fun.
One night, he starts out on a new topic of conversation. He is laying in bed, and she sits at the window armchairs, thumbing through the latest poetry scroll, when he hums. “I have a castle, you know,” he says, and leaves that phrase hanging there. She quirks her eyebrow, her leg kicked out casually - improper, if only he could see her, but he cannot - and replies, bemused, “My prince, I could’ve gathered that,” she states, though she truthfully cannot remember what sort of far-away land has been the birthright of Baelon’s third son.
He chuckles, a familiar sound, and runs his hand across his quilt from where he lays. His room is still dark - but the servants are the good sort, and they keep quiet on her visits to the Prince, and they light candles so she can at least make out more than the silhouette of his figure every time she visits. “You could’ve,” he admits, “But it’s not common knowledge, and it’s not a glorious castle, I’ve been told. I visited it once, as a child. It is in the storm lands - at the enclave below Massey’s Hook, but above the Sapphire Island. It sits on rocks. The stone was rounded from water, mossy, and the place smelled dank - but it is a castle. There are servants who labor without a lord, goats who climb the rocky shores, and the nearest village is a day away by carriage. The whole of the place smelled like sheep. A fitting castle, for a third son and a cripple. It is called Little Fang. Quaint, I know.”
Alicent mulls over his words, picturing the place in her mind. She can imagine it, but despite his grim words - when she sees it in her mind, it doesn’t seem all bad. Little Fang sitting on the rocks of the storm lands, a strong hold against the raging rains and harsh winds of the bluff. An enclave, where fish could be brought from and roasted - the meals would be simple for a prince, maybe, but they’d be rich. She realizes she has been silent for too long.
“A castle is impressive on its own, and yours doesn’t sound bad. I -” She mulls over her words, but says them anyway, “I’d like to visit the stormlands. I’ve heard the forests are beautiful, and the people hardy, due to the weather. It seems…” her mouth is dry, “peaceful. Very peaceful.”
The prince falls silent at that. His pale eyes stare down at the comforter. His voice rasps. “Yes. It does. Perhaps…” he seems to steel himself, “...perhaps one day you might visit it.”
Alicent’s face goes red. She holds the scroll to her chest, grateful the man cannot see her. “Yes,” she strangles out, feeling a fool, “Yes, that would be - good. We could - we could go together.” Her face is hot.
The prince on the bed murmurs, hands laid flat over his comforter. “Together,” he echoes, and that is the end of the night.
116 AC
Their marriage is a quiet thing, quickly forgotten by all except them, but Alicent does not think she has ever been so happy. The dragonless, blind Targayen prince and the daughter of the disgraced former King’s Hand - whatever interest levied towards them quickly dissipates in the wake of the elaborate and admittedly ruinous ceremony of the King’s own daughter.
Court holds no appeal to her, and without the favor of her father, or the friendship of Rhaenyra - she is all too happy to flee with her husband. With Aegon. To the stormlands, to their castle.
Little Fang is a welcome respite, and as the Lady of the Castle, Alicent is all too happy to do as she pleases with it. Aegon is content, though she consults him at every step of the way. She is determined for her lord husband to be able to navigate his entire keep. He cuts a striking figure, she tells him, with his dragon-headed cane and his long silver hair, striding confidently around his keep. He insists that he does not believe her, but he also insists on Alicent oiling and combing his hair every night, so really, he is funny in that way.
Little Fang opens up possibilities that she never could’ve thought of. She has been raised to be the lady of a lord’s household, and now, she puts it into action. It brings her joy, to manage the domestic affairs - what tapestries are brought from where, what time the servants should open and shut the wide, sea-struck windows, when the supper shall be served. She also delights in the newfound intimacy with Aegon - she adores waking next to him, feeling his touch against her back, how he likes to sit out on the balcony of the castle, above the rocks and the sea, and take it all in. She never thought such a simple life could be such a delightful one. She never thought she could deserve something like this.
The good news is given on a day where they stroll along the hills. Aegon’s cane catches on rocks, and Alicent stumbles over her heavy outdoor dress, but they lope and their few guards follow. “Aegon,” Alicent says, as they sit on the high crest of a hill, overlooking the gray sky and the cold sea and feeling the shawl spread beneath her, “I’ve terrible and wonderful news.”
Aegon hums. His hand comes to caress her face - he has come to know her profile. “Oh no,” he utters, sounding utterly bland, “Tell me, or I might die of anticipation, dear wife. I would be burned right here, in this very spot.”
Alicent hides her smile behind her wide sleeve, though she has the idea that he knows of her mood. “I’m with child,” She says, and for once, she gets to be the keen-eared - she hears his choke of breath, and she laughs, high and reedy, in her desolate castle with her perfect husband, and thanks her luck for entering the wrong chambers.
127 AC
“I am happy there are many worms here,” Helaena says, crouched over her favorite corner of the castle’s inner ground and Alicent can’t bring herself to question her odd daughter. Helaena’s oddness is endearing - and she is such a happy girl, Alicent thinks. She seems, everyday, to marvel at the scenery around the castle, smile at her brothers, press kisses to her Father’s face and call him Papa. Aegon refuses to admit it, but Alicent knows the truth - though he loves all three of their children, it is Helaena, his only daughter, who holds the softest bit of his heart.
Her daughter is giggling, watching a handful of worms squirm in her palms. Alicent shudders, but doesn’t stop the girl as she presents them to her. “Very nice,” Alicent says, shying away, and Helaena smiles. “Mother,” She says, her cheeks pinked, eyes delighted, “I am very glad that the corridors were so dark. That the sickness was kind to Papa. That there are no rats in Little Fang, because the weather is too cold and too wet. That I am the oldest child,” Her daughter exclaims, and she cannot deny the girl a thing.
Alicent presses a kiss to the child’s cheek, humming. “That is good, then, to be so glad for such simple things,” She says, and Helaena’s smile widens.