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[ After the screaming and yelling, after the dying and accusations and words of broken hearts and honored bonds he hears from halfway across the room, he knows he has to seek Alicent out. He's met Aemond, and few others from the families that he's coming to realize are at one another's throats in another life; forced into tenuous, closed-quarters here. It's not a story he knows the nuances of, but it's not unfamiliar either. Europe had plenty of royals killing one another off for power. The Fae do the same, Summer and Winter always looking to usurp one another, only to go round-and-round in an eternal deadlock punctuated by random bursts of longevity.

He's busied his hands all afternoon with some work. A pair of needlenose pliers and paperclips he's been snipping into small segments, folding and curling and etching tiny, tiny sigils into. It'll be small, and easy to shatter, but anything might give Alicent more time. Enough time. A prayer in the dark. A finished companion sits in his pocket, to be delivered to Tim later on, but this one is for her and he wants her to witness its completion.

So, he ends up cornering her ( sorry ) in a hallway after the bulk of people retreat from the post-massacre screaming. ]

Hey, Penny? You had a hard go of it in there, I saw.

[ Alicent waits until the final vote, the name Danny Johnson settling at the back of her mind. Then, Louis de Pointe du Lac. She hopes they have found justice for the Prince Jacaerys this day; she doubts they have found it for any others. She cannot even light candles for them in the chapel, with how Embry’s killer desecrated their holiest place.

Harry times his approach well, when Aemond and Daemon are otherwise distracted by others. Alicent blinks up at him in surprise, as if returning to herself on a delay. ]

— oh, Ser Harry. [ A hard go of it in there, yes, she supposes that’s one way of putting it. She cannot muster a smile, even for him. ] It was not so different from a day at court, in truth.

[ The worst days, at least. Her blade pointed at Rhaenyra’s pale throat: Now they see you as you truly are in her perfect mouth. Daemon beheading Lord Vaemond with a single swing, for his treacherous tongue. ]

[ He's had a run-in with Aemond now, even if only on the network. Do you call my mother a whore stricken across his eyeballs, shocking him with the audacity of the question. It had gotten the gears in his head turning, though. How quick her kid had thought a nickname an insult. How quick people had leveraged their anger at Alicent, naming her treacherous, shaming her family name and connections and tearing them away from one another. ]

Yeah... [ The words creak, a drawl in his accent. Eyes shift aside, half-a-roll, a grimace of carelessness. Like he's not taking any of seriously. The words and insults and accusations aimed at her, at least. It'd be different if she could still manage a smile, maybe. Still put on a mask. Instead, she just looks small and tired. ]

Not so different from the court I'm part of, either.

[ There's no need to get too deep into it. He has a Queen, and she's a capricious and dangerous woman amidst an equally capricious and dangerous people. ]

You get that a lot, huh? Being yelled at. Having things you need to hang onto ripped out of your hands.

[ A nod, first, at his shared acknowledgment of courtly conflict, which so many here are unprepared to face. His question of the nature about the nature of her lot startles her features looser.

If Alicent had the time or clarity to look inwards tonight, she might say there is something about the role of the mother, isn’t there, that incites all to anger. She must be soft and protective, but not harsh, loving above all — if she is hard, if she chooses to do what needs to be done at the expense of her brood — well, it matters not.

She clasps her hands before her, the same as she had when facing the fire, and composes herself. Her father would not tolerate her weakness. ]

It is the lot of a second wife to a king, even more than the first.

[ Little whore, green witch, cold queen, come to steal the dragon’s bloodright. She thinks of how no one cared when it was her son who was maimed — how even Rhaenyra demanded he be questioned, as if any words might earn the slash of a knife. ]

[ His godmother had fondly named him a mannerless dog, when he had become conscious in the realm of Winter. Pinching his ribs with her sharp nails and twisting his hair tight between her fingers, the way she'd seen human women dart at their own children; a vicious mockery of maternal care, peppered with bitterly cold kisses on his feverish brow.

Of learning Court the hard way, unknowing of the mores and etiquette he had to adhere to until he'd trodden upon some higher Fae's unspoken rule and offended them. How his godmother had let them take him to task for it, watchful as a hawk and immovable as permafrost. You'll want to learn faster than that, dear godson. Once you Debut, your shameful conduct will reflect on your Queen. And she is not forgiving as I am of failures. You chose this. Live up to it.

So, yeah. He can guess what Court's like for a woman in Alicent's position. Second wife, Queen. Mother. Woman. ]

That's bullshit. Anyone who actually thinks that only wants to justify hurting you.

[ His voice drips with something abrasive and cold, eyes flashing stormy and dark at some distant enemy hiding unseen in Alicent's shadow. A faint "tsk", as he clicks his tongue, glancing back down to the pliers in his hands ( the paperclips in his pockets ), the burn blisters on his fingertips and palms. ]

It's just bullshit. I should teach you how to hit people like that.

[ So few have ever acknowledged the injustice of Alicent’s treatment, let alone scorned it openly. None cared that she was reduced over the years, even in small ways, swallowed by Targaryen red gowns and mocked for her girlish efforts at queenliness. Indeed, it is an occasion so foreign that she remains unsure of how to navigate it. She watches the slash of Harry’s mouth, surprised to see his features harden — when he has been soft and strange thus far, but never before sharp.

A step closer. Alicent gentles her hand over his wrist so as not to irritate the raw flesh on his hands or dislodge the materials clutched between them. ]

Furiosa has tried. [ the barest hint of levity tugs her mouth to one side. ] I haven’t the talent or temperament for such things, I’m afraid — though I am honoured by your hope that I might protect myself.

[ and not merely stand aside, a thing to be protected. As much as she might have enjoyed the relief of another interceding on her behalf, she’s grateful that none did. She was not cowed, facing her accusations as a queen ought. ]

And grateful that you have sought me out now, in your gallantry.

[ His fingers burn and sting, but until she touches his wrist, he hasn't so much as winced at their throbbing, the reddened skin crisped and blistering from the contact with iron, with steel. Working metal isn't the same, and he's been trying not to feel like he's lost some part of himself because of it.

Pain can be shut away, though. He's trained to do that, experienced in it, and when Alicent takes his wrist, he looks down to the injuries inflicted on both their hands ( he sees her nails, her ragged and ripped cuticles ). ]

What about learning just enough so you can get out of a bad situation and to someone else? Just because you're not throwing a punch doesn't mean you're not protecting yourself.

[ Nobody who isn't prepared to fight shouldn't be made to, or trained to. There are plenty of things one can do to escape, after all. He could see Alicent, fleet as a hare, ducking a violent encounter to find her son, her guard, a friend — hell, Harry puts his own name in his little mental hat of "Alicent Defenders". ]

Wouldn't say I was gallant. I admired you back there. I wanted you to know that.

[ Alicent drags her thumb along his pulse, soothing him or anchoring herself; she knows not. It is the most brazen sort of touch a courtly lady can manage with man.

The faint quirk of her mouth slips away as he speaks. Men always think they can fight their way to victory, don’t they? Her eyes flick to the left of him, mind elsewhere. ]

Perhaps.

[ Perhaps not. Alicent cannot imagine how clawing at her opponents would benefit her, when the true danger has never been physical. It manifests instead in the power men hold over her, strong enough that she has lied still as they took from her. What would twisting and scratching do, under Larys’ penetrating gaze? Nothing. ]

Thank you, Ser Harry. [ a touch stiff, as she returns to herself. ] It means a great deal to hear that from you.

[ and it does, despite her fading warmth. ]

[ Her hands are damaged, and whatever she wants to do with them, Harry exists in that moment as the clay she can mold.

He stands still, spine hooked down and toward her like an overlarge weed straining for a source of light. An offer in his mouth, that ultimately is for her to take or throw away. She's the one who got yelled at, sharp and accusatory, and she's the one now holding it together — a real lady of the court, her power soft and silent. Easily stolen from her by others. He's a man, tall and broad and brimming with raw firepower and he isn't entirely able to understand her place.

There's a few things he does understand, though. Enough to note the stiffness returning to her, and to not press her further. ]

Maybe you can teach me a few things, after this horrorshow is over.

[ He's not above learning from a woman, learning things that aren't fighting with fist and fire. ]

I'll do my part, too.

[ There and gone and back again: Alicent blinks as she returns to herself, eyes flickering to Harry’s sweet face. Different from the sharp-eyed gaze of Larys Strong, to be sure. Concerned for her and the others who might be endangered, but not protective to the point where she has no agency of her own. Indeed, none of her allies intervened when she faced Alina and Paul.

She releases his wrist, only to reach for his face, the briefest touch at his cheek. ]

I’d like that.

[ teaching him and learning from him both, even if she’s hopeless in a physical fight. warmly, then — ] Thank you, Ser Harry. I hope the morrow is kinder to us both.

INBOX

ACTION.

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cries... alicent...

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cw: sexual assault / abuse

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