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The king was dead.
The candles in the Red Keep burned in mourning, but the halls whispered a different song: the song of Rhaenyra Targaryen's victory.
Crowned with the gold of the fire and blood that ran through her veins, the new queen had swept away the last remnants of treason. The former Hand of the King had been sent back to his homeland in disgrace, guarded day and night by men loyal to Rhaenyra. The bastard sons of the widowed queen, shamed and defeated, now served at the Wall — a punishment that tasted of mercy.
Only one loose piece remained on the shattered board of succession.
Alicent Hightower.
The woman who had once been her stepmother, her political rival, her distorted mirror. The woman who had lived as queen in her place, lying in her father’s bed, wrapped in veils of devotion and ambition.
Rhaenyra donned the black cloak of House Targaryen — now a symbol of absolute power. With a flick of her hand, she gave the order:
— Bring the Dowager Queen to my chambers.
The maids glanced at one another, but dared not question her.
Alicent was escorted to the royal chambers with steady steps and proud eyes, even though she knew her position was nothing but a shadow. The door closed behind her with a thud that seemed to seal her fate.
— Your Grace, Alicent said, her voice tense but still unbroken. To what do I owe the honor?
Rhaenyra walked toward her slowly, like a dragon finally cornering its prey.
— You know very well why.
The Targaryen’s gaze burned with something beyond hatred. It was desire, long restrained. Vengeance wrapped in silk. For a second, Alicent faltered.
— Are you going to kill me? she whispered.
— No, Rhaenyra replied, her fingers already threading through the brunette locks of the queen. I’m going to do much worse.
With a firm hand, she took Alicent by the chin, lifting her face. The bed where the king had died stretched behind them, silent and heavy with history.
— I’m going to take you here, where you once lay with him, Rhaenyra whispered, her lips grazing the other woman’s skin. And every time you come, you’ll remember who really won.
Alicent tried to step back, but her back met the cold wood of the door. Rhaenyra stayed close, her violet eyes lit by the fire of the hearth. There was something in her presence now — something that transcended the crown. A fierce, total dominance Alicent had always feared… and maybe, deep down, desired.
— So many nights, Rhaenyra murmured, brushing her lips against Alicent’s neck, still not kissing — I imagined what it would be like to strip you of that fake sanctity. You always wanted the throne, Alicent… but I always wanted you.
The Dowager Queen closed her eyes. She wanted to say something — a protest, an accusation — but all that escaped was a sigh. Hot. Unwilling.
Rhaenyra smiled, savoring the weakness.
— Take off that mask of purity, she ordered. Here, you’re no longer the mother of kings. Here, you’re only mine.
With deft fingers, she loosened the ties of Alicent’s dress, revealing the skin that had long been hidden under layers of fabric, duty, and guilt. The nudity that emerged wasn’t just physical — it was the collapse of a life dedicated to denying her own desires, her own thoughts.
Rhaenyra gently pushed her toward the bed — the same one where Viserys had drawn his final breath, lost in the fog of illness. Alicent sat at the edge, trembling — but not from fear.
The Targaryen climbed onto her like a storm.
Hot and cruel kisses trailed down her throat. Demanding hands explored every curve, every emotional scar. Alicent tried to hold on to control, but every touch stripped away another layer of resistance. When Rhaenyra undressed her completely and ran her tongue down the center of her belly, the widow arched and clutched the sheets like they could save her from her own undoing.
— Don’t fight it, the new queen whispered. This is your punishment. And your pleasure.
Alicent gasped, her body trembling under Rhaenyra’s command. The dress was now just a heap of wrinkled fabric on the floor. Her once-bound hair was loose, clinging to her sweaty forehead, and the eyes that had so often stared at the throne with reverence were now lost — drunk on something stronger than shame: desire.
— Open your legs for me, Rhaenyra ordered, kneeling between the widow’s thighs, her voice low, like she was commanding a battlefield.
Alicent hesitated — dignity still clung to her, fear still lingered.
But the hesitation lasted only a second.
Rhaenyra gripped her knees and parted them with force. The gesture was rough, possessive, almost cruel.
— I said... open.
The Dowager Queen obeyed. Not out of submission — but because her skin burned, her core throbbed. The humiliation was like wine spilled on parched lips: bitter, but addictive.
Rhaenyra leaned between her legs, eyes fixed on the exposed flesh. Alicent tried to close her eyes, but the Targaryen’s voice cut through.
— Look at me.
And then she licked her. Slow at first, like savoring a trophy. Her tongue explored every fold, every sensitive point with a precision that bordered on cruelty. Alicent moaned loudly, her hips lifting in search of more — but Rhaenyra held her in place by the hips, forcing her to stay still.
— No, you're not coming that easy, she murmured against her clit before sucking it hard, drawing an involuntary cry.
Alicent panted, her breasts rising and falling, shame and pleasure clashing in every fiber of her being. Rhaenyra devoured her like a starving woman, like she was taking what had been denied to her for years.
And then she slid two fingers inside. No warning. Deep. Fast.
Alicent screamed. The sound echoed off the walls of the dead king’s chambers, mixing with the crackling of the firewood and the banging of the headboard.
— You’re going to give me this, Rhaenyra growled, her fingers plunging deep, hitting the right spot, as her mouth returned to the throbbing clit. You’re going to give me everything, Alicent. Your control. Your faith. Your pride.
Alicent began to tremble. The orgasm rose like a storm about to break the heavens.
— Come for me, Rhaenyra demanded. Come on my father’s bed. Do it for him. For me.
Alicent shattered. She screamed her rival’s name. Her legs clamped around Rhaenyra’s head, her body arched in a brutal spasm, and tears ran down her face.
Not from pain.
But from surrender.
Rhaenyra left her there — panting, sweaty, stripped of all that remained of her dignity — and lay beside her, eyes on the ceiling.
— Now you know. Her voice was cold as steel. The throne isn’t the only place I sit… on top.