“Do not give me the silent treatment.” 𖤓 @valheys.
The request punches at a softer part of her, winds her in a way she is unable to quite understand. The ghost of their friendship had extended a careful hand towards her, makes a too sensitive petition for Alicent's voice and Alicent does ought but usher it away with artificial composure, slow-blinking it out of sight as an invisible string pulls her spine tight, lodging her pride between the knots of her vertebrae. Her expression remains unchanged. Years at court, years of being a King's wife had taught her that whatever hurt, whatever indignation rattled her, whatever soreness sought purchase between her ribs it wasn't a show for anyone to witness. It was the only thing that had ever been truly hers. She was a master at smoothing over before the feeling ever even touched the surface, her only betrayal being the way her fingers clasp at the fabric of her own skirts. Alicent momentarily wonders if honesty would be the correct avenue. She could talk about how every conversation with Rhaenyra feels like reopening a pus-weeping wound; how she tires of reconciliation when there is always a next thing; how she can no longer find the great love of her life in the face of the person Alicent had come to despise; how every attempt they make at bridging distance only serves as a reminder of how impossible a feat it is. She tires of her own feelings, her own grief. So she shares nothing.
“Have we not exhausted all conversation?” Alicent wonders aloud, her energy audibly depleted. She cradles her wounded righteousness like a baby bird, unable to admit towards even the slightest piece of responsibility for the shattered wing of their misunderstanding. She masks her stubbornness with reason; “What remains to be said?” As if there weren't apologies to be portioned out between them, compromises or concessions to be made. A parley, or a ceasefire. Except she refuses to wave her white flag first; an apology or confession feeling much too close to giving up ground.
