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Alicent had spent so many years trying to hold Viserys back from the brink of death, trying to buy them time. Now it seemed the time had finally come: they were as ready as they'd ever be. Aegon was of age. Rhaenyra had discredited herself with bastard children, an unsubtly assassinated husband, and abandoning court.
One more year. Let Aegon turn 17. It would appear suspicious if they jumped the very moment he was a man grown.
The notion of summoning a war made Alicent sick to her stomach, but the prospect of waiting and letting it come on their terms made her even sicker.
It was time.
Alicent's heart hammered in her chest as Ser Criston escorted her to her weekly meeting with Lord Larys. Her nerves were wound tight, yet tempered by a sense of unreality. She felt strange, as if she were floating just outside her body. This had been so long in the making; to be on the very doorstep of it felt half a dream.
Criston held the door open for her, then prepared to wait outside and stand guard.
"Come in, Ser Criston. I needs have a word with both of you today."
Criston faltered, confused. "Your Grace?"
She was already through the door, looking back over her shoulder with a glance to see if the knight was following. Awkwardly, he did.
Larys was seated and did not rise when the Queen entered. Criston gave the man a pointed glare and cough until he did. She let it pass without comment, unbothered by both Larys's familiarity and Criston's formality. It could not matter less in this moment. For an instant she just observed the pair of them and wondered what chaos she was about to unleash.
"The door, Ser Criston."
He went and barred it, then turned to look at her expectantly.
Seven save her. Something odd surged in her stomach, like at Brightwater as a young girl when she and Gwayne had jumped from towering boulders into the swimming hole below. A sort of delighted terror; nauseous and eager all at once.
The two men waited politely. Larys stood at attention, leaning on his cane by the table. Criston still stood near the barred door, as if half-guarding it. The men exchanged a glance; Criston uneasy and Larys, as always, disconcertingly mild.
"You both have long desired this," Alicent began, "And I denied you. Not because I was opposed, but because the time wasn't right. Now the hour has come."
For a moment Criston glanced between the Queen and Larys, looking horrified. Larys was, as always, quietly unreadable.
"My husband has lived long enough."
Obvious delight bloomed on both men's faces in tandem. It was almost sweet. For a moment it drove out her fears about the fallout and she too was awash with sheer, unadulterated joy. After 18 wretched years, this was it, it was time for her deliverance.
They began tripping over themselves and each other, trying to get their words out.
"I am ever your servant, Your Grace." Larys pulled a vial from his pocket. "I have been keeping this for just such an occasion and—"
"My Queen, a fall, perhaps down some stairs, would not be amiss. Westerling would needs be elsewhere and—"
She was not surprised by this — if anything, she was mildly surprised and moderately impressed that neither man had acted out of turn and killed Viserys unprompted years ago — but this level of eagerness and preparation still left her feeling winded. She held up a hand for silence, and the two reluctantly complied. She tended to think of these men as barely constrained, their violence forever slipping out at the seams. This reminder of how much more lurked bottled up inside them, how much they successfully held back, stoked a frightful sort of awe.
Not speaking, the men glanced sideways at one another. Criston appraised Larys, surly. Larys merely looked upon his counterpart with that odd little smile of his.
Alicent gathered herself for the second revelation. "You need to do this together," she told them.
Both began objecting at once.
"Your Grace, there's no need—"
"Your Grace, I have half a dozen plans. Pick amongst them, select your favorite. But none involve him."
Alicent was struck by a sudden, horrible image of the two men killing each other; her being left alone, without allies and with Viserys still wheezily breathing. For the first time since she'd made this decision, she seriously questioned it.
But it was too late to retreat now. She held up her hand for silence again, then pressed on. "Lord Larys, we need your discretion, and Ser Criston, we need your proximity as Kingsguard." I cannot be left to manage the jealousy of either of you if denied this dubious honor.
"I can assure you, Your Grace, I can accomplish this without—"
Criston's fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"Had I reason to believe either of you could kill a man restrainedly," she directed the word at Criston (she swore Larys smirked for a split second), "and obediently," she directed it at Larys (Criston raised one eyebrow but did not ask), "I might be inclined to grant such a request. As it stands, you have not proven yourselves."
She let them sit for a moment in the shame of being reprended in front of their rival, a reminder that neither held the title of her most trusted ally.
"You will do this together," Alicent continued. "And you will strengthen each other's weaknesses. If you cannot do that, I will give this task to someone who can." She thought fleetingly of her boys — well, her other boys, her sons. She would never actually task them with this; their hands must remain clean. But they, she thought, at least could be trusted to put their animosity aside and work together when the need arose.
The prospect of being denied this kill seemed to do the trick. When she paused to give the men a chance to speak, neither did.
"You have both assured me many times that you are loyal servants, promised your ready service should I need it. Did you speak true? Can you fulfill this task for me now? Can you aid one another?"
They were silent for a long moment, and then—
"Very well, Your Grace," Larys said.
"Yes, Your Grace." Criston bowed.
Alicent let out a long breath and hoped against everything that they spoke true. "Do not overstep," she told them, "and do not be rash."
They bowed their heads again.
"Rise then, and let us compose a plan. Do me proud, gentlemen."