THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Shadows of the Crown

Viserys paced the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep, his heart a fortress of conflicted emotions. The cold stone beneath his feet seemed to echo his growing fears—fears that had taken root after the death of his first wife, Aemma, in the childbed. The memory haunted him still: the blood-stained sheets, Aemma’s labored breathing, her pale hand clutching his before it went still. He had failed her. And now, with his new queen, Alicent, lying in labor, the specter of loss loomed again.

The thought of another death weighed heavily on him, but a different dread gnawed at his core. Rhaenyra. His beloved daughter, the blood of the dragon, was growing ever more distant. Her bitterness toward him, toward Alicent, was no secret. How could he not see it? Her once-bright eyes now gleamed with resentment, no doubt at the thought of her father’s new marriage, and worse still, the impending birth of a potential rival for the throne.

He sighed heavily, feeling the weight of his crown settle over his shoulders. Though his thoughts should be with Alicent and her wellbeing, it was his children—Rhaenyra and the unborn—who dominated his mind. Rhaenyra, always fierce and proud, had refused to hide her contempt for Alicent. He feared that in the days to come, their fractured relationship would widen, as it already had, beyond repair.

The door to the birthing chamber creaked open, pulling him from his reverie. A maester stepped out, his face a blend of relief and anticipation. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low, “the Queen has given birth to two healthy sons.”

Viserys felt a surge of conflicting emotions. Relief mingled with unease. He hurried down the corridor, Rhaenyra at his side, her silence thick with bitterness. As they approached the chamber, Viserys glanced at his daughter. She wore a cold, hardened expression, her lips a thin line, betraying the storm brewing inside her. He could almost feel the unspoken words hanging between them, a chasm that neither could cross.

The doors opened, revealing Alicent on the bed, her raven-black hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her emerald eyes gleaming with joy as she cradled two small bundles in her arms. Her happiness seemed to fill the room, though it was clear the tension among them would soon seep back in. She looked up at Viserys, her smile soft but reserved.

Viserys moved forward, requesting to take the elder of the two boys in his arms. Alicent, or Sitara as she still identified herself within, handed the boy over with a slight hesitation, her thoughts lingering on the oddity of the situation. This man before her, the King, was old enough to be her father. How had Alicent, a girl of youth and vibrance, ended up as the wife of such a man? Sitara tried to suppress the alien feeling of disbelief.

“This one I have named Aegon,” Alicent said, her voice smooth yet laced with an undertone of bitterness that only she could detect.

Viserys smiled, the name igniting the flame of Targaryen pride in his heart. He patted her head absentmindedly, an act that struck Sitara with irritation. It was as if she were a pet to be praised. Rhaenyra, standing off to the side, smirked, the sight of her father's casual dismissal feeding her bitterness. Alicent—no, Sitara—could feel the tension boiling under her skin, but she suppressed it with practiced grace.

Viserys turned to take the second child from her arms, and for a moment, his face faltered. The boy—Siriyon —was not the silver-haired, violet-eyed child of Targaryen lineage. Instead, raven-black hair and vivid emerald eyes stared up at him, mirroring the queen. A shock of realization crossed his features, but he quickly masked it. His child had simply taken after his mother, nothing more.

But within Alicent, Sitara’s mind raced. Emerald eyes. Raven-black hair. How could Viserys not notice the difference? Alicent’s eyes had always been honey-brown, her hair a soft brunette, and her skin far paler. Sitara’s own features were sharper, darker, and her child, Siriyon, was a stark reflection of how Tom Riddle would have looked with emerald eyes and her nose.

A bitter voice broke through the moment. “A job well done, Alicent,” Rhaenyra said with thinly veiled sarcasm, her words sharp as dragon claws.

Sitara turned her gaze to the girl, her mind now fully inhabiting the body she had found herself in. Alicent. Rhaenyra. The memories flooded in, confirming what she already knew. Alicent was the queen. Rhaenyra was her stepdaughter—and a bitter one at that. Viserys was her husband. The discomfort with the situation gnawed at her, but she held her composure.

Suddenly, Siriyon—the child who was once Tom Riddle—began to cry. His sharp wail cut through the room, his body tense with an understanding that no infant should possess. The midwife rushed forward, flustered. “Your Grace, if I may call for a wet nurse for the prince—"

“No.” Sitara’s voice, firm and resolute, silenced the room. “My children will be nursed by me and no one else. They are my responsibility.”

The midwife nodded, startled by the Queen’s sudden decisiveness, and backed away.

Turning to Viserys, Sitara forced a smile. “My love, give me a moment alone with our sons. I will present them to court when they are ready.”

Viserys seemed to accept this easily, once again patting her head in that infuriatingly dismissive way. She clenched her teeth but kept her face serene as he left the room, followed by a still-smirking Rhaenyra. The princess curtsied, though there was no warmth in her voice as she said, “Congratulations, my Queen.”

The door closed, leaving Sitara alone with her children. She let out a long breath, dismissing the maids with a wave of her hand. Once they were gone, she settled into the quiet. She cradled aegon and Siriyon to her chest, feeding them, her mind swirling with thoughts of her new reality. She was trapped in a life not her own, in a world of dragons and crowns, a queen but not the woman everyone thought her to be.

How do I play this game? she thought, her mind already calculating her next move. Her godmother, Narcissa Malfoy neé Black, had trained her well in the art of politics, and here, in Westeros, it was no different. Every word, every glance, every gesture was a move in a larger game of power. But here, she needed to tread carefully. She was no longer Sitara in a world of magic and prophecy. She was Alicent, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with enemies on all sides.

As aegon and Siriyon drifted to sleep in her arms, she stared down at them, her expression softening. Tom Riddle or not, this child was hers now. And she would protect him, whatever it took.

With a final glance at the door, Sitara—Alicent—smiled. The game had begun.