THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

musings of the queen and prince

Tom sat in the garden, his sharp mind restless despite the body he currently inhabited—a body so pitifully weak, it was laughable. The irony of his situation was not lost on him. Here he was, Tom Riddle, the Dark Lord, reduced to a week-old infant, powerless and forced into the role of the second-born prince of Westeros. A part of him sneered at the absurdity of it all. A prince in name, but trapped in swaddling clothes—how utterly undignified.

 He cast a cold glance at his twin brother, who was fussing again in the crib beside him. The boy’s incessant crying grated on Tom’s nerves. He never had patience for weakness, even in his former life as Voldemort. But now, he had no choice but to endure it. Children, he thought bitterly, are nothing but noisy, useless creatures. The fact that he was one himself in this world made him even more irritated.

 As he brooded, Tom’s mind wandered back to his past life, to the world of wizards and magic. How foolish he had been then, chasing immortality with such reckless abandon. He had believed that the Horcruxes would make him invincible, untouchable. Yet, in the end, it was his very pursuit of immortality that had been his undoing. Dumbledore had called it his greatest weakness—fear of death. And now, here he was, given another chance at life by Lord Death himself, no less. He had been reborn, free from his Horcruxes, with a new slate in a world where magic was still present, but far more primitive. A cruel twist of fate, or perhaps a blessing in disguise?

 He hated to admit it, but there was a sense of relief in being free of the Horcruxes. They had bound him to his past, to a fragmented existence where he was less than whole. In this life, he had no such burden. But that did not mean he was satisfied. The people of Westeros, especially those at court, were a bunch of simpletons. They lacked the intelligence and ambition he valued so highly in himself. Most of them didn’t even seem to care about their queen, which irritated him to no end.

How had they not noticed the drastic change in Alicent? Her once honey-brown eyes and brunette hair had transformed into raven-black locks and piercing emerald eyes. It was so obvious to him, yet these fools overlooked it. They were too caught up in their petty court politics to pay attention to the details. He had always been good at reading people, at noticing what others missed. That’s what had made him a powerful leader in the wizarding world.

 But even in this world, power was still the ultimate prize, and Tom Riddle was no stranger to power. He had been the most feared dark wizard of his age, and though he was trapped in a child’s body now, his mind was as sharp as ever. He would find a way to rise again, to reclaim the dominance he had once wielded. This time, however, he would not make the same mistakes. No Horcruxes. No reckless pursuit of immortality. Just power—pure and unchallenged.

 And this time, there was someone he was fiercely protective of—Alicent. She reminded him of the few people he had ever held close, in his own twisted way. But unlike those relationships, she was different. She was someone he had chosen to care for, and that was a dangerous thing.

 
Alicent, or as she was known in her soul—Sitara—stood rigid as the seamstresses continued to pin and adjust the elaborate gown she was being forced into. The weight of the fabric draped around her felt suffocating. She wanted to roll her eyes at the absurdity of it all. Honestly, how do these queens do this day in and day out? she thought. I’m being used as a living pincushion for some silk monstrosity I have to wear to yet another courtly event. Fabulous.

 The tourney for the birth of her sons, Aegon and Syrion, was fast approaching, and she could not be more irritated by the whole affair. Her husband, the king, had been treating her like a loyal dog, commanding her presence with no regard for her own feelings. Ah, yes, she thought dryly, because who cares about what the queen actually wants? As long as the king is happy, right?

 As the seamstress jabbed her once again with another pin, Alicent fought the urge to snap. Maybe if I just stood still long enough, I could become part of the decor in this castle. A human tapestry—what a novel idea. She almost smirked at the thought, but her irritation won out.

 In her past life as Sitara, she had saved the British magical world from destruction. She had fought battles far more dangerous and complex than any of the political games in Westeros. I faced Voldemort and his Death Eaters, for Merlin’s sake, she mused. And now I’m here, standing still while they decide which shade of green matches my eyes best. It was infuriating, really. She was no stranger to responsibility—she had carried the weight of the magical world on her shoulders before. But this? This was ridiculous. Being queen meant nothing if all you did was wear gowns and smile at tourneys.

 As if that weren’t enough, her father—Otto Hightower, or motto longtower whatever the fuck was his name—was off somewhere bootlicking the king, entirely uninterested in his daughter’s well-being. She had just given birth, and he had barely acknowledged it. Typical. She thought it was better that her family was dead in her past life, rather than being neglectful and down right disrespectful, like seriously this man's daughter could have died in childbirth and he did not come to look at her even for a second, only carrying about his grand children who he saw as a ticket to power. She shook her head, no wonder alicent gave up.

 And then, there was Rhaenyra Targaryen. The woman couldn’t resist making snide remarks every time they crossed paths. Alicent could feel her judgment at every turn, the venomous glares that were thinly veiled behind false courtesy. Honestly, she thought, if you hate me so much, Rhaenyra, you could at least be more creative with your insults. I’m a queen now, after all. You’d think I deserve something better than side-eye and half-baked barbs.

 But no matter how much Alicent wanted to escape this life, she knew she had a role to play. Her people—the people she had been born to save in this new world—were on their way to King’s Landing. That, at least, gave her some solace. Soon, she wouldn’t be alone in this wretched court.

 A maid rushed in, interrupting her thoughts.

 “My lady, Prince Daemon has arrived in King’s Landing for the tourney,” the maid said, dropping into a hurried curtsy.

 Daemon, Alicent thought. Of course, he would be here. The king’s brother would never miss a chance to be at the center of attention according to Alicent's memories. Yet something about his presence sent a shiver down her spine. A nagging feeling, like a storm gathering on the horizon, settled at the back of her mind. She couldn’t quite place it, but it was there—a warning she couldn’t ignore.

 But for now, she had no choice but to push it aside and endure. Another jab of a pin reminded her of the current battle she was facing—surviving this fitting. How she wished she could throw aside the gown, pick up a sword, and fight in the tourney herself. Anything would be better than this.