THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

An altering request

Three months had passed since the flames of passion between Alicent and Daemon ignited, burning brighter with every passing moment. Their romance was something that had blossomed in secret, growing deeper with every glance, every touch, every whispered word exchanged behind closed doors. In the court, they were just two political figures, fulfilling their roles with dignity, but behind the curtain of duty, they were lovers—helplessly entangled in one another.

Daemon had never felt this way before. His relationships had always been fueled by lust, ambition, or some combination of the two, but with Alicent, it was different. She grounded him in a way that made him feel tethered to something real, something more than just power. And the children—Aegon and Sirion—they had become his sons in every way that mattered, except one: blood. Daemon had not forgotten that the blood of another man ran through their veins. It gnawed at him, that fact. He wanted them to be his, truly his, not just in name but in every fiber of their being.

The memory of his request to blood adopt Aegon and Sirion still lingered in his mind, as clear as if it had happened only moments ago. It had been a quiet afternoon, the sun slanting through the windows of Alicent’s chambers, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He had been pacing, as he often did when thoughts plagued him, and then the question had tumbled from his lips.

"Tell me, how is Sirius Stark your father when James Potter was the one who sired you?" His voice had been curious but tinged with that underlying possessiveness that always simmered within him when it came to her. Alicent had smiled softly at his question, the warmth of it contrasting with the sharpness of his tone. She had explained the ritual of blood adoption, a sacred act of old magic, something far older than even Valyria, a gift from the Mother herself. It allowed one to claim another as kin, binding them in blood and soul.

Daemon had been enthralled by the idea, and immediately, without hesitation, he had demanded that they perform the ritual for Aegon and Sirion. Alicent had cried, not out of sadness but from the overwhelming weight of his love and devotion. For half an hour, she had wept in his arms, and Daemon, though he was not a man who usually understood tears, had held her tightly, knowing that this was her way of saying yes.

Now, as he sat in the flickering candlelight of their chambers, his mind drifted to the night they had performed the blood adoption ritual. It had been in the Olde ways, through the ancient magic of the Mother herself—powerful, primal, and far older than any Targaryen ritual. It was a magic that flowed through the earth and the stars, through the bloodlines of all living things, tying them to the very essence of creation.

They had journeyed to the heart of the forest beyond Dragonstone, to an ancient grove where the Mother’s presence was strongest. The trees loomed high, their branches twisting into the sky, and the air had felt thick with magic, like it was buzzing around them. In the center of the grove, beneath the full moon’s gaze, they had gathered: Daemon, Alicent, Aegon, and Sirion. The boys had been asleep, peaceful in their innocence, unaware of the power that swirled around them.

Alicent had stood beside him, her raven hair loose, falling in waves down her back. She had never looked more beautiful to him, standing there, bathed in the soft silver light of the moon. He could feel the magic in the air as she began to chant the ancient words, words that had been passed down through the ages, from mother to daughter, unspoken for generations until now. Her voice had been steady, filled with purpose, and the earth itself had seemed to hum in response to her call.

Daemon had taken the ceremonial dagger, its blade ancient and etched with runes of protection and kinship. He had sliced his palm, feeling the sting of the blade, but welcoming it, knowing that this pain would bind them all together. Then, with the precision and care of a man who was about to change the very fabric of his life, he pressed his bloody hand to Aegon’s and then to Sirion’s foreheads, leaving a mark that glowed faintly under the moon’s light. The boys stirred but did not wake.