THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Hunt and War

The faint tremor in Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice catches Alicent’s attention as he nervously reports to the king about the Stepstones. “Daemon and Corlys are losing the war,” he says. Alicent’s grip tightens on the armrest of her chair, but her expression remains carefully composed. Sweat beads gather in her palm, concealed beneath the silken folds of her gown. Her heart twists with worry, not for the war itself but for Daemon—her husband, her true heart, and the father of her children.

Viserys barely glances at Tyland, his mind clearly elsewhere. He waves off the Lannister’s pleas for intervention, distracted by the preparations for Aegon and Sirion’s second name day celebrations. Alicent swallows her growing frustration. The king, oblivious to the weight of the realm’s dangers, can only think of the royal hunt. It’s always easier for him to escape into feasts and hunts, leaving the real concerns to linger like shadows.

At the hunting camp deep in the Kingswood, the atmosphere is vibrant, with nobles dressed in finery, their laughter and gossip ringing in the air. Alicent sits among the ladies, maintaining her graceful poise as they sip their wine and exchange idle chatter. Lady Redwyne leans closer, her voice lowered conspiratorially, “Rhaenyra should convince her father to act. This Crabfeeder situation grows worse by the day.”

Alicent gives a gentle smile, though her heart feels distant from their words. She chuckles lightly, her practiced tone of diplomacy slipping in. “Have a little faith in Prince Daemon. He’s more resourceful than we think.” Her confidence in him remains unshaken, though deep inside, the uncertainty gnaws at her. Would Daemon truly return victorious? Would he survive the chaos? She chides herself for the negative thoughts, He was her Dragonlord, their was no way for him to face defeat, he cannot die on her.

The conversation turns to her, as it often does among these women. Lady redweyne chimes in with praise, “Four heirs in such a short time! You’ve been a true gift to the realm, my queen.” There’s a knowing smirk that follows, and a playful comment about Viserys being "quite active in bed."

Alicent’s lips twitch upward, and mirth dances in her eyes. If only they knew. These women, so certain of their clever quips, are completely ignorant of the truth. Her children—their precious heirs—are not Viserys’ at all. They are Daemon’s, every last one. A secret so perilous, yet so delicious, that it brings a quiet, wicked satisfaction to her.

But then, Ella, her maid, approaches with a concerned expression, whispering quietly into her ear. “Your father, my queen. He has collapsed.”

Alicent meets her maid’s gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. The nightshade poison had finally taken its toll. It’s begun, she thinks, with cold certainty. The thorn in her side, the father who had tried to control her every move, would soon be no more. Her outward concern is masterfully performed as she rises from her seat, the picture of a worried daughter. But inside, the corners of her heart swell with dark satisfaction. It’s only a matter of time now. Otto Hightower’s reign over her life is at an end.

The conversation around her shifts again. Jason Lannister, pompous as ever, struts over to where Rhaenyra sits, attempting to flirt with the princess. Alicent can’t help but watch in amusement. Jason, so blind to his own arrogance, makes a fool of himself. Rhaenyra’s temper flares, and Alicent observes with a detached curiosity. Rhaenyra has always been volatile, prone to acting out when things don’t go her way.

When Rhaenyra confronts her father in front of the entire court, accusing him of trying to marry her off for political gain, Alicent senses the tension spike. Viserys, in his usual fashion, loses his temper in front of everyone. He scolds Rhaenyra for her insolence, for her refusal to accept her royal duty, and the scene quickly becomes unseemly. Alicent feels the court watching, whispering, sensing weakness.

Rhaenyra’s face burns with humiliation as she storms off, her white horse kicking up dust as Ser Criston Cole follows behind her. It’s a public embarrassment for the royal family, but one Alicent carefully watches without reacting.

Later, as she watches Rhaenyra disappear into the woods, Alicent’s thoughts return to Daemon. She can picture him in battle—bold, unflinching, his dragon Caraxes lighting the sky with fire as he pursues the Crabfeeder. Yet, amidst her hope for his triumph, a deeper worry lies coiled in her chest. Would his recklessness be his downfall?

As the hours pass, the jovial mood of the camp barely registers. The court's laughter and banter feel like distant echoes. Alicent knows that soon enough, the politics of the realm will shift again, and this time, she’ll be ready. The pieces are falling into place. Her father is nearly gone, Viserys remains oblivious, and Daemon—if he returns victorious—will be by her side once more.

For now, she hides her scheming behind the mask of a dutiful queen. But inside, the world is already changing, and she is at the center of it all.

Daemon’s mind was heavy with the weight of absence as he stared out over the Stepstones. The war had dragged on for too long, and in that time, he had missed everything that mattered most. His youngest twins, Jaemarys and Helaena, would turn one in just three months, and he hadn’t been there for Aegon and Sirion’s second name day, missing their first steps, first words, and even the spark of their first magic. That realization gnawed at him as much as the endless stalemate in this bloody war.

He was sick of it all. The Crabfeeder’s men still hid in their caves on Bloodstone, firing arrows at any ship that dared pass by. Daemon’s dragon, Caraxes, along with the other dragons, couldn’t even flush them out. The caves protected the enemy, allowing them to scurry away like crabs at the first sign of fire.

Their damned caves, Daemon thought bitterly. Their holes... It made him clench his jaw with frustration.

They needed a plan to end this. Running low on food and determination, Corlys and his men grew weary, and Daemon could feel the same sluggish despair settling into his bones. But then came an idea, simple yet dangerous: someone needed to lure the Crabfeeder’s forces out. A volunteer to risk life and limb, a tempting bait.

Daemon knew it could only be him.

When a messenger from King’s Landing arrived, sweating beneath the sun and carrying news that Viserys was sending help, Daemon’s temper boiled over. His brother's belated help was nothing more than a bitter reminder that he had been left to fend for himself, for months, in this cursed war. Without thinking, he beat the poor messenger, lashing out in his frustration. He didn’t need Viserys’ help. He didn’t need anyone’s help.

Daemon was going to end this war on his own terms.

With the plan set, he rowed himself to Bloodstone, the oar cutting through the water as he approached the enemy stronghold. Once ashore, Daemon moved with a quiet fury, cutting down anyone in his path. His blade flashed as he carved through soldiers, their screams lost to the wind as his rage fueled him.

But soon, arrows rained down from the sky, pinning him to the ground. Daemon gritted his teeth, feeling the sting of arrows biting into his flesh. His blood soaked the sand beneath him, but he would not bow, he would not break. He crawled forward, every muscle burning as he fought to draw the enemy out.

And it worked. The Crabfeeder’s soldiers, sensing weakness, spilled from their caves, pouring out into the open where they were vulnerable.

Just when Daemon’s strength began to wane, Seasmoke roared from the sky. Laenor Velaryon, astride the silver dragon, unleashed hell upon the Crabfeeder’s archers, scorching them where they stood. Corlys’ men surged forward, cutting down the remaining soldiers while Daemon gathered the last of his strength.

Wounded but unbowed, Daemon chased the Crabfeeder himself, disappearing into the dark of the cave. The battle inside was unseen, but the outcome was clear when Daemon emerged moments later, dragging the mangled remains of the Crabfeeder—his top third, at least—out into the open. The war was over.

The sight of Daemon, bloodied, dragging the corpse of their enemy for all to see, cemented his victory. He had won this war with his own hands, his own rage, and not even the gods could deny his triumph now.

But even as the cheers rose around him, Daemon's mind drifted back to his family. The war may have been won, but what had he lost in the process?