THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

A Hand That Fell Asleep

Alicent wanted nothing more than to bang her head against a stone as she cradled Sirion in her arms, listening to the drunken ramblings of her husband, Viserys. He was lost in his usual drivel, going on about the dream he had when Rhaenyra was young—that he would have a son—and how that vision had ultimately cost him his first wife, Aemma.

Her blood boiled. Dreams. Prophecies. Alicent wanted to choke him right then and there. For the sake of these foolish visions, these men go to such ridiculous lengths. Most of the prophecies are self-fulfilling anyway, she thought, eyes narrowing as she rocked her son. There’s no need to intervene with the gods. The prophecy—if it’s real—will happen on its own.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden, frantic arrival of a servant, who came rushing into the tent, trembling and on the verge of tears. Alicent, still clinging to Sirion, didn't hesitate. “How dare you barge in without permission?” she snapped, her voice cold as her frustration turned outward. She held her son tighter, using the outburst as a shield.

The servant fell to her knees immediately, her face pale as she trembled. “Forgive me, my queen, but the news is urgent,” she pleaded, shaking from head to toe.

Viserys, who had been wallowing in drink and self-pity, placed a hand on Alicent’s shoulder, thinking she was merely trying to give him some privacy. He was blissfully unaware of the deeper game being played around him. “What’s the matter?” he asked the maid, his voice sluggish, still heavy with alcohol.

The servant’s eyes brimmed with fear. “The Lord Hand, my king,” she said, her voice barely steady. “He has collapsed. Declared dead just minutes ago.”

Viserys stumbled as he stood, the weight of the news hitting him. “What?” he asked, disbelief clouding his voice.

“The maesters believe it was some strange illness that took him,” the maid stammered. “They say it’s been festering for months, eating him from the inside. His heart gave out during supper as he drank his wine.”

For a moment, Viserys stood frozen, but then, in a sudden burst of motion, he rushed from the chambers, his mind reeling. Alicent, on the other hand, moved with far more grace, her steps measured and slow, the picture of calm amidst chaos. Inside, though, she could feel the thrill of victory. Everything had gone according to plan.

As she stepped out, her eyes found those of her loyal assassin, Ella, stationed discreetly across the way. They exchanged the briefest of nods—just enough to acknowledge that the job was done, no words needed.

Before she could take another step, Sirius Stark, her sworn protector and godfather, appeared by her side, his hand gripping her arm firmly. “What did you do?” he asked, his voice low but firm. His eyes bore into hers, knowing her far too well.

Alicent batted her lashes in mock innocence. “I didn’t do anything,” she replied, a soft smile playing at her lips.

Sirius’ eyes narrowed, but his tone remained amused. “Oh, little one, you may be the savior of the wizarding world, but I am your godfather. I know you too well. Now, tell me—what did you do?”

She couldn’t help but giggle at his words, leaning closer to whisper in French, the language they used to keep their conversations private from the ears of Westeros. "Il se peut que j'aie empoisonné Otto Cunttower ou non."

(“I may or may not have poisoned Otto Hightower.”)

Sirius almost laughed but managed to keep his composure. “Cette vieille chauve-souris le méritait sans aucun doute." he muttered. “Mais comment ?" he asked, switching to French as well, their secret code.

(“That old bat deserved it, no doubt,”)

(“But how?”)

“ Nightshade,” Alicent replied, her tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “Celui que Severus a modifié." The poison’s potency and cruelty were infamous, designed to kill slowly, painfully, making every moment a living agony.

(“The one Severus modified.”)

Sirius shivered slightly at the mention of Snape’s modified nightshade. The potion had been engineered for slow, excruciating deaths—perfect for someone who truly despised their target. She must have loathed Otto, he thought. No quick death for him, his puppy was being merciful as she granted him death.

Hermione, who had been quietly cradling Helaena nearby, returned to Alicent’s side, and the two women shared a discreet, triumphant fist bump. Hermione’s skill with potions had been invaluable in executing the plan. Her brilliance in modifying the mixture had ensured Otto’s slow, inevitable demise. Their alliance was strong, their shared cause clear.

Alicent’s expression shifted, her features softening into a mask of grief as she neared her brother, Gwayne Hightower. She collapsed into his arms, weeping convincingly, putting on the performance of a lifetime. From across the way, her sister-in-law, Emily Rose Tyrell, observed the scene with a knowing smirk. Emily had been part of the plot from the start, helping dispose of the vessels that had carried the poison, and now, she watched with pride as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

The wheels of Alicent’s plan had been set into motion long ago, and now, with Otto’s death, everything was falling into its perfect place. She smiled inwardly, content in the knowledge that her careful plotting had paid off. All that was left was to let the rest of the world catch up to her.