THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Storm Clouds

The moon hung low over King’s Landing, casting a silvery glow over the Red Keep, quiet in its majesty, save for one part of the castle where shadows flitted with hurried urgency. Within Alicent’s chambers, Jaemarys had been restless, his small body wracked with a persistent cough and a low fever. The boy, barely a year old, lay bundled in the arms of his mother, his tiny frame swallowed in layers of blankets as Alicent’s worry deepened. She rocked him gently, humming under her breath, but the lullaby that usually soothed him fell short tonight. Despite her best efforts, his fevered cries pierced the silence, stirring a swell of panic in her chest.

Alicent’s mind raced with every cough, feeling helpless as she sat in her room. The risk of his illness progressing gripped her with dread, knowing that a cold in one so young could easily turn severe. She glanced anxiously at her potions shelf but knew well enough that the contents of her collection—strong brews and tinctures meant for adults—were too risky for Jaemarys. Her own hands trembled as she attempted to comfort him, pressing her lips to his damp forehead.

Hermione, standing nearby, shifted uneasily as she watched the scene unfold. “Perhaps a small dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion?” she suggested, the concern evident in her voice. “It might calm him for the night.”

Alicent shook her head immediately. “He’s too young. I can’t risk him developing any dependency on it—not now, not ever. The maesters made it clear. His little body isn’t ready for anything too potent.” She wrapped him closer, trying to shield him from the chill of the castle walls.

It was then that Emily, Alicent’s sister-in-law and the ever-watchful wife of Gwayne Hightower, noticed the slight change in Jaemarys’s breathing. “Alicent,” she whispered gently, “I think the blankets are too heavy. He’s struggling to breathe under all that weight.”

Alicent looked down, realizing that her attempts to keep him warm were actually causing him discomfort. With a barely contained sigh, she loosened the blankets, feeling the guilt tighten in her chest as Jaemarys’s breaths came easier. Hermione swiftly cast a gentle warming charm over the child, her wand movements soft and practiced.

“We need to take him outside,” Alicent murmured. “The fresh air might help.” With a shared look of agreement, the three women, cloaks thrown over their shoulders, carefully wrapped the infant and slipped into the castle corridors, heading towards the palace gardens.

As they moved quietly through the dim hallways, Jaemarys’s cries softened, though his little body still trembled. The night air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth of the Red Keep. Alicent held her son close, willing her own strength into him, each step punctuated by a mother’s silent prayer. She had no room in her heart for anything else but worry—no room for secrets, regrets, or the delicate balance of truth that held her life together.

But even as she held Jaemarys close, his soft cries drifted into the night, reaching ears she hadn’t anticipated. Within moments, both Viserys and Daemon emerged from their chambers. The sound of footsteps grew louder as they approached, their faces shadowed with fatigue and concern.

Daemon, catching sight of Alicent, moved toward her with an intensity that betrayed a deeper connection—a connection he buried beneath practiced indifference whenever Viserys was near. It was his son, though no one knew it. And every cry, every wheezing breath from Jaemarys, struck Daemon like a blow to the chest. Daemon and Viserys arrived in the gardens together, their faces tired but alert. Viserys approached Alicent, his face clouded with concern, though his eyes bore traces of fatigue from the endless discussions with Daemon about Flea Bottom’s state.

Viserys, oblivious to the hidden truth, reached his wife first, his expression etched with worry. “What’s happened?” he asked, his eyes shifting from Alicent to Jaemarys. “Why is the boy out in the gardens at this hour?”