THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Amidst Scream and Silence

Draconis Qoherys, former Draco Malfoy, hadn’t imagined himself seated at the court of King Viserys Targaryen. He took a silent, thoughtful sip of wine, watching the court and musing on how far he’d come—dimensionally speaking, at least. There was a surreal quality to his life here, a world away from the bloodied halls of Hogwarts. Draco had been reborn as the heir of the Qoherys family in Qohor, and when the opportunity arose to present himself to Westeros as a diplomat, he couldn’t resist. King Viserys seemed particularly charmed by the enigmatic ambassador with his Valyrian silver hair and shadowed eyes, qualities that hinted at both noble origins and a thousand secrets he’d never divulge.

The Qoherys name, it turned out, carried weight. And Draco knew how to wear it as naturally as he’d once worn the Malfoy crest. The subtleties of politics were as familiar to him as his wand—if he still had one, which he missed terribly. But here he was, impeccably dressed, the picture of propriety, speaking in clipped, polished tones with the king of Westeros about trade alliances as if he hadn’t once fought in magical duels for survival. Not that he could share that little tidbit, much as he suspected it would liven up this unbearably long conversation.

In truth, though, his attention was divided. Every time Alicent’s cries echoed from the birthing chamber, he felt the tension in his shoulders rise a little. He found himself gripping his wine glass just slightly tighter, an old Malfoy habit when nerves crept up on him.

"Goodness, they’ll hear her in Qohor at this rate," he muttered dryly, earning a sharp look from Prince Daemon. Draco returned a perfectly blank stare, inwardly amused.

But despite his outward composure, worry gnawed at him. His cousin, his dear Sitara—now Alicent—was enduring another brutal labor. Her cries were a cruel reminder of the perils of childbirth in this world, where magic was fleeting, and life held no charms or potions to smooth the rough edges. Draco loathed feeling helpless, an instinct woven into him from his old life, where his wand could shield or curse as he pleased. But here, he was powerless, forced to sit back and listen to her pain, every cry cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

Sitting next to him, King Viserys, oblivious to the full weight of what was truly unfolding, glanced his way. “Ambassador Qoherys, you seem quiet,” he remarked with a half-smile, unaware of the emotions Draco kept hidden.

“Oh, merely reflecting on the… sounds of the Red Keep,” Draco replied, his tone managing to stay light, though a faint crease between his brows gave him away.

He wished he could pace, or ideally, cast some sort of silencing charm, though he suspected that would raise a few eyebrows. Instead, he forced himself to remain seated, his calm façade masking an undercurrent of frustration. He could nearly see the icy blue eyes of his father, Lucius Malfoy, raising a disapproving eyebrow from beyond the grave at his lack of composure.

And then there was Sirius Stark, Alicent’s sworn shield, stationed at the birthing chamber door. The sight of him, standing so stoic yet visibly tense, was like a mirror of his own unspoken fear. Draco found himself caught in a rare moment of empathy for the man. Sirius was probably fighting the urge to kick down the door, storm inside, and spirit Alicent away from the pain. Draco understood that urge far too well.

How strange, he mused, to find himself so personally invested. The feeling was a peculiar mixture of devotion and protectiveness, sentiments he’d never indulged as a Malfoy. But here, stripped of the old hierarchies and rivalries, he could admit that Sitara was the closest he’d had to family in two lifetimes.

His thoughts drifted briefly to Hermione—now Hermione Royce—who was by Alicent’s side along with Emily Tyrell. She’d looked at him with those familiar knowing eyes the moment they met again in this world, and he’d felt something warm and old stir inside him. Of course, she’d insisted on being by Alicent’s side during the labor, and part of him envied her. He imagined her steadying presence, her unfailing composure, and silently thanked her for being there.