THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Why you shouldn't open your mouth when Drunk 101- by Rhaenyra Targaryen

As Alicent entered the grand reception hall, her bright blood-red dress caught every eye, the golden embroidery along the edges shimmering softly in the candlelight. The dress was simple but stunning, ensuring she stood out without appearing too ostentatious—a calculated move, like everything else she did. She heard Rhaenyra’s voice before she even saw her, barking angrily at her maid, Ella, and Alicent’s lips curled in satisfaction. That fury likely meant that Ella had done her work, just as Alicent had instructed.

Across the hall, Alicent’s gaze met Ella’s. She didn’t need to speak; her question was clear. Did you succeed?

Ella’s barely perceptible nod was all the confirmation she needed. The thrill of anticipation sparked within Alicent, though she kept her expression carefully composed, letting only a hint of a smirk slip through. Now, the game was truly in motion. The liquid Ella had slipped into Rhaenyra’s wine wasn’t poison—it was a touch of Veritaserum, diluted just enough to be subtle but potent. Coupled with the amount of wine Rhaenyra had already consumed, it would soon take effect, loosening her tongue with a dangerous mix of candor and carelessness.

Alicent’s fingers toyed with the edge of her goblet as she surveyed the room, eyes lingering on Rhaenyra. The princess was oblivious, her cheeks flushed, laughter loud and unguarded as she sipped deeply from her wine. With the right bit of pressure—some well-placed remarks, perhaps even the right questions from a few choice guests—Alicent knew Rhaenyra’s secrets would soon spill forth. There were things Alicent suspected, things she knew would stir doubt and division if they came from Rhaenyra herself. Tonight, it wouldn’t take much to guide the evening toward that revelation.

She moved through the room with quiet confidence, her mind already spinning with possibilities, watching the princess out of the corner of her eye.

As Alicent seated herself beside Viserys, her husband in name only, she felt a surge of relief that she’d put her children to bed rather than bring them to the reception. Sirion, her ever-watchful boy, had insisted on accompanying her, as he often did. But the slightest cry from his baby sister, Visenya, had distracted him completely. Alicent could still picture it—Sirion’s sharp gaze catching a rough seam on the maid’s gown that had grazed Visenya’s soft skin, prompting a glare from her five-year-old that would have been intimidating on a full-grown lord. With an air far too authoritative for his age, he’d scolded the maid, his voice dangerously calm as he instructed her to either wear softer clothes around Visenya or lose her hands.

Alicent had quickly tried to reprimand him, though Sirion had barely budged, his arms wrapped protectively around his little sister as he declared that only the best were worthy of her care. “And if you want her near Visenya, increase her pay,” he’d said, tilting his chin as if daring her to refuse. Sometimes, the intensity with which he watched over Visenya reminded Alicent of the obsession that Tom Riddle, his former self, had held for his Horcruxes. The thought left a shiver in spine----only the Gods knew what would become of Sirion and Visenya.

As the lords and ladies of the court surrounded her and Viserys, another wave of exasperation rolled over her. Already, they were floating marriage alliances at her like wedding proposals for boys of five years old. Her sons, Aegon and Sirion, deserved better than being spoken for before they’d even reached a fraction of their potential. She’d long vowed that she wouldn’t consider alliances until they were at least 15, if not 18. And while she understood this was a medieval world with its own rules, the urge to protect her children’s innocence and independence was fierce.

Then, as if by magic, her thoughts and irritation dissolved. Across the room, her gaze settled on Hermione and Draco, gliding gracefully across the dance floor in each other’s arms. Hermione’s gown for the reception was exquisite, still white but adorned with delicate floral embroidery that caught the light. Her hair, once half up and half down for the wedding ceremony, was now gathered elegantly into a bun, pinned with tiny white flowers that lent her an ethereal glow. She moved with such joy, laughing up at Draco, whose expression was warm and content, his hand gently guiding her as they spun across the floor.