Chapter Text
It is the power that comes first, and then the memories.
Alys has the poker pressed against her skin and is at the third second of five when they come. It doesn’t change anything yet: she still counts four, and five, before she lifts the poker from her skin.
The welt is red and throbbing. Heat leaks into her skin like it’s crawling alongside her blood.
Alys thinks again of the wench who’d slapped her earlier, and the welt begins to recede. It will fade entirely in minutes. If she’s lucky enough, a faint scream will echo through the burnt halls.
The fireplace crackles beside her, a fountain of infinite revenge. She rises from it and scampers back through the dark halls until she reaches the bastard quarters. It is only when she is curled against the wall that she lets herself remember.
—
Larys Strong retrieves her when the rumors become a bit too loud. He hauls her up with a tight grip on her bicep that doesn’t loosen even as they walk.
“Witchcraft,” Lyonel Strong says.
She’s been dragged right to Harrenhal’s throne room.
“Show me,” he says, leaning forward. There’s a bit of a leer in his eyes, but also something a little wary. Fear is easy to sniff out for Alys.
“T’won’t be seen,” she says.
Larys shakes her arm a little when expectant silence stretches. Alys shoots him a droll look but doesn’t add anything.
—
Sometimes, Alys thinks it to be overkill.
If she did not have this rot sitting in her chest, ready to devour, she would carry a little dagger. For men like this, who shove her down and yank up her dress. Her hands are pinned, but she could kick and bite and swipe for the little weapon.
Instead she only has to feel the first sparks of true anger before something black and inky shoots out of her chest like a lance. It spears the man right in the heart, where she’d aim her dagger, and retreats back into her as her breath evens.
It’s power the great men would covet, to use in their grand battles of delusions and dragons. In her hands it is the great power of keeping one woman unharmed.
She doesn’t know if the Strongs believe she can be used as some arrow in the dark, or if it’s simpler self-preservation against revenge. Though supernatural incidents in Harrenhal are plenty, the rumors that it houses a proper witch are sparse and lighthearted.
“Just a woman’s luck,” Fat Marge from the kitchens will say, waving off gossipmongers with a practiced hand and an implied warning. She’s often a bitch to Alys, making her do the work of two when she gets an attitude. But she won’t hear any charges of dark magic either.
Neither of them owe each other anything. Fat Marge is religious and will draw her moral math up in her head every so often, to make sure she’s not being outright evil to a fellow low-born female; these are the days Alys is let off just as late as usual but perhaps with a slightly bigger meal or a fresh fruit pulled from some lord’s tray. Alys doesn’t owe nor begrudge the woman for much, though she does find the cook’s particular brand of faith to be one that she unwillingly condones.
The bastards and the whores, the serving boys who fool with each other more than women; Fat Marge is equal in her judgement and generosity. It makes Alys wonder where she’s derived these radical sensibilities, because no man or woman in official service of the Seven would ever see Fat Marge as a devout. A modern soul, she thinks to herself, and snickers when Fat Marge catches the serving boys kissing in the storage room corner again and lets them scamper away with two tight slaps and a warning to take their naughty business somewhere properly private.
—
Harrenhal is taken swiftly and lethally. It’s a deal made with the simple stakes of death. Daemon Targaryen doesn’t spend much longer than a celebratory night before he’s off again to dog at Rhaenyra Targaryen’s heels or terrorize commoners or do whatever else the prior Lord of Fleabottom deigns to indulge in these trying days.
The night of conquest is a feast for him and his party, pretty serving wenches sent loaded with hogs roasted on platters and large vats of the thick soup nobles enjoy. Alys is kept hidden from sight, and all rumors are silenced in loyalty to the Strongs.
Alys’ birthplace is no church, but even its host of unsavory folk recognize the foolishness in handing away a hidden dagger.
—
The woman who birthed her is a mystery. Has always been, the scribe sneers to her. Will always be. Alys is born in exchange for a mother’s life, again and again with the same face and the same magic. Cursed or blessed. This time Alys is extra cursed, or blessed; she does not remember what Alys was like before this but she remembers instead what it must have been to live in a world where Westeros was a distant dream. Perhaps when she dies, and she is born again a witch wearing this same face, she will remember this time and all the times before. Which is Alys, then? If she has been Alys before and also a stranger? For this life it doesn’t matter.
—
The prince Aemond is two and ten when Alys is first given an opportunity to set her eyes upon him. She herself is newly eighteen, dressed for once in proper clothes and minimal jewelry. A bastard soon to be legitimized.
It’s quite foolish, to legitimize a bastard daughter; contemporary sentiment deems soon enough she will take another’s name. That Lyonel Strong will claim her Alys Strong now, at this age, is practically a clear declaration she will not be allowed to marry out of House Strong. No commoner man she ties herself to will be allowed to take the Strong name; she is likely barred from marriage entirely as no prospective lord would lower themselves to marry a bastard woman unless spelled deeply by true love.
It is also a declaration of her value. All rumors of Harrenhal’s witch are rung true by this new name bestowed upon her. Larys is most displeased by this decision; it strips him of some of the liberties he is wont to take. Harwin is ambivalent and treats her distantly but not particularly unkindly, with no great change from when she was a bastard serving-wench.
—
Alys wakes at crossroads. The fire, hot against her face in ill premonition even as her quarters host a chill. The decision is made as soon as she rises—Lyonel Strong is a better lord than Larys.
She tugs against the door, letting the burns on her palm sink deep into her nerves. Soon it will all be Larys’ regardless.
Harwin lives yet, weakly; Lyonel is passed. Perhaps Larys will face more than wounds.
—
When Lyonel wakes, finally, it is Alys’ bloody palm that greets him.
“Blood my blood, life for life,” she says, and then smears away the sigils that line her arms as she rises.
—
Lyonel brings her to court. He has more favor for the dying king than expected, she thinks, as he takes her to stand on ceremony. Most of the Targaryens are there, even those who squirrel away in Dragonstone and leave the crownseat to become corrupted.
She is introduced as a quick mind, a woman of some unusual intelligence. It’s phrased in so blatant a way that it makes Alys appreciative of the instances where she is successful in being able to ignore insinuations and insults against her sex.
“As you might have heard, Your Grace, it is by my daughter’s skillful hand that my son and I still live,” Lyonel says, and Alys turns her attention to the heads of silver that stand adjacent to the throne.
It’s easy to predict what must have happened; likely news spread and suspicion gathered the whole lot to supervise. Alicent and Rhaenyra’s broods each stand apart, casting evil eyes upon each other.
Lyonel turns back to her with an expectant look. Alys curtsies, but as she slips into the dip something tugs her down—to her knees and then to the floor entirely.
There’s noises of alarm and quite a few laughs as she blinks against darkness and finds her hands pressed against stone. Lyonel is just reaching for her with a hand outstretched, but she lifts a palm to stop him.
“Your Grace,” she says, and then stops. It is rare that pain comes in reverse—there is some greater necessity to this. Alys is a fool to deafen herself to the machinations of fate.
“Fetch the girl some water,” Viserys orders as she stands on weak legs. It briefly endears him to her greatly; useless king he may be but not so cruel a man in this moment.
“Your Grace, I've your cure,” she says. God, how can he live like this? Rot is seeping into her muscles and leeching into her brain. Lyonel looks at her in surprise, but no one else reacts much. Out of disbelief, she assumes.
The old king is not one to deny any avenue to it, no matter how unlikely. “I welcome you to try,” he says, staring instead at Lyonel as if to indicate that this is a humoring done as a favor. This is a surprise to Alys, this seemingly genuine camaraderie.
The curing could be drawn out so Alys saves herself the trouble of fielding accusations, but she wants to go back to Harrenhal. The sooner the King is healed the sooner Lyonel will have no task for her.
She will be sealing herself into usefulness, but she hopes quite optimistically that perhaps it will be the use of help that comes when it is called and not that which is kept on a leash.
In her bag there is a tincture made of some auspicious pickings let dry under evening sun. It carries only the faintest hint of preservation, but it is not the drink that will cure the king.
Alys pulls it out; she pops the cork and pours a drop onto her finger to slip into her mouth.
It’s the summer sun caught in a bottle. She nods and steps up to the throne, steps slow and telegraphed. Both Alicent and Rhaenyra make moves to reach for the tincture, though Rhaenyra is the one to peel it from Alys’ grip.
“We should have the physicians examine this first, father!”
Viserys frowns. “She has drank some already, Rhaenyra. Pass me the vial.”
He’s looking at Lyonel again when he says it. Alys fights the urge not to roll her eyes. She keeps her face carefully earnest, and after a long pause Rhaenyra passes it to her father. Alicent appears horrified.
The tincture is consumed in one fell swoop, and when in the next minute Viserys has no significant worsening in constitution it is as if all the throne room’s occupants sigh at once. In relief or disappointment, depending on what they stand to lose or gain.
“Give it a few days, Y'r Grace,” Alys says, tongue relaxing into a rougher accent. She curtsies again and is summarily whisked away to be interrogated by the physicians.
—
Not even Lyonel knows the extents and limits of what she can do, so Alys must conceal the illness that eats away at her while she seeks fitting victims. This is simplified greatly when a rapidly improving Viserys installs her near him as he begins presiding over affairs once more, and inadvertently gives Alys a clear picture of which powerful people could use some hindering.
It is not so well-planned as she intends for it to be—a sharp-tongued Lannister takes most of her pain, but the skin-eating rot is parceled away to the private parts of other courtly guests who irritate her. Stray comments or unsavory implications—Alys does not like to be so acknowledged. Better give these men a bigger problem.
—
It becomes apparent within the week that Viserys will make a near-full recovery, and Alys is regarded with deep suspicion by the other physicians, who she’s up until now managed to avoid and distinguish herself to. She can’t really justify not teaching them this miracle medicine, so instead she pleads to the king directly. She’s gained some credibility, she hopes.
“Secrets are power, Y’r Grace; I apologize for the presumption but I’m not now speaking with my own tongue. I’m no witch, I’ll tell you straight—I just hear them whisper sometimes. T’wasn’t because of me that you’re healed. The gods wished it and I hear those whispers, so I came forth with hand guided by god. Mustn’t be a soul that hears this, for once it is heard then it will be coveted, and nothing divine shall be coveted without drawing retribution.”
For once, Alys is proper worried about what will befall her. The king is difficult to read, with a still countenance and lips in a line.
“Very well,” he says finally, but his face bears no discernible understanding or acceptable. “None shall hear of how this healing happened."
—
Of course, it’s not quite that simple. Alys had been a visible figure in the throne room for quite some time, and even excusing it now as the Hand’s daughter aiding the physicians in monitoring the king’s recovery is not entirely successful. Those who bear the rot now could also come forward, though she doubts any would risk their pride and speak of their destroyed manhood to condemn her a witch with no great evidence.
Eventually she is allowed to return to Harrenhal, though she is only given two years of respite before she is brought to the Red Keep once more.