Chapter Text
When Alicent first caught sight of Helaena’s broken body lying in the coolness of the Royal Sept, she pronounced a curse on her daughter’s murderers.
“It was that False Queen who killed her,” she wailed to the single lady-in-waiting the Pretender had permitted her. “That False Queen and her White Worm.” The queen collapsed to her knees, ripping fistfuls of green silk from her skirts. “May their breasts be enveloped by leprosy! May their skin rot whilst they still live!” The final curse came out as a sibilant hiss. “May Rhaenyra witness the death of what children remain to her; may the pain of grief deaden the joy she feels at queenship.”
Alicent was past caring if one of Rhaenyra’s rats overheard her. Let them report me. She would as soon spit at her stepdaughter’s feet than cower.
All they have sowed, now they shall reap, Alicent had once cried, only she was reaping too, wasn’t she? Her stepdaughter had become a wan and fearful woman since the death of her eldest bastard, prone to fits of paranoia. Of late, Rhaenyra saw enemies where there were none and had engaged three more headsmen, to execute the large numbers of ‘traitors’ she was sending to the block. In the past, it had satisfied Alicent to see Rhaenyra suffer for her sins. Now, whenever the queen saw her stepdaughter, it felt like staring into a warped looking glass.
I put Aegon on the throne to save his life. And yet…
“They cleaved Jaehaerys’s head off and set Helaena down her path. Th-they signed Maelor’s death warrant. She sent her dogs after him.”
The Dowager Queen recalled the men Rhaenyra had tasked with hunting down Maelor: second sons and hedge knights, who’d like as not murder their own mother for a copper groat. And the price Rhaenyra had set on Maelor’s head had been far higher. Well, Maelor had been found, aye, but not by them.
“Those traitors at Bitterbrige…they ripped him to pieces,” she managed to choke out through her sobbing.
Helaena’s death had brought back the horror of it all, ripping free the bandage of hope Alicent had used to staunch her grief and her fears. She felt sick again, in the same way as when Blood and Cheese had come calling. The tears were coming thick and fast now, blurring her vision.
It was only later that Queen Alicent would consider that a mercy. It meant that she’d not been afforded a better view of Helaena’s shattered bones, her red ruin of a throat, her legs which had been spliced apart by the spikes of the Holdfast’s dry moat.
Helaena’s blood worked its way down the silver gilt of the catafalque they’d placed her on — as if a costly bier made up for all her girl had suffered. My girl, Alicent thought with sudden rage, my babe.
The anger gave way to renewed grief almost immediately — what was the point of this fury, Alicent wondered, if she could not set it against her children’s killers? Despite her plans and her cunning, she’d been unable to protect those most precious to her. Aemond was dead, slain and left in the Gods Eye, as though he were so much chaff. Aegon was in hiding, and caught between the agony of his injuries and the seductive poison of milk of the poppy. Father had been the first to be murdered by the False Queen after her seizure of King's Landing. Jaehaera was alone at Storms End and near mute with grief. Only Daeron was whole and unharmed…but she could no longer think of her youngest boy without foreboding.
Her wrath would return to her, Alicent knew, as sure as the sun rose in the east. But for now, all the queen could do was close her eyes and whisper: “I wish I could go back to when they were children. When I was young and unspoilt. When Father still lived. If I’d known what was to come…”
Her lady stared at her with concerned eyes. “Your Grace?”
When Alicent replied, her voice was distant, almost dreamy. “I would’ve killed for them. I would’ve shattered the world.”
She’d not known it then, but someone had been listening.
The Queen Dowager’s youngest child had been dead for near a fortnight, when Mysaria finally deigned to inform her.
“A burning tent, my informants tell me.” Mysaria picked at some dirt in her nails with a pen knife. “Prince Daeron was not even afforded the opportunity to join the battle.”
“You liar!” Alicent snarled, lunging forward. Mysaria was playing one of her cruel games again in a bid for information. That must be it. I’ll strangle her, I’ll gouge her eyes out, I’ll—
One of the spymistress’s brutish lackeys dragged her violently back by her golden chains. He was none too gentle about it either, and Alicent screeched indignantly as he grabbed her by her curls and dealt her head a glancing blow against the bed post.
When Alicent came to, she was greeted with the sight of Mysaria’s face a mere inch from her own. She’s beautiful, Alicent thought deliriously. And it was true: pale was Mysaria’s skin, and pale her hair, and her eyes were jewelled amethysts. They grew cold and empty as the woman spoke.
“Listen now and listen well, Your Grace.” Daemon’s paramour spoke the queen’s style as if it were mockery. “Your son is dead and the realm is better off for it. Prince Daeron defied his rightful queen. Let his end be a lesson to you.”
Alicent could not help herself. “By all the laws of men, my Aegon is the rightful king. Daeron did his duty, something your queen could never fathom.”
“Must it always be this way with you?” The spymisstress’s voice descended into a false croon, cloying and deceptive. “You have lost most of your kin to this war. The single child that remains to you is insensible from the pain of his burns, or so I have heard. Give Prince Aegon up, Your Grace, and I shall personally guarantee that your sole granddaughter is returned to you. Do you not wish to lay down your burdens? A simple life is what would await if you complied. You’d watch Jaehaera grow in peace, untouched by further violence.” Mysaria spun a cunning web with her words, primed to ensnare.
“Never,” Alicent said, and spat in the woman’s face for good measure. “And keep my granddaughter’s name out of your mouth, you disgusting pander.”
Mysaria's expression darkened with something like rage as she wiped away the spittle, before slackening into ambivalence. “I have broken many women in my life, Your Grace. Both young and of your middling age, if you would believe it; my clients had…unique appetites. Many of the girls remind me of you — unwilling to accept the new realities of their life.” Mysaria traced a single painted nail down the queen's temple. It came away smeared with blood. Alicent had not realised she was bleeding. “Each time I broke one in, I promised them it was a kindness, and before I'd finished, they'd agreed.” Mysaria let out an exaggerated sigh, as though she did not relish the prospect of what was to come and brought her rose red lips to the queen’s ear. “You'll agree too, after I'm through with you.”
There were moments in life, Alicent reflected in the aftermath, that could burrow deep inside of a person's soul, unable to be scrubbed off or burnt out, sitting within like a canker, poisoning everything good. When the queen tried to recall precisely what had gone on, that fateful morning with Mysaria, flashes of memory were all she could dredge up from her mind’s darkest recesses. A red hot knife that seared skin, the sickly odour of stale perfume, blood that filled her mouth with the taste of iron, scars were none could see. The sensations sat with Alicent like a ghost, haunted her dreams, corroded away her sanity.
“Misery didn’t even make it halfway before she died on the cobblestones.”
Alicent's thighs burned with painful remembrance. All they have sowed now they shall reap.
The queen cradled her dead son in her arms. King Aegon looked as if he were asleep; death had done much to soften his features. A trickle of wine ran down his chin. Alicent wiped it away with the sleeve of her gown.
Death becomes you, she thought and wept.
“Cut his throat. It's only fair, after what his father did to our Jaehaerys,” she advised, but Jaehaera only screamed, until her septa and ladies took her away. Alicent was left alone, though not truly. The spirits of her children surrounded her — Helaena and her ruined throat, Aemond with both eyes blinded, Daeron, smelling of ash and ruined youth.
Aegon, whom she'd killed in making king. Why, why, why? her son’s shade murmured.
Why, why, why? Alicent's thoughts echoed. She reached for the dreamwine on her sideboard. It tasted like milk of the poppy.
Alicent circled the gardens listlessly, her golden fetters clanking, her mind far away. Two guards followed, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and the former queen. The winter sky was a rare unblemished blue, though a brisk wind blew, chilling Alicent to the bone.
She didn't care. After sweet Jaehaera’s death, Alicent saw no point in preserving her health. Another daughter I cannot avenge. The rage had bled out of her, replaced with an unquiet despair. Still, it kept her mute and biddable; the boy king’s council of traitors no longer felt any anxiety about letting Alicent wander the Keep that'd been her home for three decades.
A crowd of curious onlookers gathered. To watch Viserys’s mad dowager, no doubt. She could feel them staring. Alicent moved toward the small copse of trees at the centre of the gardens, where she'd be obscured by the foliage.
She walked about listlessly, her guards forgotten, until she reached the ancient heart tree of the Red Keep. It was a thick oak, bent and twisted under its own weight; the face carved into its trunk bled golden sap. Alicent was familiar with it — Helaena and Daeron had oft played here as children, separately and together. The old queen sat against its trunk, bitter tears working their way down her permanently grief stricken face.
“I miss them,” she whispered.
The Queen Dowager did not see the portal opening in the heart tree, dark hands reaching forth from the mouth of the carved face.
By the time those hands seized Alicent, it was too late for her to run.
Queen Alicent found herself suspended in a great river of grey and gold. It left no part of her body untouched, cool against her skin. Yet somehow she was breathing. When Alicent moved forward, she went slowly, as if treading treacle.
“Where am I?” she cried. Fear lent a sharp edge to Alicent’s voice. Her heart thumped in her chest, as fast as a careening wheelhouse and her breath came out in great gasps. “Is anyone here? Anyone?”
She'd been near the heart tree. She'd been dragged here by it, Alicent knew, though the very notion was madness. But she’d felt the grip of dark hands on her, cold and slimy; she shuddered.
Alicent was about to give herself over to naked fear, when a bearded man appeared in front of her. She hadn't seen him approaching. There was nothing and then there was him.
“Where am I?” she repeated. “Who are you?”
Alicent cursed the fact that she was not armed. She’d spent most of her life being protected by others. Her father, her brother, Ser Criston. There was always someone there. Until there wasn't. Her scars itched. She tried to move back, but it was as if her legs were sunk into quick sand. They would not budge.
The man reached forth. Alicent flinched. He looked like no-one she'd ever seen, all in bronze armour, his blond hair adorned with a weirwood crown. Her voice was frozen in her throat, any ability to scream cut away.
And then he touched her forehead and Alicent saw for the first time in her life.
The past and future are a great river, with many an eddying current, each one a different world. His voice boomed in her mind, as forceful as a thunderclap; she flinched, shrinking away, to no avail. Somehow, he got hold of her memories. He showed Alicent her life as it had been — her childhood in Oldtown, her time at court, her triumphant marriage, all of it. She was spared nothing, not even its painful end.
Alicent Hightower, he said, voice sorrowful, in this world you and yours were ill-fated. My descendant, no birthright could save your regal son. King Aegon was ever doomed.
Two red spots of colour appeared high on her pale cheeks. “Who are you to speak of my children?” Alicent barked, furious. Who are you to pry into my pain?
The man did not deign to answer. I am a king. In life, they call me many names —Uthor Childrensbane, Uthor of the Geas. In the future, they know me as—
“Uthor of the Hightower,” Alicent whispered, brown eyes widening in shocked recognition. My descendant. Alicent didn’t know where her sudden knowledge came from. She just knew. Once more, she took in his bronze regalia and strange crown. “But that’s impossible. You’ve been dead for more than a millenia.”
Uthor spoke then, no longer keeping to his queer communication of the mind. His voice, when she heard it, was deep and resonant. It was as if ten men were speaking, instead of one. “I am dead only in the future. In mine own present, I live and breathe as well as you.”
“Where am I?” she asked again, and this time he answered.
“You are in the space between worlds, caught in the waters of time.” Uthor gestured to the river they floated in. “From here, you may enter many a world — ones similar to your own, ones different entirely.”
Alicent echoed him, uncomprehending. “‘Many a world’?’”
This felt surreal, like the strange dreams she was wont to have in her wine induced sleep. She stood up straighter. Stop cowering, Alicent scolded herself, and cut to the heart of the matter.
“Was it you who brought me here? What is your purpose? And what do you mean by ‘worlds’?”
I should dismiss this as a mad man’s ravings. Only Alicent couldn’t because she was here, wasn’t she? Here, in this world of grey and gold water, somehow undrowned, talking to her ancestor whose legacy she’d always assumed was a myth.
“When I took you through the heart tree’s portal,” Uthor began, “it was for a higher purpose, one that will serve both of us, in time. The ascension of our House — I would see Hightower blood forever bound with that of the dragon king's that rule in your present.” The ancient king’s eyes narrowed. “Though my line is older, and perhaps stronger in sorcery too.”
“Are you dead or alive?” It was a mad question, but Uthor spoke in mad riddles, with his talk of the present and future, as though he’d never paid a final visit to the crypts beneath the Hightower.
Uthor shook his head impatiently. “You still do not see, daughter. For seven years and seven months, I laboured under the children of the forest, learning their savage spells and means of scrying, and then I put them to the sword. When I reached into the void and saw the threads of destiny laid out before me, I could not accept the idea that our House would fail where others succeeded. The both of us have a joint aim — I tell you again, that I would have my blood, your blood, forever bound to that of the Targaryens.” He spread his hands wide. “And I would return you to your children. I heard your wish. Do not think I am insensible to the pain of a grieving mother, Alicent.”
“Why?” Alicent knew it was foolish of her to trust Uthor so quickly. “Why do you wish to see us joined to the Targaryens?” Anger coloured her expression. “What have they ever brought this realm but grief?”
Sudden shame flooded her. Her anger was misplaced. She was lashing out at Uthor, because she couldn’t lash out at Viserys. May he rot. What little love she’d held for him had died with their children.
Uthor’s face settled into an expression of condescending superiority. “Because our blood is old, older than that of the Freehold, older than the history of the Seven Kingdoms. I have seen it.” He smirked. “Many assumed I was attracted to the art of magic for mine own dark design. Nay. I wanted to put it to use so that our family’s blood would run in the veins of all the king's that ever ruled in these lands. The Targaryens are only the most powerful of them.”
Ambition. It was a tune Alicent had danced to before.
“You wish for your children. I can return you to them.” Alicent felt idiotic hope bloom inside of her. “For a price.”
“And what is it?” She hated how desperate she sounded. But he’d dangled her deepest hope before her, and Alicent was loath to resist. The fact that she’d been pulled in by the heart tree’s portal stood testament enough to Uthor’s abilities.
Uthor’s hands were still outstretched and now they began to glow. His voice morphed — he sounded like a crone and a young woman, a little boy and an old man, all at once. Alicent smelled something sickly sweet and burning.
“If I reunite you with your children, you must agree to three things. Firstly, you do everything in your power to make Aegon king again. A successful one, mind you.” He swallowed as if nervous. The thought struck her as absurd. What had a sorcerer-king to be nervous of? “The next thing I seek is more costly. You must accept that your memory will have gaps. You will remember more with each child you birth. Only when your youngest is born shall your memories be returned to you in full. A costly price, but I have seen you bear worse.”
Alicent’s eyes narrowed. “Why must I bear it at all? Why not leave my mind intact?”
“All magic costs something, Alicent.” King Uthor’s hands glowed brighter. “A life, a love, a memory. Count yourself lucky that only the latter is demanded of you.”
“But why is it demanded of me? You could’ve chosen any other Hightower, to see your purpose through.” Gwayne or Uncle Hobert or Cousin Ormund. Even Ormund’s snivelling son, Lyonel, would’ve been a better possibility. They were permitted violence where words failed. “Why not a man?”
Uthor looked at her sharply. “No man can match a mother’s fury, or her willingness to sacrifice for her children.” He placed his glowing hands on her shoulders. “I have chosen you, Alicent, because I know that you will not allow yourself to fail again.”
That should’ve hurt. Instead it thrilled her.
King Uthor’s face grew grave. He moved away. “The final request might require something you’re not willing to give. You must pick a child.”
Alicent’s breath stuttered to a stop. What? She was back in her chambers, watching as two men seized Helaena and her grandchildren. One of them put a knife to her daughter’s throat. Choose, they’d said. Pick a—
Pain brought Alicent back to the present. She touched her cheek.
Uthor shook out the hand he’d slapped her with. “A crude necessity. I apologise. My wording was…indelicate.”
“You want me to pick a child?” Alicent’s breath juddered, her lungs spasming with the memory of old panic.
“Not in the way you’d assumed,” came Uthor’s hasty reply. “I only meant that one of your children shall be permitted to remember their past life, for lack of a better term, along with you.”
Her eyes blurred with tears. “Can they not be spared?” she asked, voice cracking.
“Nay, my daughter. You must do this, elsewise my spell shall not take hold. If you agree and pay the price demanded, I will send you to a world where you’ll be reunited with your loved ones. It is no facsimile of the world I plucked you from, but a different version. It runs in a parallel line to yours.”
“A ‘world’?”
“A different reality, an altered composition of your current present,” he answered, with a dismissive flick of his gauntleted hand. “All those you knew, both the despised and the beloved, will be present. Their ages might differ, and their appearances too, but the essence of them shall be the same.” Uthor’s eyes — they were golden, Alicent realised with a start — searched her own. “Do you consent?”
Perhaps a more cynical person would refuse. Alicent had been raised at the knee of Ser Otto Hightower, a man whose very name had once been a byword for cautious judgement. She could hear Father’s voice as though he was right beside her: examine the offer from every angle, never merely accept. He was right. Alicent was too tired to care. She no longer had anything to lose. If Uthor’s magic killed her, instead of doing as he’d promised, no one would mourn her.
“I want to see my sons again, and Helaena, my sweet girl, oh…and King Jaehaerys.” She didn’t notice Uthor’s look of pity. “I will read to him, as I did when I was little. He used to say I had a lovely voice.”
King Uthor’s voice filled her mind. Very well, Alicent. And your chosen child?
“Aegon,” she said with certainty. He was her eldest; he would be king; the knowledge would serve to temper his pleasure seeking ways and keep him focused upon what was important.
With this, you have sealed my geas upon you. He came forward and placed a glowing hand atop Alicent’s head.
“What of my current life?” Alicent cried, with sudden fear.
Hush, my child. What’s past is premonition.
And then her world turned a blinding white.
Alicent floated above a strange scene.
A young woman was giving birth, surrounded by midwives and a venerable old maester. She pushed and pushed and pushed, trying to dislodge the child within her, but was struggling badly. Alicent studied her. In truth, she could have been no more than fourteen, soft featured and lovely, with a cascade of auburn curls. Her eyes were a gentle brown, and full of fear.
Alicent watched in horror as the girl gave a great gasp and swooned, but she didn’t have long to look, because suddenly she was falling down, down, down. I’m going to land on the poor chit, she realised with sickening nausea and braced herself, closing her eyes tightly. There was the sound of swooshing air and a sensation like that of stinging nettles, and then all was quiet warmth. Alicent clutched her head as she was bombarded with a barrage of new memories.
It seems this is the new me, Alicent realised, bemused, as she acquainted herself with the girl’s mind. My mind. But before she could better explore the breadth and scope of her new memories, a terrible pain began in her lower muscles.
Alicent’s eyes flew open as she jerked upright. I’m the one giving birth.
“Her Grace has awoken,” one of the midwives cried, high pitched with relief.
“You must push, Your Grace,” the old maester replied, but Alicent paid him no mind.
I’ve given birth four times before, she reminded herself, through the haze of pain. This time shall be just as successful.
With a roar of mingled agony and rage, she bore down on the child within her, clutching a midwife’s hand all the while. After the third push, the child slid free. A little boy. Alicent seized him before anyone else.
“My boy,” the young queen crooned. They were still connected by the cord. Aegon Targareyn was red and squalling and filthy with her womb’s blood, and he was hers. Uthor spoke true. She let out a laugh — a light hearted, free thing. Alicent couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that. “My Aegon,” the young queen murmured. “I love the very bones of you.”