Chapter Text
Old Valyria, built on the whipped backs of slaves, powered by ravenous volcanoes, tends to be remembered with fondness by the Targaryens.
A land where magic ruled, with landscapes so enchanting a low-born Westerosi could not begin to imagine it.
A place where warlocks roamed the lands, and beasts ruled the sky.
An unforgiving city where every ounce of power was paid for by blood.
Alys Rivers knows that King Aemond’s fascination with the Valyrian empire roots itself in vanity. ‘Tis a testament of the young man’s need to feel powerful; to feel as if he is superior to those around him, mere commonmen chanceless against a dragon-tamer as himself.
She saw it in his eye when he eradicated her kin in Harrenhal, dark and content as he punished them for allowing Rhaenyra and Daemon to take King’s Landing.
For it could not have been feasible due to any miscalculations of his own, could it?
The chamber Aemond had told her to prepare bathes in a red glow from the moon hanging in the sky above the Red Keep.
Alys stands with her back against the door, facing the bed she’d prepared for the Queen, a slim one with only a piece of cloth covering it to prevent the wood structure from staining.
Her fingers nervously tap the small pouch resting in the deep pocket of her apron, a mixture of dried soil from the dragonpit, ground henbane and liquorice root, carefully scraped bark from the Weirwood tree in Harrenhal, and a few drops of her own blood.
Alys’ approach to sorcery had always been one of trial and error; a dance between herself and the powerful unknown, where she dove in head first and allowed the dark arts to manipulate her body any way they wished.
She had never feared death, determined to harness witchcraft by any means possible. Her human flesh had never felt like too great of a price to pay.
Perhaps ‘twas the hunger for power residing within her that first drew her to Aemond. Not even when he slew every soul she knew in Harrenhal did she fear him.
She understood him; his quest for respect, harvested by brutality. His need to feel powerful, even if the price stained the stone walls of the old castle in crimson.
She understood him because they were cut from the same cloth; doomed to be disregarded from birth.
When King Aemond finally arrives, his wife gently cradled at his side, the blood moon stands proud at the top of the sky.
The young queen looks as if she has been roused from slumber, merely clad in a dark green robe hanging loosely over her sleeping gown. The intricate embroidery of golden travels down her sleeves and back, glimmered faintly in the candlelight, echoing the shimmer of her unbound hair.
With one hand she anchors herself to her husband, while the other lays on her round belly. There is a slight sway to each step she takes, her body still unfamiliar with the heavy babe it has become a home to.
With one guiding hand, Aemond wordlessly instructs her to sit upon the edge of the modest bed. As she hesitantly obliges, he lowered himself to one knee before her, large hand enveloping hers in a secure grip. His voice is low and reverent as he begins, a tone Alys is sure has never left the confines of their marital chambers until now.
“My love”, he says, eye sternly locking with hers, “The moon tonight is in a state of unparalleled strength. Its light is not just rare, it is a beacon of power. This is no mere coincidence; it is a blessing from the Seven themselves”
He catch a strand of hair that falls across Lady Lannister’s face, gently tucking it behind her ear and letting his fingertips linger there,
“Alys”, he continues, voice now somber, “is gifted in ways I cannot explain. Tonight, under the moon’s influence, she can harness its potency to restore what you have lost”
His wife parts her lips as if to speak, yet no words come. Aemond’s hand finds hers again, his grip firm yet tender, an act of control shielded by a gentle touch.
“I would not ask this of her if I were not certain. I would not ask this of you if I believed there to be another way”
Lady Lannister looks down at her fingers, then lets her gaze travel from her husband to Alys, who has not moved since they arrived. Their eyes meet, and she sees it, the pleading in the young queens eyes, the storm of sadness and fear reeking havoc within her,
“I-, I apologise, dear husband, but I cannot-”
Her distressed voice dies as she fails to find the words. She needn’t say them, ‘tis evident by the wide stare of her glassy eyes how she feels.
She is petrified.
With a shaky inhale, Lady Lannister tries to find her courage,
“We have no need for sorcery”, she argues, voice still uneven but with a tint of conviction hiding behind her uncertainty. It is clear that she does not fear Aemond enough to wholly disregard his commands, but still, she seems eager to convince him that his approach is not wise. She slowly breathes in again,
“I-, I am trying , my memory is returning-”
“And yet you are still not yourself”
“Please, Aemond, think of the risk. The babe-”
“The babe will be fine. So will you”, he cuts in, his gaze flickering from her to the red glow of the moon peeking through the window. Lady Lannister brings one hand up to gently cup his cheek, thumb slowly stroking his scarred cheek as she tries to get him to meet her eyes once more. She wants him to look at her and see the utter horror in her features; how tears threaten to fall down her cheeks at his vile suggestion.
Aemond refuses his wife’s silent command, and continues to observe the red moon, until a determined hum leaves his lips. When he locks eyes with her again, the softness from moments before has vanished, replaced by the steel Alys knows from the battlefield.
"I placed my life in Alys' hands once. Now I ask you to do the same"
The shift in his voice is clear, a testament to his distaste for being questioned.
Greedy, greedy man.
Lady Lannister’s heart breaks before his eyes, tears now sliding down her cheeks as her stare grows frantic. She mumbles a soft “no” and shakes her head lightly,
“Please, Aemond, do not do this”
“It is the only way”
He sounds convinced, but not that his words will ease his wife’s unease. Rather, he seems to tell it to himself; to his own conscience.
A devastated sigh leaves her lips as she continues to shake her head. She tries to yank her trembling hands from Aemond and push herself away from him, from the wicked plan he has for her, but her husband quickly catches her hands in a tight grip,
“This is not just sorcery”, he tells her, “It is salvation”
“ Salvation ?”, Alys thinks to herself, “ What he asks me to do makes a mockery out of the Seven ”
She knows there is no room for argument however, as she catches sight of the certainty in Aemond’s fiery eye. She hears it in his voice, how he believes this to be the only way. If he were not King, she might have tried to steer him in another direction. But he is hopeless; a lovestruck fool desperate to return to a time before the dragons danced.
He leans forward, rests his forehead against his wife’s, and closes his eye,
“‘Tis fate”, he says, tone now gentler, yet with the same intensity, “The rarest of moons; set alight by the Seven themselves. Tonight, I can have you back”
Another pained sigh leaves Lady Lannister’s lips as she takes in his words. There must be some part of her old self still residing within her, for Alys can see the change in her disposition; how she lets her husband’s conviction become her own. He only needs to push her a little further and she’ll fall, whole-heartedly trusting that he will catch her.
“You will be whole again”
And with that, she’s falling.
Another shaky inhale, a resigned nod, and she relents.
Her subjection is rewarded with a kiss to her forehead before the king swiftly stands, finally acknowledging his trusted advisor with a curt nod.
The queen lies down on the bed, pulling her dark robe tighter around her to prevent the chill of the outside wind from penetrating her bones. Still, Alys notices the way her hands tremble as she tries to lay them neatly over her rounded belly.
Ever the lady.
In accordance with Alys’ calculations, Lady Lannister’s body lies directly under the red glow of the moon, with the restless fire of the hearth crackling at her feet. She had fed it well before the royal couple's arrival, estimating just how ravenous she would have to render it in order to achieve the results she wanted.
Witchcraft is fickle; a delicate balance of offerings made to appease a higher, darker , power. Merely one component being compromised could yield devastating results.
“I will need some of your blood, your grace”, Alys says as she pulls out a practical, delicate dagger from one of the many pockets adorning her apron.
The queen, trembling and sniffling, nods faintly and pulls up one sleeve of her robe, offering her underarm to the witch of Harrenhal’s blade.
She closes her eyes and hisses as it cuts into her soft skin, and Alys quickly retrieves the pouch from her pocket, allowing the queen’s blood to drip into the mixture she had prepared. With her fingers around the pouch, holding it in her palm, she feels the concoction grow warmer in her grip as more of Lady Lannsiter’s blood seeps into it, a sign that the sorcery is commencing.
“‘Tis time”, Alys says before leaving her queens side to stand by the hearth. In the corner of her eye, she sees Aemond’s stoic gaze observe them, standing with his hands clasped behind his back a few paces away from his wife, blocking the door to the corridors.
“Should we not fetch the Maesters?”, Lady Lannister asks in a shaky voice. Her assumption causes a startled huff to escape Alys’ lips.
She really is pure of heart.
“Oh, they would not approve”
Once again, a veil of sadness obscures the queen’s eyes. They’re clouded by disbelief; wide in fear.
Alys looks to Aemond, waiting for him to offer his wife some words of comfort. He remains silent, lilac eye observing the blood moon shining menacingly in the sky before meeting Alys’ gaze, waiting for her to hold true to her promise and bring his wife back.
“There is no going back once I begin”, she warns, a final chance for him to accept the fate that the Seven have bestowed upon him.
Without hesitation, he nods for her to continue.
And so she does.
—--
Alys is grateful for the steadiness of her hands as she begins the ritual. She had always been a skilled pretender; a master in the art of deceit. She knew that in order to survive, she needed to embody whatever was needed; an advisor, a confidant, a healer.
A sorceress.
She had always known that Aemond would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, whether it was the crown, the blood of his enemies, or his beloved wife back.
He had been easier to tame in Harrenhal, when she could convince him that her witchcraft knew no bounds. A small lie that kept him placated.
‘Tis true that she did entertain the dark arts, yet her mastery over such forces was often exaggerated to her benefit. She’d rather be looked upon as a witch, powerful in her unpredictability, than a common bastard, alloted the same fate as a low-born servant.
She grabs a handful of the soil, root, bark and blood mixture from the pouch and tosses it in the fire next to her. It crackles loudly in protest, a cloud of ashy smoke appearing and disappearing quickly.
Preparing for the ritual, she had studied books found in Harrenhal, ancient and fragile, with pages so dry they turned to dust between her fingertips.
They spoke of power, but also of peril. No account confirmed success, and none dared speak of failure. Still, she pressed forward, for there was no room for hesitation with Aemond’s gaze fixed so intently on her.
Once more, she needed to wear the mask of a cunning pretender.
Tossing another handful of the mixture onto the fire, she whispered the first chant.
The words felt foreign on her tongue, yet the more she spoke, the more familiar they became, as if she had unlocked a latent spellcaster hidden deep within her.
Alys paces around the bed, circling Lady Lannister with purposeful steps, her voice rising and falling in a cadence that grows more and more innate. With each handful of bloodied soil tossed into the hearth, the flames stretched higher, painting the chamber in agitated shadows.
The queen lies motionless on the bed, though the tears glimmering on her wet cheeks betray her suffering. Her lips moved faintly in whispered prayer, a quiet plea for the mercy of the Seven.
Does she think they watch over us now, as we defile their divinity?
With the next toss of soil, the flames falter. In the blink of an eye, Alys feels her fabricated self-assuredness waver. The fire, once eager to consume, dimmed to a faint flicker.
Fuck .
The texts had not prepared her for this.
“We need more blood”, she says sharply, her tone betraying none of the panic brewing in her chest.
Lady Lannister groans, her face sweaty and dull in colour,
“My head’s pounding again” she complains weakly, a faint slur to her words tells Alys that the witchcraft has taken a heavy toll on her already. Her eyelids flutter, as though fighting to stay awake.
Alys hesitates, gaze darting to Aemond, searching for guidance. If the ritual was under her command, she would end it here, and pray that the consequences were not too dire; that the magic did not steal anything else from the weak Lady Lannister. Yet when she meets her king’s seeing eye, his stare is unyielding. With a single nod, he orders her to continue.
Alys presses against the wound, coaxing more blood to flow. Lady Lannister winces and whimpers, her body curling away from the pain instinctively, yet she remains compliant as she refrains from protesting.
With swift movements, Alys hurriedly mixes the fresh blood with the content in the pouch and resumes the chant.
Her voice grows louder, each syllable punctuated by the sound of soil hissing in the fire.
This time, the flames surge violently, travelling out of the hearth and reaching toward the ceiling, as if they crave an escape from the confines of the Red Keep, longing to become one with the sky.
Thick smoke billows forth, twisting like a serpent as it coils from the fire to the figure on the bed. Lady Lannister’s body convulses when the smoke encircled her, beads of sweat forming on her brow.
Her breaths come in shallow gasps, her head thrashing against the pillow.
“No, no, no, no, no, no”
Alys raises her voice, forcing the chant to rise above the queen’s cries and the roaring flames.
The red glow of the moon pours through the window like blood from a wound, drenching the room in its eerie light, causing the black smoke to reflect a tint of crimson.
“No, no, no, no, no, no”
Lady Lannister’s voice grows hoarse as she pleads, over and over, tone escalating in desperation.
Alys dares not interrupt the ritual and continues to chant, throwing a cautious look towards Aemond, who seems less sure of himself as he observes his wife twisting in pain on the bed. His gaze darts to his advisor, and perhaps for the first time since she’s known him, she sees fear dance in the king’s eye.
“A boy, posing as a man grown” , she thinks as she sees the width of his eye and the paleness of his cheek. He’s never looked so young before.
Reaching the bottom of her pouch, Alys tosses the last blood-soaked soil into the hearth. The fire roars, forcing her to yell the final chant for it to be heard by the dark forces she calls upon.
A fierce gust of wind surges through the room, forcing the smoke circling Lady Lannister’s body to scatter like fleeing spirits, leaving nothing but a heavy silence in its wake.
She’s quiet now, no more moans, groans or pleas leaving her lips as she lies limp on the wooden bed. Her sweat-soaked hair clings to her face, cheeks still wet from the tears she had spilled.
Alys kneels by the bed and pushes some of the queen's hair away from her sticky forehead. She inspects the cut on her arm, shallow and straight enough that it will not leave a nasty scar, a small price to pay for restoration. She binds the wound with a piece of cloth, securing it around her arm,
“The memories should return when she wakes,” she tells Aemond, who still stands guarding the door with a wide stare. The calmness in her voice surprises her, not a drop of the doubt coursing through her spilling out.
She watches the king school himself into the man he is known to be; stoic, prideful, and calculating. His stare is harder, features determined as he nods his gratitude towards Alys,
“If this is all, I will return her to our chambers”
He strides towards the bed and brings one arm under her shoulders, gently pulling her up to rest her senseless body against his chest, while he brings his other hand to her thighs, sliding his arm underneath her knees to pull her up.
Aemond freezes in his movements, that same look of fright Alys had seen mere moments ago overtaking his features as he suddenly lets his wife bounce back down on the bed.
He withdraws his hand from under her knees, inspecting it in horrors as it is now stained red with fresh blood.
Frantically, he rips the dark green robe covering her body open, revealing a large, red stain pooling between her thighs, spilling down her legs. It seems to still be flowing out of her, seeping into the white cloth beneath her and colouring it in memory of what she had to suffer through in her husband’s quest to fix her.
Aemond does not move, stuck in fear as he watches the stain grow larger. Alys feels hot and cold at the same time, panic washing over her, an internal voice screaming at her to take action,
“Fetch Grand Maester Orwyle!”, Alys orders him as she begins to rip the cloth of the bed into smaller strips, soaking up some of the blood that refuses to staunch.
Aemond hesitates, his eye flicking between Alys and the frail, motionless figure of his wife, perplexed disbelief rendering him speechless.
“Now!”, she commands, and wordlessly, he bolts out of the room, still with the same haunted look in his eye.
Alys turns her attention back to Lady Lannister, her hands moving quickly to stem the bleeding.
There is no time to think, no time to doubt.
Whatever the night had intended, it is far from over.