Chapter Text
The smell was the first thing that hit her. Not the acidic stench of disease, nor the suffocating weight of incense burning to mask approaching death—but something lighter.
Rosemary.
Lavender.
Clean air.
Alicent Hightower took a deep breath… and it didn’t hurt.
Her eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above her wasn’t that of her quarters in the Red Keep, with its dark beams and shadows that seemed to move at night.
It was bright.
High.
Familiar in a way that made her heart skip a beat.
She sat up too quickly. The world spun—not with the dizziness of fever, but with the lightness of a… healthy body. Her hands instinctively rose to her face.
No wrinkles.
No marks.
No weight of years.
Alicent swallowed hard.
—No…—her voice came out softer, younger, less worn. She rose from the bed, her feet touching the cold stone floor. The room was spacious, bathed in the golden morning light. Green and gold tapestries hung from the walls.
An open window let in the distant sound of bells… and birds.
Oldtown. There was no doubt. Her heart began to beat faster, now not from weakness—but from fear.
Memories came like a storm.
The throne room.
Viserys's empty gaze.
The smell of rotting flesh.
The cold hands of her sons, one by one being swallowed by a war she helped fuel.
Blood.
Fire.
Dragons.
She closed her eyes tightly, as if she could prevent those images from existing. But they were there. All of them. Whole. Alive.
"This is a dream…" she murmured, almost pleading.
But dreams had no smell. No weight. No… time.
A soft knock on the door.
Alicent froze.
"My lady?" came the voice from the other side. Young. Careful. "Are you awake?"
Alicent knew that voice.
Much younger, yes—but still unmistakable.
"Come in."
The door opened, and her childhood maid Ophelia entered carrying a basin of warm water. Her movements were quick, efficient, and her face… untouched by time.
Alive.
Everyone was alive.
Alicent felt something tighten in her chest—something dangerous, almost too painful to bear.
The maid gave a slight curtsy.
"Your father asked you to come down after breakfast. He wishes to speak with you before the journey."
Journey.
The word echoed.
Journey to King's Landing.
The beginning of everything.
The beginning of the end.
Alicent remained silent for a long moment. Then she walked slowly to the polished bronze mirror leaning against the wall. And there she was.
Young.
Intact.
Eyes still clear, still hopeful—not yet hardened by politics, fear, loneliness.
But there was something new there too. Something that didn't belong to that age.
Consciousness.
She touched her own reflection with her fingertips.
"Again…" she whispered. It wasn't a question. It was a realization. Alicent Hightower was alive again.
And this time… she knew.
She knew about her father Otto and his ambitions.
She knew about the king, her husband, and everything he would take from her without leaving anything in return.
She knew about the Princess girl, once a beloved friend but who would become her rival.
She knew about the war.
She knew the price of every choice.
Her gaze changed. It hardened—not with cruelty, but with resolve. When she turned to the maid, there was no longer any surprise or hesitation in her posture.
"Prepare a bath. And choose a dress suitable for an audience, not for a trip."
The maid blinked, confused. "An… audience, madam?"
Alicent walked to the window, watching Vilavelha awaken in the morning light.
The world wasn't broken yet. Not yet.
"Yes," she replied, calmly, firmly. "My father wishes to speak with me… and I also have much to say to him." A pause.
And then, almost inaudibly:
"This time… it will be different."
Outside, the bells continued to toll.
But for Alicent, they no longer announced routine.
They announced war.
And she intended to win it before it even began.