A corpse.
That was what lay before her eyes, Alicent realised.
And…it was not merely any corpse.
"Viserys…" She whispered faintly, though the name felt strange upon her tongue now. So wholly detached from the thing resting before her.
Viserys lay upon his bed, utterly still beneath layers of embroidered blankets. Age and sickness had hollowed his cheeks, whilst old lesions and faded scars lingered upon his body.
Over these past years, her husband had found something of a resurgence within himself.
Whether it had been his pleasant mood, the strange arts whispered to surround her children, or merely the stubbornness that had always hidden beneath his softness, Viserys Targaryen had long outlived the due the Stranger had once demanded of him.
Alas.
Death came for all men eventually.
And now, after all these years, the King had finally fallen, his mouth sat slightly parted, as though he had merely fallen asleep mid-thought and might awaken at any moment to mumble some weary plea for peace.
Peace. Compromise. Weakness.
Were they not ever his favourites?
Alicent stood motionless beside the bed.
The candlelight danced across her green gown whilst her fingers tightened slowly at her sides.
Did she feel sadness?
Perhaps.
After all, this had been the man who shared her bed since she herself had scarcely ceased being a girl.
The man who had shown her kindness in moments she least deserved it.
The man who, despite all his failings, had taught her that family could be more than ambition, calculation, and hidden daggers.
Viserys had been a good man.
A pleasant man.
But she had never truly loved him.
No.
Some bitter, ugly part of her had long since come to resent the decrepit fool who had chained her finest years to this suffocating castle and called it duty.
The thought alone filled her with shame.
Alicent's breathing grew uneven.
Her nails, already ruined from years of anxious chewing, dug harshly into her palm as her fingers curled tighter and tighter.
A pathetic habit it was, yet the pain that blossomed was enough to ground her from the storm of emotions that threatened to rise in her.
Grief.
Relief.
Guilt.
Fear.
All of it was chained away in the deepest confines of her mind.
Her eyes lingered upon Viserys one final time before she abruptly turned away.
She could not bear to remain there any longer.
The doors opened sharply as she swept from the solar, her steps far quicker than propriety allowed.
The two Kingsguard stationed outside straightened immediately, men close to Ser Criston, loyal before all else to her faction within the court.
She vaguely remembered speaking to them, but her mind had blurred, and before she knew it, she was already pacing through torchlit corridors.
Pacing past servants flattening themselves against the walls upon sighting her, past nobles unaware that the realm had just changed forever.
By the time Alicent reached the Small Council chambers, a sense of unreality still struck her.
The doors creaked open as she nudged them, lost in thought.
Ser Criston Cole stood near the far wall in white enamelled armour, rigid as ever.
Beside him sat Otto Hightower, hands folded calmly, though Alicent knew he was anything but calm.
And further back, half-consumed by shadow and candlelight alike, sat Larys Strong with his cane resting loosely against the floor.
Contrary to them, sat her lacklustre eldest, slumped over the council table in a drunken stupor.
Yet, even he was here…waiting.
Just like all of them.
"Alicent?" Otto looked at her. "Did you not go to check upon His Majesty? Why have you—"
"The king is dead."
Her words cut cleanly through her father's own.
For a moment…even the candles ceased their restless dancing.
Aegon stirred from his drunken haze first, blinking dumbly as though the meaning of her words struggled to reach him. His eyes drifted from Alicent to Otto, then toward the table before him.
He said nothing.
Otto, meanwhile, released a slow, measured breath that sounded equal parts exhaustion and relief.
Ser Criston's jaw tightened faintly, his lips thinning into a thin, hard line.
Only Larys Strong reacted differently.
The Clubfoot lowered his gaze slightly, a grimness settling over his features that almost resembled genuine mourning.
Still, it was enough to momentarily unsettle Alicent.
Did Viserys truly mean so much to him? Alicent doubted it.
Though if the man truly possessed such depths of feeling, it was a pity he had shown so little of it toward his own father and brother.
Aegon spoke first at last, his words slurring together lazily.
"Then go…" He muttered with a hiccup. "Tell Rhaenyra…"
"No." Otto's voice cracked sharply through the room. "Your sister will not sit the Iron Throne. She is ill-fit to rule."
Aegon merely rolled his eyes at that.
"If Rhaenyra succeeds her father," Otto continued, fixing his grandson with a hard stare, "what then becomes of you? Of your brothers? Your sister?"
"Siblings?" Aegon barked out a humourless laugh. "One's lost half his face, the other is still a child despite his years."
He weakly waved an arm through the air, as if to gesture something.
"And the only two normal ones amongst us fled this place long ago."
The bitterness beneath the drunkenness did not escape Alicent.
Still, for all his complaints, Aegon did not truly dispute Otto's point.
"We cannot announce the king's death," Otto continued calmly. "Not yet. First, we must secure the city and neutralise Lord Corlys and Lord Beesbury."
His gaze shifted toward Criston.
"For now, Lord Commander, see them confined within the Black Cells. Quietly. Make certain they remain there."
Criston inclined his head immediately. "As you command."
"What of the maester?" He asked a moment later.
"Gerardys?" Alicent interjected before Otto could answer.
Her voice emerged colder than she expected. "Kill him if you find him."
Several eyes shifted toward her.
"It would be simple enough to place blame for His Grace's death upon him," she continued. "A maester once sworn to Rhaenyra would make for a convenient traitor."
"Your Grace…" Larys spoke carefully, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Surely you do not intend to accuse the Princess herself?"
Alicent turned toward him sharply.
"And if I do?"
Her voice cracked through the chamber harsher than intended, yet her mind remained irate as she caught the Clubfoot glancing toward Otto before lowering his head.
"Cease your insolence, Larys, and do as you are told."
"As you wish, Your Grace," Larys murmured.
Though Alicent was certain it was anything but her own words that convinced him, and rather her father's acquiescence.
How pathetic.
She. Was. The. Queen.
Yet, even a mere subject looked to her father before they did her.
"Good," Otto spoke at last, folding his hands calmly atop the table. "Then all that remains is for you, daughter, to prepare Aegon's ascension."
"I should be able to delay the septons from tending to His Majesty's body," Alicent said further. "But I do not know how long I can hold them off."
"Then we must move swiftly," Ser Criston replied at once. "Every moment wasted risks losing control of the city."
"And what of those two?" Larys asked softly.
His eyes gleamed strangely.
A heavy silence followed.
One by one, their gazes shifted toward Alicent.
Her thumb rubbed unconsciously against the ragged edges of her chewed nails.
"They have no wish to involve themselves in our affairs," she said at last.
"Are you not their mother?" Ser Criston asked carefully. "Surely they would listen if you—"
"They will not, Ser Criston." Alicent scoffed sharply. "If you believe Baelon and Helaena so easily beguiled, then by all means attempt it yourself."
She turned away from the council table, emerald skirts shifting behind her as she moved toward the doors.
"There is no need to drag them into this if they do not wish it," she added without looking back. "They abandoned court long ago. Let them remain apart from what comes next."
Whether that was wisdom or desperation, even Alicent no longer knew.
And without waiting for a response, she departed the chamber.
***
Baelon let his gaze drift across the hellish expanse below.
The Smoking Sea remained every bit as cursed as he remembered.
Ugly sea churned restlessly beneath cloaks of ash, whilst rolling heat pressed in on him from all sides.
Too hot.
Far too hot.
Still, as he remembered the excited Daenys rushing about the Prince's Estate and greeting Maela with a bright smile on her face, he found himself cursing the heartless girl.
She found a new interest and immediately cast her parents to the far corners of her mind.
"What exactly are we looking for here?" Helaena called from beside him atop Dreamfyre, breaking his thoughts.
Her voice emerged muffled behind the familiar mask she wore, though the design had grown sleeker over the years, refined endlessly by the artisans of Elyria.
Without it, Baelon was certain their lungs would be assaulted by the petulant scent of sulphur and brimstone.
Nevertheless, Baelon reached down absently, patting the ridges along Vermithor's back as the great bronze dragon beat his wings and drifted nearer to Dreamfyre.
"For now?" Baelon answered. "Anything really. As long as an oddity can be spotted from here, all shall be well. If not, well, I suppose we could try swimming."
Baelon shivered as he felt a gaze cut into him as he coughed and answered with mock sincerity. "I was merely joking…somewhat."
He truly was. After all, he would be the only one swimming by then.
Still…it was indeed a maddening predicament.
There existed no true record of where the God's corpse had fallen.
No map. No prophecy. No nothing.
Yet during these past few years, Baelon had uncovered one curious detail that gnawed endlessly at his thoughts.
The Smoking Sea.
When he had travelled across the Valyrian peninsula years before, most of the Fourteen Flames had long since died.
Many sat cold and hollow now, whilst others only occasionally sputtered with faint signs of lingering life.
And yet, even after all these centuries, the Smoking Sea remained violently unstable.
Why?
One could only speculate.
Was Baelon certain Balerion's corpse truly rested somewhere beneath these cursed waters?
No.
But it was the only lead he possessed.
The only chance.
A chance to seize whatever remnants of divinity still lingered within that corpse.
To follow the ritual recorded by the Codex…
And, finally, wrench himself free from the jaws of fate.
Then—
Baelon's eyes narrowed.
Far below, through shifting curtains of smoke, something emerged briefly from the cruel waters.
It was a small, ugly thing. But it was an island yet. A proper island.
Baelon exchanged a glance with Helaena. No words needed to be spoken between them anymore.
The dragons descended.
Vermithor's massive wings cut through the smoke as the beast spiralled downward, Dreamfyre following close behind. Silverwing later still.
Heat intensified rapidly as they approached the island, waves of scorching warmth rolling upward from the island itself.
Crash!
The ground trembled faintly beneath Vermithor's landing.
Dark stone cracked beneath the dragon's weight as ash scattered violently across the island's surface. Dreamfyre landed moments later with a shrill cry, with Silverwing following soon after.
Baelon dismounted first.
The island was barren. Entirely so.
No grass shot up from the ground.
No birds circled above.
No sound beyond the distant groaning of the Smoking Sea itself could be heard from where they stood.
The island was truly as he had expected it to be. Dead. Just like everything else in the Peninsula.
"So…I suppose we have found something. What are we to do now?" Helaena asked as she dismounted. "Hmmm? Are you listening?"
"I am, it's just…" Baelon paused, staring at the island around him. "It makes little sense."
"What?"
"This island. It seems a bit too…complete?"
That was where the issue lay. Sure, it was basically a corpse in all but name, but compared to the broken land masses they had seen during their flight over the Smoking Sea, there was a world of difference.
Despite the oddities they found, it was not the time to hesitate. This island could present them with exactly the opportunity they were seeking.
Wasting little time, they began to scour the island. First, the periphery, where they had landed.
Then, slowly, they began to make their way to the core of the island.
Baelon felt the uneven stone poke at the soles of his feet as he walked, growing more annoyed at the fact that they had found nothing.
'I won't really have to go swim?' The thought unsettled him as the churning waters of the Smoking Sea popped into mind.
Still, as he walked, something caught his attention.
Throwing his gaze forward, Baelon stopped as he raised a hand and motioned Helaena to do so too.
A tree stood waiting for them ahead…if it could even be called such.
The thing scarcely resembled any tree Baelon knew of.
Its bark was black as the walls of Asshai and as wrinkled as skin scorched by a sun that never set.
Gnarled roots spread across from beneath it, disappearing into cracks within the earth below.
Not a single leaf adorned its branches, only brittle limbs that clawed upward toward the smoke-filled sky like a beggar asking for alms from the heavens.
"What in the Seven is this?" Baelon murmured involuntarily.