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The first time Alicent Hightower remembered who she truly was, she was kneeling before the altar of the Seven.
As she prayed, the candles suddenly burned too brightly.
Their flames twisting and changing to red.
Not orange. Not gold.
Red.
Scarlet Red.
And she felt it.
The change.
As chaos emerged and curled around her fingertips like living smoke, for one horrifying moment, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms remembered worlds collapsing beneath her grief. She remembered the taste of magic older than time.
Remembered standing alone against the overwhelming tides of loss while the universe called her monster.
As the prayers from her lips fall silent, Wanda Maximoff opened her eyes inside the body of Alicent Hightower.
And she screamed.
The Sept shook.
Stone cracked beneath her knees. Every candle in the Starry Sept exploded into scarlet flames, and the septons dropped to the ground in terror as the statues of the Seven seemed to weep molten gold.
Then it vanished.
The hall, silent as if the witch's grief and anger never hollered between its walls and columns.
Wanda sat frozen upon the marble floor, breathing hard.
Memories flooding her mind.
Sokovia.
Ultron.
Pietro.
Vision.
Her children.
The Darkhold.
Madness.
Loss.
And now this world.
This cruel, glittering world where dragons flew overhead while men sharpened knives behind smiles.
Disgusting.
Slowly, Queen Alicent rose to her feet.
No.
Never again.
Not her children.
Not this time.
Not in this world.
The first thing Wanda understood about Westeros was that magic here was dying.
The second thing she understood was that it was not supposed to be.
She could feel it beneath the stones of Oldtown. Beneath the roots of the weirwoods. Beneath the oceans and dragonfire and ancient bloodlines.
Magic was sleeping.
Bound.
Choked.
The Faith of the Seven, the predominant religion of this time, teaching the people to adminish it.
Yet, it is not the sayings of the Seven itself that wishes this, but the men that envied and feared it. They had destroyed the gift that their Gods had given, outright.
For over centuries, they had caged it, reshaped it, sanctified it into rituals and prayers until people forgot what divinity once looked like.
But Wanda remembered.
Magic did not belong to demons.
It belonged to creation itself.
And her house, whether they knew it or not, stood atop one of the oldest magical nexuses in the world.
For the Hightower was not merely a fortress.
It was a beacon.
A seal.
A prison.
And deep beneath its foundations, Wanda felt something ancient stirring.
Waiting.
Watching.
Smiling.
After the incident in the Sept, Alicent started slowly changing.
Not enough for Viserys to notice. The king was too consumed by rot, dreams, and guilt to see the transformation happening beside him.
How unlucky of her to have such a husband.
But Otto noticed.
Her father always noticed.
Alicent no longer trembled when speaking at court. She no longer pleaded. No longer bent beneath insults. The anxious girl who had once torn at her fingernails disappeared entirely.
In her place rose something regal.
Cold.
Radiant.
Terrifying.
As such, the rumours began.
The court, whispering that the Queen’s eyes glowed red in candlelight.
Servants claiming the halls growing warmer whenever she was angered.
Even a Septon, Eustace, swore he heard seven voices speaking when the Queen prayed.
And through all of this, the Hand watched.
One evening, Otto Hightower observed his daughter carefully as she sat in the Tower of the Hand, calmly moving cyvasse pieces without touching them.
“…You have changed,” he finally said.
Alicent smiled faintly.
“Yes,” she answered. “And thank the gods for it.”
The pieces shattered simultaneously.
Otto did not flinch.
Instead, a slow smile spread across his face.
For the first time in years, Otto Hightower looked relieved.
Because at last, his daughter looked capable of surviving this world.
The first member of Alicent’s coven was not a scholar, nor a septa.
No.
It was her brother.
Gwayne Hightower.
He arrived at King’s Landing after years away from court, all swaggering arrogance and easy smiles. He was handsome, reckless, charming beyond reason, and impossible to keep still.
The moment Alicent saw him, Wanda froze.
Golden, almost silver, hair.
Blue eyes.
A laugh she had not heard in lifetimes.
Pietro.
Not truly. Not entirely.
But enough.
The realization nearly broke her composure and Gwayne noticed immediately.
“Sister,” he said carefully. “Why are you looking at me like I’ve returned from the grave?”
Because you did, she thought.
"I miss you, brother." So, so, so much.
So much to say.
So much to tell.
"I miss you, too." he replied. Eyes softening as he opened her arms for her dive into. For her to hide the tears and sobs that escape her. "There, there."
He's really back.
Yet, he remembered nothing.
Still.
Even then.
Remnants remained.
His reflexes bordered on unnatural. As he moved faster than other men. Faster than should have been possible.
Knights complained they could scarcely follow him during sparring.
He laughed it off.
Alicent did not.
Magic clung to him.
Their generation had clearly awakened something sleeping within House Hightower.
And Wanda intended to awaken the rest.
The coven began in secret.
Deep beneath the Hightower of Oldtown lay forgotten chambers older than the Andals themselves. There, Alicent uncovered records written before Valyria had risen.
The First Men had called the place the Beacon Vault.
The children of the forest called it the Flame Below. For within its depths burned green fire that never died.
Alicent stood before it and felt Chaos answer.
Not reject.
Answer.
The magic of Westeros did not resist her.
It welcomed her home.
And so Queen Alicent of House Hightower became something new.
Not merely queen.
Not merely mother.
But witch.
The Witch Queen of the Seven.
The Daughter of the Divine Flame.
She gathered loyal blood around her carefully.
Hightowers.
Silent sisters.
Forgotten hedge witches.
Women burned by the Faith generations ago.
Men descended from ancient Andal seers.
She gave them purpose.
Power.
Belonging.
And in return, they gave her absolute loyalty.
Together, they rebuilt magic in Westeros from the shadows.
Not wild magic.
Not destructive madness.
Controlled divinity.
Sacred sorcery.
The Faith never understood until it was too late.
For just like the men that molded the Seven's teachings out of fear, she had remade them.
And so magic awakened in plain sight. Divinity came finally came back and the blinded men of 'faith' are still none the wiser.
Septons began preaching of holy visions.
The Mother’s mercy healed the sick.
The Warrior blessed knights with impossible strength.
The Smith’s fires forged steel stronger than Valyrian blades.
Miracles spread across the Reach and Crownlands alike.
Through it all, she was at the epicentre, harnessing the Faith of the people.
The people adored the Queen.
The Septons revered her.
Still, fear followed close behind their love.
Because every miracle came wrapped in a scarlet tinge of light.
Her children flourished beneath her guidance.
Out of all of them, Aegon changed the most.
In another life, he would have drowned himself in wine and bitterness beneath the crushing expectations of a crown he never wanted.
Alicent refused to allow it.
“You do not need to be king." she told him one night.
The words shattered him more than cruelty ever could.
"What?"
Alicent smiled gently at her son. Caressing the face that hid not his confusion and shock.
"You can be free from the crown, my love."
“You… won’t hate me for that?”
“Hate you?” Alicent cupped his face gently. “My son, I would burn kingdoms before I ever allow this world to break you.”
At his mother's reassurance, Aegon wept openly. Clutching the hems of his mother's dress as he trembled in relief.
And after that, he bloomed.
Freed from the succession’s burden, he became magnificent.
Charming.
Beloved.
The Realm’s Golden Prince.
He traveled across Westeros atop Sunfyre, whose beauty is legendary even among dragons. He hosted tourneys greater than any before seen.
And Lords who might have become enemies instead became drinking companions, hunting partners, political allies.
Aegon laughed with commoners and princes alike.
He negotiated trade with the Free Cities.
Brokered peace between rival houses.
Brought wealth wherever he traveled.
By thirty, he was known as the Grand Marshal of Westeros, master of diplomacy and tourneys alike.
And behind every smile, every feast, every alliance, Alicent’s web tightened.
Helaena became Westeros’ heart.
Alicent alone listened to her daughter’s prophecies without fear or dismissal.
She taught Helaena meditation, runes, and spells for protection and control. So, instead of drowning in visions, Helaena learned to command them.
And as she manage her prophetic dreams, she harnessed like how her mother would and used them to help her dear family.
With each words spoken from her mouth that disguised itself as guidance. The people finally acknowledge her.
And despite her eccentricity, the smallfolk adored her.
Children flocked to her. Gazing at her with adoring eyes as she gently guided from harm. As they gather around her, they too notice her times of aversion of touch. Something they learned to respect for their dear princess' comfort.
When House Martell proposed marriage, the realm expected resistance. Instead, Alicent orchestrated the union herself.
Not conquest.
Alliance.
Dorne welcomed Helaena not as an enemy or hostage, but as a miracle.
Her husband loved her fiercely, gently, and absolutely. He listened when she spoke of dreams. Held her during nightmares. Given her privacy when she needed. Comfort when wanted. Understanding and support in silence and clamor.
Together they transformed Dorne into the realm’s cultural jewel.
Trade flourished.
Knowledge spread.
The deserts bloomed through irrigation methods Helaena claimed came from “singing rivers beneath the earth.”
The people call her a Saintess.
The Uncrowned, Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken Queen of Dorne.
Some whispered she is the incarnation of the Maiden herself.
Others whispered something older answered her prayers.
Both were correct.
Aemond became terror wrapped in discipline.
The loss of his eye still happened.
Sapphire still replaced his eye.
Lucerys Velaryon still laughed.
But this version of Alicent did not scream helplessly or demanded justice in a fit of desparation.
No.
The candles exploded and changed to her eerie scarlet flames. The room darkened as her eyes blazed in rage.
Every noble in the hall froze as her magic rippled across the room. Exuding pressure to others and curling protectively to her family.
Viserys himself trembled when Alicent finally spoke.
“If my son’s blood is worth less than theirs,” she said softly, “then perhaps the realm deserves to learn what a mother’s wrath truly means.”
No one laughed afterward.
Least of all Rhaenyra.
Blood wasn't drawn but fear did.
Aemond never forgot that moment.
His mother had stood for him when no one else would.
From then on, his loyalty became absolute.
He studied warfare obsessively, and Alicent seeing her son's determination guided his rage into purpose rather than cruelty. When he stepped into the role of Commander of the City Watch, he transformed it entirely.
Corruption slowly vanished. Replacing empty posts with good and loyal people from both nobility and of common birth. And he helped the Gold cloaks trained like true elite soldiers.
As his leadership flourished, crime in King’s Landing plummeted.
And the smallfolk upon seeing such results feared Aemond one moment and praised him the next.
For as Daemon Targaryen built the Gold Cloaks into a weapon for himself.
Aemond Targaryen, son of Queen Alicent, forged them into a shield for the realm and its people. His protection as fierce as his temper.
And when he rode Vhagar through the skies clad in dark armor, enemies remembered the wrath of the Sapphire eyed Commander.
Then there was Daeron.
Sweet Daeron.
Brightest of them all.
Wanda saw immediately what history never had.
He possessed balance.
Not Aegon’s indulgence.
Not Aemond’s fury.
Not Helaena’s detachment.
Daeron understood people.
He listened.
Learned.
Adapted.
And unlike his brothers, he desired responsibility.
So Alicent prepared him quietly.
While Rhaenyra and Daemon played at power through intimidation and entitlement, Alicent built a future king.
Daeron studied economics in Oldtown.
Law beneath maesters.
Warfare beside Aemond.
Diplomacy beside Aegon.
Faith beside septons.
Magic beside Alicent herself.
By sixteen, he could command armies, debate scholars, and soothe angry lords with equal ease.
The realm fell in love with him long before he wore a crown.
And when Viserys finally died, there was no chaotic scramble.
No desperate uncertainty.
The Scarlet faction moved with terrifying precision.
Every alliance they needed already existed.
Every lord had already been courted.
Every city already prepared.
And when Daeron Targaryen was crowned King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, dragons filled the skies above King’s Landing while tens of thousands roared his name.
Not through fear.
Through devotion.
Daeron I became known as the Mighty and Daring King.
Under his reign, Westeros entered its golden age.
Roads connected kingdoms.
Trade tripled.
The Faith and Crown united peacefully.
Magic openly returned.
The Citadel, once hostile or uncertain, bent the knee after several archmaesters vanished under mysterious circumstances involving scarlet flames and their Queen’s soft words.
No one questioned the Hightowers afterward.
As for Rhaenyra Targaryen and Daemon…
History proved merciless.
The Realm’s Delight became remembered instead as the Princess of Embers—beautiful, prideful, beloved briefly and then forgotten.
Daemon remained dangerous until the very end.
But Alicent was Wanda Maximoff.
She was still Wanda Maximoff, sister, wife, mother, hero and villain.
And Wanda had once killed monsters far worse than rogue princes with dragons.
Their fall came not through war, but isolation.
Allies abandoned them.
Gold disappeared.
Support crumbled.
Rumors spread.
By the time they realized the realm had turned against them, Alicent Hightower’s web had already closed.
No glorious battles immortalized them.
No songs celebrated them.
History belonged to the victors.
And the Hightowers wrote history beautifully.
Years later, travelers approaching Oldtown would first see the Hightower blazing against the night sky.
Not with wildfire.
With holy scarlet flame.
Children across Westeros grew up hearing stories of Queen Alicent the Wise, beloved of the Seven, mother of the Golden Age.
Some called her a saintess.
Some called her a sorceress.
Others whispered her titles.
The Scarlet Queen.
The Flame Mother.
The Witch of the Seven.
Yet none dared speak those names with disrespect.
Because House Hightower stood at the height of its power.
Loved by the people.
Feared by enemies.
Respected by all.
And deep within the highest chamber of the Hightower, Alicent sometimes stood beside her brother as they watched the sunset together.
Gwayne would grin and say, “You know, sister, sometimes I feel as though I’ve lived another life.”
Alicent would smile softly at that.
Then squeeze his hand.
“I know,” she would whisper.
And somewhere beyond the veil of worlds, chaos magic answered her with love.