Tom
As the guard ushers Tom through a door, passing a frail-looking man whom the guard greets as "Your Grace," he's met with a scene that can only be described as... well, let's just say, it's quite the spectacle.
Frantic murmurs and cries echo through the air as a crowd gathers around a blonde boy, seemingly maimed, and a hysterical, loudly crying child on the other side of the room, who's dealing with quite the nosebleed.
Tom approaches the quieter of the two with purpose. “Tell me what has happened to you." His tone, deceptively soft, aims to coax a truthful answer from the Malfoy-looking boy.
The boy attempts a glance at Tom before being gently guided back into place for the doctor to resume work on his maimed eye. "Mother," he begins, causing one of Tom's eyebrows to arch slightly at the unexpected address, "I claimed Vhagar!"
The proclamation is delivered with such pride and joy in a situation that's anything but celebratory, sparking a hint of amusement within Tom.
So, this little boy is the offspring of the woman. Tom steals a glance at the two other blonde-haired children nearby, who dubiously return his gaze, leading him to swiftly deduce that they, too, must be his progeny.
Turning back to the boy, Tom leans in closer, running a hand through the blonde hair. He hides a smirk when the boy leans into the touch.
"Congratulations, is that how you lost your eye, dear one?" Immediately, any trace of happiness vanishes from the boy's face, and he shakes his head.
“When I was returning through the tunnel, our cousins and nephews attacked me. They accused me of stealing Vhagar, and then we fought, but Luke," he explains, gesturing toward the blubbering child on the other side of the room, "he had a dagger and he—he—" He cuts off, emitting a pained noise as the doctor tightens a stitch, but Tom is clever enough to grasp the essence of the story.
An odd twinge stirs deep within him.
His gaze shifts to where he last saw the child, a sneer crossing his face. He watches as the child huddles with another brunette boy and two white-haired girls, receiving ample fussing from a woman who appears to be completely ignoring everything on Tom's side of the room altogether.
In fact, nobody seems to be giving his side of the room much attention.
As Tom scans the surroundings, a clear picture becomes apparent. A division of sides is forming, and the majority of people here are evidently not on his. He can sense it in the way they eye him and his apparent brood.
A child sits mutilated in a chair, yet nobody seems to care, too preoccupied with tending to those who caused the harm in the first place and demanding retribution that is not theirs to have.
The supposed king of this universe just stands there like an oaf, utterly incapable of taking control even over his own people.
The entire situation, albeit on a more severe scale, starts to evoke memories of Tom's days in Wools. Back then, he'd be accused of some trivial matter and promptly punished without a chance to defend himself.
The matron, driven by personal prejudices, always fixated on keeping the one deemed more important happy, neglecting the true victim.
It irks him.
His hands release the boy's hair, dropping to rest on his shoulder with fingers tightening like a vise. Tom turns to address the lone figure, who struggles to stay upright supported only by a wooden cane with guards at the ready to catch him should he stumble.
"Will you just stand there and do nothing?" he hisses, disregarding the scandalized and shocked gasps that rise up in response to such a blatant show of disrespect.
Honestly, Tom's baffled about where this sudden surge of righteous, protective anger is coming from – must be a side effect of taking over a mother’s body. Who knew? Regardless, he's on a roll and has no intention of stopping now.
“Your son sits mutilated on a chair after being viciously attacked by those lower than him," he begins, his voice deliberately growing louder with each word to drown out the sea of protests erupting from the other side.
"And yet you refuse to-" His tirade is abruptly cut off by the arrival of a woman, and he quickly shifts his gaze from the king to her, hoping his eyes convey just how pissed he is at her audacity to interrupt him.
The cur promptly ignores him, redirecting all her attention to the blubbering simpleton who caused this whole mess in the first place.
The boy then starts hurling accusations at Tom's progeny, triggering a flurry of rapid-fire insults and allegations from both sides that only further ignites Tom's anger.
“I demand his eye in repayment," he casually suggests, smirking at the gasps and looks of disbelief shot his way by the King and company.
A hissed whisper of "Alicent" pierces the air, but Tom pays it no mind. He only has eyes for the King, who, in return, only has eyes for the woman who entered the room just moments ago.
Just as he's about to open his mouth again, one of the brown-haired children blurts out that his spawn called them bastards.
Immediate whispers course through the room, and the king rounds on him with a fury Tom didn't think he possessed. Tension thickens, hanging in the air like a storm about to unleash its wrath.
Tom's almost impressed.
He meets the King's glare head-on, never once looking away. Attempting to make this short body he's inhabiting look more menacing, his eyes never blinking once.
The king blinks first, a hint of confusion in his eyes, before rounding on the boy in the chair, much to Tom's indignation.
“You tell me boy, where did you hear this lie,”
Tom stifles an incredulous laugh. He just landed in this universe today , and even he can glance at those boys and confirm they're not trueborn.
“Is this foolishness really more important then-" he starts, only to be cut off by the King talking over him.
"Aemond, look at me! Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?"
The room holds its breath, awaiting the revelation with an air of suspense.
When the child’s eyes flick over to him, Tom lets out a small disbelieving chuckle, meeting the king’s eyes when he slowly turns around to face him.
As he starts to advance on him, Tom's hand twitches, attempting to grab a wand that is not there, fingers itching to cast a cruciatus.
However three words stops the king in his tracks.
“It was Aegon.”
Immediately the king ceases his advance on Tom and instead hobbles over to his son.
Tom watches with detached interest as the man interrogates his own flesh and blood, showing more anger over a mere insult than his own son’s mutilated face.
As he veers into a tangent about infighting, Tom's gaze drifts back to the white-haired woman—the princess. To his surprise, he finds her staring right back at him.
She seems familiar, but he doesn't understand how such a thing could be, seeing as he just got dropped into this place today.
He’s brought back to the present by the king furiously demanding everyone apologize and make nice with each other and then attempting to hobble off.
He stares in disbelief at his retreating back. The boy has been crippled for life and he thinks a few apologies are going to fix everything.
Once again, Tom doesn't understand these emotions warring within him. In his past life, he's done worse than the man standing in front of him on a daily basis, in fact.
But one look at that little face sitting in that chair, looking absolutely defeated, stirs something within him—a righteous anger, a protective instinct.
Curse this infernal woman's body; there's evidently been some sort of bleed-through of her emotions into his.
"That is insufficient," he hisses behind gritted teeth, anger flaring as the man turns around with a long-suffering sigh.
"Your son has been damaged; mere apologies will not give back what was stolen from him."
"I know, Alicent," the king states, hobbling closer to Tom, whose eyes have taken on a crazed shine. "But I cannot restore his eye."
"No, because it was taken," he snaps, and the king visibly flinches before fixing him with a weary gaze
“What would you suggest, then?" he says, his eyes delivering a subtle warning as the memory of his wife’s earlier remark resurfaces in his mind.
The warning is very much ignored.
Tom instantly straightens, pivoting to face the princess. His eyes lock onto hers before suddenly snapping down to the little boy beside her, who immediately cowers.
"There is a debt to be paid," he murmurs, adding a layer of subtle threat to his words, his eyes never leaving the trembling boy clutching at his mother’s skirts. "As I said before, I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return."
A collective gasp of disbelief fills the room as the queen’s ominous declaration hangs heavily in the air for a second time.
"You've gone mad," the king growls, but Tom bulldozes over him. "He is your son. Your blood."
My dear wife," he begins, and Tom's blood boils at the reminder that he's still confined to the body of a mere muggle woman without magic.
"Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment."
The tension thickens as the king and his wife lock eyes, a storm of conflict raging beneath the seemingly calm exchange of words.
“If the king will not seek justice,” Tom says, while holding his gaze,"then the queen will." Revealing in satisfaction as he witnesses those eyes flash with rage.
He turns his head to the side, locking eyes with one of the men standing guard, and something within him whispers the name ‘Sir Criston’. He knows not where it comes from, but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Sir Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Valerian," he commands.
As the queen’s command echoes through the room, a sudden uproar erupts from the crowd. Prince Lucerys, caught in the tumult, pleads desperately for his mother's intervention, his pleas adding to the chaotic symphony.
Amidst the clamor, Tom stands poised and unfazed, an unsettling calmness surrounding him.
His eyes remain fixed on the unfolding pandemonium, an inscrutable satisfaction lingering in his gaze as the tumult swirls around him like a storm he orchestrated.
“Alicent!” The king roars and Tom rounds on him once again. “He can chose which eye to keep a privilege he did not grant my son.”
"You will do no such thing," the boy's mother declares, but Tom barely spares her a glance.
He swiftly dismisses the king's order to halt his guard, shooting it down without hesitation.
"No, you're sworn to me!" he bellows, his eyes locking onto the guard, and in the light, the queen's brown eyes seem to blaze a fiery red.
The guard hesitates for a moment, before ultimately his fear of the king wins out. "As your protector, my queen," Criston asserts, his gaze momentarily lowered to escape the queen's piercing stare.
The king advances on Tom, the promise of pain vivid in his eyes as he looms over him. "Alicent, this matter is over. Do you understand?"
The tension in the air crackles as the power struggle intensifies, setting the stage for a conflict that refuses to be extinguished.
When no answer is given, Viserys takes a moment to truly scrutinize his wife. As his gaze delves into those eyes, he discerns not a trace of the love that once resided there. It's akin to peering into the eyes of a stranger. With a final, disbelieving glance, he turns and strides away.
But not before delivering one final statement.
”And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed," he declares, making direct eye contact with Tom.
The woman in question whispers a soft "Thank you, father," her gratitude lingering in the air like an ominous undercurrent.
In that moment, something within Tom snaps.
In an instant, his eyes lock onto a dagger secured on the king's belt. Without a moment's hesitation, he snatches it off with a swift, calculated motion.
“Alicent! Stay with the king—”
“—Hold your ground!”
Advancing purposefully, he fixes his sights on Prince Lucerys, intent on personally claiming the eye even if he has to stab through the boy’s mother to get to it.
As his blade descends, his wrist is caught in an unyielding grip, and the sound of the screams around him are overridden by the most excruciating pain he has ever experienced.
He recognizes this sensation.
His incredulous eyes lock onto the princess's, witnessing the same dawning realization.
“Potter," echoes simultaneously with "Tom?" their voices overlapping.
Tom completely looses his shit.
With renewed vigor, he attempts to guide the blade to find its home in Potter's neck, all protective maternal rage gone in an instant, replaced by a selfish, vengeful bloodlust.
"Tom, you need to calm down," Potter urgently whispers, his eyes darting around the room as guards converge.
"Oh, do I?" Tom retorts condescendingly, persistently trying to press the blade further.
With a frustrated huff, Potter tightens his grip on Tom's wrist and gives him a forceful shake.
"We've been dropped into some messed-up dungeons and dragons universe, and right now, the only thing we've got is each other," he begins, his words drowned out by the cacophony of the crowd, creating a private bubble amidst the chaos.
"The two of us can find a way to get back home if we work together, but we can't do that if you end up on the chopping block for attempted murder."
"So once again, calm the fuck down."
"Alicent, let her go—"
"—Release the blade, Alicent."
"Mother, please drop the blade—"
With a violent jerk, Tom releases Potter from his grasp, the force causing the dagger to inadvertently slice a cut down the other's arm—an unintended injury amidst the chaotic struggle.
A hushed silence blankets the room, and Tom's eyes follow the steady descent of blooddrops from the cut, each one contributing to a growing puddle on the floor.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shoots through his own arm, prompting a wince.
Gasps resound among the onlookers as Tom slowly raises his arm. And in a bizarre spectacle, the same cut he inflicted on Potter magically replicates itself on his own limb.
And with it a sudden realization dawns on Tom, the pieces falling into place like an intricate puzzle.
The familiarity in Potter's eyes when they first locked gazes, the pain at their initial touch, and now, the eerily matching cuts on their arms.
These were no mere coincidences.
It would seem that even in this new universe—they're still tethered by the unintended bond of a Horcrux.
His epiphany is abruptly interrupted as his injured arm is seized, and an insult teeters on the tip of Tom's tongue. However, it falters when he recognizes the eldest of his spawn.
With a determined effort that nearly knocks the king off his cane as he pushes him out the way, his eldest swiftly wraps Tom's arm with cloth, applying pressure to the wound.
Dismissing the child's frantic muttering entirely and purposefully ignoring the scorching glare of the king nearby, he locks eyes with Potter, giving a subtle nod of acknowledgment.
He will follow Potter’s plan.
At least for the time being.