Chapter 1203: Past Is Eternal

The void parted, taking the form of a black vortex.

Its periphery was a touch darker, as if the shadows had abandoned their ethereal nature to become thick smoke.

A figure stepped out of the vortex, indistinguishable from the abyss behind her.

She donned a jet-black gown, tight enough to accentuate her luscious curves around the hips, waist, and bust. The collar rose behind her neck like a dark crown, while raven hair, like liquid smoke, cascaded over and around it.

Then there was her face — a beauty rarely seen in any world.

Even her sclera-less, pitch-black eyes could not blemish her exquisite countenance.

Nor did the black vertical mark splitting her forehead detract from her beauty, lending her a mystical allure when paired with her glossy, dark lips.

If anything could shatter her mystique in the eyes of an ordinary man, it was the skull clasped in the slender fingers of her right hand, tipped with razor-sharp black nails.

The skull was grotesque.

It appeared as though several dozen shattered fragments had been gathered and reassembled, fused with a viscous, pitch-black resin.

Thin black seams exuding wisps of smoke traced across the bone like fractures, bearing testament to its crude repair.

Yet beyond the smoke, the relic’s true horror was that… it was cackling.

Its jaw moved of its own accord, and strangely enough, alongside an eerie cackle, words rattled from its nonexistent throat:

“Kekeke…” the skull cackled. “Valar… Morghulis! Valar… Morghulis! Kekeke… Valar…”

“Hush now…” the woman murmured in an otherworldly, enchanting voice, glancing around. “… We have yet to learn what that means, my soldier.”

This figure — who had used the skull as an anchor to travel Multiverse — was…

…

King’s Landing,

Westeros.

Cersei, clad in black beneath a silver crown bearing the Lannister lion, sat upon the Iron Throne… alone.

The Great Hall was entirely deserted.

Even her Kingsguard had been dismissed from her presence.

In the silence, Cersei relished the sheer insignificance of the quiet.

The smallfolk couldn’t care less about the bitch and her dragons at Dragonstone, so long as a few crusts of bread filled their bellies.

They cared even less about the King in the North.

Bastards were a dime a dozen across Westeros — half of them spawned right here in the alleys of King’s Landing.

It mattered little if one bastard clashed with another and won a petty skirmish.

Wars had always been fought and won with armies — of which she would soon have plenty.

For now…

Cersei paused her contemplation.

Before her, within the cavernous Great Hall, the shadows cast by the towering stone pillars began to… shift.

Cersei’s head snapped toward the high clerestory windows to her far left, but found the afternoon sun still hanging in place.

She looked back down the hall.

The shadows continued to bleed across the flagstones until they pooled into a single, pitch-black expanse directly before the dais.

A pool wide enough for a silhouette to glide out of it, carrying a cackling skull.

Cersei gasped.

What sorcery was this?!

Was this creature allied with the Dothraki whore?!

“Guar—”

Cersei could not scream for the guards.

She could not even rise from the Iron Throne to flee.

Out of the corner of her eye, she witnessed a baffling, terrifying sight:

Tendrils of shadow, coiling like black smoke, were slithering up the iron-forged steps of the throne, stitching themselves directly into her own shadow.

In that chilling instant, Cersei recalled the puppets from her childhood.

Her gaze snapped forward.

The witch was ascending the Iron Throne, the skull rattling and whispering incomprehensible words.

Cersei’s eyes locked onto the intruder’s gait.

The woman wasn’t walking, per se, but gliding forward, a mist darker than pitch black coiling like smoke around her hem.

Then the witch stood directly before her.

Even paralyzed and gripped by terror, Cersei felt a bitter pang of jealousy at the woman’s otherworldly beauty.

“Do not presume yourself to be my equal simply because we wear similar garments,” the witch said, grinning like a madwoman. “Barring that pretentious crown, of course…”

Cersei’s head jerked slightly.

She found herself capable of speech once more, yet she dared not scream.

“Smart,” the witch smirked.

“Who are you?” Cersei demanded, straining to keep her voice firm.

Instead of replying, the witch bent at the waist, leaning down until her nose hovered inches above Cersei’s lower abdomen, and took a long, deep inhale.

Suddenly, the witch’s expression violently contorted, turning uglier than the foulest crone Cersei had ever laid eyes on.

No!

It couldn’t be!

Cersei hadn’t told a living soul about the child she carried. Not even Jaime.

“I can smell him…” the witch whispered, straightening back up. She pressed a single finger against Cersei’s belly, letting the sharp black nail dig slightly into the fabric. “He has fucked you… many times…”

Cersei’s pounding heart sank.

So… was this about Jaime, then?

“What do you want?” Cersei asked, fighting to prevent her voice from cracking under the suffocating pressure. “I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If you are here to sell your services, I am more than willing to listen. You will be compensated beyond your wildest dreams.”

The witch looked her straight in the eyes.

No. She wasn’t merely looking into her eyes — she was peeling back the layers beneath them.

“Years ago…” the witch murmured, watching some distant vision unfurl. “… you met a man. A white-haired boy…”

Cersei drew a sharp breath.

The Targaryen bastard!

Of course…

“You are sent by her, aren’t you?” Cersei sneered, a venomous chill returning to her voice. “Her dragons weren’t enough, so she sent a dark abomination to do her bidding?! And here I thought the Dothraki whore would dare to meet me on the battlefield…”

“Dragons?!” The witch’s head snapped up from the womb, her black eyes flashing. “There are… dragons in this backwater of a timeline? Hmm… Is it because this is a Mirror? I wonder… I truly wonder… Just how deep a Karma did he leave behind in this… Bubble?”

Cersei couldn’t make heads or tails of what the woman was muttering.

Yet she knew the name Daenerys Targaryen was likely searching for.

“Go tell that whore I do not know where Arlen Stone is—”

“Kekeke…”

It was impossible to tell whether it was the skull that had cackled or the witch herself.

“Arlen Stone?” The Shadow Princess grinned, her lips twitching as though she wanted to scream, weep, and laugh all at once. “No… I know him by another name…

“… The Demander of Truth.”

*************

AN: Original Image of Shadow Princess is available

This Tier also offers ALL the compiled Original Images of this novel up to Volume 22 [The Fate Borrower].