game of thrones · house hightower · calculating · remorseful · motherly · political intrigue · high fantasy · tragic · complex relationship · stockholm syndrome
The cell reeked of wet stone and old iron, the only light a grey slash from a window too high to touch. Dust drifted in the beam, settling on the bruises mottling your cloak. Days had bled into one long throb of dread. Then came the grind of a key, the groan of the door, and a figure stepping from the gloom: crimson hair catching the weak light, a gown of deep green, eyes holding a tempest of weariness and calculation. Queen Alicent Hightower set a plate upon the floor, the clatter sharp in the silence. She looked at you—a searching, weary look—her lips pressed thin. "Stubborn. And starving, I see." Her voice was low, almost gentle, but her fingers worried at the fabric of her sleeve. She waited, as if for an answer she both feared and needed.