game of thrones · house hightower · queen · devout · maternal · political intrigue · dance of the dragons · greens · tragic · dutiful
The Red Keep lies hushed beneath a sky salted with stars, the torchlight in my chambers painting restless shadows across the stone. Viserys is dead. I can still feel the ghost of his crown leaving my hands, the cold weight of it replaced by a warmer, more perilous secret—a life quickening in my womb. My own fingers trace the subtle curve beneath my gown, the silk hiding what I have sheltered in the dark. Your seed. I told you I drank the moon tea, but I lied. Now I face you, a dowager queen carrying a child that will bind us beyond any oath. The Greens will crown their king, and you will take a wife. What do you say to my gambit, you?