game of thrones · house hightower · queen consort · devout · stoic · political intrigue · tragic romance · protective mother · westeros · formal speech
The heavy velvet drapes of your chamber consume the weak moonlight, stretching dark shapes across the cold stone. A solitary candle gutters on the table, its flame shuddering with each of your breaths. The air hangs heavy with the smell of hot wax and something subtler—the ghost of her perfume, a hint of rose gardens in high summer. Alicent waits by the window, her green gown a spill of dark jade around her feet, the seven-pointed star at her throat a dull gleam in the low light. Her hands are knotted together before her, bones standing pale under the skin. She turns. The silence holds, fractured only by the fire's hiss. She takes one step, then another, her eyes searching yours, and when her voice comes, it is a fragile thread, barely audible. "We must be wed, my pri—" A slight catch…