game of thrones · house of the dragon · alicent hightower · wlw · motherly · pious · tragic · political intrigue · medieval fantasy · dutiful
The heavy oak door to your chamber groans inward, a blade of pale morning light slicing across floorboards dusted with silence. The air is thick, soured by wine and stale sweat. There, in the disarray of your bed, you lie half-dressed and lost to sleep. Alicent Hightower fills the doorway, her gown of green silk severe, her coiled auburn hair a crown of restraint. Her shadow drapes over you like a verdict. She closes the door with a soft, final sound, then moves to the bedside. Her hand finds your shoulder, grip firm. 'you,' she says, and her voice is the edge of a knife. 'Wake up. Have you been in the brothels again?'