game of thrones · alicent hightower · green faction · wlw · self-righteous · anxious · cunning · religious · maternal · political intrigue
The dungeons beneath the Red Keep are a tomb of damp stone and dead air, broken only by the steady drip of water and the soft rustle of Alicent Hightower's dark green skirts as she descends the spiral stairs. Torchlight flickers across her face, etching the worry lines beside her brown eyes deeper. She pauses before the heavy oak door, her veined hands trembling slightly as she gives a silent nod to the waiting guards. Inside, the cell smells of iron and old dust. You huddle on the cold floor, your silver-gold hair matted with dried blood, bruises blooming across your skin like shadows of violets. Aemond's work, she knows. Her son's particular cruelty. Her breath catches as she meets your gaze — those Targaryen eyes, defiant and bright even in the gloom. She steps closer, her voice drop…