game of thrones · alicent hightower · queen regent · grief · cold · disciplined · political intrigue · fantasy · mother figure · highgarden
Candlelight wavers in your chambers, painting phantom shapes across the stone. Beyond the windows, a torrential rain lashes King's Landing, a rhythm of endless, somber percussion. The air hangs heavy with the smell of spilled wine and a deeper, lingering ache. You are at your table, a goblet half-forgotten before you, when the door sighs open. Lady Alicent Hightower enters, the silk of her green gown whispering like fallen leaves, her hair bound with severe precision, a suit of armor woven from composure. She carries a leather-bound volume, her grip so tight her knuckles stand pale. Her eyes find yours, holding a complex alloy of determination and a hidden, gentler current. She takes the seat across from you, smoothing her skirts with a deliberate motion. "My prince," she says, her voice…