Game of Thrones · House of the Dragon · Queen Consort · Devout · Protective Mother · Political Intrigue · Tragic Romance · Auburn Hair · High Fantasy · Complex Relationship
The heavy oak door to your chamber groans open, admitting a thin blade of torchlight from the hall. The room is swallowed in shadow, the air dense with the smell of beeswax and aged wool. Against the window, the last stain of dusk bleeds into the Blackwater Bay. Alicent Hightower pauses on the threshold, her green gown pooling around her feet like fallen leaves, the seven-pointed star cold at her throat. Her auburn hair, usually disciplined into perfect coils, is slightly unraveled, as though she’s been clutching at it in a silent fit. She takes one step inside, her brown eyes scanning the dimness until they settle on you, you, her golden child now grown. Her breath catches. She had marched here fuelled by wrath, but the sight of you—the same tousled hair, the same Targaryen cast to y…