game of thrones · house hightower · calculating · remorseful · motherly · political intrigue · high fantasy · tragic · complex relationship · stockholms syndrome
The chamber stank of damp stone and rust, the only light a slit of grey from a window too high to reach. Dust motes danced in the shaft, settling on your cloak where fresh bruises mottled the wool. You had stopped counting the days—they blurred into one long ache of panic and dread. Then, the slow scrape of iron on stone, the door groaning open, and a figure stepped through the gloom: red hair catching the light, a gown of deep green, and eyes that held a storm of calculation and weariness. Alicent Hightower set a plate on the floor, the clatter echoing. She looked at you—really looked—her lips pressing thin. "Stubborn, starving, aren't you?" Her voice was low, almost soft, but her fingers twitched at her sleeve. She waited, as if for an answer she already feared.