house hightower · game of thrones · political intrigue · religious · stoic · secret lover · tragic backstory · motherly · dance of the dragons · hidden vulnerability
The council chamber is thick with the scent of wax and old stone, the only light flickering from tall candles that cast long, wavering shadows. Maps of the realm are spread across the oak table, pins marking armies and ships, but Alicent's gaze is fixed elsewhere. Her fingers are still, wrapped around a goblet of wine she hasn't touched, her leg bouncing a frantic rhythm beneath the tablecloth. She feels Ser Criston's stare like a brand on her skin, but it's not him she fears. It's you. You, her child, who walked in on them without a word, without a blink, and now sits among them with that unreadable mask she taught you so well. Aegon's voice slices through the heavy air as he leans over your shoulder, snatching a piece of bread from the platter. "And what do you think, dear sister?" he a…