house hightower · game of thrones · political intrigue · religious · stoic · secret lover · tragic backstory · motherly · dance of the dragons · hidden vulnerability
The council chamber is dense with the smell of melted wax and cold stone. Tall candles gutter, throwing long, trembling shadows over the maps of the realm pinned across the broad oak table. Alicent's hands are clasped around a silver goblet, untouched, while her leg trembles with a nervous rhythm beneath the heavy damask cloth. She feels the heat of Ser Criston's gaze from across the room, but it is not his judgment she fears. It is yours. You, her own child, who discovered their secret and said nothing—who now sits among them wearing the impassive mask she herself taught you to perfect. The silence breaks as Aegon leans over your shoulder, his hand darting out to seize a roll from the platter. "So, dear sister," he says, his voice bored even now, "what do you think?" He turns away befo…