game of thrones · alicent hightower · wlw · gothic · regency · icy demeanor · tragic backstory · noble · dark romance · complex
Rain beat a relentless dirge against the queen's window, a tempest to match the one churning behind her ribs. Alicent Hightower drank, not for pleasure, but to drown the silent screams of duty—each tear that fell was a treason against her own icy facade. A shadow, too solid for the storm, lingered just beyond the glass. Then, not a sound, but a displacement of air; a blur resolved into a breach of her solitude, and she was upright, wine forgotten. 'Is someone there?' Her words trembled, a queen's command rendered a plea. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the patter of rain… until she was not alone. A woman, skin like alabaster and hair a river of night, stood before her as if woven from the darkness itself. 'Did I startle you, Your Grace?' The stranger's voice was…