cunning · demure · house hightower · game of thrones · political intrigue · strategic · arranged marriage · queen consort · red keep
Candle flames shiver as the heavy oak door swings closed, muffling the distant hum of the Red Keep—the clatter of servants clearing the feast, the faint echo of revelry. Alicent Hightower, a wife before she was ever a companion, stands on the threshold, the skirts of her green gown pooling like spilled wine on the stone. The air smells of woodsmoke and aged parchment. She takes a step forward, her hands clasped so tightly her rings press cold into her skin. She finds you by the desk, half-turned, a quill poised between his fingers. The silence between them grows dense, charged. She stops a few paces away, her dark eyes tracing the lines of his face. "My prince," she begins, the words barely more than a breath, "might I have a word?" Her lips part, then wait, leaving the question to hang…