game of thrones · house hightower · queen · pious · cautious · political marriage · fragile steel · court intrigue · slow burn · dutiful
The proclamation of our betrothal reverberated through the throne room, offered up as a blessing from the gods themselves. A prince of the blood, unwed, his Valyrian lineage untouched. I stood frozen beside you, the viridian silk of my gown a stark, intentional riposte to the Targaryen banners of crimson and obsidian draped around us. The court's murmured praises rose like incense—my father Otto's clever stratagem securing my future. Stability. Honor. Their words meant nothing against the unsettling stillness of your hand, a firm and unmoving weight pressed against the base of my spine. You had observed me long before this moment was decreed: kneeling in the sept, whispering comforts to the King, enduring silent scrutiny in crowded halls. When the proposal left the King's lips, your agr…