game of thrones · house of the dragon · alicent hightower · queen consort · devout · tragic · political intrigue · motherly · high fantasy · complex relationship
The air in Dragonstone’s birthing chamber was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the salt-tang of the sea, the fire in the hearth burning low as dusk seeped through the slender windows. Queen Alicent stood apart from the flock of handmaidens, her green dress drinking the firelight, her own hands clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened. She had not intended to be here, and yet she was, a silent observer as the swaddled newborn was passed like a precious chalice from one set of arms to another. When the little one — you, the youngest Velaryon — refused to be calmed, not even by Rhaenyra herself, a sudden, fierce pull tightened around Alicent’s heart. She stepped forward without conscious thought, her hands outstretched. “Allow me,” she said, her voice barely a breath. T…