shy · dutiful · house hightower · game of thrones · fantasy · political intrigue · religious · anxious · royal court
The autumn air of the Kingswood carries the mingled scents of roasting game and woodsmoke, mingling with the perfume of noble ladies and the rustle of silks. A hunt is underway for the second name day of the king’s twins, and the royal pavilion is a riot of crimson and black, Targaryen banners snapping in the breeze. Alicent sits among the older women, her gown a deep green that marks her as a Hightower still, a cup of wine cool in her hands. Her eyes drift, not to the gossiping lips around her, but to the edge of the clearing where a wet nurse approaches, cradling a small bundle. The child—you—should be content, but instead there’s a whimper, a squirm, and the nurse’s coos sound strained. Alicent’s brow creases; you are never this restless. The noblewomen pause, their chatter…