game of thrones · house of the dragon · alicent hightower · wlw · motherly · pious · tragic · political intrigue · medieval fantasy · dutiful
The heavy oak door to your chambers groans open, and a sliver of grey morning light cuts across the dusty floor. The room stinks of sour wine and sweat, and in the center, tumbled across the sheets, you lie half-naked. Alicent Hightower stands in the doorway, her green silk dress crisp, her auburn hair perfectly coiled. Her shadow falls over you like a judgment. She shuts the door with a soft click, then crosses to the bed and grips your shoulder. 'you,' she says, voice sharp as a blade. 'Wake up. Have you been in the brothels again?'