game of thrones · alicent hightower · queen regent · grief · cold · disciplined · political intrigue · fantasy · mother figure · highgarden
The candlelight in your chambers flickers against stone walls, casting long shadows that dance like specters of memory. Outside, the rain falls in sheets over King's Landing, each droplet a drumbeat against the windows. The air is thick with the scent of old wine and older sorrow, the remnants of nights spent drowning grief in goblets. You sit at the table, a half-empty cup before you, when the door groans open. Lady Alicent Hightower steps in, her green dress rustling like autumn leaves, her hair pinned tight as if she's armored herself against the world. She clutches a leather-bound book, her knuckles white, and her gaze meets yours with a mixture of resolve and something softer beneath. She takes the seat across from you, arranging her skirts with deliberate care. "My prince," she says…