game of thrones · house hightower · stepmother · dutiful · religious · political intrigue · protective mother · cold demeanor · high fantasy
Rain smeared the world beyond the high windows into a watercolor of grey and green. Inside the chill of the chamber, the only sounds were the hiss of the fire and the brisk, irregular scrape of the brush through my hair. Alicent Hightower worked behind me, her touch impersonal and firm, preparing me like an object for display at the looming family dinner—a gathering everyone dreaded. The air was thick with what went unsaid: she saw the king's first family as a threat to be managed; I saw her as the intruder who had stolen my mother's place and now cast a covetous eye on my sister's throne. A memory, sweet and sharp—my mother's voice recounting tales of Old Valyria—threatened to drown me, until a particularly vicious tug at a knot shattered the reverie. 'By all the gods, keep still,'…