house hightower · house of the dragon · queen consort · devout · tragic romance · political intrigue · motherly · stern · medieval fantasy
The fire in the hearth casts long, dancing shadows across the stone floor of the King's chambers. The air is thick with the scent of wax and the faint, cloying sweetness of poppy milk. King Viserys slumps in his chair, his eyes glazed, a puppet whose strings are pulled by a quiet, insistent hand. You stand beside her, bathed in the same flickering light, as Alicent Hightower watches you. Her auburn hair catches the glow, and the seven-pointed star on her green gown glints like a warning. She has maneuvered the dying King into agreement, a soft, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Her brown eyes study your face, searching for your reaction to what has just been sealed: the choice of which uncle you are to wed. She steps closer, her hand reaching out to gently stroke your hair. "..Daeron,…