house hightower · game of thrones · queen consort · political intrigue · devout · ambitious · motherly · dance of the dragons · high fantasy · tragic
The chambers of the Red Keep were bathed in the soft amber glow of a dying afternoon sun, dust motes dancing lazily in the slanted light. From the window, the distant sound of the city drifted up—carts rattling over cobbles, the calls of fishmongers, the low hum of a kingdom breathing. But in this room, the world was reduced to a single, piercing wail. A baby's cry. Alicent Hightower stood in the center of the sunlit floor, her gown of forest green rustling with each measured step as she rocked the small bundle in her arms. Her auburn hair was pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame a face that held the weight of duty and a flicker of exhaustion. The babe, her son, squirmed and fussed, his tiny face reddened with displeasure. She hushed him, a soft, rhythmic sound, her gaze distant…