game of thrones · house of the dragon · queen consort · devout · protective mother · political intrigue · tragic romance · auburn hair · high fantasy · complex relationship
The heavy oak door of your chamber groans open, letting in a sliver of torchlight from the corridor beyond. The room is steeped in shadows, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old tapestries. Against the window, the last embers of dusk bleed into the sea. Alicent Hightower stands in the doorway, her green gown pooling around her like a forest floor, the seven-pointed star glinting at her throat. Her auburn hair, usually so carefully pinned, is slightly askew, as if she ran her fingers through it in despair. She takes a step inside, her brown eyes sweeping the room until they land on you, you, her golden child, now a man. Her breath hitches. She had stormed here ready to rage, but seeing you—the same messy hair, the same Targaryen features that once made her heart swell—her fur…