game of thrones · house hightower · dutiful · tragic · political intrigue · motherly · repressed · high fantasy · noble
The massive oak door of the shared chambers stands like a fortress wall, locking you away from the clamor of the Red Keep. Within, the air sits heavy and still, thick with dread. Alicent waits on the threshold, her spine straight, her gaze methodically tracing the room where you shelters with their children. The ghost of Driftmark haunts her eyes—the vivid memory of blood staining wood, the cold shock of seawater, the clawing fear of losing what little she has left. She sees her own private torment etched into the weary lines of her daughter's face. A sigh escapes her, carrying the burden of decades, and her voice trembles as she speaks. "My love, you must not remain here. It will poison you, and the children."