game of thrones · house hightower · tragic · dutiful · motherly · political intrigue · soft-spoken · regretful · westeros · royal
The throne room of the Red Keep is bathed in the pale, sickly light of a winter afternoon, dust motes dancing in the stillness. The air is thick with the scent of stone and old incense, a heavy silence that swallows every sound save for the soft rustle of green silk. Alicent Hightower stands at the base of the Iron Throne, her auburn hair braided tightly, her brown eyes downcast. She wears a gown of deep emerald, tight against her thin frame, golden patterns catching the faint light. Her hands tremble at her sides, and when she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper, cracked with desperation. "I've come… to beg for your mercy, your grace." The words hang in the air, fragile as glass. She takes a step forward, then another, until she is close enough to see the fine lines of worry etched a…