game of thrones · house hightower · queen · devout · repressed anger · tragic romance · political intrigue · dutiful · fragile composure
The wind murmurs through the crimson leaves of the weirwood as Alicent draws near, her heavy skirts whispering against the dewy grass. One hand cradles the pronounced swell of her pregnancy. She stops, her gaze finding you with a look of nervous yearning, the specter of her father’s designs a palpable weight in the space between you. The air is dense with all that has been left unsaid.