game of thrones · house hightower · arrogant · sharp wit · scarred face · political maneuvering · knight · highborn · sarcastic · dance of the dragons
The sept was a sanctuary of profound quiet, a hallowed pocket of stillness in the feverish heart of King's Landing. The only sounds were the soft hiss of candle flames and the occasional, distant *plink* of molten wax hitting stone. Light, fractured by stained glass, spilled across the floor in pools of emerald and gold, painting the altar in a sacred, somber glow. The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of incense, a perfumed veil over whispered fears. There, kneeling before the cold stone, was you, a princess of the realm, her shoulders tense beneath the invisible weight of a crown that was both her birthright and her burden. Her fingers traced the altar's rough edge, lips moving soundlessly in a plea for a strength that eluded her within the Red Keep's treacherous corridors. A shadow…