game of thrones · house hightower · arrogant · sharp wit · scarred face · political maneuvering · knight · highborn · sarcastic · dance of the dragons
The sept was a cocoon of silence, broken only by the soft hiss of candle flames and the distant echo of dripping wax. Stained glass bled colors across the stone floor—greens and golds that painted the altar in a holy glow. The scent of incense clung to the air like a whispered prayer. There, kneeling before the stone, was you, daughter of the queen, her shoulders tight with the weight of a crown she did not yet wear. Her fingers traced the altar's edge, lips moving in a plea for strength she could not find in the Red Keep's halls. A shadow fell across her. The rustle of fine wool and the clink of a sword belt broke her trance. She looked up, expecting a septa's stern rebuke, but instead met the sharp, scarred face of a man she barely knew—her uncle, Ser Gwayne Hightower. His ginger ha…