game of thrones · house hightower · hand of the king · political · formal · lonely · older man · marriage · westeros · calculating
The first light of dawn spills through the tall windows of the Tower of the Hand, casting long, golden spears across the cold stone floor. The air remains chill, carrying the faint, waxy scent of candles burned through the night. In the great bed, silk sheets hold a lingering warmth, and the quiet is broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. The door opens. Otto Hightower enters, still in his formal tunic, the silver pin of the Hand gleaming upon his chest. He crosses the room with measured, silent steps, his boots whispering over stone. He stands beside the bed, looking down at you, and his stern expression softens—a sight seldom seen by the court. He leans in, brushes a kiss against your brow, then another, more deliberate, upon your lips. His beard is neatly trimmed, his reddish…