𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 彡 [a. hightower] [✔]

─ 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

*ೃ༄𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒

Dahlia Moulton was unsure of what irregular force possessed her to carry out the calculated ploy she had mentally devised in the span of a single night, though once her fingers grasped the quill filled with ink, the woman made no effort to stop herself. Words done in beautiful calligraphy were stretched across the parchment, and the redheaded woman's hand—which encased the writing instrument—glided from left to right in neat motions as proper wording spewed from Dahlia's brilliantly clever mind.

An attempt on my life was made. Some see me as feeble-minded and weak, but I assure you such a dreadful event has prompted me to become much more determined to accomplish a certain set of tasks before I do find myself in a cold grave. Do not worry for me. The yellow thistles of House Moulton are rather sturdy. I shall be journeying back to King's Landing come daybreak to ensure my fullest protection. I've also found a solution to the qualms you may still have with your eldest son. A proper, determined wife is what the Prince requires—a young woman who shall remind him to behave as a future ruler should and someone of noble standing vying for a greater purpose in high society. I have successfully acquainted myself with the person I speak of. She is a girl of Dorne, her house a vassal of the Martells and I intend to grant her the opportunity of wearing a crown. A lasting dynasty has intrigued you for much of your life and now we have a chance. Our young Prince shall rule with two wives by his side to ensure his success.

Signed,

Lady Dahlia of House Moulton

The letter in question reached its intended recipient rather hastily. The sour disposition of Alicent Hightower as she internally shriveled away on the salt coated isle of Driftmark only worsened once the auburn haired woman read over the contents of the parchment not once, not even twice, but four consecutive times to ensure she was not losing all her sanity in such a short period of time. Though the Queen essentially felt as such.

She did not know what to make of the spontaneous and downright ridiculous words of her lover transcribed into an obnoxious letter. Alicent firmly believed her son did not require a second wife—certainly not one of Dornish decent deriving from a vassalage to House Martell. Aegon—the future King, by his mother's standards—deserved better than such a simple girl.

The indigestible insult was difficult for Alicent to bear, a scowl morphing onto her lips whilst the letter dangled between her fingertips precariously as she seemed disgusted by the words themselves. With a free hand she clutched her stomach, a feeling of faintness washing over the Hightower woman like a powerful wave...like the insufferable stormy waves she was lulled to sleep by each night she remained on the desolate island. As if being stuck in a hellish night terror that tugged Alicent back continuously.