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𝑬𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅: 4/14/24
Dinner had been Alicent's attempt at making the transition natural, at smoothing over the fractures in their family with frosting instead of concrete. Torches adorned the walls, bathing the carvings of long deceased Targaryen kings in amber. Gilded platters of venison, cod, lemon cakes, roast potatoes adorned the banquet table.
Conversations were little and forced, the smiles were strained and taut. Do they not love me anymore, the dreadful voice inside her mind wondered. Have they forgotten me?
"Will you be making your stay in the Red Keep permanent, daughter?" Alicent asked, her voice calm and level, fingers laced beneath her chin.
The silver knife between Jaehaera's fingers sliced into the cod filet, her features soft and contemplative." One is not so eager to return to the sweat and stink of the Capital."
Aegon chortled, his golden pinky ring tapping on the sixth goblet of wine cradled in his palm." Come now, sweetling. One grows used to the funk after so long. Though, I understand six years of Faith and grandsire's dreariness would make for a very dull girl." He distorted his features into an exaggerated frown.
"Not all of us can sustain ourselves on whores and wine, brother," Jaehaera retorted, a silver brow quirking up.
A dreamy smile floated over Helaena's lips like a pleasure barge." We can sew our gowns like we used to if you stay, Jae." She had trampled over Aegon's retort and spared not a lick of remorse.
Guilt clawed at Jaehaera's chest upon the realization that she'd left her sister behind. My youngest sister. The boys had each other, but who had Helaena?
" I would love that." Her voice came out weak and quiet, her throat tightening." I just hope you've learned how to attach tulle to velvet."
Alicent's lips curled into a girlish pout that was ill fitting of a queen." How did the Hightower treat you?" She asked, her voice regal and calm, yet her caramel irises glinted with worry.
Listen with your eyes, not your ears, silly girl, her grandsire would scold. The girlish pout, the pinched brows, the exasperated huffs. . . It's so childish. One man had the power to reduce his ladies to mere docile tykes, with gentle touches and cruel words dipped in honey. Otto Hightower would shatter the porcelain skin of his women if it suited his needs; for they need only remain pure until he had use for them.
He molded his ladies, his blood, his lineage like an esteemed craftsmen, chipping away sin. To build a masterpiece of elegance, dutifulness, and piety.
I'd always wanted to ask if he loved me, but I was too afraid of the answer, she thought. Too afraid of hearing what I truly feared, a gut-ripping rejection.
