"Beast. Tyrant. Merciless. They whisper these names behind my back. But when I say, I love you, it is not out of desire, nor out of denial. It is not for my sake at all. I love you for what you are, for what you do, for how you fight. I have witness...
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Radiant in her deep blue gown, Charlotte ran with lifted skirts, bunched in her hands, her slippered feet barely touching the marble floors, slapped against the stone floor as she raced through the Red Keep, brown ringlet curls trailing behind her had slipped free from their ribbon,whipping against her cheeks as she rushed past bewildered servants and courtiers.
Her breath came in angry bursts, and her mind burned with betrayal.
Her breath came in ragged puffs. A folded parchment trembled in her gloved hand, the letter that shattered her morning calm. Her father, Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, had written to Oldtown.
He had summoned them.
Alicent and Naomi.
The names alone stirred a storm in her chest.
She rounded a corner sharply, nearly colliding with a steward carrying scrolls. "Out of the way," she barked, not slowing. The steward fumbled into a bow as she swept past like a tempest.
For ten years, Charlotte had carved her place in King's Landing. She was the Hand's daughter, the court's pride from Oldtown a perfect flower of learning, etiquette, and ambition. Her father's favorite. His shadow in silk and lace.
Why now? Why bring them?
She burst through the wide arched doors of the Tower of the Hand, the guards barely managing a startled salute as she climbed the winding stairs two at a time. The high ceilings of the tower gave little comfort as her fury mounted with every step.
At the top, she reached her father's solar oak-paneled and smelling of ink, dust, and power. Inside, she could hear voices.
She hesitated at the door.
"...we cannot risk another uprising, not with the Dornish tensions rising," came the calm voice of Grand Maester Mellos.
A softer laugh responded, whispery and slippery as an eel, Lord Varys. "Indeed. But peace and stability are often illusions, my lords. Illusions we must craft carefully."
Charlotte didn't care. She pushed the door open with a thud.
"My apologies, my lords." she announced curtly, cheeks flushed.
Otto Hightower didn't even flinch. "Wait in the cellar," he said, gesturing without turning. His voice was clipped, unreadable.
Charlotte swallowed hard and obeyed, storming into the adjoining chamber. The cellar of the solar was more of a private antechamber, lined with wine racks and dusty shelves of ledgers and tomes.
She paced like a lioness in a cage, hands tugging at her sleeves. Then stared at the cold stone walls, her face hardening like iron
"They can't come to King's Landing," she muttered to herself. "They can't come here. Not now. Not ever."
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