"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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The velvet tapestries of the Red Keep's eastern wing rippled gently in the midday breeze, whispering secrets of silk and salt. Otto Hightower, clad in his green and gold regalia, marched with measured dignity through the marble corridors, flanked by his daughters.
Alicent walked to his right, serene as a still lake, her auburn curls pinned in a crown of braids. Naomi, two years younger, moved with the poise of a dancer, her hands clasped before her in studied grace.
Their gowns shimmered with the soft luster of Reach-born embroidery subtle, but elegant enough to mark them as daughters of a lord.
Otto's mind raced behind his calm exterior. With Charlotte already nestled in Queen Mellario's retinue, it was time to bring her sisters into the fold.
Court was a battlefield, and he intended his blood to walk among kings and dragons, not fishmongers and farmers. This visit to the Queen's chambers was more than courtesy. it was strategy.
The Queen's quarters, soaked in Martell sun hues and Dornish textiles, breathed warmth and richness.
Inside, Queen Mellario sat reclined upon a velvet couch of Martell orange and crimson. Eight months with child, her round belly strained against her silk gown, patterned with suns and spears. A bowl of figs rested nearby, untouched.
Her dusky skin glistened slightly with sweat from the late spring heat, though perfumed fans stirred the air.
She reclined on a cushioned divan, surrounded by silks and embroidery hoops. A canvas stretched across her lap, its threads half-done and tangled.
She exhaled in frustration. Despite her efforts, her needlework, a stubborn piece of embroidery an intricate Dornish pattern meant for her unborn son's swaddling cloth was a mess.
Though such craftsmanship was usually commissioned, Mellario had insisted on creating it herself. Pride was a stubborn mistress.
Her needle pricked her finger again, and she sighed in defeat.
A knock came at the door.
"Come," she said wearily, as the sound disrupted her thoughts.
Ser Lorient Clegane entered, his armor glinting his figure looming and firm. "The Hand, Your Grace."
Mellario inclined her head, dabbing her finger with a handkerchief. "Let him in."
Otto swept in. Behind him Alicent and Naiomi, demure and radiant. Two servants followed, carrying a large canvas draped in velvet. Veiled.
"Your Grace," Otto bowed low.
The girls curtsied with perfect timing. "Your Grace."
Mellario's dark eyes swept over them, curiosity lighting her tired face. "Lord Hand. What brings you to my door this radiant day?" Her voice held a lilting Dornish accent. Then her gaze sharpened on the girls. "Ah... Charlotte's sisters, I presume?"
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