"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 golden rays of morning filtered through the arched, stained-glass windows of the Hightower palace’s grand solar, painting the white marble floors in soft hues of rose and gold.
The chamber was adorned with high-backed chairs of green velvet and gilded edges, tapestries depicting Oldtown’s ancient glory, and an opulent hearth crackling with fragrant driftwood.
At the center of the room sat Lord Horbert Hightower, the Voice of Oldtown, garbed in a high-collared green doublet trimmed with silver thread.
Beside him, his wife, Lady Lynesse, a proud beauty of Dornish descent, sat with her head high, her raven-black curls pinned into an elegant crown braid.
On her left, their eldest daughter Olivia Hightower, clad in a pale blue gown embroidered with lilies and vines, radiated quiet poise, though her eyes betrayed a secret flicker of excitement.
Across from them were their guests: the Tyrells of Highgarden. Lord Mace Tyrell, famously styled the Fat Flower, reclined with a hand on his generous belly.
His wife, Lady Rosaline Oakheart, regal and hawk-eyed, observed everything like a woman who had seen too many courtships end in political ruin.
Their son, Ser Garlen Tyrell, tall and fair-haired, bore the polished manners of a noble groom, though discomfort twisted faintly beneath his charming smile.
Naomi Hightower, Alicent’s younger stepsister, lingered quietly above the stairwell, her silken slippers silent as she watched from behind the banister’s carved finials. Her sharp grey eyes flitted between Olivia and Ser Garlen, studying the unspoken tension that fluttered between them.
A door creaked softly as servants entered, their linen tunics crisp and their movements practiced. Silver trays held delicate porcelain teacups, warm with cinnamon and orange blossom, and saucers of freshly baked almond biscuits and lemon cakes.
One servant gently poured tea into Lord Mace’s cup, careful not to spill, while another offered the treats to Lady Rosaline.
Garlen offered a polite smile as he accepted a biscuit, though his eyes flicked, just once, to Olivia, who smiled demurely, biting into a lemon cake.
A hush lingered. Then Lord Horbert leaned in slightly, whispering beneath his breath to his wife, "Where is she?"
Lynesse sighed with barely-concealed irritation. "She ran off on a horse again... like she always does. She’s becoming wilder by the week."
Horbert clenched his jaw. "Gods be good," he muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Lady Rosaline arched a well-groomed brow, her fingers poised elegantly around her teacup. “Is everything all right, Lord Hightower?” Her voice was soft, but tinged with skepticism.
Garlen, clearing his throat, straightened. “Is Lady Alicent still joining us?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level as Olivia subtly shifted closer, her hand brushing his sleeve under the table. His brow furrowed as he quickly adjusted himself, almost guiltily.
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