"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 Red Keep basked in the last golden light of the setting sun. Shadows stretched long across the crimson stone, and the warm glow of dusk kissed the high towers, casting the fortress in a regal, almost haunting hue.
The air smelled of salt, metal, and roses, a blend of sea breeze and courtly polish. Torches flickered to life along the grand corridors as servants bustled about lighting sconces, their hurried steps echoing off marble.
Lady Alicent Hightower walked with measured grace through the winding corridors of the Keep, her emerald silk gown catching glimmers of orange light.
Her auburn hair had been pinned in a delicate twist, revealing the fine curve of her neck and the gold chain draped around it. In her hand she held a sketchbook, lightly pressed against her side as she made her way to the Royal Art Gallery.
She nodded gently at a pair of noblewomen who passed her, whispering behind their fans, eyes briefly flicking to her and back again.
She returned their glances with a soft smile, trained in politeness, though her thoughts wandered elsewhere toward the quiet space where art whispered stories.
But then, her pace slowed.
From the corridor ahead emerged her, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of Queen Mellario, with her chin lifted high and posture proud.
A vision in velvets the color of dusk, her silver-blonde hair was braided with sapphires and Valyrian steel beads.
Beside her, walking a shade too close, was a tall, smirking figure a man cloaked in black and red, his white-blond hair tousled and windblown, a sword strapped across his back.
His eyes were sharp with mischief, jaw dusted with shadow, and the dragon's blood in him ran hot like a storm waiting to be unleashed. Though unnamed, every courtier whispered of him.
Alicent paused, then curtsied with perfect poise. "Princess Rhaenyra," she said gently, almost warmly.
Rhaenyra's amethyst eyes flicked over her like she were barely worth the breath. She didn't stop. She barely nodded. "Hightower," she muttered and glided past, her companion smirking as he followed, the sound of his boots sharp and lazy on the stone.
Alicent stood upright, lips parting slightly in disbelief. She turned to watch the princess and her silent shadow disappear down the corridor. "So rude," she scoffed under her breath, cheeks flushed with quiet frustration.
Her gloved fingers clutched the sketchbook tighter. It wasn't just the coldness of Rheanyra that irritated her. it was the reminder. That in this court, she would always be reaching for something others were born holding.
Steeling herself, she turned back, heels clicking softly as she climbed the nearby stairs, seeking the upper level where the Royal Art Gallery was said to be hidden behind an arched bronze door.
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