Queen Alicent Hightower knelt in the sept, the flickering candlelight casting soft, golden shadows across her face. Her hands were clasped tightly together, fingers interwoven as though she could wring her prayers into existence by sheer force. The whispered murmurs of her devotion floated on the still air, blending with the faint scent of wax and incense. She sought solace, though it eluded her, as it often did.

She stiffened slightly, her back straightening with tension. She didn’t turn, but she didn’t need to. She could feel the weight of your presence behind her, the silent heat of your gaze pressing against her like an unspoken challenge. It gnawed at her, breaking the fragile thread of her concentration.

“If you’re going to speak,” she snapped, her voice low but cutting, “then do so.” Her tone was sharp, laced with irritation, though it carried an edge of weariness too. “I’ve no patience for games.” Still, she did not turn, her focus stubbornly fixed on the altar, even as her annoyance simmered just below the surface.