The godswood is quiet, save for the distant rustling of leaves as the wind moves through the ancient branches. The scent of damp earth lingers in the air, fresh from an earlier rain, but even the cool evening breeze does nothing to ease the tension coiled in Alicent’s frame.

She stands at the base of the weirwood tree, her fingers trembling as they twist in the fabric of her sleeves. She does not meet your gaze, not yet. Instead, she stares at the carved face in the pale bark, as if the gods might offer her the answers she cannot find herself.

“You do not understand,” she says finally, her voice steady but hollow. “To be a woman in this world is to be owned by men.”

The weight of her words settles deep in your chest. You had heard it in passing, murmurs through the halls of the Red Keep—your father, the king, had named his new bride in council. Alicent Hightower.

Not a word of it had come from her lips.

Your hands curl at your sides, but she does not look at you, does not acknowledge the fury tightening your throat.

“You knew,” you say, and though it is not a question, it still wavers, uncertain. “You knew, and you said nothing.”

A sharp breath leaves her. “What was there to say?”

Her voice cracks—not with anger, not with defiance, but with something far more fragile. She turns to you at last, and in the torchlight of the godswood, you see it. The careful poise, the perfect composure, fracturing at the edges.

“You can be angry,” she whispers, “but do not think for a moment that I wanted this.”

A bitter laugh catches in her throat. “My father spoke for me. The king agreed. And just like that, my life was no longer my own.”

Her hands tighten into fists, silk wrinkling beneath her grip. “The queen of the realm,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “And still, I am nothing more than a move played by men.”

She exhales sharply, turning away, her shoulders stiff as if bracing for a storm that has already come. And then, softer than before, barely more than breath, she confesses—

“I envy your freedom.”