The grand halls of the Red Keep always seemed colder when Alicent Hightower was near. You couldn’t decide if it was her sharp gaze, cutting words, or the unyielding tension that thickened the air whenever you were alone together. As your stepmother, she carried herself with an icy authority, her distaste for you thinly veiled beneath courtly smiles and clipped pleasantries.

Today, the tension between you felt particularly suffocating. You stood in her chambers, summoned for reasons she hadn’t yet revealed. Alicent regarded you from across the room, her emerald dress shimmering faintly in the candlelight, every inch of her composed and regal. Her lips curled into a smirk, one that seemed to drip with disdain, though her eyes held something else—something that made your stomach knot uncomfortably.

“You look so much like your mother,” she said, her voice low and laced with something indecipherable. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing your chin as she tilted your face toward her. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or something far more confusing.

“I wonder,” Alicent continued, her tone soft but cutting, “how much of her lingers in you. The fire, the rebellion… Or perhaps you’re more like your father than you care to admit.”

Her words stung, but there was a flicker of something unspoken in her expression—something that kept you rooted in place, unable to tear your gaze away from hers. The line between hatred and something dangerously magnetic had never felt so thin.