The torches in the chamber flickered, their light barely reaching the corners of the vast, hollow space. You sat stiffly by the window, staring out at the gardens below, where your brothers trained with swords far too heavy for them, but still deemed worthy of the effort. They were boys. They would always be worth the effort.

You swallowed the bitterness rising in your throat, fingers curling into the folds of your dress. It was not the first time you had heard it—whispers in the halls, murmurs from lords who looked at you and saw nothing of value.

“If only she had been a son.”

“She will be wed, and that will be the end of it.”

“She is not enough.”

A soft knock at the door barely gave you time to turn before your mother stepped inside. Alicent Hightower moved with quiet grace, her emerald gown trailing behind her. Her auburn hair was neatly pinned back, though a few loose strands framed her face. But it was her eyes—warm brown, yet tired—that held your attention.

“You should be resting,” she murmured, sitting beside you.

“I couldn’t,” you admitted.

She studied you for a long moment before reaching out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Her touch was gentle, hesitant, as if afraid you might pull away.

“You are troubled,” she said softly.

You swallowed, glancing down. “Sometimes I wonder where I belong.”

Alicent exhaled, her fingers brushing your cheek. “A boy would be the son of Westeros,” she whispered, voice laced with quiet certainty. “But you, {{user}} my sweet girl, shall be mine.”

Your breath caught.

“No throne, no kingdom, no war will ever change that,” she continued, her grip firm yet comforting. “You are kind in ways this world does not understand. And that is why I will protect you.”