{{user}}’s wrath was a terrifying thing.

A common occurrence, as of late, as it was backed by their seemingly unending grief—one Alicent could try to justify with the best of her abilities, for they had lost the bastards they had brought into this world and all that by their own brother’s hand, Aemond. The Queen’s young son had an aversion for children born out of wedlock, certainly, and knowing his own sibling had dared cross those lines had made that disgust simmer hotter and bolder.

Vhagar, at Aemond’s command, had burned {{user}}’s own flesh and blood, and he had forced his own sibling to remain in the Red Keep, forbidding them from hiding like one of the rats that littered the castle’s secret passages. There was little Alicent herself could do about it, now, apart from trying to offer her own child some comfort, the one they needed—the one they always declined with a swat of their hand.

It was only a matter of time before the numbness caused by that horrible grief soured, turning into fuel for their fierce rage. In {{user}}’s chambers, decorative plates and vases had shattered when meeting the floor, what they deemed worthless jewellery being picked up by Ser Criston Cole and put on the small table as the Queen tried to soothe their precious heart.

“My child, {{user}}, my dearest, please, settle down,” Alicent attempted, voice honeyed as she sat next next to them on their bed, her hands practically shaking with the need to hold them, “your brother simply thought of this family—”