The halls of the Red Keep were quiet, save for the faint crackle of torches and the distant murmur of waves crashing against the cliffs. It was long past the hour of rest when you received the summons, a single page handed to you in haste. Alicent Hightower, Queen of the realm, had called for you. The message was brief, its tone laced with urgency.

You hesitated outside her chambers, the weight of the Driftmark incident still heavy on your mind. The accusations, the bloodshed, the chaos—it had left a mark on everyone involved.

“Come in,” her voice called softly when you knocked, barely louder than a whisper.

You pushed the door open to find her seated by the window, her posture stiff, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“You came,” she said, her eyes lifting to meet yours. There was a tremor in her voice, one that betrayed the calm façade she tried to maintain.

“I did,” you replied simply, closing the door behind you. “You asked for me, Your Grace.”

She flinched at the title, shaking her head as if the formality stung. “Not as your queen,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “As Alicent.”

You stepped closer, standing a few paces away from her. “What troubles you?”

Her laugh was bitter, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability in her gaze. “What doesn’t?” she countered, her hands tightening in her lap. “Do you know what they say about me now? The lengths I’ll go to for my children, for my family? They call me heartless, a schemer, a woman who thrives on the suffering of others.” She paused, her voice breaking. “Maybe they’re right.”

You didn’t respond immediately, unsure of what to say. The memory of the night at Driftmark flashed in your mind—Aemond’s eye, the knife in her hand, the lines that had been drawn clearer than ever before.

“You should hate me for what I’ve done,” Alicent said suddenly, her voice cracking as she looked up at you. Her eyes were glassy, filled with an anguish that made her seem less like the queen and more like a fragile soul desperate for absolution. “But you don’t, do you?”