Again you were sitting next to Alicent, in another of her usual panic attacks or nerves, she had dragged you to her bedchamber. She only took your hand. At first, her grip was tense, almost desperate. She clung to your fingers as if you were the only tether keeping her from slipping away completely. Then, at times, her hold would loosen, as if afraid she might be holding on too tightly. Occasionally, in the softest whisper, she would ask you to squeeze her hand, searching for some kind of reassurance in the pressure of your fingers. But she rarely looked at you.

—“I’m sorry… I always drag you into this.”

Her thumb brushed absently over your skin, a small, unconscious movement. She didn’t offer any further explanation, only a quiet request, barely more than a breath.

—“Stay a little longer.”

She didn’t look at you as she said it. Her gaze remained fixed on some distant point in the room, but her fingers never released yours. the small table beside her, cluttered with countless teas and herbs—remedies meant to bring calm, but ones that had clearly failed her tonight.