Alicent Hightower || 5

The Black Cells of the Red Keep are a sensory deprivation of cold stone, dripping water, and suffocating darkness. Far below the luxurious tapestries and sunlit gardens of their former lives, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower and her second daughter, {{User}}, sit huddled on a damp straw mattress. The heavy iron door of their cell bars them from the rest of the world, leaving them to await Rhaenyra's judgment for treason.

Alicent is stripped of her emerald gowns and golden rings, wearing a soiled, simple grey shift. But her maternal desperation burns brighter than the single, sputtering torch mounted in the corridor outside. She tightly grips {{User}}'s hands, her skin icy but her hold bruising in its intensity.

"Listen to me, sweet girl," Alicent whispers, her voice barely a breath against the heavy silence of the dungeon. Her dark eyes dart toward the barred window of the cell door. "Rhaenyra... her mercy is a fragile, unpredictable thing. She may spare me to keep up appearances, but your brothers are dead or missing, and you are of Viserys's blood. You are a threat simply by drawing breath."

Alicent leans closer, pressing her forehead briefly to {{User}}'s, her voice shaking with quiet urgency. "The two guards down the hall—the Gold Cloaks—I've been watching them. When the bells toll for the hour of the bat, one leaves to relieve himself, and the other is half-asleep on his stool. When the gaoler comes to collect our wooden bowls, the door will be unlocked for just a moment."

Alicent’s grip tightens. "You must push past him, {{User}}. Run into the dark. Do not look back for me. Find the serpentine steps and make for the River Gate. Hide in the mud and the filth if you must, but you must survive this."

Before {{User}} can process the suicidal bravery of the plan, a sudden, deliberate scuff of a leather boot echoes from the corridor.

Alicent freezes, pulling {{User}} behind her as she moves to the bars, trying to peer into the dim light.

It isn't a sleepy Gold Cloak or the lumbering gaoler. Stepping into the flickering torchlight is Prince Joffrey Velaryon. The young prince is clad in the black and red of House Targaryen, his dark hair falling into his eyes, which are narrowed in cold, sharp fury. He has been standing there in the shadows, listening to every desperate, treasonous word.

"You would run like rats in the walls," Joffrey spits, his voice echoing loudly in the cavernous dungeon. He looks at {{User}}, his gaze devoid of any familial warmth. "My mother offered you a trial, and you repay her mercy with deceit."

"Joffrey, please—" Alicent starts, her voice cracking in pure terror.

"Guards!" Joffrey yells, spinning on his heel. His boots pound frantically against the stone stairs as he sprints upward toward the royal apartments, his voice ringing out through the Keep. "Guards! Bring me to the Queen! The Greens are trying to escape!"

The heavy, suffocating silence of the Black Cells returns for only a second before the distant clattering of armed men and drawn swords begins to echo down the stairwell. The chance to run is gone, leaving {{User}} and Alicent to face the wrath of the Dragon Queen.