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@doloridis
this is an independent writing blog for alicent hightower, taking influences from both the show and personal headcanons; i am not book-compliant. selective, mutuals only, minors dni, plotting intensive. highly triggering content and vastly unpopular takes ahead –– interact at your own risk. alicent-antis are not welcome here.
¹ slides. ² sideblog. ³ pinterest. ⁴ spotify.
i have no money i made a resource/commissions/whatever blog don't hate me @crossflinchresources
guys i’m so excited bc im having dinner with @sanctamater and finally also meeting @doloridis for the first time in like 6 years.
@doloridis stinks 😤😤😤
this is why i love lux and i'm going to smother claire in their sleep
imagine being woken up by this twice in the last two days @sanctamater 😤😤
hi :)
" your grace - " our lady moves like the mother herself; swift and sure but never rushed, never as aggressive as the warrior or as nervous as the maiden; poised and graceful when she takes @doloridis arm in her own, falling in to step beside her easily. and was it so different, all those short years ago, when she had walked next to a queen recently crowned, when they had both been young? and there is a part of her that knows they had been too young - too young to marry, too young to have so many children. what has been done is done - and if the good lady continues to look to the past, she will be lost to it; but the future, too, seems bleak - uncertain; clouded by a storm she knows is brewing. " i must congratulate you - on prince aemond's claiming of vhagar. the paramount of all the dragons; no less than he deserves. he is a fine boy, your second. " tactfully, our lady does not mention many things - the claiming occurring during the rider's funeral, the fight that had occurred in the night between royal children. that same second son, now scarred; the princess, bleeding - and the queen, armed with a blade. all things she had not seen, but had no less heard whispers of - and though the good lady listens; she is, above all, silent.
briefly, her hand squeezes alicent's arm; the gesture meant to comfort, meant to convey things she cannot say. i understand your anger. i would have done the same. all things she would chastise herself for later; all things that she - no, they - ought to be above. alicent, more so; the head of the realm and all its circles; a paragon for all women to strive to be. it is a pity that the fury of a mother is never accounted for; and her jaw clenches, slides - glancing up ( always up ) at the queen briefly, taking her in. she has cut her hair. " i hope he is... i hope that he is healing well, you grace. he was always a robust child... with the help of the maesters he will be set to... rights soon. " a pause, brow furrowing - and she takes another breath, voice dropping - soft and sure. " ...how are you faring, alicent? "
"Lady Nostrand." A slanted nod of her head, both as a greeting and an invitation to fall in step with her. How very far they have both come, and not just in title and standing at that; it seems like both an age and only a week since they were no more than daughters, young girls in their baby blues, with nary a worry in the world. Foolish of them to believe that, Alicent supposes now. Never in a thousand years did she ever expect her life to be as complicated as it is now, for her body to be so wracked with fear, her head weighed down by guilt, paranoia guiding her every action better than her father could ever hope to.
It is a mammoth task, to suppress the flinch that instinctively rises at the lady's mention of the events that unfolded at Driftmark; they're still so fresh in her mind, as are the wounds at her fingertips, cleaned now, and no longer bloody, but raw still. "He is your son, Viserys, your blood," she had begged before the entire court, Aemond's little hand gripped tight in hers like a lifeline. They had all just stood by, gawping at her, as though a mother's desperate plea for accountability was a worse crime than what had been done to her son, what had been taken.
She does not speak any of this, of course. How could she? She is the Queen, and she has let everybody down: her royal husband, the Gods, her children, the court, herself most of all. The Hand had been the only one who seemed ... proud of her, in the aftermath, proud of the viciousness she proved herself capable of, the self-righteous anger that she has been smothering for so very long. That fact alone is almost enough to mortify her.
"The prince's fevers have finally broke for good, and the maesters are quietly confident that he will make as good a recovery as he is able." A well-practiced response, one that has flowed from both her tongue and her quill. Wan smile turns slightly warmer, fonder, at the comforting squeeze of the lady's hand and the usage of her given name, something that she has not heard from many people over these past years. "I am as well as can be expected, Amelia," she murmurs in response, failing to meet the other's gaze, be it out of shame or reluctance.
ship ?
they're all down in the harbour--
Yeah.
the penny is incredible late dropping but the way the finale of s1 had rhaenyra discovering that alicent had demanded rhaenys declare for aegon, that she firmly was backing her son as king etc., while the finale of s2 had alicent willingly offer up aegon in exchange for her + helaena's life ... good soup tbh
this is not directed at anyone + is simply something i've come to terms with since more and more alicent blogs have popped up and are floating around, but i'm really not very duplicate friendly. it's been a me-issue for as long as i've been in the rpc, but i typically am just very uncomfortable following solo blogs for characters that i myself also write, mostly because i am wildly insecure about my own abilities lol
hi i'm crying x
@doloridis // cont.
She has dreamed of this day countless times, imagined how a reunion with her darling baby boy would transpire. But just as she has dreamed of it, she has feared it too. What if he resents her for sending him to ward with her family? For separating him from his siblings and his parents? Would he ever understand that, though it was not her choice to send him away, it was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to him? To grow up away from the blight of the capital, from the iron fist of his grandsire, from the snapping maws of the court. From what Gwayne has told her, and from what she can already see from the young man that stands before her now, maybe he really has been saved the fate that's befallen his mother and brothers and sister. Maybe the rot and the poison that infects the grand House Targaryen has missed one.
"Daeron." His name comes on a croaking exhale, one that is tinged with giddy relief, even if her expression is more conflicted, stained with trepidation and uncertainty. He reaches for her hands and she takes his gladly, fingers gripping flesh tightly, lest he slip from her grip once more. "I can only thank the Gods for bringing you back to us." She pulls him a little closer to her, bridging the distance that lies between them –– but she does not hug him, cannot bring herself to hug him. Much as she longs to be able to, Alicent fears the thought of infecting him, filth rubbing off on him, tarnishing all the good that has been built up during his years away from this place. Away from her.
There is warmth in her touch, the eagerness to reclaim something thought long lost. There is something else, as well, a trepidation in her strong grasp, a fissure. Distance, he imagines, that cannot be breached in a moment. Sincere joy means not complete ease; perhaps she, too, hesitates in the face of change. He is not the son she said her farewells to, a boy trying to be brave when sent into the unknown. Daeron wonders if the same is true of her; is the Queen before him his same lady mother, who had kissed his forehead ere he departed?
❝ I had hoped to be knighted already, when next we met, ❞ Lighthearted, aimed in a different direction. Earnest, the first stone settled in attempted bridge. He would not disrespect the boundary set, only invite her to draw near ( and wasn't openness, then, the mandatory tenet? ). The Mother above prizes honesty; the prince could only hope so would his queenly mother appreciate it, mirthfully delivered words no less true. ❝ Yet though I regret not making you proud, I am more than glad to not have waited for it, if it afforded the opportunity of an earlier reunion. ❞
❝ Would you walk with me? ❞ Hands released only to offer instead his arm, all gallant knight, despite lacking the rights to be called Ser. There is no forceful demand, no entitled command; only gentle, hopeful offer, bright in lavender gaze. ❝ I would hear more of how have you fared while I reacquaint myself with the Keep, should it please you. ❞
"If Uncle Hobert and Gwayne's letters are to be taken genuinely, as I suspect they were intended, you are well on your way to being bestowed with such an honour." Certainly, they've sung his praises any time she's inquired about him, which may well be every second letter or so that she exchanges with them. Were she not the queen, she suspects they would have stopped replying long ago; yet, were she not the queen, so very much would be different. Sometimes Alicent wonders if it would all be different for the better; but she never allows herself to wonder that for long.
"Knighted or not, you are my son, my dear heart." Another squeeze of his hands, fondness battling against the apprehension, and in the end, it wins. She is proud of him, immensely so. Proud that he seems to be blossoming into a true gentleman, no doubt capable of becoming the truest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Proud that he has not taken after his brothers, that he has not yet fallen victim to the base nature of this world of theirs, that King's Landing seems to be the hub of. A flicker of fear returns, then, for only a moment, for as long as it lingers in her head.
His gallantry snaps her out of those awful thoughts of hers, and again, her heart hammers away in her chest, affection fashioning it into something that it has not been for many years now. "Nothing would please me more." Sleeves billow with the movement as her arms loop around his, near-clutching on as though he may disappear if she does not keep a tight grip. "But it is you and your tales that I am far more interested in hearing. I have ... missed so very much of your life, it feels." Letters can only go so far in bolstering a relationship, ink and parchment incapable of so much. Some days Alicent wonders will she ever be able to forgive her father for forcing her hand when it came to sending Daeron to ward –– but she has forgiven him for far worse.
WHERE DOES YOUR ANGER LURK?
in your eyes.
rage in silence, in wordless defiance. cheeks dampened, clenched fists tremble, yet cannot move, cannot rise. wronged, your heart demands justice and aches at its absence. you can do nothing but weep, tears flooding the space fury hollows out.
TAGGED BY: @warwaged and @halfyearsqueen my loves tbh TAGGING: @perzyr @sanctamater @clubf8ed
( 𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 ) . . . for @doloridis
grotesque pressure builds behind shuddered lids . . . this dimly lit temple knew nothing save emblems newfangled faith. old gods scream in protest from her very presence within another's walls, shelved away from reach, doused in green. fabric whispering along stone floors in soundless observation ⸺ dowager's own belief's were steadfast, visions and prophecies would fall 'pon deaf ears. though fine many gather weighty in throat, she swallows them back. stands before rings of remembered losses. how many candles had been lit by those hands? how many regrets were placed at the faith's feet? ❝ dae ye find yer comfort here often enough, yer grace? ❞ was it worth it anymore?
It is the only place where she is able to feel some semblance of relief in these days, here amidst the smoky incense and the flickering candles. The shadows cast by the grand pillars and the imposing statues do not frighten her the way those in the rest of the Keep do, and the quiet hum of chants and prayers in the background have a steadying effect on her, making her feel as though she is home, wherever (whatever?) that might be for her now. The septas that float around do not disturb her, for the most part, though she does not trust them any more than she trusts the maids in the castle; she no longer knows where their loyalties lie, who they listen and report to. But the Gods will always be there, and they will always be impartial, judging one sinner the same as the next, no matter their rank or title.
Her prayers are disturbed, though, eyes twitching open, and one of her elbows slips from its place on the stone altar. She so loathes to be caught out, for her mask as the Good Dowager Queen to be pulled down and to be revealed as the imperfect transgresser she believes herself to be. "Y-yes." Ever polite, she responds, though it is not without a heaping of suspicion cast on the woman who stands behind her. Alicent remains kneeling, gaze flickering from the woman to the vastness behind her, searching for –– anyone. Guards, septas, septons. But it seems they are truly alone. That is the first warning sign. She clears her throat, then, and with it returns the mask. "Where else is there in the kingdom that can offer one such solace as a sept, after all."
"Mother," Softspoken greeting, warm and timid in equal measure. A myriad of emotions reflected in violet eyes (overjoyed, affectionate, hesitant, anxious); not the same color as hers, no, but not so dissimilar. Had it been enough time she would no longer recognize him? He had been but a boy when he departed.
He is taller than she is, now.
They had exchanged letters, of course, yet it wasn't quite the same. Details omitted, situations forgotten, affection ink and paper could not convey the same way as a warm embrace. A hug would be nice — Daeron settles for less. His hands reach for hers, inner conflict set aside, and a smile is allowed to brighten his face. Easy to see, perhaps, why he had easily taken to life in Oldtown. There is fire in his blood; less the scorching destruction of dragonfire, however, and more the warm brilliance of the lighthouse. "It gladdens me to see you again. I have missed you greatly."
She has dreamed of this day countless times, imagined how a reunion with her darling baby boy would transpire. But just as she has dreamed of it, she has feared it too. What if he resents her for sending him to ward with her family? For separating him from his siblings and his parents? Would he ever understand that, though it was not her choice to send him away, it was perhaps the best thing that could have happened to him? To grow up away from the blight of the capital, from the iron fist of his grandsire, from the snapping maws of the court. From what Gwayne has told her, and from what she can already see from the young man that stands before her now, maybe he really has been saved the fate that's befallen his mother and brothers and sister. Maybe the rot and the poison that infects the grand House Targaryen has missed one.
"Daeron." His name comes on a croaking exhale, one that is tinged with giddy relief, even if her expression is more conflicted, stained with trepidation and uncertainty. He reaches for her hands and she takes his gladly, fingers gripping flesh tightly, lest he slip from her grip once more. "I can only thank the Gods for bringing you back to us." She pulls him a little closer to her, bridging the distance that lies between them –– but she does not hug him, cannot bring herself to hug him. Much as she longs to be able to, Alicent fears the thought of infecting him, filth rubbing off on him, tarnishing all the good that has been built up during his years away from this place. Away from her.
Yeah, I saw that, you freak.
new post because we kept writing between editors in our thread for @doloridis from here. <3 <3
it is a bitterness that the sainted mother knows intimately; one that greets her like an old friend. what's the saying? bitterness was borne out of a life worth living. our lady does not think so - for if she had the choice, if she could go back and do it over, she would not have done this, nor ended up here at the end of the long road. questions cloud her mind as surely as they do alicent's - what could i have been? who would i be now? amelia, instead of our lady of sorrows. her therapist has told her numerous times that there is no point on getting so upset about what ifs and could have beens. i am not upset, our lady thinks. i am furious.
" you are right, good sis- alicent. " alicent. alicent. her hands tremble something awful these days - a stigmata would suit them better than the monogramed lighter she holds once alicent takes the marlboro she so generously offered. the flame is neon against her pallid skin - and she lights it with ease; watching the embers glow in alicent's frail hands. it's laughable, she thinks - how lost they look; trying on old and new habits like a child wearing a parent's coat, trying so desperately to grow up. " ...men know little. but if men know little, then i know nothing at all. "
bright eyes, bloodshot and ringed with lack of sleep, glance to alicent - how wistful her voice is; how gentle the memory is - untainted. intimate. sacred in the same way memories of summers in the hamptons are to her; as autumns spent upstate. she can see alicent, then - younger, softer; and her brother, a boy both like and unlike her. " so, you have come from a family of rebels. " a dry smile; the corner of her mouth lifting in a half grin that never quite reaches her eyes. it doesn't suit her; rusted with disuse. " does the same inclination run to you as well? "
The flickering flame from the lighter warms her fingers for a moment, but also draws attention to the scar tissue by the cuticles; the old wounds, yes, but the fresher ones too. The ones inflicted in the waiting room before therapy sessions, or in the lobby of the police station, or in line at the local coffee shop, when she is afforded a moment of calm and finds herself overwhelmed by this world she was shielded from her whole life –– the world that was stolen from her.
To think of her family again is bittersweet, to say the least. She has not dared to see them again yet, though they have kept in touch: emails, text, the occasional phone call when her sons wish to hear their uncles' voices again. But to see any of them face-to-face again is a daunting concept, and not one that Alicent thinks she is ready for just yet. "Some of them, yes." Three, to be precise. The eldest, the youngest, and the one who is practically her twin, less than a year between them. They were the only ones who would tell her stories of the times they snuck off the isle, who would not go running to their father at the slightest hint of disobedience, who hated more than anything to see their only sister cry. "I did not think it ever possible for me to follow in their stead in that way." How very small her voice seems, even now.
She finally takes a drag from the cigarette between her fingers, thinking it might do her some good, help her to find the words that have been beaten down within herfor so many years now. All it does is make her cough. Embarrassing, really.
"But perhaps ... surviving is an act of great rebellion itself." Slow and disjointed, the words fall like tar from her tongue, her scepticism in them evident, though she speaks them all the same.
