[ I always have time for you, a lovely thing to say — and perhaps only that. Alicent does not doubt that he would do what he could, but Tim has already chosen another over her and Hawk over all, in the killing games. Young men bow before their selfishness too often for her liking (and she’s learning now, what Rhaenys knew in the Red Keep, that to toil in service of them is to build one’s own prison, brick by brick). And if neither of them can take of her son any longer, nor of her — where else might they look for sustenance? For power? She thinks of Hawk asking after Jacaerys, defending Daemon on the network, and wonders.

Hope for an alternative, flickering though it is, persists. She appreciates Tim’s cautiousness, his distance. That he cedes power by allowing her to approach him, as she does now, taped frames extended.

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. ]

You did not offer to be bled dry, dear. [ Even though he refused to listen to her, as any of her sons would (and did). She’ll not blame him for that, exactly, even if it frustrates her. ] Though your instinct for self-preservation is lacking, ’tis true.

[ Is it atonement? A desire for the end that calls to her and Embry? Any further consideration of it is waylaid by Tim’s soft apology. She knew, though Aemond did not name him explicitly. He claimed to return all to her.

There is much she could say. Aemond is a boy. Of eight and ten, not as young as she was when men began to pursue her, but too young, still. Fire and blood. It does not surprise me that you were burned. ]

I appreciate your saying that. [ The apology. The consideration for her feelings, this time, though it’s hardly her greatest concern, after she bled out in a library alone, and injured so many she holds dear, Aemond included. Without Tim’s glasses to cling to, her hands twist. ] I hope I did not miss any other troubles.

[ Knowing this place... ]