[ She hiccups a laugh, the sound wet and tight in her throat, as he lifts her feet from the ground. When was the last time someone embraced her out of relief and not pure despair? When Viserys died, only Aemond offered her comfort, in his way, a softness she hadn’t seen from him since. And not like this, clinging as only someone who has known love and affection can.

Tim has more kindness in his heart than either of her boys, besides. It shows in the startled warmth on his face, the pleasing quirk of his mouth. She lingers only to right the crooked angle of his glasses, knocked askew by her haphazardness outreach. ]

Of course. [ She has forgotten all, manners and decorum swallowed by the newness of her ache acknowledged, not subsumed. ] Come in.

[ Her hand finds his arm, tugging him after her. On sight, Alicent’s rooms share her sense of displacement. All dark jewel tones and intricate designs, belonging to an older world. A tapestry hangs from the wall bordering the bathroom, the twisting branches of a thick tree reaching toward the ceiling. At its roots, a stately armchair sits. The vanity opposite her bed must be an antique, bronzed with age. Atop it, jewellery and hairpins are finely organised in decorative boxes and gilded trays — only the emerald-laden tiara stands apart, perching atop the dark oak and catching the flickering candlelight.

Her window looks onto the gardens, rounded windows flung open so she might feel the relief of the night air. The rumpled pillow and blanket at the window seat suggest that’s where she passed the last half hour, when her four poster bed remains neatly made. Perhaps more telling is the packet of cigarettes and glass of red wine on the windowsill. An freshly uncorked bottle sits on the nightstand. ]

Sit, sit. [ A beat. ] You know, I have never entertained without maids to fetch the tea. I suppose I could duck into the hall —