Work Text:
(Taken from the journal of the artist Lady Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of the late Lord Viserys Targaryen of Dragonstone. Translated in part from High Valyrian)
Eighth Day, Ninth Moon
I have been contacted by a Sir Otto Hightower, some Lord or another I have no recollection of, who inquires about my work. He mentioned being an acquaintance of my father. Well, he implied they were on considerably more personal terms than that, but would I not remember the man if that were so? Still, he seems to be familiar with the portrait I painted last summer for Sir Larys Strong.
I think anyone would have to be a miracle worker to make that man appear less distasteful than he presents in person. The time spent in his presence may yet prove worthwhile, if it continues to bring me patrons.
I do not have the full details of the job but the man is in King’s Landing in the coming days and wishes to meet. Part of me wants to decline; already he seems like he would be a demanding man, and nothing stifles my interest more than someone constantly picking, picking, picking at my work before the paint is even dry. Still, bills to pay and all that, and if I turn down this job I may be out on the street before I find another.
Twelfth Day, Ninth Moon
Met with Aegon at the Tyrell for drinks. He still doesn’t understand my insistence on not taking his money (outside of the drinks and dinner, of course). I’m sure it must seem like a sort of insanity to him. He offered me use of the townhouse but I told him to pass it to Aemond if he plans to move into the city for his studies.
I don’t turn him down to scorn him, though I admit there may be some bitterness there that I try not to take out on him.
I have managed so far, even if some of the meals have been meagre. I’m sure father would consider the whole thing ridiculous if he could see me, but mother I think would understand the urge to make my own way.
I’m not entirely insane; should I be about to end up in a workhouse I will consider a brotherly handout, though I hope not to be dragging my feet back to the estate by the new year.
Fourteenth Day, Ninth Moon
It seems I am employed again. I don’t believe Otto Hightower particularly liked me as a person but regardless of the impression I made he has requested my services.
It’s a rather morbid story. He and his wife recently lost their daughter, a woman that he described as around my own age that was struck down by consumption some seven months ago. It is a shame we never had the chance to meet, as it sounds like she was an early adopter of my work. She seems to have discovered my experimental pieces in Laena’s gallery, and even acquired one of my portraits of The Mother done during my apprenticeship.
I always did like that one, and only partly for the fact it was the result of a weekend drinking laudanum while Mysaria posed for me.
It doesn’t sound like it will be a particularly interesting job, but the pay is generous. I estimate it will take up to four months to complete what is bound to be a very traditional portrait (Sir Hightower seems to be a rather dry person and I do not believe he would appreciate my more personal artistic flair, if his face while speaking of the painting his daughter owned is any indication) and at three gold a month, while also being housed and fed, I should have a generous purse of savings to take home when I am done.
I’m to leave in the coming days. My plan is to pack up my belongings and travel via carriage to my uncle’s current residence. Here I will store anything I do not have use for before moving on to Oldtown.
I see no point in continuing to pay for my rooms here when I’m to be away for so long, I don’t have any real attachment to this place. As much as I deny Aegon’s insistence I use a family residence I admit, at least to myself, that I’ve never felt quite at home in any of the other places I have laid my head.
When I return from my work I hope to find a more permanent premises I might call my own.
Time to write to Daemon and let him know to expect me.
Twenty-third Day, Ninth Moon
I have set off via coach towards my uncle’s current lodgings in Harrenhal. It is a significant detour from my final destination but the extra time it adds to my journey is well worth the saving from abandoning my King’s Landing lodging. Laena has assured me I’m free to stay with her until I find something appropriate upon my return.
My coachman seems rather irritated, though I can’t entirely place why. It’s possible something about me simply rubs him the wrong way, but I have tried my best to be an understanding passenger.
We have stopped so far at two inns along the way and I’ve taken to offering patrons quick charcoal portraits in exchange for my drinks. Not my wisest idea as the portraits get sloppier as the night goes on and I have to pull myself from my bed stinking and with a hangover the next morning.
Ah, perhaps this is why he doesn't like me.
Twenty-sixth Day, Ninth Moon
I have arrived at Harrenhal. The coachman refused hospitality and after the servants removed my luggage took off in his carriage back towards the nearby town, no doubt to take up lodgings in an inn for the night.
I’m not quite sure what I did to be so offensive, having mostly kept to myself in my perpetually hungover state, but I suppose now it is of no matter.
Daemon greeted me at the door, along with Sir Simon Strong, the proprietor of the estate. I have had no prior run-ins with Sir Simon, despite my portrait of his nephew. I’m not entirely sure what business the two have with each other, but my uncle has been here two summers now and looks in no hurry to leave.
It is a grand place, though clearly has seen better days. I was surprised to find as we reentered that Daemon had been in the middle of measuring and cutting wood to replace some rotting floorboards in the drawing room; I’ve never known him to be one for manual labour. Over dinner later Sir Simon informed me of the great help my uncle has been in restoring his home to its former glory, and it’s true I did notice here and there places where the manor’s old bones had been cut away and replaced with new. Stronger, better, but not always entirely a match.
I’ve been given my own room that will remain as such even after I leave, a kindness I was surprised by but Sir Simon does seem a very agreeable man. He has already insisted I stay for a longer period when I am done with my work.
Depending on how many leaks remain in the roof upon my return I may take him up on his offer.
Twenty-eighth Day, Ninth Moon
I am to leave today on the next leg of my journey, another carriage (though with a different driver) that shall transport me to Riverrun. From here my travel should be a sight smoother, for I can board a sleeper train that shall take me most of the way to Oldtown along the coast.
Yesterday I explored the grounds of this place more, though I was disappointed to hear getting to the isle located on the lake close by is significantly more of a task than Sir Simon advised me to take on right before I am to leave. Still, it gives me another reason to return; curiosity about the place has grabbed me. Instead I visited the heart tree they have here, a rare sight to see, and practically unheard of further south.
They’re a foreboding thing; I can’t say I felt comfortable observing it but at the same time I found it almost impossible to look away. The face, carved deep into the wood too long ago to know, sees more than I ever will, I think, despite the time I have spent training myself to notice all I can for the sake of my craft. I was about to touch it, the pull to do so too great, the mouth almost seeming to whisper to me and pull me in, when a much clearer voice spoke from behind me and I snatched my hand away.
Another resident of the castle, Miss Alys Rivers, stood behind me making a disapproving noise. It was an “a-ah” as if softly scolding a child that had just tried to take a pair of scissors from the table. I would have been more annoyed, but she spoke so cryptically it was hard to gather myself before she’d already slipped back inside.
“You don’t want to know how it ends, what’s the fun in that?” she said.
I did not touch the tree.
First Day, Tenth Moon
Arrived at Riverun. The journey was smooth and my driver much more agreeable, chatting to me merrily about his family and the places he has traversed. I offered him a sketch the first night we settled at an inn, but instead he took from his pocket an extremely worn and fading photograph and asked if I might do something in the likeness of his daughter. It may be my favourite thing I’ve produced in a good while, as simple as it was, the smile it got in response was my greatest payment.
Third Day, Tenth Moon
Boarded the train with no issue, though we then proceeded to sit in the station a half hour later than our intended departure time. My compartment is comfortable, if cramped. The bed seems passable, though if I will still think that some nights from now I am unsure.
We are currently traveling through a mountainous region on the way to our first stop at Crag. There we will find the coast and follow it down to Lannisport, where the twins in the compartment next to mine are set to depart, thank the gods. It took all of thirty minutes before one of them suggested sitting for a nude portrait.
Sixth Day, Tenth Moon
The weather has turned and I’ve scarcely been able to see a thing outside my window since our short stop in Castamere to refuel. We should arrive in Lannisport in the early hours of tomorrow morning, though if that is still possible is yet to be seen. Boredom may take me before we make it.
Tenth Day, Tenth Moon
I have taken to playing Cyvasse with the old woman that replaced the twins in Lannisport. She travels with her granddaughter, a woman more around my own age, and the three of us have spent most of the last few days chatting and taking our meals together. It has been nice company, though I can’t say I’ll miss being confined most of the time to such a small space. Days cooped up in my rooms in King’s Landing had never been an issue, but now the option is taken away from me I am finding it harder to cope.
Still, some goodness has come from this, as we have exchanged information so that I might write when I return and am free to take up a new contract.
Eleventh Day, Tenth Moon
Finally my feet are back on solid ground for the foreseeable future, though now it’s gone it does feel unusual not to have the soft sway of the train beneath me. I wonder how I will sleep tonight, if it will be sounder or if after so many nights the noise has become a comfort more than a hindrance. I suppose we shall see.
I am staying in one more inn for the night as our arrival was at a late hour. From here I shall travel the last of my journey to the Hightower estate in the morning. Upon mentioning this to the old man behind the bar I was given a curious look, and after a few drinks worked up the courage to ask him about the family.
He said they keep mostly to themselves and always have done, though Sir Hightower still owns half the surrounding area and frequently travels to King’s Landing for business, as he had when we met. Their daughter’s passing is widely known in the town, and the family has been seen even less since. They have a son also, whom I do remember being briefly mentioned during our talk, and he would spend time in town more than the rest, but he moved away some time ago and only visits infrequently.
The death has taken a huge toll on the mother of the family, as is to be expected, and there is a rumour from staff at the house that she still speaks of her daughter as if she were alive. Unsettling, though I don’t think anyone could blame the woman for her grief. I will have to be sensitive around the subject.
Twelfth Day, Tenth Moon
I am settled in my room, one which does not leak like my rooms in Harrenhal and moves far less than my bed upon the Oakheart Express.
Sir Otto is an imposing man, though he has offered me the best hospitality so far. When I exited the inn I lodged in the night before, expecting to hire a driver and make my own way, I found a carriage waiting for me that was emblazoned with the Hightower coat of arms. I did not inform the man where I was staying and when asked later he simply waved away my question of how he had found me. Oldtown is not a small area, but he appears to have his eyes and ears about the place.
He is a striking man, well kept but with the signs of age and a stressful job. Like Father. He will be fascinating to capture, but he is not easy to read and makes me wonder about the balance of my approach. I will have to make note of our interactions over the coming days and decide if he is a man that I will need to flatter — smooth out the rough edges of — or if he will respect only the most accurate of portrayals, warts and all.
After being greeted by the lord of the house I was taken by his butler to my room, followed by servants with my belongings. Unable to relax so soon after arriving I began unpacking and putting away my things, settling in for the months that I will call this place home. Putting out my things so quickly gives the room the best chance of making a good impression on me.
After changing I was led down to dinner with Sir Otto and his wife.
Alyrie is a beautiful woman lost to the depths of sorrow. It is clear that at one time she was a joyful person, the crow’s feet at her eyes and lines at her mouth give away the life of a woman quick to smile, though I did not see her do so once. Her weight appears to have been lost quickly, and with her lack of appetite at dinner she is evidently still gripped firmly by grief.
Despite her upset she greeted me kindly and seemed pleased by the idea of my portraiture.
She did at one point apologise for the meal only being the three of us, and though her husband interrupted to explain his son’s arrival would not be for some days I do not think that is what she was referring to.
I’m back in my room now, writing from my bed. I think I could enjoy myself here, in the time I have to myself. The bed is plush and offers a level of comfort I haven’t had since Dragonstone. The grounds seem vast and ripe for exploring and I have at least a little hope there will be something of interest in the library.
Beside me is the dragon knitted for me by Helaena before I left home. She is slightly lopsided and one of her button eyes is loose. I can’t recall if she was always like this or if she has been damaged in transportation, but I am just thankful she is a dragon and not a spider or the like. Until now she has sat on the shelf in my study, but something compelled me to pack her and bring her with me. Helaena always worried I would grow lonesome living by myself.
As long as she doesn’t hog the covers I think she’ll be a comforting bedfellow.
Thirteenth Day, Tenth Moon
I met once again with Sir Otto this morning, though the meeting was rushed and felt rather dismissive. I expect this portrait is something he is doing to placate his wife, along with having chosen me, apparently a pet favourite of his daughter, to complete the task. It does not seem at the top of his priorities.
This isn’t an ideal situation to work in, but then neither is having a clearly disinterested subject bleeding negativity and annoyance into the room while I’m working, so hopefully the terms we agreed upon will work for us both.
He and his wife shall sit for sketches some time in the next few days, and a photographer has been arranged to capture some images for me to work from in the hours they cannot sit for me. Their son, Gwayne, should also be along soon so that I can familiarise myself with him, though it’s unclear how long he will be staying and how much access I will have to his time.
The final subject, the late Lady Alicent Hightower, can obviously not sit for me, though her mother is very insistent upon her inclusion. I’ve been assured there are photographs of her I will be given to work from, some not too old for the difference in her age to be so noticeable. The rest will have to be left to my imagination. It seems insensitive to ask if a maid may join them to pose so that I might get the composition correct, and so I will have to do this separately and puzzle piece together yet another part of this portrait.
This whole thing is always much less complicated when the subject is a friend willing to be paid in booze, but then I suppose the pay is significantly more than anything I’ve made from that kind of work.
I’m under no illusion this will be an easy or relaxing piece to complete, or that in the end it will be anything I am truly happy with, but as I quickly came to realise I will need these kinds of jobs to survive.
Fifteenth Day, Tenth Moon
It has been a slow few days. Slow progress and a slow passage of time. I’ve started taking morning walks of the grounds to stave off boredom. I suppose I shouldn’t complain; if I am being paid for my months here why would I begrudge myself free time. Yet I feel the urge to get on with the things gnawing at me as I try to relax.
I have stretched the canvas in preparation. I am told the frame is made of ironwood, sourced from the one grove that still flourishes up north. No doubt it cost almost as much as what I am to be paid, but the quality of the material is clear. It is smooth and solid, though there is enough give to the pieces that it feels to work with you, rather than against. I trust the stretcher keys shouldn’t need to be adjusted for some years.
I have seen Lord Hightower very little over the last few days. I have caught his wife wandering more than once, seemingly lost in her own home, unsure of what to do with herself. It is a sad sight, and one I feel a kinship with. The daze of loss can stay with one for such a long time; she lingers like the ghost that haunts her. Losing mother and father was one thing, a thing that came too soon but a thing we all prepare ourselves to confront one day. Losing a daughter, that I can’t imagine ever being prepared for.
I even believe I heard her in the corridor outside my room two nights previous. Soft cries make me suspect the presence was her, anyhow. Being unable to sleep would partly explain how unwell she looks.
Seventeenth Day, Tenth Moon
We have finally made progress. The canvas is now primed and drying; in the meantime I have made some sketches of Lord and Lady Hightower. I think it will be best to have her sitting; I don’t wish to make her pose more than I have to and asking her to stand the entire time feels unkind. Her husband I will most likely have stand beside her. No doubt he will want to appear authoritative, and so I shouldn’t hide him behind her seat. I will most likely place the son there instead, and that just leaves the position of the Lady Alicent to consider.
Perhaps sitting at her mother’s feet, her head in her lap. I think the woman might appreciate that, though whether her husband would consider it too sentimental we shall have to see. I’ll discuss this with them before properly getting started.
Sir Gwayne should be arriving tomorrow and the photographer is scheduled to come to the house on the nineteenth. I have yet to see the photographs of Lady Alicent. They appear to have been removed from any room I have been in, if they were ever there to begin with.
Eighteenth Day, Tenth Moon
Frightful night’s sleep; it’s left me with a blinding headache I haven’t been able to shift all day. The constant banging was just infrequent enough to not become something rhythmic I could then tune out, and would jolt me awake just when I thought it had stopped.
At first I thought perhaps a noisy maid, not used to someone being present in the wing of the house I preside in at night. Perhaps a rat or similar, as frequent scratching seemed to sometimes reach my ears between the louder knocking noises.
I persisted in my attempt to sleep, the warmth of the bed too welcoming an embrace to pull myself from, but when the noise didn’t settle down by itself I had no choice but to stand, if only to find out what was going on. I flung wide the door, trying to hide the annoyance from my features in case the culprit was actually the lady of the house, only to find the darkness of the corridor completely undisturbed by person or animal.
I stood for a while, staring down the length of the corridor, stared back at in turn by the portraits of previous Hightowers, before I was satisfied no tricks were being played. The sound did not repeat the entire time I stood there. Eventually I made to close the door, convinced the noise must be echoing from another part of the house I was too tired to explore.
Only then did something seem to shift in the darkness, a shape darting across the end of the corridor as if to make its escape now I had given up my search. The sudden movement made me jump, and I paused with the door half open, bracing myself between it and the frame as if to shield myself, but the figure did not reappear.
I expect it was Lady Alyrie after all. I couldn’t make out much in the darkness, but the dance of moonlight across her curls was unmistakable.
Apart from that the day has been uneventful. Sir Gwayne did arrive, though his train was delayed, and so he did not appear until a late hour. He made his greetings and seemed agreeable enough, but very quickly excused himself to sleep.
In my freetime I have begun reading a book of Valyrian histories that once belonged to my father. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand exactly what he saw in these but they do provide some entertainment. His notes litter the margins, though a lot of them are too cramped for me to make out clearly. His handwriting is almost as bad as my own.
Reading this book I’ve finally decided on a name for the dragon made by Helaena, though. I shall call her Syrax.
Nineteenth Day, Tenth Moon
Shockingly, I think I may have found a friend here. The day was long; the photographer seemed quite nervous to be in the presence of Lord Hightower, and so stumbled over himself most of the session, making everything take twice as long as I suspect it should have.
Lord Hightower only became more frustrated as the day went on, but Gwayne remained in good spirits, chatting casually in what I believe was an attempt to calm down the nervous young man. It did not work, and eventually even he gave up on that, but joined me at my perch in the corner as his mother was photographed alone (the more references the better; I like to know the details possibly lost in the shadow of her husband when he stands next to her, even if they won’t be featured).
He spoke of his travels and asked me of my own. It seems before returning home he had been in Storm’s End, with a stop off in Highgarden for a few days before making the last part of the journey. His talk of the scenery has convinced me to spend a few days there once my time here is done. I have not been since I was a child and the memory of it looks more like a watercolour than anything that can possibly be real. I will have to check for myself.
We talked into the evening after taking dinner with his parents, something I have only done twice since being here. He seemed passingly familiar with some of my work that I referenced, which makes me again wonder how much of an impression I had made upon his sister. Later, when we had both been drinking, and Gwayne vastly more than me, he mentioned her almost as if by accident, like he had been trying to avoid her name the entire time and now had mistakenly allowed it to be spoken. He paused then, becoming altogether darker for a moment. I was unsure if I should simply let the moment pass or if leaning into it more would be appreciated.
Finally, the drink making me brave I suppose, I broached the subject of having not yet seen an image of the woman. He nodded along with me, as if he already knew as much, and confirmed my suspicion that they had been removed to try to ease his mother’s pain. He reached into his pocket then and removed from it a small daguerreotype contained within its own hinged casing.
She is… breathtaking. I am sure more than just her family mourned upon the day of her passing, for I think I too now mourn upon seeing her. I can recognise her, lingering in the faces of her family, though especially her mother. The same large expressive eyes and the soft features I imagine Alyrie had before they were eaten away by her suffering. There is no colour, but in my mind I paint their hair the same vivid shade.
She doesn’t look particularly happy in the photo, almost annoyed about being there, and Gwayne chuckled softly to himself as he handed the print over to me.
He allowed me to keep the photograph to work from for the time being, and he said he will try to dig up the rest from his father as soon as he can. It is strange, having the photo of a woman I have never known sitting upon my bedside table like that of a lover off at war.
She feels familiar, though I’m unsure why.
Twenty-first Day, Tenth Moon
We have officially begun. All three members of the family posed for me today as I made my initial marks upon the canvas, blocking out the basic shape of them. In the morning I had discussed how best to pose Alicent in the portrait and though I don’t think it was something he particularly cared for Lord Hightower agreed to my suggestion. Or rather his wife agreed, and he did not seem able to deny her something she clung to so fervently.
At the end of the session he moved to approach me, to observe my work, and I put my hands out as if to stop him. This seemed to catch him by surprise, and my words even moreso. I informed him of the condition I have while working, that the piece not be viewed until it is finished. He sneered at the idea, but upon my doubling down he appeared to realise I was very serious. If this agreement could not be reached I was willing to pack up and part ways immediately.
Again he did not seem pleased, but since this entire endeavour seems to be some attempt at healing for his wife he reluctantly agreed. At least now I shall be able to work in peace without a constant watchful eye over my shoulder.
Twenty-eighth Day, Tenth Moon
The days have been mostly uneventful, so I have not written. The painting comes along well, though there is a dark pit that bores into me every time I look upon it, for only now, no more than two hours past, have I finally been given access to more images of Lady Alicent. The rest of the family continues to become more defined upon the canvas, yet she lingers on the edge of my awareness, left behind as she has been in life. A smear of pigment and nothing more.
Still she feels familiar to me, and now with more pictures to look upon this feeling only grows. As I see her, young and smiling, sitting in the window seat of what I imagine is her room, I find it hard not to imagine myself of a similar age, just out of frame.
Older instances of her show an agitation, and she looks at the viewer as if in challenge to them. I expect it’s an expression that only caused her parents irritation, but I find the lack of thrill for the medium of photography endearing.
I don’t believe I would be true to her if I were to divorce her of this expression, but there may need to be some softening in order to placate her father and leave her mother with a sentimental memory of her daughter.
I wish I knew more of her, to see the personality the way I see her brother’s, to let that inform the piece as much as the physical body does, but inquiring more about her seems like it would only lead to trouble and upset with all but maybe Gwayne. And how true of an idea of her would any of those impressions really be, tainted as they are by the love and grief all three members of the family are currently wrapped in? We speak only good of the dead, but most of us will never be close to saintly, regardless of the edges being smoothed on the stories we leave.
I will not paint her with wings just because the wounds are still healing. It would be a disservice to her.
Thirty-first Day, Tenth moon
I feel mad.
It can’t be possible I have truly witnessed what I believe, yet I write it here to try make sense of it.
It was deep into the night, the hour of the wolf, and I was shocked suddenly awake only to be greeted by silence. A stillness permeated the room, yet a presence lingered at the edge of my awareness, the feeling of not being entirely alone.
I had just settled myself, convinced being jolted from sleep had been caused by a dream that had quickly slipped from my consciousness, when I suddenly realised the room was lighter than it should be for what must be the early hours of the morning. This is when I looked at the clock and realised just how late the hour was, and beyond it found the source of the light.
Bleeding through the bottom of my doorway was the soft glow of a candle, so bright that its holder must be standing directly outside the door.
I jumped from the bed, throwing the covers from myself and dropping to the floor as quietly as I could manage, pressing my cheek flush against the carpet to peek through the gap at the bottom of the door and confirm my suspicions. As expected there stood two bare feet, so close the person looked to have their nose pressed against the wood. I laid there, my breathing heavy and ragged, so loud to my own ears that I was sure they must hear it, yet they did not budge.
Slowly, my fear slipping into annoyance the longer I laid there, I began to rise back to my feet, pushing myself up with my arms as quietly as I could manage, determined not to alert my visitor before I could catch them. Back on my feet I stepped quickly towards the door, grasped the handle and flung it wide.
Darkness.
No person, no creature.
Only silence.
The only thing keeping me from thinking I was entirely mad was the distinct smell of the snuffed out candle I had just seen shining under my door.
Deep I stared into the darkness, every fear my mind could muster dancing before me in that endless corridor. Yet the silence stayed unbroken.
As I turned, (minutes later, for I had been stunned so clearly by the lack of a visitor that I could do nothing but stand dumbfounded for some time) a rush of something entirely different hit me from within my room.
The smell of flowers, as fresh as running through a field during a spring day, the rush of air accompanying it so strong that it whipped my hair up with it.
As if a person I had granted entrance now turned to bid me goodbye and rushed with swiftness from the room, leaving only the memory of their presence.
The ordeal shocked me so deeply that I grabbed my journal from my desk and rushed from the room, unable to even fathom the idea of sleeping there the rest of the night.
I sit now in the library, curled into myself as I write by the window and beg the sun to greet me sooner.
I am not mad.
Second Day, Eleventh Moon
I have reached the conclusion, after my slight breakdown two nights previous, that what I witnessed must have only been my imagination. Some half asleep state I was still in upon being knocked awake, or perhaps not something that happened at all.
After all, what did I really see beyond what I perceived as feet outside of my door? A trick of the light shone by some passing servant. The smell of flowers simply me being hit by the scent of the perfume the staff here no doubt spray each room with.
Everything explainable but viewed vastly more irrationally in the dark.
Still, it took a while to get myself to this moment, and only the uninterrupted sleep the night after truly reassured me. Or perhaps I was just too exhausted to be woken no matter what ghouls lingered at my door.
My work after the mostly restless night was entirely useless, and I told Gwayne – the only member of the family available to me that day – that he may as well leave as I didn’t think I was good for much more after only two hours passed. Today at least was more successful, with Alyrie sitting for me for a good handful of hours, though after a while she began to doze in her chair and I hadn’t the heart to wake her.
I do still wonder if it was her at my door, if it were anyone at all, as it appeared to be the night I caught her at the end of the corridor to my room. I wonder what it is she wants with me, if so. Perhaps having a woman her daughter's age back in the house is some conflict for her, or perhaps she has a request for my work that she dare not speak in front of her husband for some unknown reason. If so either subject could have been brought to me today, but instead we only spoke in light pleasantries about the most inoffensive things.
Could it be that I am yet to earn her trust, and so she hesitates?
Sixth Day, Eleventh Moon
Knocking again outside of my room, banging that kept me awake most of the night. I cannot work like this, exhausted as I am yet again.
I should have risen and made a fuss, finally gotten to the end of all these disruptions, yet I hesitated to stand and look this time. Instead I stayed in my bed until finally the noise seemed to peter out in the early hours and I drifted off into what turned out to be a restless sleep.
Eight Day, Eleventh Moon
I have been lied to. It is the only explanation I can find for what is happening.
The noises have continued for nights on end and, though exhausted, I finally decided I would make a scene, regardless of if it lost me my job or not. I got out of bed, wrapped myself in a robe and threw open my door without a pause this time. I stepped into the corridor beyond, looking this way and that while holding the candle from beside my bed.
The space was empty save for myself, and my irritation only grew. I went further down the hall, sure whoever continued to cause me sleepless nights must still be near. I rounded a corner and then another, not entirely sure where I was going in my sleep deprived state.
By the time I saw her I was barely sure where in the house I was any more.
At first I thought, as I had suspected, that I had come across Alyrie. She stood with her back to me, facing a door, soft curls flowing down her back. My anger suddenly vanished as she seemed to work frantically at the door, unable to open it. She seemed panicked by my presence, and I worried I had frightened her storming through the corridors in my mood.
When she turned to glance over her shoulder at me my hand fell slack at my side as I stared in disbelief.
Lady Alicent.
She was still some distance away, but I am sure it was her. I have spent weeks studying her face in photographs, tracing the lines of her features with my paintbrush, sketching her late into the evening as I try desperately to encompass everything about this woman I never knew. I am not mistaken, yet I know her to be dead.
She stared at me in return, seemingly as caught off guard as I was myself. The moonlight caused her skin to glow an opal blue, cast in complete contrast to the orange hue my candle gave the walls. I was caught there, unable to free myself from the stalemate we had created, until suddenly she was gone.
The door behind her opened and she disappeared through it. I rushed forward, hesitation blown away by my desperation for an answer. I slammed into the door as it closed behind her, palms coming to rest flat against solid wood. Frantically I turned the handle, desperate to confirm what I had seen or to find some kind of explanation. The door was locked tight, though I had heard no turning of a key in the seconds between the door closing and my attempt to open it again.
I banged my fist against the wood, the sound keeping time with my own pounding heartbeat, but no answer came.
“Alicent?” I asked the darkness hesitantly.
No answer came.
I returned to my room and spent my time studying her pictures.
I cannot bring myself to believe in ghosts, and so this leaves me with only one explanation: Lady Alicent is alive.
Eleventh Day, Eleventh Moon
I have been restless for days, unable to calm my mind long enough for slumber.
My work suffers; the brush feels heavy every time I pick it up and my thoughts wander during long hours sitting in front of the canvas. I’ve found myself unable to sit in the presence of any member of the family, instead working from the photographs I have been given in an attempt to stop myself making enquiries I shouldn’t.
Alyrie is too upset by the mere thought of her daughter for her to possibly still be alive, isn’t she? Or is it exactly how unwell a woman would be, if her daughter had been locked away from the world, her life erased before her time? I cannot be around her now without picking apart our interactions and the way she always seems on the edge of speaking whenever she poses for me. Does she expect me to help, the only outsider in this situation that she has access to?
Last night I found myself back outside the door I had seen her daughter disappear behind. I pressed myself against it, felt the cold wood against skin that felt almost feverish. I closed my eyes, attempting to focus more on sound as I pressed my ear against the door. It is always strange to deny myself sight, being someone that relies so heavily on it for my art, but this girl has attacked my other senses far more than I have actually laid eyes upon her.
I stood there, desperate to hear her moving on the other side of the wood, but all that greeted me was the heavy sound of my own breathing. I spoke her name once again, as loud as I dared, but still no answer. The door remained locked.
Just as I turned to leave I thought I heard a quiet sobbing. It was enough to make me stay at the door another hour, but I heard nothing more and eventually convinced myself it was only my imagination.
I returned to my room, expecting another restless night, but managed to drift off in the late hour. It did me no good; my slumber disturbed by dreams of an endless maze of decaying corridors and a woman always on the edge of my vision.
Fourteenth Day, Eleventh Moon
I spoke with Gwayne once again today, the safest outlet for my curiosity and concern, though I still had to tread carefully. He is leaving along with his father tomorrow, accompanying him to King’s Landing on a trip regarding some law or another. I admit I was too lost in my thoughts of how to broach the subject of Alicent to pay too much attention.
He was meant to pose for me, but as is often the case with Gwayne he was soon lounging in the chair I use when painting his mother. To the outside observer he appears the most well adjusted of his family, like he has handled his sister’s passing far better than his distraught mother or distant father, but I’ve noticed the smell of booze that lingers on him too strong and too often. It is a constant phantom that follows him, and I can’t help but worry what dark places it might lead him if it continues. Is that yet another sign of a guilty conscience?
After he had been there for some time and gotten himself comfortable complaining about his future travels I steered the conversation towards his sister, being as subtle as I could manage in my attempt. I brought up my concern for his mother, in an attempt to manipulate the conversation towards his sister.
He too seems worried about Alyrie, and asked me with an earnestness I had yet to see from him to watch over her while he and Lord Hightower are away. He does not seem to agree that leaving her entirely by herself is best for her, but his hands seem tied when it comes to accompanying her father.
He confirmed the story I already know, that Alicent died after suffering with consumption, though with vastly more detail. According to her doctor, she may have lived with the illness for some time without showing symptoms, and by the time she began to suffer with night sweats and weight loss there was nothing that could be done but manage her symptoms. It happened slowly, a loss of appetite she didn’t think pointed to anything serious, and then all at once she became ill and was confined to her room. It was a long illness, and one that kept her locked away for two years before she passed, human contact all but extinguished. Gwayne would speak to her through the door sometimes. On rare occasions she would open it and speak to him as he stood all the way down the hall. She was terrified of infecting him.
How lonely that must have been, how maddening. I think I would have thrown myself from the window rather than suffer the presence of the same four walls for so long.
When I asked how he remembered her he laughed as he often does, a bittersweet sound accompanied by a sad smile, and told me she was a pain in the arse with more affection than I have ever heard those words uttered. He seems genuine in his emotion, in his sadness. It was enough to make me doubt once more what I had seen, yet she had stood before me as solid and as real as the ground beneath my feet.
How do I hold both of these experiences within me and feel both were entirely true?
He left to pack for his journey, and I continued with the painting that is quickly becoming a burden.
It isn’t unusual for the request to be made to jigsaw together various people for a family portrait; getting these kinds of people in a room together for an extended period of time is the type of request that only results in headaches. I should know, it was the same with my own. Piecing a family together is usually the safest option for me, but here it seems to cause me only suffering.
A member of the family seemingly being dead makes her vastly more difficult to fit into place. It is selfish of me, but I wonder if her mystery has become a fixation for the sake of my art and not for her safety.
Twentieth Day, Eleventh Moon
Today Sir Otto departed along with Gwayne to King’s Landing, a journey that should take him the best part of a month to complete. I did what I could to have him pose for me during the last few days he was here, though he had much to attend to and only ever seemed annoyed when in my presence.
I can’t be entirely sure that is because he had better things to do as he has not ever seemed entirely thrilled to see me.
The feeling is mutual, especially now I have my suspicions about what has really happened with his daughter.
I have seen her again, though never close enough to touch, and always so suddenly and so briefly that it leaves me questioning myself all over again. I had almost convinced myself I was simply sleep walking, caught in some state between awake and dreaming. After all my run-ins with the woman had been exclusively at night and it’s now unclear if she is the cause of my inability to sleep or a result of it.
At least this was the stage my thinking had reached, until I glanced her watching me from around a doorframe as I painted not two hours ago, cast in the golden hues of sunlight for the first time. Her gasp was audible before she disappeared from view, and by the time I made it to the door — with paintbrush still in hand — she had vanished.
It is certain now that something is going on here. Why else would she appear to me during the day for the first time only once her father has left the family home?
Twenty-third Day, Eleventh Moon
Lady Alicent continues to make herself known to me, though I have yet to see her during the day again. She should make me jump in surprise, yet now anytime I turn and find her peeking at me from around some dark corner I feel only sadness. Even now her father has left she seems unable to approach me, and I wonder if perhaps her illness was real and has caused some difficulties for her, an inability to speak or some fog of the mind. Perhaps she suffered from something else entirely, and consumption was just a story told to outsiders, maybe even to Gwayne himself. If something has left her deficient It would make sense as a reason for her father preferring to say she is dead. A sinister reason but one I could believe from more than one powerful man I have met.
I have visited her door more than once over the past few days, even daring to approach it during daylight hours only to quickly change my direction upon seeing a maid dusting the portrait frames nearby. After a moment of thinking I made my way towards it anyway and tried the handle, forcing myself to look puzzled when it did not open.
I turned to her and asked if it were not the washroom, which she confirmed it wasn’t. When she didn’t tell me what the room contained I commented it was the first locked door I had discovered in the home, and she told me in a soft whisper it was the bedroom of the lord’s late daughter, left undisturbed since her passing.
It was what I suspected, but confirmation has helped me decide upon what I must do. I do not wish to scare the woman, but she follows me as if she were my shadow and it only compels me to help. I must pass the lock to her room when the house sleeps and speak with her once and for all.
Twenty-fourth Day, Eleventh Moon
I have returned from my mission. I write by a lamp as the sun rises outside my window.
My hand is shaking but if I do not write this now I might lose the details by the afternoon.
I approached the room, so convinced by my own conclusion that I believed myself a rescuer. I hadn’t thought far past gaining entry to the room, unsure if my plan was simply to get the answers I craved or steal the woman away into the night, consequences be damned.
I knocked before my entry, and called out quietly. I explained I would be entering and not to be afraid. Again no answer. I fumbled with the hairpin I used in my early teens to sneak into the stores and steal wine, a method that had never failed me on the old locks of Dragonstone. I could only pray the ones here were as easily persuaded.
It took more time than it used to, though whether this was my lack of practice or a sturdier lock I am unsure. All the time I worked it was with the expectation the door might open from the other side, Alicent relenting in the face of my determination. I was not so lucky, and instead struggled with the lock for what must have been close to five minutes.
Finally, I heard the click of the lock and with a soft push the door creaked open a few inches. I removed the hairpin.
There was only darkness beyond the door. Knowing a candle would not suffice, I had brought with me instead an oil lamp, and retrieved it from the floor next to me, lighting it as I walked over the threshold.
The light splintered across the room, fractured against endless objects that threw shadows upon the walls. A sheet covered mirror, a chair by a cold fireplace, trinkets and various books. All of it made itself known to me as I finally gained entry to that mysterious space, but no Alicent. No person at all. I stood in the doorway for some time, convinced I must be mistaken and the other woman would appear from her hiding space in some dark corner. But she didn’t; I was entirely alone.
Moving deeper into the room I found the place undisturbed for some time, just as the maid had claimed. Each surface was covered in a thick layer of dust, and around the window mould had begun to make itself at home, the air of the room damp and bitter cold compared to the rest of the house. On the vanity sat a vase of flowers, brown and brittle, the water long since evaporated. They turned practically to dust as I touched them.
If it weren’t for the clear signs of neglect the room could have been used only moments ago, the signs of its owner still visible. A book on the bedside, still with its marker. A bottle of half used perfume with the lid still removed. I picked it up and sprayed it, my head swimming with the memory of that night in my room. A field of flowers.
Finally confronted with this restructuring of reality, the confirmation that beyond that door was no rational answer to what I had seen but instead the unexplainable naked truth of it all, I sagged down onto the bed. A cloud of dust burst up around me, dancing in the halo of my lamp.
I think now my fanciful theory of a family’s dark secret was only a grasping attempt to deny what I knew deep down.
Alicent Hightower is dead, yet some part of her still roams these halls. Some part of her reaches for me, a stranger to her, as if I were the lost love she left behind.
I cannot deny this now.
By the bed, under the worn book of prayers, sat a diary she had been keeping. I sat with it for some time, until my heart could not ache any longer without fear of stopping. So much sadness and yet so much beauty in her words. Her last entry was worry for her mother, despite how weak she herself had become, though the doctor had assured her Alyrie’s own weakness was caused by concern for her daughter and not a passing of Alicent’s own illness.
“The Mother comfort me, and take the weight of that burden so that my own mother might rest.”
It was then I remembered my painting that she had acquired, and rose again to find it in pride of place above the fire. A figure in motion, a much less traditionally defined representation than that I paint now of the family. The dress she wears and her own skin merged in a way that makes it unclear what is organic or fabric. A finely dressed woman or an unknowable being.
“I always liked this one too,” I admitted, and was greeted once more with the now familiar smell of flowery perfume.
Upon leaving the room I took the time to lock the door, not wanting my intrusion to be discovered. I do not believe Sir Otto would appreciate my presence there, though I realised as I left I had only felt comfort and nothing sinister within. Alicent at least did not seem to mind my company.
At the end of the corridor I suddenly felt once again that presence I had awoken to so many weeks ago, and turned to find her standing once more outside her chamber door. I nodded my acknowledgement and with it she disappeared through the door, though this time she made no effort to open it first.
Twenty-sixth Day, Eleventh Moon
It is difficult to express how fully I now know presence after death is possible. While logically it chills me, an unexpected calm has settled over me. Perhaps it is a comfort to know something may exist after this, that my parents could be watching my progress with pride. Perhaps it is that I too will exist again after this.
Though I have seen Alicent before now, I believe unlocking that door to her room may have released something for her, and suddenly her presence feels to have more influence over me.
I have felt her linger over my shoulder as I work, though it has only felt like a comforting presence that helps to guide my hand in my portrayal of her. I feel I know her better now, free of the influence of a grieving family’s opinions, and paint her delicate features with all the sorrow and uncertainty she spoke of in her journal. I feel her drawing focus, the only part of this painting I am truly invested in, the only part I have some creative contribution to, rather than simply mimicking the beings before me as literally as possible.
Last night I woke once again to the feeling of a presence, though this time I found myself unable to move. My breath came in ragged bursts and I quickly began to panic upon finding myself trapped in my own body. The sound of nothingness felt unbearably loud to my ear, and I was stuck staring into the darkness, all light in the room long since extinquished.
Onto that dark canvas Alicent painted herself, bleeding into existence from the darkest corner of my room. For a moment little more than an undefined suggestion of a person, until definite features carved themselves into the form and a green dress worked itself into being over her figure.
She approached my bed and sat softly upon it, perching at my side as if I were the one soon to pass on into the great beyond. I still could not move, but my eyes followed her in her movement, and her presence distracted me from my panic rather than enhanced it.
She reached for me, delicate fingers extending through the air. My heart raced. The tip of a finger laid a print upon my forehead and I arched rigidly from the bed, gasping for air I couldn’t take in quickly enough. My body finally moved, released from what had held me.
When I opened my eyes she was gone once again, and I stared out of the window for some time.
Twenty-ninth Day, Eleventh Moon
Today Alyrie spoke with me of her daughter, quite out of the blue and unexpected. I did not prompt this from her, but today she appeared finally able to share and for that I am appreciative.
She sat for my painting, though in truth I found it hard to focus on her portrayal and found myself drifting back to aspects of her daughter even as she posed for me. Perhaps in some way she could sense this and that is why the subject suddenly turned to Alicent herself. I was so focused on my work that I almost missed it.
She began to tell me of Alicent’s love of my work, especially my painting of The Mother, and how my expression seemed to have revitalized her devotion. It is almost funny to hear that something made by someone such as myself, so lapsed from religion it may never have truly been there to begin with, could be the thing to restore someone’s faith. Still, I am thankful for it, thankful I could bring her something that she found such depth in. The painting was not without thought; I may find it hard to believe myself (will that be easier now, having experienced what I have?) but I wished to capture her in a way most shy away from, unknowable and not just the image of the perfect merciful mother.
Alyrie informed me Alicent had tried to track me down once before, a surprise that made me leave my work to look over the top of the canvas at her. Lord Hightower had never mentioned this, but Alyrie nodded her confirmation when I asked if I had heard correctly. She had tried to reach out while I was still working as an apprentice, but it appears whatever message she had sent had never found me.
We could have known each other, and instead I sit here with only her shadow for company. How different could things have been?
First Day, Twelfth Moon
I woke once more to a presence in my room, though it was now so distinctly Alicent, the feeling of her I have felt for days now, that it brought only comfort and so I rolled over to drift back to sleep. With my back to the room, huddled as I was on the left side of the bed, I had almost fallen back to sleep when I was vaguely aware of the bed dipping behind me. First as if someone had sat once again upon the edge of it, and then the slow shifting of the mattress as someone made to lay beside me.
This is the point where I should have been taken by fear, and though I was suddenly frozen in my position, unsure if I wished to turn and see what was beside me, I did not scream or jump to my feet.
“Alicent?” I asked instead, and for the first time heard her voice as she answered me.
“Hello, Rhaenyra.”
Deeper than I had expected, rich and full of every emotion I have been trying to capture for weeks now. She carries an inflection of sadness that infects everything, though how could I expect any less after her passing and the circumstance of it?
We laid there at each other’s side for some time. Slowly, after what may have been minutes or an hour, I turned onto my back and stared up at the ceiling above us. From the corner of my eye I could see her, auburn curls falling upon my pillow, the same green dress gathering in layers by my side. I did not want to look at her directly, sure if I did that she wouldn’t actually be there. Our hands laid side by side, inches apart, and after some time I shifted mine from under my blanket and brushed the back against her own.
She was there, real, as solid and as human as anyone else I have ever touched. But cold, so unnaturally cold.
I took her hand and let her bleed the heat from me. Let her feed on every thought and feeling I’d had since I came here and far beyond. And into me I took every aching feeling a person can possibly have after death, until she turned her head and buried it into my shoulder.
I awoke this morning to the smell of her still permeating my sheets.
Seventh Day, Twelfth Moon
For a week I have worked at this canvas, yet every day I approach it and feel only fury at my work. Having witnessed her now, night after night as we lay together, I doubt my attempts to capture her beauty. Three days past I destroyed her visage entirely and began anew, working frantically into the night so that when I entered my room, exhausted and fragile, she was waiting for me and I fell into her arms.
There is something different about her, things that still give away her otherworldly nature, despite the fact she appears solid to me. It is nothing in what she does, but rather the in-between moments that expose her being. She is too still, and when she moves too fluid. A perfected impression of a woman, something the gods are yet to accomplish in one still living. Perhaps that is why I feel unable to capture her, I would think her a goddess if I did not know her earthly origins.
She praises me, yet all I see in my work is a pale imitation that mocks her, I am not skilled enough to accomplish more. Yet still she shushes my protest, and I fall into a restless sleep in her cold embrace.
I have had no one sit for me in some time now, though Alyrie keeps mostly to herself and does not make this difficult. There is no insistence from her, and now I realise as I write this that I do not know the last time I saw her. I take my meals in my room, or the room which was designated my studio. I have lost all concept of the wider workings of the house and should attempt to venture out of my cocoon, yet even now I sit awake and visualise the adjustments I must make to the lighting of my work, what might work to capture the glow of her skin and shimmer of her hair.
She has not appeared to me tonight, and I don’t know if I will sleep without her or wait here for her presence throughout the late hours and into the morning.
Is she displeased with my efforts?
Eleventh Day, Twelfth Moon
I have been pulled from my fixation, forced back into the routine of the household as Lord Hightower has returned.
He arrived yesterday morning, and all at once the house was abuzz with activity that had seemed dulled in his absence. Or I had simply kept myself away from it all. A maid peeked her head around the door of my studio and informed me of his presence, and his wish for me to join him and his wife for dinner.
Gwayne has not returned, though I wasn’t entirely able to discern why. Lord Higtower only waved away my question when I asked it, seeming rather annoyed.
Dinner was a mostly quiet and awkward affair. I find it hard to know what to say now, how to communicate with a family that has lost a daughter I keep the company of most nights. Every word I speak is forced out between the warring choices within me. The urge to make them aware of Alicent’s continued existence up against the want to keep our meetings locked away from the world. She must have her reasons, after all. Why appear to me yet leave her father ignorant, and allow her mother to continue suffering? Would seeing her not offer some kind of comfort?
Only when word turned to my commission did the conversation flow more freely, though not necessarily in a desirable manner. He asked of my progress, and started trying to insist upon seeing the piece, having been away for so long without any knowledge of what I have been doing. I believe he has heard from the staff that I have been locked away alone and suspects I have spent the last few weeks sitting on my hands and not touching a paint brush. I assured him he will see the piece when it is ready, as is my process, and threatened to destroy the piece and take my leave when his voice began to raise.
An empty threat, for I do not think I can rest until Alicent’s image is perfected, and when that is through I do not know how I will remove myself from this place, knowing she is unlikely to be able to follow.
I think my bluff might have been called, or rather I would have been fired, had Alyrie not placed a soft hand upon his arm and pleaded with him to leave me be. I was Alicent’s favourite, she reminded him, and for her sake I should be allowed to compose my art in peace.
She can only buy me so much time.
Thirteenth Day, Twelfth Moon
Finally the pieces feel like they are falling into place. It was not a lack of something keeping me from perfectly capturing what I have been chasing for so long, rather I had to remove the clutter to unveil it. Treat the painting as a sculptor might and cut away the excess to find the heart of something already hidden away in the stone.
I know now she has always been here, perhaps before I even stretched the canvas into shape, and I am nothing but the instrument to help give her form. My hands bring her forth from layers of oil and pigment, and at night I tumble into a bed where she greets me more real than ever.
The two are connected. I am sure. My heart feels full for the first time since my parents’ passing. Is this the power I’ve always had, could I have kept them with me had I been in any state to create?
Or is this Alicent and her will channeled through my vision?
She loves me, for I am the one that gives her form and stops her memory from slipping into the ether.
Sixteenth Day, Twelfth Moon
I opened my eyes and found myself upon the lake, the dark sky above me as I floated aimlessly on my back.
The frigid air seemed to burn as I came to consciousness and I gasped, sucking in a sharper breath that only pained me more. Despite my sudden awareness of where I was, as my eyes found the sky once more I was struck by a sudden stillness and peace. The smog of King’s Landing masks the true beauty of all that hangs above us, but there the sky surrounded me with its true beauty.
I stayed there for some time, against all logic, the question of how I had found myself there rattling in the back of my mind. I thought I might fall back to sleep and drift away. My body already felt somewhat numb in the cold water, but finally some sense of preservation compelled me to move towards the shore.
The white night shirt I wore dripped. It had turned transparent and clung to me, making my movements feel all the more laboured. I began to shake the moment I pulled myself onto the shore. My steps were clumsy and twice I stumbled, going over on the side of my foot and staggering forward only to catch myself. The walk towards the house felt infinitely longer than I knew it to be. not just the result of my unsure steps but quite literally longer; the trees curled in around me, over the winding path, until my feet were led by memory and instinct more than by sight.
I reached the large doors that lead to the main entryway, and threw my whole weight against one of them, more from exhaustion than any real attempt to open it. It swung forward with ease that seemed… incorrect, and granted me entry.
Inside was just as dark, though I found a single lit lantern sitting on a table by the door, glowing softly as if left for me. I had no indication of what time it might be, the sky outside as black as the deepest part of the night, but still the house felt too still and too empty. I called out but received no answer. First a simple hello, then for the lord and lady themselves. Finally for Alicent, by that point more a desperate plea for company than a question. It remained unanswered, even from her, and I made my way down the corridor to the right, determined to return to the familiar four walls of my room and find some reassurance.
My lantern barely seemed to penetrate the deep blackness of that corridor and only when the paintings that lined the walls were directly upon me did they come into view. I walked and I walked, and soon the heat was radiating from them, until I could feel the almost human warmth of the lines of Hightowers surrounding me on both sides. And as I continued on that heat continued to grow, until the clothes clinging to me with damp were steamed dry, only to become wet again with my sweat.
The eyes of those paintings watched me, until the paint slid from their faces and left them a smear of muddy colour that ran from their frames and pooled at my feet, making my walk all the more difficult, making the terror all the longer.
When I reached my bedroom a soft glow emanated from under the door, a narrow beam of light that seemed to grow as I pulled myself closer. When I pulled open the door the light was blinding. I do not remember laying down, but I woke this morning in my bed.
The corridor outside my room is as it has always been, lined with the faces of Hightower men from previous years. The paintings are whole, no longer the melted slop I had to pull myself through. The corridor is not unendingly dark. The house is as it always has been. Just a dream, one might say. So then why did I awake feverish and with dried mud caked onto my feet?
Nineteenth Day, Twelfth Moon
Once again I appear to have upset Lord Hightower, and I believe the only reason I am even still here is that I have taken to locking the door to my studio. It is funny to me how he was so impatient whenever he would pose for my work, always desperate to leave, always with something more important to do. Now he complains I have not sent for him or his wife and once again demands to see my work.
I have my model, my muse, she sits for me with no complaint. We spend the day in comfortable quiet and at night I lay my head in her lap and feel the soft stroke of her fingers through my hair.
Last night I slept slumped in the chair of my studio, the door still locked tight, too afraid to return to my room and have others force their way in here and view my work. He wouldn’t understand it, he would demand changes I refuse to make or remove it from me entirely. This piece isn’t for him, not any longer, money means nothing any more. I would leave in the night and take it with me, yet I live with the fear Alicent cannot leave here too.
I am outrunning my removal from this place, it is only a matter of time before they force me out. I must find a solution.
Twenty Fourth Day, Twelfth Moon
I am still living out of my studio room, though Sir Hightower has been unusually quiet the last few days, and no demands have been made of me to leave. At night I have left sometimes to sneak off to the kitchen, my time there a frantic consumption more than the act of actually eating, gorging myself with what I can before I return to my task. It is almost perfect now, and it is hard to stop, to look away, but Alicent insists upon me taking care of myself.
“Eat, my love,” she whispers softly over my shoulder, and the shiver it sends through me is sustenance enough. Still, she insists, and I do as she wishes.
We lay on the floor of the room some nights, bare to each other in the soft glow of candles. I know all of her now, trace the curves of her body with my lips the way I have countless times with a paintbrush.
“Eat, my love,” she whispers again, and I laugh against her thigh.
I have known nothing like this; I cannot let this become just another memory.
Twenty Eighth Day, Twelfth Moon
A voice at my door today woke me from an unexpected slumber. I appear to have fallen asleep at my easel, chin resting upon my chest as I leaned forward.
For once it was not the insistent voice of a panicked maid, terrified to return to her employer with no answer, nor was it Lord Hightower himself, threatening to break down the door yet ultimately leaving in a huff. No, this time it was Alyrie, and I admit I smiled at the realisation.
She has never been anything but kind to me, and I think she is still the only reason I am yet to be removed from this place.
I approached the door, though I stopped short of opening it, still afraid this was some ploy by her husband to gain entry. We spoke through the door instead, and I placed my back against it, resting on the floor there as we conversed.
Like her daughter she showed concern for my health, something that filled me with both joy and sadness, having seen the way she herself suffers with her loss. I assured her I was well, and that she had no need to worry.
We spoke for some time, as if old friends catching up over a drink and not speaking through a locked door. By the time the subject turned back to my work I admit my guard was down, and I rose back to my feet. I still hesitated at the handle, but eventually I unlocked the door and opened it a crack to look at her. She seemed healthier, which was a surprise, her cheeks fuller than the last time we had seen each other, her eyes containing something of the brightness they had lacked when I first arrived. I was stunned to silence for a moment, seeing Alicent in her more than ever now some of her vitality had been restored.
I opened the door wide, assured no one else was there, and filled suddenly with the need for her approval I invited her inside to view my work. She approached the canvas with something close to giddiness. I watched only her expression as she took it in.
“It is beautiful,” she said, and began to cry, waving in my direction to usher me to her side. I stood beside her and viewed my own work through fresh eyes.
Alicent, just Alicent. The rest of them removed so that she might shine. Her body curls in dance, a freedom not afforded to her during her time of confinement.
Alyrie turned and held me, cried into my shoulder and offered me soft words of thanks. I shook my head and returned her blessing, thanking her for the introduction to her daughter.
She stayed and observed the painting for some time. Told me she looked happy. The rest of that heaviness seemed to leave her as I watched her try to memorise every detail.
Hours later, when she moved towards the door, she paused with her hand resting softly on the frame. There was an understanding as she looked back at me, one that struck me so deeply that my breath seemed to catch.
“I think there’s one thing missing,” she said, and needed to say no more.
HIGHTOWER RESIDENCE REDUCED TO ASH
Thirtieth Day, Twelfth Moon
Oldtown, The Reach. The residence of the esteemed Lord Otto Hightower and his wife Lady Alyrie Hightower has been struck again with misfortune. The couple, having lost their daughter some months ago, now find themselves homeless after the historic Hightower estate went up in flames two nights ago.
The fire appears to have started in the early hours, and went unnoticed for some time before finally catching the attention of a maid that proceeded to wake the household. Due to the mostly unoccupied wing where the fire seems to have originated, the family and staff were able to escape unharmed, though a guest of the couple is currently missing.
Lady Rhaenyra Targaryen, sister of Lord Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone, had been living at the home for some time, commissioned by Lord Hightower to paint a portrait of the family.
Mysteriously, said painting was found among the remains of the building completely undamaged or tarnished by the destruction surrounding it. And perhaps more mysterious still is the appearance of said painting. Far from a family portrait, the painting instead shows the late Alicent Hightower and the artist herself embracing.
We are told the two were not acquainted, calling the artist’s choices even more into question.
So far no human remains have been found within the property, and there have been no sightings of Lady Targaryen.
Lord Hightower is reportedly infuriated by the painting, seemingly a final insult after everything lost, and has demanded the piece be destroyed.
Alternatively Lady Alyrie has requested the portrait be taken into the care of Lady Laena Velaryon’s gallery in King’s Landing, which houses more of the artist’s work.
Lord and Lady Hightower are expected to relocate temporarily to Highgarden. Their son, Gwayne Hightower, currently resides in King’s Landing, where he has been spotted at a rehabilitation facility.
Investigations into the cause of the fire are still ongoing.
Officials say it is too early to determine if Lady Rhaenyra Targaryen is a suspect in the destruction of the Hightower home.