Alicent Hightower

Kinktober — Bonus Day

Kneeling

Vampire AU

London, 1884.

Fog coils along the cobblestones of Hanover Square, wrapping the carriages and gas lamps in a hush of gold and smoke. Behind one of the black-iron gates stands a townhouse too beautiful to be ordinary — too silent to be safe. Inside, the scent of wax, rosewater, and blood drifts through the velvet-dark halls.

They call her the Crimson Widow.

By daylight, Lady Alicent Hightower hosts charitable teas for bishops and noblemen, her hands gloved in lace, her voice soft with piety. At night, she becomes something else — a creature of appetite and ritual, a queen ruling her quiet kingdom of shadows and silk.

Her husband, Lord Viserys Targaryen, died in this very house. The doctors claimed his heart failed him. Those who were present at the wake whisper otherwise — that his corpse was pale, too pale, and that his wife’s lips shone darker than wine.

Her children keep the family name alive in different ways.

Aegon, her eldest, spends his nights in opium dens and poetry salons, wasting his inheritance on verse and sin.

Helaena, delicate and strange, paints dead moths in gold leaf and swears her mother’s reflection moves when she does not.

Aemond, sharp and incorruptible, serves as an investigator for the Crown’s secret division — the one that hunts what should not exist. He knows what she is. And yet, he kneels when she speaks.

Alicent herself moves through London society untouched by rumor, her beauty unchanging, her charm sharpened into weaponry. Her eyes carry the gold of candlelight and something older, something that remembers the taste of fear. She does not age. She does not forgive.

In the quiet hours before dawn, she walks her house in silence, her hand trailing over polished mahogany and silk curtains. Servants never meet her gaze for long. The air bends around her — warm where she stands, cold where she’s been.

And then there is you — her confidant, her chosen offering.

You tell yourself she feeds on others, but her eyes linger too long on your throat, and her hands are never quite steady when they reach for you.

Tonight, the city sleeps beneath the rain. The clock strikes eleven.

Alicent stands before her mirror, red hair u