The morning mist thinned and broke apart above King's Landing, retreating from the spires and battlements of the Red Keep as the sun climbed higher. Pale gold light spilled across the stone corridors, catching on polished marble and painted windows, chasing away the damp chill of dawn.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Otto Hightower said without looking up.
An attendant stepped inside and bowed low, hands folded neatly before him. "Your Grace, His Majesty summons you to the council chamber. The Small Council is assembling."
Otto finished reading the letter in his hand, eyes moving across the final lines once more before he reached for the wax. He pressed his signet firmly into the softened seal, leaving the tower and flame impressed upon it.
"I will attend at once," he said. He passed the letter across the table to Lyonel Hightower, who stood waiting with the eagerness of youth barely concealed behind practiced courtesy. "Have this sent by raven to Oldtown."
Lyonel turned the parchment over, curiosity lighting his eyes. "Is it for my father?"
"It is," Otto replied. His voice softened just a touch. "Your cousin requires more hands than he has been given."
He placed a hand briefly atop Lyonel's head, a rare gesture of affection. "Go now. See what you can learn from the maester about handling ravens. Knowledge is never wasted."
Lyonel nodded briskly and hurried out, his boots echoing down the corridor.
Left alone once more, Otto rose and fastened the badge of the Hand of the King to his chest. The weight of it was familiar, reassuring. He straightened his robes, then stepped out into the hall and made his way toward the council chamber.
The Small Council Chamber
The guards pushed open the heavy doors, and Otto entered with measured strides. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, glinting off the polished table and the carved seats around it. Without pause, he took the jade sphere that marked the Hand's authority and fitted it neatly into its place.
"Forgive my delay," Otto said, his voice carrying easily across the chamber. "Let us begin."
He had barely settled into his chair when Lyman Beesbury cleared his throat, his expression stiff beneath his silver beard.
"His Majesty has not yet arrived," Lyman said. "We ought to wait."
Otto turned his head just enough to look at him. His gaze was calm, unreadable, though for the briefest instant something cold and sharp flickered behind his eyes.
"That will not be necessary," Otto replied. "The day's business does not pause simply because the King keeps his own counsel."
The moment passed, the killing intent gone as swiftly as it had appeared. Lyman would not trouble him much longer. A lord sworn to House Hightower who nevertheless bent his loyalty toward Rhaenyra's faction was a contradiction that would, in time, correct itself.
"Does His Majesty intend to make an announcement?" Otto asked, already knowing the answer.
Silence answered him.
"Very well," he continued smoothly. "We have much to address. Let us begin with matters of governance."
Lyman's face darkened. "Hand Otto, I must insist. The King still-"
He was cut off as Tyland Lannister leaned forward, turning a jade sphere idly between his fingers.
"The Dornish have grown restless," Tyland said.
Otto inclined his head slightly. "Explain."
"They harass shipping in the Stepstones," Tyland continued, eyes glinting. "There are also reports of incursions along the borders of the Reach, the Westerlands, and even near the Isle of Tarth."
He set the sphere down with a soft click. "This is not coincidence. It is a test."
"I agree," Otto said. "What response do you propose?"
The two men spoke as though Lyman were no more than a piece of furniture. Strategy followed strategy, measured words passing between them as they discussed fleets, banners, and the proper show of strength needed to remind Dorne of its place.
Lyman's face flushed red, then purple. His hands clenched upon the table, knuckles whitening, but he found no opening to force himself back into the discussion.
"What is this?" a voice demanded.
All heads turned.
King Viserys stood in the doorway, his expression curious rather than angry. Relief washed over Lyman's face as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"Your Majesty," the council said as one, rising and bowing.
"We were discussing the feasibility of responding to Dorne," Otto said, offering a polite smile.
Viserys waved a hand dismissively as he took his seat. "Why must we always speak of Dorne? It is sand and sun and little else. I have no wish to bake beneath its skies."
"This is not about conquest," Otto replied evenly. "The Dornish fleets have grown bold. Their ships appear in our waters, near our shores. If unanswered, it invites greater transgression."
Tyland nodded. "We should answer them firmly, Your Majesty."
Viserys's smile faltered for just a heartbeat before returning. "Let us set Dorne aside for now. I do not believe they possess the nerve for true invasion."
"With respect," Otto said, leaning forward slightly, hands folded before him, "this may be but a test. If we yield ground now, the cost later may be far higher."
"I hear you," Viserys replied. His tone remained genial, though an edge crept into it. "I will give it thought. But I have called you here for another matter."
The chamber grew still.
"The seventh day of the seventh moon is approaching," Viserys said, his eyes brightening. "I have decided to move the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon to that date."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Otto rose.
"I must object, Your Majesty," he said, voice firm but respectful. "That day has already been chosen for the betrothal of Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. Rhaenyra's wedding was set for the twenty-seventh of this moon."
Viserys's smile faded, lines deepening around his mouth.
"I am issuing a decree," he said coldly. "The matter is settled. An auspicious day shared is doubly blessed."
Otto met his gaze. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might argue further. Then he inclined his head and sat.
"As you command," he said quietly.
He said no more.
There was no persuading Viserys when his mind was set. More than that, Otto knew the truth. Rhaenyra and Daemon could shift their ceremony at will. Aegon and Helaena could not. The clash was inevitable.
Perhaps it was time to see whether his grandson truly commanded the presence and devotion so many whispered of. Whether he bore the weight of kingship as easily as Aegon the Conqueror once had.
Tyland shifted, clearly wishing to speak again, but a brief glance from Otto stilled him. Trust, for now, was the wiser course.
Viserys exhaled sharply, twice, his chest rising and falling. Color flushed his cheeks, then drained away as quickly as it came.
"It is decided," he said. "Rhaenyra and Daemon will prepare gifts and travel to Drakoncrest themselves."
In Viserys's mind, it was a gesture of peace. A daughter extending her hand, a family healed by goodwill.
He saw dragons filling the skies, nearly twenty of them, some full-grown and terrible in their might. United, House Targaryen would be unstoppable.
Only he still believed such unity possible.
Otto felt a flicker of surprise. It was rare indeed for Viserys to demand Rhaenyra bend first.
Peace, however, was an illusion.
If Alicent spoke true, Aegon would never suffer Rhaenyra or her line to live unchallenged. Lords knew it. Knights knew it. Anyone with sense understood that fate could not be left to another's mercy.
Hope, in the Seven Kingdoms, was truly a fragile thing.
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A/N:
Read ahead on Patreon, 22 advance chapters available, with the first 2 free.
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Also a little announcement-I just released a new fanfic, Dance of the Dragons: Reborn as Aegon the Dragonbane, So do check it out!
that's it I guess, happy reading!!