Inside a private chamber of Maegor's Holdfast in the Red Keep.
Ormund Hightower stood by the door, waiting to be summoned by the Prince Regent.
He had already been waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour, and his legs were beginning to ache.
He was Lord Hightower, nephew to Dowager Queen Alicent, and one of the great lords who held power in Oldtown.
But here in the Red Keep, in this corridor lined with portraits of Targaryen kings from every generation, he was merely another noble waiting to receive instructions.
"The Prince Regent will see you now."
Young Elwyn pushed open the door and stepped aside.
Ormund took a deep breath, straightened his collar, and walked into the room.
The private chamber was not large, but it was elegantly furnished.
A fire blazed in the hearth, filling the room with pleasant warmth.
Near the window stood an ebony desk covered with several unfurled scrolls of parchment. Beside them sat a crystal wineglass, the wine inside glowing red in the firelight.
But Ormund's attention was not on any of that.
His gaze settled on the figure by the window.
Aemond Targaryen sat in a high-backed chair with his back to the door, holding something in his arms.
His silver hair gleamed coldly beneath the sunlight streaming through the window. Broad-shouldered and straight-backed, he radiated an oppressive presence even while seated.
Ormund took a few steps closer and finally saw what he was holding.
A baby.
A tiny infant girl wrapped in a silver silk swaddle.
It was Visenya.
The Prince Regent's firstborn daughter, only recently brought into the world.
Ormund had heard some rumors.
According to the whispers, the child had been born with certain... abnormalities.
But no one dared say exactly what those abnormalities were.
The midwives who had delivered her were tighter-lipped than clams.
All he had heard was that the Prince Regent had rewarded each of them with fifty golden dragons before they vanished.
They and their families had all been transferred to Dragon's Roost.
In short, every one of them had disappeared completely from King's Landing.
And now he was seeing the child for himself.
The infant was quiet. She neither cried nor fussed, merely staring at Aemond with a pair of large violet eyes.
Her delicate features resembled those of a porcelain doll—a tiny nose, rosy lips, and fair skin flushed with the healthy redness unique to newborns.
Then Ormund's gaze suddenly caught something on her neck.
A patch of scales.
Tiny red scales.
No larger than a fingernail.
They were hidden along the edge of her collar and would have gone unnoticed without close inspection.
But Ormund saw them.
His pupils contracted slightly.
A princess with scales.
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
But he quickly looked away, his expression unchanged.
He knew very well what should be seen, what should not be seen, and what should be treated as unseen even after being seen.
Aemond seemed not to have noticed his arrival.
His head was lowered as he gazed at the daughter in his arms, a gentle smile on his lips—one Ormund had never seen before.
He extended a finger and lightly touched the infant's lips.
Instinctively, the baby opened her mouth, latched onto the finger, and began sucking.
She sucked with surprising vigor, making soft babbling sounds as though she were tasting something delicious.
Aemond smiled.
Ormund stood silently, not daring to interrupt.
After quite some time, Aemond finally raised his head and looked at him.
In that instant, the warmth vanished from his face.
"Lord Ormund Hightower," Aemond said, his voice calm and quiet.
"How long have the Reach armies been in King's Landing?"
"Your Grace," Ormund quickly bowed, "the vanguard arrived ten days ago, and the main force has been outside the city for six days now. More than twenty thousand men in total..."
"And the number of troops Lord Tyrell sent—"
"I know how many men Tyrell sent," Aemond interrupted in a calm tone.
"What I'm asking is, what do you think about having them stationed in King's Landing?"
Ormund froze for a moment.
He looked up at Aemond, carefully choosing his words.
"Your Grace, the Reach army..." He paused. "Has been stationed in King's Landing for quite some time now."
"If I may be so bold, when will the men be allowed to march against the rebels?"
He did not finish the thought, but the meaning was already clear.
The Reach forces under his command did not want to remain in King's Landing.
This was the Crownlands, territory directly ruled by House Targaryen.
The Reach army here felt like guests who had been invited into someone else's home.
And what Ormund left unsaid was that the soldiers themselves did not wish to stay either.
They missed the sunshine of Highgarden, the clear waters of the Mander, and the fertile lands of the Reach where food was never scarce.
King's Landing?
King's Landing was too foul-smelling, too crowded, and too cold.
The air always carried the stench drifting up from Flea Bottom, enough to turn a man's stomach.
Aemond looked at him without answering immediately.
He lowered his head and continued playing with Visenya in his arms.
The infant was still sucking on his finger, making soft babbling sounds. Her tiny hand waved through the air before catching a lock of his silver hair and tugging on it tightly.
Aemond let her pull.
"Do not worry," Aemond finally said after a long while.
"I will soon have an important use for the Reach army."
"The reason I've kept you in King's Landing is also because there is something important that needs to be done."
Ormund's heart skipped a beat.
Something important?
"May I ask what exactly that might be, Your Grace?" he asked cautiously.
Aemond raised his head and looked at him.
There was no emotion whatsoever in those violet eyes.
"No need to ask."
Just four words.
Lightly spoken, yet enough to force every question in Ormund's throat back down.
Ormund lowered his head.
"When the time comes, I trust the Reach army will give its full support to the Iron Throne," Aemond added, his tone still calm.
Countless questions filled Ormund's mind, but he dared not ask another one.
"I understand." Ormund bowed. "The Reach army stands ready to answer the Prince Regent's summons at any time."
Aemond nodded, his attention already returning to his daughter.
Ormund knew that was his dismissal.
He bowed once more.
The moment the door closed behind him, the lord drew a deep breath and slowly let it out.
That child.
He remembered the tiny patch of scales on the infant's neck, and his chest tightened.
What was it?
A disease?
A curse?
Or...
He did not dare continue the thought.
Some things were safer the less one knew about them.
He quickened his pace and headed down the corridor. As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with someone.
"Uncle."
Lord Ormund immediately stepped aside and made way.
Otto Hightower stood in the corridor, his aged face as expressionless as ever.
His hair had turned completely white, and his back had begun to stoop, yet his eyes remained as sharp as ever—amber eyes like those of a hawk.
"Ormund?" Otto glanced at him. "You've seen the Prince Regent?"
"Yes, Uncle."
"What did he say?"
Ormund hesitated briefly.
"The Prince Regent said the Reach army is being kept in King's Landing for an important task. But he didn't say what that task is."
Otto remained silent for a moment.
"I see. You may go."
Ormund bowed again and hurried away.