Mond Hightower’s face shifted.
He folded his hands over his midsection and spoke with careful deference.
“My prince, you misunderstand me.
I only fear that eating meat might anger the Seven and further weaken the little health you still possess.
Should the king take offense…” What he truly meant was plain enough: If you dig your own grave, do not drag my house into the fire with you.
Baelor set the bread down without haste and answered with a thin edge of mockery.
“Is that so, Lord Mond?
Are you telling me that I, firstborn of House Targaryen and heir to the Iron Throne, am to be punished by my own father… for eating a scrap of sausage?” Mond had not expected the prince to be so direct.
The words caught in his throat.
He stammered for several long moments and produced nothing that could pass for a dignified reply.
“Forgive me, my prince.
My thoughts were clouded just now.
None of this concerns my house.
Please… overlook it.” Baelor played the innocent this time.
“We were only talking, were we not?
There is no right or wrong here.
Why apologize?” “I… I…” A harried captain of the guard shoved the doors open and pressed a raven scroll into Mond’s hands.
“My lord, a letter from King’s Landing.
News of the war in the Stepstones.
Hand Otto asks for your reply with all speed.” Mond seized the excuse like a drowning man.
He turned at once to Baelor.
“My apologies, Your Grace.
Business from the capital demands my attention.” “Go,” Baelor said.
“We can continue this discussion another day.” Mond needed no further invitation.
He left the Starry Sept without so much as a proper farewell, almost fleeing.
Baelor judged that the lord of Oldtown would keep his distance for quite some time after today’s humiliation.
The thought improved his appetite.
He finished two extra slices of bread.
One day later, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen—eldest daughter of Viserys I and known throughout the realm as the Realm’s Delight—descended upon Oldtown astride her dragon, Syrax.
Mond Hightower led his bannermen, his children, a host of maesters and septons out to meet her, privately wondering why the princess had come without warning.
“Mond Hightower, Lord of Oldtown and head of House Hightower, together with his vassals and kin, welcomes Her Highness Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, firstborn daughter of King Viserys the First!
May the Seven grant you lasting beauty and unbroken health!” “Thank you, Lord Mond.
Take me to my brother.” Rhaenyra dismounted from Syrax, her smile polite and nothing more.
“I regret to say, Princess, that His Grace is presently at his penance before the Seven.
You will have to wait a while.” Yesterday’s confrontation still burned in Mond’s gut.
He dared not strike at a king’s son directly, so he used the only weapon left to him: the sacred hours of atonement.
Delay the reunion as long as possible.
Rhaenyra’s temper flared.
“Look at the state of my brother’s body and you still force him to kneel until midday?!” This was no penance.
House Hightower was slowly, methodically, and with perfect legal cover, trying to kill her brother so that Aegon—child of Hightower blood—could take the throne.
“Forgive me, Princess.
These are the instructions and guidance of the Seven.
We merely obey.” Mond answered with the most unassailable excuse available.
Rhaenyra opened her mouth, then found no words.
Maester Orville stepped forward and tipped the balance back in her favor.
“Lord Mond, the prince’s strength continues to fail.
A month ago the king himself issued a special dispensation: His Grace need not kneel for long hours, and a measured amount of meat is permitted.” Mond’s head snapped around.
“You told me the king only authorized meat!” “I did.
I also told you the king forbade excessive kneeling.
And you, as head of House Hightower, should have known of the royal letter far sooner than a mere maester.” Orville spoke without haste and finished with a quiet cut.
Mond scrambled for cover.
“I have been gathering grain and supplies for the Stepstones campaign on the king’s behalf.
In the press of that duty I… overlooked the letter concerning the prince.” Rhaenyra’s hand settled on the hilt of the sword at her hip.
She advanced a step.
“House Hightower ignored a command of the king and, by that neglect, abused the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.
By law, what sentence do you deserve?” Otto’s power in King’s Landing had swollen unchecked.
He had already driven her uncle Daemon from court and now reached for the very succession that belonged to her brother, binding the crown forever to House Hightower.
Mond Hightower had just handed her a fatal opening.
She would not let it slip.
Syrax sensed her rider’s rage.
The dragon’s head swung around, golden eyes fixed on Mond.
The sworn knights of House Hightower drew steel at once and formed a wall in front of their lord.
Neither side yielded.
The air grew tight.
Then a thin figure in black appeared, leaning on a plain wooden cane, walking toward them without hurry.
“Sister.
You have already entered Oldtown.
Why not come see the brother you claim to love most?” Rhaenyra’s face softened into a smile, then sharpened again with deliberate meaning.
“Of course I came for you first.
But the gates of Oldtown are thick with filth and vermin.
I was deciding whether to clean them out.” Baelor put on a look of mild surprise.
“Filth and vermin?
Lord Mond, the Starry Sept stands in your city.
Is this how a devout servant of the Seven keeps his charge?” Rhaenyra stared at him, stunned.
Was he defending Mond Hightower?
Mond’s relief was almost physical.
He dropped to one knee at once.
“Forgive me, my prince.
I will have the filth cleared immediately.
I swear it will never happen again.” He waved his knights aside, opening a path for the princess.
Rhaenyra did not wait for further invitation.
She seized Baelor’s arm like a lioness claiming prey and all but dragged him toward the Starry Sept, fury radiating from every step.
Inside the quiet of the sept she rounded on him.
“Baelor, do you understand what you just threw away?
That was one of the few chances we will ever have to break Mond—or even kill him outright!
Why in the seven hells did you cover for him?!” If her brother’s body had not been so fragile she would have turned him over her knee, then summoned the best maester in the realm to examine whether his brains had been cooked soft.
How else could he utter such stupidity?
“Sister, listen first.” Baelor took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him.
He glanced once at Maester Orville.
The maester understood at once and stepped outside to keep watch.
“Sister,” Baelor said, “how many children does Mond Hightower have?” “Two daughters.
Why?” “And Otto?” “Sons and daughters both.” Realization dawned on her face.
Baelor nodded.
“Exactly.
Even if we used this excuse to kill Mond Hightower, his bannermen would simply support Otto as the new Lord of Oldtown—because Otto has a son.
I refuse to manufacture a stronger enemy who would hold both the lordship and the former Hand’s power.
And I refuse to hand Otto Hightower that gift for free.”