Faced with Lord Strong’s accusations and Princess Rhaenyra’s sharp tongue, the Hand of the King found himself unexpectedly on the defensive.
“Father,” Rhaenyra pressed, “some have treated the capital as their own domain.
Officials are appointed without royal consent.
Crown-appointed ministers are sidelined.
There are secret dealings with the Free Cities, trading the realm’s interests for personal gain.
This is the beginning of rot in King’s Landing.” “The smallfolk whisper that they know Lord Hightower, but who is this Targaryen they speak of?” “I have even heard a rhyme from the peasants by the Blackwater: I was a man of Oldtown fair, but now I wear the crown’s own air.
Beneath the dragon’s feet I tread, with swords in shadow and kings in dread.” Rhaenyra would have continued painting her portrait of a scheming courtier, but Hightower cut her off with barely concealed fury.
Lord Strong had pressed his attack hard.
Hightower could still parry.
But Rhaenyra’s words struck home.
He could not refute her claims because much of it was true.
He had done those things.
He had allowed them.
Never to the extent she described, but where had she learned such venomous rhetoric?
Hightower should be grateful he was not some fallen minister from the old dynasties of Essos, whose skin would have been peeled from his body for half the offenses.
In truth, the Hand of the King’s authority was not absolute.
The phrase “my vassal’s vassal is not my vassal” held true in Westeros.
The Hand’s commands carried weight only as far as the king’s will reached.
Without the crown’s backing, many lords would ignore him.
The Hand was meant to be a diligent servant, not a power in his own right.
Yet Hightower’s influence was immense.
The Citadel sent maesters to every lord in the realm by law.
The Hightowers controlled Oldtown.
They controlled the Citadel.
Their city was the second largest port in Westeros, a gateway to the world’s knowledge and wealth.
And they absorbed it all quietly.
Then there was the Faith.
The Starry Sept in Oldtown.
The Warrior’s Sons and the Poor Fellows.
The High Septon was Hightower’s man, and the Grand Maester, chosen by the Citadel’s conclave, was almost always a Hightower ally.
The king could overrule, but such defiance was rare.
Hightower had reason to be confident.
Unlike other lords, he did not come to King’s Landing to serve.
He came to rule.
King Viserys’s face darkened like a storm cloud.
Hightower knew the signs.
This is bad.
The king was not blind.
He had tolerated Hightower’s influence out of need.
Daemon had to be checked.
The Velaryons had to be balanced.
And now, for Rhaenyra’s sake, he had chosen to ally with the Velaryons while still leaning on the Hightowers.
Viserys did not seem to understand the danger of feeding a beast that would one day turn on its master.
Other kings in history had used their ministers as shields, then cast them aside when the time came.
The people blamed the minister.
The king remained pure.
But Viserys only knew how to feed, never how to cull.
And now the Hightowers had grown too mighty to remove.
The revelation of Hightower’s hidden fangs shocked Viserys and woke his anger.
“Ser Otto Hightower, you are relieved of your duties as Hand.
Return to your quarters.
Confine yourself and your household.
No one is to leave your estate.” After the council, the knights Rhaenyra dispatched escorted Otto Hightower to his residence with all courtesy.
Then they stood guard at the gates.
Alicent, unaware of what had transpired, could only stare in confusion.
Rhaenyra sent her to her father’s side, claiming it was only right that she comfort him.
On the road outside King’s Landing, a horse galloped at full speed.
Rhaenyra had left the council and ridden straight to a farmstead.
“Princess, the craftsmen have succeeded!” The knight’s report spurred her on.
She dismounted and surveyed the piles of grey-white dust.
Before she could speak, a servant demonstrated the process.
The powder mixed with sand, then slowly hardened into stone.
Finally.
After countless attempts, she had unearthed the correct formula from the depths of her memory.
Rhaenyra ordered a generous reward for the craftsmen.
To build wealth, build roads.
She had produced cement.
Limestone came from the Vale.
Clay came from the Blackwater Rush.
Smaller lords had supplied ores from their lands, which she purchased at great expense.
She turned to Ser Harrold, a knight from a branch of House Darklyn of Duskendale.
He had once served as Ser Steffon Darklyn’s squire.
“Ser Harrold, increase production.
Send the cement to Maester Ramos for road and latrine construction.
Inform him this is a new material by royal decree.” “Recruit more craftsmen and laborers.
Expand the operation.
This site will become a royal industry.
For supplies and wages, speak to the Household’s financial officers.
And above all, keep this secret.” Harrold nodded gravely.
He was one of the few reliable men Rhaenyra had found among the nobles’ recruits.
Steady, loyal.
His branch status reminded her of the Karstarks to the Starks.
Ser Steffon Darklyn had been both a Crownlands lord and a Kingsguard.
In the original history, Harrold had served as a Queensguard.
Rhaenyra had identified him early and brought him into her fold.
Cement was strong and resistant to decay.
It would transform the city.
It would also be a lasting source of revenue.
When lords grew interested, she would sell it at a handsome profit.
At last, after bleeding gold from her treasury, she had found a stable source of income.
But production had to increase.
The lords needed to see what she had created.
Come, open your vaults and buy!