“Helaena is a woman grown,” I said evenly.
“And despite his occasional… straying, Aegon has performed his marital duties. It is high time for Aemond to follow suit, wouldn’t you agree, Grandsire?”
Do you know the most effective way to manipulate someone?
Three simple words.
Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss.
Let me give you an example of how it is done.
Otto’s brows rose slightly.
His nails scratched absently against the leather cover of the closed book as he considered the words.
“Your father had wished for Helaena to marry Aegon when the time came,” he said at last.
A long sigh escaped him, heavy with old frustration.
“It took your mother and myself weeks to convince him of a different match. In the end, he agreed.”
‘As he always does,’ the words left unsaid.
From everything I knew of Viserys, he was like a frog in slowly heating water.
The temperature rose degree by degree until he finally accepted the new reality and somehow convinced himself it had been his idea all along.
The man could not hold against peer pressure.
“It did pass through,” I said with a small smile.
“As you said it would,” Otto replied, nodding once.
“As I said.” My smile lingered.
“And now it is not the King who sits the throne day to day, nor hears the greater share of petitions. It is you… and on occasion the Queen. I am certain decisions can still be made.”
His lips pressed into a thin line as he studied me.
His eyes narrowed with quiet calculation.
“I know you well enough, Daeron,” he said at last, slowly pushing himself up from the cushioned seat.
“You do not begin conversations this deep without having already thought them through. You have prospects in mind, don’t you?”
I shook my head, feigning mild innocence.
Here comes: GASLIGHT.
“I’m sure you would search for the best matches yourself, Grandsire,” I replied calmly.
“You know the strings that hold the realm together better than I ever could.”
He arched a single brow and waited, clearly unconvinced.
I grinned and raised both hands in mock surrender, like a child caught mid-scheme.
“But… proper enough, I have a few prospects in mind.”
He tilted his head, inviting me to continue.
“Lord Oscar Tully is of age,” I began.
“He is of the mud and the river, yes, but he will one day be Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. A year younger but that is no great matter.”
My grandsire interlocked his fingers, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
“We also have a richer choice in Tyland Lannister.”
That seemed to activate his neuron as his eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forward.
“The Master of Coin?”
“Is there another Tyland I am unaware of?” I asked mildly.
“The man is a decade older, he is an opportunistic, spineless craven and a callous-minded worm without a definite thought, surely you do not believe your mother would ever agree to such a match.”
I exhaled a quiet sigh.
“We need the Westerlands bound tightly to the Crown. If not a Lannister, then perhaps a Banefort, a Plumm, a Farman… or even a Reyne. The Reynes have been a better rival to the golden lions, and all of these houses have sons and daughters of suitable age.”
He raised a hand, cutting me off before the list could grow longer.
“The Westerlands already know where their allegiance lies. They may not be bound to us by blood, but they are bound by principle. The Princess made certain of that when she rejected every western house in favor of Velaryon stock.” His voice carried a dry edge.
“They are rich in pride and do not forget a slight so easily. Jason Lannister is a petty man and he stands with us for that reason alone, and their bannermen are of little concern.”
“Because to raise a sword against one’s liege lord is death?” I asked.
“Precisely.”
I nodded along with him for a moment… then stopped, my expression flattening into a deadpan.
“And how well did that work for the Gardeners? We could always ask the Tyrells. They seem to know the answer quite thoroughly.”
A brief silence followed.
“The Victors write the history, Grandsire.” I said.
“When the House breaks,” I continued, “it is the men who knelt, great or small, liege or landed, they decide who rises and falls. We need every man we can assemble to strengthen our ranks. They are bound by oaths to a rotting man, and we cannot know how many will choose not to honor those oaths when the time comes.” Read the latest chapters at g.com.
The quiet that settled between us was sharp.
But his voice cut through it.
“That rotting man is your father.”
“He is your king,” I replied with a small, graceful shrug.
I do not give a shit buddy.
We held each other’s gaze for several long seconds, neither willing to look away.
In the end, my stubbornness outlasted his patience.
“Fine,” Otto said at last.
“We shall seek a western husband for your sister, then.”
“No.”
GATEKEEP.
He blinked.
“No?”
“No,” I repeated, shaking my head after a brief moment of thought.
“We shall find a wife for my brother Aemond. A woman with strong maternal instincts would do him a great deal of good.” A slow smirk tugged at my lips.
“After all… who doesn’t enjoy being pampered by love?”
He looked at me with quiet suspicion, as though he could sense I was screwing over Aemond, yet couldn’t quite see what’s on the trap.
He had no idea.
“And for Helaena,” I continued, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, “we shall look a bit further up.”
He caught the expression but said nothing.
There was little he could do about it.
“The Riverlands, then?” he offered after a moment.
“I have heard the Blackwoods, the Brackens, Mallisters, and Pipers all have sons of suitable age.”
“They are strong matches,” I agreed, watching him carefully.
“But I am speaking further up than that.”
His expression shifted from measured interest to something closer to disbelief.
“The North?” he asked, as though the very suggestion offended him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“Lord Cregan Stark remains unwed,” I said.
“By all accounts he is an honorable man, and recent reports suggest he possesses a sharper mind for politics than most give him credit for.” I chuckled softly.
“It puzzled me why the Crown never intervened in the matter of his succession. He was his father’s clear heir, yet when Bennard Stark refused to relinquish power, the throne remained silent.”
The old man let out a long breath and rubbed at his temple, choosing his next words with care.
“That was a matter of a single house,” he said at last.
“The Crown has no need to involve itself in every internal dispute among the great houses.”
I narrowed my eyes, waiting for him to recognize the irony in his own reasoning.
“And yet,” I replied, “not two days ago there was a formal hearing in this very castle concerning the succession of another house.”
I rose slowly from the chair.
“That was a petition brought before the King,” Otto argued.
“It is a different case entirely.”
“It is not different at all.” My voice remained calm, but the edge beneath it was clear.
“When that petition reached the court, the proper course would have been to divert it back to the regent of the house in question, in that case, Lord Corlys’s lady wife, Princess Rhaenys. It was a matter of a single house. Whatever decision she reached should have stood.”
Otto’s expression hardened.
“Do you truly believe your nephews are of Velaryon blood?”
“They are bastards,” I said flatly, cutting him off before the denial could form.
“Of that I have no doubt. But what I know does not matter. They are called Velaryon, and it is for the Velaryons themselves to decide whether they accept them as such.”
And finally: GIRLBOSS.
I began to move toward the door.
The conversation had drifted further than I intended, and my mood was being spoiled.
“I am certain Vaemond promised you a fleet he did not truly control,” I continued, shaking my head with quiet disappointment.
“He offered a hand in exchange for your support at that hearing. It was a hand poorly played, Grandsire. And that slight now lives in the memory of the Princess, her husband, and my nephews. I hold you accountable for the cracks now spreading through House Targaryen.” Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping(.)com.
I paused at the threshold, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe.
“You are well-versed in the ways of the court,” I said, offering him a small, polite smile.
“Consider the prospects carefully and play the game as it must be played, with clarity, I am certain you will do well, Lord Hand.”
I gave a brief, formal bow and stepped out of the chamber.
The corridor beyond was cooler, the stone walls carrying the distant sounds of the Red Keep settling into noon.
I walked at an unhurried pace, the conversation replaying itself in my mind.
Otto was a careful man, but even careful men could be forced to confront the consequences of their earlier choices.
The petition against the Strong boys was a wound that would not close.
And Helaena, well if anybody deserves a good ending, it’s Helaena.
She deserved better than the quiet cage the court had already begun to build around her.
Marriage was never only about affection.
It was about leverage, about binding distant powers closer to the throne before the coming storm made every alliance a matter of survival.
Whether Otto would act on the suggestion remained to be seen.
He was proud, and he disliked being reminded of past missteps.
Yet he was also pragmatic.
If the numbers and the names aligned in his favor, he would move.
I continued down the corridor, when the distinct rhythmic tap of a wooden cane reached my ears from around the next turn.
“My prince.” The feet fetishist said, stepping into view, leaning heavily on the club that served as support.
“Lord Larys,” I greeted him with a polite smile.
“I heard of your spar with Prince Daemon,” he said, nodding to himself as though confirming some private assessment.
“I heard you nearly beat him.”
I raised my brows and gave a small shake of my head.
“You heard wrong,” I replied.
“My uncle is rather gifted with the sword. I managed to bludgeon him, true enough, but I never truly had a chance.”
He inclined his head as if the correction had been expected and accepted without resistance.
“My brother used to be a warrior with a mace as well,” he continued.
The faint undercurrent of disdain in his voice was impossible to miss.
“Have you heard of him?”
“Who in the Red Keep has not heard of Ser Breakbones?” I smirked.
“One way or another.”
A brief smile flickered across Larys’s face before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
“He was a man known for his power in battle,” Larys said, his tone carefully self-effacing.
“I cannot claim to be gifted in the ways of the warrior as my brother was.”
“Do not sell yourself short, Lord Larys.” I reached out and gave his shoulder a light, deliberate pat.
“The Warrior may have taken your strength, but the Crone has clearly blessed you with more than enough knowledge to compensate.”
For a fraction of a second his eyes widened, the look of a man who had just been acknowledged for the very thing most preferred to ignore or fear.
As though no one had ever openly praised him for using his mind rather than pitying the way he walked.
Which could be very well true, the cripples have it rather tough, at least as a noble, you would live, it’s better than getting poisoned or thrown into the sea.
“You have climbed this high using nothing but your wits,” I continued, offering a kind, measured smile.
“That is something deserving of genuine praise.”
Larys sniffed once, then gave a polite nod.
His lips curled into a thin, almost reluctant smile.
“You are most kind, my prince.”
“It is only the truth.”
He nodded again, then shifted closer, the tip of his cane tapping softly against the stone as he leaned in.
“For the past few moons I have served your mother as Lord Confessor,” he said quietly.
“It has been my work to clear the weeds from her path. If it is your wish… I can continue those services for you as well.”
I considered him for a moment, weighing the offer.
As long as he doesn’t want to stroke his sausage to my feet, I’m fine.
“That would be wonderful, Lord Larys,”