King’s Landing always had a smell.
Otto Hightower stood before the high window of Maegor’s Holdfast, overlooking the courtyard below.
It was the scent of rotting wood, excrement, smoke, and too many people crowded together, but to Otto Hightower, this was the smell of power—intense, pungent, addictive.
The door opened.
Queen Dowager Alicent Hightower walked in, the hem of her queenly gown dragging against the floor with a soft, rustling sound.
The Queen had the iconic brown hair of House Hightower, but fine lines had already appeared at the corners of her eyes.
Otto Hightower did not turn around, continuing to look out the window: “Rhaenyra went to the Dragonpit again today.”
“I know.”
“With her ‘husband’.” Otto Hightower’s lips curled in a subtle arc.
“Laenor Velaryon…
the heir to Driftmark.
Such a well-matched pair, everyone says.”
Alicent’s fingers tightened slightly.
She knew what her father was implying—the nature of the marriage between Rhaenyra and Laenor, the political calculations behind this union.
“Viserys coughed three times in the Council Chamber today.” She changed the subject.
“The maester said he needs more rest, but His Grace insists on handling the urgent reports from Driftmark.”
“Rest.” Otto Hightower repeated the word as if tasting it.
“The King rests, the heir frequently leaves King’s Landing, and the Small Council…
I haven’t sat back in this chair for long, and many matters require someone to make decisions.”
He finally turned around.
The fifty-three-year-old Hand of the King wore deep green robes, the badge of his office pinned to his chest.
His gray hair was combed meticulously, and his eyes were like two polished emeralds.
“There is an interesting matter in Driftmark, have you heard?” He asked, his tone as if discussing an upcoming farce.
Alicent nodded, her voice dropping lower: “A dragon has appeared in the Sea Snake’s domain.
And…
a rider.
The rumors are very vague.”
“Not ‘appeared’, it is ‘harboring a future threat’.” Otto Hightower corrected, every word clear and cold.
“My people went to great lengths at Driftmark to confirm it. This story is hosted at g.com.
Rhaenys Targaryen—our esteemed ‘The Queen Who Never Was’—has a secret.
A seventeen-year-old bastard, silver-haired and violet-eyed, hidden in the shadows of Driftmark for seventeen years.
Now, he has tamed that wild dragon called ‘Sheepstealer’ and flown away.
Corlys wants to cover this up, like covering a festering wound.”
He walked to the long table, where a map of The Seven Kingdoms was spread out.
His finger pressed firmly on the location of Driftmark, then moved north, crossing the Shivering Sea, and stopped at White Harbor.
“What do you think this means?” He looked at his daughter, his gaze burning.
Alicent pondered; she was no longer the girl who only knew how to listen: “Targaryen has gained another dragonrider.
On Rhaenyra’s side…”
“No.” Otto Hightower interrupted, his voice carrying the excitement of a hunter who has discovered precious prey.
“It means we have gained a dagger that could point at anyone.
A bastard hidden and effectively exiled by his own family, a mongrel that not even his own mother dared to give a hug, a dragonrider who grew up in mud and scorn…
Alicent, where do you think the hottest fire in his heart is burning?
Is it directed at Driftmark, which pretends he doesn’t exist?
Is it at the mother who gave him blood but only shame?
Or…
the whole world that refuses to acknowledge him?”
Alicent understood, a cold realization dawning on her: “You want to use him for our purposes.”
“Not ‘use’, but ‘recruit’.” Otto Hightower walked in front of his daughter, his gaze as if inspecting a weapon about to be put to use.
“Hatred is the purest driving force.
We will give him what others cannot: gold, sanctuary, a legitimate identity stamped by the King’s Seal—not ‘the bastard born of the tides’, but ‘Aeron Targaryen’.
Of course, there is also the opportunity to take revenge on everyone who has wronged him.
He will be a potent medicine, a blade that can pierce the thickest armor of The Blacks.”
“But his bloodline…”
“Bloodline is only valuable when needed!” Otto Hightower’s voice turned sharp suddenly.
“When he needs a banner, his silver hair is the banner of Targaryen; when he needs a reason, Rhaenys and Corlys are the enemies who ruined his life.
Politics, my daughter, is learning to tell the story that best fits the current situation.”
He turned and walked to the liquor cabinet, poured two glasses of deep red wine, and handed one to Alicent.
“Driftmark wants to erase him, and Dragonstone may not truly welcome an ‘unidentified relative’.
“At such a time, whoever is the first to extend a hand—not as shackles, but as a ladder—might gain a loyal dragon—and the resentful rider on its back.”
Alicent took the wine glass, her fingertips feeling the coldness of the glass.
She looked at the ripples in the cup, as if seeing the blood waves about to rise.
“What if…
he doesn’t accept this ladder?” She asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Then ensure he cannot be used by anyone else.” Otto Hightower’s tone was as flat as if ordering a dinner menu.
“There cannot be uncontrolled pieces on the chessboard, especially when this piece can breathe fire.
Either it lands in our square, or…
it disappears from the board.”
“I have already sent people north.” Otto Hightower returned to the map, his finger tapping on White Harbor.
“There is vague news that a silver-haired youth has appeared there.
House Manderly are Rhaenyra’s people, they are crude but not stupid, they know how to hold onto the mast during a storm.”
“What if House Manderly finds him first and offers him to Dragonstone?”
“Then we will ‘generously’ share this secret with Driftmark.” Otto Hightower smiled, a smile without any warmth.
“Let Lord Corlys know that his wife’s secret is hidden in White Harbor.
Let the Sea Snake’s fleet sail north to demand him, let House Manderly choose between loyalty and survival.
No matter what they choose, chaos will breed, and in chaos, it is exactly when we do our work.”
Alicent finally took a sip of the wine.
The liquid was sour and astringent as it slid down her throat, like swallowing a small piece of the never-fading shadow of King’s Landing.
“Father,” she raised her eyes, asking the more long-term question, “If this blade truly carves a path for us…
when the day comes for Aegon to sit on The Iron Throne, how should we dispose of him?
A blade stained with too much blood makes people uneasy.”
Otto Hightower looked at her, and for a long time, a smile that was almost kind but chilling to the bone appeared on his face.
“My dear daughter,” he said softly, as if teaching the most important family motto, “The value of a blade lies in its sharpness, not in its destination.
When the war subsides and the throne is stable, it is only natural to sheath the dangerous weapon.
If the sheath can no longer hold it, or if it is unwilling to be stored…
then, there is always a way to make a blade ‘accidentally’ break.”
King’s Landing outside the window was shrouded in morning mist.
The shadow of the Red Keep cast over the courtyard like a dormant beast, slowly sharpening its claws and fangs.