Twenty-Eight (Patreon)

King’s Landing

98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 26)

Otto III

King’s Landing was in no condition to be hosting a grand tourney, least of all this late into the year. The cold had come. Works were underway. There was religious fervour — faith rekindled through deeds of old sorcery. And the courtly upheaval, and distant unrest. There was no want of matters demanding singular attention, and affairs still of a most grievous weight.

“…It is not until one beholds the privilege extended to those exceptional few that one perceives the measure of one’s own denied liberty.” 

Otto gave voice to it once more, his eyes fixed upon that lord-turned-prince who had become a centre of sycophants in the wake of his house’s elevation to princedom.

It yet unsettled him — that a king’s leave could tremble old glory and legend and noble supremacy earned through corpses, strife, and all manner of divine favour.

A declared decree. Enforced through parchment and regal rite.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Otto would laugh — truly he would — but such acts were those of dull mind and weakened tenacity. He had hope yet, and great aspiration still living in his chest.

“There is treason in your words, brother.” So said Leyton beside him, who met his demeanour with all due calm and little panic. “You would do well to keep your thoughts close.”

“I would argue only the halfwitted would hear such.” He afforded his elder brother no regard, for no such thing was owed. “Though I suppose our enemies would sooner twist such words to wound our standing. Need I be cautious of any house you might have given cause for grievance, brother?”

The words were jest, though some curiosity did reside in him. The gods knew what his brother might have done in Otto’s absence besides losing them two potential avenues for greater authority.

He was still bitter about the stolen institutions — the Faith and the Citadel both. How had it even come to pass? Or rather, why had none of the old heads of House Hightower thought to weave delicate webs of power and influence about them?

Gods be kind, the Citadel was a creation of the Hightower itself. How had they lost their hand upon its governance?

Otto did not wish to believe his forefathers were dullwits, yet he could not argue brilliance in their minds either. Prince Maelys was not even subtle in it. He recruited maesters openly. He produced miracle upon miracle, openly. He spat upon the faces of the Citadel’s oaths openly — and hid behind the thin guise of taking only acolytes, only those yet unbound by vow.

Shared knowledge?

What manner of idiocy was even that? Otto did not know. He did not know whether it was idiocy at all, or merely some queer species of wisdom. The boy prince seemed to possess that peculiar quality of forethought about him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Still bitter about that, are you?” Leyton had a free and soft disposition about him, and so took little offence as a rule. “I hold still to the mind that we stand beyond our previous prestige, brother. Though I will grant that this view may not be singular to you. Doubtless the old houses will try their luck at our dreamt wounds.”

Otto loosed a breath. This was a witless thing to lament over, truly. His brother was not wrong — the Citadel was all but taken from their reach, yet it was not as though the Hightower had ever held authority over those grey rats beyond their ceaseless requests for coin.

Hightower had more power gained and nothing lost.

“I suppose it is so.”

Prince Velaryon — and was that not a grating thing to think, much worse to say — was still about with his new constellation of Crownlanders and foreign merchants. One would not think there had been an unspoken distance between the lords of the crownlands and the naval houses not a day past.

Now it was all laughs and jests, and it seemed much of the pretence was the sea prince’s own doing. Otto found himself wondering how many slights the man nursed quietly, and how many he was already turning over in his mind to repay with his newly gained authority.

He downed his wine, eyes moving to the archery competition underway across the grounds. All things considered, this tourney was off to a rather interesting start.

The atmosphere was alive with it — the grounds smelling of horse and wet earth, noble and smallfolk alike roaring with exuberance as the traditional customs of archery bent themselves into odd and inventive forms. Horseback archery. Moving targets. And along the sides, exhibitions of new arrowheads and bows, presented by what seemed like numerous pairs of smiths and learned men.

It was spectacle over martial excellence, plainly so — yet it was equally plain that spectacle was all the people desired. It lent a welcome ambiguity to the bets that were disturbingly abundant.

It was, if he were being honest with himself, entertaining. Uncomfortably so.

Much was happening, and a man could only witness fractions of it. “Do we have knights in any of these competitions?” He asked it when one man — a northerner by his look — struck near the centre of the target for the third time running. Savage bastards. They were like enough too accustomed to shooting starving rabbits through those cold lands of theirs.

“Not in this.” His brother told him. “Most will join the melee — better prestige there, I think.”

Fair enough, he supposed. The reward was also rumoured to be a lord’s ransom, paid out as far as the fifth man.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Do you wish to enter as well?” Leyton asked, his eyes peeling away from the Velaryon at last.

“I am not so eager to lose my head just yet, brother.”

His brother laughed openly, hand resting upon his chest. “You are far too quick to turn craven, Otto. Besides, our house is owed some prestige. A Hightower winning a melee might see us revered again.”

“You have not had enough wine to truly believe I stand any chance at victory.” He would be gutted by some lowborn scum long before felling any knight of good renown. “You have seen the manner of creatures entered for that fare.”

Prince Daemon was set to enter — and for all his faults, that boy was not overlooked by the Warrior’s blessing. Then there were the stormlanders, those bloodthirsty riverlanders, and whatever manner of creature the Umbers were.

Savages and monsters, the lot of them.

Otto was a reacher. He knew swordplay. Not the butchering of men.

“And yet for all that talent at arms, none holds as much gallantry as a knight of Oldtown.” His brother was at least right in that.

Further still, the Hightower kept the greatest number of knights in their service of any house in Westeros. What pride was there in singular talent when ten average knights could cut you swift and dead?

Otto’s lips curled in the same manner he felt his brother’s were. “Unchallenged truth,” he said, though the words soured quickly upon his tongue as a dragon’s shadow swept over them both. “But then again, dragons…”

Leyton’s expression shrivelled. “Aye,” he agreed, and downed his wine.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Folly to the boasts of men, a dragon could burn an army in a few breaths and end an entire house in the turning of an hourglass. It stilled the heart, that creature, and the Targaryens used them to fly about and frolic.

That was Dreamfyre. Maelys’s beast. Otto found himself wondering where the prince had returned from.

“Still incredible, though.” His brother said after a sigh. “You know Barth wrote some interesting work on the very genesis of those creatures. Plausible theories, I think.”

“Heresy, you mean.” Otto near spat the word. Septon Barth had been a madman given over to twisted thought. “You had best not be taken in by his ramblings.”

He ought to have spoken with that High Septon regarding Barth before he left for Oldtown.

“For all your wit, Otto, your peculiar devotion to the Faith holds you back somewhat.” Leyton was not a man given to frowning. He was frowning now. “You know our house’s lineage, our customs, our secrets. Why have you given yourself so fully to blind faith?”

This was not a new conversation — or mayhap argument was the truer word for it. Otto was not going to entertain his brother with an answer. Leyton was a faithless wretch who practiced the magicks of the green men. He held no true faith in the Old Gods either, barely gave thought to the sacrosanct.

All of which was to say, he had a personal interest in the arcane — in the Valyrians of Old most of all.

Otto was a devout man, or at least as devout as a noble could manage. He liked to believe the Seven were real, though he would have sooner cut out his own heart than admit that Prince Maelys was in any way chosen. He was still maddened by that desecration of the seven-pointed star — all that mad revision wrought upon Aegon’s Conquest.

Illyn had been a fool to allow such nonsense to take root, and now Alicent was murmuring that same corrupted scripture. Princess Gael had personally gifted his wife the new printed holy book, and that girl was given to sudden fits of religious fervour.

If the princess were ever to come to Alicent testing the Seven’s teachings, it would be most unfavourable were his daughter to regurgitate old scripture in answer.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Printed scriptures were new custom, whether the nobles liked it or not.

“What is the High Septon doing in Oldtown?” He asked after a long silence had passed and a hedge knight was dragged away for making false claims of ill-play. Damn drunk riverlanders.

All they knew was to quarrel.

“Rallying support for Maelys, I heard.” Leyton told him. “He is threatening the Most Devout.”

“They ought not to have elected him High Septon. It is not as though his nature was unknown beforehand.” Otto knew well enough why the man had been chosen — it was precisely that mad, devoted nature that had seen him elevated.

Better an uncontrollable and devoted High Septon than one too easily swayed.

As it turned out, Illyn was easily swayed as well. One had only to be uncommonly talented and somewhat benevolent toward the smallfolk. Otto could say much about Maelys, but he would not call the prince evil.

“Little will be lost of it.” His brother shook his head. “I believe this fervour might even see us benefiting.”

Otto was not unaware of that. Should Illyn succeed in his ambitions, the Faith would find itself in a stronger position — politically and socially both. And if he and his brother manoeuvred carefully, House Hightower’s supremacy and prestige might yet be secured within it.

“Have you given thought to a match for Alicent?” Leyton inquired.

“I had thought to see her wedded into one of the prominent houses of the Westerlands.” He admitted it plainly. Given how his efforts with Ser Maynard were progressing, it would not have been an impossible thing to arrange. “But I think other avenues may need to be explored.”

“That would be the wiser course.” His brother agreed. “The recent revelations do call for a different manner of thinking. Leave the Westerlands to me — I may yet find Ormund a match of some consequence.”

“And what of the Tyrells?”

There was need to keep the stewards in check as well, lest their ill-given position go to their heads.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“A match could be arranged with our distant kin, or mayhaps our close bannermen?” Leyton’s attention had evidently turned to Princess Viserra, who was engaged in quiet talk with some ladies across the way. “We are in desperate need of close ties with one of the princedoms, Otto. Preferably the witted prince’s. See what can be done through Princess Viserra’s son. It would be most beneficial if Alicent could be betrothed to the boy.”

Aye, that would be an optimistic outcome indeed. The truth of it was that House Sunglass held the strongest ties to Maelys, and to every noble worth a mind, it remained the most plausible avenue toward securing good relations with the overlords of Massey’s Hook.

That would remain so until Princess Gael gave birth.

Unfortunately, it was near worthless to attempt arrangements with the Lord of Sunglass directly. All true power resided with the princess, and that one was shrewd and kept herself very close to Prince Maelys. Whatever overture Otto made would be twisted into something else entirely before any agreement could be reached.

Yet he had little other choice in the matter. It was not as though he bore the boy prince any hostility.

“I will see what my lady wife might whisper to Princess Gael in favour of it.” It was well to employ all avenues open to him.

“And if nothing comes of it, try Corlys.” Leyton rose to his feet. “And do try to impregnate your wife with some frequency, Otto. We are in need of more children, and my own lady is no longer fit for such things.”

With that, his brother took his leave.

Otto turned the words over behind furrowed eyes. Leyton had only Ormund and a dozen or so stillborns of true birth and bastardry alike. Otto had Alicent. He could have more. His wife was still young and fertile, and it was becoming plain that the house stood in need of daughters — daughters to be wed off for alliance and ties.

To have a daughter to chance against what would one day be the heir of Havenhall would be no small thing.

To have a dragonlord grandchild.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Those were dreams worth having.

King’s Landing

98 AC (Twelfth Moon—Day 27)

Tourneys were abundant with scandals. This one was no different. Already there were whispers of ladies lying with wedded lords and sweet-tongued knights alike. 

Lord Lannister had dragged a Lyseni servant from the Rogare entourage upon his very arrival, and that tale had made itself the most popular amongst the circles.

There was not much more damage the Warden of the West could do to himself, if truth were told. His lady wife barely blinked at it, and the lords did not even trouble themselves to turn such blatant oath-breaking against him.

Otto cared little for it either — his own brother was a whoremonger of some repute.

Still, certain developments did catch his attention. One such incident was a bard caught with his lowborn cock buried in a lord’s daughter.

A daughter of Borrell, by the sound of things. Vale men — though the more fitting name for that house was pirates. Like his own house, the descendants of Borrell had old sorcery about them, a touch of the ancient waters in their blood.

It was passing strange that a man of the Reach would be swayed by such a one, even a man as low as a bard.

But all the same, scandal had taken root, and Otto found himself drawn into it — the matter having followed upon Princess Gael’s court, of which his wife was a part. It was a convoluted thing.

Lord Borrell wanted the bard’s head as recompense for the grievance. The princess was opposed to so extreme a punishment, for the bard had been entertaining her at the very time the incident had taken place.

He had been entertaining the hall.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“I am more surprised that the princess has taken such a fancy to so lowly a matter.” He admitted to his wife, watching as another court of ladies convened regarding the affair. “Surely there must be things of greater importance demanding her attention.”

Princess Gael was a person of considerable interest. Many sought audience with her even before the tourney, before whatever manner of authority had been granted her. For her to spend herself on this was a spit in the faces of those nobles who had waited far longer for far less.

“The rarity of it, I believe.” Lysa was soft of voice and softer still of demeanour — a comely woman, dark of hair and eye, narrow of build, her elegance polished and fine to behold. “She wishes to give the lady in question a voice. To let her choose her own fate.”

“A farce, then.” He shook his head, watching as the matter of lashes was raised and subsequently dismissed. “And not a single Arryn in sight.”

“Of a sort,” his wife allowed. “Though it is a thrilling thing to witness, all the same.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

And as said, the matter concluded with little punishment given — an obvious slight against noble custom, though none had the spine to speak out upon it. The bard was set to pay a sum of coins and suffer banishment from King’s Landing and the Three Sisters.

None of which could be enforced in any meaningful way.

All the same, the lady in question was of age and not betrothed, so there was little true cause for scandal.

Another matter was brought forth — a slaving ship caught making off with children taken from Flea Bottom. Little attention was paid to it, for such things were commonplace in every port city of note. But the punishment for so heretical an act remained what it had always been — a swift taking of the head for the Essosi bastards responsible.

Otto moved about in that fashion for a time, enjoying the tourney as it was intended to be enjoyed, marvelling at the wares of smiths and alchemists alike. One man claimed he could cure balding with some manner of oil. A moon’s waiting, and a man’s thinning hair would be restored.

“Sounds like a great deal of horseshit, if you ask me, Ser Otto.” Ser Bryan said, turning the said concoction over in his hands before passing it along. “That peddler will be gone before the sennight is out.”

“Mayhap.” Otto took the vial, frowning at it. “But it is not a costly thing, and it would be too great a regret if the mixture did as promised and I had not taken the chance when it was offered.”

He suspected the peddler would still make away with a fat purse regardless — the nobility were nothing if not reliably vain.

He touched at his own hair. He was not afflicted with baldness, nor did he suffer its beginnings. His father had succumbed to thinning in his later years, and his brother already had patches of grey, but Otto had been spared thus far. 

He was not so vain as to place great importance upon his appearance — yet he doubted balding would serve his presentation well.

At the very least he had spared himself the embarrassment of buying the other concoctions on offer — vigour miracles, the lot of them. Only a fool would chance that particular shame. A brave, cockless fool.

Otto had no troubles with his manhood, and he doubted he ever would, so long as he did not go burying it where it had no business being.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Little shame to those who suffer the affliction.” Ser Bryan said with a shake of his head. “Far more stalls and craftsmen than I had anticipated. More new things as well. I chanced upon a painter in one of the walks — beautiful work.”

“More clear, you mean.” Otto answered. Good painters did not whore their skills upon the streets. They were discovered in their infancy and taken into the employ of reputable nobles. “It does you no favours to be wandering the walks when the melee is set to begin on the morrow, Good Ser.”

“There is little I could do to hone my skills further in so short a time.” The man admitted. “Better to enjoy the tourney for what it is.”

They passed one of the stalls selling sweets. There were a great many of those, alongside stalls of queer foods and stranger drinks, most costing no more than a few coppers. All manned by folk in similar uniform. Maelys’s men, if ever there were any.

Otto found himself wondering at the intent of it. He doubted coin was the aim. And the sugar alone — where was it all coming from? Sweet cane was still a costly thing, to say nothing of honey.

The smallfolk flocked to those stalls all the same. They ate as much as they could manage, and it was plain that the novelty of having foods long thought reserved for noble tables was bringing them a very particular kind of joy.

None of those foods were meant for nobles.

“And how are you finding the tourney?” Otto asked after a time, casting his eyes upward. The sky had turned somewhat cloudy, the air carrying a colder edge than the day prior — though not to any cruel degree. True winter would come with the turning of the year. Then the streets would go white with snow.

“Loud,” the knight admitted. “And too boisterous. More people than I thought I should ever see gathered in one place. I hear it draws comparison to Prince Aemon’s wedding?”

More, if Otto were being truthful. That wedding had been a grand celebration, little doubt of it — but this felt something closer to fervour. The noise never ebbed, loud from morning to morning, most especially in the city proper.

The gold cloaks were being pushed to the very ends of their capabilities.

“It will certainly be etched into history.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He was drawn by a crowd gathered about a dancer who appeared to be of Dornish descent. She was dressed in thin cloth, her skin possessed of a pleasant sheen. She danced well — and did better still at commanding men’s attention.

Odd that there were Dornish here at all, given the hostile nature of things.

“Are there any Dornish nobles in attendance?” He found himself asking, frowning somewhat. The woman had caught his eye, though the cast of his expression remained as it ever was.

“None.” Bryan told him. “The marcher lords would gut them.”

And they would. Otto turned it over in his mind — whether it was truly beneficial to fan war in those deserts. Their lands held no value to speak of. But then again, the animosity between the Reach and Dorne was an old and patient thing.

This was as fine a time as any to cripple the godless cravens.

He worked his jaw, eyes still settled upon the woman. She was not the only dancer of Dornish descent he had encountered — many were here, many more still were residents of King’s Landing.

“How is she not freezing to death?” The words felt hollow even as he gave them voice. Otto had already taken stock of his own wanting. He suspected Bryan had as well.

“How indeed, Ser Otto.” The knight said. “There may well be cause to ask her of such things in person.”

He hummed his agreement. “You know I was made to pay for that bard’s ransom? My lady wife felt it a Reach man’s duty to aid a fellow reacher in need.” He shared the particulars of that farce of a trial. Princess Gael was as fine a treasure as existed in flesh, but her manner of thinking was poison. “To lend aid to such immorality?”

Aye. He was only saying words. And it was not as though his wife’s argument had truly moved him to it — there had been scheme in it, a subtle rendering of virtue and benevolence. One that would make overtures of a betrothal between Alicent and the heir of Sunglass all the more palatable.

Yet, with that said, there was no reason that same act of charity could not serve as justification to seek out a Dornish dancer.

Otto turned, walking away. “Send word for her invite.” He said simply.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Lysa would take her leave with the rest of the house before the year was out. Otto, despite his departure from royal service, was still needed in King’s Landing — to act as representative for his brother and to oversee the quiet workings of his arrangements with the westermen.

This would be without issue.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A/N: I thought this was chapter 27.

What Otto does here is a common behaviour. He is doing something immoral after doing something virtuous. Evil bought through kindness. 

Also, yeah, everyone else is playing their own game. Maelys is wary of people who see no enemy in him, and Gael’s authority is growing bigger by the day. Northerners still have no friends in the Andals, and Dornish women are still as enticing as ever.

I’ll put up some pictures of all the different types of people (women) present and why cheating is so abundant.

Dornish

Summerlander (Islander)

Yi-Tish

Andal/First Man

Valyrian

Gael

There’s no lack of variation.