| Author's Note: Please gimme stones?
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'Thank you all, for your kind words! Regarding this chapter, it is not in 1st pov, so it is still written like every other chapter. The 1st pov chapter I want to try out will be the next one I think.'
— The Author.
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| Otto Hightower 3rd Person Pov, Tower Of The Hand (The evening after Viserys announced his marriage to Alicent):
The afternoon sun dipped lower in the sky, draping the Red Keep in hues of gold and crimson, its light filtering through the high-arched windows of hiw own solar.
The chamber where he was now seated, was a study in calculated order, every piece of furniture meticulously placed, every scroll and parchment aligned as if their arrangement itself might reflect the will of its master.
The air smelled faintly of beeswax from the candles that were early lit, now burning low, their flames casting long shadows that flickered across the stone walls.
He sat behind his writing desk, the picture of composed authority, at least in his eyes. A goblet of untouched Arbor gold rested near his elbow, beside a folded map of Westeros marked with pins and annotations.
His fingers drummed softly against the polished wood, a rhythmic beat that matched the deliberate pace of his thoughts, as he barely shifted when a guard at the door announced, "The man you requested is here, my lord."
'So you've come at last.' He thought, while his gaze remained fixed on the desk, tone of voice cool and steady. "You may send him in."
The door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the room.
Luce of the 'Ivory Quay' they called the man, merchant by trade, and a shadow by necessity, whom bowed low in front of him.
He also noticed the way that the man's dark eyes flicked about the solar, taking in every detail with the practiced scrutiny of a man who survived by knowing more than he let on. "My lord Hand." Luce greeted, his tone deferential yet measured, the words balanced to avoid the pitfalls of groveling or arrogance, and he gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Luce hesitated for a heartbeat before complying, moving with the precise grace of a cat navigating uneven ground. "You sent for me?"
"I did." He replied, hands folding atop the desk, before his gaze met Luce's, unblinking, assessing.
"And how may I be of service?" His lips twitched, though it was neither a smile nor a frown. "You've proven yourself capable in these last few months, Luce. Few understand the value of discretion as you do, but it is not silks or spices I require today." He leaned back slightly, the weight of his presence filling the room. "It is your... other talents."
Luce's expression did not waver, though his brows arched in feigned curiosity. "And what talents would those be, my lord?"
His voice was quiet, and firm, when he made to answer after a few seconds of deliberate silence. "I need a letter delivered with much caution."
Luce tilted his head in fake innocence, while asking him: "To whom, my Lord?"
"To my brother, Hobert, in Oldtown." He said, before noticing Luce's lips quirked, the faintest shadow of a smirk before it vanished.
"A simple task, my lord. But if I am to see it done, certain... precautions will be required."
His fingers stilled, his tone cooling, "Precautions?" Luce spread his hands, his rings catching the dim light of the chamber.
"King's Landing is not as forgiving as it once was, eyes are everywhere, ears even more so. If I am seen departing for Oldtown, questions will arise, and should those questions reach the wrong ears,—..." He left the threat unspoken, its weight hanging between them like a poised blade.
His gaze sharpened, his voice turning to steel. "What are you suggesting, Luce? Speak plainly." The merchant infront of him inclined his head, his expression serene. "I propose traveling under the guise of trade,— a sudden departure from King's Landing by a merchant of my standing would draw attention, especially if I return too swiftly. To ensure this venture remains unseen and unremarkable, I will accompany a shipment, perhaps linger in Oldtown for a time, lay low, as it were. Unless, of course, you prefer a lesser hand for such delicate work."
He studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "No." he said finally.
"This letter must reach my brother Hobert's hands without fail or interference,— do whatever you must to ensure that." And Luce inclined his head, his tone as smooth as his silk robes, and he allowed himself a victorious smile at that. "As you wish, my lord, the letter will be delivered, sealed and untouched." And he leaned back on his chair, giving the man one of his faintest nods.
"Good. See that you leave before the day is out, time is not a luxury we can afford." And Luce rose at that, bowing low. "Consider it done."
'I do hope you succeed, for your sake... and the realm's.' he thought, handing the man, the letter sealed with green wax, its surface stamped with the tower sigil of his house.
The door closed then, behind the merchant's back, as the same left, and he remained at his desk, gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight, for a few seconds. In his mind, he kept remembering the words within that were crafted with care, shrouded in allegory and cipher, but their meaning unmistakable to those who knew how to read them.
'The shadow of the tower grows long and dark, rising at last above the crown. A victory for us, and the citadel, though the 'fires' must still be quenched, for as long as they 'burn', the realm will not find peace. The time draws near for our light of reason to prevail above all else.' His lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained hard. His brother, Hobert, would understand those words.
He always did...
For years, they had played the game with patience and precision, a web woven so fine that even the 'dragons' had not noticed its threads tightening around their necks.
And now, as the sun made way to dip below the horizon in but a few hours, soon to cast the room in shades of amber and ash, he felt the familiar hum of control coursing through him once again.
The time was drawing near, and the tower's shadow would soon eclipse them all, even the Targaryens. 'Closer to gods, than men... what a jest.'
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| Aenys Targaryen 3rd person Pov (Present):
The night had long since slipped into morning, and the first rays of the sunrise were beginning to creep over the Red Keep.
The chamber was dimly lit, with the flicker of a few still lit, scattered candles casting shadows across the polished oak table where Aenys sat.
He leaned back in his chair, his posture deceptively casual, though his mind churned with a torrent of thoughts. His fingers drummed against his thigh in a slow, rhythmic pattern, the sound echoing faintly in the otherwise still room, and the weight of the unsolved mysteries and unspoken conspiracies pressed heavily on him, their presence a constant in the shadows that lingered just beyond the candlelight.
The door creaked open much to his unsurprised reaction, and Arthur, his spymaster-knight and trusted confidant, stepped into the chamber. The man always moved like a wraith, his armored boots scarcely making a sound against the stone floor, though his face betrayed little emotion, his every movement spoke of precision and control.
That was something he had come to appreciate in the man's mannerisms.
He looked on with a intrigued gaze, as Arthur stopped a respectful distance from the table and inclined his head. "My prince." Arthur said, his tone even and measured. "I bring you the information you've asked for."
His fingers stilled, and his sharp gaze locked onto Arthur. "Arthur." His voice was cool, but there was an edge to it there. "You're late by a whole night." Arthur offered a faint bow, his expression calm but not without a trace of unease. "Indeed, allow me to explain. We ran into some... complications of sorts." His eyes narrowed, and his tone hardened.
"Complications? Elaborate." Arthur met his gaze without flinching, accustomed to his sharp demeanor already.
"We have the locations of the fighting pits." Arthur began, voice steady. "Once we knew where to look, it was relatively straightforward." and he leaned forward slightly on his chair, his hands steepling as his mind turned over the information. "That, at least, is good news. And the letter I asked for?"
For the first time, a flicker of unease crossed Arthur's features,— so brief it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But he saw it, his own expression darkening in response. "The letter, Arthur?" he pressed, his voice like ice. "I trust you're not about to tell me it slipped through your fingers."
Arthur inclined his head, his voice calm yet tinged with gravity. "No, my prince. The letter was not lost. But it was not retrieved from a raven's leg, as we had expected."
His brows knit together in confusion. "Then where?"
Arthur straightened slightly, choosing his words carefully. "We found it concealed in the belongings of one of Otto Hightower's merchants. The man was attempting to leave the Crownlands under the guise of routine trade, escorted by a dozen Hightower knights. He caught the attention of my men before departing King's Landing, but rather than act immediately, I chose to wait. My men intercepted them at the border of the Crownlands and the Reach, ensuring no word could reach any Hightower's spies." Arthur then paused, his tone steady despite the grim weight of his report. "The merchant was captured, and the knights were dealt with."
His jaw tightened as the words sank in, a flicker of cold fire burning in his violet eyes. "All this for a single letter..." he muttered, his tone laced with quiet venom. "And the contents?"
Arthur shook his head. "I have yet to open it, my prince. But the seal is unmistakable,— it bears the Hightower sigil. The letter was undoubtedly bound for Oldtown."
He extended a hand foward, and Arthur stepped forward as well, placing the parchment in his palm with calm and soundless movements.
The wax seal glimmered faintly in the dim light, its imprint unmistakable, and for a moment, he simply stared at it, his fingers tracing the familiar sigil. Then, with a deliberate motion, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
The chamber fell into a heavy silence, the only sound the faint rustle of parchment as his eyes scanned the words. His expression darkened with every line, his jaw tightening until the muscle beneath his cheekbone twitched.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, each word weighted with cold fury. "You've done well to intercept it." He folded the letter neatly, placing it on the table before him. His hand lingered on the parchment, his fingers trembling ever so slightly with restrained rage.
"The merchant..." he said after a pause, his tone calm but deadly. "Treat him with care. I don't want him alive, but there must be no connection to us in his death. Make it look like an accident, or better yet, misfortune."
Arthur inclined his head, his face impassive.
"Of course, my prince. Shall I see to anything else?" And he drummed his fingers against the table once more, his gaze distant as his mind raced through a web of possibilities.
"Ensure that no word of this reaches Otto. If he suspects this correspondence has been intercepted, he'll act preemptively,— and that will force my hand. I need him to remain unaware for now." Arthur nodded, his tone laced with intrigue. "As you command, my prince."
Without another word, Arthur bowed and slipped back into the shadows of the chamber befote leaving through the doors, his presence fading as if he had never been there at all.
And now, he sat alone, the damning letter unmoving before him.
The candlelight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the words he now knew by heart. "... the fires must still be quenched..." he murmured, his voice heavy with suppressed fury. "... for as long as they burn, the realm will not find peace." His fingers curled into a fist, his knuckles white as the weight of the message bore down upon him.
The truth was clear now, clearer than it had ever been. But to think that besides wishing for his family to reach the throne, Otto Hightower had also worked alonside his brother and the Citadel to bring forth the end of the dragons...
"So this was your masterplan, Otto." he whispered to the empty room, his voice a quiet promise of retribution, though a sigh escaped his lungs. "The days of your unchecked scheming are over though. And soon... soon you'll learn the price of betrayal."
The chamber seemed to grow colder as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze burning into the shadows. The game was already set to end for the hightowers and the citadel, and he intended to play it to its bloody conclusion, alongside Fire & Blood.
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Flashback to the day before:
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The afternoon sun hovered low, casting golden light through the canopy of trees that arched over the Rose Road. (A/N: The road that goes from the western side of the Crownlands into the Reach, reaching even Oldtown.)
Shadows twisted between the massive roots of ancient oaks, dappling the ground with shifting patterns, and the air was thick with the earthy scent of damp leaves.
The forest was still, unnervingly so, save for the occasional rustle of branches stirred by the lightest breeze and some birds, as Captain Harland adjusted his grip on the pommel of his sword, surveying the narrow road ahead.
The patrol had been moving in cautious silence for hours, their senses attuned to the slightest disturbance, and the Crownlands were vast, but this stretch of the Rose road was unusually quiet,— too quiet for his liking.
He cast a glance at his men, their armor scuffed and dusted from the long march.
They moved with disciplined purpose, yet their eyes betrayed wariness.
One of the younger soldiers, a wiry lad with a thin scruff of a beard, broke the silence first, "You really think we'll find anything out here, Captain?" the lad asked, his voice tinged with doubt.
He allowed a grim smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth. "Commander Arthur doesn't waste men on wild goose chases. If we're out here, it means there's something to find. Either the commander's instincts are sharper than ours, or Prince Aenys has a hunch that might shift the tides of this game we're all playing." And the soldier frowned, adjusting the strap of his scabbard. "And you think we'll just stumble on it? Out here, in the middle of nowhere?"
He snorted softly. "Orders are orders, lad, so keep your wits about you and your eyes sharp. Sometimes, it's the quiet roads that hide the loudest secrets."
A sharp whistle cut through the stillness, low and urgent, and his head snapped up, his hand falling instinctively to his sword, as one of the scouts emerged from the underbrush, his leather jerkin streaked with dirt and his breath steady despite the urgency in his stride.
"Captain!" the scout began, his tone clipped but calm, "We've spotted movement on the road, coming up from the Kingsroad to the east of our position."
He straightened, his eyes narrowing at the scout's words. "What sort of movement?"
"A merchant caravan." the scout replied, brushing a stray leaf from his shoulder. "But it's heavily guarded,— ten, maybe fifteen knights, all bearing the Hightower sigil."
His lips thinned as suspicion coiled in his gut. A merchant caravan with such an escort,— of Hightower knights above all else?
The pieces didn't add up, and so he turned to his men, his voice low but commanding.
"Well, lads, looks like it's time to earn our coin. Prepare to engage, you know the drill,— clean and precise. We've our orders."
The soldiers responded with a quiet, resolute "Yes, Captain." and Harland gestured sharply for the patrol to fan out into the trees, their movements silent and deliberate.
He positioned himself at the center of the road, flanked by only a handful of his men.
The rest melted into the shadows, their forms disappearing amidst the thick undergrowth. Moments later, the caravan came into view, a cluster of wagons groaned under the weight of goods, their wooden wheels creaking with every turn.
At the head of the procession rode a man in fine robes, his demeanor confident, though the tension in his surrounding knights' postures betrayed their unease.
He then raised a hand, his voice ringing out clear and authoritative. "Halt!" The lead knight reined in his horse, the polished steel of his armor catching the fractured sunlight.
His expression was haughty, disdain curling his lips as he addressed Harland. "What is the meaning of this?" Stepping forward, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword, he spoke once again. "You're being stopped for inspection, standard procedure. We'll be searching for suspicious items, illegal goods, and questionable correspondence. I'll also need the merchant in charge to step forward for questioning."
The knight scoffed, his disdain deepening.
"And who are you to make such demands? Forgive my confusion, but you can't possibly expect us to comply without cause or consent."
His voice turned cold, his tone cutting through the knight's arrogance like a blade.
"My name isn't your concern, Ser. What should concern you is that my men and I act under direct orders from the Crown. If you've nothing to hide, you'll comply. Refuse, and we'll act accordingly." The merchant stepped forward hurriedly, his hands raised in a placating gesture.
"Wait! There's no need for hostility, Ser." he said, his voice faking a slight tremble. "I'm a humble merchant, bringing goods to Oldtown while visiting my family, my name's Luce. Please, inspect the caravan if you must, but know that we want no trouble."
He studied the man briefly, his sharp eyes noting the nervous twitch in his fingers.
"Good. Then have your knights disarm and place their weapons on the ground together. We'll be inspecting the cargo and your company for any hidden correspondence."
The merchant hesitated then, his voice faltering. "Kind Ser, surely that won't be necessary? I assure you, I am a law-abiding man." And his patience wore thin, his tone hardening. "If you've nothing to hide, you've nothing to fear. You,—..." he gestured to one of his men, "...— take the merchant aside. Question him away from the others, and see if he hides something." One of the Hightower knights however, stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"I'm afraid that won't be happening." the knight said, his smirk filled with quiet menace, and Harland turned to him, his gaze narrowing. "What was that?"
The knight's smirk widened. "I said, it won't be happening. You know, everyone is aware that bandits infest these roads. Who knows what might happen to you and your men if you choose to interfere? Let us pass, or risk your lives needlessly..."
His grip tightened on his sword, his voice dropping into a low growl. "Hear that, lads? The Hightower knight says we'll be dying today if we don't let them pass. Bold words for a man so outnumbered."
From the shadows, the rest of Harland's men emerged, their swords drawn and gleaming in the dappled sunlight, and the Hightower knights faltered, their bravado cracking as they realized the trap they had stumbled into.
He drew his sword, its steel singing as it left the scabbard. "Now then. Shall we test his theory?"
The tension snapped, and the forest erupted into chaos.
Swords clashed, the metallic ring of steel against steel mingling with the shouts and cries of men locked in combat. Harland's soldiers moved with deadly precision, their strikes clean and efficient as they overwhelmed the Hightower escort three to one.
And when the last Hightower knight fell, Harland wiped his blade clean on the tunic of a fallen foe.
"Search the caravan!" he ordered, his voice steady despite the blood staining the ground. "Tear it apart if you must, and bring me everything of importance."
Moments later, one of the soldiers emerged, holding a sealed letter bearing the Hightower sigil. "Captain, I think we've found something."
Harland took the letter, his expression grim as he turned it over in his hands. "Good. Secure the merchant, the prince or Commander Arthur might want to see him."
As his men gathered the spoils, Harland cast a final glance at the carnage around him.
"They'll call it history in the far future..." he muttered, sheathing his sword and sighing to himself. "I'd call it a message instead."
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Flashback ends.
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Just before the briefing with the City Watch he had called for started, Aenys met with Ser Criston Cole in his Lord Commander of the City Watch's solar, its walls lined with maps and missives of King's Landing everywhere.
The room was bathed in the late golden afternoon light, though the tension within its walls felt anything but warm. "So, you've found someone."
"I have, my prince." Cole replied, his voice steady as his dark eyes met Aenys'. "His name is Hugh,— husband and father, struggling to make ends meet. I came across him on the outskirts of the city."
Aenys tilted his head, intrigued. "Go on."
"When I found him, he displayed remarkable strength and endurance against a band of attackers." Cole continued, a flicker of admiration in his tone. "He fought like a man possessed. His loyalty to his family drives him, and I believe, with the right guidance,— and some help for his kin,— we could shape him into a loyal and valuable asset."
Aenys leaned back in his chair, his violet eyes narrowing as he considered the man's words. "A man like that is rare." he said thoughtfully. "Ensure he and his kin are well provided for, let loyalty take root."
"Of course, my prince."Cole said, inclining his head. Aenys had a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Also arrange for him to spar and train under watch. I'll observe him myself one of these mornings."
"It will be done." Cole promised.
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Later on the day, the meeting chamber of the Red Keep's City Watch Barracks was shrouded in shadow, save for the flickering light of a dozen torches mounted along the stone walls.
Aenys sat at the head of the long table, his violet eyes scanning the faces of the captains, lieutenants, and officers gathered before him. Each man had been carefully chosen, their loyalty tested and proven by Arthur's spies, yet, as the weight of the coming revelation settled in the room, unease flickered like the flames that danced on the stone.
"Sit, all of you." Aenys commanded, his tone cutting through the murmurs. He gestured firmly, his presence commanding attention without the need for raised voice or bluster.
"We've much to discuss, and time is not on our side." The scrape of chairs against stone echoed as the men obeyed, their movements stiff with apprehension.
And Aenys waited until silence blanketed the room before he spoke again. "As some of you may not yet be aware, I will explain in greater detail than I first anticipated." His voice was measured, yet the steel beneath it was unmistakable. "Fighting pits have been discovered within the city, and these are not mere dens of vice. They are pits of depravity,— where contraband flows unchecked, where animals are slaughtered for sport, and where men, women, and children are forced to tear each other apart for the amusement of those who pay to watch."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. Eyes widened, jaws tightened, and the weight of the revelation settled heavily upon the assembled officers.
Finally, one of them, a younger lieutenant with wide, anxious eyes, dared to break the silence. "Is this... truly so, my prince?"
Aenys' expression darkened, his gaze fixed on the man with an intensity that could have frozen fire. "Would I sit here wasting my breath if it were not?" The lieutenant flushed, bowing his head. "Forgive me, my prince. I meant no offense."
"Offense or not, the truth remains..." Aenys continued, his tone unwavering, and he leaned forward, his hands resting on the table, the weight of his words pressing down on the room. "I've called only you here because each of you has been vetted. My men have ensured your loyalty is beyond question, and my trust is no small thing, I will not waste it on those unworthy." He let the statement hang in the air for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the table, daring any man to question him. When none did, he continued.
"That said, you must know this: a captain of the Watch has been implicated in these schemes." Murmurs erupted, whispers of disbelief and dismay. "A captain?" one officer asked, his voice heavy with shock. "That's ill news, my prince."
"Indeed." Aenys replied, his tone cold as ice.
"But rest assured, I will see to that matter personally." He straightened, his voice hardening as he shifted the focus. "For now, our priority is planning the assault on these pits, which will take place within the week."
A grizzled captain, his face lined with years of service, raised a hand. "Will the Crown lend its strength to this endeavor, my prince?" he asked, his tone cautious but respectful.
"You can count on it." Aenys said without hesitation. "Though I have not yet discussed the matter with my brother, I will secure the support of the Kingsguard and the Targaryen household guard. These pits are a stain on this city and, by extension, the realm,— the Crown will act." He let the statement settle, watching as the men exchanged glances.
Some faces reflected determination, others unease, but none dared to voice dissent.
Aenys' voice dropped, firm and steady as he delivered his final instructions. "Now, gentlemen, let us discuss the details. Here is how this operation will proceed..."
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Night came quickly, and after doing everything he felt needed, Aenys was now seated on his brother's chamber, waiting for the latter.
It was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth, its glow casting long shadows on the intricate carvings of the Painted Table, and Aenys stood by the window, his arms folded as he gazed out over the capital.
The city stretched below him, a maze of rooftops and alleyways, its people blissfully ignorant of the rot festering in its underbelly.
His violet eyes flickered with determination, his jaw set as the door behind him creaked open. "Brother." came Viserys' voice, weary and strained.
"Viserys." Aenys replied, turning to face him.
Viserys entered slowly, his tunic slightly wrinkled, a goblet of wine already in hand.
He looked at his younger brother with a mix of curiosity and lingering annoyance, though he said nothing as Viserys spoke. "What... is the matter? Is this still about the marriag..."
"Hold that thought." Aenys' tone was sharp, cutting through Viserys' words. "I've got dire news to share, and I am certain the realm will stumble upon change once we speak of it."
Viserys raised an eyebrow, his fingers tightening around the goblet. "Is that so? What might be so dire that you felt the need to end my dinner sooner than it was supposed to?"
"I've found fighting pits throughout the capital, brother." The words hung heavy in the air, their weight palpable. "Animals, illegalities... and the abuse and death of kidnapped children."
The King froze mid-step, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What...?"
Aenys stepped forward, his tone growing colder. "Several of them in fact. I'm already mounting an operation to erase them from the face of this land, but I need your support,— the Kingsguard, household guards, knights,— whatever you can call upon without alerting the realm to your court's... 'mistakes' in ruling the capital with a keen eye in the years of your rule."
Viserys stared at his brother, the wine forgotten in his hand. "I... I understand... I think? Have you confirmed these pits at least, brother?"
"Of course I have." Aenys said, his voice hard as steel. "The worst part? They're filled with 'pigs' of nobles, rich men and women who ensure these pits thrive for their entertainment,— and I want to burn them all to the ground."
Viserys' face darkened in his slightly druken state, his free hand curling into a fist, as the knowledge turned and turned, inside his mind. "We will! We will, Aenys!" But Aenys hesitated, his expression grim, as he faced his brother once more.
"There's more, however." And Viserys' eyes snapped back to him, a flicker of dread crossing his face. "More?"
Wordlessly, Aenys reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded parchment, its seal broken but still bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Hightower, before he extended it toward Viserys.
"This..." Viserys took the letter, his brow furrowing. "What's this?"
"You might want to sit down for this one." Viserys sank into a nearby chair, his hands trembling slightly as he unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the words, the color draining from his face.
"Isn't this Otto's writing?" he muttered, confusion giving way to dawning horror.
"What could this be abo..." The realization hit like a blow, and Viserys' voice rose sharply. "Brother, what is this...?"
Aenys' tone was icy, his expression unyielding. "That, brother, is treason against all that we as Targaryens are. And it's coming from your Hand, from the Hightowers of Oldtown, and from the Citadel itself. They all want the same thing,— to erase our unity, our purity, and to end the lives and existence of our dragons."
Viserys' hand trembled as he held the letter, his face a mask of shock and fury. "This can't be..." His voice broke, and then it erupted in clarity.
"FUCKING TRAITORS!" He hurled the goblet across the room, the wine splattering against the stone wall as he rose, overturning a small table in his rage.
Aenys stood firm, his gaze steady. "I had always noticed that Otto's actions screamed of scheming and undermining your rule." he said, his tone calm but cutting. "I felt it in the way he always spoke of Daemon,— to incite your anger when most problems with him could be talked about and leveraged,— and especially when he advised you against marrying Laena Velaryon."
Viserys froze, his chest heaving. "That... wait. This means that..."
"Yes." Aenys interrupted, his voice sharp, though his eyes held sadness for his brother as well. "Alicent Hightower did not seek you because she was infatuated. She did so, terrified out of her mind, because her father made her do it,— and you fell into it headfirst, even with me and Lyonel warning you against it."
Viserys sank back into the chair, his hand covering his face. "This letter... who else knows of it?"
"Only me." Viserys nodded slowly, his voice a whisper. "Good. It will stay that way."
"Of course." Aenys hesitated, then added, "Though I planned on calling for Daemon. He should be here, he should be told of this,— for he can help us solve it." Viserys looked up, his eyes burning with fury. "What do you propose we do? What shall we do, Aenys? No more setbacks,— I want to solve this with fire."
Aenys stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on his brother's shoulder. "You have nothing to worry about. I will plan the resolution to this treachery." And Viserys' shoulders sagged, the anger giving way to exhaustion "Very well. And... my coming marriage? Should I..."
"You should terminate it, yes." Aenys said firmly. "But not now, we will wait until the time is right. If you act too soon, it will draw attention to the fact that we've uncovered their schemes, and that would bring more destruction to the realm."
Viserys nodded slowly, the weight of the decision heavy on his face. "I understand..."
"That's good." Aenys replied, his tone softening slightly. "But first, let me deal with the pits, afterward, we will speak again. And by then, perhaps Daemon will have returned to help us face this together." Viserys met his brother's gaze, a flicker of trust returning. "All right. I will trust you, brother."
Aenys inclined his head. "You know you won't regret it."
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| Fire & Blood |
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