Though Grand Maester Mellos remained troubled by all that had transpired, he forced a courteous smile and saw Prince Baelon from the chamber himself once he learned the prince would soon depart.
A day passed.
Deprived of the dulling comfort of Milk of the poppy, Otto Hightower began to stir once more, low groans slipping from his lips.
All his famed intellect proved useless against the torment that consumed him. The wound in his chest felt freshly torn, as though the flesh had been opened anew. Each breath came shallow and ragged, edged with a pain so sharp it stole what little strength remained to him.
He could not move.
Even the smallest effort was beyond him. To turn, to rise, even to shift beneath the covers demanded a strength his body no longer possessed.
Blood loss had leeched the warmth from his limbs. He lay pale and cold against the sheets, his thoughts drifting in a fevered haze, his voice reduced to broken, senseless murmurs.
"He lives. The Stranger has not claimed him yet. Ha!"
The sudden cry shattered the stillness.
Grand Maester Mellos jerked awake in his chair, his old bones stiff with sleep. He blinked, then leaned forward, peering closely at Otto's face. When he saw the faint flicker of life still clinging to the Hand of the King, relief and excitement lit his features.
The sound carried beyond the chamber.
Moments later, the two guards left behind by Prince Baelon entered without ceremony.
They paused at the bedside, watching Otto's frail, trembling form. Then they exchanged a brief glance and gave a subtle nod to one another.
One of them, shorter but broad of shoulder, stepped forward. He inclined his head just enough to feign courtesy.
"Grand Maester Mellos," he said, his voice calm, "by command of Prince Baelon, you are to prepare a medication that will keep Lord Otto conscious for the trial to come."
Mellos stiffened, his fingers tightening against the arm of his chair.
"A waking potion?" His brows drew together, unease plain upon his face. He shook his head at once. "No. That cannot be done. Such a potion would aggravate his wounds. In his present state…" He glanced toward Otto, whose breath rattled faintly in his chest. "He may die the moment it takes hold."
The guard did not bristle. Instead, a faint smile touched his lips.
"That is for you to concern yourself with, Grand Maester."
He clasped his hands behind his back, posture relaxed, though his gaze never left Mellos.
"The prince's will is simple. Lord Otto must remain clear of mind and able to endure for several hours after taking it."
He tilted his head slightly, as though speaking to a wayward student.
"We are but soldiers. Such matters are beyond us. But a learned man such as yourself…" His smile lingered, though it did not reach his eyes. "You will see it done."
The words were mild.
The meaning beneath them was not.
Mellos felt the weight of it settle upon his shoulders. He was an old man, his hands more suited to parchment than defiance. Against armed men in their prime, he had no strength to resist.
His lips parted, then pressed into a thin line.
"I… shall do what I can."
The guard gave a single nod.
"Good."
At a gesture, another soldier entered, bearing a heavy wooden chest. It was set down with a dull thud and opened at once, revealing phials, dried herbs, mortars, and all the instruments of a maester's craft.
Only then did the full shape of the matter begin to dawn upon Mellos.
His throat tightened.
"May I ask…" He hesitated, then forced the words out. "Do you intend to remove Lord Otto from the Red Keep?"
The guard's expression did not change.
"If it pleases you, Grand Maester, you may accompany us once your work is complete," he replied evenly. "Prince Baelon has granted you leave to witness what follows."
He paused, studying the old man's face.
"You will be… most welcome."
Silence followed.
Mellos lowered his gaze, but the unease within him only deepened. He could feel it, like a storm gathering beyond the horizon.
King's Landing stood upon the edge of something grim.
At last, with unsteady hands, he turned to the chest.
Ten minutes later, the drug was finished.
The liquid within the vial shimmered faintly, sharp with the scent of bitter herbs and stronger tinctures. It was no healer's remedy, but something harsher. A concoction used upon battlefields to wrench the dying back into wakefulness for a final stand.
Mellos held it carefully, his hand trembling.
He looked to the guards, his voice low and strained.
"Understand this. This is no medicine."
He swallowed, then continued, forcing each word to remain steady.
"It is a stimulant, used in war to drive men beyond the limits of flesh and blood. If it is given to a man so grievously wounded…"
His eyes flicked once more to Otto's ashen face.
"…he will most like bleed out and die."
Grand Maester Mellos was no mere healer of common learning. About his neck hung a chain of five links, each earned through years of study at the Citadel: iron for the nature of materials, gold for coin and account, black iron for the arts of war, bronze for the movements of the heavens, and red gold for the mysteries of the body and sustenance.
What he had prepared now belonged not to healing, but to war.
Unease gnawed at him. Fearing the blame that might follow, he explained the nature of the draught in careful detail, his voice low but urgent, his hands clasped tightly before him as though to steady their trembling.
The shorter guard listened without interruption. When Mellos finished, the man gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
"So," he said, tilting his head slightly, "you mean to say, Grand Maester, that the dose should be given in smaller measures, and more often… to lessen the chance of him bleeding out?"
Mellos inclined his head at once, relief flickering across his face.
"Yes. That would be the safest course."
"We are but sworn swords," the man replied lightly, spreading his hands as if disclaiming any deeper knowledge. "Such subtleties lie beyond us. We are told only this. The prince commands that the draught be given."
His gaze shifted, settling on Mellos with quiet intent.
"As for how much…" A faint smile curved his lips. "That would depend on whether you mean to alter Prince Baelon's will."
Mellos fell silent.
"In my view, Grand Maester," the soldier went on, his tone still mild, "it would be best if you accompanied us."
"Indeed," he added, the smile lingering, though there was little warmth in it. "It would spare… misunderstandings."
Mellos let out a long, weary breath, his shoulders sinking.
There was no refusing.
To remain behind would be to invite suspicion, perhaps even an accusation of murder should Lord Otto perish. And truth be told, a quiet curiosity stirred within him as well.
Otto Hightower stood already at the threshold of death. A handful of days, at most, remained to him. What purpose could Prince Baelon possibly have for a dying man, that he would go to such lengths?
"I will come," Mellos said at last.
At once, the two guards exchanged satisfied glances.
One stepped outside and returned moments later bearing a stretcher. The other, broader and far less gentle in his manner, moved to the bedside.
Without ceremony, he seized Otto by the shoulders and hauled him up.
The motion tore cruelly at the wound in his chest.
Pain lanced through Otto like fire.
A ragged cry was wrenched from his throat before he could stop it.
"Hmph." The tall soldier snorted, his voice rough with disdain. "You still have breath enough to scream?"
He leaned closer, his expression hard.
"If not for Prince Baelon's command to keep you alive, I would have opened your throat myself."
"Easy," the shorter man said with a quiet chuckle, raising a hand in mild reproach. "New men are ever like this. Too quick to anger."
He cast his companion a measured look.
"You would do well to trust in Prince Baelon. He does not err. Remember your training. Discipline, above all. No missteps."
The taller soldier straightened at once, jaw tightening. He gave a sharp nod.
"I understand. It was only words. I would never break discipline."
He had clawed his way into the capital's garrison through blood and effort. He would not squander it on foolishness.
"That is well," the shorter soldier said, a hint of approval in his voice. "Chances such as this, to stand so near Prince Baelon, are not given lightly."
His gaze sharpened as he looked between the stretcher, the maester, and his companion.
"We see that nothing goes amiss."
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
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