The Tower of the Hand stood as it always had, stern and unyielding, an apt reflection of the man who dwelled within her walls.
Within the chamber was quiet, but by no means was it empty.
Otto Hightower stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back as his gaze settled upon the training yard sprawling beneath him.
Knights and squires moved in rigid patterns, blades meeting in sharp bursts that split the morning chill.
How orderly…predictable, even.
Completely, unlike the storm brewing within these walls.
Taking a deep breath, Otto turned around as his eyes fell upon his daughter.
She paced the room like a caged…pathetic thing, her steps tight, the faint drag of her gown against the stone floor the only warning of her agitation.
"Alas…" Otto Hightower sighed, his voice tinged with resignation. "We were much too impatient."
"Hah!" The Queen scoffed. She turned on him, her pretty face twisting, not with sorrow, nor disappointment, but something far harsher.
"Impatient?" Alicent's eyes burned as they locked onto his. "No, no. Incompetent is the word that will serve you better, Father."
Otto pursed his lips, studying her in silence.
This—
This was not the daughter he remembered.
Gone was the softness. The careful restraint. The quiet devotion that had once defined her.
In its place stood a woman carved from bitterness, her composure frayed and her gaze filled with resentment, toward the world, toward herself… and most of all, toward him.
"We took advantage of the moment," she continued, her voice tightening as she spoke. "Placed Alfador as Grand Maester, painted the Small Council green, and then—"
Her words faltered, if only for a heartbeat, as something darker surged beneath them.
"—we were dragged down to where he had been." Her lips curled, her eyes tinged red with a fury unbecoming of a queen. "No… worse."
"Alas…" Otto sighed again, shaking his head faintly.
Viserys had not been merciful.
Not in the slightest.
Alfador had been cast aside, replaced swiftly by a maester from Dragonstone, Gerardys, if Otto recalled correctly. A pointed choice, he must add.
Ser Tyland had been removed from the council as well, supplanted by the Sea Snake himself. Otto's mouth tightened at the thought.
Lord Corlys Velaryon was not a man easily swayed, nor one inclined toward compromise.
If anything, the King had ensured the opposite.
Now, where once Otto's voice had guided the council, it would be met with resistance, much resistance from Corlys, Beesbury, and the new Grand Maester forming the core of it.
The balance had shifted.
No—
It had been ripped from him.
The only solace, if it could be called that, lay in Ser Criston Cole. The knight remained close to the King during his bouts of illness, ever vigilant, and, more importantly…silent.
His loyalties, though long since turned, had yet to be exposed.
A fragile advantage for his cause, yet one that could shatter at any given moment.
Otto suppressed the groan that threatened to escape him, a dull ache pressing at his temples as the weight of it all settled in.
Things were slipping.
Worse—
They were slipping beyond his grasp.
And that was…unacceptable.
He should have found comfort in what remained.
He was still Hand of the King.
His daughter still sat as Queen.
His grandson was still the eldest prince of the realm.
Even now, through Larys…through Criston…threads of his influence still lingered.
And yet—
As Otto's gaze returned to Alicent, something unfamiliar crept into his thoughts.
Confusion.
When had this happened?
When had she become… this?
So sharp.
So restless.
So full of anger that it seemed to consume her from within.
Otto pursed his lips. "For now, we ought to remain calm. His Grace is experiencing a bout of wakefulness, and with Gerardys'…novel treatments, combined with the news of those two returning, I believe he will remain lucid for some time."
He lifted a hand, massaging his temples as he tried to steady the dull ache building there. "Any drastic measures we take now would earn only his fury, and that would do little but harm young Aegon's prospects as heir."
The words fell and were promptly met with silence.
Otto's gaze shifted, and he saw it. Alicent had stilled.
Completely and utterly.
"Yes…" Alicent murmured at last, her voice distant, as though her thoughts had drifted elsewhere entirely. "Those two will be returning soon."
Her hand rose, almost unconsciously, teeth finding her nail as she chewed at it.
Otto's expression tightened at the sight, the habit ill-fitting for a queen, but he said nothing of it.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly. "You would do well to use this time to foster your bond with them. That connection will serve us in the days to come, and—"
He stopped.
"Do not treat them like children."
His words cut through the room as Otto's gaze locked onto hers with unwavering intensity.
"They are not what they once were," he continued, each word deliberate. "They are powerful now. Rulers in their own right." His tone lowered, though it did not soften. "The only one who may stand as their equal is His Grace."
He paused for a beat.
"Even you fall short."
"You…" Alicent spoke after a moment. "You ask me to remain…subservient? To my own children?" Her voice rose, threaded with disbelief. "My children, whom I bore? Whom I raised?"
Otto watched her.
Really watched.
The rise and fall of her chest, uneven now. The way her hands fell to her sides, fingers restless, marked with small bites and wounds, each self-inflicted, each recent.
Her gaze, fixed upon him with an intensity he had only ever seen in battle-hardened knights.
And still—
He did not speak, nor did he correct her.
After all, his silence answered for him....louder than any words could.
The seconds stretched.
And with each passing one, something in Alicent shifted.
The raging fire within here did not vanish—
But it faltered. Disappearing into the depths of her being.
Her shoulders sank, if only slightly, as the anger drained from her expression, leaving behind something far heavier.
Melancholy.
"Good," she murmured at last, though the word carried little strength. "So be it."
She gave a small, absent nod before looking back at him, her eyes glassy now reflective, distant… almost accusing.
"I will see to it that they feel at home," she said quietly. "It is the least I can do."
Otto exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
Relief.
Whatever turmoil lay beneath her words, there had been sincerity in them.
That, at least, remained.
And for now—
It would have to be enough.
He could only hope this sincerity endured in the days to come.
***
Within the King's solar, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and something far, far less pleasant.
Viserys sat hunched forward in his chair, one hand gripping the armrest as the other loosely held the cup he had only just drained.
The remnants of the concoction clung to his tongue, its acrid bite refusing to fade, a burning trail left in its wake as it settled hastily in his stomach.
Behind him, Gerardys worked in silence as fresh bandages were wrapped around the King's wounds layer upon layer.
The maester himself was no frail scholar.
He stood as a middle-aged man, broad through the shoulders, his stocky build lending him a presence that starkly contrasted the more withered figures often found within the Citadel.
Viserys exhaled sharply, his face tightening as the last of the potion settled within him.
"Gods…" He groaned, slumping further forward. "Gerardys, what in the Seven Hells have you put in that?"
He swallowed again, as if to rid himself of the taste, but it lingered stubbornly. It seemed even a King at times could not have everything go his way.
"Could we not have simply stuck with milk of the poppy?" He muttered, his voice laced with discomfort. "But, no leeches. Gods forbid those vile things."
"Your Grace," Gerardys replied calmly, not pausing in his work, "that would treat only the symptoms, not the cause."
The bandages tightened slightly as he secured them.
"Even this," he continued, "is not without risk. But it is a risk worth taking, if there is to be any hope of improvement."
Viserys let out a low breath, one hand rising to cradle his head as the pressure built behind his eyes.
"I can only trust in your competence, Maester," he murmured.
At that, Gerardys' hands slowed, if only for a moment.
"My competence is not without foundation, Your Grace," he said, a note of quiet pride threading through his otherwise measured tone. "These links were not earned lightly. Each one represents a field mastered and a discipline understood. More still, my research into the body's deeper ailments have been extensive."
He straightened slightly, his chains stark against his robes, of which the one made of silver remained the most striking.
There was no arrogance in his posture but there was a certainty.
"The Citadel, eh?" Viserys smiled faintly, a flicker of something softer passing through his expression. "I remember Baelon, years ago, begging me to allow him to visit. To study there."
A quiet breath left him, the memory still lingering.
"Neither men nor gods could tell me what possessed me to agree," he continued, a hint of amusement touching his voice. "I feared he might forsake his birthright entirely…remain there as some maester."
Then, Viserys paused as he chuckled. "I meant no offense, Gerardys".
He trailed off.
"Thankfully—"
"Thankfully, the young prince and princess will be arriving shortly," Gerardys interjected gently, stepping back as a maid approached, draping a robe over the King's shoulders. "After all, word has already come from Dragon's Bay."
Viserys stilled as he sighed.
Aye.
They were returning.
A maelstrom of emotions swirled in his chest. Was it anticipation? Joy? Love? Distance?
Viserys could not know.
Slowly, he pushed himself up from the chair.
The robe dragged across the floor as he gathered it closer, pulling it tight around himself in a futile attempt to stave off the chill that clung to his bones.
His hand found his cane, fingers tightening around it as he steadied himself before beginning the slow, uneven walk toward the window.
At last, he reached it as King's Landing stretched out before him.
This was his city.
The city sprawled wide beneath the pale morning light, its streets already lit with life.
Bustling. Noisy. Alive.
Smoke rose in curling strands from countless chimneys, mingling with the sea breeze drifting in from Blackwater Bay.
He narrowed his eyes as he saw the countless silhouettes shift through the endless streets and alleys.
Each one a subject of his rule, each one relying on him to uphold the stability of the realm for their sakes.
It was indeed…a peaceful realm.
Well, at least from here.
Viserys knew well that if he sauntered through those streets, the scent of piss and shit would wipe at any pride he had in his own realm.
'Gods, is there truly nothing we can do about this?' Viserys shivered, either from dreading the stench that pervaded the city beneath him or from the illness that clung to him. 'Perhaps Baelon might have some clue; surely Essos ought to fare better in cleanliness.'
Then…
A roar split the air, thundering in his ears as his chest vibrated in kind. No, it wasn't just his chest. Every bone in his body trembled from the aftermath of that roar.
Soon more roars followed suit, as confusion settled into Viserys' mind. 'Is that Vhagar? But is she not kept outside the city?'
Even then, considering the she-dragon typically spent her days sleeping, it was hard for Viserys to imagine that she would cause such a commotion.
Even then, they were certainly more than one roar which he had heard.
Viserys licked his dry lips as his gaze drifted from the now silent city to the sky above as he froze, his breath catching.
And there they were.
Three immense silhouettes descended from the heavens, their forms vast beyond reason. It was almost as if three Vhagars had appeared in his sight.
With each beat of their wings, sunlight faltered, the city below cast into an early dusk as though the sun itself had been devoured by the beasts' greedy maws.
Still, they were familiar.
Bronze. Silver. Sapphire.
Yet, at the same time, they weren't as humble in stature as he remembered, but…they were familiar nonetheless.
For a moment, Viserys simply stared. Long and hard, as if to engrave the scene into his soul, a smile crept across his face.
Wonder lit his face, both unguarded and pure, as his gaze followed their descent outside the city, his breath uneven with something dangerously close to joy.
How many years has it been since he had seen the pair? Heard them call him father? Hugged them and felt their warmth?
'Warmth...' A bitter sigh left him.
Without the twins, none of his children deigned to show affection. Aegon was a wastrel. Aemond had long turned cold. Daeron wasn't even in the Keep.
As for Rhaenyra?
Viserys could not remember the last time she had smiled at him with a face not filled with calculation.
Even in the treasonous bout from prior, was her relief that he was there to protect her?
Or, was it because she then knew her position as heir was safe?
Perhaps both?
A single tear slipped free, tracing a slow path down his cheek.
'What a wretched life I have lived.' Viserys mourned, a shaking hand wiping the tear from his face.
Still, he knew this was not the time for despondency.
He turned around and hurried away, not even bothering to glance at the confused Maester.
After all, he had preparations to make, a great many at that.
For two wandering souls had finally returned home.