While the fires of Sunfyre and Sheepstealer were still smoldering in the streets of Tyrosh, a different kind of tension was simmering in the Red Keep.
In the Tower of the Hand, Otto Hightower stood by the window, his shadow long against the stone floor. The door creaked open, and Alicent entered, her movements sluggish, devoid of the rigid, anxious grace that had defined her for years.
"Father, you sent for me?" she asked, dropping into Otto's heavy oak chair with a sigh that bordered on a groan.
Otto turned, his eyes narrowing at his daughter's posture. "Does Aegon know of Rhaenyra's remarriage? Viserys said he wrote to the boy personally once the date was set."
Alicent leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "He has. Viserys still clings to that delusional hope of 'reconciling' Aegon and Rhaenyra. He thinks a wedding invitation is a bridge."
Otto's displeasure flashed. It wasn't the fact that she was sitting in his chair—it was the way she was sitting. For years, Alicent had been a woman of high-strung ambition, a queen of duty and decorum. Now, she looked… listless. Decadent.
"Aegon has taken far too good care of you these last few years," Otto scolded, his voice sharp with his usual paternal authority. "Look at you. You look like a common drunkard in a tavern, not the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Where is your dignity?"
Alicent didn't flinch. She didn't even sit up. She simply looked at him with a half-dead gaze. "You are my father. Why should I perform for you? Aegon once told me: A mother's status rises with her son. I am the mother of Aegon Targaryen, the Lord of the Stepstones and the True Dragon."
She sat up then, her expression turning briefly serious. "As long as I don't burn the city down, I can do as I please. I have been very restrained, Father. Do you have any idea how tired I was while you were in Oldtown? Aegon was a child, and the Blacks were circling like sharks. I only started breathing when my son grew tall enough to draw a sword."
She slumped back again, a resentful pout on her lips. "Now he's grown, and you are back as Hand. Let me rest. Though that boy… he's been in the Stepstones for months and hasn't flown back once. How long does it take to ride a dragon to the capital? A few hours?"
Otto sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The Stepstones are a nest of pirates and salt-wastes. He is building a kingdom from nothing; he doesn't have time for your whims. But we must discuss the wedding."
"There is nothing to discuss," Alicent said, pouring herself a glass of gin from Otto's carafe. "Viserys is handling it all himself. He's so busy he's practically glowing."
"That is the problem," Otto said grimly. "I expected him to keep the scale small. Rhaenyra is a widow of mere months. But he is doing the opposite. Larys tells me Viserys intends to use this wedding to bring Daemon and Corlys Velaryon back onto the Small Council. He is fortifying the Black Party."
Alicent paused, the glass halfway to her lips. "The Small Council? Who does he intend to cast out? Tyland? Jasper Wylde?"
"He hasn't said. But he's creating 'Royal Advisor' positions if he can't find a vacancy. It's clear he wants Corlys as Master of Laws."
Alicent snorted into her gin. "His love for that girl is truly touching. Or is it just guilt for her 'strong' choices in the bedroom?"
Otto remained calm. "Guilt is a powerful motivator for a man like Viserys."
"Well," Alicent muttered, "at least my Aegon is competent. That bitch Rhaenyra just sleeps with whoever she pleases. I wonder if she'll manage to stay faithful to Daemon, or if she'll produce a few more brown-haired 'Targaryens' for us to ignore."
Otto looked at her. "If you are so concerned about her antics, write to Aegon. Tell him to be prepared. This wedding will not be a simple celebration—it will be a declaration of war by other means."
"I'll do that," Alicent said, standing up to leave.
"One more thing," Otto called out. "Keep the letter professional. Don't waste space asking if he's eating his vegetables or sleeping enough. We need to know his military standing."
Alicent rolled her eyes, her resentment flaring again. "I understand, Father. I'll keep the 'motherly' parts to a minimum."
After she left, Otto sat in the silence of his office. He looked at the maps of the Stepstones spread across his desk. When he had returned to King's Landing, he had been shocked by Aegon's prestige. The common folk spoke of the "Golden Prince" as if he were a god of the sun.
Viserys had been right to fear him, right to send him away. But Viserys had underestimated his son. Otto looked at a letter from the Stepstones, a glint of pride—and perhaps a shadow of concern—in his eyes. Aegon was building something fast, something powerful. And judging by the boy's reports, he wasn't planning on stopping at the islands. He was looking East.
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