…
Otto Hightower
The air in the Prince's chambers was thick, suffocating with the scent of crushed lavender and a cloying tension that had not dissipated since the meeting in the Great Hall. I watched Viserys turn back to the window. He was staring out over Blackwater Bay, but his eyes were entirely unseeing. He was hiding something.
Baelon the Brave had returned without his wayward son, bowed his knee, and demanded the Iron Throne empty its coffers to appease a foreign tyrant. And King Jaehaerys—a monarch who had spent fifty years demanding strict subservience from the lords of Westeros—had merely nodded and accepted the humiliation without a single word of protest.
It made absolutely no political sense. House Targaryen did not yield. They answered slights with fire and blood. Something had fundamentally broken the Crown Prince's resolve across the narrow sea, and whatever it was had terrified the King into immediate submission.
I studied the side of Viserys's face. He was young, malleable, and lacked the hardened martial edge of his father. If I applied the right pressure, the truth would spill out.
"This hasty and entirely unneeded..." I began, keeping my tone carefully measured, devoid of accusation but laced with genuine concern. "Is this sudden stance of the Iron Throne influenced by the wild tales travelling across the narrow sea? The merchants and sailors whisper madness, my Prince. They claim this Emperor of Rome is no mere conqueror, but a sorcerer."
Viserys did not turn his head. His jaw remained locked, a deliberate mask of stone. Yet, the reflection in the polished glass of the window betrayed him. His eyes widened, a fleeting, instantaneous fracture in his composure. His breath hitched—a sharp, almost imperceptible intake of air.
It was all the confirmation I needed. The absurd, drunken tales of the sailors were not mere tavern gossip. They were the very foundation of the King's terror. That was the secret locked within the King's solar.
"Magic is dead, my Prince," I pressed, stepping closer to his chair. I kept my voice firm, grounding the conversation in the irrefutable logic of the Citadel. "The Maesters have proven it time and again. It died in the fires of the Doom, swallowed by the sea along with Old Valyria. Whatever parlour tricks this Emperor employs to cow his enemies, they are merely illusions meant to inspire panic. The Iron Throne should not be dictated by shadows and mummery."
Viserys finally turned from the window. The exhaustion in his lilac eyes had been replaced by a grim, haunted certainty. "That might be the case, Otto. But there are many mysteries in this world still unearthed. Many forces we do not yet comprehend."
The finality in his voice sent a cold prickle down my spine. Viserys, the King, Baelon, and Vaegon—the Archmaester himself—had seen irrefutable proof. The Crown was not capitulating to a foreign army; they were submitting to a force they believed they could not defeat.
I swallowed the bitter taste of that realization. If the Targaryens truly believed they were outmatched, arguing for war was a pointless endeavour. I needed to pivot, to secure my position within this new reality by making myself entirely indispensable to the Crown's survival.
"I see," I murmured, bowing my head slightly in deference. "If the King's path is set, then we must ensure the realm survives the journey. I have already consulted with the master of coin and reviewed the ledgers."
I stepped up to the edge of his table, bringing the focus back to the immediate, tangible crisis. "The sum of three hundred and fifty thousand Swarnas translates roughly to five hundred and eighty-three thousand gold dragons. It will certainly make a severe dent in the treasury. We will bleed coin."
Viserys rubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping. "Can we weather it without raising taxes upon the lords? We cannot afford discontent in the Seven Kingdoms while we yield to Essos."
"It will be tight, my Prince," I assured him smoothly. "But it is possible. However, it will require sacrifice. We must drastically decrease the expenditures for Princess Rhaenyra's upcoming name day ceremonies. We must cancel the planned tourneys at King's Landing and put a halt to the expansion of the Dragonpit's outer vaults. If we trim the excess fat from the court's immediate spending, we can weather this crisis without drawing the ire of the high lords."
Viserys let out a long breath, finally looking at me with genuine appreciation. The haunted look receded, replaced by the relief of a man who had just been thrown a lifeline.
"You have done excellent work, Otto," Viserys said, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual warmth. "I knew I could rely upon your counsel. Keep a close eye on the ledgers and ensure the master of coin follows your exact delineations." He paused, offering a tired, genuine smile. "Your efforts to keep this realm stable will not go unrewarded."
I bowed low, hiding the sharp, calculating gleam in my eyes. "As you say, my Prince. I only wish to see the Crown secure."
"The Crown is secure, Otto. Because we are paying the price to keep it that way."