"In terms of wealth, power, and influence, the Hightowers of Oldtown are surpassed only by the Lannisters of Casterly Rock."

―Maester Yandel

…

The journey to King's Landing had been an onerous one, laden with both anxious anticipation and a familiar sense of indignation. Rhaenyra Targaryen, heavy with child, felt the weight of her pregnancy in every movement as she sat within the carriage, her eyes fixed on the approaching keep. Daemon, ever a shadow at her side, sat opposite her, his stance solid and unyielding, watching the gates come into view. Her sons sat beside her, each struggling to conceal their own apprehension beneath a veil of stoicism. Beside them sat young Rhaena, the hopeful light in her eyes a solemn contrast to the hardened expressions that otherwise populated their party.

The carriage rumbled through the gates of the Red Keep with an ominous stillness. No cheering crowds, no banners snapping in the wind to welcome the King's daughter. The arrival in the main bailey was marked by an absence most deliberate, as it seemed no greeting had been arranged for their arrival. Not a single banner unfurled, not a courtier hastened forward, not even the merest smattering of formality met them. The courtyard's echoing emptiness bespoke a deep insult—the kind that nestled in one's chest and festered there, radiating outwards like an itch one could not reach.

Rhaenyra, her lips tightening, caught Daemon's eye, and his own eyebrows raised slightly, an amused but seething acknowledgement of the situation. Her sons disembarked, still young and puzzled by the nature of their reception—or lack thereof. Joffrey, wide-eyed, looked to his eldest brother, Jace, whose jaw clenched in an effort to mimic his mother's stoicism. And Lucerys, her Luke, stood silent, the fear that others might see him unnerved evident behind his fragile determination.

The clearing lay unwelcoming and silent, only a handful of stable boys and guards standing by, too few to properly meet even the humblest of guests. Rhaenyra had left this place as Princess of Dragonstone, daughter to the King, and to be greeted with a mere whisper—one she did not even merit—felt as an icy chill to her very blood.

It was not merely the cold reception that stung Rhaenyra's pride. No, it was the looming realization that something had shifted profoundly within these ancient walls. As they approached the doors to the main hall, she was struck at once by the altered appearance of the entryway. Gone were the proud sigils of her lineage. In their place stood stark iconography of the Faith of the Seven, banners of light where her family's legacy once hung in its true, tempestuous crimson. The marble sculptures depicting scenes of Old Valyria—ones she had once wandered by, entranced—had been replaced by visions of piety and serenity.

Rhaenyra's expression, if it was possible, hardened further. Daemon's eyes traced the banners, a smirk playing across his lips. "Decorations," he murmured in that lilting, barbed tone of his. Rhaenyra did not answer. Her eyes remained focused on what lay ahead, though she had heard him clearly. The unspoken words of discontent echoed between them, louder than any insult could be. She knew his thoughts as he knew hers, and the betrayal they felt simmered between them.

Inside the corridors of the Red Keep, the air was heavy with change, and a strange mixture of both familiarity and alienness pervaded each hall. Every corridor appeared altered, and there was a conspicuous absence of those they had once counted as allies, or at least friendly faces. The walk towards her father's chambers seemed longer than Rhaenyra remembered, punctuated by the eerie silence of the castle. The clicking of their boots against the polished stone reverberated in the long halls, each sound another reminder of the castle's now vacuous nature.

When at last they reached the doors to the King's chambers, the guards exchanged uncomfortable glances before opening them—as if reluctant to reveal what lay beyond. Rhaenyra and Daemon entered cautiously, their children following behind, their footfalls hesitant. The room was dim, an almost deliberate effort to obscure the one who lay within. Rhaenyra's breath caught at the sight before her. There, amidst cobwebs and the scent of sickness, lay her father, Viserys Targaryen, his once majestic presence reduced to a frail, barely recognizable shell.

The model of Old Valyria, that which her father had adored, lay half-finished and covered in dust, its intricate details obscured by neglect. A sight once brimming with ambition and wonder, now fallen to abandonment—an image that spoke of Viserys himself. The frailty of his form under the layers of blankets struck Rhaenyra deeply, his eyes closed and face sunken. She felt Daemon stiffen beside her, his sharp eyes taking in every bleak detail. The reality was far worse than they had imagined.

Viserys stirred, his movements pained and jerking, as if even the mere act of opening his eyes required herculean effort. Rhaenyra forced herself to smile as she approached him. "Father, I have come," she said softly, her voice filled with a gentleness that belied her fears.

Viserys opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on her. "Rhaenyra?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked at her, confused, as if struggling to comprehend her presence. Rhaenyra felt tears sting her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "Yes, Father, it is I. I have come with Daemon, and my children," she said, her voice cracking.

Daemon, impatient as ever, stepped forward, bowing slightly before speaking. "Brother, we must speak of recent decisions made in your name." His eyes, dark and intense, looked towards Viserys with a mixture of pity and anger. "The appointment of Vaemond Velaryon as Master of Ships—"

Viserys looked at him with confusion, his brow furrowing. "Vaemond... Master of Ships?" he repeated, his voice trembling. He looked between them, eyes misty and confused. "I have made no such appointment," he said slowly, as if each word took all the strength he could muster.

Rhaenyra's stomach dropped, the implication settling over her like a heavy shroud. "Father, Aemond's betrothal to Lady Jeyne Arryn?" she asked, but there was no recognition in his gaze. He shook his head feebly, his gaze turning vacant, distant.

"It is not I," Viserys whispered finally, his head lolling back against the pillows. "Alicent… Otto… They… they handle these matters now. Speak with them."

Daemon let out a mirthless laugh, and Rhaenyra, her lips trembling, could not hold back the bitter edge in her voice as she spoke. "This is what they have done? They rule in your stead, while you… you lay here, unaware, unconsulted?" Her voice rose, trembling with fury. "While our family—my children—face threats to their very birthright, you lie here, blind to it all. They have stripped you of your power, Father, and left you as nothing more than a puppet!" Her eyes flashed with both anger and pain, her hands balling into fists at her sides. She turned her head away, unable to bear the sight of her father so reduced, so impotent to aid her, so powerless.

"The noise," Viserys winced, his eyes fluttering shut, "It hurts… where is… where is my tea?" The desperation in his voice struck Rhaenyra, and she felt Daemon tense beside her. His eyes narrowed, flicking to the small cup on the table nearby, its contents unmistakable—the familiar pallor of milk of the poppy.

Daemon picked up the vial, examining it, his gaze calculating. "Your tea," he said, a sardonic note colouring his voice. "And where are those who prepare it for you?" He cast the vial aside, his eyes filled with a simmering fury.

As if summoned, a pair of maids entered hurriedly, their steps careful and cautious. Rhaenyra, her heart aching, took one last look at her father before turning away. "Enough," she whispered, her voice heavy. Daemon moved to her side, his arm gently guiding her from the room, his expression still hard as stone.

Together, they left the chambers, Rhaenyra's children trailing behind them, their young eyes wide and filled with confusion and fear. Rhaenyra felt her breath shortening, a frantic, shallow rhythm as if the weight of her own rage had tightened about her chest. The corridors of the Red Keep, once her home, felt foreign and hostile, closing in around her with an unfamiliarity that stoked her growing sense of dismay. The sight of her father—helpless, reduced to a feeble figure—had shattered the fragile hope she had carried on her journey here. Panic nipped at her, the sense of betrayal gnawed at her thoughts, and her hands trembled as she brushed back a lock of her silver hair, struggling to steady her own composure.

They were supposed to have returned to a haven, to her father's support. Instead, she had found a tomb of lost glories—the banners of her house gone, the sculptures of her ancestors removed, her father incapacitated and left as a mere relic of power. It was a theft more insidious than anything that might have been taken with a blade. It was the slow strangling of her heritage, the creeping transformation of all that was hers into something foreign.

Rhaenyra stopped, pressing a hand to her chest as if to keep herself from breaking apart. The dim hall, the air heavy with incense and the hollow echoes of her family's past—it all pressed in too closely. The silence bore down, each whisper of a footstep lingering, louder in her ears than it should have been. She felt as if she could not breathe, as if the air itself was rebelling against her.

Daemon, always attuned to her moods, stepped closer. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened at the sight of her dismay. He reached for her, his hand closing over hers. His presence was a balm, his touch grounding her. "We are not without allies, Rhaenyra," he murmured, his voice low and reassuring, cutting through the swirling chaos in her mind. "The Hightowers will not have their way unchecked. We have options yet."

His gaze was steady, his confidence unshaken despite the circumstances, and it worked to steady her. Rhaenyra took in a deep breath, her lips parting as she forced herself to focus on his words. Daemon's voice, with all its sharp-edged certainty, brought her back from the brink.

"Corlys will return soon," Daemon continued, his lips curling with a knowing smile. "And once he does, Vaemond's tenure as Master of Ships will be but a brief and regrettable lapse in judgment." His tone held a hint of dark amusement, a promise of retribution that sent a shiver down Rhaenyra's spine, her indignation slowly giving way to resolve. "And we will find a way to do what must be done in the Vale. We will not allow them to keep us at bay."

She nodded, swallowing down her fear, replacing it with fury—an emotion far more familiar and far more manageable. She had been through worse; they both had. They would not be cowed by Otto Hightower and his daughter—pretenders playing at power while the King, her father, wasted away in darkness. The resolve in her heart crystallized, fierce and unyielding.

The sudden sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall, and Rhaenyra turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she beheld Alicent Hightower coming towards them, her expression composed, but her eyes—oh, her eyes—holding that familiar glint of self-satisfaction that always seemed to lurk there. Rhaenyra felt Daemon's grip tighten on her hand, and she straightened, readying herself for the confrontation that was to come.

"Princess," Alicent said, her voice too smooth, her demeanour practised and courteous as she inclined her head. "It is good to see you returned to the Red Keep."

"Is it?" Rhaenyra's reply was sharp, the words escaping her lips before she could temper them. Her gaze bore into Alicent, taking in the serene poise, the placid smile that masked everything beneath. "It hardly seems so. My father's chambers are like a mausoleum, and it appears he is kept thus deliberately stupefied." She did not bother to hide the bite in her tone, nor the accusation it carried.

Alicent's smile faltered, her expression furrowing for a heartbeat. "The King suffers greatly, Rhaenyra. The milk of the poppy is administered only to bring him some measure of comfort in his pain."

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Daemon let out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with scorn. "Comfort, is it? Tell me, do the maesters also prescribe the removal of Targaryen heraldry from these halls for his comfort? The sight of his own family's symbols must have been terribly distressing for him." His words were venomous, his eyes fixed on Alicent, daring her to respond.

The queen's gaze narrowed, her smile returning, though it did not reach her eyes. "The Faith of the Seven reminds us all of a higher authority," she replied, her tone lofty. "It is meant to bring unity to the court, to remind those present that there is more than the ambitions of any one house."

"A higher authority, indeed," Rhaenyra said, her voice cold. "And which authority bade you install a Master of Ships without the King's consent or betrothed his son without his knowledge?"

Alicent's smile widened slightly, her eyes gleaming as she inclined her head ever so slightly. "As Hand of the King and Queen, my father and I decide such matters when the King is indisposed. You are welcome to speak with him, though I imagine you found little comfort in doing so."

The words cut deeply, and Rhaenyra felt a surge of anger rise in her chest, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She stepped closer, her eyes locking onto Alicent's. "You presume too much, Alicent. My father's condition is not a justification for your overreach. We will not remain silent while you and your father rule in his stead, twisting the Red Keep into some perverse parody of itself."

Alicent did not flinch. Instead, she regarded Rhaenyra with a pitying expression, her head tilting slightly to the side. "How long will you be staying, Princess? We would prepare accommodations, though I imagine Dragonstone calls to you."

Rhaenyra's eyes flashed, her lips curling in disdain. "Indeed, we have no interest in sharing a roof with snakes of your nature. We will be returning to Dragonstone, posthaste."

With that, she turned sharply, Daemon at her side, and began to walk away. Her heart pounded, her mind racing, her fury unspent. Alicent had stood there, smug in her certainty, unchallenged in her theft of power, and there was nothing Rhaenyra could do—not now, not yet. But as they left the hall, Rhaenyra's resolve grew harder, more unyielding. They would return to Dragonstone, but it would not be in retreat.

No. This was merely a withdrawal, a gathering of strength, of allies. The greens had made their move, and now it was time to make hers.

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Otto Hightower observed the council chamber, eyes narrowing with concentration. The room was enveloped in a subdued hum, voices blending in a genteel cacophony that suggested a deliberation of earnest, albeit uneasy minds. The small council sat assembled, expressions ranging from the stern composure of Vaemond Velaryon to the veiled cunning of Larys Strong as they discussed matters of grain, ships, and gold, all wound in the knotty web of Westerosi affairs. The Hand of the King leaned forward, his fingertips lightly brushing the edges of the painted map of Westeros that lay before them, feeling the coarseness of the vellum beneath his skin as he considered her with a distant expression.

Mysaria—the dancer from Lys, though now she styled herself with the respectability that came with titles bestowed by her prince. The base-born woman, her alabaster skin stark against the deep reds she wore, stood at the other end of the council's oval table.

She had begun her presentation a while ago, her voice, always tinged with that foreign lilt, cutting through the chamber like the keenest of blades. Otto had listened with guarded attention, though the entire concept of a commoner—a whore no less—now standing amongst them as Prince Aemond's Secretary of Trade and Foreign Affairs was an affront that tugged against every tendon in his neck., The woman had risen, true enough, but to sit amongst the lords of Westeros? Unthinkable.

And yet, unthinkable did not mean without merit. Prince Aemond had, regrettably, seen something in her—and, even more irksome, she had proven herself worthy of his trust. Otto could scarcely find fault in her performance, and today, as she unfolded the news from Braavos, he sensed the council hanging on to every word she uttered.

"The Iron Bank, as I've outlined," Mysaria said, her tone devoid of emotion, "intends to leverage their considerable influence against us. Westeros has become a target, and the Dragon's Bank is at risk of being undercut both at home and in Essos. Lords who owe the Iron Bank will feel its demands, especially those smaller houses, as their reliance on Braavosi coin would see their solvency undermined. Our sources abroad suspect that funding aimed at subsidizing competing financial institutions and businesses across Lys, Myr, and Volantis is already being amassed. They seek to create discord among our allies, render our lending and adjacent business ventures abroad unprofitable, and isolate and outbid the bank's investments in the Free Cities. They will bring a storm, my lords, and we must decide whether we bear it or turn it back upon them."

She paused, her pale eyes meeting those around the table. Otto took the opportunity, clearing his throat pointedly—a sound that echoed briefly, drawing all attention towards him. "If I may," he began, keeping his voice measured, authoritative. "Prince Aemond has taken upon himself a heavy mantle, playing in the shadows where others might see only danger. This manoeuvre by the Iron Bank is not unforeseen. Indeed, it is unsurprising that the Iron Bank would not watch their monopoly erode without a response. However, the Dragon's Bank, for all its foundations in power, was conceived amid threat. Hence, my concern, Madam Secretary, is whether we are now positioned to weather a concerted strike from Braavos."

Otto allowed his gaze to travel slowly around the table, studying each of his fellow council members in turn. Alicent's face was drawn, though she managed a look of resolve. Tyland Lannister had a calculating glint in his eyes, as though already estimating the costs of the coming conflict. Vaemond Velaryon seemed eager. The others remained cautious, though not entirely without determination.

His gaze returned to the secretary and Mysaria tilted her head, the long earrings that hung from her ears catching the light of the council chamber's braziers. "Prince Aemond has been preparing for this, it seems—more than you might think, Lord Hand," she said, meeting his gaze without much emotion. "I only just discovered that there are arrangements in place to issue debt refinancing and partial forgiveness aimed at keeping the affected fiefs in check—vulnerable lords will be offered new terms and low-interest loans, ensuring they retain solvency and loyalty to the Crown. Emergency credit lines will be extended as needed. And in the Free Cities, the Dragon's Bank will move to match the Iron Bank's subsidies, leveraging our own alliances—particularly in Lys, Myr, and Volantis—to outbid them and make their efforts an unsustainable expense. Where Braavos pressures, we counter with support. We allow those houses to breathe, we become indispensable. That is the prince's design."

She turned, gesturing with one slim hand as though she were offering the council members something tangible. Her words continued, describing detailed plans to undercut the Iron Bank by offering temporarily reduced interest rates and forging new partnerships in places like Pentos and Qarth, where Braavosi influence was less pervasive.

Larys Strong, Lord Confessor, who had thus far remained silent, spoke. "If the Braavosi grow desperate enough to disrupt trade with piracy, or resort to sabotage, how prepared are we for such an escalation?"

"Prince believes it to be a possibility," Mysaria said, her tone dipped in neutrality. "Hence, we are already enacting preemptive measures and diversifying our routes—overland, if need be—to bypass our most vulnerable trade routes. The prince also suggested that the fleet at the Stepstones be employed to patrol our most important routes as a deterrence against overt hostilities. A proposal has also been sent to Ser Vaemond this morning to confirm the viability of this plan but I have yet to get a response."

Vaemond nodded, a thin smile playing on his lips. "I still have to confirm the status of the vessels Lord Corlys would be returning with before giving any assurances, but we may work out a compromise regardless. The Velaryon fleet stands ready, Lord Hand. The enemy will find no easy prey among our ships."

Otto turned his gaze back to Mysaria and she continued. "Aside from that," she said, "I am looking into expanding our network of bonded warehouses to ensure goods are secured even if shipping routes are delayed or disrupted," she said. "We are also looking to encourage the pirates of the Basilisk Isles to… target Braavosi ships, should they endeavour to do the same. Although, I pray it doesn't come to that."

Orwyle, who had until now contented himself with quiet observation, leaned back in his seat. "This will be a costly venture," he pointed out. "Do we have enough gold to support such an endeavour?"

Mysaria's lips tightened for a moment, a rare show of emotion. "We do, Grand Maester, and can supplement the bank's coffers by issuing a limited amount of bonds should the need arise. However, Prince Aemond left instructions to inform the council that his plan would severely eat into our bottom line if executed. The bank might be unprofitable for a short while, at least until the market acclimatises to the changes in the status quo. Yet, what I fear most is the Sealord's interference. Surely, with the stance the Iron Bank is taking, he may choose to hinder our trade more overtly in order to curry favour with the power brokers of his city."

Otto nodded in understanding. "Alright, I will dispatch an emissary to treat with the Sealord then, to remind him that Braavos has benefited greatly from balanced relations with Westeros. An unstable realm does not serve their interests, and they would do well to remember it. But beyond diplomacy, I need you to take the initiative to also look within Braavos itself. The Iron Bank is not beloved by all in its city. There surely would exist factions who may be swayed, mercantile interests that dislike the risks being taken on their behalf. If we fracture Braavos internally, their stance weakens."

Mysaria nodded, her lips curving into a slight smile,,. "The Prince left such instructions, Lord Hand. I shall see to it that they are executed to your satisfaction."

Otto allowed himself a tight smile, though it did not reach his eyes. "You have spoken much of Aemond's foresight," he said. "And yet, it strikes me that our prince flies to the North of all places instead of returning immediately after his foray to the Eyrie, leaving us to now face the repercussions of his bold dealings in Essos. What assurances have we that these measures will hold while he is away?"

"Prince Aemond has left us with his plans, and with those empowered to act," Mysaria replied, her voice quiet but firm. "He trusts that the council, with the wisdom of the Hand at its head, will do what must be done. As for the outcome of this plan, I personally have long learned to execute the prince's will without protest; that, I assure you, has yet to fail me so far."

A moment of silence settled over the room, tension visible in the lines etched across Otto's forehead. He looked to Wylde and Orwyle, both of whom nodded gravely, weighing the details presented. Finally, Otto leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before him.

"Very well," he said at last, his voice cutting through the silence. "We must not allow Braavos to dictate the terms of Westeros's future." He glanced at Vaemond. "Ser Velaryon, your fleet… are you certain it would be ready to ensure the safety of our waters?"

Vaemond inclined his head, his voice measured. "It will be, Lord Hand."

Otto nodded and turned back to Mysaria. "See that Aemond's instructions are carried out, Madam. The Dragon's Bank must not falter. And remember—the eyes of the world is upon us. We stand firm, and we act decisively. All must see that the house of the Dragon knows neither fear nor vulnerability."