"The gods have yet to make a man who lacks the patience for absolute power."

―Otto Hightower

…

The rain fell steadily against the windows of Otto Hightower's chambers, a persistent patter that accompanied the deep quiet of the hour. The Hand of the King, ever a picture of industrious diligence, was seated at his desk, his spectacles perched upon his nose as he perused yet another parchment. Though his face bore the marks of years spent wrestling the ambitions of others, there was still in his countenance an air of superiority, born of his own belief in his unimpeachable wisdom.

It was, therefore, with some irritation that he heard the faint creak of the door, followed by the deliberate tread of boots upon the floor. Otto's gaze lifted, his irritation blunting slightly as he beheld the figure of his grandson. Prince Aemond had entered without so much as a knock, his cloak heavy with rain and his expression bearing its usual severity.

"Do my chambers now serve as a thoroughfare?" Otto inquired dryly, setting his quill aside. "Or have you come to enliven my evening with your company?"

Aemond said nothing at first. He moved to the hearth, standing in its faint glow as he unpinned his cloak and draped it over a chair. His movements were precise, deliberate. Only when he had turned back to face his grandfather did he speak.

"I have come, grandsire," he said, his tone as measured as ever, "to deliver news of no small consequence."

Otto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands with deliberate composure. "Do tell."

The young prince approached, his movements precise and devoid of haste as he settled into the chair opposite Otto. "There is no easy way to say this," Aemond began, "so I shall not attempt ease. Viserys is being deposed."

The words struck like a blow, but Otto's expression betrayed nothing. He tilted his head, his fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. "What nonsense do you speak?"

"I mean what I say." Aemond's voice was calm, his tone devoid of theatrics. "Viserys is no longer in residence. He has been moved—securely, quietly. For reasons I shall presently make clear, his continued presence here posed a risk to the stability of the realm."

Otto's lips parted, but no words came. His silence stretched as his mind worked furiously, piecing together implications and contingencies. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.

"You've detained the King," he said. It was not a question.

"I have ensured the stability of the realm," Aemond corrected. "Viserys is a risk that must be managed with care."

Otto's lips thinned into a line of displeasure. "A risk? That must be managed? You speak of your father, the King."

"Yes," Aemond replied, without hesitation. "And I do so with full understanding of the gravity of my actions. His affection for Rhaenyra and her children has clouded his judgment beyond repair. Hours ago, he sought to obstruct my betrothal to Lady Jeyne Arryn, a match that secures the Vale's loyalty. Worse still, he threatened action that if ignored would eroded the very foundations of the Dragon's Bank, a cornerstone of the realm's future prosperity."

Otto stared at his grandson, his face a mask of incredulity. "You detained the King," he said, slowly and with great emphasis. "And yet I heard nothing of it? Not a whisper?"

"Preparations were made," Aemond replied evenly. "It was necessary. Viserys's intentions were as predictable as they were misguided. I took precautions, and the matter was resolved without incident. He is alive, though I will not deny that his continued survival is no longer… essential."

Otto rose from his chair, his hands pressing flat against the desk. "Do you hear yourself, boy? You speak of your father's life as though it were a ledger to be balanced."

"Because it is," Aemond said, his voice never rising. "Viserys's death will be mourned, but it will not disrupt the order we have built. Even now, the Silent Sisters tend a corpse—one that will lie in state by morning, wrapped for a funeral befitting a King. By the time the sun sets tomorrow, Aegon will wear the crown."

At this, Otto's composure slipped, if only briefly. "Aegon? Why not you? You would enthrone that lout? That… that libertine?"

"Aegon is the rightful heir," Aemond replied, his gaze steady. "And, more importantly, he will do as he is told. The lords of the realm will rally to him, and he will rule… in appearance, if not in practice."

Otto turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced to the window. "And Alicent? Does she know of this treachery?"

"She does not," Aemond admitted, "She cannot. Let Mother grieve with a clear conscience, as befits her nature. The realm requires strength, not sentimentality. Informing her invites unneeded complications."

Otto sighed heavily, staring out at the rain-soaked courtyard. "This is a dangerous game you play, Aemond. If even a whisper of this reaches the wrong ears…"

"It will not," Aemond said calmly. "I have seen to that."

The Hand turned, his gaze sharp. "And what of the council? They will not blindly accept Aegon as King, particularly with no explanation for Viserys's sudden passing."

"They will accept," Aemond replied. "You will see to it, grandsire. You will summon the council and speak of the King's failing health, his desire to see his trueborn son crowned. They will follow your lead, as they always have."

Otto regarded his grandson for a long moment, his expression unreadable. At last, he shook his head, though whether in disapproval or grudging admiration, it was difficult to say. "You have a talent for walking the edge of ruin, Aemond."

"Ruin comes to those who lack resolve," Aemond said, his tone cool. "I trust you will do what is required. Summon the council. We must act before the city stirs."

"I will leave you to your work, grandsire," he exhaled as he rose to his feet. "There is much to prepare."

Without waiting for a reply, Aemond turned and made his way to the door. Otto watched him go, his mind already racing with the steps that must be taken. When the door closed, the Hand sank back into his chair, the weight of the storm ahead settling heavily upon him.

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The halls of the Red Keep were restless that morning, shadows lengthening in the faint light of the torches that burned low along its narrow corridors. Otto moved swiftly, the cool air biting against his skin even within the fortress walls. His cloak billowed behind him, its heavy folds reflecting the haste of its wearer. Though his face bore the accustomed mask of solemn authority, his thoughts were less composed. The task before him was one of delicate necessity, and the price of failure loomed heavy in his mind.

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The Small Council chamber was sparsely filled when he arrived, its occupants trickling in at his summons. Prince Aemond and Lord Jasper Wylde were already seated, the latter's beady eyes following Otto's every movement as though to divine the purpose of this urgent meeting. Ser Cole loomed silently in the background. Vaemond Velayron entered next while Tyland Lannister shuffled in behind him with the weariness of one roused too early for matters he did not fully understand. Maester Orwyle followed with his ever-present chain clinking softly. Only Alicent was absent, and Otto had no doubt her arrival would bring its own complications.

When the doors finally closed, and the murmur of questions settled into an expectant quiet, Otto cleared his throat. The weight of his years seemed to settle more heavily upon him as he took his seat at the head of the table.

"My lords," he began, his voice steady though not without gravity, "I have summoned you here to discuss matters of the utmost consequence. The King, Viserys the First of His Name, has departed this world."

The proclamation landed like a stone dropped into still water. There was a collective intake of breath, though no one spoke at once. The room felt colder somehow, the absence of Alicent suddenly conspicuous.

"His Grace," Otto continued, "in his final hours, penned a will, witnessed by those in his service and stamped with his seal. It was his dying wish that his son, Aegon, succeed him as King of the Seven Kingdoms."

He reached into his cloak to produce a document. The parchment bore the King's seal, though the handwriting was shaky and uneven—a reflection, Otto had taken care to emphasize in his prepared remarks, of Viserys's deteriorating condition. He placed the paper upon the table, allowing the council's eyes to linger over it.

Jasper Wylde was the first to speak, his tone measured. "This is… unexpected. I was not aware the King's wishes had changed."

"They did, my lord, in his final hours," Otto replied, his voice calm though edged with insistence. "He saw the wisdom of preserving the unity of the realm and placing it in the hands of his trueborn son."

Tyland squinted at the document, his skepticism plain. "Strange, is it not, that His Grace saw fit to confide this decision in no one until the last?"

Otto's lips tightened. "The King was often a man of private reflections, my lord. I need not remind you that his health has been failing for some time. His mind, however, was clear enough to see what must be done."

The tension in the room was palpable, but before another voice could raise a question, the doors swung open, and Alicent Hightower entered. Her steps were brisk, her face pale and drawn. Otto felt a pang of regret—for the manner, not the necessity—but he quickly masked it.

"My lords," Alicent said, her voice sharp, "you speak of my husband's intent, yet it seems his death was not worth informing his wife."

Her accusation struck a chord that even Otto's practiced composure could not entirely deflect. "Alicent—"

"Do not Alicent me," she interrupted, advancing to the table. "You summon a council before dawn to speak of succession, yet I must learn of Viserys's death here, as though it were a matter of state and not the passing of my husband. You thought it best to let me grieve in public, like a spectacle?"

The lords around the table exchanged glances, some startled, others intrigued by this rare outburst from the Queen. Otto stood, his voice softening in an attempt to placate her. "This was not my intent, Alicent. But time is not our ally. The matter of the throne must be settled swiftly, for the good of the realm."

"Time?" Alicent's voice wavered. "You speak of time as though it excuses this… this deceit! What have you planned in my name, without my knowledge?"

Otto hesitated, then pressed forward. "Viserys's will is clear. Aegon must ascend the throne, and swiftly. The question now is how to secure the succession."

Alicent's brow furrowed, suspicion tightening her features. "And what of Rhaenyra? What of her children?"

Otto's tone grew firmer. "The former heir must not be allowed to remain free, lest she rally support against her brother. She and her household must swear loyalty to King Aegon."

"And if they do not?" Alicent retorted. "You know well she would not accept this."

Otto's pause was answer enough. Alicent's voice dropped, cold and angry. "You mean to kill her."

"The alternative," Otto said quietly, "is chaos. War. Thousands dead. The King—Viserys, in his wisdom—would not have wished for his legacy to be marred by strife."

A gasp escaped Alicent's lips, and her expression turned to one of horror. "And yet you dare invoke his name to justify the murder of his daughter?"

Jasper Wylde, his voice tentative, broke in. "Your Grace, Lord Hand is merely suggesting—"

"I will hear no such suggestions!" Alicent snapped. "Another word from you, my lord, and I will see you in black and bound for the Wall."

The silence was deafening, save for the distant patter of rain. It was Tyland who finally spoke, his voice measured. "If the Queen rejects the Hand's counsel, what alternative would she propose? Should Rhaenyra raise her banners, it will mean bloodshed. Surely, we must act."

Alicent faltered, her lips parting as if to speak, but no answer came. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of expectation suffocating. It was then that Aemond rose, his movements slow and deliberate. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, yet edged with finality.

"There is no need for bloodshed," he said, rising from his seat.

All eyes turned to him, and he continued, his tone even. "I will fly to Dragonstone. Personally. I will speak with Rhaenyra and her husband. Perhaps they may be persuaded to accept terms."

"Terms?" Otto's tone was skeptical. "You risk much, Aemond."

"I risk less than you would in sending butchers," Aemond replied. "This is not a matter for steel. At least, not yet."

Otto stared at his grandson disapprovingly, but it was clear the room had shifted. The council murmured its reluctant agreement, and Alicent's gaze softened, though her anger did not abate entirely. Otto, sensing the council's sentiment turning, inclined his head.

"Very well," he said at last, though his tone carried the weight of his displeasure. "The matter is yours, my prince. Let us hope your mercy does not cost us the realm."