The Small Council chamber was Otto Hightower's personal stage, and today's performance was for an audience of one: the Princess Rhaenyra. He had laid the trap with meticulous care—a proposed tariff on Dornish silk that was deliberately provocative, designed to elicit a fiery, emotional response from her that he could then gently dismantle before the King, proving her unsuitability for rule. He leaned back, the very picture of reason, and laid out his final point.
Rhaenyra, from her seat beside her father, felt the familiar surge of heat, the Targaryen temper that Otto played like a master musician plays a harp. In the past, she would have risen to the bait, her voice sharp with indignation. But now, she saw the moves before they were made. She saw the trap. She let the anger wash through her and then let it recede, leaving behind a cold, clear calm.
"An interesting proposal, Lord Hand," she said, her voice even and thoughtful. The entire council turned to look at her, surprised by her placid tone. "The coffers are indeed strained, and new revenue is always welcome. Perhaps Lord Beesbury could prepare a report on the potential impact on our own merchants before we proceed? Your foresight, as always, is commendable."
She watched the flicker of annoyance in Otto's eyes, so brief that no one else would have noticed it. He had expected a firebrand; she had given him a bureaucrat. He had lost his opening, and she had done it with a polite smile. It was a small victory, but it tasted sweeter than any tourney prize.
Her uncle Daemon was a different kind of beast. When he returned to court, reeking of the salt and blood of the Stepstones, he sought her out in the gardens. He expected his favorite niece, the adoring girl who saw him as a rogue hero.
He found a woman instead.
"You've lost two ships this month," she stated, not as a criticism, but as a fact, as they walked past a bed of roses. "Your line is stretched thin, and the Triarchy knows it. What is your endgame, uncle? A king needs more than a pile of rocks to have a kingdom."
Daemon stopped, turning to face her. The familiar, wild grin was gone, replaced by a look of sharp, intrigued assessment. He saw the new steel in her spine, the calculating intelligence in her eyes. This wasn't the girl he'd gifted a Valyrian steel necklace to. This was a player.
"And what would you know of endgames, little dragon?" he murmured, a genuine curiosity in his voice.
"I know that a dragon that shrieks its presence to the world is easily hunted," she replied smoothly. "While the one that hides in the shadows is the one that truly holds power."
He stared at her for a long moment, then a slow, true smile spread across his face. It was not the smile of a doting uncle. It was a smile of respect.
Later that night, Rhaenyra sat in her chambers, the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the sleeping city. She held the small, plain silver locket in her hand, its surface cool against her skin. She whispered his name, "Harry," and the metal warmed, the polished surface shimmering like water. His face resolved in the silver, his expression calm, the familiar sight a balm to her soul.
"He's parading Aegon at court again," she said, her frustration a raw nerve. "The boy can barely walk, and Otto has him in Targaryen colours, showing him off to every visiting lord like a prize pig. They are building a narrative, Harry. The proper male heir, the Andal traditions. They are writing me out of the story."
"Then we must offer a better story," Harry's voice came from the locket, calm and certain. "A story of strength, discipline, and loyalty. Viserys values those things, especially now that he feels so weak himself. It is time for Lord Potter to earn his favor in a way that cannot be ignored."
The opportunity came like a prayer answered. A blight in the Reach, a failed harvest. The Small Council descended into panicked debates over loans and rationing. And then, the Obsidian Hand's fleet appeared in the bay like a dark omen of salvation. They came laden with grain, thousands of tons of it, offered to the Crown at a price so low it was practically a gift.
Otto Hightower saw his plans to leverage the Reach lords crumble to dust. The common folk, however, saw a miracle. They lined the streets, cheering as the disciplined, grey-clad agents of the Hand distributed sacks of grain, their quiet efficiency a stark contrast to the government's bumbling. The name "Potter" was toasted in every tavern in Flea Bottom.
In the throne room, King Viserys was effusive. "You have saved my city from a hard winter, Lord Potter. The Crown, and the people, are in your debt."
Harry, playing the part of the humble, powerful lord, simply bowed his head. It was Rhaenyra, standing by her father's side, who made the move.
"Lord Potter's people are a testament to his leadership, Father," she said, her voice ringing with sincerity. "They are hardy, disciplined, loyal. Such an influence… it is something my young brothers should be exposed to. Away from the soft intrigues of this court, for a time. To forge them into strong men, worthy of our name."
Viserys blinked, his mind slowly turning the idea over. It was novel. It was… appealing. Later that day, in his private chambers, he said to his Hand, "Princess Rhaenyra made a surprisingly clever point today, Otto. Young Aemond is a serious boy. Perhaps in a year or two, a period of fostering on Skagos, under the tutelage of the good Lord Potter, would instill some of that northern strength in him. Solidify his character."
Otto Hightower's polite smile was a perfect, frozen mask. His own grandson, the second son of the King, sent away to be shaped by this mysterious, powerful upstart from a savage island? He felt a cold dread snake its way up his spine. He had been playing checkers with children, moving to counter their predictable, emotional moves.
He realized now, with a chilling certainty, that he was playing against a grandmaster, one who was moving pieces he couldn't even see.