Otto Hightower's smile was a masterpiece of political art. It was warm, supportive, and utterly false. He stood before his king in Viserys's private solar, the model of a loyal Hand, ready to embrace his monarch's wisdom.
"A brilliant suggestion from the Princess, Your Grace," Otto began, his tone perfectly pitched. Inside, his mind was a whirlwind of cold calculation. The Potter boy was a phantom, an unknown power, and sending Aemond into his grasp was a risk. But to oppose the King now, to seem fearful or protective of his own blood, would be a fatal misstep. The key was not to block the move, but to control it. "A bond between the Crown and this rising northern power is an opportunity we cannot afford to miss."
He let the approval wash over the King before continuing. "In fact, the bond is so vital, I believe we must send our very best envoy. Prince Aegon. As the elder son, it is his honor, his duty, to be the one to forge this alliance. To build a foundation of trust for his siblings to follow."
He watched the idea take root in Viserys's mind. Honor. Duty. Precedence. These were concepts the King clung to like a drowning man to a raft. Viserys's face brightened. "Yes. Yes, of course. You are right, Otto. It should be Aegon."
Otto bowed his head, hiding his satisfaction. The risk was now immense. Aegon was the center of his ambition, the future he was meticulously building. But the potential reward was immeasurable. Either this mysterious Lord Potter would be exposed as a fraud unable to handle a true prince, or Aegon—his Aegon—would learn to command the loyalty of this staggering new power. It was a worthy gambit.
That night, Rhaenyra's face in the silver locket was laced with concern. "Aegon is not the second son, Harry. He is his mother's pride, and he has the temper of a spoiled cat."
"A young branch bends most easily," Harry's voice replied, a deep well of calm. "It is Aegon we must shape. Do not worry, Princess. We will welcome the prince."
A year later, five-year-old Aegon Targaryen stood on a cold, windswept dock, his world shrunk to the size of his mother's weeping face and his grandfather's stern lecture on duty. Then he was handed over to silent, grey-clad strangers and guided onto a ship that moved without sails, cutting through the waves like a phantom.
His arrival on Skagos was a profound and personal insult. The air was so cold it bit at his lungs. The people were quiet and looked at him with plain, unawed eyes. His room in the great, dark citadel was clean and warm, but it was simple, furnished with sturdy wood, not gilded finery. He threw his first tantrum that very evening, screaming for his mother, for his silken sheets, for servants who would obey him.
Lord Potter simply watched him from the doorway, his green eyes unsettlingly patient. He did not scold or comfort. He just waited. When Aegon's screams had devolved into hiccuping sobs, the man entered the room, placed a glass of water on the bedside table, and left without a word. It was the most infuriating thing Aegon had ever experienced.
The days that followed were a quiet, grinding assault on his entire world. The man called Sirius taught him swordplay with a wooden stick, sweeping his legs out from under him just as he would any other clumsy boy. He was made to sit for lessons beside Skagosi children who could already read and write better than he could.
The true change began when Harry took him to the high cliffs overlooking the sea. He showed Aegon the fleet, the dark ships moving with purpose in the harbor below. "They are not for conquering, Aegon," Harry said, his voice as calm as the deep water. "They are here to make sure the people on this island have enough to eat, and that no one can ever take that from them. Power is a shield, not a sword. Remember that."
Then, he took him to the Dragon Dells. From a safe distance, hidden in an outcropping of rock, Aegon saw a nation of dragons. He saw Dreamfyre, a flash of blue and silver, dive into a canyon. He saw the Bronze Fury sunning himself on a cliff face, a literal mountain of dormant power. And then, from the smoking volcano, Balerion rose.
The sight broke something in the boy's mind. The spoiled, petulant prince fell silent. This was not a chained beast in a pit. This was a god. A true dragon, with four legs and a gaze that held the wisdom of the earth's core. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. It was a power so immense it made the Iron Throne, the Red Keep, and all his mother's ambitions seem like the squabbles of insects.
Six months after his departure, a scroll bearing the prince's seal arrived at the Red Keep. Queen Alicent opened it with trembling hands, praying for a letter full of complaints, a cry for her to come and rescue him.
Her breath caught. The script was surprisingly steady.
Mother, it read. Lord Potter says the Wraith can cross the narrow sea in two days. Is that faster than Uncle Daemon's Caraxes can fly? The Bronze Fury is larger than the skull in the throne room. Sirius is teaching me a low guard. Yesterday I helped a boy named Kael mend a fishing net. It is harder than it looks.
She read it again. Then a third time. There were no complaints. No demands. No mention of his status or his comforts. Only questions of speed and scale, and a simple statement about mending a net. A cold, maternal dread, sharp and unfamiliar, coiled in her stomach. These were not the thoughts of her son.
Otto read the letter over her shoulder, his face impassive. But she saw it. The slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes became hard, distant points of grey stone.
They had sent their most precious pawn into the heart of an unknown power, confident in his royal temperament. But the craftsman they had sent him to was a master. He wasn't just strengthening their prince. He was recasting him, forging him into something new. Something that might no longer be theirs.
Chapter 15: The Gilded Pawn
Otto Hightower's smile was a masterpiece of political art. It was warm, supportive, and utterly false. He stood before his king in Viserys's private solar, the model of a loyal Hand, ready to embrace his monarch's wisdom.
"A brilliant suggestion from the Princess, Your Grace," Otto began, his tone perfectly pitched. Inside, his mind was a whirlwind of cold calculation. The Potter boy was a phantom, an unknown power, and sending Aemond into his grasp was a risk. But to oppose the King now, to seem fearful or protective of his own blood, would be a fatal misstep. The key was not to block the move, but to control it. "A bond between the Crown and this rising northern power is an opportunity we cannot afford to miss."
He let the approval wash over the King before continuing. "In fact, the bond is so vital, I believe we must send our very best envoy. Prince Aegon. As the elder son, it is his honor, his duty, to be the one to forge this alliance. To build a foundation of trust for his siblings to follow."
He watched the idea take root in Viserys's mind. Honor. Duty. Precedence. These were concepts the King clung to like a drowning man to a raft. Viserys's face brightened. "Yes. Yes, of course. You are right, Otto. It should be Aegon."
Otto bowed his head, hiding his satisfaction. The risk was now immense. Aegon was the center of his ambition, the future he was meticulously building. But the potential reward was immeasurable. Either this mysterious Lord Potter would be exposed as a fraud unable to handle a true prince, or Aegon—his Aegon—would learn to command the loyalty of this staggering new power. It was a worthy gambit.
That night, Rhaenyra's face in the silver locket was laced with concern. "Aegon is not the second son, Harry. He is his mother's pride, and he has the temper of a spoiled cat."
"A young branch bends most easily," Harry's voice replied, a deep well of calm. "It is Aegon we must shape. Do not worry, Princess. We will welcome the prince."
A year later, five-year-old Aegon Targaryen stood on a cold, windswept dock, his world shrunk to the size of his mother's weeping face and his grandfather's stern lecture on duty. Then he was handed over to silent, grey-clad strangers and guided onto a ship that moved without sails, cutting through the waves like a phantom.
His arrival on Skagos was a profound and personal insult. The air was so cold it bit at his lungs. The people were quiet and looked at him with plain, unawed eyes. His room in the great, dark citadel was clean and warm, but it was simple, furnished with sturdy wood, not gilded finery. He threw his first tantrum that very evening, screaming for his mother, for his silken sheets, for servants who would obey him.
Lord Potter simply watched him from the doorway, his green eyes unsettlingly patient. He did not scold or comfort. He just waited. When Aegon's screams had devolved into hiccuping sobs, the man entered the room, placed a glass of water on the bedside table, and left without a word. It was the most infuriating thing Aegon had ever experienced.
The days that followed were a quiet, grinding assault on his entire world. The man called Sirius taught him swordplay with a wooden stick, sweeping his legs out from under him just as he would any other clumsy boy. He was made to sit for lessons beside Skagosi children who could already read and write better than he could.
The true change began when Harry took him to the high cliffs overlooking the sea. He showed Aegon the fleet, the dark ships moving with purpose in the harbor below. "They are not for conquering, Aegon," Harry said, his voice as calm as the deep water. "They are here to make sure the people on this island have enough to eat, and that no one can ever take that from them. Power is a shield, not a sword. Remember that."
Then, he took him to the Dragon Dells. From a safe distance, hidden in an outcropping of rock, Aegon saw a nation of dragons. He saw Dreamfyre, a flash of blue and silver, dive into a canyon. He saw the Bronze Fury sunning himself on a cliff face, a literal mountain of dormant power. And then, from the smoking volcano, Balerion rose.
The sight broke something in the boy's mind. The spoiled, petulant prince fell silent. This was not a chained beast in a pit. This was a god. A true dragon, with four legs and a gaze that held the wisdom of the earth's core. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. It was a power so immense it made the Iron Throne, the Red Keep, and all his mother's ambitions seem like the squabbles of insects.
Six months after his departure, a scroll bearing the prince's seal arrived at the Red Keep. Queen Alicent opened it with trembling hands, praying for a letter full of complaints, a cry for her to come and rescue him.
Her breath caught. The script was surprisingly steady.
Mother, it read. Lord Potter says the Wraith can cross the narrow sea in two days. Is that faster than Uncle Daemon's Caraxes can fly? The Bronze Fury is larger than the skull in the throne room. Sirius is teaching me a low guard. Yesterday I helped a boy named Kael mend a fishing net. It is harder than it looks.
She read it again. Then a third time. There were no complaints. No demands. No mention of his status or his comforts. Only questions of speed and scale, and a simple statement about mending a net. A cold, maternal dread, sharp and unfamiliar, coiled in her stomach. These were not the thoughts of her son.
Otto read the letter over her shoulder, his face impassive. But she saw it. The slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes became hard, distant points of grey stone.
They had sent their most precious pawn into the heart of an unknown power, confident in his royal temperament. But the craftsman they had sent him to was a master. He wasn't just strengthening their prince. He was recasting him, forging him into something new. Something that might no longer be theirs.