The morning light slanted through the narrow windows of the council chamber, pale and cold. Dust drifted in slow spirals, stirred by the shuffle of parchment and the murmurs of old men.
"...a rise in tariffs from Braavos," Lord Beesbury was saying, squinting down at the vellum before him, his voice a dry rasp. "If the crown does not answer in kind, it shall appear weak."
"Or prudent," said Lord Corlys Velaryon, his tone clipped, proud as the gleam of his chainmail. "Braavos is no true rival to our fleets, my lord. They seek to provoke, not trade. A measured silence costs less than another embargo."
Otto Hightower listened from the Hand's seat, his fingers steepled. His eyes flicked between them — Beesbury fussing with figures, Corlys's sharp gaze steady on him. "The crown will not be drawn into petty contests of pride," Otto said at last. His voice carried no heat, only the weight of reason. "Trade is our lifeblood. I will not see it spent for the sake of a bruised ego."
Across the table, Prince Daemon lounged in his chair like a wolf among hounds. "You speak as if you command the fleets yourself, my lord Hand," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Perhaps you should — though I wonder if the tides would obey your ledgers."
Otto did not rise to it. "Tides obey no man, your grace. But coin does, and coin feeds your City Watch as surely as grain feeds the smallfolk."
Daemon's violet eyes glinted, all sharp amusement. "You think to lecture me on the cost of order?"
"No," Otto said softly, "only to remind you that even order must be accounted for."
For a heartbeat, the chamber stilled. Then Viserys, seated at the head, let out a low chuckle that broke the tension. "You two will drive me to madness yet," he said with weary warmth. "Enough of tariffs. Let us speak of the next tourney — The twins nameday approaches, and I'd see it marked properly."
Otto bowed his head slightly, masking the faint twist of his mouth. Viserys's fondness for spectacle was predictable, costly, and precisely what Otto would have to balance by day's end.
When the meeting was adjourned, the lords dispersed like crows from a field. Otto lingered long enough to exchange a few quiet words with Corlys — formal, clipped, a careful dance of courtesy between two men who saw the realm's fortunes differently.
"Your caution serves you well, Lord Hand," Corlys said, adjusting his cloak of sea-blue velvet. "But ships unmoved gather rot."
"And storms waste fleets sent out too soon," Otto replied. "We both know the worth of patience."
Corlys smiled thinly, the sea in his eyes cold and knowing. "Patience is a virtue of men who have no oars in their hands."
They parted with the faintest of bows.
---
That evening, the Red Keep was quieter, the torches casting long shadows along the stone. Otto sat by the hearth in his solar, reading through petitions, when the door opened softly.
Alicent entered with careful grace, her steps hushed. She curtsied. "Father."
He set the parchment aside. "Come. Sit. You were with Princess Rhaenyra today, were you not?"
"Yes, my lord." She took her seat, folding her hands in her lap. Her face was composed, but her eyes shone with the faint eagerness of youth.
Otto watched her — his daughter, now a young woman of keen wit and gentle poise. "And how fares the princess?"
"She is well," Alicent said, smiling faintly. "Her Grace the Queen keeps her busy with her lessons. She complains often, though never before her mother. Lady Leana joined us for embroidery, but the princess has little patience for the needle."
"She never did," Otto murmured. "And the princes?"
Alicent's expression brightened slightly, pleased to be of use. "Prince Maekar is proud — too proud, perhaps — but the Queen favors him. The maesters say he is clever, though restless. He speaks often with the dragonkeepers."
"Restless," Otto repeated, musing. "And Prince Daeron?"
"Gentle," she said. "He listens to Rhaenyra more than to Maekar. They are close."
Otto nodded, his mind already turning over the shape of things unseen — the Queen's favor, the princes' tempers, the faint currents that tugged at the balance of the court. Alicent's words were threads, and from them he could weave patterns.
"You did well," he said. "The court speaks through its children as much as its lords. Attend her again tomorrow. Listen. Observe. You need not pry — the truth reveals itself in what is not said."
Alicent dipped her head. "As you wish, Father."
He reached forward, brushing her knuckles gently. "Good girl."
Outside, the bells of the city tolled faintly across the dusk. Otto sat back, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. In a keep full of dragons, fire, and pride, knowledge was his flame — quiet, clean, and enduring.
---
Later, when the hour had grown late, Otto penned a short letter. His script was fine and measured, each word a blade sheathed in courtesy.
> To Lord Lyonel Strong,
The King has spoken again of the coming tourney. I would value your counsel regarding expenditures — discreetly. Speak nothing of this to Lord Beesbury; he is too fond of sums and too blind to sense.
He sealed it with green wax and the crowned tower of House Hightower, then handed it to a silent page.
As the door closed, Otto looked out toward the dark city below. From the Red Keep's height, the lights of Flea Bottom shimmered like a field of embers. He thought of Viserys's laughter in the council chamber, of Daemon's smirk, of Corlys's challenge, and of his daughter's quiet eyes.
Every flame, he knew, could be guided — if one only learned how to feed it.