Otto Hightower was widely remembered in the books as the chief architect of the Dance of the Dragons, the most dangerous ambition-monger ever to lurk behind the Iron Throne. To Baelon, that reputation alone was reason enough for death.
From the moment Baelon was born to this life with memory intact, he had intended to grind Otto to dust and scatter his ashes to the winds.
The old man still lived for one reason only. The balance of power, for now, leaned in Baelon's favor, and killing Otto too soon would tear that balance apart. More importantly, there were others whose voices could not be ignored. Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and above all Alicent. Their feelings, fragile as they were, still restrained his hand.
That restraint alone spared Otto's life.
For now.
Especially since Alicent had yet to give birth to Daeron, the youngest son who in later years would be remembered for courtesy, discipline, and an almost tragic gentleness. Baelor would not stain that child's fate by spilling blood too early.
This return to King's Landing had three purposes.
First, Otto Hightower would die.
Second, every hidden threat within the capital would be dragged into the light and crushed.
Third, Baelon would seize full authority over the education of Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and the unborn Daeron.
The roots of the Greens' future hatred toward Rhaenyra had never been mysterious to him. Otto and Alicent had failed as teachers. They had filled those children with fear and grievance, shaping them to see Rhaenyra not as kin but as an enemy who would one day destroy them.
And truthfully, Rhaenyra herself in the books had done little to disprove those fears. Her recklessness, her lack of foresight, and her inability to strike decisively had allowed the Greens to grow stronger year by year, until the realm stood split in two.
All of Baelon's designs required patience.
For the moment, the most urgent matter was the banquet Viserys had called.
After exchanging a few brief courtesies, Baelor made his way toward Rhaenyra's chambers. Before appearing in the great hall, he needed attire worthy of the stage.
Rhaenyra stood before a polished mirror as servants adjusted the fall of her skirts. She had chosen a long gown woven in black and red, the dragon colors of her house. When she turned and saw Baelon, her brows knit in open disbelief.
He held up a robe of deep crimson, and expensive. The color was dark, almost black in shadow, like old blood soaked into cloth.
"Red?" Rhaenyra blinked. She stepped closer, reaching out to pinch the fabric between her fingers. "Since when do you favor that color? I thought only Lannisters dressed themselves like walking banners."
She laughed, a short, surprised sound.
"The Lannisters wear bright red," Baelon replied, his voice even as he slipped the robe over his shoulders. "This is blood-red. There is a difference."
He adjusted the collar with practiced calm. "Never mind. If it displeases you, I can endure it. As long as you are satisfied."
Rhaenyra circled him once, head tilted. Her smile faded, replaced by something more thoughtful.
It truly did clash with his usual bearing. Baelon was almost always dressed in black, severe and princely, the color sharpening his presence into something clean and controlled.
This red changed him. It made him look dangerous. Predatory.
"Why wear it at all?" she asked, folding her arms. "Black suits you far better."
When he did not answer immediately, she pressed on, impatience creeping into her voice.
"You look like you are attending an execution, not a feast."
Baelon met her gaze at last. "I warned Otto publicly. At the banquet, he will try to reclaim his dignity."
Her eyes narrowed. "And how will he do that? By scowling?"
"He will remind the court of his influence," Baelon said. "He will show them that he still commands loyalty. I will not sit idle while he does so. This robe is part of my answer."
Rhaenyra frowned, chewing on his words. "I do not understand."
"As someone who holds power, every gesture carries meaning," Baelon said. He tapped the crimson fabric lightly with two fingers. "I am speaking without words. Can you not see it?"
She stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head.
"No," she said frankly. "I only see that it is ugly."
Baelon closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"Trust me," he muttered. "Do not become queen. You would hate it."
Night fell over King's Landing, and the great hall of the Red Keep bloomed with torchlight and sound. Laughter echoed against stone as wine flowed freely and servants hurried beneath the weight of silver platters.
Viserys sat at the high table, hands resting comfortably on the arms of his chair, his face relaxed.
"Where is the queen?" he asked, glancing at the empty seat beside him.
"Your Grace," an attendant replied with a bow, "Her Majesty is changing into her gown. She will arrive shortly."
"Very well," Viserys said, already turning his attention back to the hall. To him, the sight of lords and ladies drinking together in peace was proof enough of his success.
Moments later, Rhaenyra entered with her followers. She paused just inside the doors, eyes sweeping the room, then gestured lightly for her companions to disperse and enjoy themselves. Her gown flowed as she walked, black and red catching the light.
She took her seat beside her father and inclined her head.
"Father."
Viserys turned, surprise softening his features. "That dress suits you," he said warmly.
She smiled faintly, then glanced down the table at his own attire, noting the harmony of their colors. Compared to Baelon's crimson, Viserys looked dignified and proper.
Before either could speak again, a voice rang out across the hall.
"Queen Alicent, Hand of the King Otto Hightower, Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena, Prince Aemond, arrive!"
The doors opened.
Alicent entered first, her posture straight, her expression composed. Behind her walked Otto, and then her children. All three wore green cloaks, carefully tailored and unmistakable.
The sound in the hall faltered.
Viserys's smile vanished. His jaw tightened as he took in the scene.
"The queen's attire is inappropriate," he said sharply. "Escort Her Majesty back. The black gown will suffice."
Alicent did not rise. She folded her hands calmly in her lap.
"There is no need," she replied. "That dress is old. It no longer suits me."
Viserys leaned forward, anger creeping into his voice. "Alicent, this is not appropriate. Aegon and the others are Targaryens. They should not be wearing Hightower colors."
Alicent met his gaze without flinching. "I am a Hightower," she said evenly. "Their blood carries Hightower blood as well. There is nothing strange about this."
She took her seat fully then, smoothing her skirts.
She was ready. Ready to stand against Rhaenyra openly.
For her children.
Viserys looked across the hall. Clusters of green stood out starkly among the rest. His hands curled into fists, frustration pressing heavy in his chest. Yet he could not rebuke them over colors alone. To do so would fracture the court beyond repair.
Rhaenyra's reaction was far less restrained.
Her fingers tightened around her wine cup until her knuckles blanched. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes burning as she stared across the table. Rage coiled tight in her chest.
She had only just returned, and already Alicent and Otto had struck.
Only now did Baelon's words settle into place.
"Prince Baelon, Lord Jason, arrive!"
The doors swung open.
Baelor entered first, crimson robes dark and commanding. Behind him came Jason and the lords of the west. More followed. Men from Harrenhal and beyond. Every one of them wore red.
The hall went silent.
Their numbers dwarfed the green faction.
Cups were set down. Conversations died.
Even the dullest among them understood.
The winds had changed.
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A/N: If you think you know what comes next… you don't. The answers are already waiting ahead.
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