King's Landing—98 AC
Otto I
The prince's fussing was a sight, rare as a honest dicer, all his dealings hoarded close like a miser's stash. Tavern talk swore the lad had brains and grit for old houses and grizzled lords, but plenty still sneered he danced to the king's tune.
Otto knew better—knew more than most. Aide to the lumbering dolt of a Master of Coin, he'd lurked near enough to catch the hissed words between Lady Florence and the king when the prince's tricks came up.
The crown's purse bulged with his schemes, stuffed fat by that sly lass who pounced on every mad gleam in the boy's eye.
Fountain pens that scratched smooth. Quick stone that set like iron. Fyre wine, sharp enough to singe your throat. Perfumes that stuck to your skin like a lover's sweat. Soaps that foamed thick and smelled of streams. New crops sprouting green in sour dirt. Cloth tougher than a sellsword's hide.
All of it was miracle stuff—any single one could hoist a petty house up to strut among the highborn.
"Well then, Ser Otto," the prince said, snapping him from his musing. "What say you to this double journaling?"
Otto worked his jaw, weighing the explanation and the neat script before him. A clear method, easily understood, yet its value seemed deep. He studied the parchment once more, gave a measured hum, then set it aside.
"It is… remarkable, my prince," he conceded, voice steady. This accounting system would chart funds with precision, sparing wasted time and excess hands. It was a quiet wonder no one had devised it before.
Or mayhap they had, but saddled it close.
The prince grinned—always bloody grinning, that smile a shield hard to loathe. "Good to hear," the lad said, a sigh slipping free, soft as a breeze. "I'll put it to use myself, especially now with these hefty tasks piled on. Not chasing the fame of it, though—don't give a damn for that."
Otto's hackles shot up, stiff as a drawn bow. The prince couldn't have laid it plainer. He stared, lips shut tight, picking at the lad's words for the catch. He'd not peg himself a fool, sniffed out by some boy who'd rather moon over his sister than tangle in court's thorns.
Nay, he knew the lad was sharp—too sharp. Had his own nest of snakes coiled in tight, lords fattened and propped up by the prince's clever twists.
But halfwits, most of them—blundering fools drunk on feelings, not wits. Otto had kept his own aims close, no bold moves, just grinding along under Lady Florence's long shadow.
Yet he was sniffed out…
…or was he?
A sour twist gripped his face. Doubt was a slow rot, seeping deep. "I'd ask why you'd shrug off the praise," he ventured, voice catching slight. "More renown wouldn't sting—especially for a thing this… light on ill."
The lad's eyes fixed on him, a beat too long, then his mouth sagged, a faint droop. Otto knew that look—his father had worn it whenever his brother stumbled arse-first into folly.
The prince was weighing him and finding him wanting.
"It's an offer, Ser Otto," the boy said, a sigh huffing out as he rose and drifted to the side. "Lady Florence means to quit her perch before the year dies. Your brother's pushing you for it—swears you've the mettle. We hashed a deal, and this is your cleanest shot to claim it."
That stopped him cold. His brother, cooking deals without a word to him? What had that fool bartered to the prince for this mad grab? Otto racked his skull and came up dry—nettled him fierce. He'd been so snarled in court's webs, dodging plots and counting scraps, he'd let his own kin drift from reach.
Prince Maelys lingered there, still as stone, waiting him out.
Otto swallowed the churn, dipped his head smooth. "A kind offer, my prince," he said, voice level, "though I'd need time to chew it over." His eyes flicked up, hunting the lad's face for a twitch.
The prince gave more than a twitch—he let out a long, heavy sigh, ripe with dismay. "I'd banked on a quick answer," he said, pinning a limp smile on his face, half-dead. "Come morrow, I'm setting this to work."
Once more, Otto felt the noose cinch round his neck.
The prince turned again, snagging two squat glass cups, pouring his fyre wine with a steady hand. He took his time—too damn patient—letting the sharp, amber stuff glint as it filled, a quiet elegance in the pour.
Otto scratched for a way out, clawing at this trap he'd stumbled into. The lad judged him swift, no falter—had him pinned like a moth. But why stoke his climb? Power, plain and raw—had to be. Only a dolt would think the ones he'd trod on wouldn't snap back with teeth bared, though.
Otto wouldn't bite at the prince's bait—too much soft heart in the boy for his taste. Bound to him, his reach'd be tethered short.
But could he shove him off…
His pulse eased, a faint thud.
…aye, he could. Best move, that—snuff the deal the prince and his brother had cooked up. His kin would grouse, sure, but that was a lighter lash to bear.
The lad dropped back into his seat, sliding a cup his way. Otto took it with a curt nod, sipping slow—the fyre wine seared his throat, a hot knife down to his gut. Wicked stuff, near lethal, but the taste hit different.
"The offer's solid—grand, even," Otto said, throat still raw from the burn. "But I'd have my own worth lift me up, not this."
The prince's face sagged again, disappointment plain, though a glint of grudging respect flickered in his eyes. "Fair words, if they sting me some. I'll honor them—your brother's yours to tell, though."
He gave a low, measured laugh, the prince joining with a faint, courteous echo. Yet the Hightower pondered keenly—what had his brother traded that the prince would relinquish this so readily.
Prince Maelys held him another hour, turning to lighter fare. He prodded about the day's court—a dull slog that dragged overlong, another Bracken and Blackwood spat.
A tavern brawl this time. Left some Blackwood guard with his guts spilling out. Fools sloshed with ale and starved for a woman's flesh. The outcome was expected.
The old king dispatched the envoys back to the Riverlands this time—good riddance to them.
The prince proved a fair talker, all jest and ease. He didn't dig for secrets, sticking to stray, safe threads. A stranger might mark him a fool, not knowing better.
Otto stayed walled up, wary to the last—each word from the lad's mouth he weighed with a clenched fist of salt.
Still, when they split, he reckoned he'd scraped some favor—thin as it was. He walked off with a promise of fyre wine, contract and all, and a fountain pen—gold and silver twisted tight, studded with glinting gems, custom-wrought with his name etched deep.
It was a small fortune—more the former if he let it linger a few decades.Otto felt the weight on his shoulders ease a fraction as the carriage jolted past the Lion Gate, the castle's clamour falling away.
His eyes drifted to his daughter, settled across from him, her young face trying hard to hold a lady's grace, though it wobbled at the edges. Already, though, a beauty was blooming—her mother's soft looks, warmed by the old blood singing in her veins.
Men would cross steel for her once she bloomed full, and he only prayed no foolish whims would sour her before then.
That gnawed at him. Alicent might bloom into a beauty, aye, but looks alone wouldn't chain her to some fat-pursed lord or high banner. Her worth hung on him, and Otto had yet to claw up any real ties or power worth a damn.
This post might shove him nearer the king's ear, but it left him no space to grease palms or charm the noble rabble.
He choked down the grimace itching to twist his face at the thought. Till now, he'd only stood before the king to nod, explain, or fix some mess of coin. The old king had no lack of greybeards with clever tongues, and if Otto tried slipping his own counsel in, the highborn lot would sneer and spit.
He'd meant to spark some chatter with the fresh-arrived Prince Viserys, maybe knead a soft bond with the man—the lad seemed pliable enough.
But those words with Maelys left a sour churn in his gut.
"What'd you make of your first moon here, Alicent?" he asked, eyes flicking brief to the side, the world rolling past. "Found any friends yet?"
The girl flinched, but smoothed it quick—good, that. "It's been pleasant, Father. The maesters teach queer here, not like Oldtown."
He knew it well—one of the prince's odd whims, hammering learning into some rigid shape. Otto didn't mind it—ignorance was a rot among the highborn, worse still in the ladies and lesser lordlings, stumbling over their letters like drunkards.
"And I've made friends with Jeyne Plumm," she tacked on, voice lifting.
That pricked him, though his face stayed stone. Like him, a brother to a lord, Ser Maynard, played high aide to that oaf Martyn. But where Otto scraped by, Maynard raked in taxes, a post that threw him elbow-deep with lords, their favors ripe for the picking.
So favored was the taxman that his brother had shipped his girl, Jeyne, to King's Landing. Not a queer move, but one thick with trust, all the same.
Otto let his eyes drift longer over the streets and squat buildings, mind grinding on how to twist his girl's friendship into something useful. The Plumms wanted for naught—boon of those western houses, too much ore clogging their hills—and their fields bloomed rich, if left a touch fallow.
The taxman was too bloody thorough, though he'd dip into whores now and then.
Truth was, Otto had naught real to offer, not of his own honest making. He could lean on his brother's clout, aye, but that'd be borrowed muscle—same as the prince's help. It dangled plenty, sure, but the favour would never be his to keep.
His eyes dropped to the parchment clutched in his hand—the fyre wine contract. Queer, how a lone barrel of the stuff could weigh so heavy in gold. Might be a crack here to pry open.
He'd have to dig deeper into this trade business, maybe start sweeter talks with the taxman. Both of them were second sons, aye—that might knot them a thread or two.
That was at least a plan.
"Jeyne Plumm," he said, letting the name slide off his tongue. "A sharp friend to make. Her father's a man with clout, and her uncle's name carries far. Keep her tight, Alicent. A lady's bonds are her armour—more so here, where every grin masks a dagger."
Alicent's brow pinched, a quick twitch, before she ironed it flat. "She's kind, Father. She doesn't… doesn't seem the sort for daggers or shields. We read, mostly. The maesters set us on Aegon's Conquest, and she giggles at Visenya's rages."
A grin broke across his face, real. Deep. Moments like this jabbed him—his little lass was no court vixen, not yet. There was still a soft heart in her, unscarred.
He kept the talk flowing, prodding here, nudging there. His girl spilled plenty and naught—bits of chatter, scraps of nothing. Otto didn't mind; the quiet moment, just them, was worth more than gold. He ached for Lysa to be here, to see their lass blooming.
The carriage jolted beneath, slowing as it rolled into the high manses under Aegon's Hill. The prince's talk had dragged him back here, true, but Otto was damn glad to shake off the Red Keep's stiff walls and stiffer stares.
The carriage rattled through the manse's gates after a few turns, wheels crunching gravel as it rolled into the estate's heart.
Garlan stood waiting, stiff as a post, his steward's chain glinting dull in the afternoon light, a handful of maids hovering at his flanks—girls in plain grey, hands folded, eyes down.
"Ser Otto," Garlan greeted, voice flat but proper, dipping his head. "Good to have you back, ser."
The welcome was spare, no trumpets or fawning, but Otto cared not a whit. He stepped down, boots hitting stone, and waved a hand. "Garlan, fetch the maester to the solar—I've letters to fire off to Oldtown."
The steward dipped his head, turning to go, but Otto halted him sharp, thrusting the rolled contract and a small, carved wooden box—the fountain pen nestled inside—into the steward's hands.
"Stock up on ink for this item and set a scribe to copying that contract—send the twin to Oldtown," Otto ordered, voice clipped. "And dispatch a rider to Ser Maynard Plumm—bid him join me for supper two nights hence. He can drag his kin along if he likes."
Not till the morrow did Otto loose the ravens, the tiny creature carrying more requests than questions.A/N: I'll be adding proper dates soon.