I've been juggling clinic duty nonstop, and honestly it's been draining enough on its own. On top of that, Buy Me a Coffee flagged some of my content as potentially crossing their guidelines. I've been trying to talk it out with them, but so far the responses have been slow and vague, which just adds to the frustration.
Because of that, I might reopen Patreon for the fic. At this point it feels like my motivation gets stabbed to death every week, always for a different reason.
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Otto Hightower's POV
The door slammed shut behind me harder than I intended.
My chambers were quiet, lit only by a single candle guttering on the writing desk. The moment the latch clicked into place, the composure I'd worn like armor cracked, just enough to let the truth in.
I pressed both hands against the edge of the desk and bowed my head.
The realm had just watched an old dragon breathe fire for the first time in decades.
And it had burned us.
The Reach. Oldtown. The Faith. My House.
All of it, scorched in a single afternoon by a king who had finally remembered his fury.
"Seven save us…" I muttered under my breath.
Because I knew what no one else in that chamber understood:
The Hightowers were not ready for this kind of war.
We had grown soft. Complacent. Wrapped in centuries of influence, in the smug certainty that the Faith and the Citadel made us unassailable. We had pulled strings in royal courts for generations. Then Maegor rose and Jaehaerys was made king, a conciliator and a man who would uphold peace as long as it was feasible and something he could digest.
But today?
Today we had been exposed.
And Daemon Targaryen… Seven damn him. He had presented his evidence with the precision of a maester and the cruelty of a dragonlord.
I sank into my chair, exhaling sharply.
Three houses had been named openly. Their crimes laid bare before the Crown. And the Old King, the Old King, had struck without hesitation.
Trade rights suspended. Taxes doubled. Overlord blamed. Citadel curtailed.
Five years of doubled taxes would bleed Oldtown dry unless we moved carefully.
And even then… the damage was done.
My brother, Lord Hobert the dullard and idiot, would need to know the truth, and quickly. Before rumors outran ravens and he did something foolish.
Before panicked bannermen turned their backs.
Before the Faith made some pious blunder in pride.
Before the Citadel started whispering in the wrong ears.
Before House Hightower discovered that dragons did not merely roar. They remembered.
I pulled parchment toward me, uncorked a bottle of ink, and steadied my hand.
The quill hovered for a heartbeat.
Then I began to write.
Letter from Ser Otto Hightower to Lord Hobert Hightower, Lord of Oldtown
To my brother, Lord Hobert Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, Defender of the Citadel, Voice of Oldtown.
I write to you in haste and with gravity befitting our House's peril.
What transpired today at the Red Keep was no mere reprimand. It was a reckoning.
King Jaehaerys has declared, before the entire Small Council, that Houses Merryweather, Peake, and Beesbury of Honeyholt stand implicated in widespread corruption, smuggling, forgery, and crimes so vile they turned even Queen Alysanne pale.
Prince Daemon brought forth evidence, boxes of it. Ledgers. Forged seals. Confessions. Weirwood contraband.
It was overwhelming, undeniable, and strategically revealed to inflict the greatest possible humiliation.
Know this: whether truth or fabrication, the Crown has accepted Daemon's findings without question.
The King has pronounced the following:
Trade rights revoked for the named houses
Levies reviewed
Harbor access restricted
Full reimbursement of all stolen coin
Taxes doubled for three years on the guilty houses
And doubled for five years upon us, House Hightower, as their overlord
This last decree was spoken with unmistakable intent.
Oldtown is being punished. Directly.
Our influence is viewed as overreach. Our proximity to the Faith as a threat. Our centuries of quiet guidance as meddling.
The Old King's patience is ended.
Daemon has become his sword. Baelon his law. Barth his shield.
We are outmaneuvered, outnumbered, and for the moment… out of favor.
You must act with caution.
Send no angry letters to the Crown. Make no public protests. Reprimand not a single bannerman. And for the love of all the gods, do not let the High Septon make a fool's stand in our defense.
The Faith must remain silent.
The Citadel must remain still.
The Reach must appear loyal.
If we weather these five years without inviting further wrath, Oldtown may yet regain footing.
If we misstep now, the dragons will not hesitate to remind us that fire is older than stone.
Your brother,
Ser Otto Hightower
Justiciar of the Crown,
Hightower of Oldtown
Viserys POVThe Solar
Viserys entered the solar with all the anxiety of a man walking toward judgment.
He had been at the Golden Swan enjoying a meal with friends and acquaintances, men eager to curry favor with the eventual king. New faces had come, smiling too broadly and laughing too loudly, promising friendship without meaning. That warmth died when word reached him of Daemon's punishments and the swelling pile of evidence against Reach affiliates, many of them men whose cups he had shared only days earlier. Then came the rumor of the Reach delegation begging the King to curb Daemon's authority.
The tavern's candlelight felt very far away now.
Daemon was chaos incarnate. Viserys loved his brother, and yet envy burned alongside that love. Daemon was stronger in the yard, sharper in study, quicker to inspire loyalty. Men followed him freely, while Viserys had to clothe requests in smiles and softness.
King Jaehaerys sat rigid at the long table, tea untouched. Queen Alysanne watched with faint worry etched into her features. Father stood near the window, arms crossed tight, eyes cast outward like he was bracing for impact. Daemon leaned against a carved pillar, relaxed yet alert.
Viserys bowed, hands slightly damp.
"Grandsire, I wished to explain!"
Jaehaerys released a humorless breath, lips twitching into something close to a laugh before flattening completely.
"Viserys," he said sharply, eyes lifting like drawn steel, "if you came to complain about Daemon, don't!"
Daemon gave a pleased hum.
"I'm not complaining," Viserys rushed, twisting his fingers together, "but the Reach!"
"They always are," Jaehaerys replied, leaning back with visible irritation. "They whined when dragons came. They whined when coin weighed properly. They whine whenever the Crown remembers it rules!"
Father coughed into his fist quietly. Daemon snorted without restraint.
"They come to me," Viserys said, lifting his chin, trying to stand tall. "They look to me for answers!"
Jaehaerys leaned forward, elbows braced upon the table, eyes narrowing with intent.
"As what?" he asked. "A peacemaker? A leader? A king?"
"Yes!"
The Old King barked a sharp, humorless laugh.
"You are not king! You are not heir! You are the heir's heir!" Each word hit like a hammer blow. "Your sole duty is to learn the cost of rule before the burden reaches you, and so far you have failed at even that!"
Viserys flushed hot. "I am trying to learn!"
"Are you?" Jaehaerys said coolly.
He leaned forward further.
"You drink with flatterers. Feast with lords who lie sweetly into your ear. You mistake popularity for respect and appeasement for diplomacy! That is not learning. That is indulgence."
Daemon muttered, lips twisting, "Predictable."
Father shot him a sharp warning look.
Jaehaerys gestured first to Father.
"Your father embodies discipline, command, duty."
Then he motioned toward Daemon.
"Your brother is fire. Dangerous, reckless, but loyal beyond reason. He burns down weakness."
Daemon smirked faintly.
Jaehaerys turned back to Viserys.
"And you drift between them without embracing either."
His tone hardened.
"Your father tells me you intend to name Daemon your Hand. Yet Daemon tells me you have whispered doubts about his place near your future throne. Is that true?"
Viserys swallowed hard.
"I never said he wasn't fit," he said carefully. "I said he frightens lords. They fear him more than they fear the law."
Daemon froze.
"Of course they do!" he snapped. "Cowards fear anyone who will not bow!"
"They say peace becomes harder with you near the crown," Viserys blurted, voice shaking. "That the city trembles when you act!"
Daemon pushed off the pillar and began pacing, boots striking stone, breath thick and ragged.
"I bled for this family," he hissed. "And you would cast me aside to comfort spineless men?"
Father stepped forward instantly.
"Daemon. Hold your temper."
Then to Viserys, voice iron-steady:
"Son, peace built on weakness preserves nothing. It invites slaughter."
Viserys flinched.
"I only thought things might be simpler."
Daemon stopped pacing and faced him.
"You never even spoke to me."
Silence crushed the room.
Jaehaerys steepled his fingers.
"Did you doubt your brother's loyalty?"
Viserys shook his head at once. "Never!"
"Then you feared the cost of standing beside him."
The hesitation that followed betrayed him.
Jaehaerys's eyes narrowed. "Your pause answers enough."
He drew a measured breath.
"So here is what will happen."
Viserys straightened instinctively.
"You will study daily with Septon Barth. Law, diplomacy, governance, the machinery of crowns."
Barth inclined his head gently.
"And every afternoon you will train with your father."
Father turned fully toward Viserys, expression unreadable.
"Every day," Jaehaerys confirmed. "Sword drills. Bearing. Command presence."
Jaehaerys glanced briefly toward Daemon.
"You are not ready to train beside wildfire," he said flatly. "Your brother will not instruct you."
Daemon's jaw clenched, but he did not argue.
"This is punishment!" Viserys blurted.
"No," Jaehaerys said firmly. "It is survival."
"And another thing."
Viserys stiffened.
"You will keep away from Aemma. She is too young to bear children or burdens."
Father's stance tightened. Daemon's hands curled. Alysanne looked down.
"She is not stock," Jaehaerys said coldly. "She is my granddaughter."
Shame burned Viserys deeply.
"I do not forbid your marriage," the King added more quietly, "but restraint is expected."
"Yes, Grandsire," Viserys whispered.
"You envy fire? Earn your own. Envy discipline? Build it. Desire command? Master yourself first."
The King waved him away.
"The next time you speak to me of politics, it will be from knowledge, not coward's comfort."
Viserys bowed stiffly and turned for the door.
Father followed him a few steps.
"We will train together," he said gently. "You will improve."
From the shadows came Daemon's voice, restrained yet edged:
"And when you stop hiding from hard truths, perhaps I will trust you again."
Viserys could not answer. He slipped through the door and closed it behind him.
Narrator POV
The chamber sat in heavy silence.
Baelon remained near the window, gaze fixed on the door through which Viserys had vanished.
"Maybe we were too harsh with him, Father," he murmured, then let out a tired sigh.
Jaehaerys answered sharply, disappointment edge-lining his tone.
"I was honest."
"Honesty need not bleed so much," Alysanne said softly, wariness threading through her voice.
Jaehaerys lifted his eyes to her, judgment burning behind the weariness.
"Not for this boy," the Old King replied quietly. "He must taste shame before he can carry pride."
Queen Alysanne crossed the floor and laid a steadying hand over his.
"You frightened him."
"Good," Jaehaerys murmured. "Fear sharpens where comfort dulls."
Yet when he turned back toward the window and the fading light beyond it, the Old King's shoulders sagged, just a fraction.
As though he knew the dragon he tried to forge was the one least suited to fire.