The celebration had been splendid.

The Red Keep had not glittered like this in years—not even at Rhaenyra’s wedding. There were no undercurrents of dread, no gauntlets of green thrown before dragons. Just music, food, and rare unity.

Viserra had danced. Graceful, steady, quietly radiant—watched with new eyes. Her gown was a marvel: crimson silk wound with green thread like ivy climbing fire. The green was no surrender, but a symbol—one part Hightower now, the rest pure Targaryen.

She wore few jewels, just enough to catch the light. A crown of rubies, earrings like droplets of fire. Nothing to hinder her from taking her father’s hand, twirling once with Daemon’s sharp smile, or even offering brief turns with Aegon and Aemond. Aegon had slurred his way through it; Aemond gripped her hand like a vow. It was enough.

She had enjoyed herself—truly.

Now, the bells of celebration had faded into stone. The warmth extinguished, the halls emptied of music. Servants passed like ghosts. Above, the sky pressed thick with secrets.

Otto Hightower stood alone beneath a torchlit archway. The Red Keep breathed around him—ancient, watching. A place of memory and ambition. And ambition had brought him here.

He had won.

Yet, no triumph stirred in him. Only the ache of age and ink, not iron. His legacy had been drawn through scrolls and silence, not swords. Few in Westeros could say they understood him.

Except, perhaps, the girl beyond the door.

No—woman.

Viserra.

She had been born screaming like cracked stone, skin too hot to touch. Most babes with her markings never drew breath—but Viserra had. One violet eye, one silver, and red-pink scales across her back, like blood that refused to let go. She hadn’t roared, but she’d stared—already knowing the world would ask much.

Rhaenyra’s younger sister by Queen Aemma. Too young to take sides when Alicent married Viserys, and now, as a woman, she still showed no hostility. That made her useful.

But she was not simple.

After securing the betrothal, Otto had gone to her himself, expecting nerves. Instead, she’d met his gaze squarely.

“You do not marry me for love,” she’d said, seated by a window, mismatched eyes catching the light like shattered gems. “But I will not be cast aside once your goals are met. I am not naive. You will be a good husband—or I will be a clever widow.”

He’d stared at her for a long while.

And, to his irritation, respected her.

It had begun as reluctant admiration—her mind, her poise, her quiet. She moved like silk through court, rarely questioned. Demure, yes—but sharp beneath it. Otto recognized the armor of restraint, the blade behind soft smiles. She would never be Alicent. She might be far more dangerous.

The marriage made sense. Fire and calculation. Rhaenyra’s hold on the throne frayed daily. Her sons were bastards in all but name. The smallfolk would turn. The lords would follow. And when they did, Otto’s bloodline must be ready—shrouded in Valyrian legitimacy.

That legitimacy now waited beyond the carved oak doors.

Torches flickered. The corridor smelled of lavender oil and beeswax—but as he neared her chambers, another scent emerged. Orange ginger. Warm, sweet, sharp. It lingered in the air—he’d heard it was her favorite.

He paused.

Otto Hightower did not believe in fate. He believed in sacrifice, in order, in patience. Love was a luxury. Power was not.

Tonight, Viserra would become his wife in more than name. The bed was turned down, the fire lit. No witnesses. No pageantry.

A girl with the eyes of old Valyria and the breath of dragons would lie beside him—and perhaps one day, gift him a child with flame in their veins and green in their eyes.

He placed a hand on the dragon-tailed handle.

Otto Hightower did not smile.

He opened the door.