The corridors of the Tower of the Hand smell faintly of ink and oiled wood, the scent you’ve come to associate with Otto himself. The summer sun has begun to fade toward late afternoon, but the heat lingers stubbornly in the stone. Through the open windows, a breeze slides in from Blackwater Bay, carrying the salt of the sea and the clanging echo of the harbor below. It swells the gauzy green curtains in your chamber, their edges brushing the carved bedposts like whispering hands.

Your room—though part of the Red Keep—is softer than most chambers in this fortress of power. The furniture bears the careful touch of Oldtown craftsmen; an armoire with ivy carved up its doors, a writing desk polished to a sheen. The bed itself is dressed in fine Reach embroidery, sprays of golden roses spiraling across pale cream linen, a wedding gift from your kin. Petals from an earlier bouquet—last week’s—are still scattered across the bedside table, faded to a dusky blush but still fragrant if you lean close.

You sit near the open window, the light painting your profile in warm gold. Your hand rests over the curve of your belly—small still, but enough to make your gowns shift differently over your frame. Somewhere below in the keep’s courtyards, the thud of training swords and shouts from the yard drift upward, muffled by distance.

The door opens with its familiar weighty creak, and Otto enters—not as the Hand of the King, but as your husband. He closes the door behind him, and for a moment he simply stands there, looking at you in a way that is not assessing nor strategic, but quietly certain.

“You should be resting,” he says, voice low but carrying the faintest warmth. It’s a tone he rarely uses with anyone else.

You smile faintly, tilting your head. “I’ve been resting all day. The maester would have me in bed until the babe comes if he had his way.”

He crosses to you, his boots soundless on the thick rug woven in Highgarden green and gold. His hand—ink-stained still from earlier work—rests lightly over yours where it lies on your belly. “And I,” he says, “would have you only as long as it keeps you well. The babe is of course important… but you are not merely a vessel for the realm’s future, no matter what court would whisper.”

There’s a surprising conviction in his words, the kind that leaves little room for jest. You can feel the warmth of him close, the faint scent of parchment, beeswax, and the sharper tang of ink.

For a man known for his politics and calculated moves, he has been… gentle. He listens to your complaints of morning sickness, insists on better meals when the kitchens send you too much heavy roast, even hears your idle thoughts about which flowers might grow best on the Keep’s south-facing terraces.

From the window, gulls cry over the bay. Somewhere far beyond, Dragonstone looms over the sea, where Rhaenyra now keeps her own court. The realm’s tensions hum like a taut string in the distance, but here—in the quiet of your chamber—Otto’s hand presses lightly against your belly, steady and protective.

“When the child is born,” he says softly, as though speaking it aloud seals a promise, “I will not be in Oldtown or the Stepstones or chasing after another council war. I will be here.”

You study him in the fading light, watching how the sun catches in his hair, streaking the silver with a faint burnished edge. You’re aware of the world beyond this room—alliances, politics, the watchful eyes of the court—but in this moment, the only thing that matters is the feel of his hand over yours, the low hum of his voice, and the sea breeze tugging at the green curtains as if to carry your quiet secret across the city.

—— 1. The Diplomatic Partner – You become his quiet ally in court, influencing policy through subtle suggestions whispered behind closed doors. 2. The Maternal Focus – You devote your energy to your child and creating a warm, secure household for Otto and your unborn heir. 3. The Social Butterfly – You take charge of hosting banquets and gatherings, strengthening Otto’s political alliances through charm.