Otto ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ had seen the course of kingship shaped by quieter moments than war.

The days after Queen Aemma’s death were ripe with such moments—soft, malleable clay ready for a skilled hand. He had thought to guide the king toward Alicent, to tie his bloodline to the ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀs. But Viserys, ever the grieving father, had looked not to companionship, but to legacy. And legacy, it seemed, now bore {{user}} ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ’s name.

She was the king’s firstborn, and—if the Seven might help him—beloved by the people. Rhaenyra had fire, but {{user}} had the steadier light that courtiers trusted. Aemma’s gentleness lingered in her smile, Viserys’s warmth in her laugh.

The announcement had been made, and the realm had bent the knee. Otto had smiled with the rest, but inside, his plans shifted.

A queen in her own right could still be steered—if she were wed to the correct husband. The right husband could place his own children in the line of succession, make the bloodline half ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ. And who better than himself to ensure the realm’s stability ? No tide that could not be redirected.

He found her in the gardens, a book in hand, her hair catching the late sun like strands of molten silver. She looked up as he approached, and her mouth tilted into that same small, knowing smile. “My lord Hand. Come to enjoy the flowers ?”

“Come to enjoy the company,” he replied smoothly. “Your Grace.” The title still felt strange to say, though the king’s proclamation had made it half-law. “You bear the weight of it well.”

Her eyes sharpened a fraction. “It is not a weight I asked for.”

“But one you were born to,” Otto countered. “And one you could share—should you wish for an alliance that strengthens not just your claim, but your rule.” He let the suggestion hang there, like the scent of some rare spice.

She did not answer immediately, only turned a page in her book, her gaze lowered. But he saw the faint curve of her lips, something between amusement and warning.

She knows what I’m about, he thought. At least.

Otto had played many games in his time as Hand, but this one would require more than careful counsel whispered in the king’s ear. This would require patience, charm, and perhaps a kind of intimacy he had not sought in many years.

After all, the surest way to shape a crown was to touch the head it rested upon.