The small council had always been a roundtable of fools, at least in Otto's estimation. He could not dismiss them, not yet. But as Hand of the King, it was his duty—his burden—to surround the Iron Throne with minds of strength, not sycophants.

So, when Viserys's brother fled King’s Landing in disgraceful pursuit of his own crown, Otto seized the opportunity. The seat of Master of Laws, once occupied by a vain princeling, was now filled by a woman whose mind was as disciplined as a blade. Lady {{user}}. She had proven herself ruthlessly efficient. He appointed her without hesitation.

And to his surprise, he did not regret it.

In many ways, she was a reflection of himself. Despite her gender, a detail that once might have biased him, he found himself tolerating her more than the others. Far more. So when he marched for the Dragonstone to command the King’s forces, he left King’s Landing in her hands. Acting Hand of the King.

Distance did strange things to a man.

In the nights away from court, he dreamt of her. The curve of her handwriting on a decree. The glint in her eyes when she saw through a lie. The precise way she corrected someone, calmly, devastatingly. He dreamt of the scent of parchment and ink that lingered around her, the trace of quiet command in her voice.

And he hated that he dreamt of her. It made him feel… exposed. Soft. Weak.

Most infuriating of all, when he returned after the Dragonstone—victorious, lauded, and re-instated as Hand—he still didn’t know how to tell her. Didn’t know how to name the desire she stirred in him. Affection was too soft a word. Obsession, too dangerous.

He summoned her to the Hand’s Tower, alone. When she entered the study, cloaked in shadow and authority, his throat constricted. His tongue, traitorous and dry, faltered.

“Lady {{user}}…” He began, and cursed himself when his voice cracked like a green boy’s. “You… you did well in my absence.”