The letter lay on the table between them, a pale ghost in the candlelight of Otto Hightower's chambers. Alicent stared at it, her hands clenched in her lap. It was her son's script, her son's seal, but the words felt alien, as if written by a stranger.
"He speaks of mending nets," she whispered, her voice tight with a fear she could not name. "He asks about the speed of ships. He does not ask for his mother. He does not ask to come home."
"He is being reshaped," Otto said, his voice a blade of ice. His own calm terrified her. He was not a father looking at a grandson; he was a master artisan seeing his finest work being warped on the kiln. "This Lord Potter is not merely a guardian. He is a craftsman, and he is remaking our prince in his own savage image."
"Then we must bring him home!" Alicent insisted, her composure finally cracking. "Tell the King! Tell him Aegon is in danger!"
"And say what?" Otto countered, his gaze sharp and cold. "That the boy is becoming disciplined? That he is learning practical skills? That he sounds less like a spoiled prince and more like a future king? Viserys sees this as a resounding success. Attacking Potter directly will only make us look like jealous fools." He began to pace, his shadow a great, lanky predator on the stone walls. "No. We cannot attack the man. So we will attack his home."
The whispers started in the Queen's own solar, soft as the rustle of silk. Alicent, playing her part with a desperation born of true fear, would speak to her ladies of her concerns for Aegon's soul, so far from the light of the Seven. The ladies, in turn, would speak to their husbands. The whispers grew, weaving their way through the court like a sweet-smelling poison. Skagos, they murmured. A godless place of old magic and human sacrifice. What is happening to the prince's spirit in such a savage land?
Otto cultivated the rumors, watering them with carefully chosen words until they bloomed into a garden of public concern. He arranged for the noble and pious Septon Eustace to voice these fears to the King, framing the issue not as politics, but as a matter of the boy's immortal soul.
In her chambers, Rhaenyra held the silver locket, its surface warm against her palm. "They are using the Faith as a weapon, Harry," she reported, watching his face shimmer in the metal. "They mean to paint you as a heretic to force Aegon's return."
A slow, dangerous smile touched Harry's lips. "A weapon that can be wielded by two hands, Princess."
Two weeks later, Otto Hightower felt the first stirrings of satisfaction. The pressure was building. The King was growing anxious. And then, the news came. The Wraith had been sighted in Blackwater Bay.
He is coming to beg, Otto thought, a grim sense of triumph settling over him. He has been flushed out. He will come to the Red Keep to defend his honor, and I will dismantle him before the entire court.
But the reports that followed were confounding. Lord Potter's procession was not moving towards the Red Keep. It was climbing the Hill of Visenya, heading for the Great Sept of Baelor. Otto's satisfaction curdled into sharp, focused curiosity. He dispatched one of his most trusted agents, a man whose face was as forgettable as his loyalty was absolute, to follow.
The report he received an hour later felt like a physical blow.
In the hallowed, seven-sided hall of the Faith, the mysterious lord from the North had bowed before the High Septon. He had spoken with quiet eloquence of his people's respect for the gods of their southern cousins. And then, his guards had brought forth a single, heavy chest.
It was full of gold. Pure, lustrous gold, minted in no known kingdom, shining with a light that seemed to humble the sunbeams slanting through the high windows.
"A donation," Lord Potter had announced, his voice echoing in the stunned silence, "for the Faith's work with the orphans of King's Landing, and to repair the septries in the poorer districts. A humble gesture of goodwill from the people of Skagos."
It was not a defense. It was an attack of such sublime, devastating brilliance that Otto felt the air leave his lungs.
He was forced to sit in the Small Council meeting the next day and listen as Viserys, beaming with idiot joy, praised the man who had just dismantled his entire strategy.
"Lord Potter has shown us all the path to unity!" the King declared. "A bridge between the old ways and the new! Such a noble, generous heart."
Otto inclined his head, the muscles in his jaw aching from the effort of his polite smile. The words of agreement he was forced to murmur tasted like ash. He had tried to paint his opponent as a godless savage. Instead, Potter had painted himself as a living saint, and used Otto's own chosen weapon—the Faith—to do it.
That night, Otto stood on his balcony, staring out at the city lights but seeing nothing. He had underestimated his foe at every turn. This was not some northern upstart with a mysterious treasury and a few tricks. This was a player whose understanding of power was fundamentally different from his own. He maneuvered for position, for titles, for a crown. This man… this man seemed to be maneuvering the very foundations of the world.
For the first time since he had begun his long, patient game, Otto Hightower felt a genuine tremor of fear. How do you fight an enemy who takes the weapon from your hand, melts it down before your eyes, and forges it into a crown for his own head?