**The Red Keep - Small Council Chamber - 99 AC**
Rhaenys Targaryen had learned, in her first three months as Hand of the King, that governing was less about grand decisions and more about preventing idiots from making catastrophically stupid ones.
Case in point: the current Small Council meeting.
"—and I maintain that raising taxes on imported wine is the most efficient way to address the treasury shortfall," Lord Baemond Lannister was saying. The Master of Coin had a voice like rocks grinding together and the imagination of a particularly unimaginative rock.
"You maintain that every meeting," Rhaenys said without looking up from her notes. "And every meeting, I explain that taxing imported wine will anger the Reach and the Arbor, who will retaliate with their own tariffs, which will escalate into a trade war that costs the crown more than we'd gain. Do you need me to draw a diagram?"
"Princess, I hardly think—"
"*Hand*," Rhaenys corrected sharply. "When we're in this chamber, I'm not Princess Rhaenys. I'm Hand of the King. And you will address me by my title or find yourself explaining your 'efficiency' to someone else."
Baemond's face went red, but he bowed his head. "My apologies, *Hand*."
King Jaehaerys, seated at the head of the table, hid his smile behind his hand. His granddaughter was *good* at this. Better than he'd expected. She had Alysanne's diplomatic instincts combined with a ruthless pragmatism that came from being passed over for a crown—she had nothing to prove and everything to gain by being effective.
"Alternative proposal," Rhaenys continued, finally looking up. "We lease three of the crown's outer islands in Blackwater Bay to House Celtigar for pearl cultivation. They've been requesting access for years. We get steady revenue, they get resources, nobody's trade routes are threatened. Simple, effective, no diplomatic incidents."
"The Celtigars aren't trustworthy—" began Lord Staunton.
"The Celtigars have been loyal to the crown since Aegon's Conquest and their current lord is married to my husband's cousin, which means I can call in favors if necessary," Rhaenys interrupted. "Their trustworthiness isn't the issue. Their competence at pearl cultivation is well-documented. Unless you have a specific objection beyond vague mistrust?"
Staunton subsided.
"Good. The treasury proposal passes pending His Grace's approval." Rhaenys made a note. "Next item: the Night's Watch requests additional funding for—"
The door opened without a knock, which was either incredibly rude or incredibly important.
Prince Baelon Targaryen entered, moving with the easy confidence of someone who'd been Jaehaerys's heir for years and had never questioned that position. At fifty-four, Baelon was still handsome, still strong, still every inch the warrior prince who'd earned his nickname "the Brave" fighting Dornish raiders.
He was also holding his side in a way that made Rhaenys's instincts scream *wrong*.
"Father," Baelon said, and his voice was tight with pain. "I need—I think I need the maesters."
Jaehaerys was on his feet immediately. "What's wrong?"
"My belly. It started this morning—just an ache, I thought maybe something I ate—but it's gotten worse. Much worse." Baelon's face was pale beneath his tan. "Feels like something's tearing inside me."
"Get the maesters," Rhaenys commanded, and three servants bolted from the room. "Lord Commander, help me get him to his chambers."
Ryam Redwyne was already moving, supporting Baelon with surprising gentleness for a man who could bend steel. Together, he and Rhaenys guided the prince from the council chamber.
Behind them, Jaehaerys stood frozen, his hand gripping the edge of the table.
*Not Baelon. Please, gods, not Baelon. Not my last son.*
---
**The Red Keep - Maester's Tower - Two Hours Later**
Grand Maester Mellos emerged from the examination room looking like a man who'd just received a death sentence.
"It's appendicitis," he said quietly. "The appendix has burst."
Rhaenys, who'd been waiting in the corridor with Jaehaerys and Viserys, felt her stomach drop. In Percy's world, a burst appendix was survivable with modern surgery and antibiotics. In this world—in Westeros, with medieval medicine and no understanding of infection—it was a death sentence.
"Can you treat it?" Jaehaerys asked, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes.
"We're trying. Milk of the poppy for the pain. Hot compresses to draw out the poison. Prayer." Mellos's expression said everything his words didn't: *None of it will work. He's dying.*
"How long?" Viserys's voice cracked. His father. His strong, indestructible father, who'd taught him to ride and fight and rule—
"Hours. Maybe a day." Mellos bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. Prince Viserys. Princess Rhaenys. There's nothing more we can do."
Jaehaerys turned and walked away without a word. Not toward his chambers. Toward the Dragonpit.
Rhaenys understood immediately. The king was going to Vermithor—the bronze dragon who'd been his companion for six decades. The place where Jaehaerys went when grief became too heavy to carry alone.
She turned to Viserys. "Go to your father. Be with him. I'll manage the council."
"I should—there's so much—"
"Viserys." She gripped his shoulder. "Your father is dying. Be. With. Him. Everything else can wait."
He nodded, speechless, and disappeared into Baelon's chambers.
Rhaenys stood alone in the corridor for a long moment. Then she turned and walked briskly toward the wing where her family was housed.
She found all three children in the nursery's study room—a space that had been converted into a makeshift classroom for the unusual education the children required. At nearly three years old, they were already reading at the level of children twice their age, writing in clear script, and having conversations that made maesters nervous.
Perseon was practicing High Valyrian with a tutor, his pronunciation already better than most adult speakers. Rhaenyra and Annara were working through what appeared to be a basic mathematics text, except the problems they were solving involved calculating tax revenues and grain distribution—hardly typical for three-year-olds.
The moment Rhaenys entered, three heads turned in unison. The tutor, recognizing the Hand's expression, bowed and quickly departed.
"Baelon?" Annara asked quietly, already standing.
"Burst appendix. The maesters give him hours." Rhaenys closed the door. "You knew. All three of you—you knew this was coming."
"We knew the timeline," Perseon said, carefully setting down his quill. His handwriting was still a child's—slightly wobbly, letters not perfectly formed—but legible and improving rapidly. "We knew Baelon died in 99 AC. We just didn't know exactly when."
"Can you save him?" The words came out desperate. "You have powers. Medical knowledge from your world. Can you—"
"No." Annara's voice was gentle but firm. She closed her mathematics text with careful deliberation—she could read well, but turning pages still required concentration at her age. "Not with the tools available here. In our world, a burst appendix required immediate surgery—cutting him open, removing the infected organ, antibiotics to fight infection. We don't have antibiotics. We don't have proper surgical tools. We don't have anesthesia beyond milk of the poppy. Even if we tried—"
"—we'd just cause him more pain and probably kill him faster," Rhaenyra finished. She stood up from her chair, steadying herself with one hand on the table—at three, they could walk and run perfectly well, but getting down from adult-sized furniture still required care. "I'm sorry, Aunt Rhaenys. Some things we can't change. Some deaths are inevitable."
Rhaenys sank into the tutor's vacated chair, feeling the weight of helplessness. "He's a good man. Baelon—he was kind to me after the Great Council. When others gloated that I'd been passed over, he told me I would have made an excellent queen. He *meant* it."
"He did mean it," Perseon said, moving to stand beside his mother's chair. At three, he came up to her waist—tall for his age, but still very much a small child. "The histories remember him fondly. Brave, honorable, respected by smallfolk and lords alike. He would have been a good king."
"Instead, we get Viserys." Rhaenys didn't mean it cruelly—she loved her cousin. But Viserys was *soft* in ways Baelon never was. Good-hearted, yes. Diplomatic, yes. But weak where strength was needed, indecisive where certainty was required.
"Viserys will need guidance," Annara said, walking over to join them. She moved with the careful balance of a child still growing into her limbs. "When Baelon dies, when Jaehaerys calls the Great Council—Viserys will be terrified. Grieving his father, suddenly thrust into position as heir, facing lords who'll judge whether he's worthy. He'll need someone he trusts."
"He'll need you," Rhaenyra added, following her sister. The twins moved in unconscious synchronization, their steps matching despite having separate bodies. "You're Hand. You're family. You're the one person who can keep him stable while everything else falls apart."
"And after the Great Council?" Rhaenys asked. "After Viserys is confirmed as heir and I'm firmly established as someone who was passed over *twice*—what then?"
"Then you remind him why he needs you," Perseon said. His voice was clear and articulate—he'd been speaking in complete sentences since age two, another thing that unnerved people—but it was still a child's voice, pitched higher than an adult's. "Not as a rival. As an asset. You're the Hand who keeps the realm running. You're the cousin who doesn't want his crown, just his success. You're the person who makes him look good by being indispensable."
"Political manipulation via competence," Rhaenys said dryly. "How Alysanne of you."
"Grandmother taught us well," the twins said in unison, which was still unnerving even after months of practice.
---
**The Red Keep - Prince Baelon's Chambers - That Evening**
Baelon Targaryen died as the sun set, surrounded by family. Jaehaerys held his hand. Viserys sat at his other side, tears streaming down his face. Daemon—who'd ridden from Dragonstone the moment ravens arrived—stood at the foot of the bed, grey eyes dark with grief.
"I'm sorry," Baelon whispered to his father. "I'm sorry I'm leaving you. You've lost so many sons—"
"You gave me fifty-four years of pride," Jaehaerys said, his voice breaking. "You were everything a son should be. Everything a prince should be. The realm weeps to lose you."
"Viserys—" Baelon turned his head with effort. "You'll be king someday. Be better than I could have been. Be wise. Be *kind*. The smallfolk remember kindness."
"Father, please—" Viserys couldn't speak past the tears.
"And Daemon—" The younger prince leaned closer. "—don't cause your brother too much trouble. He'll need your strength. Your *loyalty*. Promise me."
"I promise," Daemon said, and meant it in that moment, though time would test that promise in ways none of them could foresee.
Baelon's breathing went shallow. Then stopped.
The Brave died quietly, without drama, mourned by a father who'd outlived too many children and sons who would carry his memory forward.
In the Dragonpit, Vhagar—Baelon's dragon, massive and ancient—released a keening wail that echoed across King's Landing. Other dragons joined her: Vermithor's deep rumble, Meleys's piercing cry, the younger dragons adding their voices in instinctive grief.
And in the nursery wing, three dragons who were now the size of large dogs felt the loss. Syrax, Brightfire, and Typhōnas had grown remarkably in three years—already large enough to carry their riders for short flights, though they wouldn't be battle-ready for years yet. They added their own sounds—no longer the chirps of hatchlings but the distinctive calls of young dragons sensing their humans' grief.
Perseon felt the distress through his bond with Typhōnas and reached out mentally to soothe the dragon. *It's okay. Death happens. We're sad but we're safe.*
*Want to protect,* Typhōnas sent back. *Want to make humans-who-matter not-sad.*
*You can't fix this one,* Perseon thought gently. *But stay close. That helps.*
The dragon settled, curling protectively around his rider despite now being large enough to knock over furniture. In the adjoining room, Syrax and Brightfire were doing the same with their riders, golden and silver scales gleaming in the candlelight.
---
**The Red Keep - Royal Solar - Three Days After Baelon's Death**
The funeral was over. The formal mourning period had begun. And now the realm faced the question that had been building since the moment Baelon died:
*Who inherits the Iron Throne after Jaehaerys?*
The Small Council convened in an emergency session. Rhaenys, as Hand, stood beside Jaehaerys's chair. Around the table: Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, Grand Maester Mellos, Master of Coin Baemond Lannister, Master of Laws Lord Staunton, Master of Ships Corlys Velaryon, and several other lords whose presence was ceremonial but politically necessary.
"The succession must be clarified," Lord Staunton said. "His Grace has lost his last son. Prince Viserys is the obvious heir, but—"
"But there's Princess Rhaenys," interrupted Lord Blackwood. "The king's granddaughter. Older than Viserys. Arguably with a stronger claim by proximity to the throne."
"We settled this at the Great Council of 92," Lord Lannister said dismissively. "Princess Rhaenys was passed over in favor of Prince Baelon. The precedent is clear—male heirs are preferred."
"That precedent established that Baelon was preferred over myself," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through the growing argument. "It did not establish a blanket rule about female succession. And may I remind everyone that the reason I was passed over was specifically because Baelon was a *son* of the king, not merely a grandson."
"Are you contesting Prince Viserys's claim?" Staunton asked carefully.
"No." Rhaenys's answer was immediate and firm. "I'm clarifying that whatever decision is made needs to be about *proximity* to the throne, not about gender. If this council establishes that male heirs are *always* preferred regardless of proximity, you'll be creating a precedent that undermines female succession for generations."
"Why do you care?" Lannister asked. "You don't want the crown. You've made that clear."
"I don't want to be passed over for *bad reasons*," Rhaenys corrected. "If Viserys is chosen because he's Baelon's son—because he's one generation from the throne while my son Laenor would be two generations removed—that's reasonable. If Viserys is chosen solely because he has a cock and I don't, that's setting a dangerous precedent."
Several lords choked on their wine.
"Princess—Hand—you can't just say—" Staunton sputtered.
"I'm Hand of the King. I can say whatever His Grace permits me to say." Rhaenys looked at Jaehaerys. "Your Grace? You've been quiet."
Jaehaerys had indeed been quiet, listening to the debate with the patience of someone who'd heard variations of this argument for decades. Now he spoke, and his voice carried the weight of fifty years of rule.
"Princess Rhaenys is correct. We need to clarify the succession in a way that doesn't inadvertently destroy future options." He stood, leaning on his cane. "I'm calling a Great Council. Every lord of significance will be invited to Harrenhal to vote on the succession. The question will be phrased carefully: 'Who stands closer to the Iron Throne—Prince Viserys, grandson through his father Prince Baelon, or Prince Laenor Velaryon, great-grandson through his mother Princess Rhaenys?'"
"That's not asking about gender," Corlys observed. "That's asking about generational proximity."
"Exactly," Jaehaerys confirmed. "The lords will vote for Viserys—I have no doubt of that. But they'll be voting based on *proximity*, not on a blanket rejection of female succession. The precedent will support male heirs *when proximity is equal*, not in all circumstances."
"Your Grace, this seems like a distinction without a difference," Lannister said. "The result is the same—Viserys inherits."
"The result is the same *now*," Annara's voice said from the doorway.
Every head turned. The princess stood there in a formal gown of grey and silver, still slightly too large for her despite careful tailoring—three-year-olds didn't quite fill out adult-styled clothing the way designers intended. Beside her, Rhaenyra wore gold and purple, equally composed despite having to crane her neck to look up at the seated lords.
"You shouldn't be here," Staunton said. "This is a council meeting—"
"About our family's succession," Rhaenyra interrupted, walking forward with the careful dignity of a child who'd practiced this entrance. "Which affects us directly. We'll stay."
They'd been practicing this, Rhaenys realized. The twins had spent the last three days rehearsing how to enter a room full of powerful men, how to speak with authority despite being three feet tall, how to be taken seriously despite still needing help reaching door handles.
The sheer audacity of three-year-olds inviting themselves to a Small Council meeting and expecting to be obeyed was staggering. That it *worked*—that none of the lords immediately threw them out—spoke to how unsettling these children were.
"You were saying?" Jaehaerys prompted, gesturing for the twins to approach. A servant quickly brought cushioned stools—the chairs were too tall for the children to sit in properly.
They climbed onto the stools with the practiced movements of children who'd learned to navigate adult-sized furniture, small hands gripping the edges for balance. Purple and grey eyes swept the room with unnerving intelligence.
"The precedent matters *now* because it establishes rules for *later*," Annara continued, her child's voice clear and articulate. "If this council declares that women can never inherit regardless of proximity, you're eliminating half the potential heirs for all future generations. But if you establish that proximity matters more than gender—that the king's daughter outranks the king's nephew, for example—you preserve flexibility."
"Why would we need flexibility?" Lannister asked, staring at the child as if she'd sprouted wings.
"Because kings die," Rhaenyra said bluntly, her small legs swinging slightly as she sat on the stool. "Heirs die. Children die. Entire lines can be wiped out by sickness, war, dragons deciding to eat people—it happens. Having clear rules about succession that *don't* automatically eliminate half the potential heirs gives the realm better odds of surviving succession crises."
The room was dead silent. Several lords were staring openly at the twins, clearly struggling with the cognitive dissonance of hearing sophisticated political analysis from children who still needed help cutting their meat at dinner.
"You're three years old," Staunton said faintly. "How do you know these things?"
"We read," the twins said in unison. "A lot."
That was technically true—the children spent hours in the library daily, devouring histories and legal texts with an appetite that made their tutors nervous. What the lords didn't know was that they were reading *twice*—once with three-year-old eyes that still found some words challenging, and once with ancient souls that remembered these same histories from another world.
"They're precocious," Rhaenys said diplomatically. "And they're not wrong. The precedent we set now will matter for generations. Better to be thoughtful about it."
Jaehaerys studied his great-granddaughters with undisguised fascination. At three years old, they were small enough that he could pick them up easily, young enough that they occasionally stumbled over difficult words or needed help with complex tasks. But their minds—their minds were something else entirely.
"The Great Council will convene in three months at Harrenhal," he said, turning back to his council. "The question will be phrased as I described. The lords will vote. And whatever they decide will be binding."
"Your Grace," Corlys said carefully, "may I suggest that Princess Rhaenys continue serving as Hand through this process? The realm needs stability during succession questions, and replacing the Hand while simultaneously determining the heir seems... unwise."
"Agreed," Jaehaerys said. "Rhaenys remains Hand. The council is dismissed."
As the lords filed out—many casting backward glances at the tiny princesses who'd just lectured them on succession law—Jaehaerys gestured for the twins to stay. When the room was empty except for him, Rhaenys, Corlys, and the children, he said: "You planned that. The entrance, the argument, the timing. You planned it."
"We planned it," Rhaenyra confirmed, carefully climbing down from her stool with the concentration of a child navigating a height that was significant to someone her size. "We needed to be present when succession was discussed. Needed to shape the conversation while we still could."
"And you knew—from your histories—that this was when the critical precedent got set," Jaehaerys said.
"Yes," Annara confirmed, following her sister down. "The Great Council of 101 AC established that male claimants were preferred. We wanted to... adjust that. Make it about proximity instead. Give future Rhaenyra—" She glanced at her twin. "—give her a stronger legal foundation when Viserys names her heir."
"If he names her heir," Corlys said.
"He will," both twins said with certainty, standing side by side. At three, they were nearly identical in height—both small for their age, both silver-blonde, both carrying themselves with an odd mixture of childlike physicality and ancient certainty.
"How do you know?"
"Because in five years, his wife and heir die in childbirth," Rhaenyra said quietly. "Leaving only his daughters. And Viserys, for all his flaws, loves his children. He'll name me—his eldest daughter—heir. The question is whether that decision is *supported* by precedent or *contradicted* by it."
"And you just ensured it's supported," Jaehaerys said.
"We tried," Annara corrected. "The Great Council still has to vote. The lords could decide gender matters more than proximity. We've given them a framework, but they have to choose to use it."
"They'll use it," Jaehaerys said with certainty. "Because I'll make it very clear that this is the question I want answered. And after fifty years, the lords know better than to directly contradict me on matters of dynastic importance."
He looked down at his great-granddaughters—these impossible children who spoke like adults but still had to look up to meet his eyes, who planned like generals but still occasionally needed help with buttons, who somehow carried knowledge of futures that hadn't happened yet.
"You're doing well," he said simply. "Alysanne would be proud."
For the first time since entering the council chamber, the twins' composure cracked. Rhaenyra's eyes went bright with tears she refused to shed—she was three years old, and three-year-olds were allowed to cry, but she'd been a titaness who survived three thousand years. She wouldn't cry in front of the council, even if it had been dismissed.
"We miss her," the golden-haired princess whispered.
"So do I," Jaehaerys said, kneeling down with some effort to be closer to their eye level—a gesture that acknowledged they were children while respecting what they carried inside. "Every day. But she left you with me, and I intend to honor her trust. Whatever you need—to prevent this future you've seen, to protect our family—you'll have my support."
"Thank you, Great-Grandfather," they said together, and hugged him with the fierce grip of three-year-olds who knew this seventy-five-year-old man wouldn't be with them forever either.
---
**Harrenhal - Three Months Later - 101 AC**
The Great Council of 101 AC was, by all accounts, the largest gathering of lords in Westerosi history.
Over a thousand lords and landed knights crowded into Harrenhal's massive halls. Every major house sent representatives. Every region had a voice. The question before them was simple:
*Who stands closer to the Iron Throne: Prince Viserys Targaryen or Prince Laenor Velaryon?*
The debate lasted three days.
Lord Stark argued for Viserys: "He is the son of Prince Baelon, who was the king's chosen heir. Proximity through the male line is clearest."
Lord Velaryon argued for Laenor: "He carries the king's blood through Princess Rhaenys. His claim is through the king's *firstborn* child. Should birth order mean nothing?"
The Reach was divided. The Riverlands leaned toward Viserys. The Vale, surprisingly, sent letters supporting the principle of proximity over gender—Lady Jeyne Arryn, ruling in her own right, had strong opinions about women's claims.
Dorne sent formal letters supporting whichever choice "preserves the principle that capability matters more than gender," which was diplomatic speak for "we think this whole debate is stupid but we'll accept whatever you decide."
The three children—Perseon, Rhaenyra, and Annara—watched from the gallery, too young to be on the floor but present to witness. At three years old, they had to sit on cushions to see over the railing, their small feet dangling as they observed history being made.
"I still can't believe they're debating whether six-year-old Laenor is closer to the throne than thirty-year-old Viserys," Perseon muttered, quiet enough that only his cousins could hear.
"They're not really debating Laenor," Annabeth corrected in a whisper. "They're debating whether female lines count. Laenor is just the vehicle for that debate."
"Which we successfully reframed to be about generations, not gender," Rhaenyra added, swinging her legs slightly. "Watch. Most of the votes will cite proximity, not 'men only.'"
She was right.
In the end, the vote was decisive but not overwhelming: 2,347 votes for Viserys. 237 votes for Laenor.
But—and this was critical—the *reasoning* in most votes cited proximity, not gender. Lords voted for Viserys because he was "one generation closer to the throne," because he was "the son of the king's heir," because "the direct male line is clearest in questions of succession."
Only a handful of votes explicitly cited "male preference" as the sole reason.
"We did it," Annara whispered to her sister as the final tally was announced. "We actually did it."
"We changed the framing," Rhaenyra corrected quietly. "The precedent still favors male heirs, but it's *conditional*. Based on proximity. When Viserys names me heir, the legal argument is stronger."
"*If* we prevent Aemma's death," Perseon added. "If we prevent Alicent's marriage. There are still a dozen things that could go wrong."
"Then we'll handle them," Annara said firmly. "One problem at a time."
Below them, Jaehaerys formally named Viserys his heir. The Prince of Dragonstone knelt, accepting the burden with visible emotion. Daemon stood beside his brother, hand on Viserys's shoulder—a gesture of support that would matter more as years passed and ambitions grew.
The realm had its heir. The precedent was set—flawed, but better than it could have been. And three children who remembered another timeline breathed easier, knowing they'd nudged history in a slightly better direction.
*One crisis down,* Perseon thought. *A dozen more to go.*
---
**King's Landing - The Red Keep - Later That Year**
The knock on Rhaenys's office door came late in the evening, after most of the castle had retired.
"Enter," she called, not looking up from the trade agreements she was reviewing.
The door opened to reveal a man she'd never met but instantly recognized from descriptions: tall, lean, with the sharp features and calculating eyes of someone who survived through intelligence rather than strength. He wore the colors of House Hightower—grey and white—and carried himself with the confidence of someone used to being the smartest person in any room.
"Princess Rhaenys," he said with a perfect bow. "Forgive the late intrusion. I am Otto Hightower, of Oldtown. I've recently arrived in King's Landing and hoped for an audience with the Hand of the King."
*Otto Hightower.*
The man whose daughter would marry Viserys. Whose grandchildren would tear the realm apart. Whose ambitions would fuel the Dance of Dragons.
Standing in her office. Smiling politely. Requesting an audience.
Rhaenys forced her expression to remain neutral as her mind raced. The children had warned her Otto would come to King's Landing eventually, but they hadn't specified *when*. She'd expected years, not months after Baelon's death.
"Lord Hightower," she said, gesturing to a chair. "Please, sit. What brings you to the capital?"
"Prince Viserys, actually." Otto settled into the offered seat with practiced ease. "We were friends at Oldtown—he spent some time there as a young man, and we corresponded regularly. When I heard of Prince Baelon's death and Viserys's elevation to heir, I wrote offering my congratulations and my services. He wrote back inviting me to visit."
*Of course he did,* Rhaenys thought grimly. *Viserys is lonely, grieving his father, suddenly thrust into a position he never wanted. Otto arrives offering friendship and support at exactly the right moment.*
"That's very kind of you," Rhaenys said aloud. "The prince has had a difficult year. I'm sure he'll appreciate friendly company."
"I hope to be more than company," Otto said, and there was something in his voice—ambition wrapped in silk. "If I may be bold, Princess—Hand—the realm faces uncertain times. Prince Viserys is heir, yes, but he's untested. He'll need advisors he can trust. People who understand governance, who can guide him through the complexities of rule."
"He has advisors," Rhaenys pointed out. "The Small Council. His family. Me."
"Of course. And you've done admirably as Hand." Otto's smile didn't reach his eyes. "But you're also family. Sometimes family is too close to give the hard advice that's needed. An outsider's perspective can be valuable."
*He's positioning himself,* Rhaenys realized. *Already working to be seen as indispensable. Planting the seed that Viserys needs someone beyond family—someone like Otto.*
"I'll certainly mention to Prince Viserys that you're available for consultation," Rhaenys said carefully. "Though I should note that any formal position would need King Jaehaerys's approval. The Small Council roster is currently full."
"I'm not angling for a position," Otto said, which was absolutely a lie. "I'm simply offering friendship. Though—" He paused, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "—if any positions do become available in future, I would of course be honored to serve."
"I'll keep that in mind."
They talked for another half hour—polite conversation about Oldtown, the Citadel, Otto's family. He mentioned having a daughter, Alicent, currently receiving her education from septas and maesters.
"She's quite brilliant," Otto said with fatherly pride that seemed genuine. "Just turned six. Reads voraciously for her age. Has a gift for understanding people. I hope someday to find her a match worthy of her talents."
*I bet you do,* Rhaenys thought darkly. *And you're already calculating how many years until she's old enough to be pushed at Viserys.*
After Otto left, Rhaenys sat alone in her office for a long moment. Then she pulled out parchment and began writing.
*To King Jaehaerys:*
*Otto Hightower has arrived in King's Landing, invited by Prince Viserys. He claims to be offering friendship. I believe he's positioning himself for something more. I recommend we watch him carefully and limit his access to Viserys where possible without being obvious about it.*
*He mentioned his daughter. Six years old. Age appropriate to be pushed at Viserys when she's older—and Viserys is vulnerable. We need to be ready.*
She sealed the letter and sent it by private messenger—not through the usual channels, but through servants who reported directly to the king.
Then she sent a second message, this one to three children who would definitely want to know:
*He's here. Stay alert.*
---
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