Chapter 31
Chapter 31
The moon hung low over the Red Keep, its pale light barely cutting through the thick fog curling around the towers. The castle was quieter than it had been in weeks—no more frantic whispers of war councils or the restless clanking of armored men preparing for battle. Victory had settled over King’s Landing like a heavy, inescapable weight.
And yet, in the dim corridors near the Tower of the Hand, a shadow moved.
Otto Hightower had always believed that patience was the sharpest weapon in a man’s arsenal. It was patience that had elevated his house, patience that had guided him through decades at court, and patience that would see him free tonight.
His face remained a mask of calm, but beneath it, his heart pounded against his ribs. Every step he took through the servant’s passage was deliberate—measured. This was no haphazard flight. Otto had been preparing for this moment since the day Rhaenyra took King’s Landing. Even in defeat, he had not abandoned his ambitions.
They had grown careless. That was their mistake. The moment the Blacks claimed victory, their vigilance had faltered. They forgotten that men like him did not survive long at court without learning how to slip through the cracks.
He had watched, day after day, as the guards posted outside his chambers grew bored. The first had been sharp—watchful—but this one? A green boy, barely older than Aemond had been, with more loyalty to his dreams of knighthood than to Rhaenyra herself.
Otto had waited until just after the guard’s supper arrived—a thick stew, heavy with onions—and then slipped a few grains of crushed dreamwine into the cup. Not enough to draw suspicion, but enough to dull the wits of an already inattentive boy. The lad had barely stirred when Otto slipped through the door.
The corridors outside the Tower of the Hand were quiet, just as he had anticipated. Most of the household guards had been called to the Great Hall, where Rhaenyra held court late into the night. Only a skeleton crew remained—too few to notice the absence of one old man in plain robes.
Otto pressed deeper into the shadowed passages, following a path few still living remembered. When Maegor the Cruel had ordered these tunnels built, it was to hide his worst sins. But Otto knew them well. He had used them before—when the former Hand of the King needed to move unseen.
He reached the base of the staircase leading to the Sept of Remembrance and exhaled slowly. This was the last barrier. Beyond it lay the hidden entrance to Maegor’s tunnels—his escape from the castle and from the woman who sought to destroy everything he had built.
Otto allowed himself a thin, satisfied smile. He had played this game too long to lose now.
He reached for the stone that would trigger the passage to open—
Nothing.
His fingers scraped against cold, unmoving rock.
Frowning, Otto tried again, pressing harder. The tunnel had always opened before. But now—no sound of shifting stone. No faint breeze from the hidden path below. Panic crept at the edge of his composure, but he shoved it down.
“You should’ve known better,” a voice cut through the silence—low and dangerous.
Otto stiffened.
Daemon Targaryen stepped from the shadows, a lazy smile curving his lips. “Did you truly think we’d let a rat like you slip through our fingers?” He let the silence stretch before adding, “I almost hoped you’d try.”
Otto squared his shoulders, forcing himself to meet Daemon’s gaze. “The realm will burn under your niece,” he said coldly. “You have no idea the chaos you’ve unleashed.”
Daemon laughed softly—mocking, cruel. “You Hightowers love to speak of order and chaos while you slither in the dark.” He stepped closer, Dark Sister gleaming faintly in the torchlight. “But your time is done. And if I were you, I’d worry less about the realm and more about how much longer you’ll keep your head.”
Otto drew in a breath, steadying himself. “I was loyal to the king,” he said, his voice cutting through the tension. “I did what was necessary to protect his legacy.”
Daemon tilted his head, as though weighing the words. “And now I’m doing what’s necessary to protect ours.”
For the first time in his life, Otto Hightower felt the sting of true helplessness. The last move on his board had failed—and his enemies had already begun to claim their victory.
Otto straightened, his years of courtly training masking the fury and fear coiling beneath his skin. “You think this is victory, don’t you?” he said coldly. “When the realm grows tired of Rhaenyra’s rule, they will remember that it was House Hightower who stood against the chaos of dragons.”
Daemon laughed—a sharp, mirthless sound. “You mean stood against anything that did not serve your ambitions.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement. “You’ve spent your life scheming, old man. Did you think you could outwit a family born of fire and blood?”
“I was protecting the realm,” Otto snapped, the facade of calm slipping. “From her. From you.”
Daemon pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “The only thing you ever protected was your own power. And now that’s gone.” He gestured to the sealed tunnel. “Did you really think you could crawl away like a rat? My nephew has been busy with his runes—clever boy. Only those with the blood of Old Valyria can pass through now.”
Otto’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his voice remained steady. “You think your violence makes you strong, but you’ve only delayed the inevitable. The realm will not forget House Hightower. We endure. Always.”
Daemon tilted his head, considering him. For a moment, silence stretched between them—thick with all the years of animosity. And then, with a low chuckle, he stepped aside.
“Go on then,” he said, waving toward the tunnel. “Run, if you can find a way. Let the world see you for what you are—a broken old man clinging to dreams that died with your grandson.”
Otto’s pride burned, but he knew a lost battle when he faced one. With nothing left but his dignity, he turned and allowed himself to be led to the throne room—where judgment awaited.
******************
The throne room of the Red Keep was no longer the cold, fractured place it had been under Viserys’ reign. The air felt heavier now—thick with the weight of change. Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before the Iron Throne, her black and red robes pooling around her feet, a living embodiment of House Targaryen’s true power.
Daemon walked to her side, relaxed but alert, his hand always close to the sword that had spilled so much blood in their family’s name. Laenor Velaryon, ever steady, leaned against the edge of the dais with the quiet confidence of a man who knew they had won. And just behind them, Lucerys—young, bright-eyed, but no less sharp—watched Otto’s every move.
Alicent Hightower stood at the foot of the dais, her face pale and drawn. Grief and exhaustion hung over her like a shadow, but her eyes—once filled with fire—were dull now. She did not lift her head as her father was brought before Rhaenyra.
“You should’ve stayed in your chambers,” Daemon murmured as Otto was forced to his knees. “It would’ve been more dignified.”
Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing any further mockery. Her gaze was fixed solely on Otto. “Otto Hightower,” she said, her voice cool and regal, “you stand accused of treason against the Crown, of conspiring to usurp my birthright, and of endangering the peace of the realm. Do you deny these charges?”
Otto lifted his chin, his pride refusing to break. “I did what I must to protect the Seven Kingdoms from a ruler unfit to sit the throne.”
“You mean a ruler you could not control,” Rhaenyra said quietly.
For the first time, Alicent’s voice cut through the room. “Father, stop this,” she whispered. “It’s over.”
Otto’s expression hardened. “It is never over.”
A tense silence fell before Rhaenyra spoke again. “House Hightower will no longer hold dominion over Oldtown,” she declared, her words ringing through the hall. “Your brother’s heir will come to King’s Landing as a hostage to ensure their loyalty. And half your house’s wealth will be seized to fund the rebuilding of the realm you sought to destroy.”
Laenor hummed softly. “A generous punishment, considering the crime.”
Otto’s hands curled into fists, but it was Daemon who stepped forward, his smile sharp. “You should thank her, old man. I would’ve had your head on a spike the moment I caught you scurrying in the dark.”
“You always were a savage,” Otto spat.
Daemon only laughed. “And you, a relic. But not for much longer.”
Rhaenyra’s voice turned colder still. “Otto Hightower, for your treason and defiance, I sentence you to death.”
A gasp rippled through the court. Alicent flinched as though struck, but Otto did not beg. He met Rhaenyra’s gaze with a defiant, unyielding pride.
“You may kill me,” he said, his voice steady, “but you will never break House Hightower.”
“Perhaps not,” Rhaenyra allowed, “but you will never stand against me again.”
With a nod from her, Ser Steffon Darklyn stepped forward, sword gleaming in the torchlight.
Otto did not flinch. Even at the end, his pride held fast—until the blade fell, severing the last remnant of his ambition.
As his head struck the marble floor, Daemon leaned in toward Rhaenyra and murmured, “At last, the leech is gone.”
Rhaenyra did not smile. “It is finished,” she said softly. And with those words, the shadow of Otto Hightower was cast from the realm—for good.
*********
The air in the Red Keep felt heavier these days—thick with the weight of victories won and debts yet to be paid. In the small council chamber, torches burned low, casting flickering shadows over the table. The room was quieter than it had been in weeks, but no less charged.
Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, a letter clutched in her fingers. Her expression was unreadable—calm, composed—but there was an edge beneath it, a hardness sharpened by years of battle and betrayal.
Alicent faced her across the expanse of cold stone, her face pale and drawn. The lines around her mouth were deeper now, her hair streaked with silver beneath her widow’s veil. She did not speak, but the rigid set of her shoulders revealed the tension coiled inside her.
Rhaenyra held the letter aloft. “The Ironborn,” she said, her voice smooth but heavy, “are not known for their kindness. It seems your son learned that lesson too late.”
A flicker of something—hope, perhaps—flashed across Alicent’s face. “Aemond is alive?”
A cruel truth weighed in Rhaenyra’s mouth, but she did not soften it. “He was,” she answered. “A thrall in the service of the Lord of the Iron Isles. He attempted to escape, killing a kinsman of their lord in the process.”
Alicent’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she pressed them together. “And now?” she demanded, though the answer hung thick in the silence between them.
“They punished him,” Rhaenyra said, her voice unyielding. “Mutilated him. He died of his wounds.”
The words struck the room like a blow. Alicent swayed where she stood, her lips parting soundlessly. For all her scheming, all her desperate grasping for power, the loss of another child hollowed her from within.
Daemon, standing at Rhaenyra’s side, gave a humorless chuckle. There was no pity in his voice. “He reaped what he sowed.”
Alicent’s head snapped toward him, her eyes burning with grief and rage. “You speak of my son,” she hissed, her composure cracking at last. “Have you no decency?”
Daemon tilted his head, unmoved. “Your son would have killed hers without a second thought,” he said. “Do not ask for my sorrow—you will not have it.”
Rhaenyra lifted the letter again and stepped closer. “The Ironborn demand payment,” she said. “For the blood he spilled. Gold—or more. They’ve left the terms open.” Her gaze sharpened. “What would you have me do?”
Alicent stared at her, tears brimming but unshed. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. What words were left to her? Her ambitions had shattered—her children scattered or dead. Aegon gone, Helaena gone, Daeron siding with Rhaenyra, and now Aemond…
“I…” Her voice wavered, breaking under the weight of everything she had lost. “I need time.”
Rhaenyra did not move. “Time won’t bring him back.”
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps beyond the hall. For all their enmity, there was nothing left to fight for—not in this moment. Just the fragile remains of a family torn apart.
“I will consider their offer,” Rhaenyra said at last, turning away. “But I will not pay blindly. He was my enemy. Not my son.”
She left the letter on the floor between them, the broken seal catching the light as she walked away. Alicent did not follow. She simply stood there—alone—amid the ruins of everything she had fought to hold.
********************
The air in the distant tower was cold, despite the golden light of sunset spilling through the narrow window. Alicent Hightower sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The chambers were grand enough—rich tapestries, polished wood, a bed softer than most—but to her, they may as well have been a tomb.
She had once been queen. The most powerful woman in the realm. Now, she was a prisoner.
Rhaenyra had denied her request to retreat to Oldtown, stripping her of the last place that felt like home. There would be no quiet retirement among the maesters. No return to her uncle’s halls—not that it mattered. Her father was dead and the Hightower name was tarnished beyond repair. Rhaenyra’s judgment had seen to that.
The only choices she had been given were a veil and vows as a Silent Sister or a life confined to this tower. She had chosen the prison. She still had her pride—what little remained.
A shiver crept through her limbs, though she refused to draw the fur closer. The echoes of her downfall still rang in her ears—Rhaenyra’s cold words, Laenor’s mocking smile as she was led away. Her thoughts wandered to the children she had fought so hard to protect.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Alicent straightened, smoothing her skirts as the guard stepped aside to allow a visitor through. Her heart stuttered—just for a moment—at the sight of the pale figure entering the room.
“Helaena,” she whispered, breath catching painfully in her throat.
It could not be. It was a trick of the light, surely. Her daughter was dead—Alicent had laid her to rest herself. And yet, there she stood. Pale as a wraith, silver hair falling loose around her shoulders, a soft blue gown brushing the floor.
“Mother,” Helaena greeted quietly, her voice like the distant hum of bells.
Alicent pressed a hand to her chest, struggling to breathe. “You… you cannot be here. This is not real.”
“And yet, here I stand.” Helaena moved further into the room, her gaze sweeping the chamber before settling back on her mother. There was no warmth in her eyes—no love. Only something distant. Cold. “You always wanted me to be quiet. To obey.” She tilted her head, studying Alicent with unnerving calm. “Now I am here. Do you still wish for my silence?”
Alicent swallowed against the lump rising in her throat. “I did everything to protect you—all of you. I gave my life to secure your futures.”
“You call it protection,” Helaena murmured. “But you never protected me. You sold me.”
The words struck like a blow. Alicent’s breath faltered. “I… I had no choice. Rhaenyra—”
“Rhaenyra.” Helaena echoed the name, her voice hollow. “Always Rhaenyra. You hated her so much that you gave me to the Lannister but secretly planned to keep me for my own brother. You knew the man he was. And yet, you would bind me to him like a lamb to the slaughter.”
Alicent shook her head, as if denial alone could erase the truth. “It was for the good of the realm—”
“It was for you,” Helaena interrupted, her tone sharper now. “You were the one who clung to power. You seduced a grieving king to place yourself beside the throne, and when that wasn’t enough—you would use your own daughter to hold onto it.”
Alicent’s vision blurred with tears. “I loved you,” she insisted. “I loved you more than anything.”
“You loved control,” Helaena said softly. “You feared losing it more than you feared losing me.”
A tremor ran through Alicent’s hands. She reached toward her daughter, fingers shaking. “Please,” she whispered, “don’t leave me alone.”
For the first time, something like pity flickered across Helaena’s face—but it was gone in an instant. “You were always alone, Mother,” she said, stepping back toward the door. “You just never knew it.”
The door opened on a phantom breeze, and Helaena slipped away without another word.
Alicent’s hands fell to her lap, her whole body trembling as silence reclaimed the chamber. The distant clang of the city’s bells rang out—faint, mournful. She squeezed her eyes shut, but her daughter’s voice echoed in the hollow places of her mind.
You were always alone.
Days passed, and the servants grew wary of the tower. Whispers spread—how the former Queen consort could be heard speaking softly to herself in the dark hours of the night. She would sit for hours by the window, watching shadows drift across the sky, speaking to ghosts that no one else could see.
And as the years crept on, Alicent Hightower faded from memory—a woman who was now nothing more than a cautionary tale. A prisoner not just of stone and iron, but of the choices that had led her there.