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handofkings · 15 days ago

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Fire on the Mountain - Chapter Five: Hope Is A Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Otto Hightower (House of the Dragon) x OFC (Lia Costayne) Warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, canon typical sexism, allusions to smut. Word count: ~7.5k

Chapter summary: Otto returns to Oldtown and the rift between Lia, Rhaenyra and Alicent grows wider.

Author's note: Header by @foxinthegodswood who also beta read this for me - this story would be nothing without you. Thank you for the care and attention you have put in both myself and my writing. I love you.

Otto’s missive to Gwayne had been short and to the point, much like all of their interactions – “I have been relieved of my post as the King’s hand and shall return to Oldtown forthwith” – more like a steward barking orders to a page than a father talking to his son. It did not bother the young knight, he had grown used to his father’s curtness. The kind words Otto had to spare were saved for Alicent and his mother. Since his mother had passed, his father’s capacity for kindness seemed little and less. He now moved through the world strategically, not viewing people as anything more than Cyvasse pieces to be moved across a board. Gwayne had often wondered what piece he might play in Otto’s mind, and since the news of his imminent return he considered whether he would be discarded from the board entirely for his failed betrothal to Lia.

Gwayne had been surprised when he had learned that Lia was already aware of Otto’s return, but when she had revealed Rhaenyra’s unannounced arrival and abrupt departure, it had not been difficult for him to surmise that the princess had played a part in his father’s dismissal. Lia did not offer further details, so Gwayne did not ask. He had tensed as she had clutched at his jerkin, wetting the leather with her tears as her slender frame was wracked by sobs. He had seen his would-be wife in many an unpleasant state in the time that he had known her; angry, irritable, impatient, inebriated, thick headed after a night of too much wine, but he had never witnessed her experience such anguish before. He had never seen her cry. It was the heartbroken weeping of mourning. Whatever had transpired between Rhaenyra and Lia had devastated her, and Gwayne hated it. Such sorrow did not suit a woman as strong as she was, it was like lighting a brazier and watching it spout ice—unnatural. He had half a mind to take her by the shoulders and shake her, to tell her this was unbecoming of someone of her calibre. Instead, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around her and remained still until she quieted.

The next day, she conducted herself as though nothing had happened, and so he was happy to pretend it had not. It was better that way; a world where Lia did not cry was a world with more certainty, where his Cyvasse piece may yet be moved back from the brink of being cast entirely from the board.

The time spent awaiting the return of his father placed the Hightower into a strange sort of oblivion. Gwayne attempted to continue life as normal but every task had a foreboding sense of finality to it.Even the jaunts into Oldtown were tinged with it. Lia, who would usually be well into her cups come the hour of the bat, now sat listlessly with her fingers tapping gently against the same cup of wine she had been nursing since they arrived at this particular inn. If Gwayne were a less intelligent man, he would interpret her behaviour as dread. However, perceptive as he was, he could see the gentle bounce of her knee beneath the taffeta of her skirts;she did not dread the return of Otto, she was impatient for it. He was certain that if he pondered upon it for long enough then he could uncover the reason why, but there was a part of his mind that kept that particular current of thought locked firmly away, an unsavoury thread that if pulled at hard enough would reveal truths that Gwayne did not want to know. Instead, he leaned conspiratorially across the sticky tavern table, causing Lia to startle, her eyes widening before she blinked, quickly composing herself.

“I think you will find that that wine has had time enough to ferment in barrels upon the Arbor. You do it no favours by allowing it to linger in your cup,” he quipped with a playful smile.

“You drink it then,” she sighed, sliding the cup towards him, careful not to let the contents spill over the edge, not that it would have made any difference considering the table’s surface appeared coated with at least the last hundred beverages before theirs.

Gwayne studied Lia carefully. He had not even managed to coax the ghost of a smile from her. He drew back, a feeling of resignation settling over him. “I think it best we return home.”

Lia brokered no argument to that suggestion and they returned to the Hightower in silence.

Gwayne watched, transfixed, as he worked the lemon half over the blade of his sword. There was something soothing about the simple task of rust prevention; the firm feel of the rind beneath his fingertips as he held and squeezed it ever so gently, the glitter of the residue of juice against the steel as the flesh of the fruit moved over it. It was simpler here, the earthy smell of the training yard that lingered even here in the armoury, among the dim light and silence. Here he was simply a knight tending to his weapons, not a son awaiting inevitable disapproval from his father.

“I am supposed to do that for you,” Leyton’s voice came softly from behind Gwayne, his slender fingers coming to rest atop his as they grasped the citrus fruit.

Leyton had such pretty hands, a rarity for knights and squires who rarely escaped the disfigurement of scars and callouses. Leyton’s hands were that of a painter or musician;the skin was smooth, soft, unmarred, his fingers long and dexterous. They were one of his favourite things about his lover. They looked beautiful wrapped around a sword, a wine cup, the neck of a lute, his–

“I am happy to do it myself,” Gwayne uttered, pulling away and clearing his throat, as if the action would rid the beginnings of the illicit thoughts from his mind before they could fully take root.

As he glanced over his shoulder, he saw a look of hurt upon Leyton’s delicate features, his emerald eyes downcast at the rebuff of the knight he served so loyally.

“Forgive me,” Gwayne sighed, wiping his hands on his breeches before coming to stand before his squire and placing his hands upon his shoulders. He felt himself soften, the tension leaving his body at the familiar sensation of Leyton’s muscles beneath his palms. “My father’s return is imminent and it would be wise for us to be cautious.”

Leyton scoffed, narrowing his eyes as he shook his head, causing a sandy curl to fall loose from the leather binding that held it fastened at the back of his head. He shrunk away from Gwayne’s touch as the knight attempted to brush it back, and both of Gwayne’s hands dropped uselessly to his sides. “He is not even here yet and already you seek to sever what is between us. Do I mean so little to you?”

“You mean everything to me,” Gwayne uttered in disbelief, his words strained by the emotion that constricted his throat, “and that is why we must be careful.”

“I understand that, but he has yet to ride through the gates, so your distance is premature. Even Lia is behaving strangely. What exactly is happening?” Frustration radiated from the shorter man as he stared at Gwayne, his brow furrowed and hands balled into fists.

The Hightower knight raked a hand through his hair, moving to stand at the bench upon which he had been cleaning his sword and placed his palms flat against its surface, leaning heavily. To explain this to Leyton would be akin to flaying himself alive for his squire’s benefit, and yet he knew if he did not try then Leyton would lose all faith in him. “I have never lived alongside my father,” he began, choosing his words carefully as he held eye contact, “at least not at an age that I can remember. He has always served as Hand to King Viserys, and so I have enjoyed the freedom – relative freedom – to live as I please. It will not be the same once he returns, there will be expectations placed upon me, obligations I must fulfil. He cannot, I will not allow him to know about us, because he would put an end to it. Do you see? I am doing this for us.”

No sooner had Leyton opened his mouth to respond than Ormund barrelled into the armoury, panting with exertion, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Gwayne wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had always thought his cousin possessed the crumpled features of a root vegetable that had been pulled from the ground before it was quite ripe for harvest—an unfortunate trait he inherited from his mother, Lynesse.

“I have been searching for you everywhere,” Ormund gasped out, swallowing down lungfuls of air as he steadied himself against the stone wall.

“Would this not have been the first place you thought to look?” Gwayne asked irritably, with a lift of his eyebrow, annoyed by the interruption.

Ignoring, or simply not perceiving his cousin’s displeasure, Ormund composed himself, straightening and moving away from the wall as his breath came back to him. “Your father has been spotted riding this way. It is expected he will arrive within the hour.”

Gwayne’s heart lurched, his stomach seizing with dread as his eyes locked with Leyton. Whatever discussion was to happen between them would now be placed upon an indefinite pause.

Grey clouds loomed overhead, blanketing the sky. The air was thick, suffocatingly so, and the quilted doublet that Gwayne now wore felt much too heavy. He was beginning to sweat and longed to be back in his shirt and breeches, in the cool, dank sanctity of the armoury. Instead he stood at the foot of the steps of the courtyard that led up to the Hightower’s main entrance. Gulls circled above, their anguished squalling an outward representation of the turmoil he felt within. He ought to be fighting to reassure Leyton, to continue their earlier discussion and placate his worries. But here he stood awaiting the return of a man who likely reciprocated his displeasure at the prospect of their reunion.

Gwayne pulled himself to his full height, shoulder to shoulder with his uncle, Hobert. Lynesse was stationed dutifully at the other side of her husband, with Ormund lingering listlessly to her right. A small and somber welcoming party, rather fitting for the disgrace in which Otto would return. Lia’s absence seemed like a crater in the earth beside him, and impatiently he wondered where she might be, why she was not here to share in his discomfort. While the last few weeks had not been the happiest in their friendship, they had at least weathered the lingering sense of unease together in strained and stoic silence. Now that it had reached its pinnacle, she was nowhere to be found.

‘Traitorous harlot,’ he thought to himself, before realising he was scowling and fought to school his features back into an expression of neutrality.

Hoofbeats,a single set of hoofbeats,sounded Otto’s approach, heard in the distance, drawing nearer, until eventually he rode through the gates, utterly alone. The solitude in which he returned was striking in its solemnity. If Gwayne thought about it, he supposed there would be no reason for his father to have a retinue with him. However, to see the lone figure in the flesh was proof of just how far from his station he had fallen. He still cut an imposing figure, even alone on horseback, tall and regal, unchanged since he had last seen him at Alicent’s wedding.

As attendants moved forward to help Otto dismount, Gwayne turned at the sound of hurried footsteps upon the stone staircase and saw Lia rushing toward him.

‘About time,’ he thought, pursing his lips, taking stock of her appearance. She wore an emerald green gown of brocade, long sleeved with a plunging neckline, and intricate golden thread in the seams. Gwayne had seen the gown before, when he had rifled through Lia’s armoire, helping her to choose a dress for a tedious dinner that the pair of them had attended with his uncle’s family. When asked about it, she had told him that Otto had had it made for her to wear to Rhaenyra’s proclamation. It seemed an odd choice for her to wear today, considering she had refused all other instances that Gwayne had suggested she might put it on.

As Lia scurried forward, the hair not pulled away from her face streaming around her shoulders in glossy, raven curls, Gwayne crooked his arm out expectantly for her to take. Instead, the air rushed past him with the faint scent of honeysuckle, and he watched in shocked confusion as she ignored him entirely, running instead towards his father. The moment that Otto’s boots landed upon the gravel with a heavy crunch, Lia flung herself at him, rising up on tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck as she crushed her body to his. Gwayne fully expected him to push her away, and demand to know what had come over her. Instead a leather gloved hand cradled the back of her head tenderly, while his other arm wrapped around her waist. The thread that Gwayne did not dare to pull at was beginning to come unravelled of its own accord. He stood with his mouth agape, frozen in horror, until Hobert’s muttering brought him back to the present.

“What on earth is she doing?” his uncle groused under his breath, shooting Gwayne a sideways glance.

“My betrothed is nothing if not spirited,” Gwayne replied, forcing a huff of disingenuous laughter. He felt silent once more upon hearing Lynesse click her tongue in distaste.

Lia had not meant to disgrace herself in front of the majority of the Hightower family. She had laboured perhaps a little too long over readying herself—there were particular alterations that Marybel had to make to her dress, as her body had changed in the years since she had first worn it,but she knew how much it would please Otto to see her in the gown that he had given her. She reasoned that he would be in low spirits, having been relieved of his position at court, so it was a simple gesture to bring him happiness, however small that may be.

She had fully intended to take her place at Gwayne’s side and play the part of his dutiful wife-to-be, however, upon seeing Otto ride through the gates, something inside of her had snapped. All of the pent up longing had bubbled to the surface;he had raised her, after all, been more of a father to her than her own had ever been. She was greeting a family member that she had missed dearly, that was all. He had surprised her when he had returned her embrace, enveloping her in the smell of riding leather, briny sea air, and his distinctive scent of sandalwood. She wanted to climb inside of that moment and stay there forever, it was the most comfort she had felt in months. However, all too soon, Otto was pulling away, telling her to meet him in his study at her earliest convenience, before striding towards the rest of his family to exchange curt greetings.

Now Lia stood before Otto’s desk as he sat behind it—in the same chair that she had curled up in on the few occasions she had dared to sneak in here since arriving in Oldtown. He leafed through the various missives that Hobert had left for him to tend to and it bothered her that he allowed her to linger here while he seemingly ignored her. His affection had melted away like early morning dew, but there was no warm sun to follow it. Lia felt cold. She pretended to look occupied, allowing her eyes to scan the bookshelves, until finally he spoke.

“Do not think it has escaped my notice that you and Gwayne remain unmarried,” he said evenly.

Lia turned to face him. He now reclined in his chair, his hands loosely grasping the arms of it as he eyed her expectantly. Though what he had said was not posed as a question, the silent demand that she ought to explain herself was more than apparent. In their time apart, Lia had almost forgotten how silently demanding Otto could be. Faced with it now, she felt she may wither beneath the weight of it.

“Well, with Septon Rowan being so ill, and Gwayne and I wanting to ensure that we–”

Otto waved a hand dismissively, silencing her. “It matters not. The wedding shall take place upon your return from King’s Landing.”

Lia narrowed her eyes in confusion, lacing her fingers together in front of her. “What am I to go to King’s Landing for?”

Otto furrowed his brow, leaning forward as though explaining to a child. “Princess Rhaenyra is to wed Laenor Velaryon imminently, and I expect you shall wish to be granted leave to attend–”

“I do not!” she interrupted, the words leaving her before she had time to fully consider them.

Ordinarily, she would have leapt at the chance to return to the place she considered home, to be reunited with Alicent and Rhaenyra, and celebrate with them both. However, her and Rhaenyra had parted on unhappy terms the last time they saw each other, and she could not bear the idea of leaving Oldtown, not now. Not when Otto had only just returned to her.

He seemed surprised by her answer, his hazel eyes widening slightly before he sat back again. “Hobert and Lynesse will be in attendance, they will be taking Ormund with them. Gwayne could accompany you.”

“I think it best I stay here,” she insisted, twisting the emerald ring upon her index finger, anxious he may insist she go anyway. She did not want him to send her away. Not again.

“Very well,” he conceded, staring at her thoughtfully.

Eager for the conversation to not fall once again upon the matter of her and Gwayne’s betrothal, she turned abruptly and headed for the door. She paused as she opened it, looking back over her shoulder at him. “I am glad you are back,” she said quietly, before making her retreat.

Rhaenyra grasped the railing of the ship, the wood rough beneath her palms as she gazed out upon the rolling waves of the sea—an empty gray expanse as far as her eyes could see, of utter nothingness. She longed for such peace. Despite how rarely Rhaenyra travelled by boat, she never experienced green sickness, unlike her father, who she had watched empty his stomach over the side for most of the outward voyage. He had not left his cabin since they had departed High Tide. The journey from King’s Landing and subsequent visit to Driftmark had been too much for him, and he needed to rest. She was glad of it. She did not want to be probed with questions about what she thought of Laenor, and was content to simply focus upon the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath her feet.

She had enjoyed seeing Laena. The two of them had walked the clifftops arm in arm, feasted upon oysters and gossiped about which men at High Tide her cousin found most comely. Laenor had been another matter entirely. Walking the beaches and hearing about the men he enjoyed the company of did not feel quite as lighthearted when it was discussed within the context of agreeing that their marriage would be for duty and nothing more. The prospect of it had excited her at first, being given leave to continue with Ser Criston as she pleased. However, much to her disappointment, her sworn protector had not shared her enthusiasm. It made her heart ache to see his brown eyes, so earnest, as he had implored for her to run away with him, to marry him instead, turn sad and then angry as she had declined his offer.

“The Iron Throne looms greater than any of us,” she had told him, but he had not understood.

How could she accept a marriage proposal and the promise of oranges and cinnamon in exchange for her birthright, her legacy? She knew her father had defied tradition in naming her heir, that there were noblemen and commonfolk alike across the realm who had little respect for the notion of a woman ruling the seven kingdoms. She would prove all of their suspicions regarding her perceived unsuitability to right if she threw away her crown on a whim and ran off with a knight.

Perhaps it was wrong of her to tempt Criston so, to allow physical intimacy to blossom between them when it broke every oath he had sworn. However, it had never occurred to her that he would want to pursue anything more substantial than a simple enjoyment of each other. She had not meant to hurt him. Casting aside his love of her was the sacrifice she had to make to ensure she stayed the path laid out for her.

Criston’s absence at her side was a noticeable one. He remained below deck, no longer feeling the pull to dutifully shadow her. She did not love him;she could have, she supposed, but it was not that which stung. It was the fact that he had brought about an end to what was between them before she felt ready to. She was a Targaryen princess, he should have felt honoured to be her chosen paramour, to be the one who warmed her bed—not out of duty but for desire.

Rhaenyra wanted Alicent, she wanted Lia, the two people who meant most to her in the world, who could comfort her in her time of need. However, Alicent had always been mired in propriety, even more so now that she was queen and she would be horrified by anything Rhaenyra dared to confess to her. Lia would have been more understanding, but they had not spoken since she revealed to her that she had Otto removed as her father’s hand, and she was unsure if she would want to hear from her. For the first time in a long time, Rhaenyra realised how utterly alone she was. She had not had Alicent since she married her father. Lia was lost to her the moment she learned the truth of Otto’s dismissal, and now Criston was beyond her reach too. Why did they all believe that their sense of duty somehow took precedence over her own? She was to be queen one day, surely it was for her to dictate what could pass in secret. It seemed unfair that everyone she held dear used their own inflated sense of morality to push her away, to try to portray her as a bad person. Her solitude would deepen further with her marriage to Laenor—a husband in name alone, whose touch she would never know. Suddenly, Rhaenyra wished for green sickness, it would be a welcome distraction from the pit of emptiness that bored its way through her chest. No sickness came, only the gentle rise and fall of the waves that carried her home.

Otto watched as the attendants loaded trunks into the wheelhouse that made up part of the two carriage retinue that would carry Hobert and his family to King’s Landing for the royal wedding. He had been back a mere two weeks before his brother had to depart, however, he knew all too well that the journey from Oldtown to the capital was a long one, so they must leave with haste to ensure their timely arrival. It heartened Otto to know that Alicent would have a Hightower presence around her, even if it could not be him.

Ormund, eager to leave, scrambled into the frontmost wheelhouse ahead of his parents, and Hobert offered a hand out to Lynesse to help her up and inside after her son. She lost her footing on the first step, and was sent sprawling, her knees landing heavily upon the steps and her hands planted on the floor of the carriage. Otto grimaced, wishing for the entire ordeal to be over, for the carriages to pull away, so he could put King’s Landing and the wretched matter of Rhaenyra’s farce of a marriage as far from his mind as possible. He watched as an attendant clumsily attempted to aid Hobert in hauling Lynesse upright, and he closed his eyes briefly against the embarrassing display—it was unsightly. It was in moments such as these that he missed Alyrie the most. She had always conducted herself with such care, the embodiment of dignity and grace. Since arriving back in Oldtown he felt her absence more; there was less to distract him, but also reminders of her everywhere—the bellflowers that she had adored so much were in full bloom in the gardens, the dresses she had not taken with her to King’s Landing still hung in the armoire. Alicent looked so much like her. It made him wonder how Alyrie would have dealt with the threat that Rhaenyra’s succession posed if she was in the same position as her daughter.

Gwayne and Lia had joined him to see the family off, and he glanced over to see Gwayne murmuring quietly to Lia from behind his hand. He could not hear what was said but whatever it was made her raise her handkerchief to her mouth to hide her laughter. There was no denying they made a fine couple. They both possessed a wicked cruelty that shone in their eyes only in moments of mirth. It was clear for all to see that they enjoyed each other’s company, so Otto could not work out why they remained unmarried. He had not spoken to Gwayne about it. He knew his son was too cunning, too calculated, possessed such a gift with words that he would be able to cleverly dismiss it and explain it away in a manner which left no room for argument. Lia, however, was another matter. She could not lie to him, had never been able to, and he knew that if he pressed hard enough he would have his answer.

Time had not yet allowed for such an exchange to transpire, however. Since returning he had been busy with the duties required of taking over ward of the Hightower in Hobert’s absence, and had been involved in much of the planning needed for his brother’s trip to the capital. The little time he did have to himself, he spent watching Gwayne spar in the training yard. Despite the distance between them, he was proud of his son;he was an accomplished knight, his swordsmanship both graceful and fierce in equal measure. He had anticipated feeling melancholy, perhaps even irritable upon his return to Oldtown.However, the bracing sea air was a welcome respite from the cloying, polluted ichor of King’s Landing, and seeing Lia again—the shine of her curls, the impish flash of teeth when she smiled—was so familiar that he did not feel as if he had left anywhere. It was like coming home.

Gwayne kicked softly at the door of Lia’s chambers,two cups cradled in one hand and a jug of wine held in the other. There was the soft shuffle of bare feet against the stone floor on the other side before she opened it. She was ready for bed, a soft, golden coloured robe draped over the white cotton of her nightdress. Her obsidian curls were loose, falling almost to her waist. He would have said she looked beautiful were it not for the impatient scowl that was etched across her delicate features.

“Let me in then,” he demanded playfully, not waiting for a response as he shouldered past her and into the room, setting the wine jug and cups down upon the table in the sitting area.

“I was just going to bed,” Lia complained, though made no attempt to force him from the room. Instead, she came to sit upon one of the couches situated around the table by the fireplace, tucking her legs beneath her.

“I do not remember you ever being such a bore. Does my father really have such a hold on you?” Gwayne asked with a raise of an eyebrow. He sat on the couch opposite Lia’s and poured a generous serving of wine into both cups.

“Well, us continuing our jaunts into Oldtown is out of the question. What else is there to do?” she asked, leaning over to snatch up one of the cups and brought it to her lips.

“You do not seem sad about it,” he commented, spreading his arms out as he leaned back against the cushions. “I wonder why that could be.”

Lia swallowed, her blue eyes narrowing as she looked at him like an animal deciding whether to attack or flee. “Whatever it is you are here to say, just say it.”

Gwayne took a long drink of his own wine, relishing in the tartness of the ruby liquid against his tongue. He had to be careful with how he approached this, the wrong tone or choice of words and she would close herself off to him, effectively ending the conversation. “You seem happy that my father is back.”

“Why would you say that?” she asked, a little too quickly. Gwayne could see from the tensing of her shoulders she was growing uncomfortable, but he pressed on anyway.

“There is something there, I am no fool,” he insisted. “I saw how you behaved on the day of his return, and I am not here to cast judgement.However, I believe you made a mistake in refusing his offer to return to King’s Landing, even temporarily.”

Lia huffed, rolling her eyes as she placed her elbow upon the arm of the couch and rested her chin upon her upturned palm. “You know I am not speaking to Rhaenyra.”

Gwayne wanted to laugh. How petulant she was. He clenched his fingers into the plush material of a couch cushion, watching it dent and spring back beneath his touch, before shifting his eyes back to Lia. “And what of my sister? Does she not matter to you any longer?”

Lia sneered, snatched up the wine jug and hastily refilled her cup, before setting it back down heavily. “Do not pretend that that is what you care about. Speak plainly.”

“How can you be so blind? If we had gone to King’s Landing, it would have given us more time. You know that with us here, my father will continue to impress the need for a wedding upon us. Or does that not matter to you?”

Gwayne knew he was no longer being tactful, he was allowing his temper to get the better of him. He could not help it. He had so much more to lose than Lia, and she did not seem to be treating the situation with the severity it was owed.

“He is too distracted by the perceived threat of Rhaenyra to his grandchildren to care about whether we marry or not,” she sighed, shifting position to stretch her legs out upon the table.

“And what about when he is not? Lia, I–I cannot lose Leyton. Please.” Gwayne’s voice grew strained with emotion, and something in Lia softened, her blue eyes looked upon him with sympathy.

“I will not let that happen, whatever it comes to. I promise.”

Out here in the gardens, with the floral scent that was carried on the gentle sea breeze, Lia felt freer, she had more room to think with only the expanse of the sky above her instead of an oppressive stone ceiling. She twirled a delicate yellow flower between her fingers as she walked the garden path. She had plucked it absentmindedly from a bush she had passed, enjoying the soft velvety feel of its petals. She had awoken earlier that morning feeling guilty, and not just because her and Gwayne had managed to polish off an entire jug of Dornish red between the two of them the previous evening. His anguish as he had implored for her to not reveal his true nature to Otto played on a loop in her mind. She had no intention of revealing his secrets, but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered what she would say when it came to it. It seemed unfair to have the burden placed upon her. Gwayne was Otto’s son, surely he could speak to him?

She gasped as large hands grasped her upper arms, tugging her behind a hedge, and looked up into the honey brown eyes of Alyn. She had all but forgotten his existence since Otto had returned, and felt immediately annoyed that he had deigned it appropriate to not only follow her into the gardens, but to manhandle her behind a bush too. He grinned at her before leaning in and Lia turned her head. His lips caught her cheek instead, leaving behind a moist residue that repulsed her. She immediately reached up to swipe it away.

“Stop that, not here!” she hissed, scowling up at him.

It was like attempting to scold a hound; he still looked pleased to see her, his gaze void of any intelligent thought. “We have not been together in ages. I am beginning to miss you,” he confessed with a gentle smile

A few short months ago, those words would have been enough to earn him an invitation back to her chambers. Now she felt only impatience, a desire to be away from him as quickly as possible. The flower she held fluttered to the ground as she pressed her palms flat against his chest, pushing him backwards out of her space.

“It is different now. We cannot continue with Ser Otto here,” she explained exasperatedly.

“Why not?” Alyn asked, frowning slightly as he tilted his head. “Leyton and Gwayne still see each other in secret.”

“Leyton and Gwayne love each other. I do not love you.”

She knew she was being unkind, but she could not help it. She had little patience to coddle his feelings, simply wanting Alyn to leave her alone. He had satisfied an urge, and served his purpose. That urge did not linger at present, so she had no further use of him.

“Oh…” he began, as his features twisted into confusion then sadness, “I see. So I should…”

“Leave me alone,” Lia finished for him, crossing her arms against her middle.

If Alyn had not resembled a hound before, then he was every inch the kicked puppy as he bowed his head and walked slowly away. Lia watched him retreat, expecting to feel a pang of guilt. She felt only relief, saddened more by the yellow flower that he had accidentally crushed beneath his foot. Her hand lifted briefly to her hair, stroking over the braid that fell over her shoulder. Marybel’s plaiting technique was painful on a good day, but she fully expected her handmaiden to scalp her now that she had broken her brother’s heart. She chuckled at the thought and continued to walk.

“My dearest Lia,

While I understand your absence on this day, it saddens me that I will look out across the room and not see your face among the crowd. This wedding means nothing to Rhaenyra. She holds her duty in so little regard, doing exactly as she pleases while the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces she leaves in her wake. I have heard that you have not spoken to her since her last visit to Oldtown, due to her involvement with the removal of my father as Hand of the King. You have my eternal gratitude for your loyalty, and I trust that my father is keeping well. He has not written to me since departing King’s Landing and I miss him dearly.”

Alicent’s eyes scanned over what she had written so far, and with a sigh she dropped the quill to the writing desk, crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the lit fireplace. They were not words she could send. They were treasonous, even for a queen, even if they were truthful. Betrayal had simmered hotly beneath the surface of Alicent’s skin since Larys had informed her of the fact that Rhaenyra had been given moon tea, after she had sworn to her that she remained a maiden, that Otto’s accusations were baseless lies. Her father had been cast out on the basis of Rhaenyra’s deceit, and now Alicent had no one but her two infant children;her own husband would never take her side against his eldest daughter. Betrayal had boiled to rage upon learning that the person the princess had taken into bed was not her uncle, Daemon, but Criston, her sworn protector. She had chosen not to have him executed, instead taking the knight into her own employment. It was Rhaenyra’s recklessness that had sullied his white cloak, why should he pay the price for that when she would suffer no consequences whatsoever?

She was late, and it was no accident. She could hear the gathering in the Great Hall, even in her apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. A wedding feast that she had no desire to attend, but must do so out of duty. A pity she could not be more like her stepdaughter and shirk that responsibility altogether. Alicent rose, stepping towards the floor length looking glass and appraised her reflection in its surface. She wore one of her mother’s gowns,a Hightower green brocade, with sweeping bell sleeves and a plunging neckline that was held together by gold clasps. She would ensure that tonight Rhaenyra felt every part of the Hightower influence she had attempted to snuff out.

Rhaenyra had wondered all day about what her wedding night with Laenor would be like. She could not imagine him crawling atop her and rutting into her to consummate their union. In answer to her question, they now spent the evening apart in separate chambers. It was an arrangement that no one would question, considering how horribly their wedding feast had ended. Criston had beaten Laenor’s lover, Joffrey, to death in the middle of the feast for all to see. Rhaenyra was glad of Laenor’s absence. His grief for his lover was a private matter, one she had no desire to intrude upon. The events of the day had exhausted her, and she did not have the energy to provide the comfort he would likely need. She was better off alone, in her own bed.

Though she knew Criston’s violent act was one of jealousy, and she should feel flattered, she was instead annoyed by it. Daemon had used the distraction of the chaos that had ensued to slip away, even after she had propositioned him to marry her instead. He had abandoned her. She had little to complain of with regard to her rescue, however. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she clutched the bedsheet to her chest and thought of how Ser Harwin Strong, commander of the city watch, had thrown her so effortlessly over his shoulder and carried her to safety when the feast had descended into violence.

It was not the first time she had encountered him. He smiled whenever she walked past him, catching her eye in a way that gave her pause. He had not given up her secrets upon the night that she had ventured into Flea Bottom with her uncle, and had even helped her home when Daemon had abandoned her. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the commander’s strong arms encircling her thighs as he had lifted her as though she weighed nothing. Thinking back to the night that she had invited Criston to her rooms, she wondered if Ser Strong would accept such an invitation. Harwin had a pretty smile. She would like to see more of it.

The summon to Otto’s study had come so suddenly, the page impressing upon her the urgency with such insistence that Lia barely had time to finish pinning her hair into place. Her dark curls had been braided into a halo around her head by Marybel, who was mercifully gentle despite what had transpired between her and Alyn.

“He is too thick headed to be sad for long,” her handmaiden had commented as she had twisted Lia’s hair into an intricate plait.

Lia kept her gaze downcast, watching the swish of her powder blue skirts around her legs as she walked the length of the corridor. She had been anticipating another invitation from Otto, though had not expected it to arrive so soon. He would pressure her to set a wedding date, and she would have no explanation for why she and Gwayne could not.

‘I could simply turn and flee,’ she thought, and yet her treacherous feet continued to carry her forward.

To her surprise, Otto was standing in front of his desk, rather than sitting behind it when she entered. She hovered by the door, once it was closed behind her,a means to keep a safe distance from his scrutiny, but to also provide an easy escape should she need it. He loomed tall in the gloom of the study, regal in a doublet of crushed forest green velvet.

Besides calling out “enter” when she had knocked, he had yet to say anything, and it made Lia nervous. She could sense something building beneath the surface of him, an energy that was barely concealed but she could not quite place it. She cleared her throat, smoothing her hands over the satin bodice of her gown before speaking.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked. Her voice sounded reedy to her ears, betraying her nervousness, and she hated it. She clasped her fingers in front of her, to stop her hands from shaking.

“Gwayne has been spotted leaving your bedchamber on several occasions,” he stated, his stare accusatory, his spine rigid as his hands remained positioned behind his back.

‘So?’ Lia thought. ‘Gwayne is always in my bedchamber, I do not see why—’

Oh.

And then Lia realised how that must appear to Otto. She bit back the urge to laugh at the ridiculous insinuation, shaking her head. “We just drink wine and talk, that is all.”

Otto inhaled deeply, advancing upon Lia slowly, maintaining eye contact. She had not realised that she had shrunk away until she felt the solid surface of the door collide with her back.

“It is not appropriate for you to be entertaining such visits,” he explained evenly. “If he has taken your virtue before you are wed then—”

“He has not!” Lia protested, her voice raising as her eyes widened, incensed at such a thought.

“You must know how it looks, Lia!” he argued, his own volume increasing to match hers, though his boomed off of the stone walls with its depth, and she wondered how much of this anger had originally been intended for Rhaenyra and her indiscretions.

“We are friends,” she pleaded, her blue eyes imploring as she gazed up at him, now so close that she could reach out and touch him should she want to. “It is innocent, I swear to you.”

“Why entertain such visits while continuing to delay your marriage?”

There was still anger in his voice, and yet his eyes searched hers in desperate confusion. He would not have the truth from her, he could not. She would not betray Gwayne’s secret, she owed him that much.

“We…we are simply getting to know each other, that is all.”

It was a feeble excuse, and she knew it. Otto was utterly unconvinced, his voice growing quiet and concerned.

“Lia, if he has sullied you and is now refusing to marry you then you must say something.”

Her heart ached at the suggestion. Gwayne would never do that, yet she was touched all the same by Otto’s worry for her.

“He has not, I swear. We have never touched each other.”

“Then what on earth has caused such a long delay of your wedding? Why do the two of you remain unmarried?!”

He was growing angry again, and Lia could feel desperation unfurling in her ribcage, the truth upon her tongue begging to be set free. She could not tell him, she had promised.

“Because…because…” she stammered, before lurching forward, rising up onto tiptopes as her fingers curled into the soft fabric of Otto’s doublet, tugging gently as she tilted her face upwards and pressed her lips to his.

This was as good a reason as any.

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