The Prince of Whispers Chapter 24: The new Hand

The throne room smelled of lavender, roses and lilies as willed by Gael. Ever since her pregnancy was known, she had taken to decorating the Red Keep with flowers of different kinds.

Shafts of pale daylight slanted down through narrow windows, striking the Iron Throne so that its steel edges gleamed like teeth in a wolf’s mouth. The marble cobbled floor of the hall glittered as fine dots of sunlight reflected off its polished surface. Targaryen heraldry filled the hall, and the courtiers were given the finest sweets, as there was an occasion for celebration.

Aegon stood beside the Iron Throne with Blackfyre resting in his grip, the weight of the sword heavier than any mail he had ever worn, despite how nimble Valyrian steel was.

‘It must be the weight of legacy.’ Aegon mused as he palmed the pommel of the Conqueror’s sword.

The Valyrian blade seemed alive in his grip, humming faintly with memory. It was a burden laid on him by his grandsire, King Jaehaerys, who even now lay weak and bedridden in his chambers. Though he knew Blackfyre was entrusted to him temporarily, he was immensely touched by this simple gesture. Through this action, his grandfather signalled his trust in him to carry the authority that comes with it.

Therefore, out of respect for his grandfather, he stood beside the throne and never sat on it. He had the authority, but he vowed never to sit on the throne so long as there was a king worthy enough to wield its power.

Even now, though he was not sitting on the throne, he was cloaked in its immense power. He was, for all intents and purposes, the king of the Seven Kingdoms. He was granted this power when he and Gael informed his grandfather about her pregnancy.

To say his grandfather was overjoyed would be an understatement. Of all his children, King Jaehaerys loved Gael the most. Maybe it was because Gael was the youngest. Whatever the case, on that same day, his grandfather gave him powers far above his station.

“Bear it and wield it justly,” the Old King had told him in a voice strained with illness. “For the realm must see that House Targaryen’s strength has not waned in these trying times.”

So Aegon bore it. He bore the sword and the gazes of every courtier in the hall as the heralds announced the man who would soon serve as the King’s right hand.

By now, everyone in the city knew about Gael’s pregnancy. It won’t be long before the entire realm knows what transpired.

The doors opened.

Ser Otto Hightower stepped through, cloaked in green velvet, his posture tall and assured without arrogance. His beard was neatly cut, his face schooled to passive authority but also looking upon Aegon and the throne deferentially.

Otto bowed with measured respect.

“Your Grace. I come at His Grace’s summons, humbled to serve.”

Aegon studied him in silence for a moment. He saw the way Otto’s eyes flicked—briefly—to Blackfyre—a flash of thought behind the calm façade.

Blackfyre – the sword of kings now rested in Aegon’s hands, and the implications were clear for all to see. It signalled he wielded the powers of his grandfather and the trust his grandfather bestowed upon him.

‘Yes. You see the blade. You weigh it, as all men do. But I wonder, Hightower, what else you measure in this hall—who bows deepest, who looks longest, who dares whisper your name.’ Aegon thought.

He had only just become used to his position in the Small Council, but he already knew the intricacies of the court. He grew up in these halls after all, and he was a student of Septon Barth before he squired under Lord Baratheon in the ways of the sword.

But Ser Otto was also a man of great experience, at least in Oldtown.

At last, Aegon inclined his head.

“The King welcomes you, Ser Otto, though he is too ill to greet you himself. In his stead, I speak with his voice and defend the realm in his stead.”

“The realm is poorer for His Grace’s infirmity, but he is blessed to have his family bear the burden of his duties,” Otto said smoothly, his tone a blend of sorrow and resolve. “But it shall be my duty to bear his burdens until he regains his strength.”

‘Or until he does not,’ Aegon thought grimly, though his face betrayed nothing.

He’d grant Ser Otto a chance to see whether the man was an ambitious snake or a man of honour and duty. If it proves to be the latter, Aegon would give the man all the support he needs to administer the realm. But if it stood otherwise, he resolved himself to remove the man with the effectiveness of a Faceless man.

When the formalities were done and the servants ordered to help Ser Otto’s household ingratiate into the Red Keep, Aegon gestured toward the smaller council chamber adjoining the throne room. There, amidst maps and ledgers, the two men sat across a polished oak table. The chamber was quieter, though still heavy with the weight of decisions to be made. Blackfyre lay across the table before Aegon as a silent sign of authority.

“You have arrived at a turbulent time, Ser Otto,” Aegon began, not at all mincing words about the reality of the task and hurdles ahead. “The King’s illness and his subsequent decision to call a Great Council have upended the realm’s peace. Every lord whispers of succession. Every bannerman weighs his loyalty against his ambitions and prospective gains offered by both sides.”

Otto folded his hands before him, a scholar more than a knight.

“I have heard as much, my prince. Rumour moves faster than ravens these days. It is said your grandsire contemplates calling a Great Council to settle the matter of succession while he yet lives.”

“Not mere rumours now, Ser. This is his will, and Grand Maester and his acolytes have begun sending ravens to the Great Houses and the lesser houses as well.” Aegon said, with a hint of displeasure leaking through.

“You disapprove of his actions.” Ser Otto observed.

“I agree with his intent, but a Great Council?” Aegon shook his head. “I counselled him otherwise – told him his command would be enough, but he has wisdom aplenty that anyone among the living. So, I trust his judgment though my heart disagrees.”

“I see.” Ser Otto nodded with a look of contemplation. “His Grace must have given more weight to the risk of civil strife. A Great Council as a medium to settle the succession amicably without doubt would pave a stable reign for whoever is chosen as heir.”

“If my grandfather thinks only the Velaryons would raise their claim, he is wrong. There are claimants from across the Narrow Sea with broad influence in the halls of powerful Free Cities and old families. They will reach out once word reaches them.” Aegon said gruffly.

A look of understanding crossed Ser Otto’s face.

“You have knowledge of these new claimants?” Ser Otto inquired curiously with a frown.

“I’d be a poor Master of Whispers if I didn’t.” said Aegon.

“Too many claimants stand in the way, and I mislike the prospect of foreign powers aligning with those who’d challenge my brother’s claim.” Aegon said, openly declaring his intent to support Viserys.

“Indeed.” Otto said softly, his eyes glinting with a shine of satisfaction. “A safe choice following the original will of King Jaehaerys is necessary for the stability of the realm.”

“You speak as though you already made a choice, Ser Otto.” Aegon said, leaning forward in his seat.

“The lords of Westeros are practical men, Prince Aegon.” Ser Otto said with clarity. “They will look for stability. To blood, yes, but also to strength, and to marriage bonds. Prince Viserys is married to a daughter of House Arryn, a most prestigious line in the Seven Kingdoms. The lords of the realm will also look inward towards their own succession, and they’d prefer their sons to inherit rather than a daughter.”

Aegon hummed as he drummed his fingers on the table.

“And whose claim would Lord Hightower raise, Ser Otto?” Aegon asked.

“That is not for me to say, my prince.” Otto said humbly. “Yet I will say this: the man who sits the Iron Throne must have not only Targaryen blood, but has wisdom, judiciousness, piety and resolve to use his immense power with measure.”

“A weak king swayed easily by the interests of just his extended family, well-wishers, and friends, will invite chaos. A strong king preserves the realm by judiciously applying his mind and enforcing the law without falling prey to those striving for personal interests at the expense of the realm.”

Aegon heard the words, but beneath them he listened to the unspoken with far greater clarity.

Who is strong? Who is weak? And who will decide which is which?

Aegon finally got the measure of the man from what he had heard and observed so far.

He let the silence stretch, the only sound the faint crackle of torches along the chamber walls.

At last, he spoke low and deliberately.  

“Then let us pray that the lords of Westeros stay true to their sense of right.”

Otto’s grey eyes flickered — just for a moment. Then he inclined his head.

“Shall I take my leave, my prince. I wish to oversee my household settle into the keep and mayhaps I may yet gain an audience with His Grace and the princes Viserys and Daemon.”

“Be on your way, my lord. I extend to you all success in the coming days.” Aegon said courteously.

Aegon watched Otto take his leave before staring out the window. The news of Gael’s pregnancy had stalled his plans to visit the Stormlords to seek their support on behalf of Viserys. He already lost some precious few days because of it.

However, with a new Hand to take over the administrative duties, he could rest easy and do as he planned beforehand. He still didn’t fully trust Otto Hightower. Even though the man showed no ambitions to rise above his station or any tendencies to let the power of the position into his head, the future remained unpredictable.

‘Constant vigilance.’ Aegon thought amusedly, a phrase that made him nostalgic for his past life.

It was a phrase he had taken to heart in this life, and he intended to never forget that valuable advice if he could help it.

******

An endless blue stretched before Aegon on a green field filled with mountains, forests and jagged rocks.

“The river Slayne.” Aegon muttered while the wind howled in his ears as he streaked across the sky atop Fiendfyre.

As part of his campaign to amass support from the Stormlords, he decided to start with House Swann. He already had a friend in Stonehelm, Hector Swann. But that didn’t mean he could secure the support of Lord Hugo Swann, a stingy man who did little to save his niece from Lyseni slavers. That sort of tragedy was something his other friend Jon Tarth also shared. Jon had lost his sister to Myrish pirates when they invaded Tarth. Senna Tarth was never heard from again, and no one knew whether she was alive or not. Joanna Swann, on the other hand, was quite famous in Lys as a courtesan favoured by its wealthiest Magisters.

But he was not here to reignite such dark events of the past.

Aegon leaned low in the saddle, his gloved hands tight on the reins of chain and leather. Fiendfyre’s roar cracked across the skies, a sound that sent flocks of gulls scattering in panic. Below, jagged cliffs thrust upward, and beyond them rose the towers of Stonehelm, seat of House Swann.

He guided Fiendfyre to circle the castle twice to gain the attention of the guards in the castle before he urged his trusted dragon into a steep dive. Fiendfyre descended like a howling stream of flame that licked the blue waters of Slayne, sending sprays of water hissing to steam.

The guards along the walls of Stonehelm erupted in chaos: guards stumbled, and servants cried out. The dragon landed in a storm of wings, claws gouging deep furrows in the stone outside the walls of the castle. Horses outside reared in panic as Fiendfyre’s fiery gaze settled on all creatures, making them tremble in fear.

Aegon slid from the saddle, his boots striking the ground hard. He let Fiendfyre’s head loom over him, smoke curling from its nostrils, before lifting a hand.

“Peace,” he whispered in High Valyrian.

His dragon obeyed, settling back with a rumbling growl.

The gates were immediately thrown open, and out strode Hector Swann. Aegon noted his friend had grown a few inches since he last saw him. Hector’s dark hair was damp from the sea air, his smile wide despite the terror still painted on his men’s faces. He bowed quickly, though not stiffly.

“My prince. Welcome to Stonehelm.”

“I already feel welcomed, Ser Hector.” Aegon said with a grin.

“Seven hells, Aegon,” Hector laughed, clasping his friend’s arm, dispensing with the pretence of such formalities. “Did you mean to bring down the walls? Or only to frighten my father into an early grave?”

“If Fiendfyre meant harm, your walls would already be cinders.” Aegon said with a smirk.

“Comforting,” Hector muttered, though his eyes gleamed with awe and a healthy dose of fear as they darted back to the dragon standing behind Aegon. “Come. My father will want words — though he will not thank you for your manner of arrival.”

Lord Hugo awaited them in the great hall, a tall man with hair gone mostly white, his back still straight as a spear. His doublet bore the black and white swans of his House, and his eyes, though aged, were sharp as hawks’.

He did not bow.

“Prince Aegon,” Lord Hugo said, voice like stone grinding against stone. “You honour Stonehelm with your presence — though the manner of your coming has set my garrison to chaos.”

“Fiendfyre has that effect on most people.” Aegon said airily.

Hector shifted, uneasy between kin and friend, but Lord Hugo only motioned them to the high table. Wine was poured, bread broken. Observing the tradition of guest rights was followed with great care after all, Aegon was of royal blood. The servants gave him sweet bread, salt and wine in a silver plate and a silver chalice.

Aegon courteously thanked Lord Hugo for the respect shown.

When the pleasantries faded, Hugo spoke plainly.

“I suppose you have not flown from King’s Landing for the sea air alone. Speak, then, Prince Aegon. What does the White Flame want of House Swann?”

“King Jaehaerys has called for a great council to settle the dispute of succession between Princess Rhaenys and Prince Viserys.” Aegon said. “My brother intends to assert his claim, but he will need the realm’s voices to rise for him. Yours among them.”

Lord Hugo studied him, face unreadable.

“And why should House Swann raise its voice for Viserys, rather than Rhaenys? Or her son Laenor? The Velaryons are no less Targaryen than he.”

“Because,” Aegon said firmly, “the realm does not need a queen to rouse the quarrels of succession. Nor a boy to be ruled by his mother’s kin. The lords will look to the male line, and Viserys stands nearest in blood. We are not like the Dornish to hand over the reins of power to women in our family.”

“Take your own example, Lord Hugo. Do you intend to give Stonehelm to your niece, who is the daughter of your late elder brother, or your son?” Aegon said, scoring a blow close to their hearts.

An uneasy look was now within Lord Hugo’s eyes. Aegon pushed his cause further.

“I think not,” he said with a knowing look. “So, why should we have a Queen ruling us when a King is readily available?”

“You speak most favourably of your brother, my prince.” Lord Hugo spoke with a nod of acknowledgement. “But the choice is not mine alone. My liege lord has already decided to support Princess Rhaenys.”

“But you will have a choice to make in the Great Council independent of the will of Storm’s End, Lord Swann. When the time comes, I hope you’ll exercise your right to vote in my brother’s favour.” Aegon said before taking out the small scroll he brought for this occasion.

He held out the scroll to Lord Swann.

“What is this, my prince?”  

“This is a direct request my brother has written by his own hand seeking your support, Lord Swann. I‘m charged to deliver this to your hand, and I have done my duty. The choice, as always, will be yours to make.” Aegon said with a respectful nod before handing over the scroll.

It was not easy to force Viserys to write so many letters, and he had to resort to seeking the aid of maesters and acolytes. No one was going to know this was not Viserys’ writing. But if he could gather support by stroking the ego of the Stormlords, then Aegon was more than happy to do so.

Lord Hugo finally rose, his halls turning darker for a moment. He silently accepted the scroll into his hands.

“I shall heed your words before I make a judgment when the time comes, Prince Aegon. For now, please accept Stonehelm’s hospitality and stay the night. We’ll be honoured to host a feast in your honour.” Lord Hugo said before retiring to his chambers.

It was neither a pledge of support nor a refusal.

Later, while walking the ramparts with Hector, Aegon breathed in the scent of pine. The younger Swann spoke freely now, away from his father’s stern gaze.

“Father will vote for Prince Viserys. He already said so when Lord Boremund sent a raven demanding his support in the Great Council on behalf of Princess Rhaenys.” Hector said.

“How can you be certain?” Aegon asked with a perplexed look.

“Because my father is a prideful man, Aegon.” Hector said with a shrug of his shoulders. “The Velaryons expect us Stormlords to vote for his wife simply because our liege lords said so. The man flaunts his wealth and expects us to kneel before him as he rules through his wife.”

Aegon now understood the power of envy far better.

“It won’t do,” Hector said with a scoff. “Prince Viserys has shown proper respect by sending you to seek support. I suspect most Stormlords will vote for your brother out of respect for the gesture alone, never mind the fact that they would never tolerate a woman on the throne.”

“Is that so?” Aegon hummed with a thoughtful frown.

“But don’t let that stop you from your task ahead. The Stormlords will be proud if a prince of the blood visits their castle.” Hector advised.

“Oh, I intend to,” Aegon said with a grin.

So began his long campaign of gathering support in the Stormlands for his brother. He went from castle to castle speaking with the lords and their families, delivering the written request of support on behalf of his brother.