Otto Hightower did not yet know that he had already been caught in a conspiracy whose blade was aimed squarely at his own throat.
All he knew was that he must finish this task, and finish it quickly.
Only then could he return to the Small Council chamber, reclaim his seat beside the king, and prevent himself from being quietly edged out of the political heart of the Seven Kingdoms. Absence, Otto knew better than most, was a slow poison. Power did not wait for men who lingered in the streets while others whispered in council halls.
Yet as the days stretched on, a faint unease began to coil in his chest.
Each time he supervised the restructuring of King's Landing's streets, he felt it. A pressure between the shoulder blades. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Otto paused more than once, his thin fingers tightening around his cane as he turned his head sharply. Each time, his eyes swept over the same sight. Smallfolk bustling about their miserable lives. Laborers hauling broken beams. Women clutching children close to their skirts. No glint of steel. No assassin's shadow. Nothing out of place.
And yet the feeling refused to fade.
His mouth drew into a thin line.
That night, Otto dictated another request to Jason Lannister. More men. A proper guard. Something befitting the Hand of the King while he labored beyond the walls of the Red Keep.
The reply came back the next morning.
Insufficient manpower.
Otto crushed the parchment in his fist, knuckles whitening as his breath hissed through his teeth. His face remained smooth, composed, but fury burned behind his eyes.
"Damn you, Lannister," he muttered under his breath.
He paced the length of the chamber, boots clicking sharply against the stone. His free hand gestured angrily, though no one but the walls bore witness.
"Who do you think you are," he whispered. "If not for the king compensating House Lannister for its losses, if not for Baelon's support, if not for the endless rivers of gold you poured into the crown, how would the office of Master of Coin ever have been yours."
The words brought no comfort.
By King Viserys's decree, Hightower guards were confined to the Red Keep. When Otto ventured into the city, he was forced to rely on the City Watch.
Which meant his life rested in Baelon's hands.
Otto's gaze hardened as he watched the soldiers move through the streets. Each wore a blood red cloak and carried himself with pride. Dawn Iron Guard, they called themselves.
Otto felt a chill.
If Baelon ever chose rebellion, would this very force not become his sword. An army forged to protect the capital and the royal house, marching instead upon the Iron Throne.
No.
His jaw set firmly.
Baelon must be impeached at the Small Council.
The City Watch was the king's army. Today it belonged to Viserys. Tomorrow, it must belong to his grandson, Aegon.
As for Baelon, Otto dismissed him with a curl of disdain.
He is nothing.
The thought of Aegon, however, inevitably led his mind elsewhere. To Alicent. To the children. Taken to Harrenhal.
The memory tightened his chest. Otto stopped walking, his fingers pressing against the carved head of his cane as if steadying himself. For a heartbeat, doubt flickered.
Then he exhaled slowly.
Alicent was strong. Stronger than most men gave her credit for. And Baelon, for all his ambition, would never dare commit the unforgivable sin of kinslaying.
For now, the path ahead was clear. Finish this assignment. Return to the Red Keep. Reclaim his rightful place, where his talents could truly shine.
"Next one," Otto barked, his voice sharp as a blade.
He lifted his chin, eyes cold as he surveyed the trembling homeowners before him.
"If they refuse to move, tear it down by force."
The words fell without hesitation.
In Otto's eyes, these wretches should have felt honored merely by laying eyes upon him. He was the Hand of the King, second only to Viserys himself.
And yet they dared haggle.
One man clutched a parchment deed with shaking hands, his voice cracking as he pleaded. Otto did not bother listening. He waved a dismissive hand.
"Remove it," he said.
The soldiers obeyed.
Wood splintered. Stone cracked. The crash of collapsing homes echoed through the street like thunder. Dust rose in choking clouds as screams and sobs followed.
With each building that fell, more families were cast into the street.
And within the swelling crowd, certain gazes began to change.
Otto did not notice.
But others did.
From the shadows of narrow alleys, Mysaria's agents watched in silence. Their eyes met briefly. A nod. A subtle shift of weight. One by one, they slipped forward, drew aside a few carefully chosen individuals, and struck swiftly.
Bodies went limp. Forms were dragged away.
Most of the civilians noticed nothing at all.
Those who did chose to look away.
This was King's Landing. Such things happened.
When Prince Baelon had commanded the City Watch, crimes like this had nearly vanished. The streets had been safer then. Quieter. Almost gentle, by the city's cruel standards.
With his departure, the order he had imposed unraveled with alarming speed.
Only the cloaks remained unchanged. Still blood red. Still proud.
Yet they were no longer Baelon's soldiers. They obeyed now the commands of other nobles, and nobles cared little for the suffering beneath their boots.
"When will we ever live a good life," an old man murmured.
He leaned heavily on a crooked cane, his shoulders stooped beneath years of labor. His eyes were dull with exhaustion.
Another man spat onto the ground, his jaw tight. "We were used to misery," he said bitterly. "But after Prince Baelon arrived, we learned what it was like to live as people."
He folded his arms tightly across his chest, as if holding himself together.
"That was the first time I walked at night without a knife in my coat," a woman added softly. She stared at the rubble that had once been her home. "The first time I dared to sleep with my door unbarred."
A bearded blacksmith clenched his fists until the scars across his knuckles whitened. "If only it had lasted," he growled. "Just a little longer."
He had coin enough that thieves once targeted him often. Robberies. Ambushes. Fear that gnawed at every night.
All of it had stopped under Baelon's rule.
"I could have endured the darkness had I never seen the sun," a well dressed merchant murmured.
He adjusted his cloak slowly, eyes distant.
"But sunlight turned my desolation into deeper desolation still."
He had traveled widely. He had seen tyrants and cruelty in many lands. Even so, forced demolition such as this was new to him.
Families uprooted. Lives erased in a single morning.
The streets crawled now with refugees, people who had once called King's Landing home.
Many had struggled for half a lifetime to afford even a single cramped shack, only to lose everything to an order issued from above.
The merchant released a long breath.
"…Ah."
A thousand words dissolved into a sigh.
"I have seen him before," he said quietly. "That is Otto Hightower. The Hand of the King. I once delivered honey to the Red Keep."
He glanced at the younger men beside him, their shoulders tense, their eyes burning.
"Accept it," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Do not resist. He is a great man. One beneath the king and above all others."
It was the only counsel he could offer.
Fear washed through the smallfolk like a cold tide. Whatever sparks of defiance they once possessed had long since been crushed.
But not all listened.
Some of the younger men stood rigid, fists trembling at their sides. Their teeth ground together as they stared at Otto, standing tall beneath his guards.
Their families lay buried beneath the rubble.
Otto Hightower was their enemy now. Forever.
They were small people.
But even small people possessed their own kind of wisdom.
Otto noticed none of it.
His thoughts were filled with politics. With great matters. With thrones and councils and legacies.
And even if he had noticed.
He would not have cared.
They were only smallfolk.
What could they possibly do to him.
Nothing more than howl in powerless rage.
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