Otto Hightower had not expected Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Master of Coin, to comport himself like a dockside ruffian. Yet the moment the council convened, Jason's temper flared, his words sharp and graceless, casting slurs not only at Otto's proposal but at the bones of his forebears.
Otto did not rise to the bait. He folded his hands within his sleeves and inclined his head slightly, as if indulging a child.
"What, my lord, have I said that is untrue?" he asked mildly. His voice was smooth, measured, carrying easily across the chamber. "The laws of the realm are clear. Service rendered must be service rewarded. I merely suggest a course that preserves the strength of the Seven Kingdoms while sparing the crown unnecessary expense."
Jason scoffed, leaning back in his chair, one hand drumming against the table. Otto continued regardless.
"Prince Baelon's men are already stationed at the Wall. We may as well accept what has already come to pass and permit them to remain."
He lifted his gaze then, eyes keen beneath his heavy brows.
"Baelon commands elite troops. Disciplined and blooded. Men such as these do not break easily. With them holding the Wall, the realm may sleep more soundly."
Jason opened his mouth again, but Otto spoke over him, his tone sharpening by a single, deliberate degree.
"Or does the Lord of the West mean to suggest that Prince Baelon would abandon his duty and leave the realm exposed?"
The question hung in the air. Jason's fingers stilled. Across the table, King Viserys shifted in his seat, his brow creasing as he considered the implications.
To strengthen the Wall without draining the royal treasury was no small temptation.
At length, Viserys raised a hand, palm outward. "Enough."
The room fell quiet at once.
"Prince Baelon commands fewer than two thousand men," the king said, his voice weary rather than stern. "That is not enough to hold the Wall, whatever their quality. And more to the point, Baelon himself has shown no desire to garrison it."
Viserys leaned forward, clasping his hands. "He is Prince of Harrenhal. His seat lies far to the south. The cost of transporting men and supplies alone would be staggering."
He sighed, rubbing at his temple. "We will set this matter aside."
The decision was clear. Otto's proposal, persuasive though it sounded, was declined.
Viserys had no wish to grant Baelon further power, nor to consign him to that frozen desolation at the edge of the world. The Wall was not merely a posting. It was a slow death.
Jason released a breath he had not realized he was holding. His shoulders eased, if only a little. Harrenhal lay close enough to King's Landing that Baelon remained within reach, watched and constrained by the court. The Wall would have placed him beyond politics and mercy alike.
Otto, however, was not finished.
"If the Wall lacks sufficient men," he said smoothly, inclining his head toward the king, "Prince Baelon may recruit additional forces at his own discretion. Supplies can be drawn jointly from the North, King's Landing, and Harrenhal, spreading the burden."
He turned slightly, addressing the council as a whole.
"We may also establish two additional defensive lines south of the Wall. One at Brandon's Gift. Another at the New Gift. Loyal nobles can be appointed to oversee them."
His fingers traced three slow points upon the table.
"With three layers of defense advancing in concert, the realm's safety will be assured."
Viserys frowned, but Otto pressed on.
"And since the lands beyond the Wall are barren and cruel, Prince Baelon need not dwell there permanently. Harrenhal would remain his seat. A monthly inspection, by dragon, would suffice."
Otto knew the king's heart well. Viserys feared division within his House, and he feared anything that might cast a longer shadow over Princess Rhaenyra's claim.
Sentiment, Otto thought. Dangerous sentiment.
Yet it was precisely such a king he required.
To weaken Baelon, Otto meant to fracture the ancient holdings of the Night's Watch. The Wall itself, the most perilous front, forever facing wildlings, giants, and the endless cold of the Great White Wasteland, would fall to Baelon.
South of it lay Brandon's Gift and the New Gift, lands granted centuries ago to sustain the Watch. Rolling plains stretched east toward the Bay of Seals. To the west, forests thickened into mountains, climbing steadily toward the Frozen Shore.
Brandon's Gift encompassed the twenty-five leagues immediately south of the Wall. Fields long tilled, orchards planted by forgotten hands, old keeps and granaries now standing empty as the Watch dwindled.
Abandoned, yes.
But never unimportant.
The New Gift had come later, granted at the urging of Queen Alysanne during the reign of Jaehaerys I. With a single royal decree, the Night's Watch's holdings were extended another twenty-five leagues southward.
Unlike the older lands, this newer territory was rich and generous. The soil was dark and deep, the harvests varied. Villages dotted the countryside, owing their taxes not in coin alone, but in labor, grain, and livestock. For generations, the New Gift had formed the backbone of the Watch's self-sufficiency, the quiet engine that kept black cloaks fed through long winters.
So vital were these lands that many claimed their loss had driven House Stark to cast its weight behind Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen at the Great Council of 101 AC.
Such was their importance.
And yet, under Otto Hightower's careful hand, these lands were no longer bound to the Wall.
The so-called "defensive lines" were not meant to shield the realm from wildlings or worse things creeping south from the Great White Wasteland. They were meant to watch the Watch.
If baelon ever marched south, his banners would be seen long before they reached the Neck.
"Otto-!"
Jason Lannister's restraint finally shattered. He slammed his palm against the council table and surged to his feet, face flushed, jaw clenched, ready to resume his less than courteous appraisal of Otto's lineage.
Before he could speak, a hand caught his sleeve.
"Have you lost your mind?" Lyman murmured sharply, leaning close enough that only Jason could hear. His grip was firm despite his age. "Can't you see what he's doing? Otto wants to send the prince to the very edge of the world."
Jason's chest heaved once, twice. He wrenched his gaze away from Otto, knuckles whitening as he clenched them at his sides.
Lyman did not release him.
"Don't be rash," he went on, lowering his voice further. "Even if you shame him here and now, what will it change? Everything he's said fits neatly within His Majesty's thinking. Did you see the king stop him?"
Jason hesitated.
Lyman was one of the few men Jason trusted since taking up the chain of the Master of Coin. Older, quieter, and infinitely more careful, he had survived decades at court by knowing when to speak and when to endure.
"There are no good men on the council, and no powerful ones," Lyman went on softly. "There are only tools of the will seated upon the Iron Throne."
He flicked his eyes briefly toward Viserys.
"Right now, Otto's will is the king's will."
That was why Lyman had intervened.
Years at Viserys's side had taught him the truth of the man. The king was genial, even indulgent, until a matter touched upon his principles. Then he became immovable as the Wall itself.
And nothing mattered more to Viserys than succession.
Though his favor toward Rhaenyra had wavered of late, his instinct to shield her had not diminished. Protecting his daughter was as natural to him as drawing breath.
"No," Viserys said suddenly.
The single word cut through the chamber. He sat straighter, both hands resting upon the arms of his chair.
"Brandon's Gift and the New Gift have belonged to the Night's Watch since time immemorial. Even diminished, the Watch remains sworn to defend the realm. Those lands cannot be separated from it."
Otto stiffened, his expression tightening for the briefest instant before he smoothed it away.
For the first time that morning, his certainty faltered.
"I believed I understood you, Your Grace," he said carefully.
Viserys waved a hand, already weary of the debate. "We will revisit this matter in a few days."
The dismissal was unmistakable.
After the council dispersed, Viserys lingered only long enough to summon a knight of the Kingsguard.
"Ride to Harrenhal," the king commanded. His voice was quiet, but firm. "Tell Rhaenyra to return to King's Landing at once. I have matters that require her counsel."
The knight bowed and departed without question.
Viserys leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty council chamber.
The game, he knew, was far from finished.
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Send the stones this way. Okay???