TBOV: Chapter Twelve: Power Shuffles

Chapter Twelve: Power Shuffles

"The lies we tell for love, [she thought]. Or for hate. Or for any reason at all."

―Arya Stark, A Storm of Swords

…

The sun filtered in through narrow windows of leaded glass, throwing bands of golden light across the floor of the Red Keep’s corridor. Otto Hightower walked with an almost imperious slowness, each measured step echoing his high station and the gravity of what he intended this day. His cloak, a lush green trimmed in gold, swayed with each step. Beside him strode Ser Criston Cole, his armor gleaming beneath a half-cloak pinned at the shoulder with the royal sigil. They passed pairs of white-cloaked guards who bowed at their approach, eyes lowered in deference.

Otto could sense the tension in the Red Keep’s halls, as palpable as the hush before a storm. Ever since Aemond had gone to the Eyrie to see to his own affairs—settling that new wife of his—King’s Landing had felt slightly off-kilter. With Aemond away and Aegon seldom rising from his cups long enough to even feign an attempt at attending his duties, a dangerous vacuum had formed; one that powerful men schemed to fill. Such is the way of courts.

“I trust you remember what we discussed,” Otto said quietly to Ser Criston.

 The Kingsguard inclined his head. “I do, my lord Hand. I shall keep to my part.”

In truth, Otto had come to trust Criston Cole’s zeal for Aemond’s cause sometimes even more than his own. They both believed that the prince represented the realm’s true backbone of competence and ambition—though Otto wondered at times if even he fully grasped the depth of his grandson’s calculations. No matter. Today’s work would be done in the name of that same ambition, with or without the boy’s knowledge.

They turned down a lesser-used gallery where tapestries showed the triumphs of House Targaryen: Aegon the Conqueror forging the realm by fire, Maegor’s cruelty overshadowing the spires of the Red Keep, Jaehaerys ushering in an era of prosperity. Almost a parable, Otto thought. A history ravaged and built up by dragons. 

At the far end, two Kingsguards guarded the threshold to a sumptuously furnished chamber—more comfortable than a cell should be, yet a prison all the same. Otto nodded for them to open the door. Criston Cole pushed it open, revealing Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, seated on a cushioned chair by a tall window, reading from a small tome. A small table before him held a silver pitcher of watered wine and a half-empty cup. The afternoon’s sunlight flared on his white hair, and lines of weariness edged his dark face.

A single glance was all Otto needed to know that Corlys had lost none of his proud bearing. It was there in the set of his jaw, the challenge in his gaze that rose to lock on them. The man set aside his book and rose. Though he did not bow, he acknowledged Otto with a curt dip of the head. “My lord Hand,” he said blandly.

Otto smiled and inclined his head in return. “Lord Corlys. I trust you are kept comfortable?”

Corlys’s eyes flitted over the luxuries of the room as though they were mocking illusions. “Comfort enough, for a gaol.”

Ser Criston maintained his silent vigilance near the door, letting Otto speak. Otto advanced, taking a seat uninvited on a padded bench near the table. He gestured calmly for Corlys to do the same. “Sit, my lord. We’ve business to discuss, a matter you might find…favorable.”

Corlys stayed standing a moment longer, pride warring with curiosity, before lowering himself back into the chair. Otto took the moment to observe the older man’s face. Beneath his outward composure, Corlys’s frustration must have simmered; the loss of Driftmark ought to be a wound that would not soon heal. The knowledge that Vaemond—the Sea Snake’s own younger brother—would turn on him had to sting, especially as the serpent grew daily in power and wealth, directing the greatest fleet in Crown’s arsenal and serving as the realm’s Master of Ships. 

“I would not have come if I had nothing of worth to say,” Otto said at length. “I believe I have some basic understanding of your feelings, Lord Corlys. Surely, you must hate this, being trapped here whilst that thoroughly opportunistic kin of yours continues to scheme to usurp everything you worked for.

The Lord of Driftmark arched a brow.

“I intend to propose a way for you to humble Vaemond,” Otto continued. “The man who betrayed you.”

Corlys kept his face composed, but Otto glimpsed a flicker in his eyes. The Sea Snake, for all his pride, was still a man of cunning. “What might that be?” he asked.

Otto briefly let his hand rest on the table, a deliberate show of confidence. “I have learned something some time ago: do you remember Marilda of Hull? I hear some know her as Mouse? Yes, I know… Addam Hull—the rider of Seasmoke and one of Prince Aemond’s close adherents—is your bastard son.”

Corlys’s mouth thinned; he exhaled through his nose but said nothing.

“One of your few lost branches,” Otto continued smoothly, “yet an important one. A dragonrider is no trifling matter. Especially one young, unwedded and loyal to the Crown.”

Corlys’s silence was as pointed as a drawn blade. At length, he spoke in a guarded tone. “Why does it matter if the boy is mine?”

“It matters because I mean to establish his claim on Driftmark,” Otto said. “With the King’s seal. And I would do so by wedding him to your granddaughter, Rhaena, once the boy is legitimized. Should that come to pass, Vaemond’s hold would be undercut. A rightful Velaryon, riding Seasmoke, wed to a Targaryen of proud lineage…that is far from trivial.”

The Sea Snake’s expression hardened. “I begin to see the shape of it, my lord Hand. Yet, I stand to gain little if I hand you my compliance. Surely, I understand this to be you desiring I name Addam my heir?”

Otto spread his hands. “Of course. Besides, we both know you stand to gain a great deal by seeing Vaemond’s ascendancy reined in. If there is one thing we have in common, Corlys, it is that we both detest Vaemond; the man’s ambition rivals the sun in its height. Unfortunately, Aemond has no fear of him, but I do. Such a conniving creature must be reined in before he grows too important. The best way at my disposal now is another legitimate Velaryon claimant—one with the King’s blessing—standing in his path, muddying the succession of the Driftwood Throne.”

Corlys leaned back and regarded Otto through narrowed eyes. “If I lend you my aide, what do I receive in turn?” he asked, voice low and rough as a mariner’s rope. “You cannot think I would do you this kindness for spite alone, Otto. Not even my brother’s folly stirs such pettiness in me. My freedom is the least you must offer—and Rhaenys’s as well.”

Otto lowered his tone, his voice taking on a soothing note. “I cannot promise Rhaenys’s freedom," he said. "She is a dragonrider, and her fate lies in Prince Aemond’s hands. He holds her in high esteem, and I do not think he would part with her lightly.” Seeing Corlys’s scowl deepen, Otto pressed on. “But for yourself, I believe accommodations can be made. I will speak to the prince, and he may be persuaded to grant you leave to return to Driftmark. You would find the island much as you left it, though under garrison, of course—and your lady wife would remain in the Red Keep, where she might be watched.” He steepled his fingers. "To sweeten the pot, I shall see that you are allowed to return to King's Landing when you will, under escort, to visit your wife and granddaughters. This I swear to you."

A long moment passed. Corlys folded his arms over his chest, eyes straying to the window. Outside, the black water of the Blackwater Bay glinted in the midday sun. The promise of returning to those seas, to Driftmark’s spray and salt wind… it clearly stirred in him. Still, pride made him hesitate. “You would give me back my seat," he said at last, "but place a sword at my throat while my lady remains your hostage. Is that the cost of your mercy, Lord Hand? What if I refuse?"

Otto drew a long breath through his nose. “Refuse, and you will see your brother’s star rise all the swifter," he said. "I need not tell you what that might mean. Vaemond has little use for a brother whose shadow darkens his own. Accidents happen, Lord Corlys. A fall from a tower, a dagger in the dark, a sudden fever—who is to say?” His voice was soft, almost pitying. "I offer you an insurance of sorts, imperfect though it may be. I doubt the snake would be eager to see you dead should the matter of Driftmark’s succession be anything but certain.”

He leaned forward slightly.

"And consider this—your granddaughter Rhaena. Baela is already bound to Daeron, beyond Vaemond’s reach. But Rhaena… unwed, unguarded. Vaemond is a widower now, and such men often look to remarry. Shall you leave her to his mercy?"

The Lord of the Tides said nothing, but the muscles in his jaw bunched and tightened, and when at last he turned back from the window, there was a storm gathering in his pale eyes. Despite his frustration, Otto knew the man could not resist the logic. A life on Driftmark, even supervised, was a thousand times better than rotting in this gilded cage. And humiliating though it might be to see a bastard son raised high, it was better than seeing a traitor grow unchallenged.

At last, Corlys exhaled, as if deflating. “I will lend my name to your cause. I will do my part. Have Aegon legitimize Addam, and I shall name him Velaryon before the realm, my true heir. Rhaena’s marriage can follow after, once the boy is made secure. So long as you uphold your end of the bargain.”