The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 40

Otto Hightower allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he settled into his seat among the royal family. The stands overlooked the melee ground below, where men and boys struck at one another with wood and steel. The noise was constant—cheers, wagers shouted across aisles, the clash of weapons—but Otto had never cared much for such displays. A tilt or a bout was a diversion, nothing more. He watched, yes, but without any real interest. To him, the measure of a man was never in how hard he could strike another, but in how far his will and coin could reach.

The King sat nearby, stiff and weary. Viserys’ face carried the look of a man whose temper had been quietly eaten away. His daughter Rhaenyra’s absence gnawed at him, and it was plain to see. To the King’s right sat Aegon, smug and restless, and beside him his siblings—children of Otto’s daughter, Alicent. On the other side, Alicent herself sat poised, her eyes steady on the ring, her presence calm and careful as always.

Further down the row, set apart from the royal company, were Valon Greyjoy and his daughter. That one. Hela Greyjoy. She sat with her black-armored warriors at her back, still as carved figures, their strange weapons at rest across their knees. The girl herself said little, moved little, but every eye was drawn to her nonetheless. Some whispered goddess. Others whispered monster. Otto had not yet decided which word he would choose, but he knew well enough that she carried weight far beyond her years.

None of it troubled him. If anything, it pleased him.

Rhaenyra and her uncle Daemon had vanished from Pyke two days past, taking to the skies on dragonback without word or leave. They had gone the very night of Valon Greyjoy’s wedding, gone before the vows were said and the feast had ended. Not a soul among their attendants could explain it. No servant, no sworn sword, no handmaiden could say where they had flown or why. They had left only questions and whispers in their wake.

Otto did not need answers. He had them already. Their leaving was insult enough. Their absence at the wedding feast was a slight plain for all to see. Worse still were the rumors that had taken root in the halls: that Daemon and Rhaenyra had dragged Lady Hela into a sparring yard, as if she were a common sellsword for them to test. The story spread like spilled wine, told and retold in corners and chambers until it reached every ear that mattered. Even the smallest kernel of truth in it was enough.

It meant the same thing in the end. Rhaenyra and Daemon had made enemies of the one house they could least afford to provoke.

House Greyjoy was no longer a brood of half-starved raiders clinging to rocks in the western sea. Otto knew this better than any man in King’s Landing. Valon Greyjoy’s fleets stretched from Westeros to Yi Ti. His coin flowed in and out of the Free Cities, thick enough to buy crowns and kingdoms if he wished. And his daughter—fear her or revere her—was already spoken of as though she were touched by gods. The East Essos Trading Company moved at her command.

Otto folded his hands in his lap and let his smile linger, faint but sharp. Rhaenyra had lost more than her pride in that yard. Daemon had lost more than a bout before an audience. They had both cast aside what could have been their only bridge to the rising power in the realm. All Otto had done was watch. The fools had undone themselves.

And now, here they all sat. The King, soured and silent. Alicent, composed and watchful. The Greyjoys, apart from the rest, untouchable in the shadow of their own strength. Otto Hightower leaned back, his eyes not fixed on the ring where men fought, but on the people seated above it. He could feel the shape of things moving into place, and he had hardly needed to act.

He would need a meeting with Valon Greyjoy soon. The man had shown no clear hand in the question of succession. Did he support Rhaenyra, or would he lend his weight to Aegon? For now, it was a coin that had not yet landed, but Otto sensed it might well fall his way. The insult of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s flight from Pyke lingered like a stain on her cause. Valon would not have failed to notice. But it was delicate. The matter would need to be handled with care, perhaps during the lulls between tourney bouts, when no eyes were on him and tempers were cooled.

If he could secure Valon Greyjoy’s loyalty, then the question of succession might already be decided. Dragons were fire and fear, yes, but fleets and coin were what moved kingdoms. Otto knew this better than most. Dragons destroyed, but coin endured.

The current match ended, and a recess was called. Two hours, the crier said, for fighters to rest and take food. Servants carried out large wooden boxes. When the lids came off, the contents were simple: bread hard enough to last, cured meats thick with salt, a scattering of dried fruit. Otto noted it at once. Most hosts would have offered nothing, or left the matter to the inns and taverns. Here, Valon Greyjoy made certain that every man who fought under his gaze ate at his expense. A small gesture, but one meant to remind every lord and knight that the Greyjoy purse could rival, perhaps even surpass, that of the Iron Throne. Otto could respect the message, even if it was not directed at him.

Viserys stood after the recess was called. He muttered about his feet, about the stiffness of sitting too long, and left with the Kingsguard. His sons followed soon after, likely intending on retiring to their quarters. The benches thinned until only Alicent remained at his side. Otto turned his head slightly toward her.

“What have you learned of the fearsome Hela Greyjoy, daughter?”

Alicent let out a quiet breath. “I am hardly the one she would speak to. She keeps to her father and to those men of hers. Brutes. Warriors. Not the company of women.”

Otto studied her face as she went on.

“She is unladylike in every measure,” Alicent said. Then her voice shifted, softer, uncertain. “And yet… they all fear her. They obey her without pause. Some of them almost worship her. I cannot explain it. I find it baffling.”

Otto frowned faintly, though he gave her a small nod. He had expected no better. Alicent had many gifts, but not the steel to stand beside a woman like Hela Greyjoy. Nor the inclination. His daughter’s strengths lay elsewhere, in patience, in poise, in the slow press of influence. The Greyjoy girl was cut from an entirely different cloth, one Otto neither admired nor dismissed; in fact, she was probably cut from chain mail and not cloth. The Ironborn were a strange folk, far from courtly ways. They were raw power, shaped by sea and storm, cruel and barbaric, crude.

Still, that power was real. And power could be used for the betterment of the throne and the realm.

“I tried to speak to her,” Alicent said after a moment. She drew a short breath before continuing. “She had locked herself in her quarters at the time. You will forgive me if I admit I worried for my own safety.”

“Fret not, daughter,” Otto said. His voice carried no surprise. “I expected as much. Her father is the more approachable of the two. He is the one more likely to listen, and the one who may be guided if approached carefully. I intend to meet with him soon, and perhaps bring him into our fold. With his resources and influence, Aegon will stand with far fewer enemies once he takes the throne.”

Alicent nodded, then stood. “I must take my leave, father. My children require my attention.”

Otto inclined his head. “Do not neglect to keep your ear to the ground. Rumors and whispers are as valuable to us as truth.”

“Of course, father,” Alicent said. She departed, her steps measured and calm, her ladies falling into place behind her.

Otto remained a little longer, watching the yard as men cleared the sand for the next bracket. He thought a walk would steady his mind.

Half an hour later, fortune favored him. He did not send a request, nor did Valon Greyjoy invite him. They crossed paths naturally, in a corridor of stone where long windows overlooked the shore. The tide was low, and the waves struck the rocks below in steady rhythm. A handful of servants moved through the hall carrying baskets of linens and amphorae of oil, but none lingered close enough to hear a word.

Valon noticed him first. The Lord of Pyke was dressed in dark wool trimmed with gold thread, plain but expensive. He stood straight, his shoulders broad, his posture balanced. His beard had been trimmed neat, and there was not a hint of excess weight on him. He looked younger than his years, though Otto knew well enough that the man had seen half a century already.

“Lord Hightower,” Valon said with a polite smile. “How are you finding Pyke to your liking?”

Otto smiled in return. In truth, the constant wind and crashing surf grated on him, and the damp air had already begun to settle into his bones. But such things were never spoken aloud. 

“I have never visited before,” he said. “It is far more orderly and elegant than rumors of the Ironborn would suggest.”

Valon gave a short laugh. “Ah, yes. I cannot claim the credit belongs to tradition. I am not an Ironborn lord of the Old Ways. I do not cling to customs that never served us. I look to the future, to what can be built.”

“Indeed,” Otto said with a slight nod. “We must always look to the future.”

Valon’s eyes sharpened with curiosity. “And what future do you envision, Lord Hightower?”

“I envision a realm at peace,” Otto said carefully. “A realm led by a strong and just ruler. One who holds firm to the law and protects the order of succession. A rightful king by the laws of men and the laws of the gods.”

Valon studied him for a moment. “Ah. I sense intrigue in your words. But you have my attention. Speak plainly, Lord Hightower. I am curious.”

Otto clasped his hands behind his back, keeping his voice level. “Rhaenyra Targaryen. I would know your thoughts on her, Lord Greyjoy.”

Valon lifted one brow. His voice held no edge of offense, only calm amusement. “You doubt her capacity to rule. That much is clear. Tell me, why?”

Otto did not hesitate. “She dazzles her father and his court with swordplay and the airs of bold adventure. She speaks of destiny and grandeur, yet a ruler is not measured by pageantry. Rhaenyra Targaryen cannot govern her own conduct. She lies with her sworn shield, dishonors her husband, and parades bastard sons as heirs to the Iron Throne. If she cannot govern her own house, how can she govern a realm?”

Valon’s expression remained steady, though the brow he had raised did not lower. “You claim that Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is no true son of Laenor? That is a bold accusation.”

“It is not mere rumor,” Otto said, his voice slow and deliberate. “The child bore none of the traits of House Targaryen. No silver hair. No violet eyes. The blood is plain for all to see. Bastard blood.” He exhaled, as if weary of stating what others dared not. “It is spoken in whispers, but no man in King’s Landing doubts it.”

Valon gave a small, practiced smile. “Then I suspect I know where this conversation is headed. And so, Lord Hightower, I will tell you the same thing I told Prince Daemon Targaryen.” 

He held Otto’s eyes, his tone steady, formal, and measured. “My loyalty is to the crown itself. To the one who sits upon the Iron Throne. No more, no less.”

“However,” Valon continued. “If my precious daughter decides to support your grandson, then I’d be more than willing to follow her.”