Chapter Text
It was raining the night that King Viserys decided Otto Hightower should resume his position as Hand of the King.
He was idly fiddling with the Hand’s pin, twirling it between his fingers while contemplating the issue, the pitter-patter of the rain outside a soothing rhythm. Four moons had passed since the death of his previous Hand, Lord Lyonel Strong, and the role had been vacant since.
Viserys knew that Rhaenyra wanted to be named Hand. In the wake of the tragedy at Harrenhal she had delayed moving her family to Dragonstone and instead remained at court. Many of the duties of Hand had been taken up by her in the meantime – to his relief as his ailing health left him with little enough energy.
There would be precedent in naming the heir to the throne to the position, with Viserys’s own father becoming Hand of the King shortly before his tragic death. He was aware too that there were still a few lords with qualms about his daughter’s heirship. Surely this would help settle their minds, to see Rhaenyra performing well in a position of authority.
But Viserys hesitated. Ever since Rhaenyra had first pushed for the crown’s intervention in the Stepstones when she was cupbearer to the Small Council, he had realised she did not share his views on maintaining peace in the realm. While he followed the example of his grandsire in allowing problems to be settled through diplomacy and conversation, Rhaenyra often advocated for more direct intervention. Age and motherhood had not softened her in this regard and they had clashed in recent moons over how best to handle minor issues that had been brought to the crown’s attention.
Yes, the Triarchy once again making incursions onto the Stepstones was a nuisance but it did not warrant the crown becoming embroiled in another three-year war!
He did not relish the thought of battling with his combative daughter on matters of policy at every turn.
Beyond political clashes, there were personal ones as well to consider. As much as Viserys loved his daughter and grandsons, he could not deny that part of him had looked forward to their withdrawal from court to Dragonstone. The tension between his wife and his daughter had again increased in the wake of little Joffrey’s birth. Though she had never gone so far as to explicitly say the words, he knew Alicent doubted the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s sons.
Which was a ridiculous accusation. All because the boys’ hair colour took more after their half-Baratheon grandmother’s and Arryn great-grandfather’s than their parents’.
While Alicent had stopped making allusions to his grandsons’ common features after Viserys made his feelings on the topic clear, outbursts over Rhaenyra’s comportment were all too common. Indeed, some days it felt like Rhaenyra was all Alicent talked about. Keeping the peace between his wife and daughter was exhausting and he had looked forward to the reprieve that Rhaenyra leaving the city would grant him. He also knew that Alicent would become nigh-on unbearable were Rhaenyra to be named Hand of the King.
What had happened to the quiet and meek young woman that had comforted him in the moons prior to their betrothal? Viserys oft struggled to find traces of her in the woman Alicent had become.
So no, for the sake of fostering peace within their family it was perhaps better that Rhaenyra not be named Hand. He turned his mind to other options.
Of those already on the Small Council, Lord Wylde was too uncompromising, Lord Beesbury no longer had the necessary vigour and Ser Tyland lacked a commanding presence. The Grand Maester had put forward his own suggestions for the next Hand but they were all rather young men that lacked proven ability and had little renown to their names.
For a brief moment Viserys’s thoughts alighted on his brother. He had not seen Daemon since he flew off to Essos with Laena Velaryon thirteen years prior. While the two had long had their differences, he could not deny that he missed having his brother at his side. And Daemon had made it known on many occasion how much he wanted to be named Hand.
As quickly as the idea occurred to Viserys, he discarded it with a chuckle at the absurdity. If Daemon’s brief tenures as Master of Laws and Master of Coin had shown one thing, it was that his mercurial brother was ill-suited to the minutiae of governance.
No, what he needed was a man that he could depend on, one that he was familiar with, one that had already proved himself equal to the challenges that the Hand of the King faced. He needed Ser Otto Hightower. Alicent had reminded him recently of how smoothly the court and the realm had functioned in her youth and she was correct.
Otto may have been removed from his position and expelled from court in the wake of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s … indiscretion in that cursed brothel but that had been long ago now. In the intervening years, Otto had surely accepted that Rhaenyra would succeed Viserys as queen and would be able to loyally serve the crown as he had done in the past.
Mind made up and content in his decision, he resolved to send a raven to Oldtown on the morrow summoning Otto back to court. Then he went to bed.
That night Viserys dreamed.
He dreamed of the dominoes that would fall towards his family’s ruin.
He dreamed of his good-sister burning, of insults and threats and bloodshed, of his house truly divided.
He dreamed of his own attempts at reconciliation not even lasting an evening.
He dreamed that the bells of the Grand Sept tolled … announcing his own death days after it occurred while the traitors made their plans to crown the false king.
He dreamed of thundering hooves, splintering shields and ringing swords … as the actions of the traitors drove the realm into a catastrophic war.
He dreamed of the dragons roaring … as one by one they fell from the skies.
He dreamed of his son, wearing the Conqueror’s crown … as he commanded Sunfyre forward to tear Rhaenyra’s life from her.
And then the usurper was back in King’s Landing, seated upon the Iron Throne with a cruel smirk on the unburnt side of his face. As Viserys watched though, the years began to fall away from the marred figure: the man became a boy, the boy became an infant, the infant became a babe, the throne’s protruding swords rising around him.
But the babe still wore the Conqueror’s crown upon his head. It was a sight Viserys recognised. It was a sight he had dreamed of so long ago. His prophesied son.
With a violent start and a scream lodged in his throat, he awoke.