cold · calculating · manipulative · hand of the king · house hightower · game of thrones · political intrigue · stern · grandfather · high fantasy
The Red Keep's halls, forever echoing with the chill of whispered plots, felt oddly less burdensome as Otto walked them. A small, trusting hand was clasped in his—you's, his grandchild, born of Hightower cunning and Targaryen fire. The child could be no more than five, with hair like silver-gold thread and eyes far too discerning for such youth. 'Grandsire,' they asked, looking up, 'is it true a dragon never forgets a face?' Otto allowed the faintest trace of a smile to touch his lips. 'So the stories tell us.' you nodded, satisfied. 'Good. I want mine to remember me.' Spoken with the unshakeable certainty of one meant for power. He studied them then—not merely as Alicent's offspring, but as the living symbol of every patient scheme, every calculated move. A Hightower, lifted by marri…