Otto’s Arrogance

"Your Highness, are we going hunting?"

Ser Steffon Darklyn glanced at their surroundings and broke the silence.

Aemon blinked, then grinned. "Of course!"

Why dwell on problems?

He had no immediate solutions to the realm's political tensions, so he hoped his uncle, Viserys, would show enough resolve to prevent things from spiraling further.

All Aemon needed was time—enough to grow up and tame a fully grown dragon.

With such power, he could establish himself as a neutral force, independent of the Black and Green factions.

Why avoid taking sides?

Because in politics, a triangle is often the most stable structure.

"Let's ride!"

Ser Steffon obediently urged the white horse forward, its hooves kicking up soft dirt as they followed faint hunting trails.

Rejuvenated, Aemon perked up. "I heard there's a white hart in the Kingswood. Let's try to find it."

The dream he'd had last night lingered in his mind.

Digging gold beneath a great tree? It had to mean something—maybe finding a magical plant or even encountering the noble white hart, an omen of great significance.

"As you wish, Your Highness," Steffon replied with a warm smile, handing Aemon a bow from his saddle. "A good hunter always starts by building strength and focus."

"Do you think I can pull it back?" Aemon asked, intrigued.

During the earlier commotion, he'd discovered that his aim was remarkably precise, even with flying objects.

"This bow is made of simple wood, just right for you," Steffon said, demonstrating the technique.

Aemon listened attentively, his tiny hands gripping the bowstring. He pulled with all his might, and to everyone's surprise, the bowstring bent into a full arc with a satisfying creak.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Kingswood, a bustling group of nobles had gathered.

Otto Hightower had spread rumors of a white hart roaming the forest—an omen of kingship that, if captured, would symbolize his grandson Aegon's divine favor.

The woods buzzed with activity as hunting parties organized themselves.

Back in the royal pavilion, tensions simmered.

"I did not name Rhaenyra my heir on a whim," King Viserys declared, his face dark with irritation. "The lords of this realm had best remember that."

He dismissed his latest visitor, Jason Lannister, with barely restrained anger.

"Thank you for your gift, Lord Jason. That will be all."

The lord of Casterly Rock, baffled and embarrassed, hastily took his leave.

Jason had come to the king with a brazen proposal—marrying Rhaenyra to strengthen ties with the crown. But his arrogant assumption that Rhaenyra could be "compensated" for losing her position as heir had crossed the line.

Left alone, Viserys gulped down a generous draught of Arbor gold, his mind swirling with frustration.

The day had already been trying. Earlier, he'd met with Laena Velaryon, now a poised and intelligent young woman.

Laena's message was clear: her uncle Vaemond's appeals for aid in the Stepstones were not sanctioned by House Velaryon. If needed, she and her mother, Rhaenys, would take to the skies to end the war decisively.

Her tactful diplomacy only sharpened Viserys's unease. The Velaryons, with their fleet and three dragons, loomed as a growing threat to his authority.

As if that weren't enough, Jason Lannister had dared to suggest that Rhaenyra's marriage should be treated as mere compensation for her eventual replacement.

Viserys slammed his fist on the armrest of his chair, gritting his teeth.

"Arrogant fool—how dare he presume to wed my daughter?"

Unbeknownst to him, Jason had first approached Rhaenyra directly, only to be rebuffed before seeking the king's approval.

Otto Hightower entered the tent, breaking Viserys's stormy reverie.

"Huntsmen have reported sighting the white hart, Your Grace," Otto announced smoothly. "It won't be long now."

Viserys gave an internal sigh, his expression darkening. He didn't believe in the white hart's existence—this was clearly Otto's latest scheme to elevate his grandson's image.

Otto seated himself calmly, radiating confidence.

Viserys signaled for more wine, retreating into his thoughts.

The kingdom's troubles weighed heavily on him:

First, the Stepstones. Though Viserys had initially resisted intervening, Laena's veiled warnings meant he could no longer remain neutral.

Second, Otto's growing arrogance. The Hand's ambitions for Aegon had become increasingly blatant, to the point of undermining the king's authority.

Rhaenyra's marriage, though important, felt like a secondary concern compared to these crises.

Turning to Otto, Viserys decided to test his Hand's loyalty. "What do you think of Lord Jason's proposal?"

Otto's lip curled in disdain. "He's an insufferable braggart, wholly unsuitable for the princess."

Though Jason shared Otto's ultimate goal—removing Rhaenyra as heir—Otto had little respect for the man's blundering tactlessness.

Viserys allowed a small smile. "And who, in your esteemed opinion, would make a better match?"

"Your Grace, you are the king," Otto replied smoothly, leaning forward. "The princess should obey your command in such matters."

Viserys bristled at the implication. "I do not wish to command her. I only want her to be happy."

Otto paused, then suggested, "There is another option. One closer to home."

Viserys raised an eyebrow, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Who?"

Otto hesitated just long enough to build anticipation, then turned to gesture behind the king.

Viserys followed his gaze to see Aegon, barely two years old, gurgling in his wet nurse's arms.

"Aegon," Otto said with a faint smile. "A betrothal would quiet those clamoring for the princess's hand."

Viserys stared in stunned silence, a laugh of disbelief escaping his lips. "Otto, he's two years old."

Otto pressed on undeterred. "It would strengthen the family bond and deter rivals—better than aligning her with Prince Aemon, who is Daemon's son."

That final jab sealed Otto's fate.

Viserys's expression hardened, cold fury radiating from his every pore. He rose from his seat, gripping his goblet tightly.

"I came here to hunt, Otto—not to let politics strangle me," he hissed, miming the motion of hands around a neck.

But in his mind, it was Otto's neck he envisioned.