The two men lifted the stretcher between them and lurched forward, its weight shifting unevenly as they bore it through the corridors.
Upon it lay Lord Otto Hightower, limp and deathly pale, his breath shallow and uneven.
Grand Maester Mellos followed close behind, one hand raised as if he might steady the burden by will alone. His voice came in hushed urgency, trembling with strain.
"Careful… careful, I beg you. Do not jolt him so. His wound will open again."
The soldiers did not slow.
Mellos pressed on after them, his robes whispering against the stone floor, repeating his warnings as though words alone might keep the Hand of the King alive until they reached their destination.
They passed out from the Tower of the Hand.
Yet this strange procession drew no challenge.
Within the Red Keep, the guards took notice, yet none stepped forward. Some turned their faces aside as the stretcher went by. At the gate, two even offered easy smiles and nods, as if greeting comrades on some ordinary errand.
Mellos felt a chill creep through his bones.
He had been confined only a handful of days… and yet the world beyond his chamber seemed wholly changed.
Something had shifted within these walls.
"Grand Maester," one of the soldiers said, glancing back with a faint impatience, "into the carriage. We have not far to go."
Beyond the gates of the Red Keep stood a carriage adorned with the towering beacon of House Hightower.
Mellos stopped short at the sight of it.
He knew that carriage well.
It was Lord Otto's own, brought all the way from Oldtown. A gift, it was said, from Lord Hobert Hightower to mark his nephew's rise as Hand of the King. Otto had cherished it greatly, guarding it with near-obsessive care. Often a full detail of men had been set to watch over it, lest even the smallest blemish mar its polished wood.
Now it stood unattended.
No guards. No servants. Nothing.
Mellos lowered his gaze at once, unwilling to dwell on the meaning of it.
He climbed inside without another word.
The journey passed in uneasy silence.
When at last the carriage came to a halt, Mellos stepped down slowly, his joints stiff, his heart heavier still.
Before him rose the sept.
"The Great Sept…"
His voice faltered.
The square before it was filled beyond measure. A vast crowd had gathered, their murmurs swelling like the distant roar of the sea. All eyes were turned toward the steps.
Understanding struck him at once.
This was no mere summons.
This was a trial.
A public trial.
"Grand Maester Mellos."
A group of city guards approached, clad in deep red cloaks, their armor marked with the sigil of Tyraxes worked in dark thread.
One stepped forward, helm shadowing his face. He bowed his head slightly, though there was little deference in the gesture.
"His Highness, Prince Baelon, has prepared a place for you. Pray follow."
The officer turned his head toward the shorter soldier who had escorted Mellos thus far.
"Lead on," he said evenly. "I will see the rest brought through."
The soldier gave a brief nod. He cast a glance toward the crowd pressing thick about the square, then stepped aside.
The carriage could go no further.
Fortunately, the way had already been prepared.
At a sharp command from the officer, the city guards moved as one, forcing a path through the mass of bodies.
"Make way. By order of the prince. Stand aside."
The crowd parted, though not without resistance, and Mellos was ushered forward, step by careful step, until at last they reached the foot of the sept.
He paused there, breath catching in his throat.
The Great Sept no longer bore the solemn stillness he had known.
A great wooden platform had been raised before its steps, newly built and stark against the pale marble. It loomed over the square, unmistakable in purpose.
Judgment would be passed here.
On either side, ranks of city guards stood in ordered lines, clad in red checkered surcoats over mail, their spears upright and unmoving.
Among them stood the young soldier who had helped bear the stretcher.
His gaze lingered upon those in fuller crimson cloaks, something like longing flickering in his eyes.
He had joined only days before. The red cloak, symbol of the prince's favor and trust, had not yet been granted to him.
By decree, new recruits wore only the checkered red. Only after years of service could they rise, could they stand among the chosen as true guardians of the city.
Until then, he was nothing more than another soldier in the ranks.
His hand tightened slightly upon his spear.
To stand among them. To be counted worthy.
To protect the weak. To uphold the king's justice.
That was why he had come to King's Landing.
That was why he had taken the oath.
"I remember you," the shorter soldier said, narrowing his eyes slightly as he studied the young man's face. "You are from King's Landing, are you not? I have seen you in the northern quarter. You kept a shop of some kind."
The tall young soldier straightened at once, a hint of unease passing across his features at being recognized.
"Yes," he replied, inclining his head. "A bakery. It stood in the northern district. I have since closed it."
He hesitated, then added with quiet resolve, "I came to serve under Prince Baelon… to do what I can for the people of this city."
His gaze drifted past the soldier, toward the vast sea of bodies filling the square. His grip tightened slightly around his spear.
"I have never seen so many gathered in one place," he admitted under his breath.
The shorter soldier let out a low chuckle, reaching up to clap him once on the shoulder.
"You will," he said lightly. "And soon enough, it will no longer trouble you."
By then, Lord Otto had been set in place upon a raised platform, his body bound securely to prevent him from collapsing. The potion had been forced between his lips in careful measure, again and again, until some semblance of wakefulness returned to his eyes.
Then the great doors of the sept opened.
Prince Baelon stepped forth, robed in dark splendor, a procession of septons following in solemn order behind him.
Close at his heels came members of House Targaryen.
Prince Aegon walked with measured calm, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Princess Helaena moved quietly, her gaze distant, as though seeing something beyond the present moment.
And there-
Princess Rhaenyra.
She stood tall among them, her bearing proud and unyielding. Word had spread that she had flown from Harrenhal to King's Landing upon her dragon to witness this day with her own eyes.
If any in the realm bore Otto Hightower the deepest hatred, it was she.
The moment they appeared, the square erupted.
Voices rose in a thunderous wave, the people shouting, pressing forward, straining for a glimpse of the condemned man and the prince who would judge him.
They had been told in advance.
The city watch had gone from door to door, proclaiming that Prince Baelon would deliver judgment upon a sinner before the eyes of gods and men alike.
And that sinner was Otto Hightower.
"People of King's Landing."
Baelon raised one hand.
At once, the soldiers struck the butts of their spears against the stone.
A sharp, unified thunder rolled across the square, cutting through the chaos. Again they struck, and again, until the roar of the crowd faltered and died.
Silence followed, heavy and expectant.
Baelon lowered his hand slowly, his gaze sweeping over the gathered masses.
He gave a faint nod.
Mercy and strength.
He had shown them kindness before. Today, they would remember his power.
"I am angered," he declared, his voice carrying clear and cold across the square. "That such a man could rise within our realm."
A murmur stirred among the crowd.
"That he would dare trample the laws laid down by our Targaryen forebears… and do so openly, without fear of consequence."
The gentleness once associated with the prince seemed to fall away in that moment.
What stood before them now was not merely a ruler.
It was a dragon.
Upon the platform, Otto Hightower stirred.
The drug coursing through his veins dulled the agony that wracked his body, even as it dragged him back from the edge of darkness. His fingers twitched. His breath hitched.
Slowly, painfully, he forced his eyes open.
"Where…" His voice was little more than a rasp. "Where am I…?"
With great effort, he pushed himself upright against his bindings, his chest burning with every breath as clarity returned in fragments.
Then he heard it.
Baelon's voice, sharp as a blade.
"Otto Hightower."
The prince's gaze fixed upon him, unyielding.
"Do you know your crime?"
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A/N: Advance chapters available on Patreon,
If you've enjoyed the story so far, this is the moment you don't want to miss.
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