When Baelon pronounced judgment upon Otto Hightower for the third charge, he invoked a term no tongue in Westeros had ever spoken before.
"Demolition and relocation compensation."
The words fell strange and heavy in the hall, as though they did not belong to this world at all.
As Baelon explained, it was a fund he himself had established, meant to compensate the smallfolk of King's Landing whose homes had been torn down under royal decree.
A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd.
Even Lord Otto Hightower, once Hand of the King, stared in stunned disbelief.
What in the Seven Hells is that supposed to mean?
Among the smallfolk below, a ragged man scratched at his beard, brow furrowed.
"I've never heard the like of it," he muttered.
The man beside him gave a helpless shrug. "Nor I."
A third voice rose, steadier, as if reciting something learned by rote. "It is coin meant for those whose homes were pulled down unlawfully. Compensation, they call it."
Several heads turned toward him.
He continued, louder now, emboldened by the attention. "Each day, Lord Otto was to report to the royal household. The Crown would issue the funds, and he was to see them delivered to the people."
There was a brief pause.
Then his tone hardened, sharp as a drawn blade.
"But after careful inquiry, it was found that Lord Otto concealed the existence of this compensation. Not only did he take the coin for himself, he left the people of King's Landing without shelter. Worse, the purge he carried out went far beyond the orders given by the Red Keep."
For a while, silence held.
Then the city erupted.
Cries of fury surged like a breaking wave. Men shouted curses, women wept, and fists rose into the air. The press of bodies strained against the line of gold cloaks, who braced themselves to hold the mob at bay.
Had they faltered for even a moment, Otto would have been torn apart where he stood.
"You lie!" Otto's voice cracked as he staggered forward, his hands trembling at his sides. His face had gone pale beneath the weight of accusation. "I never received any such coin. How could I steal what was never given?"
His breath came fast, his composure unraveling before all.
Yes, he had accepted bribes from merchants. That much was true.
But the demolitions had been sanctioned. He had only… taken advantage.
Why, then, was all blame laid at his feet?
"And you still deny it?"
The reply came like thunder.
A royal clerk stepped forward, unrolling a bundle of parchment with deliberate care. "These are the records of every payment you received from Grand Maester Mellos. Each entry bears both your seals, witnessed and signed day by day. Will you deny these as well?"
At that, Otto's defiance faltered.
His gaze locked upon the parchments.
His lips parted, yet no words came.
Baelon had come prepared.
In the original story, knowledge had been plentiful, often dismissed as trivial or obscure. Yet here, even the simplest technique could become a weapon.
Wax rubbing.
Ink mixed with beeswax, pressed against parchment, revealing what the eye alone might miss. Signatures, impressions, truths buried beneath the surface.
Crude and unrefined...
But undeniable.
The moment the documents were displayed for all to see, the last of Otto's resistance collapsed.
He understood then.
There would be no escape.
Every path had been sealed. No argument, no denial, no desperate plea could wash away what lay plainly before them.
So this is how it ends.
Above him, Baelon watched in silence.
A faint smile touched his lips, though it never reached his eyes.
I had thought to forge you into a useful blade, he reflected, his fingers resting lightly upon the arm of his seat. To spend your life in service, and your death in cleansing this city.
But the Faith chose otherwise.
Even so, Otto had served his purpose.
Most of the able-bodied men of King's Landing had already been sent to the Wall. Order, of a sort, had been restored.
In the end, the man had not been without value.
Baelon rose.
The movement was unhurried, yet it stilled the hall at once.
"Enough," he said, his voice cool and final.
His gaze settled upon Otto, devoid of mercy.
"Take him away."
A brief pause.
Then, with quiet finality:
"Execute him. I have no wish to look upon him any longer."
Princess Rhaenyra stood close at Prince Baelon's side. She leaned toward him, her voice low, her breath warm against his ear.
"No… we should not let him die so easily," she whispered. Her violet eyes lingered on Otto, sharp with calculation. "He still has value."
Baelon did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed upon the broken figure below.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"No," he said quietly. "He is the key piece. And he will play his role to the very end."
Rhaenyra's lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, defiance flickered in her eyes, that same fire she had carried since girlhood.
But it did not rise.
Not this time.
Over the past six years, Baelon had tempered her well. The willfulness remained, buried beneath pride and passion, yet now it was bound by restraint… and by habit.
The habit of turning to him.
The habit of yielding.
She fell silent.
Baelon stepped forward, the movement alone enough to still the murmuring crowd.
"By the laws of the old gods and the new," he declared, his voice carrying clear and cold across the square, "Otto Hightower, you are convicted of treason."
A stir passed through the gathered masses at the word.
Treason.
A charge vast enough to condemn any man. Defiance of the Crown. Conspiracy with its enemies. All could be named beneath it.
Baelon continued, unhurried.
"Before your execution, you are granted the right to speak in your defense. You may also demand trial by combat."
Below, Otto let out a hoarse, rasping laugh.
"Defend myself?" His shoulders sagged, though his eyes still burned with bitter clarity. "What purpose would that serve?"
His body was failing him.
But his mind remained keen.
He saw it now, plain as day.
So this is your design…
Use my death to win the hearts of the smallfolk.
A faint, humorless smile twisted his lips.
Ruthless.
In all the long history of the Seven Kingdoms, no lord of such standing had ever been cast down for the sake of the common rabble.
Until now.
"Baelon…" Otto's voice steadied, turning cold as iron. "You will regret this. House Hightower will not sit idle. You will answer for what you have done."
Even at the edge of death, he did not beg.
Whether it was pride or simple clarity, it mattered little.
He knew mercy would not come.
Better to die standing than to crawl for nothing.
Baelon's expression did not change, though the faintest smile touched his lips.
"House Hightower?" he replied softly. "Do not trouble yourself. After you… they will follow."
At such heights of power, enemies were no longer threats.
They were steps.
Otto's gaze darkened.
"You understand nothing," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Lost in your dragon dreams… blind to the true strength of House Hightower."
A slow breath escaped him.
"I will go ahead," he murmured. "We shall meet again soon… in the seventh hell."
Then, with what strength he had left, Otto moved.
Slowly.
Painfully.
His hands rose to the bandages wrapped about his torso. His fingers trembled as they tugged at the cloth, tearing it loose bit by bit.
Gasps stirred among the onlookers as blood seeped through the unraveling linen.
His wounds had scarcely begun to mend. Under the lingering force of stimulants, his blood coursed too quickly, too wildly.
Then-
Before any man could stop him,
Otto drove his hands into his own flesh.
A wet, tearing sound split the air.
Blood burst forth in a dark spray, staining the stones beneath him.
Cries of shock rang out. Some turned away. Others stared, frozen.
Even Baelon's eyes flickered, just for a second.
Otto Hightower had chosen his own end.
Had he lived, he would have awakened to judgment beneath the great sept, before the eyes of the realm.
But he would not grant Baelon that satisfaction.
Baelon wanted a trial.
Otto denied him.
Let the histories claim he died in despair… or in fear… or madness.
Anything but the truth.
Anything but a pawn sacrificed to break House Hightower.
If anything, his death would become their rallying cry.
A banner.
A cause for war.
He had been clever.
But not enough.
Baelon stepped forward, his cloak stirring faintly with the motion. When he spoke, his voice cut cleanly through the chaos, sharp as drawn steel.
"To ensure the fairness of this judgment-"
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle over the square.
"I invoke the Trial of the Seven."