When Otto Hightower entered the room, Aemond was placing Visenya into the cradle beside his desk.
Aemond turned and looked at his grandfather.
"Prince Regent," Otto said with a slight bow.
The movement was flawless.
It was a habit forged through more than twenty years as Hand of the King—maintaining impeccable courtesy at all times.
Aemond smiled.
"There's no need for such formality, Grandfather." His tone was noticeably gentler than it had been with Ormund moments earlier. "There are no outsiders here."
Otto straightened and looked at his grandson.
His gaze was complicated.
He still remembered what Aemond had been like as a child—frail, quiet, always bullied by Aegon and Jacaerys.
But ever since Driftmark, Aemond had forced him to overturn his judgments again and again.
Aemond possessed every Targaryen trait.
The kind of man who carried madness within clarity...
He knew exactly what he was doing and cared little for how others judged him.
Now, at seventeen, the Prince Regent sat behind the Iron Throne, controlling all of King's Landing and the nobles of the entire south.
Even Viserys I, the king in name, had never wielded such power.
He had convinced the southern lords that he could win this war.
And Otto himself—the man who had once been the most powerful figure in the Seven Kingdoms—now had to bow his head slightly just to meet his grandson's eyes.
How unpredictable the world could be.
"Sit." Aemond pointed to the chair opposite him.
Otto sat down.
The firelight from the hearth danced across his aged face, deepening every wrinkle. He waited quietly for Aemond to speak.
"Grandfather." Aemond leaned back in his chair and looked at him with a smile.
"How would you like to serve as Hand of the King again?"
Otto's fingers tightened slightly.
He remained silent for a moment.
"And what of Tyland Lannister?" he asked.
Tyland Lannister, the current Hand of the King and younger brother of Jason Lannister.
"Lord Jason is dead," Aemond replied calmly.
"I've already ordered Tyland to return and govern the Westerlands in my stead."
"The Westerlands are now ruled by the child lord, Loreon Lannister. Lady Johanna will need someone to assist her."
"Tyland is a Lannister. No one is more suitable for the task."
Otto frowned slightly.
"And besides," Aemond continued, "Lord Loreon and Lady Johanna will soon come to King's Landing to receive the Iron Throne's recognition."
"When that time comes, the affairs of the Westerlands will be for him to arrange."
Otto immediately understood the implication.
Tyland Lannister was being moved aside.
And the position left vacant was being given to him.
"You're doing this while keeping two great lords in King's Landing?" Otto asked slowly.
"Aren't you worried about what the other nobles will think?"
A smile appeared on Aemond's face.
"The Westerlands have stood firmly with us."
"They will receive their rewards after the war. As for the Tyrells—"
He paused, and the smile at the corner of his mouth grew more pronounced.
"They're nothing more than disobedient household servants."
Otto froze for a moment, then fixed Aemond with a sharp stare.
The Tyrells—the rulers of the Reach, the wealthiest region in the Seven Kingdoms.
"We Targaryens granted the Tyrells their lordship over the Reach," Aemond said calmly, as if discussing something utterly insignificant.
"So naturally, we can take it back."
"Besides, don't you think the Reach is far too large?"
Otto's pupils contracted slightly.
"The eastern Reach," Aemond continued, "will eventually be incorporated into the Crownlands."
"The Riverlands and the Vale as well."
Otto was stunned.
The Riverlands, the Vale, the eastern Reach.
Together, those regions made up nearly a third of Westeros.
"You..." Otto's voice was dry.
"Do you even understand what you're saying?"
"In the future, House Tully may be defeated in the war, but great houses like Blackwood and Bracken will still remain."
"The Arryns of the Vale, the Royces, and the others won't just stand by and watch their lands be absorbed into the Crownlands."
"And as for the Reach—"
"Grandfather," Aemond interrupted him.
"The head of House Tully died at the Gods Eye. Elmo Tully fell beneath my sword."
"The Riverlands are leaderless now."
Aemond rose and walked to the window.
Sunlight fell across him, stretching his shadow long across the floor.
"As for House Arryn," he continued, "Jeyne Arryn is one of Rhaenyra's most steadfast supporters."
"I'll deal with them as well..."
Otto remained silent for a long time.
"You'll make a great many enemies this way," he said worriedly.
Aemond turned to face him. Under the sunlight, his purple eyes seemed to glow faintly.
"Why should I care about the opinions of the defeated?"
"Targaryen power will be reborn stronger than ever in my hands."
"I have no need for Seven Kingdoms..."
He paused.
"I intend to rebuild an empire."
The room fell silent, save for the crackling of burning logs in the hearth.
Otto looked at his grandson, his heart filled with conflicting emotions.
He thought of House Targaryen's words.
Fire and Blood.
Aemond wanted more than the Seven Kingdoms.
He wanted an empire.
An empire greater and stronger than the one forged by Aegon the Conqueror—an empire that would make the entire world tremble.
Otto should have felt fear.
And he did.
But at the same time, he felt something else...
Excitement.
He was a Hightower.
The beacon of Oldtown.
His house was one of the oldest and proudest in the Seven Kingdoms.
If Aemond truly succeeded in rebuilding an empire, then House Hightower...
"Will you help me, Grandfather?"
Aemond walked over, placed a hand on Otto's shoulder, and looked directly into his eyes.
Those violet eyes never left him.
"And Aegon..." Otto was silent for a moment before speaking. "What will you do with him?"
Aemond smiled.
"He is my brother."
"I will not harm him. I will give him a kingdom of his own."
Otto drew a deep breath.
He understood exactly what that meant.
Slowly and solemnly, he nodded.
"I would be honored to serve the Prince Regent."
Aemond removed his hand from Otto's shoulder and smiled.
"Good."
Otto rose to leave.
As he did, his gaze casually swept over Visenya in the cradle. The infant girl slept soundly, her little face showing nothing unusual. Only the small patch of scales on her neck shimmered faintly in the sunlight.
Otto did not look any longer.
He turned and walked out.
The door closed behind him.
Aemond remained standing before his desk, watching his grandfather's retreating figure disappear from sight.
Some burdens were destined to be carried by someone.
Having the Hightowers take the blame for this one was perfectly appropriate.
Driving a wedge between the most devout house in the Seven Kingdoms and the Faith was a very clever move.
House Hightower was the guardian of Oldtown.
If they became enemies of the Faith, the Faith's influence would be severely weakened.
And the pious lords who had long followed House Hightower would find themselves trapped between loyalty and belief.