TBOV: Chapter Eighteen: Family Matters

Chapter Eighteen: Family Matters

"The Hightowers of Oldtown are among the oldest and proudest of the great houses of Westeros, tracing their lineage back before the coming of the First Men."

―The World of Ice and Fire

…

Ormund Hightower arrived at the Red Keep late in the afternoon, a cloak of pale grey swirling about his tall frame. The journey from Oldtown was measured in weeks, but to him, it felt like months—a slow, simmering frustration at every turn. He dismounted at the outer ward, ignoring the curious glances from the Red Cloaks who stood watch. Their scarlet cloaks and polished breastplates caught the last rays of sun, but he spared them no further thought. If there was to be a reckoning, let it begin now.

A lesser courtier came to greet him—some minor cousin of the Lannisters, Ormund surmised from the embroidered lion on the man’s sleeve—yet it was not the King nor even Prince Aemond who summoned Ormund into the castle proper. Instead, it was the Hand himself. Otto Hightower, Ormund’s distant kinsman, who had once stood firmly beside him. Ormund tried not to let the bitterness show in his eyes as he followed the man’s directions to Otto’s private chambers.

The corridors of the Red Keep seemed newly decorated with trophies of war—framed banners from conquered Pentos, Lys, and Tyrosh. Richer tapestries on the walls, new candelabra of hammered gold. The throne room might dazzle courtiers, but the heart of true power resided in these back halls, where men like Otto Hightower schemed behind locked doors.

He was led to the Hand’s antechamber, where a pair of Red Cloaks stood at attention. One nodded and drew open the door, allowing Ormund through. There, in a plush seat behind a heavy desk, was Otto Hightower. He looked older than when Ormund last saw him—his beard more shot with white, the lines about his mouth deeper. Yet his grey-green eyes retained their keenness. Standing by the fire was another Kingsguard—Ormund recognized him by the set of his shoulders as Ser Willis Fell—though the knight stared impassively, hand near the hilt of his longsword.

Otto gestured to a high-backed chair. “Lord Ormund,” he said in a measured tone. “Pray, sit. You’ve come far.”

Ormund sank into the seat, feeling the weariness in his bones. He had no interest in pleasantries. “I have, my lord Hand,” he replied curtly. “And I come seeking answers. You assured me we would have our victory in the Reach; you swore the Crown would stand behind me. Yet I hear from my correspondents that the Crown has quietly stifled my petition, leaving that lily-livered Tyrell woman in place. You and I both know how fragile her claim is—yet you let her stand unchallenged.”

Otto lifted one brow, a mild chastisement in his gaze. “I understand your disappointment,” he said softly, “but mind your words, cousin. You speak of a lady paramount—officially recognized by the Crown. The matter is out of my hands, by order of the prince.”

Ormund’s jaw tightened. “Aemond.” He nearly spat the name. “It was you who pledged we could seat House Hightower as Lords Paramount if I pulled certain strings on your behalf—arranged a powerful match for your son, contributed even more gold and men to the crown’s war across the narrow sea. Now you claim none of this is your doing?”

Otto sighed, pressing his fingertips together. “It is not my will nor Aegon’s. Aemond exercised his prerogative, quite forcefully. It is my fault, I must admit; this is nothing more than a show of punishing us, I believe, for my meddling in the Velaryon succession. Even for his grandsire, it seems the prince would not soon forget an insult, nor would he permit further attempts at subversion within the realm he has helped carve.”

A pang of irritation flickered across Ormund’s face. “All for Vaemond? That grasping fool, who clings to power by base schemes alone? The prince sides with him now, does he?”

Otto’s thin mouth tightened. “In truth, I suspect it is also to throttle Hightower growing hegemony. The prince values loyal supporters, but he seemed to have finally heeded my warning at an entirely ill-opportuned time.”

“So what?” Ormund asked. “We meekly accept the Tyrells as overlords, hold our tongues, and let the lady mother of that whelp lord over her betters?”

There was a short silence. Otto exhaled. “Perhaps not so meekly. The prince… has left instructions. A means to reconcile what you’ve lost, though not to the degree you might wish.” He lifted a small parchment from his desk. “Lady Tyrell’s letters propose a marriage for her young son with your daughter. Yes, the same arrangement you’ve likely seen from her own correspondence—one you dismissed. Prince Aemond expects you to accept this union. In exchange, the Crown will look more kindly on the Hightowers in the months ahead. The lady, no doubt, stands ready to lavish King’s Landing with gold if it so pleases us.” His lip curled slightly. “But that’s only half of it. The prince also insists that you approach Lord Jason Lannister to forge a match between your own heir, Lyonel, and Jason’s daughter, Tyshara. A double alliance. He has already sent word ahead to Casterly Rock, or so says his letter.”

Ormund scoffed. “Is that the extent of the olive branch he can afford House Hightower after such an offense?”

Otto slid the parchment forward. “The prince also intends to expand the Dragon’s Bank with a new branch in Oldtown. He offers House Hightower a significant stake in this enterprise—provided you have the coin and the will to participate. Moreover, your wife, Lady Samantha Tarly, is to be named director of this branch, should you accept. Her reputation for clear-sightedness and quick arithmetic has reached his ears, and he believes her suited to the role. This is not a trifling matter, cousin. Having a seat at that table could rival the power you lost in failing to unseat Tyrell.”

For a moment, Ormund was silent. He found himself pressed into the back of his chair, jaw set. The sting of his failed plan still throbbed in his pride. But the boy-lord of the Tyrells would remain in Highgarden. Ormund’s grand plan of elevating his house to lord paramount was snatched away by a single princely decree. Now, in its place, came this—an offer of dubious quality.

“It’s far less than I hoped for,” Ormund muttered, turning to stare at the flickering shadows in the room. “Still… better than nothing.”

Otto nodded. “Accept it. I hardly believe Aemond would offer this if he did not believe it was of comparative value to what was lost.”

Ormund’s fingers tightened on the armrests until his knuckles shone white. He swallowed thickly. “So be it,” he said at last. “I will accept. Gods help us if I come to regret trusting you a second time.”

Relief flickered across Otto’s face, though he tried to conceal it. “Good. I will inform the prince. At present, Aemond remains away from King’s Landing, but he left these instructions so we might mend fences. A forced hand, but a kind enough gesture in these times.”

Ormund rose, smoothing his doublet. “Thank you for your counsel, Lord Hand. When next you speak with the prince, do remind him that House Hightower remains a steadfast ally. We expect the same treatment to be extended our way.”

Otto gave a slow bow of the head. “Of course, cousin. Fare you well.”