Title: The Hand's Shadow

Title: The Hand's Shadow

Year and Month: 99 AC, 3rd Moon

The death of Septon Barth was not merely the loss of a friend and advisor to the King; it was a seismic event that sent deep structural fissures through the foundation of the realm's governance. For forty years, Barth's intellect had been the quiet engine of the state, his wisdom the ballast that kept the ship steady. Now, the engine had fallen silent. The void he left was immense, and into that void, the ambitions of lesser men began to creep like insidious vines.

For my father, the loss was personal and catastrophic. Barth had been more than his Hand; he had been his partner, his intellectual equal, his confessor. In the year following Barth's death, Jaehaerys aged a decade. The weight of the crown, once shared, now settled entirely on his stooped shoulders, a burden made heavier by his grief for Aemon and his creeping anxiety over my mother's failing health. The triumvirate that had secretly governed the realm was broken. The partnership between the King, the Hand, and the Shadow Prince was now reduced to a dyad, a dying old man and his terrifyingly capable teenage son.

My immediate concern was not one of sentiment. It was a critical matter of personnel and risk management. The position of Hand of the King was the second-most powerful office in the Seven Kingdoms. The man who held it could shape policy, control access to the King, and build his own power base. Barth had been loyal, his only ambition the prosperity of the realm. His successor, I knew, might not be so pure of heart.

In the interim, my father made a safe, predictable choice. He named Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, as his acting Hand. It was a soldier's appointment, not a politician's. Ser Ryam was a man of unimpeachable honor, loyalty, and martial prowess. He was also, bless his valiant heart, possessed of a mind as blunt and straightforward as a warhammer. He could execute orders with flawless precision, but he could not strategize, he could not see the subtle, interconnected webs of commerce and influence that truly governed the kingdoms. His appointment was a stopgap measure, a placeholder. It created a temporary stability but also advertised the vacancy to every ambitious lord in Westeros.

And there was one lord whose ambition I knew to be a greater threat than any pirate fleet or border dispute.

I first took note of Ser Otto Hightower during a tourney in 98 AC. He was the younger brother of the Lord of Oldtown, a man of impeccable lineage and sharp intelligence. He served as a knight in his brother's household, but even then, I saw the hunger in his eyes. He carried himself with a quiet, severe dignity that was a mask for a deep, calculating ambition. He was a master of whispers, of courtly intrigue, a man who understood that true power was not always wielded with a sword, but with a well-placed word, a carefully curated alliance, a strategically offered daughter.

I knew from the histories of my past life that this man was destined to become Hand of the King. I knew he would place his daughter, Alicent, in my aging father's path after my mother's death. I knew that he would become the architect of the schism that would lead to the Dance of the Dragons. He was, from a corporate perspective, a high-risk employee with a history of prioritizing personal gain over company stability. He was a threat to my long-term, stable inheritance plan. He had to be neutralized.

My user note was clear. Otto Hightower must not become Hand. To simply arrange an 'accident' would be crude, messy, and would draw unwanted attention. My methods were more refined. I did not believe in liquidation when a strategic sideways promotion would suffice. My plan was not to destroy Otto Hightower, but to misdirect his ambition, to place him in a position of such prestige and importance that it would satisfy his pride, but one that was safely removed from the levers of absolute power in King's Landing.

The opportunity to lay the first stone of my plan came during a private council in the spring of 99 AC. My father was struggling under the administrative burden left by Barth. Ser Ryam was a fine guard dog, but a poor shepherd. The daily governance was faltering.

"The petitions pile up," Jaehaerys sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked haggard, the skin under his eyes thin and bruised. "Barth… Barth handled all this. He knew which ones were important, which were mere trifles."

"Lord Hand Redwyne is a fine commander, but his talents do not lie in administration," I agreed calmly. I was seventeen now, a young man whose counsel the King relied upon utterly. "You need a new Hand, Father. A permanent one. A man of keen intellect and administrative skill."

"And who would you suggest?" he asked, the question laced with weariness. "Lord Corlys is too ambitious for his own good. Baelon is a warrior, not a scribe. There is no one with Barth's skill."

"There is no one with Lord Hand Barth's skill, that is true," I said. "But there are capable men. Men of intelligence and learning." I paused, letting him consider the vacuum. Then, I offered the name, not as my primary candidate, but as an option among many. "Men like Ser Otto Hightower. His brother rules Oldtown. The Hightowers are ancient, wealthy, and command the respect of the Citadel. Ser Otto himself is said to be sharp and observant."

My father considered it. "Hightower… yes, I have met him. A serious man. He has a daughter, does he not?"

"Alicent," I supplied. "A lovely girl of eleven. A companion to my sister, Gael, on occasion." A fact I had quietly arranged. I needed to have eyes on the asset.

"He is a candidate," Jaehaerys conceded. "But his ambition… Oldtown is a kingdom in itself. I worry he would serve the Tower before the Throne."

"A valid concern," I said, nodding. This was the key. I had raised the idea of him, but I would be the one to shoot it down, thereby earning my father's trust and guiding him to my preferred solution. "The Hand must be a man whose loyalty is beyond question. Someone whose heart is here, in King's Landing. Someone who understands the burdens of the Crown intimately."

I let the silence hang. I had defined the requirements for the job in such a way that it could only point to one man.

My father looked up, a flicker of understanding in his tired eyes. "Baelon," he whispered.

"He is your son," I said simply. "He is the Prince of Dragonstone. He is a warrior, yes, but he is also diligent, loyal, and he loves you and the realm above all else. He can learn the administration. You and I can teach him. Ser Ryam can return to his command, and your heir can take his rightful place as your right hand. Who could possibly question the loyalty of the heir to the throne?"

It was the perfect solution to my father's immediate problem. It would place Baelon, a man I knew to be manageable and whose primary focus was military, in the position of Hand. It would soothe my father's fears by keeping Baelon in the capital, engaged in the highest matters of state. And it would close the door firmly in Otto Hightower's face.

Jaehaerys seized on the idea with the desperation of a drowning man grasping a rope. The next day, he announced his decision. Ser Ryam was honorably relieved of his duties, and Prince Baelon, Prince of Dragonstone, was named Hand of the King. The court applauded the decision. It seemed wise, a father placing his ultimate trust in his son. Baelon himself, though daunted by the task, accepted with a grim sense of duty.

The first part of my plan was complete. The seat was filled. But Otto Hightower remained a threat. A proud, ambitious man, momentarily thwarted, is a dangerous creature. I needed to manage his disappointment and redirect his career path.

For the next year, I watched him. Through my own observations at court and Balerion's long-distance surveillance, I monitored his reactions. He was a mask of perfect courtly decorum, offering his congratulations to Prince Baelon, his unwavering loyalty to the King. But I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw. He began to spend more time at the Starry Sept, cultivating his relationship with the High Septon. He was building an alternative power base.

This was a development I needed to address. My final move against him required delicate timing, and the catalyst, I knew with cold certainty, was my mother's impending death.

In the first moon of 100 AC, Queen Alysanne's cough worsened. She became bedridden. The maesters spoke in grave, hushed tones. The end was near. The entire court, the entire realm, held its breath. My father was a ghost, spending every waking moment at her bedside, his grief a palpable shroud.

In these final weeks, I sought him out in the quiet of the night. He was in his solar, having been forced away from my mother's side by the maesters so he might get some rest. He looked a hundred years old.

"Father," I said softly.

He looked up, his eyes hollow. "She is leaving me, Aeryn. The light of my life."

"She will find peace," I said, offering a comfort I did not feel. My concern was for the living, for the instability her death would cause. "But you must think of the realm. You must think of what comes next."

"What is there to think of?" he murmured. "Only darkness."

"There is the matter of Oldtown," I said, gently pulling him back to the world of politics. "It is the greatest city in the realm. The seat of the Faith. The home of the Citadel. It is a center of power almost equal to our own. With Septon Barth gone, our influence there has waned."

He nodded slowly, understanding the geopolitical truth of my words.

"We need a strong, loyal man in Oldtown," I continued. "Not just the Lord, who is old and concerned with his own affairs, but a direct representative of the Crown. A man who can manage the Faith, who can keep the maesters in line, who can ensure the second city of the realm remains firmly in the King's grip. We need a man of immense dignity, sharp intellect, and unquestionable loyalty. A man who understands power."

I let him connect the dots. I had just described Otto Hightower.

"You spoke against him for Hand," Jaehaerys said, his memory sharp despite his grief.

"Because the Hand must be family," I replied smoothly. "His heart must beat with the dragon's blood. But this position… this is different. It is a role for a man like Otto Hightower. It would be a great honor, a viceregal position. It would satisfy his ambition and bind him to us with a chain of gratitude. It would harness his talents for the good of the realm, while keeping him a hundred leagues from this chair." I gestured to the Hand's empty seat.

I was offering him a way to solve a problem he didn't even know he had. I was giving him a prestigious post to award to a powerful lord, a way to strengthen his hold on a vital part of his kingdom.

The day after my mother, Good Queen Alysanne, died peacefully in her sleep, the castle was plunged into the deepest mourning. My father's grief was a terrible, silent thing. He locked himself away, seeing no one but his children and Baelon.

Two weeks later, he emerged, looking like a spectre. He called a council meeting. Prince Baelon, as Hand, sat at his right. And the King made his announcement. To honor the piety of his late Queen, and to strengthen the bonds between the Crown and the Faith, he was creating a new, temporary office of state: the Royal Emissary to the Starry Sept and the Citadel. The man chosen for this high honor, to be the King's own voice in Oldtown, was the wise and diligent Ser Otto Hightower.

Otto, who was present, was stunned. The offer was a masterstroke of political maneuvering. It was an honor so great, so public, he could not possibly refuse it. He would be the second man in Oldtown, the King's direct shadow. His ambition was sated. His pride was flattered. He knelt before the throne, his face a mask of solemn gratitude, and accepted the position that would effectively exile him from the center of power for years to come.

As he rose, his eyes met mine for a brief second across the council chamber. I was just a boy of eighteen, the grieving son of a dead Queen. But in that fleeting moment, I think he saw something. A flicker of cold, calculating intelligence. A hint of the architect who had designed his magnificent, gilded cage. He didn't understand how, or why. But a seed of suspicion was planted.

It mattered little. The threat was neutralized. The Hand's seat was secure. My long-term plan was intact. I had weathered the passing of one of the realm's great pillars and used the subsequent political instability to quietly remove a major future competitor from the board. All without raising a sword or speaking a public word of command. My name was Aeryn, the Scholar Prince. But my true title remained unspoken: The Hand's Shadow. And in the shadow of my grieving father and my warrior brother, I now held the true reins of the Seven Kingdoms.