BoombaTheSaint
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Ch: 5
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 06:00:06 +0000 UTCKing’s Landing
98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 15)
Otto I
The prince’s fretting was something to see—rare as an honest dice throw. He kept his dealings close, guarded like a miser with coin. The tavern crowd claimed he had the brains and grit to match the old blood and hardened lords, though plenty still whispered he moved only when the king pulled the strings.
Otto knew better—knew more than most. As aide to that lumbering excuse for a Master of Coin, he’d been close enough to overhear sharp exchanges between Lady Florence and the king whenever the prince’s latest ploys were discussed.
The royal coffers were swelling from those schemes, thanks to the quick-minded girl who chased down every wild idea the prince dreamed up.
Fountain pens that glided smooth. Stone that hardened like steel. Fyre wine with a bite sharp enough to leave a mark. Scents that lingered on the skin like heat. Soaps rich with lather and fresh as spring water. Crops pushing through spoiled soil. Cloth stronger than a mercenary’s pride.
Any one of them could lift a minor house into the circles of the highborn.
“Well then, Ser Otto,” the prince said, drawing him out of his thoughts. “What do you make of this double-entry method?”
Otto flexed his jaw, considering both the words and the clean columns before him. The system was clear, easy to grasp, and yet the implications ran deep. He studied the page again, gave a thoughtful hum, and finally set it down.
“It’s… impressive, my prince,” he said, voice even. It would account for every coin, cutting back waste and needless labor. A quiet sort of brilliance—surprising no one had formalized it before.
Or perhaps someone had—and kept it hidden.
The prince smiled again—he always did, and that grin made it hard to resent him. “Glad to hear it,” he said, a breath slipping out with the ease of someone used to being underestimated. “I’ll use it myself, with all the new burdens on my plate. Not chasing glory, though—I’ve no interest in that.”
Otto felt tension rise in his chest like a drawn bow. The message was clear, too clear. He watched the boy carefully, parsing the phrasing for any subtle barbs. He wouldn’t be made a fool—not by a boy better known for doting on his sister than wrangling with court politics.
But the prince was sharp—dangerously so. He had his own inner circle, a web of lords fattened on his success, loyal to the hand that fed them.
Still, most were little better than idiots—swayed by emotion, not reason. Otto had kept his ambitions buried, never drawing notice, always beneath the cover of Lady Florence’s towering shadow.
Yet the boy had sensed him…
…or had he?
Otto’s face tightened with doubt. It crept in like rot. “May I ask,” he began, voice taut, “why you’d turn your back on the credit? A little recognition wouldn’t hurt—especially for something this clean.”
The lad’s eyes lingered a moment too long, then his expression slipped—just slightly, a faint downward tug of the mouth. Otto recognized the look. His father had worn the same whenever his brother had blundered headlong into some foolish scheme.
The prince was sizing him up—and didn’t like what he saw.
“It’s an offer, Ser Otto,” the boy said, exhaling as he stood and paced a few steps to the side. “Lady Florence plans to step down before year’s end. Your brother’s been lobbying hard—claims you’ve got the mettle. We struck a deal. This is your cleanest path to the seat.”
Otto froze. His brother, making deals behind his back? What had that fool promised in exchange for this gamble? He tried to retrace the steps, probe for some hint, but came up empty. The thought scraped at him. He’d been too buried in court games, dodging rivalries and counting favors, to notice how far his own kin had drifted.
Prince Maelys stood waiting, unmoving—patient, but not kind.
Otto tamped down the churn in his gut, dipped his head smoothly. “It’s generous, my prince,” he said, voice level. “But I’d need time to consider it.” His gaze rose, watching closely for a flicker of the boy’s intent.
The prince gave him more than that—a long, quiet sigh, heavy with something like disappointment. “I was hoping for a prompt answer,” he said, wearing a thin smile that barely held. “This gets set in motion tomorrow.”
The noose pulled tighter.
The prince turned back toward the table, picked up two squat glasses, and poured the fyre wine with careful precision. The amber liquid caught the light as it rose, the gesture unhurried, almost ceremonial.
Otto scrambled inwardly, hunting for a way out of the snare. The boy had moved with precision—no hesitation, no bluff. He’d been appraised and pinned in a breath. But why push him up? Why draw him in?
Power. That had to be it—plain leverage. No man rose without leaving enemies in his wake, and the prince surely knew it. Only a fool believed those trampled on wouldn’t bite back.
Otto didn’t like the taste of the offer. The prince had too much heart for his liking. Serving under him would mean walking on a leash, pulled close.
Unless he refused.
His pulse eased slightly. That was it. He’d turn the offer down—snuff out the scheme before it breathed. His brother would protest, but that was a storm he could weather.
The prince settled back in his seat, sliding one of the glasses toward him. Otto accepted with a nod, taking a cautious sip. The fyre wine scorched its way down, sharp and unforgiving. Vicious stuff—but the flavor sat different this time.
“It’s a strong offer,” Otto said at last, throat still raw. “But I’d rather rise on my own merit—not someone else’s favor.”
The prince’s mouth tugged again, the same downward tilt. This time, a flicker of respect lit his eyes. “Fair words. I won’t pretend they don’t sting—but I’ll honor them. Your brother’s yours to answer.”
He gave a soft, knowing laugh. The prince offered a faint echo in return. But Otto’s mind worked still—what had his brother traded that Maelys could give up so easily?
The prince held him another hour, letting the topic drift. He asked about the day’s court—more political slog. Another petty flare-up between Bracken and Blackwood.
A tavern brawl, this time. One Blackwood guard gutted, intestines spilling across the floor. Drink, boredom, and too much lust to think straight. The outcome was predictable.
The old king sent the envoys crawling back to the Riverlands this time—good riddance to the lot.
The prince proved a fair talker, all easy jests and idle talk. He didn’t press, didn’t pry, stuck to safe scraps of nothing. A stranger might’ve taken him for a fool. They’d be wrong.
Otto kept himself walled tight, wary to the end. Every word from the boy’s mouth, he weighed like spoiled meat, hand clenched round salt.
Still, when they parted, he reckoned he’d scraped some sliver of favor—thin as it was. He walked off with a sealed promise: fyre wine, signed contract, and a fountain pen—a thing of craft, gold and silver twisted close, gem-set and etched with his name like a prayer.
A small fortune, that pen—more so if he let it age a few decades.
The weight eased a fraction as the carriage rattled past the Lion Gate, the noise of the castle bleeding away behind them.
Opposite him, his daughter sat straight, chin up, playing at poise. The act wobbled some, but she held it. And already, the beauty showed—her mother’s softness, gilded by the old blood burning quietly in her veins.
Men would cross blades for her, once she was full grown. Otto only prayed foolish whims wouldn’t rot her path before then.
It gnawed at him. Pretty wouldn’t win her a lord worth bedding unless he could offer more. And Otto—well, he’d yet to build a name loud enough to echo in a marriage hall. No holdings, no strong ties. Not yet.
This post might put him nearer the king’s ear, but it didn’t buy him room to curry favor. No banquets, no noble dances. He’d spend his days steeped in ink and talk of grain.
He bit back a grimace. Till now, he’d only stood before the king to nod or fix the ledgers. The old man had clever men aplenty, grey-tongued and well-seated. If Otto spoke out of turn, the lords would scoff and call him clerk.
He’d meant to warm some words with Prince Viserys, maybe build a bridge before the others came sniffing. The lad seemed soft enough, if aimless.
But the talk with Maelys left a churn in his gut. Something off about it still.
“What’d you make of your first moon here, Alicent?” he asked, casting her a quick glance as the city rolled past in flickers of stone and smoke. “Found any friends yet?”
She flinched—barely—but smoothed it quick. Good girl.
“It’s been pleasant, Father. The maesters teach strange here. Not like Oldtown.”
That much he knew—one of the prince’s newer fixations, hammering learning into rigid forms. He didn’t mind. Ignorance festered worst among the noble-born, especially in the ladies. Most tripped over their letters like lambs on ice.
“And I’ve made friends with Jeyne Plumm,” she added, voice lifting, practiced lightness in it.
That pricked him, though his face stayed still. Ser Maynard Plumm—her uncle—served as aide to that lump Martyn, and unlike Otto, Maynard sat deep in the tax coffers. That role put him elbow-to-elbow with lords and ledger keepers, hands outstretched for favors.
Well-placed, that man—and well-rewarded, clearly, if he’d sent his niece to court. Not strange, no. But telling.
Otto turned back to the window, eyes tracing squat roofs and sooted brick. His mind ticked through angles, weighing how to mold this friendship into a tool. The Plumms were rich in ore and richer in harvest, though their fields lay half-abandoned these years.
Fallow land bred hungry plans.
The taxman was too bloody thorough, though he’d dip into whores now and then.
Truth was, Otto had naught real to offer, not of his own honest making. He could lean on his brother’s clout, aye, but that’d be borrowed muscle—same as the prince’s help. It dangled plenty, sure, but the favor would never be his to keep.
His eyes dropped to the parchment clutched in his hand—the fyre wine contract. Queer, how a lone barrel of the stuff could weigh so heavy in gold. Might be a crack here to pry open.
He’d need to dig deeper into this trade business. Maybe strike sweeter talks with the taxman. Both were second sons, aye—that might knot them a thread or two.
That was at least a plan.
“Jeyne Plumm,” he said, letting the name roll off his tongue. “A sharp friend to make. Her father’s a man with clout, and her uncle’s name carries far. Keep her close, Alicent. A lady’s bonds are her armor—more so here, where every grin hides a dagger.”
Alicent’s brow twitched before she ironed it flat. “She’s kind, Father. She doesn’t… doesn’t seem the sort for daggers or shields. We read, mostly. The maesters set us on Aegon’s Conquest, and she giggles at Visenya’s rages.”
A grin broke across his face—real, deep. Moments like this jabbed him. His little lass was no court vixen, not yet. There was still a soft heart in her, unscarred.
He kept the talk flowing, prodding here, nudging there. His girl spilled plenty and naught—bits of chatter, scraps of nothing. Otto didn’t mind. The quiet moment, just them, was worth more than gold. He ached for Lysa to be here, to see their lass blooming.
The carriage jolted beneath them, slowing as it rolled into the high manses under Aegon’s Hill. The prince’s talk had dragged him back here, true—but Otto was damn glad to shake off the Red Keep’s stiff walls and stiffer stares.
The wheels crunched gravel as the carriage turned through the manse’s gates and rolled into its heart.
Garlan stood waiting, stiff as a post, steward’s chain glinting dull in the afternoon light, a handful of maids hovering at his flanks—girls in plain grey, hands folded, eyes down.
“Ser Otto,” Garlan greeted, voice flat but proper, dipping his head. “Good to have you back, ser.”
The welcome was spare—no trumpets, no fawning—but Otto cared not a whit. He stepped down, boots hitting stone, and waved a hand. “Garlan, fetch the maester to the solar—I’ve letters to fire off to Oldtown.”
The steward dipped and turned, but Otto halted him sharp, thrusting the rolled contract and a small carved box—the fountain pen nestled within—into his hands.
“Stock up on ink for this item, and set a scribe to copying that contract. Send the twin to Oldtown,” Otto said, voice clipped. “And dispatch a rider to Ser Maynard Plumm—bid him join me for supper two nights hence. He can drag his kin along if he likes.”
Not till the morrow did Otto loose the ravens—tiny creatures bearing more requests than questions.
