-Chapter 160-
-7th Day of the 7th Moon, Year 121 AC-
-POV Otto Hightower-
The newly appointed gold cloaks, chosen by the new Commander of the City Watch, William Royce, at the expense of my grandson, dragged me roughly and without care out of my cell and the black cells in which I had been imprisoned.
My hands were behind my back, shackled with irons, also chained to fetters wrapped around my ankles.
Realizing that I was indeed about to die.
It might have been foolish, but even after the trial, I still had a sliver of hope.
I often told myself I might find a way out.
That my family would manage to get me out of there.
I held onto that hope until I saw my granddaughter burst into tears at the mere sight of me.
'What have I done?' I thought, regretting how relentlessly I had targeted Prince Aemon, realizing that I may have just sealed his fate as well.
I didn't regret attacking him—no—I regretted taking my time.
'I should have had him poisoned. Him and all his kin,' I told myself, regretting having tried to make him lose everything step by step just to satisfy the burning desire for vengeance that had consumed me ever since I learned how Gwayne had died.
My thoughts were reduced to ashes at the sound of the voice of the new commander of the gold cloaks, who had stolen Aegon's post:
"Are you ready?"
I wanted to reply with venom, but thinking of Alicent, I held my tongue.
'I have to bear it and play along,' I thought, trying to offer her the last bit of help I could from the position I was in, by feeding Prince Aemon's thirst for victory.
'He needs to see me defeated, so he'll leave them alone,' I told myself, silently deciding to sacrifice my dignity to spare my descendants from potential reprisals.
I lowered my eyes without saying a word, and that was enough of a response for the knight of the Vale, who gave the order for his men to load me into the cart.
'They're going to parade me through the streets of the capital to make an example of me,' I understood the moment my eyes fell on the open cart and they fastened my chains to each side of it.
"Open the gates!" shouted the young knight who had taken the lead on a beautiful snow-white stallion.
'It won't stay that color for long if he stays that close to the cart,' I thought, chuckling inwardly to calm my anxious nerves, as each step forward dragged the cart closer to my end.
To my death…
Immediately, the gold cloaks stationed at the main gate of the Red Keep obeyed and opened the gates, lowering a drawbridge that hadn't been there before.
'He's even begun building defenses in case of a siege,' I thought, slightly impressed by the trenches that had been constructed during my imprisonment.
I hadn't seen them the last time I'd been taken out for the trial, since I had been brought in chains and blindfolded to the Dragonpit and returned the same way.
'Even though he doesn't need it, he does it to prepare for any situation,' I thought, noting that the Prince was becoming more and more meticulous.
'At least, more and more so,' I noted silently, even though it would serve me no purpose now.
Because there simply would be no tomorrow for me.
"Forward… MARCH!" shouted William Royce, gently shaking the reins of his horse as he passed, leading the procession of several hundred gold cloaks, all tense with the weight of their task.
'And rightly so. There's likely to be bloodshed.'
'If what Bryndon told me last time is true, then uprisings and riots are bound to happen,' I thought, finding a flicker of hope.
'After moons spent shaping the opinion of the sheep, this public execution on a holy day will undoubtedly be seen as a provocation by the remnants of the Faith Militant,' I told myself, clinging to anything I could to keep faith until the end.
I was perfectly aware that the Faith Militant had disappeared in the eyes of most, but that our House still allocated many resources to the Faith and manipulated its upper ranks to support the needs of that invisible order since the end of Maegor's reign.
'Ow,' I winced internally, refusing to make a sound as I furrowed my brow, having been hit in the face with a brownish lump of unknown composition.
---
-POV Ulf the Sot-
"What's wrong with you?" I asked Hugh, taking a sip of the sweet Arbor Gold I held in my right hand, poured into an ordinary bottle.
'Some folks would kill for this wine, but not me,' I thought with a smile on my lips.
'I'd never sell a wine this good. It'd be a waste for anyone else to taste it.'
"Nothing," Hugh said, looking completely lost in thought.
I hesitated for a moment before finally handing him my bottle.
'Woman troubles,' I figured.
Then I said grumpily, reluctantly sharing my drink with him:
"Just one sip."
He frowned and gently pushed the bottle away with his elbow, saying:
"I don't drink anymore."
I rolled my eyes and gestured with a look, urging him to drink:
"That's why you're so damn troubled."
He hesitated for a moment too, then finally gave in and took a sip… then another… and by the third, I snatched the bottle from his hands, looking at him like he was some kind of monster.
'I forgot how heavy a drinker he was,' I thought, already regretting letting him taste my wine.
He looked at me wide-eyed and asked, surprised by its quality:
"Where did you get this wine?"
I motioned for him to be quiet as we approached the new square that had been built some time ago by the new Hand of the King, and said:
"I helped a captain of the gold cloaks and he gave me this bottle as a reward."
"You sure it was a captain of the gold cloaks?" Hugh asked, frowning, suspicious that a captain could afford such wine.
'Sure, it's rare wine, but it's just wine,' I thought, taking a half-sip to save what was left, while nodding in response to Hugh's question.
'He was wearing a gold cloak, so he had to be a captain,' I figured, remembering the unknown officer who had that bottle sent to my place.
"Look!" someone shouted, then added in the same tone while pointing behind us:
"The traitor is coming!"
I turned around quickly and saw a procession of soldiers in dark armor, all draped in gold cloaks, and the captain I had given the information to was leading the march.
'Fucking nobles,' I thought, since he was clearly a noble knight to be wearing armor and riding a horse like that.
I wanted to tell Hugh that he was the captain I'd passed the tip to, but I gave up on the idea when I realized the crowd had stopped to insult and spit on the traitor, completely forgetting to head toward the Square.
"Let's take advantage of this," I said quietly to Hugh, nodding for him to follow me so we could head to the square instead of trailing behind the procession.
---
-POV Third Person-
When the procession arrived at the Place of Justice — a name given to the new square built by Prince Aemon Targaryen atop Visenya's Hill, intentionally close to the largest sept in the capital — it was black with people.
The square had been designed to be spacious enough to host gatherings of tens of thousands of people, as well as tournaments where the common folk could gather at the foot of the stands to watch jousts — or public executions.
Which gave an idea of how many had come to witness the death of the traitor Otto Hightower.
Surrounded by several mobile stands, all separated to leave large open areas for events like these, the crowd itself encircled an extremely wide platform.
Upon that wide platform stood only the Prince and his uncle Gunthor Royce, both waiting for the procession to arrive and begin the ceremony of what was without a doubt the most anticipated and significant event of the year 121 AC.
The execution of Otto Hightower… the death of the former Hand of the King by the hand of the current one… The end of one era and the beginning of another.
Many tended to forget that the condemned was not just a former Hand of the King or the lord of one of the Great Houses of the Realm — but none other than the Queen's own father.
His Majesty's father-in-law by marriage.
The grandfather of the possible future King of the Seven Kingdoms.
And all of it would unfold under the helpless gaze of his daughter, the Queen.
All of this, coupled with the fact that he was about to die in front of a crowd of commoners come to watch the spectacle of his head roll in a pool of blood…
Beyond "justice," this execution was purely symbolic.
A way for Prince Aemon to challenge all parties — present and absent — and remind them of who he was.
What he represented.
Why he was feared.
But most of all, that no matter his opponent's status… nothing and no one would stop his blade once he had decided it would fall.
Once the carriage arrived at the foot of the platform, Commander William Royce dismounted from his white horse and signaled for his men to remove all of Otto Hightower's chains and shackles — except the one around his neck.
As soon as all restraints, save for the neck, were undone, William Royce yanked the neck chain violently like a leash, dragging the former Hand of the King as he climbed the steps of the platform one by one like a filthy, mangy dog.
Once face to face with Prince Aemon, whose gaze was lost in the horizon, the Prince's cousin dropped the leash and stepped back, leaving Otto Hightower at his side.
The former Hand tried to speak to the new one.
"You—"
But he didn't get the chance, for the moment his mouth opened, Gunthor Royce picked up the leash his nephew had dropped and slammed Otto's knee violently, then shoved his head down onto the block with brutal force, making a loud thud.
The act drew exaggerated gasps from the nobles in the stands, who all secretly hoped Aemon would renounce the execution.
But from the crowd came cries of excitement, as they clearly hoped to see whether noble blood ran as red as theirs.
All the while, Prince Aemon advanced a few steps in silence, not sparing the slightest glance at what was happening behind him — showing all the complete trust he had in his uncle, who now, in everyone's eyes, was not merely his right hand or representative, but truly his shadow.
The Prince smiled and spoke in a loud voice that carried far, despite the casual tone with which he spoke:
"People of the Capital, sadly, today we are gathered on this holy day not to celebrate, but to deliver justice. Not justice for the Crown, not justice for myself, but justice for you — the people of the realm — who have suffered from the division of House Targaryen brought on by a few vipers… and who would have suffered even more had war truly reached this kingdom. Because that is what we're talking about… a war of dragons."
"Wars between lords already cost so many lives — now imagine what a war between dragons would be. A war where you would have to face… this," said the Prince, spreading his arms and lifting his head, a smile stuck on his lips, to welcome his dragon diving from the clouds above, where it had been hidden at high altitude — followed by Meleys the Red Queen and Vhagar, both ridden by their respective dragonriders.
As Urrax dove toward them, some in the crowd, paralyzed by fear, soiled themselves on the spot, while the dragon opened his mouth, concentrating a silvery fire within a throat wide enough to swallow several aurochs with ease — casting a shadow that completely blotted out the sun across the square and its surroundings.
When he reached a few dozen meters above the ground, Urrax suddenly spread his wings wide and pushed down hard, stabilizing just in time and avoiding the crowd gathered below, unleashing a massive gust of wind and a thick cloud of dust.
URRAX'S ROAR
Urrax roared savagely, as did Vhagar and Meleys, who had stopped much higher up and had flown more slowly due to the riders on their backs — before unleashing all the fire he had been holding in his gargantuan throat.