King's Landing
98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 16)
Otto II
"Ser Maynard Plumm will sup with you, Ser Otto," Garlan muttered, voice a flat echo, scarce hours after the runner had torn off with the summons. "His kin won't tag along, however."
Otto spared it half an ear, the words slipping past like an old tale. Refusal wasn't a card to play—not with House Hightower's weight backing the ask. He hunched over his desk, quill scratching sharp, carving through months of tangled coin with the prince's journaling method.
It worked, damn it—sliced the muddle of numbers into something solid, clean as a fresh blade.
Maester Joran hovered near, his watery eyes glued to the ledger, wide with a marvel Otto had never seen in the old scholar before. The maester's gnarled hand twitched, greedy for the page.
"Whose craft is this, Ser Otto?" Joran asked, snatching a finished ledger off the desk, his bony fingers clutching it tight as he squinted at the script.
The old man's grabby ways stung Otto, a jab of irritation, but he bit it down—scholars turned to slavering dogs when a riddle dangled before them, manners be damned. He eased back from the desk, settling into the chair's worn grip, its wood groaning soft under his mercy.
"The prince swears it's his own," Otto said, flicking a glance at Garlan and jerking his chin to bid the steward sit. "Though I'd wager it's more the work of some maester he's got leashed, scribbling in his shadow."
The lie came with no effort.
"Doubtful," Joran grunted, shuffling to the sagging couch by the wall, his robes whispering as he sank into its faded cushions. He offered no meat to his words, and Otto didn't bother digging for it.
Instead, he turned to Garlan, sliding a scrap of vellum across the desk. "Your hand's meticulous—every coin pinned, not a copper astray."
There was an honest praise buried in there.
The steward took the offered vellum, fingers grazing the edge, his eyes lifting—wary, but steady as stone.
Otto forged on, tone thick. "From now on, you'll tally with this method. It's cleaner… quicker. Maester Joran will hammer it into you."
Garlan's gaze flicked to the maester, then snapped back, a thin line creasing his brow, but he dipped his head.
He stifled a twitch—the obedience was a salve.
"I'd counsel sending its workings to Oldtown, too," Joran said, not a scrap of deference in his gravelly voice.
Again, Otto let the annoyance slide. Instead, he chewed on the creased scholar's cunning. Aye, his kin ought to know—this trick was too sharp to keep close—but how much to spill? He could lay it all bare, make damn sure the prince didn't dangle the credit to some other grasping fool vying for Master of Coin. It's what he'd do, after all.
But the prince would see right through him, he'd already taken his measure. That still stung Otto, raw as a fresh cut, to be sussed out and weighed by a lad half his years. Madness.
"Aye," Otto said at last, after a beat of silence, voice low. "But scrub the prince's name from it." He'd not wave a flag to draw the lad's sharp eyes his way.
Joran shot him a look, thick with suspect, but the old man dipped his head, bending to the order all the same.
Otto's mind swung back to clawing for the post—nothing in his court stint or royal drudge shone bright. Careful steps, aye—he'd reckoned time was his patient whore. It wasn't. He needed weight, something to tip the scales.
Nay, cozying up to the nobles would be too sluggish, too ripe for sniffing out. All that was left was some deed, some flash to drag eyes his way.
There was one, aye.
Prince Viserys. The second in line to the throne, no trouble there. But Otto couldn't just swagger up to the lad—too bold, too bare. He needed a veil, something sly to shroud his move.
"Any of the prince's men poked around here of late, Garlan?" Otto asked, his gaze pinning the steward, whose eyes still traced the vellum he'd been handed.
"A few—Fleabottom rabble dressed up fine—two learned sorts at the head," Garlan replied, lifting his gaze, voice steady but clipped. "They came to measure the estate, the manse too, talking of new sewers to be laid."
Otto flicked a sharp look at Joran, an order there.
The maester inclined his head. "I met an old colleague, now in the prince's service. They've devised new workings, bolstered by his quick stone. The construction will be swift, they claim."
It wasn't the prize Otto sought, but it added a scrap to his hoard.
Lady Florence had spelled out how much the crown would offer up for the project, though the sums were still half-guessed, numbers dancing on parchment. Budget work, aye—that was Otto's patch. It'd drag him square into Prince Viserys's path.
His lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. Four moons till the year's end—time enough to cozy up to the prince. Hells, he might even try his hand with Princess Viserra, dangle some help her way—though Sweetport Sound sat a damn long haul from Oldtown.
He'd cut a deal with Maynard, see if the taxman couldn't tug a few threads for him.
The rub was what to dangle before the Plumm lad for his help. Always the same, wasn't it? Fat-pursed lords were a bastard to sway. So far, he'd only cooked up a trade deal—Plumms and Hightowers. Maynard was dug in deep as taxman, though—western lords still stank of mistrust in the king's nose.
Otto let a sigh slip, a real thread of unease woven in. "How sharp are our cooks, Garlan? Can they whip up some of the new dishes floating round the city?"
The steward dipped his head. "We've got a handful fresh from the princess's kitchens—trained up on the new fare, aye. But we'll need warning to stock the larder proper."
He grunted, mind flicking sour to the coin bled on these daft kitchens—half of it bloody folly. "Nay, fetch a seasoned cook—those flash tavern hands. I want a proper feast laid out, something to tickle Plumm's tastes, if you can manage it."
Garlan dipped his head, no twitch on his face. "We'll need to crack the old Arbor reserves, Ser."
Otto stilled a beat, chewing it over, then gave a curt nod. He'd snapped up those wine casks from the Myrish two years back—pricey, but ripe for a moment like this.
He'd grease the taxman plump with vintage Arbor, and gift him several bottles for good measure.
Soon, Garlan was out the door, off to his tasks.
Otto swung his gaze to Joran. "Ready some parchment, we've more letters to scratch out."
The sun was sinking low by then, bleeding red through the slats.
——————
The morn broke grey, heavy clouds squatting low. A breeze stirred, gentle… fresh. Otto savoured days like this, when the city's reek was near scrubbed clean and the clamour dulled to a murmur. King's Landing almost gleamed in such hours, or so he told himself.
He drew a deep breath, the frost-leaf he'd chewed leaving a sharp chill on his tongue, crisp as winter's bite. Damn fine stuff, this. Pity Westeros got short shrift of it—Essos hoarded its flashier trinkets, the slaving bastards.
The yard roared when he stepped in, a din of shouts and steel ringing sharp. He'd let his own blade work rust this year—royal duties had him chained, ankle to neck.
He'd fix that, aye, and not give a damn for looking the fool.
The chatter dimmed when he strode in, but Otto paid it no mind. He wasn't here to swap tricks with the manse's guards—dull blades, the lot—but the house knights, men worth crossing steel with.
Ser Bryan clocked him first, eyes sharp under his helm. "Ser Otto," he said, dipping his head just enough. "Got any tasks for us, ser?"
Otto waved a hand, the gesture curt, shedding the pleasantries. "Nay, not today, Ser Bryan. I'm here for the yard—need to shake the rust off these bones." He tugged at the sword belt slung low on his hips, the leather creaking as he adjusted it.
Bryan's brow lifted, a flicker of surprise, but he masked it quick, nodding stiffly. "As you command, ser. Need a sparring partner, then? Ser Allyn's available—he's skilled, if you wish a challenge."
Otto's lips twitched, not quite a smile—Allyn was the nephew of his old squire, twice cut off from the main line of those red fox bastards. Fine knights, though. "Aye, fetch him. But no coddling, mind—I'll not have you lot going soft on me just 'cause I shuffle papers more than steel these days."
It was a sharp quip, though he'd not let himself sag. He kept his vices tight-leashed, ever watchful that his frame didn't bloat. The Red Keep's endless twists of corridors kept his legs hardy, though he wondered if Lysa's bed might've stoked his endurance sharper.
Bryan nodded, and turned to call across the yard. "Allyn! Front and center—Ser Otto requires you!"
The yard's din dropped, heads swiveling, coin clinking soft. The curs were wagering—bastards. That stung him, a thorn under the skin, but he'd scour their slack ways later, set Bryan to double their drills.
Aye, he could mold them sharp, like the gold cloaks—forge a tight fist of them, loyal and lean.
Ser Allyn approached, a tall, wiry lad, his mail clinking with each measured stride, sword loose in its scabbard. "Ser Otto," he said, dipping his head, his eyes steady, respectful, no glint of eagerness—only duty. "Spar, ser? Blunt blades, or live?"
Otto barked a laugh, raw and deep from the gut. "Blunt," he said, shaking his head. "I've no taste for bleeding over games, but don't you dare ease up—I'll smell it if you do." He yanked his practice blade free, steel hissing from the scabbard…
Queer thing, keeping a blunt blade just for yourself.
…he stepped into the cleared ring, the dirt packed hard underfoot, scuffed and scarred from a hundred boots. The air hung thick, sharp with sweat and the tang of metal.
Ser Allyn squared up across from him, his own blunt blade drawn, the tip hovering steady, his stance low and coiled—a young man's stance, all spring and fire.
Otto marked it, eyes narrowing, tracing the knight's balance, the slight shift of weight to his left leg.
He'd not fought in earnest in near a year, but the old lessons clung, etched deep—watch the feet, read the hips, strike the gaps. His own stance was stiffer, heavier, the court's soft living weighing on his joints, but he'd not let it show.
"Begin," Otto growled, and Allyn moved, quick as a whip, lunging forward, blade slashing high for Otto's shoulder.
He jerked his sword up, catching the blow with a jarring clang, the shock rippling up his arm, waking the old fire in his sinews. He shoved back, hard, forcing Allyn to skip a step, but the knight twisted, blade darting low now, a viper's strike at Otto's thigh.
He pivoted, barely, the blunt edge grazing his breeches, a whisper of what could've been a crippling blow with live steel.
"Sloppy," Otto grunted, more to himself, and surged forward, his own blade slashing a wide arc, aiming to drive Allyn back. The knight parried, metal shrieking, but Otto pressed, hammering down, each blow deliberate, forcing Allyn to give ground.
The men's chatter faded, swallowed by the rhythm of steel, the thud of boots, the harsh rasp of his own breath burning in his chest. He felt the old strength singing, sluggish but there, buried under moons of parchment and wine.
Allyn ducked under a high swing, countering with a thrust, the blunt tip jabbing hard at Otto's ribs.
He twisted, grunting as the blow clipped his side, a dull throb blooming under his doublet. "Bastard," he hissed, and retaliated, feinting left, then slashing right, catching Allyn's blade mid-parry, the force knocking the younger man's arm wide. Otto lunged, shoulder first, ramming into Allyn's chest, sending him stumbling back, dust kicking up in clouds.
The boy recovered quick, too quick, rolling his shoulders, blade snapping up to guard. "You're slow, ser," Allyn said, voice steady, respectful but edged, testing.
Otto's blood flared, hot and sharp—slow, was he? He'd show the whelp slow. He charged, blade flashing, a flurry of blows, high, low, left, each strike a hammer, driving Allyn back step by step, the knight's parries growing tighter, more desperate. Sweat stung Otto's eyes, his lungs heaving, but he felt alive…young.
Allyn ducked a wild swing, lunging low, blade thrusting for Otto's gut. He danced around it, barely, the air hissing past, and brought his own sword down, a brutal chop aimed at the boy's shoulder. The knight caught it, just, blades locking, steel grinding, their faces inches apart, breath hot and ragged.
Otto's arms burned, muscles screaming, but he leaned in, shoving with all his weight, forcing Allyn's blade down, down, till the younger man's knees buckled a hair.
"Yield?" He rasped, voice raw, sweat dripping from his brow, splattering the dirt between them.
Allyn's jaw clenched, eyes fierce, but he dipped his head, respectful. "Aye, ser," he said, easing back, blade dropping.
The young knight had skill, aye, no denying it, but Otto had been cleaving bandit skulls while the lad was still bawling at his mother's tit.
He stepped away, chest heaving, blade hanging heavy in his hand. The yard was silent now, the clink of coin stilled, eyes wide on him—some shocked, some disgruntled. The bastards wagered against him.
He flicked a glance at Bryan, voice rough. "Triple their drills, Ser Bryan. And no more bloody betting—next man I catch loses a week's pay."
Bryan dipped his head, rigid and mute, and Otto swung his gaze to Allyn. "My daughter needs a sword at her back," he said, fixing the lad as he hauled himself up. "I'd name you for that duty."