King's Landing, The Red Keep – 128 AC

I wanted to be angry, to feel the righteous indignation of a lord wronged, to seethe against the stone walls of the Black Cells where I was confined like a common criminal. But anger felt distant, as if it belonged to another man in another life. Instead, there was only a vast, cold apathy. I knew the truth—there was no escape from this fate. Caught red-handed, planning usurpation, exposed before the Small Council, and even Aemond, my own grandson, would stand against me. The irony was suffocating.

Once, I could have called upon the High Septon, wielded the Faith like a weapon to pressure the crown. I was, after all, the father of the queen. But then Hobert, my fool of a brother, had to ruin everything with his botched attempt on Orys Baratheon's life. It was that idiocy that sealed our fate. There was no way the Faith could turn a blind eye to kinslaying, even a failed attempt. This was no longer a clash between House Targaryen and House Hightower. No, now it was House Baratheon and House Targaryen united against us.

How could someone as simple-minded as Hobert be the head of our house? It was infuriating to think about. All the power and prestige House Hightower held were because of my efforts. I served as Hand of the King to two Targaryen rulers, my daughter sat the throne as queen, and my grandchildren were princes and princess of the realm. If only I had been the firstborn. If only I had been there to raise my grandchildren into loyal vassals of Hightower. If only I had prepared Alicent better for her role. Maybe then, things would have been different.

But now, our house would fall. And if by some miracle any of us survived, we would live branded as traitors and kinslayers. I almost wished for death for all of us—anything to avoid the shame of seeing House Hightower brought to its knees. So, I sat in silence in my Black Cell, while my brother raged in the cell beside me, his curses filling the damp, cold air. He demanded to know how they could treat lords in such a manner. His voice grated on my nerves, a constant reminder of our downfall.

I remained silent, lost in my thoughts and apathy, contemplating the path that led me here. There was nothing left to do but wait and hope that the end came swiftly. As Hobert's voice continued to echo, I felt nothing.

There was a time when I could have spun this situation to our advantage, when I could have used every ounce of my cunning and influence to turn the tide. I had navigated the treacherous waters of the court, manipulating alliances and bending the will of powerful men and women to my favor. I had been the architect of the Hightower's rise, the mastermind behind every strategic move. But now, all my schemes had crumbled into dust, undone by the very blood that should have cemented our power.

Alicent. My sweet, dutiful daughter, who had done everything I asked of her, who had married the king and borne his children, who had played her part in the game of thrones with grace and poise. She had been my greatest weapon, my crowning achievement. And now, she was broken, shattered by the weight of our ambition. The sight of her, disheveled and lost, haunted me. Her dreams of a simple life with a knight, a life far removed from the machinations of the court, seemed like a cruel joke now. I had pushed her into this, had made her a pawn in my grand designs, and in doing so, had destroyed her. I should feel guilty for all the atrocities I committed towards her, or angry at her failures. But I felt nothing, apathy has been a friend of mine for a very long time.

And Aemond. My grandson, fierce and proud, had turned against me. The boy I had hoped to mold into a leader, a true Hightower, now stood ready to testify against his own blood. It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that I had failed to instill in him the loyalty and ambition that had driven me. Instead, he had chosen his own path, one that did not include the legacy I had fought so hard to build.

As I sat in my cell, the cold seeping into my bones, I could hear Hobert's curses growing louder, more desperate. He still believed that we could salvage something from this disaster, that our name still held power. But I knew better. Our fate was sealed, and no amount of bluster or bravado could change that.

I thought of the Reach, the lands we had once controlled with an iron grip. The panic and chaos that must be spreading through our vassals, the disarray that Hobert had caused. They had rallied behind us, believing in our strength, our ability to protect and lead. Now, they would see the truth: that House Hightower was a crumbling tower, its foundations rotten, its walls collapsing.

The Lannisters, too, had retreated to Casterly Rock, preparing for the worst. They had thrown their lot in with us, and now they would suffer the consequences of that choice. The small folk, the people of the realm, would see us for what we truly were: traitors and kinslayers. They had already turned against us, condemning us for the attempt on Orys's life. They adored the Baratheon boy, saw him as an extension of their beloved Pearl of Driftmark.

In the end, all that remained was the cold, hard reality of our situation. House Hightower would fall, and I would fall with it. There was no escape, no redemption. Only the bitter taste of failure and the knowledge that I had brought this upon us all.

As I lay on the hard, cold floor of my cell, I closed my eyes and let the apathy wash over me. There was nothing left to fight for, nothing left to hope for. Only the end, and the silence that would follow.

I opened my eyes only when I was dragged before the court. The Golden Cloaks were rougher than necessary, but I expected nothing less. The lords and ladies of the Crownlands and the Narrow Sea gathered eagerly to witness our downfall. I could also see a good number of Vale and Stormlands lords and ladies, who must have recently arrived in King's Landing. My brother, cousin, and nephews looked humiliated by the spectacle, their faces red with shame. I, however, felt nothing. I stood before the Iron Throne, my expression blank.

I locked eyes with Crown Princess Rhaenyra, who sat on the Iron Throne as if it were already hers. Perhaps it was. She remained the heir despite all my machinations. The irony was not lost on me— I had been the one to suggest to Viserys that he name her heir, and I had regretted that decision ever since. Rhaenyra wore a black dragonriding ensemble, with scales on her shoulders. Her hair was in a high braided ponytail, and a simple black circlet with rubies sat on her head. She looked intimidating, at least to most people. To me, she was just another player in this game of power. I felt nothing when I looked at her.

Beside her stood her husband, also clad in black, and on the other side, her sworn shield, Harwin Strong. Daemon wore a smirk on his face, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. He stood between the Hightowers and the Iron Throne, a physical barrier that underscored the chasm between us. To one side were my grandchildren, Helaena and Daeron, dressed in Targaryen red. Daemon's children, Baela and Rhaena, and Jacaerys, also wore red. Beside them, Laena, Corlys, Joffrey, Lucerys, Rhaenys, and Aemond were dressed in Velaryon teal. On the other side stood House Baratheon, all in black and yellow.

Aegon stood with his wife, Cassandra, cradling their son Orys in his arms. His glare was filled with hatred, but it did not affect me. Apathy had become a useful shield. As I surveyed the scene, I noted the contrast between the emotions of those around me and my own numb detachment. My brother, Hobert, was muttering curses under his breath, his face twisted with anger and shame. My nephews stood stiffly, their eyes darting around the room, seeking any sign of support or sympathy. There was none.

The hall was filled with the murmurs and whispers of the gathered nobles. They were here to see justice done, to see House Hightower brought low. The tension was palpable, but I remained an island of calm amidst the storm. I had played my part in this grand game, and now, I would face the consequences.

Rhaenyra's gaze was steady, her eyes boring into mine. She was a formidable figure, her presence commanding the room. I had underestimated her once, and it had cost me dearly. Now, I could only watch as she held the power, I had sought to deny her. I believed she would crumble under all the pressure, but unlike my daughter she had better guides and instructors. The Sea Snake and the Queen that Never Was worked hard molding her, but it looks like it was worth it. I turned to look at Jacaerys, who was already standing like a King should and I knew that while their work with Rhaenyra was simply passable, they will create a masterpiece with Jacaerys.

Daemon's smirk widened as our eyes met. He was enjoying this, relishing our defeat. His hand on the hilt of Dark Sister was a silent threat, a reminder of the violence he was capable of. Yet, even his malice couldn't stir any anger or fear within me.

The sight of my grandchildren, dressed in Targaryen red, was a bitter reminder of what could have been. Helaena and Daeron stood with solemn expressions, their loyalty clear. They were Targaryens first, Hightowers second. I had failed to bind them to our house as I had intended.

My gaze shifted to the Baratheons. Aegon's hatred was evident, but it was Cassandra who caught my eye. She held their son protectively, her face a mask of determination. Orys was the future, a symbol of the alliance between Targaryen and Baratheon. Our actions had endangered that future, and for that, I bore the blame.

As the silence stretched, I felt the weight of my choices bearing down on me. The halls of King's Landing, the court that I had navigated with such skill, now seemed like a prison. The faces of the nobles, once allies and pawns, were now judges and executioners.

And so, I waited, eyes open, facing the end of House Hightower as I had known it.

The trial passed like a blur. I should have been paying attention, but as people testified and evidence was brought forward, all I could think was that this looked like a well-rehearsed play. Each accusation, every piece of damning evidence, felt orchestrated, choreographed for maximum effect. So, I remained apathetic, numb to everything unfolding around me.

When Rhaenyra finally proclaimed that House Hightower was guilty of all charges, I barely reacted. Hobert, Bryndon, Ormund, and I were to be executed by Syrax, death by fire. The words hung in the air, heavy and final. I felt nothing.

Rhaenyra then turned to Aegon, who stood rigid with fury. She acknowledged that he and Sunfyre were entitled to execute those who tried to kill his son, but she would not have him become a kinslayer. "Aegon," she said, her voice firm yet compassionate, "you have the right to seek vengeance, but I will not see you tainted by kinslaying. Let Syrax deliver justice."

Aegon's jaw tightened, but he gave a stiff nod, accepting her decree. Her voice carried the weight of authority, and even Aegon, with his smoldering anger, could not defy her.

Rhaenyra continued, her eyes sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies. "Garmund Hightower, by virtue of his innocence and youth, will remain the new Lord of Old Town. It has been proven that he had no part in these treacherous acts."

Garmund sighed in relief, but I knew better. Living on would be a fate worse than death for him. The brand of traitor would follow him everywhere, tainting every aspect of his life. He might have escaped the axe, but he would never escape the shadow of our downfall.

Rhaenyra's voice grew firmer as she listed the decrees. "Old Town will no longer enjoy its previous privileges. The favoritism in taxes for being the center of religion and learning is hereby revoked. The Citadel will be moved to King's Landing and rebuilt on Visenya's Hill. Vigilance, the ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Hightower, will be given to House Baratheon for their loyal service. The High Septon will reside in Highgarden from this day forward."

Each decree was a nail in our coffin. The Tyrells would now have no opponents over their command of the Reach. All the power we had amassed, stripped away in moments.

Hobert raged beside me, spitting curses. Ormund and Bryndon sobbed and begged for their lives, their voices desperate and pleading. "You cannot do this!" Hobert screamed. "We are lords of the realm!"

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed, her gaze cold and unyielding. "You are traitors, nothing more."

And I stood there, silent. I said nothing, did nothing. I simply accepted defeat with a chilling apathy.

As Rhaenyra's decrees echoed through the hall, I watched the faces of those who had once been our allies. Some looked on with satisfaction, others with pity. It didn't matter. We had lost, and no amount of pleading or raging would change that. The weight of our failure settled heavily on my shoulders, but even that couldn't stir me from my numbness.

When the court finally dispersed, I was led back to the Black Cells. Hobert's curses still rang in my ears, a constant, bitter reminder of our downfall. Ormund and Bryndon continued their lamentations, but their voices were distant, almost muted.

I didn't sleep that night, knowing what awaited me. It was almost amusing, how predictable it all felt. When the cell door creaked open, I wasn't surprised. Daemon Targaryen entered with a smirk on his lips, the same smug expression he always wore when he thought he had the upper hand. He took his time, closing the door behind him with a deliberate slowness that sent a chill down my spine.

"Otto," he said, his voice almost cheerful. "I hope you've enjoyed your stay. I've heard the Black Cells are quite... hospitable."

I met his gaze, my eyes locking with his. There was a gleam in his eye, a twisted pleasure in the power he held over me in this moment. "Get on with it, Daemon," I said, my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my insides. "I have no desire to prolong this charade."

Daemon chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that echoed in the small space. "Oh, Otto, always so eager. But where's the fun in that? We have all night, after all."

He stepped closer, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows on his face. "You've caused a lot of trouble, you know. So many schemes, so much betrayal. It's fitting that you'll die by fire."

I didn't flinch. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "You think this will make a difference, Daemon? You think my death will change anything?"

His smirk widened. "Oh, it will. But it's not just about your death, Otto. It's about the message it sends. To everyone."

He moved swiftly then, his hand closing around my throat. I gasped, the sudden pressure cutting off my air. "You've been a thorn in our side for too long," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "It's time for you to feel some of the pain you've inflicted on others."

I clawed at his hand, struggling for breath, but he was relentless. "This is for Rhaenyra," he whispered, his grip tightening. "For the pain you've caused her. For the lives you've destroyed."

He released me suddenly, and I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. "But don't worry," he said, stepping back. "I'm not going to kill you. The Golden Queen will have that pleasure. However, that does not mean I am not entitled to my fun. We have all night, remember?"