Ch: 6

King’s Landing

98 AC (Eighth Moon—Day 16) 

Otto II

“Ser Maynard Plumm will dine with you, Ser Otto,” Garlan said quietly, his voice flat and tired. It had only been a few hours since the runner bolted off with the summons. “He’s coming alone—no family in tow.”

Otto barely registered the words, letting them drift past like old gossip. Refusing wasn’t an option—not with House Hightower behind the invitation. He stayed hunched over his desk, quill moving in sharp strokes as he cut through months of financial clutter using the prince’s new method of bookkeeping.

It worked, damn it—sliced through the mess cleanly, like a fresh-honed blade.

Maester Joran stood nearby, eyes wide as he peered at the ledger, more awe in his look than Otto had ever seen from the old man. His gnarled hand twitched, eager to get at the page.

“Who came up with this, Ser Otto?” Joran asked, snatching a finished sheet and squinting at the writing like it might slip away.

The maester’s sudden enthusiasm grated. Otto felt the irritation rise, but forced it down. Scholars turned into hounds when faced with a puzzle—politeness never stood a chance. He leaned back in his chair, wood creaking under him.

“The prince claims it’s his work,” Otto replied, glancing at Garlan and motioning for him to sit. “Though I’d wager it’s the product of some maester he’s got tethered to his hip.”

The lie came easily.

“Unlikely,” Joran muttered, shuffling over to the old couch against the wall. His robes whispered as he sank into the cushions, offering no elaboration.

Otto didn’t push. Instead, he turned to Garlan, sliding a scrap of vellum across the desk. “Your ledgers are precise—every copper accounted for.”

A rare note of praise, though Otto didn’t dress it up.

Garlan took the parchment, fingertips grazing the edge. He looked up, cautious but unshaken.

Otto pressed on, voice heavier. “From now on, you’ll use this method. It’s faster. Cleaner. Maester Joran will walk you through it.”

Garlan’s eyes flicked to the maester, then back again. A faint line appeared between his brows, but he gave a respectful nod.

The obedience soothed Otto more than he liked to admit.

“I’d recommend sending this technique to Oldtown,” Joran said. No hint of courtesy in his tone.

Otto let the jab slide, but the suggestion lingered. Of course the Citadel would want a peek—this method was too sharp to keep hidden. Still, how much to share? Enough to stake his claim, certainly. Let the prince try to pin the work on some upstart chasing the Master of Coin’s seat—Otto would be ahead of it.

But the prince was no fool. He’d already seen through Otto once—and that still stung. Being sized up so cleanly by someone half his age… it cut deep.

“Send it,” Otto said after a pause. “But leave the prince’s name off.”

Joran raised a brow, clearly skeptical, but bowed his head in agreement.

Otto’s thoughts drifted back to his own standing—nothing from his time at court shone bright enough to win him the post. He’d always moved carefully, trusting time would do the lifting. But time had betrayed him. He needed leverage—something bold enough to draw attention.

Not idle flattery or slow courtship of the nobles. That would take too long and leave a trail. No, he needed a move—sharp, striking, hard to ignore.

And there was one.

Prince Viserys. Second in line. Easy to approach in theory—but Otto couldn’t charge in. He needed something discreet, a way in without raising alarms.

“Have any of the prince’s men been poking around here recently?” Otto asked, eyes fixed on Garlan, who was still studying the vellum.

“A few. Looked like Fleabottom lads dressed up nice. Two scholars led them. Said they were here to survey the estate—talked about laying new sewers.”

Otto shot a look at Joran, who nodded.

“I spoke with an old colleague—he’s serving the prince now. They’ve developed new techniques, using that quick-set stone of his. Said construction will move fast.”

Not exactly the prize Otto had in mind, but still a useful thread.

Lady Florence had hinted at the crown’s budget for the project, though nothing was firm—just numbers dancing across parchment. And budgeting was Otto’s field. It would put him directly in Viserys’s path.

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Four months until the year’s end—enough time to make himself useful. Perhaps even extend a hand to Princess Viserra, though Sweetport Sound was a long way from Oldtown.

First, he’d reach out to Maynard. If the taxman could pull a few strings…

But the question remained—what could he offer Plumm? Lords with full purses were always the hardest to sway. So far, Otto had only drawn up a draft trade agreement—Plumms and Hightowers—but Maynard was entrenched, and the western lords still smelled of mistrust to the king.

Otto exhaled, unease threading through the motion. “How good are our cooks, Garlan? Can they manage some of these new dishes floating around the city?”

The steward nodded. “We’ve got a few trained in the princess’s kitchens—familiar with the new fare. But we’d need notice to stock up properly.”

Otto grunted, sour at the memory of how much coin had been bled into kitchen renovations—half of it wasted. “No. Bring in someone from the taverns—one of those showy hands. I want a proper feast set, something that’ll suit Plumm’s tastes.”

Garlan nodded again, face unreadable. “We’ll have to tap into the Arbor reserves, Ser.”

Otto paused, weighing it. Then gave a sharp nod. He’d stashed those wine casks from the Myrish trade two years back—costly, but perfect for a moment like this.

He’d flatter the taxman with vintage Arbor and send him home with a few bottles besides.

Moments later, Garlan was gone, off to make preparations.

Otto turned to Joran. “Get parchment. We’ve got letters to write.”

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, bleeding red through the wooden slats.

Morning broke under a blanket of grey, the clouds hanging low and sullen. A breeze stirred—mild, clean. Otto always appreciated days like this, when the city’s stench faded and the usual din softened to a manageable hum. At times like these, King’s Landing almost looked dignified—at least, that’s what he liked to believe.

He drew in a deep breath, the frost-leaf he’d been chewing leaving a crisp sting on his tongue, sharp as a winter breeze. Fine stuff. Shame Westeros barely saw any of it—Essos hoarded its luxuries, the slaving swine.

The training yard met him with a clash of steel and a chorus of shouts. He hadn’t picked up a sword in months—palace affairs kept him bound from neck to heel in royal matters.

That would change today. Let the gawkers whisper.

The noise dipped as he stepped in, but he ignored it. He hadn’t come to trade pointers with the keep’s guards—they were serviceable at best—but for the house knights. Men who knew their craft.

Ser Bryan spotted him first, his gaze sharp beneath the brim of his helm. “Ser Otto,” he said, offering a slight nod. “Orders for us today?”

Otto waved the question away with a flick of his hand. “Not today, Ser Bryan. I’m here for steel, not orders. Need to work the stiffness out.”

He adjusted his sword belt as he spoke, the leather groaning in protest.

A flicker of surprise crossed Bryan’s face, quickly masked. “As you say, ser. Would you like a sparring partner? Ser Allyn’s free. He’ll give you a proper match.”

Otto’s mouth twitched—half amusement, half memory. Allyn was kin to his old squire, a few branches removed from those red fox upstarts. A good line. Better steel.

“Fetch him. But don’t tell him to go easy—I’ve no patience for soft touches just because I spend more time with scrolls than swords these days.”

He said it with a rough edge, though he kept his posture straight. Discipline mattered. He still took the stairs two at a time and hadn’t let Lysa’s warm bed soften his spine.

Bryan nodded and turned toward the yard. “Allyn! Front and center—Ser Otto’s called you!”

The murmuring quieted. Coins clinked softly. They were betting, of course. It nettled him—less the money than the implication. He made a note to have Bryan double their drills. Sooner or later, he’d whip them into proper shape.

Allyn approached, tall and lean, his chainmail shifting with each step. His sword hung ready, his demeanor focused.

“Ser Otto,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Sparring? Practice blades, or true steel?”

Otto barked a dry laugh. “Blunt. I’ve no taste for blood this morning. But don’t hold back—I’ll know if you do.”

He unsheathed the practice blade at his side, its dulled edge glinting faintly in the grey light.

Strange thing, keeping a personal sparring blade. But necessary.

He stepped into the ring, the ground worn hard and uneven beneath his boots, scarred from countless drills. The air was close with the scent of sweat, iron, and dust.

Allyn took position across from him, his blade drawn, stance low and tight—youthful and coiled.

Otto watched him, gaze narrowing. Left foot forward, a subtle lean—room for an inside feint.

It had been nearly a year since he’d sparred in earnest, but instinct hadn’t left him. Footwork, hips, timing—the old truths held. His own stance was heavier now, the palace’s softness catching up, but he’d make it work.

“Begin,” he said, low and firm.

Allyn lunged. The blade came in fast, high, angled for Otto’s shoulder.

Otto raised his sword just in time, the strike landing with a jolt that ran up his arm. He pushed back, forced Allyn off balance, but the knight recovered quickly, his blade dipping low toward Otto’s thigh.

He twisted, just enough. The blunt edge caught his trousers, a near miss that would’ve hobbled him if it were real steel.

“Too slow,” Otto muttered to himself, and stepped in, swinging wide to drive the younger man back.

Allyn parried, the metal screeching on contact. Otto didn’t let up—kept pressing, each strike heavier than the last, purposeful, commanding space.

The noise of the yard faded beneath the rhythm of footfalls, clashing blades, and ragged breath. Otto’s muscles ached, but the pain was familiar—almost welcome.

Allyn ducked under a high cut, countered low, the blunt tip striking hard against Otto’s ribs.

He grunted, the impact dull but deep, and responded with a feint to the left, followed by a clean strike to the right. His blade caught Allyn’s mid-motion, forcing it wide. He surged forward, shoulder crashing into the lad’s chest, sending him stumbling in a cloud of dust.

Allyn recovered quickly, resetting his stance. “You’re slower than you used to be, ser,” he said, tone even but edged.

Otto’s blood surged. Slow, was it?

He advanced without a word, his blade a blur of motion—slashes from every angle, high and low, left and right. Allyn held his ground, his parries tight, movements sharper now. Sweat beaded in Otto’s eyes. His breath came rough, but he was grinning inside. This was what he’d missed.

Allyn slipped under another broad cut, darted low for Otto’s belly. Otto pivoted just in time, felt the rush of air, and brought his sword down hard—driving, not slicing. Allyn caught it, just barely. Their blades locked, steel groaning under pressure. Faces close. Breath short.

Otto leaned in, weight bearing down.

“Yield?” he rasped.

Allyn’s jaw tightened, but he dipped his head. “Aye, ser.”

He stepped back. Otto lowered his blade, chest heaving, his arms trembling under the strain. The yard was still. No more coins. No more murmurs. Just eyes.

They’d wagered against him. That much was clear.

He glanced toward Bryan. “Triple their drills,” he said, voice rough. “And no more betting. Anyone caught loses a week’s pay.”

Bryan nodded, silent.

Otto turned back to Allyn, who was wiping the dust from his sleeve.

“My daughter needs a sword at her side,” Otto said, his voice calmer now. “I’d name you for the post.”