Upon the death of her Lord Husband, Enora Hightower returned to the Red Keep. The eldest daughter of the Hand arrived just in time to attend the tourney in celebration of the predicted birth of the King's heir.
Female!OC x Viserys Targaryen
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The King had dismissed his Hand following the allegations against his daughter. Both Enora and Rhaenyra had spoken to the older man, advising him to rid the Keep of his conniving Hand. Rhaenyra had called the man a 'vulture perching on the Iron Throne.' With her stepdaughter by her side, Enora was finally able to speak of her father's ambitions.
She told her husband everything, how she had originally come to his chambers the first night in Alicent's stead. How much she had wanted to protect her sister. How Otto pushed for her to convince Viserys to name Aegon heir. How badly he wanted to supplant Rhaenyra with his own blood.
Anger and betrayal had rolled off of Viserys in waves as he waited for his Hand in the Small Council's meeting chambers. How could he have been so blind to Otto's plans for so long? Everything seemed to become clear, every comment Otto had made about Aegon and Rhaenyra. The man's advice had long been tainted by his own self-interests.
Somewhere hidden under the anger was a small pea-sized feeling of doubt. Viserys didn't wish too but he wondered if Enora truly loved him. He searched through every interaction in his mind, trying to find any moment where Enora's mask might have slipped. Where her true intentions showed.
But Viserys couldn't remember a time when Enora was anything but her kind-hearted, gentle and loving self. He felt terrible for even thinking that of his wife. She had cut through the darkness of his grief and depression, leading him through the haze and into the light. She had stood toe to toe with his daughter offering the girl nothing but love and care. Enora was a gift from the Seven themselves, sent to repair the fractures in House Targaryen.
"Your Grace." Otto greeted, launching Viserys out of his thoughts.
"Five days." Was all Viserys could bring himself to say.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace?"
"Though it was sometime ago. The details, they fade in memory. My father was a hale and healthy warrior and a dragonrider at the peak of his abilities. Jaehaerys named a great royal hunt to celebrate him being named the Hand of the King. Five days later my father lay dead. Tourneys last longer. Baelon the Brave, rider of Vhagar, heir to the Iron Throne dead of a burst belly. The gods have a dark wit."
"It was a grim day. I recall it all too well."
"It was a good day for you. Jaehaerys named you Hand in Baelon's stead."
"That's hardly how I viewed it, Your Grace." Otto tried to defend himself. "It was a duty."
"You served my grandsire nobly in his final days. You are the man that taught me how to be King."
"You honor me, Your Grace."
"Just five days..." Viserys sighed. "You went from being another man in Jahaerys's court, o the second most powerful man in the realm. I wonder how long did it take you to choose yourself over your King?"
