The Witch & The Dragon ‖ HOTD × HP

Chapter #21 - The Setting of an Unexpected Board

Present Time

Red Keep, King's Landing

The Small Council chamber felt smaller than it had any right to.

Not in size—no. The room remained as it always had: long oak table, high-backed chairs, sunlight filtering through narrow windows in thin, pale shafts. The banners still hung. The air still smelled faintly of wax and old parchment.

And yet—King Viserys sat at its head and felt as though the walls had drawn closer overnight.

Voices filled the room.

"...an unacceptable influence—"

"...foreign practices—"

"...disrupting order among the smallfolk—"

Otto Hightower's voice carried above the rest, smooth and measured, yet edged with something sharper beneath it.

"The matter cannot be ignored, Your Grace. These wizards—their presence alone has emboldened the lower classes. They speak of reform as though it were a right rather than a privilege granted by the Crown."

Viserys did not respond.

He sat very still, fingers loosely wrapped around the arm of his chair, his gaze unfocused—not on Otto, nor on Tyland Lannister who nodded in agreement, nor on Jasper Wylde whose lips pursed with disapproval.

Not even on Alicent.

Instead—he listened. And beneath their words, he heard echoes.

"You are not ill by nature, Your Grace." Minerva McGonagall's voice—firm, unwavering. "You are being made so."

His eyes shifted, slowly, almost lazily, toward Grand Maester Orwyle.

The man stood as he always did—stooped slightly, hands folded into his sleeves, chain glinting faintly at his throat. Harmless. Learned. Loyal.

Poisoner. The word did not come with anger. It came with clarity.

"Milk of the poppy, administered improperly over time..." Severus Snape's voice, cold and precise. "...does not simply dull pain. It dulls thought. Weakens will. Clouds judgment. But adding small traces of poison in every administration, can start rotting a person from the inside out."

Viserys inhaled slowly through his nose.

For years, he had believed himself... failing. A king growing weaker. A mind slipping. A body betraying him.

Now—now he wondered how much of that had ever been his own.

Across the table, Tyland Lannister spoke, fingers steepled.

"The merchants have begun invoking her name in negotiation, Your Grace. Contracts are being questioned. Rates challenged. If this continues—"

"If this continues," Jasper Wylde cut in, "we risk appearing... beholden to her influence."

Beholden. Viserys almost smiled. They feared that. Not the suffering of the people. Not the rot Dahlia had uncovered.

No—they feared losing control.

"They do not fear chaos, Your Grace." Dahlia's voice, quieter—but sharper than any blade. "They fear accountability, specially when it's being made public."

His gaze drifted again.

Otto. The Hand of the King. Steady. Composed. Always reasonable.

Always guiding. Always... present.