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downthewishingwell · 4 months ago

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A Companion (Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader) Chapter 2

Lord Otto Hightower invites a young widow and her family to his study early the next morning to discuss a personal matter.

Series Masterlist Here

Pairing: Otto Hightower x Young Widow!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings: discussion of spousal death

Author's note: This definitely took me a year RIP

Chapter 2: A Proposal

“Get up, lazy girl,” a grating voice spat as your blanket was ripped away, shocking you awake. You scrambled to cover yourself before looking to see who had woken you so rudely – though you had suspicions.

It was Sybelle, as expected. Your good sister and quite possibly the meanest woman you’d ever met, though some of the older ladies you’d met in the capital had nearly claimed that title for themselves when they learned you hailed from the swamps of the Neck.

You shook away the memory and focused your gaze again on Sybelle. She sneered at you with disdain and amusement. But there was something in her eyes, something more sinister than the usual glimmer of cruelty. You hardly had any time to ponder what it was before she grabbed your arm and pulled you from your bed, shoving you roughly toward the dressing screen in the corner of the room. “Do try and find something that doesn’t make you look like a specter of death, won’t you?”

With that, she left—thankfully. You leaned against the top of your trunk as you caught your breath, trying to rationalize the last few moments. The sun had not yet fully risen, so you hadn’t overslept. Then why had Sybelle been awake before you? She had never done so before. What had stoked her hatred of you so? What caused that new malice you saw glittering in her eyes?

After the feast the night prior, you returned to the apartments Gryff, Sybelle, and you had been granted for your stay in the capital and had not left since, so she couldn’t be angry that you’d gone anywhere unchaperoned. Other than a few muttered comments, you had not said anything that would cause this kind of anger.

You thought that they would be quite pleased with you after your conversation with Lord Hightower at the wedding feast. Although, it was probably foolish to ever think they could be anything but dissatisfied with your very existence. They would be until you were finally married and no longer their responsibility.

Oh. The answer was painfully clear now.

A suitor must have asked to meet you. That’s why Sybelle had been so demanding about what you wore.

Who was it? Some licentious old man looking for a final conquest before the Stranger takes him away? A younger man so unpleasant that no father would dare give his daughter to him? Or, as Gryff had threatened the night before, a mere boy, to whom you would be more mother than wife?

Anticipating the worst, you chose to style yourself carefully. A simple, modest dress in rough-spun purple silk – several shades darker than the Whitehill crest but just bright enough that they could not scold you for wearing black. You braided your hair back in a way that indicated neither maidenhood nor marriage, but something in between. And as always, you wore the silver pin Locke had given you on your breast, right over your heart.

Sybelle was waiting when you emerged from your room – still scowling. Gryff was beside her, looking at once miserable and thrilled. Whoever they were to sell you to, he must be wealthy beyond imagining.

His scowl grew even deeper as Gryff looked you over than his wife’s. “You are fortunate we don’t have time for you to change.”

You refrained from mentioning that he had neglected to shave his stubble while he turned toward the door and stomped out, Sybelle closely behind.

For a moment, you briefly considered staying where you were. They were so angry they likely wouldn’t know you weren’t following them until they reached their destination. But as horrible as it may be to be married – sold, really– to whatever man they chose, it would at least offer an escape from them.

So, you raised your chin and followed. You would decide what picture to paint for the man when you saw him. If he were acceptable, you would do your part to appear sweet and demure to help secure the betrothal. If he was not… well, you had become quite good at portraying the undesirable widow.

Your heart began to race as the distance between you and your apartments grew. Gryff and the guard he followed led you out of the guest wing of the Red Keep and toward the Royal Sept. Had negotiations already been settled? A deal already struck? Were you being led not to meet the man you may marry but to marry him at first sight?

The guard turned, and you were so thankful you would have agreed to marry him then and there. He led you into a narrow stairway and began climbing without a word. You were so relieved that the question of where you were going never occurred to you until you reached the top of the tower, and a guard opened a large, oaken door.

Lord Otto Hightower stood from his desk. He wore the same clothes he had at the feast, now thoroughly rumpled, as was his hair. The tips of his long fingers were stained with ink, likely from the large stack of parchment now at the center of his desk. He did not smile, but his eyes lightened as they fell upon you, and he inclined his head. You returned the gesture.

“Lady Whitehill, it is a pleasure to see you again.” His voice seemed lower than it had the night before – rougher. Had he not slept? He looked at Gryff and Sybelle as if he hardly noticed them. “Lord Whitehill, thank you for agreeing to meet with me so swiftly.”

“My Lord Hand.” Gryff’s smile wavered nervously as he bowed far deeper than necessary. “My dearest and most sincere congratulations on the felicitous marriage of your dau–”

Lord Hightower held up a hand, silencing him. “Take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

Gryff and Sybelle quickly claimed the chairs at the table by the window, leaving you to stand. Lord Hightower’s diplomatic smile fell, and he glared at your good brother.

“At last night's feast, I had the great pleasure of speaking to Lady Whitehill.” He smiled only when he said your name. “You are very fortunate to have such a fine young woman representing your house.”

Sybelle looked as if she might protest his statement. Gryff looked like he was about to faint as he stammered. “Yes, well, I – ”

“Would be remiss to see her leave, I am sure. Nevertheless,” he grabbed the tall stack of papers, “I have called you here to ask for her hand.”

Some juvenile sound of shock escaped your lips. Every eye in the room turned toward you. You covered your mouth and ducked your head. “Forgive me, my lord.”

When he said he would help you, you never imagined this.

Why would the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms want to marry you? You offered no wealth nor alliance. You were no great beauty whose smile inspired songs. You had nothing that would earn you a place anywhere near the Red Keep.

Was it a dream? After Sybelle stormed into your room, had you fallen asleep again? It must be a dream. You would surely be woken again soon. Well, there was no harm in enjoying the dream before it ended, right?

Gryff’s nervous pallor faded into a bright blush. “You wish to marry her?”

Lord Hightower glanced at you, then smiled. “I do.”

“This is most generous, my lord,” Sybelle leaned in to speak for her flabbergasted husband, who only sat there with his mouth open. “We may be amenable to the union. However, we must first negotiate an agreement to ensure the match benefits both our houses.”

Neither your father nor Gryff possessed anything that Lord Hightower could not get for himself. You laughed at Sybelle’s ridiculous notion, drawing all eyes to you. Muttered an apology, but only half-heartedly – it didn’t really matter if you behaved badly in your dream.

“Naturally. I have already drawn up an agreement.” Lord Hightower dropped the papers on the table. He hummed slightly, looking at Sybelle like he might admire her cunning if circumstances differed. Gryff, he regarded with a flat smile and eyes filled with disdain. “It is quite thorough, so I will grant you an hour or two to familiarize yourself with the details before we begin negotiations.”

Gryff was still too dazed by the proposal itself to realize the hidden insult in the words. He only nodded dumbly. You stifled another laugh. It was strange that you had not woken up yet. You were sure someone would have stormed back into your room by now.

You flushed slightly as the Hand’s eyes met yours, feeling the prickling warmth in your cheeks. It felt so real, more so than any other dream you’d ever had. Your stomach sank. Was this real? How could it be?

Yet, when you reached up to touch your face, you found it warm. And when you subtly pinched your palm, it hurt.

Gods, this was real.

Lord Hightower smiled at you before continuing, “If you would prefer privacy while you read, you are more than welcome to remain here. I only ask that you allow Lady Whitehill to accompany me on a walk through the gardens so we may become better acquainted.”

While Gryff watched the papers before him as if they would come alive and attack him, Sybelle quirked her head suspiciously. “Unchaperoned?” She gave the Hand a sickeningly innocent smile. “I know she is no maiden, but surely we must maintain her decency.”

Any trace of courtesy faded from Lord Hightower’s face. “Are you implying that I have dishonorable intentions?”

The threat was clear. Sybelle shrank back in her chair. “Of course not, my Lord Hand. I simply –”

“Two of my guards will be with us,” he interrupted curtly. “You have nothing to fear. I shall give Lady Whitehill all the respect she is due.”

That, Gryff caught. The subtle jab that they had not done so and the threat in the Hand knowing it. He grumbled an apology and turned his head down at the papers. His wife merely seethed.

Lord Hightower barely acknowledged them before approaching you, an arm held out for you to take. “My Lady, I am glad to see you again so soon.”

When you laced your arms through yours, it was warm and strong and steady. This was real – he was real. And at this moment, he was your favorite person in the world.

You beamed at him, your savior. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

Otto commanded his guards to follow further than usual, wanting to give Lady Whitehill privacy to process his proposal. He’d seen her surprise – and heard the small, disbelieving giggle she’d let out – when he declared his intentions. For a moment, he had worried she would refuse, that he had been too presumptuous in offering his own hand rather than that of a younger man.

But as he glanced down at her when they reached the base of the tower, she looked content – her cheeks rosy and eyes bright, maybe even a hint of a smile on her lips.

Yes, there was silence between them, but it was comfortable. He felt the need to speak not because of any awkwardness or restlessness between them, but because of their situation. After all, a man should talk to the woman he had just proposed marriage to, should he not?

As they entered the gardens, he finally broke the silence. “Is there a garden at your home?”

She furrowed her brow. “My father’s keep in the Neck or Highpoint?”

Her having to ask indicated that she considered either both or neither her home. He sincerely hoped it was the former. Otto cleared his throat. “Forgive me for being unclear. Why not tell me about both?”

She looked away as her smile grew. “Highpoint is so far north that very little will grow, though there are several winter rose bushes around the Heart Tree. But there are very large gardens at Lily Glen. In the Neck, flowers don’t only grow from the ground but upon trees and in the water. They are strange to some, but I find them beautiful. It is much wilder than the gardens here.”

Otto stopped beneath one of the trellises leading to the butterfly garden. “You have already seen the gardens.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, ducking her head slightly. “The morning of the wedding, with all the other women.”

“I apologize, Lady.” He should have known, but he had barely slept that night, too consumed with drawing up the marriage contract. Foolish. Hasty and foolish.

“There is no need for apology, my Lord Hand. It is still a pleasant sight.”

“You are very gracious.” He sighed. This was not how he wanted to begin their companionship, with her thinking him disinterested in her desires and needs. “Is there another place in the Keep you would prefer to see?”

She thought for a moment, turning back to face the castle as though she could see what lay beneath the red stone. When a raven’s caw echoed within the keep’s outer walls, she gasped, eyes searching. “Could we see the Rookery?”

Otto started, nearly dropping her arm in his surprise. “An unusual request. Why there, if I may ask?”

“I have a fondness for birds,” she said shyly, her cheeks flushing darker.

“Really?” Birds, of all things. He had certainly found himself a… unique woman to wife.

“Yes!” She was as excited as a little girl, yet Otto somehow found it endearing, and could not help but smile as she spoke. “There are so many birds at Lily Glen, with many different colors and songs. Not in the North, but… even the ravens fascinate me. And they are quite easy to befriend, if you know how.”

Smiling, Otto tightened his grip on her arm and turned, leading them back to the Keep. She was unusual, but there was a keen intelligence beneath this odd interest. Besides, he would much rather have a strange but interesting companion for a wife than a woman who was ordinary and entirely dull. “That is a skill I do not possess myself, I’m afraid. But perhaps you could teach me, my lady?”

“Gods, there’s hundreds of them.” You had only just caught your breath after climbing all the many stairs leading to the Rookery at the top of the Maester’s tower when the glorious sight of the birds stole the air from your lungs. Lily Glen had only a dozen ravens in residence, Highpoint only twenty, but this…

Lord Hightower stood beside you, the bag of dried berries one of the young maesters gave you when you arrived still in his hand. If you weren’t mistaken, you could hear more than a hint of smugness in his voice. “The second-largest in the realm.”

There was a place with even more ravens than this? Such a thing was unimaginable – a fantasy. “What is the largest, if not the capital?”

“The Isle of Ravens in Oldtown.”

Of course, you should have realized. But any embarrassment faded the moment you glanced back and noticed his clothing. All green but for the gold symbols of his office – his chain and the pin on his right lapel. Oldtown was the seat of his house. His home. “Have you been there before?”

“Once, when I was a boy,” his eyes grew distant, at once nostalgic and remorseful. My father took my brother and me to see the white ravens when I was young. I don’t remember it well.”

“I’ve always wanted to see a white raven.” The rarest and most important birds in Westeros, or perhaps the world. Only dispatched from the Citadel to announce the changing of the seasons. You had never seen one, having been but ten years old the last time the season changed, not that one was sent to Lily Glen. Only a few were sent to the swamps, leaving most houses to learn the news days or weeks later when a messenger finally arrived.

Lord Hightower hummed thoughtfully, drawing your attention back to him. He was smiling gently. “Perhaps I can arrange for you to see them, as I will soon have cause to bring you to Oldtown.”

“But…” You nearly protested that women were rarely allowed entry to the Citadel, but then his words sank in, and you looked away again.

‘I will soon have cause to bring you to Oldtown.’

Because he had asked for your hand only an hour ago. You, alone, could never dare to hope to see the Isle of Ravens. But it would be simple for the brother of the Lord of Oldtown to arrange to visit with his new bride.

You looked back up at Lord Hightower to find his eyes already fixed on you. “I thought you may have questions for me. You do, don’t you?”

“I… yes, I do.” You stepped away to hide your blushing, reaching into the little velvet bag for a handful of dry berries, which you spread onto a ledge before stepping away. Several birds examined the berries, then you, then the berries again.

“Why me?”

The Hand chucked slightly, gently. “Yes, I anticipated that being your first question.” His eyes softened as he looked upon you. “The answer is simple: you asked me for my help, and this is the best way I can think to give it.”

A single raven flew onto the ledge, carefully inspecting the berries you laid out.

“But…” Your heart was pounding, and you found it difficult to face him fully. “Forgive me, I am grateful for your help, but I do not understand what you gain from this.”

He sighed. “The King… has commanded that I take a new wife.” The tone of his voice suggested there was more behind those words, but it felt impolite to inquire further – even if he was currently proposing marriage. “But I have no need to marry for advantage. I already possess my own wealth. I have three adult sons, so I do not want for an heir. I have position as both Hand of the King and now, as father to the Queen.” He looked at you and paused. “I am free to marry whomever I please.”

The way he looked at you as he said that was almost… boastful? No. Lustful? Not that, either. The closest you could think of was righteous, but that couldn’t be it. Whatever it was, you could not decipher its meaning nor how it made you feel.

“And I please you?” You asked. “We have known each other for less than a day, my lord.”

“I loved my late wife dearly.” His pain – pain you yourself felt acutely – was evident in the softening of his voice. “As I believe you loved your husband.” There was an odd twinkle in his eyes. “I have no desire to replace her, but if I must wed, I wish it to be with someone who will understand me. Someone I believe will be a good… companion to me.”

Having eaten all of what you laid out, the raven flew back to his nest to rummage around before returning to its perch before you, chirping curiously as it held out a bent sliver of metal. You held out your palm, and it dropped the metal, immediately clicking its beak in the hope that you were hiding more food to offer it.

“What is that?” Lord Hightower asked, his gaze locked on the scrap of metal now in your hand.

“Brass, I think.” It was well-tarnished, but there were still parts where its shine peeked through—a valuable thing for a raven. You immediately laid out more berries, and several more ravens descended, now convinced of your trustworthiness.

Lord Hightower stepped closer to you. Gods, he was tall. He held out a hand. “May I?” You smiled and tipped some of the berries into his hand. He laughed, a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder. “I meant the brass, my lady.”

Nevertheless, he still laid out the berries, mimicking your movements to ensure they were well distributed. He flinched slightly when one of the ravens flew over his shoulder, close enough for its wings to brush his cheek.

“Apologies, my lord,” you half-laughed as you placed the brass in his hand. Your fingers brushed against his as you withdrew, and despite the warmth of the Rookery, you could not stifle the shiver that ran through you.

He brought the sliver of brass closer to his face, eyes narrowing as he examined it closely. How could a person look so wise? You had never before thought that wisdom could be seen, yet it was there, on his face and in his eyes.

After a moment, he smiled. “I believe that this is the clapper of a bell,” he declared. “Most likely from a crier’s bell.”

You looked from him to the bell, then back again. “How do you know that?”

“I know many things, my dear.” He went on as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d called you. “Sometimes I can’t recall how or why I know them; I simply do.”

Of course, he must have learned much in his years as Hand, first to the Old King Jaehaerys and now to King Viserys. When you were born, he was already a man grown, a married man, an important man. And you were simply a girl from the swamps. What would people think when they saw you by his side?

Would you ever be by his side? He said he did not wish to marry for love, or lust, or advantage. So, what would your purpose be as his ‘companion?’ Only to sit in his rooms and entertain him with moderately diverting conversation? He might as well purchase one of the exotic birds from Essos you had once read of – birds capable of speech.

Lord Hightower had looked away when you raised your gaze, watching intently as several more ravens flew down to the ledge, some with more trinkets. More shiny bits of metal, a few dried flowers, one even brought the nib of a pen.

Better to ask him now rather than after you unknowingly agreed to be his caged little bird. “If you would not require advantage, heirs, or love, what would you require of me, my Lord Hand?”

He sighed as he straightened. Had you disappointed him?

“There are some requirements of the wife of the Hand.” His brows tightened, and he folded his hands over each other. Elegant. Thoughtful. “Attendance at formal events. Frequent socialization amongst the highborn of King’s Landing. I also… I would encourage you to take up some charitable works, as well.”

More dressing up. More being stared at by women who considered you little more than a curiosity. At least the charitable works were enticing.

The corners of his lips twitched upward slightly. Had he noticed your hesitance? “But beyond that, you would be free to pursue your own interests. I would provide any funds you need to do so. And, if you wished to travel, I would not dissuade you. I want to grant you as much freedom as I can.”

‘Travel.’ You could go home. See your father and brothers for the first time in over two years. Go to places you’d only ever dreamed of. You could have a freedom that most women in the realm – in the world – would never have. And Lord Hightower… he would be kind. So very kind, you knew. For only a kind man would offer you so much for very little in return.

“Very well.” You emptied the bag of berries onto the ledge and tucked it back into your sleeve.

When you turned to face the Hand fully, he was watching you curiously. There was something akin to nervousness in his eyes. Such a strange expression for such a severe and powerful man. He held his hands behind him. “Very well?”

You stepped closer. “Very well, Lord Hightower. I will marry you.”

He smiled wider than you had ever seen, drawing a hand up to cautiously cup your cheek before looping your arm through his. “I am very pleased to hear it, Lady Whitehill. But please, if we are to be wed, I would prefer if you call me simply, ‘Otto.’”

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