Chapter Text
Oldtown – 2 BC
The bells in the Starry Sept rang for Terce as Lord Manfred Hightower ascended the spiral stair to the High Septon’s solar. The Reach was calm, the harvest bountiful, the sea-lanes heavy with trade—until the first riders came through the Lion Gate, dust-caked and white-faced.
Harrenhal had burned.
Maester Lorimar unrolled the damp-stained parchment with a measured hand. “The Conqueror’s host struck without siege. One beast—one lizard—took the sky and set the keep aflame. Witnesses say the towers themselves melted, stones running like wax into the lake below.”
Lord Manfred’s jaw tightened. “Dragon’s work.”
Lorimar inclined his head. “The last time such fire scoured the world, the Rhoyne ran black with smoke, and the brick towers of Ghis were pulled down to ash. Valyria’s histories speak of it with pride. Ours only in footnotes—and even there, with doubt.”
The High Septon made the sign of the Seven. “Then he brings an abomination from across the sea. Let him burn Harren’s folly and the Crownlands besides. The Reach will not kneel to a foreign torchbearer.”
“Aye,” Manfred said sharply. “Oldtown bent knee to Gardener kings long before this Valyrian ever set foot here. We shall not bow to some sellsail prince with a reptile for a banner.”
Oldtown – Later That Year
The ravens came at dawn, their claws clicking on the Maesters’ perches. Argilac Durrandon, the Storm King, lay headless on the kingsroad causeway. His daughter, Argella Durrandon, had declared herself the Storm Queen, continuing to hold Storm's End until her own household, fearing the fate of Harrenhal, turned against her. They delivered her to Orys Baratheon, naked and chained. She was then wed to the bastard who slew her father—Orys Baratheon, half-brother to the Conqueror.
The High Septon’s lip curled. “The line of Durrandon broken and replaced with a bastard’s get. The storm worships at the altar of bloodshed now.”
“That is not all,” Lorimar said grimly, unrolling another scroll. “The lions of Casterly Rock marched with the Gardeners. At the Field of Fire, both were broken—forty-five thousand men burned or cut down beneath the dragons’ shadows. King Mern dead with all his sons. King Loren Lannister taken alive and bent the knee.”
The Septon’s knuckles whitened on his prayer beads. “And in the Gardeners’ place? Not kin, not kingsblood—but Tyrells. Stewards.”
“A house that poured wine at Highgarden’s tables,” Manfred said, voice low with fury. “A house that owes its station not to the Seven’s blessing, but to Valyrian whim.”
The Septon’s gaze flicked to him. “Your own blood runs older than theirs.”
“Aye,” Manfred said, his voice like a drawn blade. “The Hightowers ruled Oldtown when the Gardeners were green in the crib. If crowns are to be handed to servants, then the Faith itself is mocked.”
Oldtown – That Winter
The Citadel’s ravens carried the final blow. The Reach had bent. House Hightower had bent—sworn oaths not to a Gardener king, but to Mern’s former stewards.
Lord Manfred returned from Highgarden with a smile carved in stone and a goblet never empty. In private, the cup lay untouched.
“The Seven damn them,” the High Septon spat, striking the table with his open palm. “A gardener’s cupbearer raised above kingsblood, and we are told to bow? The realm bends too easily.”
Manfred’s eyes were hard as winter glass. “We have bent because the Reach is ash. We have bent because the Tyrells have dragonfire at their back. But if we are to survive what comes next, we must put the flame in our own hearth.”
The Septon narrowed his eyes. “You mean to—”
“Invite him,” Manfred said. “Crown him here. In the Starry Sept. On our terms.”
Archmaester Lorimar, seated in the corner, let the silence breathe before speaking. “If he accepts the blessing of the Seven, he accepts the hand that gives it. In crowning him, we may yet bind his reign in the chains of faith.”
The Septon’s fingers tightened on his prayer beads. “And if he refuses?”
“Then he refuses the gods before the eyes of the realm,” Manfred said. “And no king, dragon or not, can burn that stain away.”
Oldtown – 1 AC
The Starry Sept had not seen such pageantry in a generation. Its vast floor was scrubbed until the black and white marble shone like still water, and the seven towering statues loomed high above, their faces half in shadow beneath the dome’s colored glass. Thousands of candles burned, their scents mingling into a haze of beeswax and incense.
From the streets beyond, the hum of the gathered crowd swelled like a distant tide. They had heard the dragons were not here. That alone steadied Oldtown’s breath.
Lord Manfred Hightower stood beneath the Mother’s gaze, his cloak bearing the smoke-grey of his house, worked with the white tower and red-flamed beacon of its arms. In war, the Hightowers wore green; today, in peace, their true colors had returned. Archmaester Lorimar lingered just behind, his chain heavy with links of silver, iron, and yellow gold.
When the great doors opened, the murmur inside the sept fell to a hush. Aegon Targaryen entered, clad in black and red, the crown of Valyria in his hands rather than upon his brow. His sisters walked with him—Visenya in the cold gleam of mail, Rhaenys in flowing silk the color of midnight.
He knelt without hesitation.
The High Septon anointed his brow with seven oils, reciting blessings older than the Sept itself. “By the Father’s justice, by the Mother’s mercy, by the Warrior’s strength…” His voice echoed through the vast dome, steady and measured. He then raised his voice, resonating through the solemn hall. “By the will of the gods, and the grace of the Seven, I proclaim before all present: Aegon of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”
When the crown was placed upon Aegon’s head, the sept did not erupt in cheers. It exhaled—a long, slow breath of relief, as if the city itself had been holding it since the black smoke over the Field of Fire.
In the shadowed alcove of the sept’s west transept, Lorimar leaned toward Manfred. “And now?”
“Now,” Manfred murmured, watching the silver-haired king rise, “he is ours in the eyes of the realm.”
Lorimar’s eyes followed the young monarch’s measured steps toward the altar. “Dragons burn hot, my lord. But faith… faith smolders.”
The bells of Oldtown rang out in rolling peals as Aegon the First, by the Seven’s grace, was proclaimed King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.
Outside, the smallfolk lit lanterns. Inside, beneath the Seven’s stony gazes, the Faith, the Hightower, and the Citadel began their quiet work.
Oldtown, 25 AC
The scent of incense clung to the stones of the Starry Sept, where three figures conferred in a narrow chamber beyond the septon's hall: Lord Manfred Hightower, his brother the High Septon, and Maester Lorimar of the Citadel.
“Visenya presses for her son to marry Aenys’s daughter,” the Septon said darkly. “Valyrian blood wedded to Valyrian blood. Uncle to niece.”
“A pure dragon line,” Lorimar said. “Stronger. Tighter. Unbroken.”
“Too strong,” Manfred murmured. “Too foreign. That kind of union would silence the realm’s voice in choosing its rulers.”
“So we offered Ceryse,” the Septon said. “A daughter of Oldtown. She'll temper him.”
“She ties him to the Faith,” Lorimar added. “To us.”
“Good,” Lord Hightower said, his voice laced with satisfaction. “Let the dragons wear our chains while they think they wear crowns.”
“And if succession turns unclear?” the Septon asked, a hint of avarice in his tone.
“Then the realm will look not to blood, but to the gods,” Lorimar said, his gaze distant. “And the ones who speak for them.”
Oldtown, 41 AC
The flames in the Starry Sept flickered low as voices rose in anger and zeal.
“King Abomination,” the High Septon spat, waving the royal proclamation in one hand. “Brother weds sister, as if the laws of gods and men were parchment to burn.”
“First Maegor defies us. Now Aenys follows the same path,” Lord Martyn Hightower said, his face tight with fury. “And the king dares make that bastard Murmison his Hand.”
Maester Walys of the Citadel, seated in the shadowed rear of the chamber, spoke calmly. “The people whisper already. Dragons breed abominations, they say. The storm gathers.”
“It should,” the Septon growled. “We will not bless this marriage. We will not bow.”
“And if the king resists?” Walys asked.
Lord Hightower looked toward the septon's flame-lit face. “Then Oldtown will become the soul of the realm. We will give the people something nobler than fire and blood.”
“Good,” Walys murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “The Citadel will ensure the message spreads.”
Outside, the bells tolled again, this time not for worship—but for war. Across the city, pious men armed themselves. The Faith was rising.
Oldtown, 42 AC
Rain lashed the Hightower. Lightning etched silver light over the city as Lord Martyn Hightower stared from his high chamber toward the distant Starry Sept.
“They’ll be here in a day,” he said softly. “Balerion and Vhagar both.”
Maester Luthor, gaunt and dry, replied from the firelit corner. “And the High Septon still preaches from the pulpit. He will not bend.”
“Then he will burn,” Martyn muttered. “And so will Oldtown.”
There was silence. Then a low voice spoke—Patrice Hightower, his aunt, wrapped in a thick gray shawl.
“The Faith is more than one man,” she said. “If he dies before dawn, Septon Pater may rise. A gentler voice.”
Luthor did not look up. “A heart attack, perhaps. In the night.”
Martyn poured a goblet of Arbor gold. He drank deeply, then handed the cup to Patrice. “Let no order be written. Let no words be spoken.”
She took the wine, unblinking.
In the Starry Sept, the High Septon knelt long in prayer that night. By morning, he was found cold upon the altar, hands folded and lips blue.
When Maegor arrived at the gates with dragons circling above, Oldtown opened its gates. The city was spared. So too was the Citadel.
No record named the hand that stilled the Septon’s heart. No name, yet many knew.
The Citadel, Oldtown – 48 AC
Rain pattered gently on the domes of the Citadel. Beneath the green copper ceiling of the Conclave Hall, seven archmaesters sat in candlelight, their chains heavy with knowledge—and calculation.
“Maegor is dead,” Archmaester Lorimar declared, his voice thin with age but still sharp. “Found split on the Iron Throne.”
“Suicide?” asked Archmaester Theomore of Ravens.
“Convenient, either way,” Lorimar said, turning the page of a leather-bound codex. “The dragons devour their own. As ever.”
A pause.
“Jaehaerys has been crowned,” Archmaester Walys, newly raised from the White Ravens, reported. “Young. Temperate. The people adore him. The High Septon kissed his brow.”
“And the dragons?” Theomore asked.
“Still ride them,” Lorimar confirmed. “But the boy speaks of peace. Of healing. His mother fled Maegor. She will remember what fire costs.”
Another archmaester, wrinkled and soft-spoken, added, “His sister-wife is young. He listens to the septons. There’s a Septon Barth in the Red Keep—a clever man. A thinker. He loves the written word.”
Lorimar nodded. “Perhaps we give him books.”
“And silence talk of sorcery, blood purity, and Valyria,” Walys added.
“Gently,” cautioned Lorimar. “The people will not love chains in place of crowns. But they may come to trust them more.”
A bell rang faintly below—students summoned to the Hall of Illumination.
As the archmaesters rose, Lorimar closed the codex and looked out the rain-slick window, across the Honeywine.
“Dragons are fire,” he murmured. “But knowledge… knowledge is smoke. And smoke lingers longer.”
Oldtown, Mid-Reign of Jaehaerys (circa 60-80 AC)
The grand halls of the Hightower hummed with the quiet industry of generations of plotting. Lord Osmund Hightower, a stern man with calculating eyes, now presided over the intimate councils. Archmaester Luthor, though advanced in years, remained sharp, his eyes missing nothing as he observed the movements of the realm.
“The Queen continues to birth babes,” Maester Luthor said, his voice a dry rustle of parchment. “A surfeit of Targaryen blood. Too many riders, too many dragons bonded.”
“Then the blood must be thinned,” Lord Osmund stated, his hand resting on a map of Westeros. “Through marriage, we can weave their threads into the tapestry of the realm. Dilute their potency.”
Septon Eustace, a zealous man of the Faith, nodded gravely. “There are young princes and princesses of the royal house. Such matches can be made with powerful, loyal houses, especially those without male heirs, to anchor the Targaryen line to more… mundane families. Away from the incestuous Valyrian practices that so offend the gods.”
Luthor added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “And some bonds are best broken before they even form. The queen is fertile, yes. But miscarriages happen. Illnesses plague newborn babes. It is the will of the gods, is it not, for some lines to wither and others to flourish?”
Eustace closed his eyes, making the sign of the Seven. “The gods work in mysterious ways, guiding the righteous to their destined end.”
Lord Osmund merely gave a thin smile. The subtle work continued, a poison administered drop by slow drop.
King’s Landing, 92 AC
The bells tolled over the city. Prince Aemon, eldest son of King Jaehaerys, was dead—struck down by a Myrish crossbow bolt on the shores of Tarth. In the small council chamber, the mood was heavy. King Jaehaerys sat pale with grief, fingers clasped before him. Queen Alysanne stood at his side, silent and stern. Beside her, the white-bearded Grand Maester Elysar studied the room, his expression unreadable.
“He was our future,” Jaehaerys murmured. “My heir. The realm’s hope.”
“His daughter lives,” Alysanne said firmly. “Rhaenys is young, but of strong spirit—and Targaryen blood. She flies Meleys.”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” said Elysar gently. “Yet… the lords of the realm are not likely to accept a woman, much less one married to Lord Corlys Velaryon.”
Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, scratched at his jaw. “Corlys is proud. Ambitious. Some would say dangerous.”
“He’s built the greatest fleet since the Conquest,” said Lord Beesbury. “He would bring strength—and leverage.”
Alysanne’s eyes narrowed. “And is it better to pass over my granddaughter simply because her husband is strong?”
“It is not strength that concerns us, Your Grace,” Elysar said calmly. “It is what he might do with it.”
The king closed his eyes. “Then Baelon?”
The room fell still. Elysar gave a shallow nod.
“Prince Baelon is beloved,” said Ryam. “And loyal.”
“He’s hot-headed,” Alysanne muttered. “And his second son—Daemon—is a wildfire waiting to catch.”
Jaehaerys did not respond. He stared at the carved map table, where the seven kingdoms lay still and expectant.
At last he said, “The boy shall be named Prince of Dragonstone.”
The Citadel, Oldtown – One Moon Later
A scroll was laid on a polished table, bearing the king’s seal.
“Prince Baelon named heir. Rhaenys passed over.”
Archmaester Luthor, his hand trembling slightly with age as he traced the words, tapped it with one finger. “Predictable.”
“The queen won’t like it,” said Maester Luthor.
“Nor will the Lord of the Tides,” Luthor said. “But Corlys plays at storms and salt. We shape kings and memory.”
King’s Landing, 99 AC
The death of Septon Barth left a void few could fill.
King Jaehaerys sat in silence after the raven was read. “He gave me truth even when it stung,” he said at last. “And counsel that never served himself.”
The council was subdued. The lords shuffled scrolls and sipped wine, but the grief in the air was real.
“We need a Hand,” said Lord Beesbury. “The realm cannot stand leaderless.”
After long debate, the king raised his hand. “Let it be Ser Ryam Redwyne.”
A gallant knight, known across the realm for valor and virtue. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Loyal, beloved. But not bred for governance.
The Citadel, Oldtown – Late 99 AC
“He is no fool,” said Archmaester Luthor. “But he is no steward either.”
“He will act on honor, not reason,” Archmaester Luthor murmured. “A hammer in a room full of scrolls.”
They sat in the scriptorium, candles hissing against the cold stone walls.
“Let him have his time,” said Luthor. “The more he fumbles, the more the court will crave a true administrator. One we can groom.”
“Otto?”
“Indeed. He has managed Oldtown’s docks and harbormaster's ledgers with precision. Balanced taxes in the Reach. Restored order after the Starpike raids.”
“He is Hobert Hightower’s brother,” Luthor noted.
Luthor gave a slow nod. “The line is stable. The boy is loyal. Otto, in King’s Landing, can serve while advancing our aims quietly.”
King’s Landing, 100 AC
Ser Ryam did his duty with the same discipline he brought to sword and saddle. But administration is not war. He struggled to master ledgers, fumbled with tariffs, and moved too slowly for lords with sharper tongues. Smallfolk still adored him. Lords grumbled. The king grew weary. The old king saw the storm coming.
King Jaehaerys named Prince Baelon as Hand of the King.
Oldtown, Winter 100 AC
The fire snapped and hissed in Lord Hobert Hightower’s private solar, casting long shadows across the carved stone walls. His son, Ormund, stood silent in the alcove, eyes fixed on the flicker of flame reflected in polished goblets of Arbor gold.
“He commands loyalty,” said Lord Hobert, calm but firm. “Too much.”
Archmaester Luthor stroked his grey beard with ink-stained fingers. “He does not heed the Citadel. Nor the Faith. And he honors… old gods.”
“He lights candles to fire and calls them his ancestors,” the septon muttered. “And teaches his sons to do the same.”
“Then the fire must be snuffed before it spreads,” Hobert replied. “Before it becomes a conflagration.”
“The body,” said Luthor quietly, “is full of weaknesses. The belly, most of all.”
No one said the word poison. None had to.
“And the king?” asked the septon.
“He will mourn,” said Hobert, rising. “But he will not question.”
Behind them, young Ormund Hightower watched in silence, learning the game of thrones.
King’s Landing, 101 AC
Prince Baelon Targaryen, the Spring Prince, returned from a hunting trip pale and hollow-eyed. He had complained of a stitch in his side—but that stitch became a blade. Within a day, he was bedridden in the Tower of the Hand, feverish, his gut roiling like storm-tossed seas.
The Tower of the Hand stood quiet. Daemon paced like a caged dragon. Some said he broke chairs with his bare hands. Others claimed he threatened the Grand Maester. None knew what truly happened within those stone halls.
By dawn of the fifth day, Baelon was dead. Some whispered it was poison. Others claimed his dragon blood had turned against him.
King Jaehaerys, broken with grief, lit the pyre himself on Dragonstone. His eyes were dry, his face like carved stone.
In King’s Landing, the ravens flew swift from the Red Keep to Oldtown.
By week’s end, Ser Otto Hightower—Lord Hobert’s younger brother—was summoned to court. The king named him Hand of the King.
Harrenhal, Summer 101 AC
The banners of a thousand lords flapped in the hot wind, casting long shadows across the blackened stones of Harrenhal. The Great Council was convened under the rule of King Jaehaerys I, though the old king did not come in person.
For thirteen days, the lords of the realm debated blood and law. Rhaenys’s son Laenor bore the strength of primogeniture, the legacy of Prince Aemon. But he was only a boy, and his mother a woman.
Viserys Targaryen, Baelon's eldest son, soft of voice and slow to anger, rode the memory of Balerion. A man grown. A man with a daughter and a famously patient temperament.
By the fourteenth day, the decision was clear. Laenor was too young and his father too ambitious. Viserys was chosen. Peace over ambition.
As raven after raven flew westward from Harrenhal, another fire was kindled farther south.
Oldtown, Autumn 101 AC
Below the Hightower, in a quiet chamber built of black stone, lit only by flickering candles, the true council began.
Lord Hobert Hightower poured a cup of Arbor red, offering it to the Archmaester.
“It is done,” he said.
Luthor took the wine with a nod. “Viserys will sit the throne. He is… manageable.”
“The girl?” asked Septon Aerick, wringing his hands around his prayer beads.
“She is a child,” said Hobert, “spoiled and silken. She can be brushed aside.”
“The queen?” the Septon asked, more carefully.
“She is fragile,” said Luthor calmly. “And well in our care. Her next birth will be her last.”
There was silence for a moment. Only the crackle of wax on the candlesticks and the faraway creak of tide against stone.
“Then it begins,” Hobert said, lifting his cup.
Luthor did not drink. “We have waited since the Conquest. One dragon gone. Another dimmed. The Faith will no longer bow.”
In the shadows, their agreement was sealed—not with blood, but with quiet nods, and the silent promise of a realm slowly reshaped.
King’s Landing, 103 AC
The bells tolled for King Jaehaerys the Wise as his body was laid to rest beneath the Red Keep. After a reign of peace and consolidation, the realm stood at a crossroads.
Viserys I Targaryen was crowned king without contest. Kindly, eager to please, and slow to offend, he inherited not just the crown, but the burdens of a kingdom long held in delicate balance. To appease every faction, he retained the small council of the Old King unchanged—grey men clinging to precedent, ritual, and the illusion of continuity.
His queen, Aemma Arryn, remained at his side, though her health had begun to falter. Their only living child, Princess Rhaenyra, The Realm's Delight, grew into a bright and proud girl—Valyrian in look and bearing, beloved of her father, and admired by lords and courtiers alike.
With no son born to the king, Prince Daemon—brother to Viserys and rider of the dragon Caraxes—stood as heir presumptive.
Oldtown, 103 AC
The bells in the Starry Sept rang too, not for mourning, but opportunity.
In the Hightower’s shadowed halls, beneath stained glass and carved pillars, the conspirators gathered. Lord Hobert sat at the head of the long table, with Archmaester Luthor at his side, quill scratching across parchment. Septon Aerick poured wine—modest Arbor red, for this was not yet celebration.
“Daemon stands too near the throne,” said Hobert, eyes narrowed. “A warrior, a dragonrider, and worse—unruly.”
“A second Maegor,” murmured Luthor. “Worse, perhaps. The blood sings too loud in him.”
Septon Aerick set his cup down. “The king is soft. A daughter as heir can be molded. A queen may be set aside.”
“And a second queen,” Hobert said, voice low, “can be placed with care.”
Luthor looked up from his writing. “The first must not last. Not long enough to give the king a son.”
No one spoke the word birthing bed. They did not need to.
“The girl is favored now,” Eustace said, “and beloved by her father, but girls grow into women. Women can be shamed, manipulated, brushed aside.”
Lord Hobert smiled thinly. “Then let us pray for the king’s health… and his loneliness.”
King’s Landing, 110 AC
The bells rang again—not for death, but celebration.
The queen was with child, her time drawing near. In anticipation, King Viserys declared a grand tourney, a spectacle to honor the birth of his long-awaited son and to declare the child his heir. Banners flew, lords gathered, and the Red Keep echoed with the sound of music and mailed fists.
Princess Rhaenyra, golden and proud, watched from above. She had grown into a dragon—clever, observant, beloved by many. At fourteen, she should have had half a dozen ladies in waiting. Instead, she had one: Alicent Hightower, daughter of the king’s Hand.
Alicent smiled softly, always softly. She brushed Rhaenyra’s hair, read to her, sat quietly as the princess held court in miniature. She spoke little, listened always.
“She is a loyal companion,” Viserys once said, pleased.
“She is a shadow,” Rhaenyra once thought, uneasy.
In the Tower of the Hand, Otto Hightower met alone with Grand Maester Runciter. The air was heavy with incense, too sweet to be natural.
“She grows weaker with each moon,” said Runciter, stirring a vial of thick, clear liquid. “A gentle nudge, no more.”
“She must not survive,” Otto said. “And if the babe is male?”
Runciter hesitated. “A twisted cord. A breath that does not catch. These things… happen.”
Otto folded his hands. “Make them happen.”
Runciter bowed.
“The king must grieve,” Otto said. “And he must be comforted.”
Alicent did not yet know the role she would play. Or perhaps she did.
The bells would ring again, soon.