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The Grind (Book 2) Ch.28
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 23:58:36 +0000 UTC— Willas Tyrell —
After a… stressful, to say the least… arrival in Oldtown, their host was finally setting foot on Battle Isle, the Hightower looming high above. They came with Wizards and Witches, a Prince and the younger generation of House Tyrell, an Archmaester and a Sand Snake.
Yet Willas Tyrell, Heir to Highgarden, couldn’t help but feel sorry for the men-at-arms they’d been forced to leave behind at the Hightower docks. He gave a short prayer for safety until their lords returned. With whatever they saw in Oldtown after darkness fell, such a consideration might just be needed…
’Twas his mother’s home, his grandfather’s domain, now cast into chaos and conflict. Terrible, terrible things had come to Oldtown. A war between the learned and valued men of the Citadel. A Faithful schism in the making. And also, it seemed, a great many somethings that lurked in the streets at night.
Willas couldn’t say for certain what he’d seen in those Shadows… He didn’t know if he wanted to. They’d brought unnatural chills to his nerves, to his very heart in his chest. Abominable, writhing things cast by men who avoided the light of the gods. The Shadows had danced and bleated and cackled as if beckoning poor souls to damnation in their depths. Even the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts were shaken by the sight. In Willas’ opinion, that didn’t say good things, not at all…
‘Were the War of Maesters and the Arguments of Faithful not enough?’ Willas wondered and bemoaned to himself. ‘Only the tip of the tower, truly? What queer things and foreign men are stuck in Oldtown with us?’
The Archmaester and Oberyn’s daughter wouldn’t say. Couldn’t, perhaps. They hadn’t looked back since night had fallen over the city in full.
And while Headmaster Dumbledore continued to do so until they landed on the docks of Battle Isle, the rest of them didn’t dare match his reckless audacity. Unlike the ancient Wizard, they surely wouldn’t escape a peek back into the abyss unscathed.
They came aground again at the base of the Hightower. Above, it seemed to stretch into the dark clouds, casting its green flame’s light out through them. Even in the darkness, the Hightower’s white stone was brilliant and pristine. Magically maintained, if Hogwarts was to be believed. Willas was inclined to do so, considering the friendship he’d declared and kept with their Witches and Wizards.
Strange people, useful allies, and even better friends; Willas would never find another place like Hogwarts. Not in this life.
Forevermore, he would be thankful for their healing. Their Madam Pomfrey had given him a new lease of life. Even after that, the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts continued to endear themselves to Highgarden’s Heir and House Tyrell as a whole.
They’d taken in Margaery and Grandmother, hosting them and becoming true friends to them in a world that often didn’t allow for such things. Not for the scions of Great Houses. Their assistance with guiding Margaery’s awakened magic, the promising and Strong Growing future of House Tyrell, would certainly never be forgotten, either.
The Tyrells had given much to Hogwarts, first in the South to take that chance, and in return, they’d been given almost as much. Along with new developments such as more efficient crop rotation systems and marvelous inventions, from pens to luxury music boxes that Father instantly fell in love with, Hogwarts had sent a house of their own to foster in Highgarden: the Weasleys, to whom House Tyrell had grown close.
Ser Ronald would certainly remember being knighted by Willas’ brother, Garlan. Lady Ginny, who’d run rampant through the Highest Gardens bringing life, spreading good cheer, and stealing hearts wherever she went. A lively young lady of new and fascinating good standing, Willas knew she’d received many an offer of marriage, though she seemed content to remain free and untethered for the time being. House Weasley’s Twin Lords, their Lady Wives, and Infant Heirs were, of course, impossible to forget for their jests and japes, pranking chaos, and free spirits, bringing liveliness to the already lively Highgarden.
Willas declared friendship with all of Hogwarts, for all they’d done for him and his house, but even more so with the Weasleys. He was fond of their spirited ways and good characters, their cleverness and ingenuity, and their wonderful magicks most of all. Now, with Margaery and Grandmother’s return, Willas didn’t pass up the chance to establish similar bonds with the White Coven and Hogwarts’ enigmatic Headmaster.
But, it seemed, an easy-going and simple trip to Oldtown was not fated to be. Any bonds established now would be so forged in a setting of strife. Willas could certainly still work with that. He just wished that strife hadn’t been visited upon close kin…
On Battle Isle, their host was greeted by men of House Hightower. Willas and his siblings were quickly recognized and deferred to by his grandfather’s men. A few pages ran off to spread word of their arrival. In the meantime, Willas acted on Atlas’s request made in transit.
“Take us to the Tower’s sept,” He commanded. “We will fortify ourselves against the evils that lurk in the dark.”
“At once, Lord Willas,” The captain on duty bowed and obeyed. He seemed honestly relieved to do so, comforted that a lord was seeing what he likely felt was good sense.
“Will it help…?” Ginny asked quietly.
“Oh, yeah,” Heather was quick to nod. “Much better than doing nothing.”
“The Seven are very real. We’ve become rather certain about that fact, along with the reality of the Old Gods, Drowned God, Lord of Light, Great Other, and… most others that claim divinity across the world,” Hermione confided.
Willas blinked at that statement. He’d been raised in the light of the Seven, of course, and had always been a believer, if not the most pious of men. But it was one thing to believe, and another entirely to have explicit confirmation of the gods from learned and unbiased Hogwarts.
“While I would prefer a blessing from Hogwarts Herself…” Atlas sighed. “Needs must. At the very least, we can be sure the Seven won’t care for… whatever those Shadows were.”
“Lady Hogwarts is giving out blessings now?” Ron asked.
“Indeed,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “She’s come to claim her rightful place amongst divinity. While in Braavos, Neville, Susan, and Hannah even sent back word that Lady Hogwarts is recognized and well-regarded by her new godly peers. Long overdue, if you ask me.”
Marwyn quirked a questioning and intent eyebrow at that, “And how’d you come into that information?”
The twinkles in Dumbledore’s eyes intensified, “Why, the Faceless Men’s Many-Faced God told them so Itself~…”
Prince Renly was visibly baffled by that news, “I… beg your pardon…?”
The Headmaster chuffed and chortled, “Granted, good man! Granted!”
If confirmation of the Seven-Who-Are-One was a blessing, news of Hogwarts — a castle Willas had been inside — divine rise was… just confusing. How was one supposed to react to that…?
Willas was coming to realize that questioning everything you thought you knew was a somewhat regular occurrence around the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts. Or maybe it was just a trait unique to Headmaster Dumbledore, one that he all-too proudly bore, considering how exasperated Atlas looked to be now…
“Ignore him. He gets too comfortable for his own good sometimes,” Atlas advised. “Let’s get our blessings, make our introductions, and see about getting rooms and beds for the night. It’s been a long day.”
Renly snorted, “Hear, hear, sense at last. Keen enlightenment, even, to the nebulous and flummoxing ways of your Headmaster.”
Dumbledore just grinned as if that was high praise, “Good vocabulary, Prince Renly! ‘Flummoxing’, yes… I quite like that one. I’ll add it to my resume: mystifying, buffaloing, bamboozling, disconbobulating, disconcerting, foxing, flooring, and now, flummoxing as well!”
“They’re certainly- snrk, descriptive words for you, Headmaster,” Ginny snickered.
“Don’t encourage him,” Atlas sighed.
Marwyn snorted, “Don’t think he needs the help.”
“This way, if you will, my lords,” The guard captain on duty offered.
Willas nodded and followed. The others followed behind him. Thoughts of confirmed divines lingered on his mind as they were led to the Hightower’s sept. It sat on the ground floor of the Hightower — a pseudo pilgrimage for those who called the Hightower home. To pay their respects to the Seven, they would have to walk the height of the Hightower, all 800 feet of it. It gave a certain weight to the Hightower’s sept, for those who prayed there meant to.
There were lifts in the Hightower, but they were almost taboo things, according to Mother. Willas recalled his mother speaking with pride in her home, about walking up flight upon flight of stairs. The lifts were usually left to menial labor or emergencies.
Seven familiar statues greeted them, under a window of gorgeously stained glass in the Seven’s rainbow colors, barely dimmed by the darkness beyond. Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, and Stranger. They were welcome sights, and even just stepping within those hallowed walls, Willas felt lighter. The Shadows in the city felt farther away.
A septon was waiting for them when they arrived, kneeling on the polished and finished wooden floor and seeming well-aware of why they’d come. Willas nodded his thanks to their guide and fell into a familiar routine and ritual. Loras, Margaery, Renly, Sarella, and Marwyn were quick to join him.
The Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts found their own ways to honor the Seven-Who-Are-One, guided by Ron and Ginny, who’d come to know the rituals during their time in Highgarden.
As Willas lit candles before the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, and the Crone, bowing his head for a moment before each. He prayed not for simple good fortune, but for protection and cleansing. Each face of the Seven left his inner flames of life and faith burning brighter than the last, as if lifting the stains of Shadows bit by bit.
Between each prayer before the Seven, Willas saw that his squire was the only one left out. Young Brandon Stark had the unique honor of being raised in religious ways, Old and New. Yet, after but a moment, he seemed to find a way to pay respects that fit well with him.
Instead of kneeling before the Seven with the rest, Bran knelt opposite to them. His Direwolf, Summer, sat next to him with its head uncannily bowed. There, Willas noticed a great face of masterfully carved white stone. As if it’d been grown into the wall there, not merely chiseled. The great face’s watchful eyes and stern-set lips ran red with… something. Willas couldn’t tell what. It looked like blood, but surely not?
Whatever the great face was — familiar… yet Willas couldn’t place it, not within a sept — it seemed to bring relief and peace to Willas’s squire. Bran knelt and bowed his head before the great face, reaching out a single hand to rest upon its chin in silent communion.
Willas finished his religious rituals and came to kneel quietly before the septon, curious but unwilling to interrupt his young friend. Thankfully, the septon had whispered words of explanation.
“It’s been there forever, fading but never fully forgotten. None know its true purpose or origin,” He spoke of the great face Bran communed with. “It is as much a part of this sept as the sanctified statues of the Seven. With Magic’s Return, it seemed to renew and restore itself with unseen aid, just as the statues of the Seven did. At the same time, it began to bleed…”
Quietly, from across the sept but still heard clearly, Bran spoke as well, “It’s not blood…”
Summer gave a long and low howl.
Bran didn’t elaborate further. After a few more moments of silent communion, he and Summer stood and came to join them before the septon.
Hogwarts’ Witches and Wizards had taken places before the septon from the start, looking to be more in meditation than prayer. They sat straight-backed and wand-in-hand atop crossed legs. The septon waited for their eyes to open again — clearer and brighter, just as Willas felt — before he spoke.
“All are welcome before the Seven’s graces in these trying times. I would recommend lighting a candle for the Stranger before you leave.”
Willas blinked, “Truly?”
“Truly,” The septon only nodded at what some would consider blasphemy and tempting fate. “Not to pray for death, but to rouse it in your name. Dark things abound, my Faithful. What better to push them back than the face of Death?”
“… Well,” Loras shifted awkwardly where he knelt. “I can’t say I’ve ever done that before.”
“Extraordinary times call for extraordinary prayers,” The septon said.
He shook his head, “But that is something you will all have to realize for yourselves. I shall not keep you long. You come before the Seven, stained by sins not yours. You shall leave free of them, by the Seven’s will.”
He clasped his hands in resolute prayer. The Seven-stained window behind him began to shine, despite the night. Each of the Seven’s statues hung heavier upon the room as the septon blessed them with a reminder of true gods.
“In the Father’s name, remember justice. In the Mother’s, remember peace. In the Warrior’s, remember righteous fury. In the Smith’s, remember forged protection. In the Maiden’s, remember purity of self. In the Crone’s, remember guiding wisdom.
“And in the Stranger’s name, remember that death can be a final guide, a pure thing, a shield, a weapon, a peace, and a justice.”
Seven lights of Faith swept forward to engulf them, the Stranger’s light shining the brightest. Cleansed and fortified, they left the sept and began the long journey upward to greet their hosts.
Tired as he was, Willas was still determined to use the stairs. He almost came to regret that determination… But his mother’s youthful stories pushed him onward. He had Hightower blood. He would make the climb up his ancestral home under his own power.
“I must say, that was absolutely fascinating,” Dumbledore praised as they climbed. “Faith and Magic, so entwined, so active. I think I’ll have to attend more sermons to see how they all compare.”
“You won’t find many like that one,” Marwyn grunted. “Extraordinary times, and all.”
“Has anyone started coming up with a plan to put a stop to these ‘extraordinary times’?” Dora asked.
“Now, why would we do that?” Dumbledore asked right back.
“People dying, Albus,” Atlas deadpanned. “Social order collapsing, Albus. A whole city torn apart by magical maester gang warfare and a schism in their faith, Albus. Let’s at least try.”
“Thank you, Atlas,” Margaery nodded her gratitude. “I wouldn’t have my mother’s home city torn apart if we could help it at all. Any suggestions? Any ideas? Anything?”
“Aside from throwing myself into the Frey like a comical opposite to the Late Lord Walder~?” Renly japed, smirking. “No, unfortunately not.”
“I suspect that would just make things worse for everyone involved, too, Prince Renly,” Willas put in. “With a prince in the mix, the maesters will just try to kill each other faster so their ‘school’ is the only one left to make their case before the crown, claiming all of the righteousness and glory in a situation where there doesn’t seem to be any.”
“I can see why Father likes you so much,” Sarella tittered.
“Aye, sharp mind on you, Tyrell,” Marwyn nodded. “But then, your house has always had to be more clever than your many rivals. It’s a likely course this whole mess could take if your lot just barge in swinging like this is all one big tavern brawl.”
“Eh,” Ginny shrugged nonchalantly. “I bet Hogwarts can put down all the other schools faster than they can put down themselves.”
“I’d give it good odds,” Ron nodded. “I also don’t want to test it unless we have to. Sounds like lots of running around, lots of stunners, and lots of potential for things to go back to the way they were the moment we leave.”
“Unless we kill ’em all~!” Luna chimed, innocence meeting bloodthirst.
Willas stared. Renly stared. Loras stared. Sarella stared. The rest seemed well-used to Luna’s… Luna, even Bran to an extent. And Marwyn, perhaps closest to the killing matter, simply snorted.
“Could. Old Ebrose and I would make sure the Citadel survived, even if we end up diminished for a generation or two.”
“Could be just what your institution needs for some real change,” Hermione put forth with a firm and determined voice.
“… Change is coming to the Citadel no matter what,” Sarella said, slightly slow to recover. “With the coming age, it would be impossible to remain the same.”
“But perhaps it would come better, faster, and stick harder with old fuddy dutties dead and buried,” Heather said, smirking like a fox.
Sarella looked shaken, especially shaken for a moment before she turned to Marwyn, “… Master? Am I not radical enough? I thought I was, but they’re making me feel almost ashamed…”
Marwyn barked a laugh, “You’re plenty radical, bastard girl who snuck into the most hallowed halls of learning! Remember how Archmaester Ocley reacted to your treatise on social mobility amongst the Smallfolk? Or how Archmaester Gallard, that horny old goat, huffed and puffed when you even mentioned the idea of the bedding ceremony going the same way as the rite of first night?
“Even without knowing your true identity, those ‘old fuddy dutties’ would’ve seen you silenced without my patronage. And that’s just about the best compliment those close-minded bastards can give!”
“You’re doing good enough for a Westerosi,” Heather grinned at her, “The more I hear about you, Sarella, the more I like you.”
“Oh…” Sarella nodded slowly. “Oh. Good. Good… I would hate to be proven moderate by newcomers.”
“So… Are we killing all of the squabbling maesters?” Loras asked, frowning. “I don’t know if I can support this plan. They’ve proven themselves imperfect and very much partial… but they’re still learned men.”
“I doubt it,” Atlas shook his head, bringing back sense and reason. “Too much trouble when they’re doing a good enough job of culling themselves. Honestly, I’d say just lock them all in the Citadel and let them kill each other until they realize how futile this all is.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, “We could sell seats. Make a show out of it. A Colosseum of Learned Men.”
“The Citadel Games~!” Luna did her best impression of dramatic thunder. It was a rather charming attempt, Willas thought.
“Fine…” Hermione pouted and grumbled slightly. “But I still want a chance to loot the Citadel while they preoccupy themselves with killing and chaos.”
“As the almost certainly guaranteed future head of the Citadel, I could be convinced to part with a few dozen choice pieces of loot,” Marwyn nodded.
“Head of the Citadel, my friend?” Dumbledore asked, amused.
“Who else?” Marwyn shot back. “Stargazer Vaellyn is too interested in the heavens. Healer Ebrose is much happier doing tangible good for the people, especially now. Who better than Marwyn the Mage to lead the Citadel into a new Age of Magic?”
“Oh, I don’t disagree,” Dumbledore chuckled. “I’m just impressed by how convenient it seems.”
“Convenient, is it?” Marwyn scowled. “Aye, it just required the complete and bloody upheaval of the institution I’ve dedicated my life to.”
That reminder seemed to sober Dumbledore slightly, “Ah, you’re correct, of course. My apologies. I was being crude. Even as it all burns down, my friend, I have complete confidence you’ll make something greater from the ashes.”
“Are we… truly doing this…?” Loras asked. “Culling the Conclave and installing an ally at the head of the Citadel?”
“They’re doing it to themselves, Brother,” Willas argued firmly in a tone he knew made Loras listen. “They’ve been doing it to themselves. We’re just closing the door behind them, so they can’t do any more damage to the good people of our grandfather’s city, and waiting for the storm to blow itself out.”
“And selling seats to the carnage so the people they hurt can get their piece of the pie~!” Luna added.
Renly chuckled, “Oh, Robert would just love this.”
“We’ll be sure to record it to show Bobby B later,” Heather nodded.
Renly almost choked on nothing but air and a laugh, “B-Bobby B-! Ahahahah! Oh, Stannis would pop a vein!”
“So… no Stanny B?” Heather asked, smirking.
Renly fell into peals of laughter that almost stopped his climb up the stairs. Loras stopped as well to pat Renly’s back as if he were coughing.
As he did, he teased, “Don’t be so cruel to your brother… Prince Renny B~…”
From anyone else, that might’ve invoked lightning and fury. From Loras, however, it left Renly leaning upon him, the laughter stealing strength from his legs.
Willas shared a glance with Margaery, both rolling their eyes. As foolish and arrogant as the pair of them could be, it was clear they loved each other. Willas was happy for his youngest brother. He hoped he could find a love of his own like theirs…
“This won’t be an easy task,” Sarella said, serious and sharp in an enthralling way. Her tone plus the momentary flash of gold in her hazel eyes captured Willas’ attention and wouldn’t let go.
“Inside the Citadel has become a queer type of warzone. There’s still maester business to be done, but it’s done with tension in the halls and murders in dark corners. It only needs the smallest spark to set it all off. But at the same time, we can’t just shut the doors and be done with it. We’ll have to extract Marwyn’s people from within and find a way to protect the archives and the Ravenry as well.”
Watching her lay the foundation of an unprecedented plan, Willas mused that he might’ve just discovered something about himself. Competent and dangerous women… His heart (and something lower…) had rarely ever been so roused.
A queer thought stuck in Willas’ mind then. It wouldn’t leave. One didn’t get much more competent and dangerous than the Red Viper’s daughters. Not the children, of course, but the eldest four were all of an age with him or not much younger.
Bastards, sure, but Princely bastards and cherished by all of Dorne. One to wife (interchangeably…?), three to paramours in the Dornish tradition, and an act of legitimacy by numbers? Grandmother had been bold in her play for Hogwarts, and it had paid off in spades. Perhaps it was Willas’ turn to be bold, just in a rather different way…
Atlas sighed, sounding exhausted, “Considerations and plans for tomorrow. We still have to greet our Hightower hosts tonight. Then, I’m finding the nearest soft surface and bunking down for eight hours of meaningless dreams.”
“Meaningless dreams?” Marwyn snorted. “In the Hightower? Good luck with that.”
Bran nodded, “They’re in the walls… And… It’s down below…”
So slowly that he felt his neck creak like a rusty hinge, Willas turned to his squire, “What… is in the walls, Bran…? Bran? ‘It’, Bran?! It?!”
He got no further answer… And Luna’s eerie cackle mixed with Summer’s yips like even more laughter didn’t exactly help matters at all. Soon enough, though, they’d reached the top of the Hightower. Willas tried (and mostly failed) to put it out of his mind in favor of greeting his mother’s family.
He had little idea what to expect. While he’d heard many stories of his mother’s youth, he hadn’t actually met his maternal family, other than Uncle Baelor once. Eldest and Hightower Heir, the Brightsmile had been a charismatic older man, always keeping a kind and bright smile for his young nephews. Willas wished to squire for him at one time, back then. It… wasn’t to be.
Aside from Uncle Baelor, Willas hadn’t met the current generations of House Hightower. Oldtown was a busy place, and with Grandfather staying in the Hightower more and more, the running of House Hightower fell to his sons, Willas’ uncles. It didn’t leave them many chances to visit Highgarden.
Lord Leyton was older than Grandmother, but not by much. Like her, he’d known the Dragons’ rule for much longer than the Stags. Even Mother called her Lord Father an enigmatic figure.
At one time, he’d been the Voice of Oldtown, the Lord of the Port, the Defender of the Citadel, and the Beacon of the South. Now, those titles fell to his sons, aside from perhaps Beacon of the South, considering Grandfather spent all of his time at the peak of the Hightower in his older age, engaging in the things of queer rumor and mystery.
As they reached the top of the Hightower’s many, many stairs, they were announced by a herald and let into House Hightower’s apartments.
The apartments were a beautifully strange affair. They took up the three uppermost floors of the tower, the bottom of which was everything one might expect from a lord’s apartments. Lordly quarters and elegantly decorated hallways with grand glassed windows at every end, that spoke of the wealth in both gold and culture, House Hightower could bring to bear.
The beds in those quarters called to Willas, and likely to everyone else as well. But they pushed on up one more flight of stairs. At the very top, the Hightower’s beacon burned, tended to directly by members of House Hightower, as was tradition. But the second level of House Hightower’s apartments was dedicated to one massive Lord’s Solar that took advantage of every inch of space at the top of the Hightower.
It was a high hall for dining just as much as it was a space for work. Open-floored, the walls of the Hightower Solar were replaced by thick and luxurious curtains and partitions. There was space enough for several solars within the Solar — one for heir, for spare, for steward, and for wife — that would put minor lords to shame. Great walls of Myrish glass faced landward and seaward. And on a level raised above it all was the true solar, one to match Grandmother’s or even Father’s in Highgarden.
But for now, the curtains around the true solar were drawn. They were greeted by Uncle Baelor and a Hightower sister who could only be Aunt Malora.
Baelor greeted them all, but kin most of all, with a bright smile to match his moniker, uncaring for the late hour. Aunt Malora was more subdued, but she still had a smile to spare for her nephews and niece.
Both Hightower siblings shared Mother’s pale blonde and shimmering hair, almost but not quite the same color as Targaryen silver and gold. Uncle Baelor was as handsome and welcoming as Willas remembered, seemingly growing more dignified with the decade or so since they’d last seen each other.
And Aunt Malora was hauntingly beautiful with shadowy eyes and darkened lips as if stained by rich red wine. Age seemed to slide right off the Hightowers.
“Willas! Loras! Margaery!” Uncle Baelor greeted with good cheer. “Malora told me you’d come to our fair city. Considering the times, I almost hoped it wasn’t so! You weren’t so harried by the chaos, were you?”
“Hail, Nuncle Baelor,” Willas smiled back, leaning on familiarity that should’ve been there, but wasn’t completely. “We certainly saw the signs of the times as we arrived. But our party made it here in one piece. We even added to it. I’m sure you know of Archmaester Marwyn. But may I introduce his Acolyte, Sarella Sand, the fourth daughter of the Red Viper?”
Baelor blinked, “A Sand Snake? In Oldtown? Truly? What… good fortune!”
The Brightsmile’s bright smile grew slightly strained but not hostile. Willas remembered the tale of Oberyn titling him Baelor Breakwind when Uncle was courting Elia Martell and unfortunately broke wind in front of them. He nearly sighed. Yes, that was Oberyn all over. It was good to see the Baelor didn’t seem to hold her father’s crassness against Sarella, though.
Aunt Malora just shot Sarella a knowing look, “Alleras, yes. Some of us knew of your presence, at least.”
Sarella gave quick, slightly tense bows. “My lord, my lady, it’s an honor to finally see the top of the Hightower.”
“You’re as welcome as welcome can be, of course. All of you, though I am unfamiliar with most,” Baelor recovered well, smiling even brighter as if trying to prove her father’s nickname wrong. “There is bread and salt waiting, Guest Rites to be granted. Now, where are my dear sister’s youngest two?”
Margaery stepped forward with a small smile, “Uncle Baelor. It will be a pleasure to meet you and actually remember it.”
“Margaery, my girl, you’ve grown gorgeous!” Baelor gushed. “Why, I remember you yea’ high and toddling! ’Tis quite the change! And you, Loras! Knighted by a prince! Gods, how you two have grown!”
“Uncle,” Loras nodded imperiously, but Willas could see the smile that snuck onto his lips. “May I introduce our prince and my dear friend, Renly Baratheon?”
“Well met, Lord Baelor,” Renly nodded in greeting as well.
“And the rest?” Malora asked with a quirked and curious brow. “I’ll admit, Father and I couldn’t pin them down. He described a little wolf, but also five lions, two raven-eagles, and a badger. I see no Lannisters with you, to say the least…”
Willas went around with the introductions to the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts. He didn’t hesitate to declare them friends. He was also rather frank about their area of expertise, what of Magic and knowledge unmatched. Aunt Malora seemed wary (perhaps for good reason…), but Guest Rites were still offered and taken up.
Dumbledore, as always, didn’t waste time mincing words, “It’s an intriguing set-up you have here. As good as any Wizard’s Tower, I say. And up close, those wards above are a work of art!”
Slowly, Malora blinked and nodded in acknowledgment. “The fruits of Hightowers past. I’m afraid I can’t take much credit for them. Father and I have been trying to leave our own marks on the workings, but it is still early days. Magic’s Return has been a blessing here at the top of the Hightower, though. That much is certain.”
“The Hightower has fully embraced Magic, then?” Renly asked curiously.
Baelor snorted, “To say the least. But I leave that business to Malora and Father.”
“Where is Grandfather?” Willas inquired. “I was hoping to meet him, though I understand if it is simply too late tonight.”
Baelor and Malora exchanged wordless looks, Malora saying, “Father is well, but… indisposed, currently.”
Bran tugged on Willas’s sleeve with a whisper that carried, “He’s up above… burning…”
“Come set this man~ on fiii~irreee~…” Luna sang softly.
“Burn-...?”
“A topic for the morning!” Baelor deflected with that bright smile of his. “I’m sure you’re all tired. We have rooms being made ready for all of you, my lords, my ladies. You’ll merely have to walk down one more flight of stairs to find the rest you seek.”
Willas’ brow furrowed with concern after being interrupted, “Uncle?”
Baelor’s smile wavered, and he sighed, “As my sister said, Nephew, Father is well. The situation is simply more complicated than I’m willing to get into tonight. I shall tell you all come morning’s light, I swear.”
They were left with that promise and sent to find the quarters prepared for them all. It and the mystery it represented lingered on Willas’ mind. Kept him up a bit, even with how tired he was. With nothing to be done but wait until morning, however, Willas eventually found sleep.
IIIII
Willas dreamed, drifting in a state of half-awareness. Both in his body and… elsewhere entirely. He wasn’t prone to such dreams. Something magical was at work from his bed atop the Hightower. Willas knew that inherently, instinctively, with a certain certainty deep in his bones, even as his mind wandered.
He followed a pair of wolf pups — one boy, one beast — as they excitedly explored Hightower ages past. They ran the outer walls of the Hightower as if on solid ground, and Willas was dragged along behind.
History was stored within those shining white stones. So many stories that Willas couldn’t parse them all — from the age of Dragons and Roses, to the long reign of Greenhands, originating with the Hightower Kings of Old in the Dawn.
Each past moment was somehow catalogued with more depth and detail than any written record, and the wolf pups frolicked through them with Willas in tow. The Hightower itself had an old, old memory. The wolves traversed through it with ease, as if simply breathing, as if flying, and Willas saw all they explored and experienced.
They met the infamous Otto Hightower at the heights of his schemes, though he would never meet them in return. They saw poor Ceryse Hightower in her exile of relief to the Hightower by her husband and liege, Maegor the Cruel. They witnessed Manfred Hightower’s decision not to join his Gardener King against the invading Dragons, not to ride out onto that Field of Fire where the death of a royal line awaited.
They ventured from an age of one unified realm, to the age of seven warring and separate kingdoms, and farther back still, to a Dawning age of so many petty kings. Willas saw interesting things, fascinating things, details and stories and characters lost to time.
The youngest brother of one Hightower King was a wastrel. But in his wasting, he grew to a certain kind of greatness. The brothels across Oldtown came to love him and, quite literally, raised toasts to his name. When he died, so great was his fame and carnal prowess that all the whores of Oldtown mourned and didn’t work for a week straight.
Another Hightower, once the Lord, abdicated his seat to his younger brother during a time of strife. With the Dornish Kings of the Torrentine sieging south of the city and the Westerlands Kings of the Rock marching from the north, he realized he wasn’t suited for wartime ruling. He passed the Hightower’s torch to someone who was. Then, he sailed for the Summer Isles with his immediate family and was said to have lived out his years in peace and pleasure.
Willas thought he was one of the smartest men he’d (n)ever heard of. But then, Willas imagined the truly smart men, the ones who chose peace over war, those who preferred simple and relatable lives to dooming themselves with ambition, weren’t typically recorded in the annals of history for a rather good reason.
He envied those men. He also knew the times he lived in wouldn’t allow him to join their gloriously unwritten ranks.
After a great many stories witnessed — a Hightower King of War, a Lord of ‘peaceful’ schemes, a whole generation of Hightowers who saw the benefit of allying with the Andals and the Faith — Willas and the wolf pups found themselves firmly in the Dawn Age. The Hightower’s foundation turned from wood to stone, and they watched one of Westeros’ greatest monuments rise.
There, they came across an interruption to their dreams. A man cast in Valyrian Steel. A man they knew from the waking world, now dreaming just like them. Marwyn the Mage waited for them with his stern and rippled mask. Immediately, he took the boy-wolf to task.
“Boy. Must you make such a ruckus? Some of us are trying to sleep and ignore the dreaming in this accursed tower.”
The boy-wolf snarled. His wolf-pup companion yipped a laugh. Willas watched, feeling unseen. He wasn’t.
“You dragged your Knight along with you, too, boy. Did you even realize you had?”
The boy-wolf jumped slightly as Willas was pulled to the dreaming’s fore. He chuffed, sounding ashamed and sorry. His wolf-pup laughed even harder.
“It’s fine, Bran,” Willas reassured. “I know you didn’t mean to disturb my rest like this. We’re bunking down in the same room, so I assumed it couldn’t be helped.”
“It can be helped,” Marwyn grunted. “The boy needs to learn more control. He’s a powerful dreamer. As powerful as I am, but still raw. He takes to the astral like a wolf to the woods, forgetting that the Mind reigns supreme here. Rule the dreams, don’t let them rule you. Start by shedding that wolven pelt, boy. You are Man, not Beast.”
Sheepishly, the boy-wolf focused. The almost constipated expression on that beastly maw made Willas laugh. But soon enough, talented and powerful as he was, Willas’s squire resumed his waking form. Cast in greenblood gained long ago, the little Stark stood straight.
Immediately, Summer snuffled its snout between Bran’s hands to give its master a congratulatory lick. Bran giggled and play-fought with his companion, pushing away the snuffling snout. Boy and Beast, as it should be.
“Why interrupt us now, Marwyn?” Willas asked.
“You’re venturing deep, too deep,” Marwyn warned. “Doing so alone will scar you, kill you, or worse…”
“Why? How?” Bran asked curiously. “These are just memories of the past. Nothing can touch us here.”
Marwyn snorted, “You don’t know how wrong you are, boy. The past is just as dangerous as the present, both more dangerous than the future. Events that haven’t come to pass bear no weight. If you had looked forward, I would’ve left you to your possibilities and prophecies. ’Tis a lesson all of us must learn.
“But you looked back first. These events have come to pass. They’re set and heavy. While you’ll find no active resistance as with the present, the past still has more than enough passive ways to crush you. Old, old things lurk in the past, threats to the Mind and Soul just by the merit of their being.”
“Ah, yes,” A fourth voice joined their dreaming, and Willas would recognize the Headmaster anywhere. “Cognito hazards, eldritch truths, and perhaps worse still. The past can be dangerous ground to tread.”
Then, a fifth and a sixth voice joined them as well: Luna and Atlas, respectively.
“Don’t go deadlifting the past~! This junk’s HEAVY~!” Luna warned. “You’ll strain your mental back if you don’t know how to lift right~! It’s all in the cerebellum, not the frontal lobe~! And be careful about engaging your pituitary gland, or it’ll wake you right up and ruin the whole dream~!”
“Just wanted to sleep… Didn’t ask for any of this… My Divination isn’t anywhere near high enough for this shit…” Atlas grumbled.
Marwyn shot Luna a look, “… We’ll have to have a talk about the parts of the brain as you know them when we wake, girl.”
“Dealio~!” Luna chimed back.
He turned to Atlas with a goading challenge, “Then, wake up.”
Atlas’s frown deepened, “… Can’t. Luna’s holding me hostage.”
“It’s for your own good!” Luna claimed. “There’s something we all need to see…”
Lastly, Marwyn turned to Dumbledore, “You’d know much about those dangers, wouldn’t you?”
“Only in the present,” Dumbledore waved nonchalantly. “But then, the past was once the present. So I suppose I do have a thing or two to share.”
“What’s this we need to see…?” Willas warily asked.
“Is it Bran the Builder?! He’s the one who built the Hightower! We were just about to see that!” Bran’s excitement for his namesake was practically vibrating the whole dream.
Luna simply smiled, “In part~… But you’ve gotta ask ‘Why?’ as well.”
“Yes,” Atlas deadpanned. “Why did that ancient magical architect build an 800-foot tower on a cursed foundation?”
A seventh voice joined them, then, like a presence from the gods. It echoed all around. It descended from everywhere at once. And it burned. Not painful, but illuminating in the extreme. As if the Light of the Seven had come unto their shared dreaming, but… that wasn’t quite the case.
“To guide from on high,” The new voice answered Atlas’ rhetorical question. “To guard against the Night if it ever came again. And most of all, forgotten by all… to contain something most foul.”
The speaker appeared before them in flames. Green flames, the same color as the Hightower’s beacon and burning just as fiercely, just as constantly. Through the fire, Willas saw an old man bearing features he knew from his mother, uncle, and aunt. Leyton Hightower, the Old Man of Oldtown, it could only be.
“Grandfather!” Willas greeted, surprised and concerned about his arrival and appearance.
The flames about him began to burn low, but never fully disappeared. Leyton Hightower smiled at his grandson, “Willas. Alerie’s boy… It is good to finally meet you, Grandson. My apologies for not coming to meet you in person. I cannot stray far these days.”
“Stray far?” Willas worried. “From where? Your children said you were well, but Bran and Luna implied you were burning!”
Leyton nodded, “I am well. I am burning.”
“But-…” Willas found his words failing him.
“Let me explain, Grandson,” Leyton soothed. “I would place myself and Malora as some of the first to notice Magic’s Return. We’d hoped and prayed and searched for it, but I cannot claim we were successful. The spark for Magic’s Return came from without. We merely recognized it and did as we needed to do.
“The Hightower holds much knowledge of old. That ancient knowledge pushed me to the Beacon when Magic Returned to the world in truth. Just as there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, there must always be a Hightower to tend the Beacon. There is a reason for that, one forgotten but never lost. We Hightowers are tied, not to the foundations of our seat as the Starks are, but to the Beacon. With Magic’s Return and my long studies of the Hightower’s histories, I knew what I needed to do. And so, I cast myself into the flames-…”
“You WHAT?!” Willas interrupted.
“Peace, Grandson, I am well. I am burning,” Leyton repeated. “The Beacon can no sooner harm a Hightower than the Royce runes can harm a Royce. We Light the Way, and that is what I am doing, just as the first Hightower Kings once did.
“’Tis a task that falls on older generations, on sires and grandsires, so that the young and able may best represent House Hightower. Baelor is Lord Hightower in all but name now, for I am lighting the way, merged with the Beacon and the Hightower itself. Here, within the Beacon’s flames, is where the world needs me most.”
Willas stood stunned and speechless. Uncle Baelor was right. The situation at hand was complicated. He could only trust that his grandfather was speaking the truth. If anyone would know the old ways of House Hightower, it was him.
The silence that followed was broken by Dumbledore giving an honest and enthusiastic round of applause, “Oh, good show! Good show, indeed! The magical traditions here continue to surprise me! Merged with the Beacon and the Hightower itself, you said? And, I assume, the wards over Oldtown?”
Leyton nodded, “I am well. I am burning. I am the Beacon and the Hightower, now. Wide and far, past and present, I Light the Way, I guide the people to a brighter Dawn.”
“Beacon in the South, just like the Raven in the North,” Luna nodded matter-of-factly, as if her meaning was clear.
Atlas seemed to know what she was referring to. He grew contemplative, “Say… what color does the Beacon usually burn? Red?”
“Fire tends to be red,” Marwyn snorted.
Atlas rolled his eyes, “Blood-red, I mean. The color of Weirwood leaves. White and red, with a big ol’ face carved at the base…”
His leading words instantly painted a picture in Willas’s mind. But Bran was the one to put that painting into words, excitedly exclaiming, “The Hightower is a Heart Tree! A manmade Weirwood built by Bran the Builder!”
“Aye,” Leyton nodded. “We came to the same conclusion. But if anyone would confirm it, it would be you, little Stark. A masterpiece of magic to match the Wall. Now, you must ask yourselves why such a manmade Heart Tree would be planted on infertile ground…”
Willas could only watch as his grandfather took control of their shared dreaming. Without stress or exerted strength, the Hightower’s memories heeded Leyton’s will. The world around them, the dream they’d gathered within, ran backwards stone by stone until the blackstone foundation beneath was laid bare.
Two men stood atop it, two legends. The first was like looking at Bran grown. And in the second, Willas could swear he saw Uncle Baelor, as impossible as both of those impressions were. Thousands of years apart, Bran and Uncle Baelor shared as much blood with the two men they witnessed as they shared with anyone else of the time. But, it seemed, it was the Names that carried the most weight.
“You were right to call upon me, King Uthor,” The ancient Stark said.
“Aye, I could think of no one better for the task than you, King Brandon,” The ancient Hightower nodded somberly before chuckling slightly. “The Greenhand’s son offered, but I have need of stone, not wood.”
King Brandon smiled mournfully, “No ill tides there, I should hope? We’ve lived to push back and conquer the Age of Long Night together. I wouldn’t have us torn apart by pettiness, not as another disaster falls from the sky so soon after.”
“Aye, the Dawn was not the end, but the beginning,” King Uthor agreed. “In these trying times, we mere men do what we must, what we can.”
“Tell me, what is it?” King Brandon asked.
King Uthor told his tale, “I saw it fall with mine own eyes, as did my family and my brother’s. A terrible, twisted thing of writhing arms and reaching hands and starfire. We returned south to find the place we’d chosen tainted by its fall. It did not die, but grew, building out this blackstone around it.
“My brother and I ventured into the labyrinth below. ’Tis as if constructed by the Mazemakers my grandsire would speak of in stories of the lands our ancestors once knew. My brother and I lost our way half a dozen times. But eventually we came to the core of the growing blackstone, and set upon the damaged Remnant we found there with the lessons learned from fighting beside you and yours against the damned and chilled Others.
“I-… If I were to speak true, I would rather forget the battle. ’Twas worse than any beast. Just as damned as any Other, but heated where they are chilled. Blackstone poured forth from starmetal flesh as it ate away at the Heart Tree it landed upon. And that was it damaged from the fall. I shudder to think of it whole and hale.
“My brother and I struck it low, but we couldn’t separate it from the Heart Tree. All that could be done, we agreed, was to see it contained and suppressed. My brother carved away some of its starmetal flesh before setting off farther south to found his own hearth. He will make a sword from that starmetal, a weapon of the Remnant to be used against it if that dark day does come.
“Meanwhile, I shall stay here to found my hearth. My line will stand vigil so his line can answer the call. Mine will Light the Way so that his may fight to maintain the Dawn we’ve won. But to do any of this, I need your aid, King Brandon.”
King Brandon heard the tale stoically. Then, without any moment’s hesitation, he nodded and proclaimed, “Bring me white stone and blood-watered cuttings. I will see your Hightower rise. And Gods willing, the Remnant beneath shall never see the light of the stars again.”
Even in their shared dreaming, Willas felt his breath catch in his chest. He bore witness to history. He peeked into legend and myth made real. This was a founding and brotherhood lost to time, and the others seemed similarly impacted by the weight.
The last thing they saw of the Hightower’s memory was a flash in blackstone. A scene from deep, deep within that twisted and cursed labyrinth. A lightless cavern, seemingly at the bottom of the sea. There, a stunted and gnarled Heart Tree stood in utter darkness. Yet the dream was clear to their sight.
Its white bark was stained a wicked black that shone like a night sky of dragonglass and twinkling stars, and its branches were barren. If Willas listened closely, he could hear singing… Calls sent out to the Shadows… Despite the weight of the Hightower above, it had stirred just enough to bide its time…
Then, the first rays of dawn peeked over the horizon and broke the spell for another day. Willas, and six others, woke with one word on painfully dry tongues…
“Fuck…”
IIIII
[AN: Just a quick question... Should I keep this Oldtown arc going uninterrupted? Or should I be interspersing it with chapters/POVs from the other plot arcs going on throughout the story (EX: Essos, North, Dorne, and maybe Draco/Victor/Other Hogwarts students that have gone to foster/Native character POVs from around Westeros)? I'm pretty content to keep it going like this, but I want to hear how you readers feel and if you're getting bored of so much Oldtown stuff.]
IIIII
Bonus Pics (sauce below)
Comments
bleachballed
I'm actually saving Darkstar for the Dorne plotline, mostly. But yes, it IS kinda odd that someone from the lineage that took a piece of the Remnant is now showing weird shadowy magic and trying to reclaim that piece of the Remnant now that it has begun to stir...
Noctis123
So I had an idea for a story back at the bar in Gotham about Lt. Titus story of when he was found and then when he was sent to the death watch then redeeming himself in space marine 2 and in this story you can say Shaun was leandros
Azzuma
Personally I'd like to finish this arc before we check in with other people. Also, don't think I didn't notice all this talk about shadows and Dawn, while bloody Darkstar suddenly has shadow powers and wants to claim Dawn for himself.
