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120: The Son of Ice and Fire, Azure Orange Yellow
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 15:21:49 +0000 UTCWillas breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the heavy stone gates of the Hightower came into view. The looming structure—white and immense—rose from the heart of Oldtown like a spear, cutting into the overcast sky. The golden beacon atop it, now lit with a pale flame, shimmered faintly in the distance.
He had finally shaken free of the Chantor and his entourage. The journey with them had been unsettling—each word, each whispered hymn revealing the depth of madness behind their order’s veil. But now, at least for a few hours, he was safe from their madness.
The guards at the Hightower recognized him immediately, bowing and pulling open the iron gates as he rode in. The smell of blooming flowers from the surrounding gardens mixed with the salt air of the nearby harbor. It almost made him feel like a boy again.
He dismounted quickly, and the courtyard was already abuzz with movement. His mother, Alerie, waited with his cousins and his uncle Baelor, their faces etched with subtle worry that quickly turned to surprise and then joy as Willas approached.
“Willas!” Alerie said, stepping forward and embracing him tightly.
Baelor clasped his shoulder, studying him. “Why the sudden visit?”
Before either could ask more, Alerie’s voice sharpened. “What were you doing in Highgarden, Willas? Has the king—?”
Willas quickly cut her off. “No, Mother. He has not.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes scanning the courtyard. “I need to speak with Grandfather. Now.”
Baelor noticed the tension immediately and, without another word, gave a short nod. “Come, nephew. I’ll take you to him.”
They left the others behind, especially his worried mother, and ascended the winding stair of the tower, spiraling higher and higher. At last they reached the topmost chamber, where Lord Leyton Hightower had taken residence once more.
The room smelled of old parchment, incense, and lemon oil. Charts and astrolabes cluttered the tables, and thick tomes lay open beside goblets of watered wine.
“Willas?” Leyton said in genuine surprise, rising from his chair. He looked older than Willas remembered—thinner, frailer—but his eyes still burned with intelligence.
Willas crossed the room and embraced him. He held the hug longer than he meant to; he felt a pang of anger in his chest. This was the man who had betrayed him and his House—and their cause. But it was also his grandfather, and this was not the time to speak of such things—not when the entire world would end in a year or so.
As they pulled apart, Melora Hightower—his aunt—gave him a nod of welcome from her seat near the window, where she was reading an old scroll.
“You look troubled, my boy,” Leyton said gently.
“I am,” Willas admitted. “And I need to speak with you. Alone.”
Melora looked to her father, then quietly closed her scroll.
Leyton motioned for Baelor to leave and shut the door behind him. The latch clicked, and the room fell silent.
“Now,” Leyton said, his voice low, “tell us everything.”
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Willas sat stiffly in the high chamber of the Hightower, the flames from the nearby hearth dancing across the ancient stone walls. His voice was tight but clear as he began recounting everything to his grandfather and aunt.
He told them about the meeting with Prince Viserys—how the prince had spoken of rumors that cults devoted to the Others were surfacing in the Reach and had sent him to investigate, especially in Highgarden.
He spoke of Highgarden itself, of how many servants and smallfolk had fallen under the sway of something dark. Of Gareth. Of the Chantor. Of the catacombs and the ritual—the blood sacrifice of a young man.
Leyton listened in deepening silence, his expression growing more grave with every word. Melora, usually serene and unreadable, paled visibly when Willas described the altar and the Chantor’s speech.
When Willas finished, a long pause settled over the room. Only the crackle of the fire dared interrupt it.
Melora’s calm façade cracked first. “This is… dire,” she said, her breath catching. “Worse than I imagined.”
“Is there anything more?” Leyton asked, his voice low and sharp. “Did they speak of symbols? Ancient tales? Perhaps something about… the Blood Betrayal?”
Willas narrowed his eyes. “Yes. The Chantor told me a tale—of a great empire that once spanned the world, and of a dreaming king who followed a ‘Silent God’ in the stars. He had a sister, beloved by all. They went to war, and he… killed her.”
Melora’s lips parted, but no words came. Leyton sat back, his eyes seeming to stare through the wall.
“Gods…” he whispered. “So it’s true. It really is them.”
Willas frowned. “You know who they are? They claimed to have been here for millennia.”
Leyton nodded slowly. “Yes. In the last few moons there have been odd disappearances; the bodies were found weeks later. I tasked Baelor with investigating.”
“Who are they?” Willas asked again, his voice firm.
It was Melora who answered, her voice flat as stone. “The Church—”
.
.
“The Church of Starry Wisdom,” Melisandre finished, her voice carrying softly on the wind.
Maekar blinked, eyebrows rising. “The Church of what, now?”
The fire cracked quietly in the center of their small camp, its light flickering against the dunes of the Great Sand Sea. The stars stretched endless above, unclouded by even a wisp of smoke. Around him sat Melisandre; Leaf, cloaked and hooded; Mei, with her striking Yi Tish features; and Lyonel, who stood guard.
Mei had insisted on joining them for the journey, serving as translator and guide. In Trader Town, unlike in Shamyriana, Valyrian was seldom spoken.
“The Church of Starry Wisdom,” Melisandre repeated, her voice firmer this time.
Maekar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And they’re dangerous how, exactly?”
“You know the tale of the Amethyst Empress and the Bloodstone Emperor,” Melisandre said.
Maekar nodded. “Yes. The Bloodstone Emperor was one of the champions of the Great Other in the Empire of Dawn—just as the Old Kings were in Westeros.”
“Just so,” Melisandre said. “And it was he—this mad, treacherous man, steeped in blasphemy—who is said to have founded the Church of Starry Wisdom, a cult that worships the Great Other. They have never been truly vanquished—not by time, not by fire. They linger still, like rot infecting the world.”
Maekar sat back, frowning. “Are you saying they still exist?”
Melisandre’s eyes, glowing like embers, turned to him. “Yes, my king. Scattered across Essos—a whisper in Lys, a shadow in Volantis. Even in Westeros they persist, especially in port cities where merchants and sailors mingle. But here?” She looked east, toward the endless night beyond the dunes. “Here, in the lands of Yi Ti and, further still, in the bones of the Shadow Lands… they thrive in the darkness.”
Maekar exhaled through his nose. “And we’re marching straight into their stronghold.”
“Indeed,” Melisandre said with a quiet nod. “The temple of R’hllor has no foothold in this land. We have tried to bring His light here many times, but the Church always smothers it—snuffing it out before the people can bask in His warmth.”
Mei, who had been silent, finally spoke, her voice calm but edged. “The people here despise them, you must understand. Nobles, merchants, peasants—none trust the Church. It moves in shadows, yet its influence lingers. The Yellow Emperor in Carcosa? It is said he is nothing but a puppet. Carcosa has become their sanctuary.”
Maekar’s hand drifted to Blackfyre, resting beside him in the sand. His expression darkened.
“Speaking of emperors…” he muttered. “Tell me more about this civil war. We’re going to meet one of the contenders, after all.”
Mei inclined her head. “At once, great Hyrkoon.”
Shifting closer to the fire, she began. “For five centuries the Azure Dynasty ruled Yi Ti from the city of Yin, their emperors governing with the mandate of the God-on-Earth to bring order, prosperity, and wisdom.”
“And they even defended the realm against a Valyrian invasion,” Maekar said, surprised.
“It is said that afterward, the entire court wore cloaks sewn from the hides of the thousand dragons that fell in that war.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Maekar muttered.
Mei’s tone dimmed. “But with the seventeenth Azure Emperor, Bu Gai, the dynasty began to wither and crack.
“Though crowned in full ceremony and trained by revered sages, Bu Gai was no warrior—nor a ruler of iron will. He was a poet, a dreamer, an alchemist. Some say he wandered the palace gardens at night, speaking to the stars. He read forbidden texts and surrounded himself with mystics and astrologers. Worse”—her voice lowered—“some claim he was influenced by the Church.”
Maekar grunted. “Of course he was.”
“The court was paralyzed. Ministers, eunuchs, priests, and scheming nobles all vied for control. Corruption flourished, and the people suffered. Bu Gai refused to act, obsessed with what he called ‘a coming cosmic calamity.’”
Maekar’s eyes flicked toward Melisandre. “Huh. Sounds like he was onto something.”
Mei gave a tight nod. “Perhaps. But when plague struck the southern provinces and the emperor refused to send aid—citing ‘omens in the heavens’—the people had had enough. The empire fractured, and rebellions ignited like wildfire.”
She lifted her hand and began to count them off.
“First, the Golden Road Riots: merchants in the western river cities, overtaxed and unprotected from raiders, revolted, declaring independence under their own merchant-lord, the Bronze Prince.
“Then came the Pearl Rebellion: a coalition of noble houses tried to depose Bu Gai and install his cousin. They failed, leaving the city in ash and ruin; the survivors fled to the Golden Delta.
“Finally, the Northern Massacres: in the jungle-border provinces, famine struck. Imperial soldiers were accused of looting grain stores, sparking a mass uprising led by a general from the Golden Delta. His name was Pol Qo.”
“The so-called Orange Emperor,” Maekar said.
Mei nodded. “Pol Qo—Hammer of the Jogos Nhai. A peasant’s son who rose through sheer brilliance. The people love him for it, and many provinces—especially those long oppressed by Bu Gai—are loyal to him.”
“He sounds like the ideal contender,” Maekar muttered.
“He came close to taking Yin once,” Mei added.
“What stopped him?” Lyonel asked from his post beside the camp.
Mei’s voice dropped, edged with unease. “From the whispering, half-dead city of Carcosa came a man called Lu’zhai the Pale—a former court astrologer turned sorcerer. He declared himself the Sixty-Ninth Yellow Emperor and marched west with an army of zealots and shadows.”
Lyonel frowned. “The Yellow Emperor?”
“Yes,” Mei said. “When Lu’zhai arrived, Pol Qo was already besieging Yin. The armies of Azure, Orange, and Yellow met on the field. What followed is remembered as the Battle of Three Armies.”
“And?” Maekar prompted.
“It ended in stalemate. Yin was spared—for a time. Pol Qo withdrew to Trader Town, and Lu’zhai returned to Carcosa. But then…” She hesitated, glancing toward the dark horizon. “Something happened. The commanders of the Five Forts called for aid—rumors spread of demons rising from the Grey Wastes. All three factions agreed to a truce.”
Maekar’s brow furrowed. “How do we know the war hasn’t reignited? You said yourself the Yellow Emperor is the Church’s puppet.”
“We’ll know when we reach Trader Town,” Leaf said, breaking her long silence.
“I’m just glad those Starry bastards don’t have a foothold in Westeros,” Lyonel muttered. “Imagine fighting an enemy within while the Others attack.”
‘Don't jinx it’ Maekar thought hearing his friend's words.
Melisandre’s worried gaze flicked toward Lyonel and then to Maekar.
Maekar swept his eyes over the group. “Trader Town will be a nest of vipers. We stay sharp. The Orange Emperor mustn’t distract us from our purpose. We find the ruins of Lukka, we find the key, and then we leave.”
Each of them nodded.
The wind whispered over the dunes. Maekar turned his eyes skyward, toward the pale moon rising over distant sand peaks. For a moment something gripped him—cold, watchful—like the stars themselves peered down with sentient eyes.
He shivered, forcing the feeling away. “Just nerves,” he muttered, lying back.
Soon the camp fell silent, and Maekar drifted into uneasy dreams.
