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118: The Son of Ice and Fire, The Starry Secret
🕑 Added 2025-04-05 21:14:21 +0000 UTCWillas looked at the castle ahead as he rode his horse along the familiar road, the sound of hooves muffled by the soft, flower-laced winds that always seemed to blow through the Reach. His home—or rather, his former home—stood tall and beautiful in the distance. Highgarden. It was not his anymore, but it still remained the most beautiful castle in all of the Seven Kingdoms.
The great castle rose from the rolling green hills like a vision from an old song. Surrounded by three rings of white stone, its crenellated curtain walls increased in height the closer they drew to the heart of the stronghold.
The oldest towers, squat and square, dated back to the Age of Heroes, weathered and strong like ancient guardians. But newer towers reached elegantly skyward—tall, round Andalic fortifications that gleamed like ivory in the afternoon sun. Ivy climbed their sides, and grapevines snaked around statues and colonnades that adorned the palatial keep.
There would have always been music emanating from the castle, but there was none now. There was no reason for it. The courtyards were not filled with life; silence reigned. Though Highgarden was still beautiful on the outside, it felt dead inside.
As he approached the castle gate, he saw a welcoming party waiting in the courtyard. They were not lords or knights, but people he recognized well: the old gardeners who once trimmed the thorny walls, the cooks who had made his favorite honeyed breads, the maids who served his family faithfully. At the center stood the steward—gray-haired, straight-backed, the same man who had once taught him how to hold a quill before a sword.
He did not hate Maekar Targaryen for what had happened. Not anymore.
He had simply chosen the wrong side.
His face burned and ruined. His family brought low, most of their wealth and lands gone. His sister left a widow, his nephew without a father. Yes, perhaps he had hated the king once—during the war, in the thick of it, when fire and steel tore the Reach apart. But not now. Not after what Maekar had revealed to the world.
The Others. The Long Night. The end of all things.
Willas believed Maekar. With all his heart.
In private, the king had spoken to him—confided in him. It had been the reason for his rebellion. He needed the crown, needed the authority, to stop what was coming. If Aegon had remained king, perhaps the world would never have even known of the threat until it was far too late. Maekar had needed to be king.
And now, perhaps, if he succeeded… if he saved them all… if Willas served him well, maybe—just maybe—he would return Highgarden to his family.
But for now, there was work to do. There was a cult to find.
Willas dismounted in the courtyard, his gloved hand brushing against the reins as his horse snorted softly.
“Gareth,” Willas said quietly.
Gareth, the old steward—his eyes now misty with age and tears—stepped forward and dropped to one knee. “My lord… we thought we’d never see you again.”
Willas placed a hand on his shoulder. “I thought the same, old friend.”
Gareth rose slowly, looking at the silver mask that hid most of Willas’s face—crafted in the likeness of the man he once was. “Our king has not been kind to you, my lord.”
Willas let out a dry, hollow laugh. “No. No, he has not.”
“But you’re here,” Gareth said, composing himself. “Come, your chambers have been prepared.”
As they walked, Willas passed familiar faces—servants, gardeners, cooks. They smiled when they saw him. One of the cooks wiped tears from her eyes. A stable boy offered him a small bouquet of fireplums, freshly picked. He greeted each one gently, grateful for their kindness.
Arriving at his chambers, he stepped inside, and for a long moment, he did not move.
Nothing had changed.
The walls were still draped in the same rich green tapestries embroidered with golden roses. The shelves still held the old books he had collected in his youth—histories of Garth Greenhand, maps of the Reach, and volumes on gardening and falconry. Even the small wooden carving of a hawk, a gift from Garlan, sat untouched on the desk by the window.
It was as though time had paused, waiting for him.
“We’ve prepared a feast for your return,” Gareth said from behind him. “Our… new governor, or whatever he calls himself, is away visiting Tarly lands.”
Willas turned to him. “Ah, the royal keeper assigned to Highgarden. How has he been?”
Gareth grimaced. “Cruel. He hates that we’re still here—those of us who served your house. The only good thing the king did was allow us to stay. The governor thinks us traitors. He’s written to King’s Landing several times, asking for new staff.”
Willas frowned. “I see.”
Gareth bowed and turned to leave, pausing just long enough to say, “If there’s anything you need, my lord… anything at all.”
Willas gave a small nod of thanks, then turned back to the chamber as Gareth closed the door behind him.
Silence.
He moved slowly to the washstand and removed his gloves, then reached up and unfastened the clasps of the mask. The silver parted with a hiss, and he lowered it carefully.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
Half of his face remained as it had always been—strong, lean, with the high cheekbones of House Tyrell. The other half was a ruin. Twisted flesh, marred by deep scars and tissue melted by fire. His right eye was still intact but surrounded by ridged, discolored skin. He stared at it for a long time before closing his eyes.
Then he placed the mask back on.
No one could ever get used to seeing what was beneath.
This was not the time to dwell on such things. He had work to do.
The Hand had warned him—there was a cult, one that worshipped the Others. They were hiding, perhaps even within these very walls. That meant Willas might be able to draw them out if he played his part well. He would have to pretend—pretend that he no longer believed the king would win this war, that he believed all hope was lost, that he was bitter, disillusioned, and willing to turn to darker things.
The thought turned his stomach, but it was the only way.
With a sigh, he adjusted his tunic and left the chambers.
The feast awaited. And with it, perhaps, a glimpse into the shadows now lingering within Highgarden.
=====
The next morning, Willas Tyrell began his quiet investigation.
He merely walked—through the castle he had once called home, the great halls and cloisters of Highgarden that were so familiar… and yet now felt subtly wrong.
The guards were the first to draw his attention. Not with words, but with glances—sideways looks and quickly averted eyes.
Servants whispered when he approached. These were the same ones who had raised him, laughed with him, doted on him as a boy. Some spoke of strange things: of silence in the stars, the night that would bring them true peace.
Willas heard those words again and again. And worse.
A serving boy—a child no older than ten—was found dead beneath the western staircase. Crushed, the steward claimed. “An accident,” he insisted. “The stone was loose. I will investigate.”
But Willas had walked that same stair countless times as a youth. Nothing there had ever been loose.
He started walking the castle late at night. He passed two maids whispering in the dark; when they saw him, they flinched.
He continued the next day, only to find servants sneaking about. The longer he stayed, the more he feared.
Yet it was Gareth Flowers—Gareth, the old steward who had helped raise him—whom Willas began to suspect most. And that was what broke his heart.
He tested him carefully with small comments, feigned despair. He spoke of the war against the Others, of the Long Night to come.
“I fear there’s no winning,” Willas said one day. “Perhaps there is another path.”
Gareth’s reaction was subtle—but there. A pause too long. A strange gleam in his eye.
The next day, he lingered longer at Willas’s side, quieter than usual. By the day after, he was almost doting again, like years ago.
And then it came.
“My lord… what if there was another way? A path not of swords and fire, but of peace. What if we need only accept it?”
Willas looked him in the eye. “Yes,” he said, cold and tired. “With all my heart. We cannot fight them.”
Gareth smiled—a wide, warm, tearful smile.
“I’m so glad. I’m so happy, my lord, that I can show you the true path.” His voice trembled. “Tonight, by the east entrance. Come alone.”
=====
Willas walked through the darkened corridors of Highgarden, unsure of what he would find tonight.
In the week since he had arrived, his perception of nearly everyone he had grown up with had shifted like sand beneath his feet. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking.
Could it truly be fear that drove them to this? Or was it resentment of the king? Perhaps both.
He spotted Gareth standing by the eastern entrance. No torches lit the archway—only moonlight. Gareth wore a long cloak, hood drawn, and in his hands was a lantern with an oddly pale flame.
“Good, my lord,” Gareth said softly, smiling. “You came.”
Willas returned the nod. “Of course.”
Gareth said nothing more as he turned, leading Willas along a seldom-used corridor that twisted downward, toward the Tombs of the Gardener Kings.
“Why here?” Willas asked as they passed old statues of long-dead monarchs.
“You will see,” Gareth replied. “The Chantor was very excited when I told him of you, my lord.”
Willas slowed. “The Chantor?”
“A holy man,” Gareth said, as though the word should be familiar. “He is like a septon… in a way. The voice of our faith. Our path. Our order.”
Willas blinked. “Order?”
Gareth nodded as they passed under a cracked stone arch. “A sacred order, my lord. One that existed long before the Seven. For thousands of years we’ve kept to the shadows… quietly serving the truth beneath the stars.”
Willas felt his stomach twist. He had come seeking a cult that the Hand thought no older than a year—no more than fearful peasants and bitter lords falling into the worship of the Others. He did not know what Gareth was talking about.
What in the name of the gods was this?
Gareth continued, his voice low and full of certainty. “We have always been few. But now, with the signs in the sky and the cold returning… we grow. Soon, we will no longer need to hide. Soon, the world will remember us.”
“And this… Chantor,” Willas said, his voice tight. “He leads you?”
“No,” Gareth said, smiling. “He serves. As do we all. We await the true leader. The Promised One.”
Willas’s throat tightened. “The Promised One,” he repeated.
Gareth’s smile deepened. “Yes, my lord. Our champion. He draws near. He walks the frost. And when he arrives… the long silence will begin again.”
Willas said nothing, but inside, his thoughts raced.
They descended deeper; the silence grew louder, pressing on his ears. Soon, they walked into a large chamber—something he had not even known existed here.
There, before him, stood a crowd of familiar faces—among them a washerwoman, the cook who used to sneak him pastries, bedmaids, scullions, and guards. All stood silently in a wide circle around the chamber.
At the center of it all stood a man—broad of shoulder, robed in black and gray, a heavy iron circlet around his bald head. His face was lined with age, his eyes deep-set and strangely serene.
“The Chantor,” Gareth whispered reverently. “I have brought him.”
The old man looked up and smiled. “Ah, Lord Willas. I am so glad you came.”
Willas kept his composure. “Gareth tells me you… have another way regarding the threat from beyond the Wall.”
“We do, my lord,” the Chantor said, his voice rich and deep, almost melodic. “Another way. The true way.”
“What is this? I don’t understand.”
“You cannot, not yet. Only the High Chantor may explain such things to a noble of your blood. That is why we must go to Oldtown, my lord. There, all will be made clear. But first…” He gestured toward the altar at the center of the room, made of black stone carved with strange, twisting symbols.
“I wish for you to take part in this week’s ritual.”
Willas nodded stiffly, heart pounding. He could feel the heat of every eye in the chamber pressing into him.
Gareth stepped closer, his voice quiet but urgent. “My lord… this next part… it may be difficult to witness. I hope you’ll understand.”
Two men emerged from the crowd, dragging a young man between them. He couldn’t have been more than twenty—bare-chested, trembling, his mouth gagged, his eyes wide with panic.
Willas’s breath caught.
The young man was forced to his knees before the altar. The crowd began to hum, a low chant that echoed around the chamber like the murmur of ghosts.
The Chantor raised his arms. “Only one year remains until the age of darkness begins—one year until the Long Night stretches over this world once more. But it is not a time for fear… it is a time for preparation. For service.”
Willas remained frozen, his gaze darting between Gareth and the Chantor, searching for reason, for sanity.
“But all our efforts will be for naught if we do not succeed in calling our lord’s chosen champion. He who was promised. He who slumbers.”
Champion? Willas thought. Are they speaking of… the Others?
“Our lord’s chosen has been led astray… by the seed of she who must not be named. A foul blasphemy. But fear not. Soon… soon he will remember. Soon he will understand his true purpose. And we will bask in the peace of the endless dark.”
The old man turned toward the trembling youth.
“A sacrifice for our lord.”
With a swift motion, he drew a blade—curved and black—and sliced across the young man’s throat.
Blood spilled across the altar, hissing against the stone as the boy choked on his final breath.
“May He be pleased,” the Chantor intoned.
The crowd fell to their knees, humming louder now, eyes closed in rapture.
Willas stood paralyzed, throat dry, bile rising in his mouth. His masks had covered the look of shock on his face.
‘What the fuck have I gotten myself into?’
