Illusiveone
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107: The Son Ice and Fire, The Depths of the Hightower pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-02-18 11:31:37 +0000 UTCWill post the second part soon I need to make some changes.
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The Reach was beautiful.
Maekar stood atop a small hill, his gaze sweeping over the vast, golden fields of wheat stretching endlessly before him, swaying gently in the warm evening breeze. The setting sun bathed the land in hues of amber and crimson, casting long shadows over the rolling hills. The rivers that carved through the terrain shimmered like molten gold, and in the far distance, he could see the spires of a distant castle belonging to a minor lord, rising against the orange-pink horizon.
The air smelled sweet—fresh grain, ripening fruit, and the faint scent of wildflowers carried on the wind. Birds chirped their final songs of the day, and far off, he could hear the laughter of farmers returning to their homes.
That was not the only beauty here.
Maekar’s sharp eyes caught sight of three peasant girls near the base of the hill. They had been tending to chores but stopped when they noticed him. One was a buxom blonde with sun-kissed skin, her simple linen dress clinging to her curves. Another was a tall, fit brunette, her hands on her hips as she whispered something to the others. The last was also blonde, though shorter, with an ass that—even from this distance—was impossible not to notice.
They giggled among themselves, cheeks flushed red, then quickly turned and ran toward a small village nestled to the left of the fields.
Maekar smirked to himself. A year ago, perhaps he might have followed after them, to have some fun. The thought was tempting, but he was also a man who did not break promises—especially to those he loved.
His mind whispered, You could still have them… No one would know.
But he shook his head, muttering, “No, no, no,” under his breath.
A chuckle came from behind him.
Maekar turned to see Ser Jaime leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed, smirking.
“What?”
Jaime shrugged. “Nothing, Your Grace. They were quite pretty, though.”
Maekar rolled his eyes. “Yes, they were,” he admitted. “But enough distractions. We need to get to Oldtown before the sun sets.”
Jaime nodded, still grinning as he fell into step beside him. They walked toward Neferion, who lay sprawled across the recently harvested field, his massive body covering a significant portion of it. Some of the wheat beneath him had been flattened, stalks crushed beneath his weight.
Standing near the dragon was Melisandre, slowly running her hand along Neferion’s black scales, her fingers moving with an almost reverent touch.
Perhaps she was worshipping him.
With Melisandre, who could say?
“Your Grace,” Jaime asked, breaking the silence, “isn’t Lord Hightower supposed to be coming to the capital to answer your summons?”
Maekar smirked. “His son is coming. Leyton will remain in his tower, doing what Leyton does.”
“And that is?” Jaime asked.
Maekar’s smirk widened. “Unraveling the mysteries of the world with his daughter.”
Jaime scoffed. “The mad one?”
“Malora is not mad,” Maekar corrected, “just… magically inclined. She has visions. Like dragon dreams or greenseeing.”
Jaime shook his head. “Considering Lord Leyton betrayed his own grandchildren for you, you two must be close.”
Maekar’s expression remained unreadable. “Leyton knows my importance in the war to come. Choosing between me and his grandchildren, after I promised they would live, was an easy choice for him.”
Jaime hummed but said nothing further.
As they reached Neferion, Maekar took a moment to admire his dragon. The beast had been resting, sprawled out over the field, but now his great body thrummed with renewed energy, his dark scales seeming to shimmer in the fading sunlight. His glowing green eyes flicked toward Maekar.
Melisandre stepped forward, her crimson robes flowing around her like living flame. She placed a hand on Neferion’s side and turned to Maekar with a serene expression.
“He is rested, my king,” she said.
Maekar nodded. “Good.”
With practiced ease, he climbed onto Neferion’s massive back, settling into the saddle strapped between his shoulders. Jaime followed, though with slightly less enthusiasm. His movements were cautious, as if second-guessing every step. Melisandre was the last to mount, slipping behind Jaime as she took her place.
Neferion stirred, his wings unfurling with a powerful snap. The ground trembled beneath his weight as he crouched low, muscles coiling with anticipation. Then, with one mighty leap, he launched into the sky.
The force of the takeoff sent gusts of wind ripping through the field below, flattening wheat and kicking up clouds of dust. The villagers who had gathered to watch recoiled—some shielding their faces, others falling to their knees in awe and terror—while a few simply gaped, too stunned to react at all.
Maekar watched as the land shrank beneath him, the golden fields turning into pale patches against the darkening horizon. He smirked when he heard Jaime curse under his breath, gripping the saddle as if his life depended on it.
Neferion let out a roar—a deep, thunderous sound that echoed across the Reach—as they soared westward, toward Oldtown.
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The night was as dark as pitch, the sky above an expanse of endless black speckled with countless stars. A new moon meant there was no guiding light save for the glow of the Hightower’s beacon, the city lights, and the flickering torches of the welcoming party awaiting them outside the city walls.
Neferion descended like a shadow, his massive wings cutting through the night air, his form nearly invisible except for the eerie green glow of his piercing eyes. As he neared the ground, the force of his landing sent waves of dust and loose dirt scattering. The earth trembled beneath his weight, his talons sinking into the soft soil.
A group of men stood waiting, torches held high, their flickering flames casting long shadows across their faces. As Maekar, Jaime, and Melisandre dismounted, a man with silver hair stepped forward, his armor gleaming faintly in the dim firelight. The sigil of House Hightower—a great lighthouse crowned with flame—was emblazoned on his breastplate.
The man knelt, as did the others behind him.
“Ah, Ser Gunthor,” Maekar said, stepping forward. “Rise.”
Gunthor Hightower obeyed, standing tall before his king.
“Your father is expecting me,” Maekar continued, his tone calm but firm.
Gunthor nodded. “I was told to bring you to him at once,” he said, hesitating slightly before adding, “I apologize on behalf of my father. He should be here to greet you himself.”
Maekar let out a short laugh. “Leyton is exactly where he should be,” he said. “Now come, we have no time to waste.”
Without further delay, they mounted their horses, Gunthor leading them toward the towering structure looming in the distance.
The Hightower, a wonder of the known world, stood at the heart of Oldtown, rising above the city like an unbreakable pillar. It crowned Battle Isle, an ancient island at the center of the Whispering Sound, the bay upon which Oldtown was built.
Their horses’ hooves clattered against stone-paved roads as they rode through the winding avenues and ancient squares of Oldtown. The White Bridge leading to Battle Isle stretched before them, wide enough for a column of riders to travel side by side. The waters of the bay sloshed softly below, dark and foreboding under the night sky.
As they crossed, the imposing height of the Hightower became even more apparent. Flickering lanterns around its base looked like stars hovering near the ground. The great gates of the fortress stood open, armed guards in Hightower colors lining the entrance. They watched silently as Maekar and his companions rode inside.
The courtyard of the Hightower was ablaze with torchlight, a grand welcoming party gathered to greet the king. Guards stood in perfect formation, their polished breastplates reflecting the dancing flames. Beyond them, members of House Hightower—Leyton’s many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and daughters—knelt in respect as Maekar dismounted.
Maekar’s gaze swept over them, recalling the faces of some of Leyton’s kin. They were a large and influential family, one of the oldest in the Reach, and each of them bent the knee as he strode past.
“Rise, all of you,” he commanded, his voice firm but edged with impatience. “You honor me.”
The gathered Hightowers rose, though many exchanged curious, uneasy glances. From among them stepped a young woman—Alyssa Hightower, one of Leyton’s granddaughters.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping her head respectfully, “it is late. You must be weary from your journey. Would you not prefer to rest before meeting my grandsire?”
Maekar shook his head. “No need for that. I must speak with Lord Leyton at once.” He turned to Gunthor. “Take me to him.”
Gunthor hesitated only briefly before nodding. “As you command, Your Grace. Follow me.”
With that, Maekar, Jaime, and Melisandre followed Gunthor into the great fortress.
As they climbed the winding staircases of the massive lighthouse, Gunthor glanced over his shoulder at Maekar. “If I may ask, Your Grace,” he began carefully, “why the sudden visit? My brother Baelor has already answered your summons.”
He paused, then mumbled, “Father has been acting strangely. He even sent workers to the most sacred part of the castle…” Gunthor stopped, realizing he was babbling.
Maekar’s expression remained neutral. “All will be revealed soon enough,” he said simply. “For now, take me to your father.”
Gunthor nodded, though unease was clear in his eyes.
The climb up the Hightower felt endless, the spiral staircases narrowing with each level they ascended. At last, after what seemed an eternity, they reached the topmost chamber. Gunthor pushed open the great oaken doors, and Maekar stepped inside.
The chamber was vast yet dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves overflowing with parchments, scrolls, and ancient stone tablets bearing faded inscriptions. The air smelled of old paper, burning oils, and something musty, difficult to place.
At the center of the room, seated on an ornately carved chair among towering stacks of manuscripts, was Leyton Hightower himself. Despite his advanced age, a sharpness remained in his gaze, and his long silver-white beard cascaded like a river of moonlight. Beside him stood Lady Malora Hightower, the so-called “Mad Maid.” Her wild green eyes flickered with an odd amusement as she observed Maekar’s entrance.
“Your Grace,” Leyton said, his voice low as he stood and bowed.
“Leyton,” Maekar acknowledged, stepping forward into the muted glow of the chamber.
“My king,” Leyton replied, sounding weary.
Beside him, Lady Malora inclined her head, her unruly green eyes sparkling with mirth. “Your Grace,” she murmured.
Gunthor took his leave and began the long climb down.
Leyton gestured to the room. “We could have met tomorrow. You must be tired from your journey.”
Maekar smirked. “Neferion is tired, but not me.”
Jaime coughed, rolling his shoulders. “I am,” he muttered, drawing a chuckle from Maekar.
Stepping further into the room, Maekar’s sharp gaze swept over the countless scrolls, manuscripts, and carved stone tablets piled high on the wooden desks. “You’ve been busy,” he observed.
Malora straightened, brushing dust from her sleeves. “We have been hard at work trying to uncover what lies beneath us,” she said eagerly. “We’ve scoured the oldest texts, deciphered inscriptions lost to time, but none truly reveal what is hidden in the lowest level.”
Maekar arched a brow. “So there are levels? I did not know that.”
Leyton sighed, folding his hands in his lap. “Neither did we—not fully. All I was told by my father, and he by his father before him, is that we must never go down into the depths. It has been sealed for millennia—never opened.”
His tired eyes met Maekar’s. “And it would have stayed that way… if not for the icy doom that approaches us.”
Maekar exhaled, folding his arms across his chest. “So you’ve opened it, then?”
Leyton nodded solemnly. “Yes. As soon as your raven arrived, I knew we had no choice.”
“Good.” Maekar strode forward and sat down in one of the carved wooden chairs near Leyton. He gestured to the others. “I assume you already know Ser Jaime.”
Leyton gave a respectful nod, his eyes flickering toward the Kingsguard.
“And this,” Maekar continued, motioning toward the woman in red beside him, “is Lady Melisandre, a priestess of R’hllor.”
Melisandre dipped her head slightly, her ruby necklace shimmering in the candlelight. “And a loyal servant to the Prince That Was Promised,” she added, her voice smooth as velvet.
Leyton acknowledged them both with a polite nod, then returned his attention to Maekar.
“What can you tell us about these depths?” Maekar asked.
Leyton opened his mouth to speak, but Malora’s eager voice cut through the air first. “I will answer that,” she declared, stepping forward, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
“From what we’ve deciphered in the oldest texts, there was once a castle on Battle Isle—long before the First Men ever set foot on Westeros,” she said, her emerald eyes shining in the dim candlelight.
“We believe its builders were settlers from the Great Empire of the Dawn.”
Jaime crossed his arms, leaning against a stone pillar. “Well, it is called Oldtown, after all.”
Leyton chuckled. “Yes. It was staring us in the face the whole time.”
Malora continued, her enthusiasm barely contained. “The base on which the Hightower stands is made of black oily stone—the same kind found in other cities like Asshai, Stygai, the Five Forts of Yi Ti…”
“Yeen,” Melisandre interjected.
Malora nodded. “Yes, Yeen as well. The original castle was built upon this foundation, with four chambers carved deep into the heart of Battle Isle itself.”
Leyton added, “We only discovered this by chance. An ancient tablet—one of the oldest we’ve ever found—made reference to a buried structure.”
Maekar glanced at the tablet resting on the table and picked it up, running his fingers over the strange, worn inscriptions:
“𒀀𒁍𒆠𒀉 𒌉𒅆𒀀𒆠𒁍𒂵”
His breath caught. The symbols—this script—looked like cuneiform, nearly identical to what he remembered from his past life.
Malora continued, unaware of his momentary distraction. “King Urrigon was the first to build over it, constructing the original foundations of Oldtown atop the ruins. Later, Brandon the Builder reinforced the site under King Uthor’s reign.”
“And a few centuries after that,” Leyton said, “King Urrigon the Fifth sealed the old castle. He left strict warnings to his successors never to open it. That tradition has been passed down for thousands of years.”
Maekar let out a low whistle. “That’s a long time.”
Leyton nodded gravely. “We’ve examined the entrance, but that’s all. No one has dared to step inside.”
Maekar pushed himself up from his chair, his mind already made up. “We’re going in.”
Leyton hesitated. “Now? This very night?”
“Yes, now, Leyton,” Maekar replied, motioning toward the door. “Lead the way.”
Malora clapped her hands in delight. “I told you, Father! We were going to see the depths tonight!” She turned to Maekar, her grin brimming with excitement.
Leyton sighed, rubbing his temples. “So it would seem.”
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Maekar stood at the threshold of the abyss, gazing into the inky blackness beyond the gaping doorway. The air was thick and heavy, as though time itself had forgotten this place. The walls surrounding them—once smooth white stone—had gradually shifted in texture and color as they descended the spiraling stairs of the Hightower. Now, they stood within a vast chamber hewn from the black, oily stone of legends, the walls seeming to drink in the torchlight rather than reflect it.
The opening before him was unnatural—a void darker than the deepest night, swallowing even the flickering glow of the torches.
Jaime let out a slow breath. “Are those men coming with us? You’re preparing as if we’re about to fight,” he asked, glancing at Leyton Hightower, who was solemnly administering oaths to the ten knights assembled behind them.
Maekar arched a brow at him and decided to tease his Lord Commander. “The Hightowers have legends of practicing necromancy and other dark magicks. Who knows what we’ll find in there?”
Jaime turned sharply, staring at him. “What?”
Malora spoke up, her voice light and amused. “The king is correct, Ser Jaime. There are many tales of King Uthor the Fifth, who was said to have delved into necromancy to fight against a rival king. Some say he sought to raise an army of the dead.”
Jaime let out a curse under his breath. “Great. Just fucking great.”
Maekar smirked. “Don’t worry, Jaime. I doubt there’s anything still lurking down there,” he said. His grin, however, faded slightly as he turned back toward the black abyss. At least, I hope not.
Melisandre stepped forward, crimson robes swirling around her. She regarded Jaime with something akin to amusement. “I thought the Kingsguard were supposed to be the bravest of all knights.”
Jaime scowled but said nothing. Instead, he snatched a torch from one of the knights, squared his shoulders, and strode into the darkness without another word.
Maekar chuckled. “That’s one way of getting started,” he muttered, gripping his own torch before stepping in after him. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air grew colder, and an oppressive weight of silence pressed in around him. Behind him, Melisandre followed, her red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, Malora close at her heels with a look of fascination rather than fear. Leyton and his ten knights brought up the rear, their footsteps hesitant.
“Gods, we must be the first to step foot here in eight thousand years,” said Leyton.
The corridor stretched endlessly before them, its walls carved from the same oily black stone that absorbed the torchlight. The surface was eerily smooth to the touch, cold beneath Maekar’s fingers as he brushed them along the walls. The very air here was ancient, heavy with a stillness that felt like an intrusion upon something long forgotten.
Melisandre ran a delicate hand over the stone, her expression unreadable.
Maekar saw what she was doing “Asshai was once the capital of the Empire of the Dawn. If this was one of their outposts, then black stone’s presence here makes perfect sense.”
Melisandre’s red eyes flicked toward him. “Were you given this wisdom through R’hllor?”
Maekar smirked. “Something like that.”
The corridor widened suddenly, opening into a vast, circular chamber. Their torchlight stretched out into the darkness, illuminating massive, faded reliefs and murals etched into the towering walls. Ancient carvings, intricate and delicate, stretched high into the domed ceiling.
“Look,” Malora breathed, pointing at the walls. Her voice was hushed with awe.
The knights quickly moved to light the iron sconces and stone braziers scattered throughout the chamber, their lanterns casting long, dancing shadows across the vast expanse. As the flames grew brighter, the chamber revealed itself—a grand hall of sorts, its purpose long forgotten. Several arched doorways branched out from the central chamber, leading into further darkness.
Maekar turned slowly, his gaze traveling over the murals that covered the walls. They were breathtaking in their craftsmanship—great scenes of long-vanished cities, towering structures unlike anything in Westeros, warriors clad in golden armor wielding curved blades, and dragons. A great many dragons.
“Well, it’s safe to say the Valyrians were definitely not the first to tame dragons,” Jaime muttered.
Maekar stepped farther into the chamber.
The first mural he studied depicted great ships, but they were unlike any he had ever seen—neither Westerosi, Ghiscari, nor Valyrian in make. Their prows curved high, adorned with the heads of dragons, their sails vast and billowing, held aloft by what appeared to be ropes of gold.
“These ships…” Maekar murmured.
“Not ours,” Malora whispered beside him. “Not from this age, perhaps not from any age we remember.”
The next panel revealed even stranger sights—men standing on the decks of these ships, trading with towering figures, giants larger than even the ones beyond the Wall. Among them were small, delicate figures with slender limbs and sharp eyes—the Children of the Forest.
The reliefs continued, revealing griffins soaring in the sky, wings spread wide, each carrying a rider.
Jaime let out a low whistle. “And we thought Valyrians were the first to ride creatures into battle.”
Then, one particular panel caught Maekar’s eye.
The image was unmistakable: Battle Isle.
But… there was no Hightower.
Instead, a massive fortress stood in its place, made of that same black, oily stone—its design alien yet strangely familiar.
Below it, a settlement bustled with activity, ships of unknown origin unloading their wares in the harbor.
And then… the eerie part.
At the edges of the mural stood beings unlike any he had ever seen, standing among men, giants, and Earthsingers.
Tall. Thin.
Their limbs elongated, almost too long, too unnatural.
Their heads were smooth, their faces lacking any real features save for dark, sunken holes where eyes should be.
But they did not arrive by ship.
They emerged from the sea itself—rising from the depths, water dripping from their unnatural bodies, standing among the men as if they belonged.
The room fell silent as they took in the sight.
Jaime was the first to speak.
“…What the fuck,” he muttered.
Maekar exhaled slowly. “What the fuck indeed.”
Comments
Illusiveone
Its mostly asoaif fan theories with some lovecraft mixed in.
TyrantGod
What lore are you borrowing from? Who were the first dragon riders? Were they similar to Inheritance series dragon order?
