Battle Isle.
Some called it the Battle Island, but regardless of the name, both referred to the same bloody history.
The island possessed no gentle shoreline.
It looked as though some colossal force had sheared it into an uneven rectangle.
Sheer cliffs rose from the sea on all four sides, high enough to make any attacker despair before a siege even began.
Aside from the Hightower itself, there was almost nothing else on the island.
The tower’s foundation, a vast square fortress built of ancient black stone, covered nearly the entire isle.
Only a narrow strip of land remained around the edges, where clusters of weirwood trees grew in eerie silence.
At the base of the northern cliffs stood a stone harbor.
Three piers stretched into the water, one long and two shorter ones.
Several Hightower boats rested there, serving as the island’s primary connection to the outside world.
A small boat drifted toward one of the shorter piers.
After tossing the boatman a copper star, William stepped ashore and looked upward.
A steep winding path spiraled from the harbor below toward the fortress gate far above.
The climb was not easy.
No wonder Lord Leyton Hightower, the Old Man of Oldtown, disliked leaving the tower.
Today William wore a modified nobleman’s outfit designed with combat practicality in mind.
He straightened the clothing that had become slightly wrinkled during the boat ride, then adjusted the gilded Great Bat badge pinned to his left breast, his personal heraldic emblem.
Finally, he straightened the ornate belt carrying his longsword.
Satisfied, he began climbing the winding path.
A squad of guards stood watch outside the fortress gate.
Having spent six years around the Hightower, William knew most of them by name.
Greetings were exchanged.
A few jokes followed.
During the conversation, William was surprised to discover that news of the battle at Tumbleton had already reached Oldtown despite only three days having passed.
The version circulating among the common folk, however, was rather different.
According to local rumors, the true hero was Ser Garlan Tyrell.
It was Garlan, they claimed, who had led three companions against an enemy force many times their size, saving most of the townsfolk and creating the opportunity for Ser Igon’s forces to annihilate the Ironborn afterward.
William found the official version perfectly acceptable.
No credit had gone to outsiders.
More importantly, it spared him a great deal of unwanted attention.
After sincerely praising Garlan’s courage, he bid the guards farewell and entered the fortress.
The interior of the black stone fortress resembled a labyrinth.
Twisting corridors.
Low, gloomy chambers.
Countless hidden passages and traps.
Even if enemies somehow breached the fortress, they would quickly lose themselves among endless turns and identical rooms.
As a defensive structure, it was nearly impregnable.
As a residence, however, it was dreadful.
The Hightowers now lived in the newer stone structures above.
Only a handful of rooms within the fortress remained in use, serving as storage for dangerous materials, prison cells, and access routes for trusted personnel.
Fortunately, the proper path was easy to identify.
Torches lined the walls at regular intervals.
They provided both illumination and direction.
As long as one followed the torches, there was little risk of getting lost.
Ignore them, and one might become another of the fortress’s many ghost stories.
The deeper William ventured, the quieter everything became.
Soon the only sound was his own footsteps.
The torchlight flickered across the walls, casting grotesque shadows that danced and twisted like living things.
Many people found the atmosphere unsettling.
William barely noticed.
He had walked these halls countless times.
His thoughts remained entirely occupied by the mysterious box the warlocks had brought from Harrenhal.
As he rounded a corner, a dark figure suddenly appeared directly ahead.
William’s scalp tingled.
Instinctively, his hand flew toward his sword.
Then he felt a familiar magical presence.
Relief arrived immediately.
Followed by irritation.
“Lady, that’s dangerous.” His voice dropped into a growl.
“I nearly drew my sword.” “Hahahahaha!” The response echoed through the corridor.
“Don’t worry.
I know today isn’t the day I die.” The figure stepped from the shadows.
A loose hooded robe concealed the entire body.
The oversized hood hid the face completely.
Only tangled strands of unkempt hair spilled out, their color impossible to identify.
The robe’s hem dragged along the floor, completely covering the feet.
Every time she moved, it seemed inevitable she would trip over her own clothing.
As she approached, a strange scent drifted through the air.
It wasn’t unpleasant.
Nor was it foul.
Yet anyone who smelled it instinctively felt uneasy.
William recognized it immediately.
Potion ingredients.
Several of them were exceptionally expensive.
Back when he had been poorer, the mere scent had been enough to inspire envy.
Malora Hightower.
Lord Leyton’s second child.
Known throughout Oldtown as the Mad Maid.
According to rumor, she had worn this exact outfit for more than twenty years.
William suspected something else.
He suspected she was a genuine woods witch.
Not because of her prophetic ramblings that nobody could understand.
Not because of the overwhelming scent of potions.
But because he could feel magic clinging to her.
Unlike his own power or Margaery’s natural magical aura, Malora’s felt different.
It resembled the lingering scent left behind after touching a strongly perfumed object.
Foreign.
External.
Yet impossible to wash away completely.
In truth, William was hardly the only person with this suspicion.
Many people knew the legends of woods witches.
Many people had met Malora.
Those foolish enough to call her a witch behind her back, however, generally met unpleasant ends.
Eventually only one nickname remained.
The Mad Maid.
Leyton would rather have his daughter called mad than allow people to associate her with magic.
The realization struck William unexpectedly.
No wonder Margaery resists magic so strongly.
Maybe I’ve been forcing the issue too much.
Whatever the case, William considered Malora infinitely more qualified to discuss magic than his warlock advisers.
Had she not been so impossibly eccentric, he might even have tried to form some kind of partnership.
Instead, he kept a respectful distance.
Mad or not, she remained Lord Leyton’s beloved daughter.
Rumor claimed he indulged her every whim, no matter how extravagant.
William had no desire to provoke someone so well protected.
Unfortunately, retreat was impossible.
The corridor was narrow.
Two people could pass comfortably if both cooperated.
Malora stood directly in the center.
She clearly had no intention of moving.
The two stared at each other in silence.
Eventually William surrendered.
“Lady Malora.
I’m in a hurry.
I’m on my way to see Ser Garth.
Would you mind letting me pass?” “No need to hurry.” Again came the strange laughter.
“I know today isn’t the day you die.” Her shoulders shook violently as she amused herself.
What exactly is funny?
William stared blankly.
“Then, my lady, what can I do for you?” The laughter stopped instantly.
The sudden silence was somehow even more disturbing.
When she spoke again, all traces of humor had vanished.
Her voice became cold.
Flat.
Emotionless.
“Darkness devours the bat.” “The snowstorm drowns the direwolf.” The bat is me?
The direwolf means House Stark?
Sounds like both of us are in trouble.
But I barely know the Starks…
Then he paused.
Actually, through old bloodlines, there is some distant connection.
None of it made any sense.
“Are you warning me about danger, Lady Malora?” Silence.
Then another cryptic answer came.
“Weirwoods weep.” “Ghosts sigh.” There are weirwoods with weeping faces all over Westeros.
And ghosts?
That narrows nothing down.
William shook his head.
The riddles were hopeless.
“I’m sorry, my lady.
I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.” Another long silence followed.
Then, without warning, Malora stepped aside.
She leaned against the wall.
Apparently she intended to let him pass.
But not entirely.
She left just enough room.
Not too little.
Not quite enough.
William hesitated.
Part of him wanted to ask her to move farther.
Another part feared triggering whatever madness lurked beneath that hood.
Deciding not to tempt fate, he turned sideways and pressed himself against the opposite wall.
Then he slowly began edging past her.