It had been 122 years since the Conquest, according to the Maester.
If my memory of the books was accurate, I had roughly seven or eight years before everything went to absolute shit.
Truth be told, that wasn’t a lot of time.
Especially when I was a month or so away from Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the two places where most of the real plot was going to explode.
And being Alicent’s son pretty much locked me into Team Green whether I liked it or not.
I didn’t get to sit on the sidelines and play neutral.
The Blood, name, and dragon pretty much decided that for me.
I was stuck between a two-ton truck and a pit of vipers.
It didn’t really matter which one hit me first, I was screwed either way.
‘Well I better think of something,’ I thought, leaning my head against the carriage window.
‘might as well enjoy the scenery while it lasts.’
Oh… would you look at that.
A giant flame blazing at the top of what had to be the tallest structure I’d ever seen in my lives.
The Hightower.
It dominated the skyline like a medieval lighthouse, I guess it is in a way.
Marwyn had casually dropped during the ride that Oldtown was the oldest city on the continent.
There was apparently even a book in the Citadel called Ancient Histories of the Hightower that supposedly recorded the tower’s flame burning for nearly two thousand years.
Of course, a lot of those records were lost during the siege of the First Men and the coming of the Andals.
Classic history, half the good stuff always gets deleted.
My Maester had been in full tutor mode the entire way, clearly thrilled to turn our bumpy journey into a moving classroom.
“Speak the words clearly, my prince,” he said, glancing down at the book he kept tucked in his bag.
“What are the words of House Codd?”
I let out a long, theatrical sigh.
I’m sure this is some form of torture, stuff a guy in a cramped wooden box and bombard him with questions for hours, or wait… was that just called school?
“Is it ‘Our house name sucks’?” I asked, staring out the window as the massive gates of the city bailey drew closer.
Marwyn closed the book with a soft thud.
“No, my prince. It is not.” He sounded tired but patient.
“As a member of the royal line, it is necessary for you to learn these things.”
“Oh, I know their words,” I said enthusiastically, flashing him a grin.
He raised an eyebrow, he’d already grown used to my snark in the short time we’d been traveling together.
“Is it ‘We do not fish’?”
I waited expectantly for at least a small smile.
He just shook his head, looking deeply disappointed.
“You see what I did there?” I asked, still grinning.
“I did. And I regret that I did.”
I snorted.
“If the entirety of the Six Kingdoms hates someone, it’s the Ironborn. Why must I learn about houses like them?”
Maester Marwyn went quiet for a moment, then let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a man who had answered questions like these many times before.
“A realm is not made only of its greatest houses, my prince. There are ancient and noble lines like your own, the Baratheons, and the Aryns… but even Houses like the Greyjoys and the Codds have survived countless winters. That endurance is a thing of pride, no matter how rotten their reputation may be and how disgusting their practices. Every house holds its place. Understanding them is part of understanding the realm.”
“Make way! Make way!”
The shout rang out from the fore-rider ahead of us.
“Make way for the third son of our King Viserys Targaryen, First of His Name, and our beloved Queen Alicent! Make way for Prince Daeron Targaryen!”
We had already passed through the main gates.
I pulled the curtain aside and looked out.
The bumpy dirt roads had finally given way to ancient stone paths, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, cart wheels, and history.
Smallfolk lined the streets, watching our procession with a mix of curiosity and caution.
Their eyes widened when they spotted the cage at the back of our retinue.
Tessarion stirred, shaking her sapphire-blue head as she woke from her long, cramped slumber, then she let out a deep, resonant roar that rattled the windows and sent a visible ripple of fear and awe through the crowd.
The dragon keeper quickly stepped in, tapping her snout firmly with his cane and murmuring a sharp command in Valyrian.
She settled with a low grumble, smoke curling from her nostrils.
A few brave souls in the crowd started waving, I pushed the curtain further aside and gave them a small, gentle wave back.
A couple of children waved harder in return, their faces lighting up.
It took us nearly an hour just to travel from the main gates to the King’s Bridge, which would take us across to the Hightower itself.
Oldtown was bigger and more crowded than I expected, it was a maze of stone and people.
All along the way, I saw a towering building of black stone with tall, arched windows filled with colored glass and a massive seven-pointed star crowning its peak.
It looked majestic, almost otherworldly in the fading light.
“The Starry Sept,” Marwyn commented.
“Has stood there since King Triston Hightower raised it.”
By the time our retinue finally reached the base of the Hightower, the sun was nearly gone.
It painted the sea in deep oranges and golds, while the great flame burning high above the tower blazed a vivid red against the twilight.
The contrast was stunning, a warm firelight against the cool grey stone walls.
It looked like something straight out of a Victorian painting, except this was very real, very old, and very much on fire.
I stared up at it, speechless for once.
Okay… I’ll admit it.
This one’s actually beautiful.
“Open the gates!”
The guards’ voices rang out as soon as they spotted the royal banners fluttering from our carriage.
Gwayne rode up alongside us and gave the side of the carriage a firm tap.
The horses slowed to a steady walk, the wheels crunching over the stone as we passed beneath the towering archway.
“We are here, Your Grace,” he announced.
A company of men stood at the base of the Hightower, grey-and-green banners snapping in the evening breeze.
At their head was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a surprisingly slender build.
He wore well-worn leather armor reinforced with steel chain links, but the most striking thing about him was his long grey beard, still streaked with black at the sides.
Gwayne dismounted smoothly, and Ser Martyn followed.
I stepped out of the carriage after Maester Marwyn, stretching my stiff legs and trying not to look as exhausted as I felt.
Gwayne walked forward with a wide, genuine smile and pulled the older knight into a firm hug.
“You’ve grown old, Ser Ruston,” he said warmly.
Ser Ruston didn’t exactly hug him back.
He just grunted and gave the young knight a couple of heavy pats on the shoulder, like he was checking if the younger man was still solid.
“King’s Landing has kept you away too long,” Ruston replied gruffly, stepping back.
“The journey must have been tiring. The young prince looks like he’s had enough.”
Gwayne turned toward me, almost like he’d momentarily forgotten I existed.
“My prince, this is Ser Ruston Chester, Master-at-Arms of the Hightower. He’s the one who trained me with the sword. One of the finest swordsmen I’ve ever known.”
“Your uncle flatters me too much, my prince,” Ser Ruston said in that rough, no-nonsense voice.
“There are far better than me. I simply do what I can.”
“My uncle is being modest, Ser,” I replied, trying to sound properly princely.
“He’s better with a blade than nearly anyone I’ve seen, present company excluded, of course. I trust his words.”
Martyn let out a loud snort behind me.
“Some knight he is. The Rogue Prince handed him his arse during the Tourney of the Heir.”
“I believe he did the same to you, if the stories of the day are to be trusted, Ser Morrigen,” I shot back dryly.
“Let’s not waste breath squabbling over the past.”
“Fair words, Your Grace,” Maester Marwyn agreed with a small, amused nod.
Ser Ruston gave a firm nod.
“There’s a dragonpit mined by the western walls. It should be comfortable enough for the young dragon and her keepers for the time being.”
He gestured to a young knight nearby.
“Ser Leyton, lead the carriage and the dragon keepers there.”
The young knight swung onto his horse without hesitation.
I raised my hand.
“One moment.”
I walked over to the cage.
Tessarion looked uneasy, shifting restlessly in the confined space, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and smells.
She let out a low, anxious rumble.
“Noè,” I whispered, slipping my hands through the bars.
She immediately pressed her scaled snout against my palms, seeking comfort.
I scratched gently beneath her neck.
“Bvez matares vo sùzhe doéharee, ólasr?”
She blinked slowly, tilting her head like an oversized puppy.
She made a soft, almost mournful cry as the cart began to move away.
I watched her go until she disappeared around the corner, then turned back.
Ser Ruston cleared his throat.
“Accommodations have been prepared for your retinue in the tower, Your Grace. Lord Ormund and Lord Otto are waiting for you in the lord’s solar.”
“I’ll take him myself,” Gwayne said before I could respond.
Maester Marwyn, looking thoroughly exhausted, bowed deeply.
“With your leave, Your Grace, I will retire to the Citadel for the night.”
I nodded.
Just as he turned to leave, I called after him.
“Though all men despise us!”
Marwyn paused, then glanced back with a tired but genuine smile.
“It is no better words than ‘We do not fish’, Your Grace.”
I let out a soft chuckle as I turned to follow Gwayne deeper into the tower.
Even the old maester was starting to get my sense of humor.
From the outside, the Hightower looked like a single massive tower.
Inside, it was far more complex, a sprawling castle built upward in layers, with smaller towers branching off like limbs.
We stepped onto a wide wooden platform operated by an elaborate pulley system.
It reminded me strongly of the lifts at the Wall I’d seen in the show.
The moment the platform started rising, Martyn’s face went pale.
He gripped the railing like it had personally betrayed him.
Gwayne just snorted at the sight.
We rose several stories before stepping off onto a lavishly decorated floor clearly meant for the highest nobility.
Rich tapestries, polished marble, and the faint scent of exotic perfumes filled the air.
As we walked down the corridor, a woman passed by.
She was striking, tall, with vivid red hair, plump lips, and a slender waist wrapped in flowing red-and-blue silk.
She didn’t speak, only offered a graceful nod before vanishing into one of the side rooms.
I’m not even lying, that was Kate Beckinsale with red hair.
I glanced at Gwayne.
“Who was that?”
“Lady Samantha,” he replied.
“Lord Ormund’s wife.”
“She looks… young,” I said.
“Younger than you.”
“She is seven-and-ten. He has a son too, Lyonel, who is four-and-ten, Lady Samantha is his second wife.”
Martyn let out a low whistle.
“Lord Hightower must be a lucky man. She’s a rare beauty.”
Gwayne smirked.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. From what I’ve heard, she’s as pompous as she is vain.”
Martyn shrugged.
“That only makes it better. You can always trust a vain woman, you know exactly what she wants but a woman who loves you? That’s far more dangerous. Love can fade. Greed never does.”
Gwayne rolled his eyes.
“Those might be the most foolish words I’ve ever heard. No wonder you became a Kingsguard. Probably no woman would have you.”
The two knights continued their passive bickering as we finally reached the lord’s solar.
The heavy doors opened to reveal a grand chamber with wide, open arches offering a breathtaking view of both the city and the sea beyond.
Three men stood inside.
One was a Citadel maester in his grey robes.
Another was a man with short red hair, dressed in expensive green-and-grey silken robes adorned with jewels and beside him stood an older man with grey hair and deep wrinkles, the unmistakable presence of a man who had served as Hand to three kings.
I stepped forward.
“Lord Ormund. Grandsire,” I said.
“I’m here.”