Chapter 60 (Patreon)

The wind pouring through the narrow arched window was bitter cold, blowing hard off the dark waters of the Whispering Sound, but the words inked onto the parchment in his shaking hands were colder still.

Lord Manfred Hightower breathed out slowly through his nose, his thumb tracing the smooth, heavy grain of the paper. It was vellum of the finest quality, manufactured in the royal scriptoriums of the Aegonfort, imported from the Free Cities at a price that could buy a knight’s warhorse. He could not help but admire the flawless consistency of the parchment beneath his fingers even as a prickling frost settled deep inside his chest. Yet nothing of value would be gained by venting his fury upon a measly piece of paper.

To ground himself in the grotesque reality that had unfolded overnight, with every careful plan thrown into ruin while the realm slept, Manfred read the words written upon the page once more, forcing his eyes to travel over the fine black script with painful slowness.

King Aenys Targaryen had abdicated his throne after barely a single day wearing his father's crown.

It was absurd, so utterly absurd that Manfred threw his head back against the cold grey stone of the window seat and laughed. It was an incredulous, barking sound that echoed sharply off the high vault of his bedchamber.

Riches beyond measure, seven kingdoms of men, iron thrones and dragonlords, Great Houses and ancient lineages, all of it held in the palm of a hand, ready to be stringed along and moved around like wooden puppets upon a stage. Yet the eldest son of Aegon the Conqueror had simply chosen to drop the strings and walk away. Manfred laughed again, louder this time, wiping a solitary tear of humor from the corner of his eye with his knuckles. To think that this timid creature was the son of the great dragonlord who had burned Harrenhal to cinders! He knew stable boys in the lower courtyards of Oldtown who possessed more steel in their balls than Aenys Targaryen.

He lingered beside the high window for a moment longer, a thin, bitter smile lingering upon his lips as he looked out across the grand vista below. From these upper reaches of the Hightower, three hundred feet above the cobblestones, the city of Oldtown looked like a toy built of white stone and timber. The great river Honeywine coiled through the city like a silver ribbon, crowded with trading galleys, war cogges, and fishing sloops. Far off to the west, the marble domes of the Starry Sept gleamed under the pale morning sun, while the slate roofs of the Citadel crouched near the riverbank. It was an empire of wealth and piety, ruled from this very tower for thousands of years.

Manfred’s fingers tightened around the royal dispatch. With a sharp twist of his wrists, he tore the heavy vellum down the middle, then tore it again, and again, until it was nothing more than a handful of white scraps. He thrust his hand out the window and let the pieces go. The sea draft caught them instantly, scattering the royal news across the sky like a flock of frantic gulls.

A sharp knock sounded against the thick oak of his chamber door.

Manfred snarled, the fury that he had kept tightly bottled beneath his ribs suddenly surging over like sour wine in a pot. He whirled toward the doorway just as a young boy, a junior cupbearer in a green velvet doublet, poked his pale face through the opening.

"My lord," the boy stammered, his eyes wide with fear as he took in the lord's thunderous expression, "the lady, your wife and your son wait at the high table. They send word that the fast is broken, and..."

"Get out of my sight before I have you whipped down to the docks!" Manfred roared.

The boy gasped, retreating so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. Manfred slammed the heavy oak door shut with a deafening thunk that rattled the iron hinges in the stone, then turned back into the quiet room.

He gripped the carved edge of his mahogany table with both hands, his knuckles turning white as he fought down the overwhelming urge to sweep every brass candlestick, inkhorn, and map off the surface and smash them into splinters against the hearth. He closed his eyes, drawing a long, shuddering breath through his nose, forcing his muscles to relax and massaged his forehead.

Years! Decades of careful, agonizing political maneuverings, all washed down the gutter due to one pathetic, weakling prince and a useless daughter who could not even manage to bear a single child. All of it flushed into the sea because two imbeciles could not perform their basic duties to their bloodline.

Manfred growled to himself, a dark, guttural sound in his throat. He snatched his heavy mantle of forest-green wool from the back of a chair, throwing it over his shoulders and fastening the gold tower-shaped clasp at his collar. He opened the door, stepping out into the high corridor, his heavy riding boots striking the stone flagstones with a rhythmic, furious thud that echoed off the ancient walls of the tower.

Ceryse, his only daughter. He had given her everything! He had bled gold for her! The strings he had been forced to pull, the favors he had traded with the Hightower bannermen, the endless promises made to the septons of the Starry Sept, along with a dowry heavy enough to buy a fleet of war galleys, all of it to secure her marriage to the crown prince. And for what? So she could sit upon Dragonstone like a barren statue, failing to fulfill the singular purpose for which the gods had fashioned a woman’s womb.

Descending the endless spiral staircase carved into the living rock of the tower’s base, Manfred recited the prayers of the Seven in his mind to calm the pounding in his temples. He murmured the names of the Father and the Warrior, searching for clarity, yet the sacred words offered precious little comfort. They did, however, clear the red fog from his eyes enough to allow him to think like a lord once more.

If only that cursed union had brought forth a son! It would have been a salvation for House Hightower and the realm at large. The noble blood of Oldtown would have coursed through the veins of future kings. Every child born of Ceryse would have been raised under the shadow of the Starry Sept, taught to love the Seven, guided by maesters and pious advisers. The Seven Kingdoms would have been bound together under one true Faith, steered subtly from the High Tower. And even if Aenys had chosen to abdicate under the weight of his own weakness, Manfred would have held the royal infants in his arms, using them as legitimate pawns to push Maegor aside and claim the regency for himself.

Instead, he was left with nothing. No grandson, no leverage, and no seat at the royal table.

The Targaryens were accursed creatures, born of fire, madness, and the unnatural filth of brother marrying sister. They desperately needed the civilized, pious blood of the First Men and the Andals to soften their monstrous instincts. Anything less was an abomination against nature and the gods. Manfred reminded himself that the Father Above worked in ways beyond the understanding of mortal men. If this union was not meant to bear fruit, he would simply have to accept the hand dealt to him and begin constructing a new trap.

Yet he could not suppress the bitter sting of regret that ate at his belly like lye.

Years ago, when King Aegon had first made it known that he sought noble brides for his son, Manfred had considered offering Ceryse to Maegor instead. But back then, Maegor was merely a younger prince, second in line behind his brother. Manfred had let his greed blind him. He had assumed Aenys was the safer, grander prize, the heir who would one day sit upon the Iron Throne and rule a peaceful realm. He saw now why the High Septon preached so fiercely against the sin of greed. Had he chosen Maegor back then, House Hightower would currently hold the ear of the undisputed King of Westeros.

Maegor, however... now there was a man who demanded careful study.

Manfred paused at the landing above the lower hall, running a hand through his long, graying hair as he caught his breath. An unrelenting force, those were the only words in the Common Tongue that could properly describe the man. Maegor was not only a cold-hearted brute of a warrior who had claimed Balerion within the same day his own father died; he was an effective and ruthless organizer. Single handedly, he had taken Dragonstone, a barren, volcanic rock full of surly fishermen and salt-smugglers, and transformed it into one of the mightiest trading hubs in the Narrow Sea. He had built shipyards, established strict customs tolls, and brought order to an island that had known only Valyrian isolation for a century.

Manfred had met the prince a dozen times at court feasts and tournaments. It was easy to see why common soldiers and highborn lords alike were drawn to him like moths to a flame. Maegor spoke less, but whenever he did choose to open his jaw, his voice carried a weight that commanded absolute obedience. He was a creature of iron and shadow, even far more dangerous than his father had ever been.

Reaching the heavy oak doors at the base of the stairs, Manfred paused to straighten his cloak, pushing open the iron-studded gates that led into the high dining hall.

The room was vast, framed by towering arches of pale white stone, with tall stained-glass windows depicting the Mother and the Maiden casting pools of blue and ruby light across the polished floor. At the head of the long oak table sat his wife, Lady Alerie, her face pale and drawn, while his eldest son and heir, Martyn, sat beside her, idly picking at a plate of salt beef and fried eggs. The table felt unnervingly empty. In years past, when Ceryse was still a girl running through the halls and young Morgan was practicing with a wooden sword in the courtyard, the room had been filled with laughter and noise. But time devoured all things, leaving only silence in its wake.

Manfred offered his wife and son a tight-lipped, hollow smile before walking to the head of the table and pulling back his high-backed chair.

"My lord," Lady Alerie said softly, her blue eyes filled with quiet concern as a servant hurried forward to pour dark Arbor wine into Manfred's goblet. "You look as though you have seen a ghost from the walls."

"Worse," Manfred grunted, reaching for a thick slab of dark rye bread and spreading salted butter over the crust. "I have read a letter from the crown."

Martyn lowered his pewter fork, looking up attentively. "Has Aenys died? Is there sickness in the east?"

"Aenys lives," Manfred replied, taking a heavy sip of the wine and letting the dry, tart flavor coat his tongue. "Though it would be better for our family if he had died of a fever years ago. The weak fool has given up his crown. He put his father’s steel on his head, wore it for less than a day, and then handed the Seven Kingdoms to his brother like a man giving away an old coat."

Lady Alerie gasped, her hand flying to her throat, while Martyn sat frozen, his jaw slacking in disbelief.

"He... he abdicated?" Martyn whispered, leaning forward. "To Maegor?"

"To Maegor," Manfred repeated, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he set his goblet back down with a wet clatter. "My son-in-law is no longer even a king. He is a prince without a crown, married to a daughter of Oldtown who has given him no heirs. Our house stands exposed, Martyn."

Though he forced himself to chew his bread and swallow the food, there was far too much dark thunder in Manfred’s head for him to enjoy the meal. He stared into his plate, analyzing the contents of the letter that was currently floating in tiny scraps across the bay.

The report from his agent in King’s Landing had included the speech Maegor had delivered to the assembled lords in the Great Hall of the Aegonfort. Though the new King had not explicitly declared war upon Dorne in so many words, anyone with half a brain could see where the wind was blowing. Maegor had spoken of a broken realm, of six kingdoms claimed and a seventh left bleeding in the red sands. He had sworn that he would wear no crown until the work of House Targaryen was finished.

It was a masterstroke of cunning, and it terrified Manfred to his very core. Under any normal circumstances, a younger brother snatching the throne while the elder brother stood aside would have sparked instant outrage among the Great Houses, whether it was willing or not, the elder brother weak, or not. The lords of the realm valued primogeniture above all else; it was the foundation upon which their own inheritances rested. But by offering the realm a war against the Dornish, Maegor was handing the lords exactly what they craved: blood, plunder, and vengeance.

Who among the nobility would dare speak out against the usurpation when the King was promising to march south? Certainly not the lords of the Reach, who had watched their crops burn and their peasants bleed during the Dornish raids of the First War. And certainly not the Marcher lords of the Stormlands, whose hatred for the Dornish was bred into their very bones. The Reach and the Stormlands had suffered in bitter silence ever since King Aegon had signed that spineless peace treaty with the Princess of Dorne years ago.

Manfred himself did not give a horse’s shit about the sand-monkeys of Dorne. Heathens, every last one of them, no better than the ironborn reavers or the wildlings beyond the Wall. They paid no homage to the High Septon, they lived in sin, and they killed knights with poison and ambush. The more of them that burned in the desert, the better it would be for all of Westeros. Manfred certainly would not shed a single tear if a few thousand Dornishmen were roasted alive in their stone towers by the black fire of Balerion.

And that was precisely why Maegor was so dangerous. The man possessed a mind as sharp and brutal as the Valyrian steel sword strapped to his hip. By manufacturing a common enemy, by pointing the realm toward the Red Mountains of Dorne, Maegor would unite the angry lords behind his banner. The distaste, the religious shock, and the legal outrage over Aenys’ abdication would be swept away in a tide of martial fervor. Once Dorne was brought to its knees, once the sands ran red with heathens, no lord in Westeros would ever dare question whether Maegor was the rightful heir. The lords of this realm were simple, pig-brained creatures; feed them war, give them songs of victory, and they would forget every oath they had ever sworn.

And that was the very core of the problem facing House Hightower.

Manfred leaned back in his heavy chair, picking up his goblet and taking a slow, calculated sip of wine, savoring the rich, heavy taste before setting it back upon the table.

Dragons. Incestuous, arrogant, ambitious monsters. First the father who forced six kingdoms to kneel, and now the son who intended to break the seventh. Too much absolute power was concentrated in the hands of a single family, a family that believed themselves to be gods walking among mortal men. No man who was sane in his mind would ever willingly marry his own sister; only demons wearing the smooth skin of humans could commit such foul blasphemies against the Seven.

Manfred licked his dry lips nervously, his eyes darting quickly around the high room, checking the curtained archways and stone pillars before remembering where he was. He was in the heart of the Hightower, surrounded by his own guards. No dragon the size of a mountain was going to swoop through the stained-glass windows to burn him for his thoughts. Not yet, at least. And he intended to keep it that way for as long as he lived.

Maegor was too smart, too strong, and far too powerful for the good of the realm. No single man should ever hold that much unchecked authority. If a king could dismiss the High Septon, reject the holy oils, and rule purely by the law of fire and steel, then what need would he ever have for House Hightower? What need would he have for the Faith?

Already, the new King had brought two children into the world on Dragonstone, twins born of his marriage with the Velaryon girl. And no doubt those children would eventually be wed to one another when they came of age, perpetuating the foul, unholy bloodline for another generation. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. Such horrors could not be permitted to take permanent root in a realm that loved the gods.

Manfred set his silver fork down upon his golden plate with a sharp, metallic clink. He leaned back, chewing his salted mutton in absolute silence, staring out through the high windows toward the western sky where the Starry Sept stood.

It had become nearly impossible to maintain a network of spies inside the Aegonfort ever since that terrifying incident years ago. King Aegon had somehow managed to uncover the names of each and everyone of his informants in the royal household. The warning delivered back to Manfred had been subtle, written on plain parchment with no signature, sealed only with a drop of red wax shaped like a dragon's foot. But the message had been crystal clear.

Manfred was no foolish sheep to be herded into a slaughterhouse. He had swallowed his pride, bowed his head, and recalled his remaining agents, keeping his house quiet and obedient for years. Only a few years ago had he begun sneaking new informers into King’s Landing, hiding them among the stonemasons and kitchen servants working on the construction of the Red Keep.

Yet it was a deeply worrying prospect now. No spy Manfred sent to Dragonstone ever lasted more than a few moons. They vanished into the salt marshes, fell off cliffs, or simply stopped writing. Maegor ran his island with a merciless, razor-sharp discipline that left no room for shadowy games. And now that Maegor was sitting upon the throne in the Aegonfort, that same impenetrable curtain of iron would descend over King's Landing.

Too much power in one hand, Manfred thought again, his heart hardening like granite inside his chest.

Kingship was not a gift to be seized by dragonfire or claimed through the brute strength of a warlord. Kingship was a sacred trust, bestowed by the grace of the Seven Above, anointed by the holy hands of the High Septon in the Starry Sept. If a dragonlord could simply laugh at the holy oils and declare his own law to be steel, then the authority of the Faith would be reduced to ash.

His mind cleared as he looked around the silent dining hall, watching his eldest son Martyn silently eating his meal. A new plan, dark and subtle, began to germinate in the fertile soil of his mind.

If House Hightower could not control the throne through the womb of Ceryse, then House Hightower would check the power of the throne through the sacred strength of the Faith.

Maegor might possess Balerion, but the High Septon possessed the hearts of millions of smallfolk, knights, and pious lords across every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. And down in the lower streets of Oldtown, locked within the fortified chapter-houses of the Septs, stood the Warrior’s Sons, hundreds of noble knights dressed in silver-plated armor, sworn to defend the Faith to the death. Beside them were the Poor Fellows, thousands of fanatical commoners armed with axes, cudgels, and star-shaped badges sewn into their rags.

They were an army of holy zealots, waiting for a spark. All they lacked was gold, steel, and a hand to guide them.

Manfred picked up his wine goblet once more, tilting it toward the light, watching the deep crimson liquid swirl against the polished silver. A cold, quiet satisfaction began to replace the bitter rage that had consumed him all morning.

Surely, no lord in the realm could ever suspect the Lord of the Hightower if the Warrior’s Sons were to suddenly find their vaults overflowing with a mysterious, anonymous gift of heavy gold. No one would ever be able to prove where the silver came from if thousands of Poor Fellows were quietly provided with iron spears, steel caps, and rations to march along the rose roads.

If King Maegor wished to rule by steel and spit upon the holy oils of the Starry Sept, then House Hightower would ensure that the steel he met in return was forged in the holy fires of the Seven.

"Martyn," Manfred said softly, breaking the heavy silence of the hall.

His son looked up immediately from his plate. "Yes, father?"

"After we finish breaking our fast, send word to the Most Devout at the Starry Sept," Manfred said, his voice smooth as silk and cold as ice. "Tell the Septons that I wish to hold a private audience with the High Septon before the noon prayers. We have much to discuss regarding the defense of the realm."

Martyn nodded slowly, a knowing glint appearing in his young eyes. "It shall be done, father."

Manfred leaned back in his seat, taking a deep, satisfying draught of his Arbor wine. The game was far from over. The dragon might hold the sky, but the Hightower stood upon the solid rock.

...

Well, well, well guess who's back. It's me. Anyhow, Manfred won't be launching any direct attacks through the Warrior's Sons too soon, because it would be too suspicious and they still need a justifiable enough reason to do it.

Also, I plan to wrap up this fanfiction by the end of the month, so I'll start to pick up the pace from tomorrow.