High Tower
Lord Hobert Hightower moved quickly through the corridor.
His boots struck the stone in steady beats, faster than a casual walk. Two guards followed close behind, their armor shifting softly with each step as they struggled to keep pace without breaking formation.
Servants stepped out of his way the moment they saw his face.
He did not spare them a glance.
The corridor ahead stood empty, and the door to the royal chamber waited at the end.
Hobert slowed as he reached it. He stood there briefly, drew in a deep breath, and held it.
Then he knocked. Firm.
From within, the old king's voice came clear despite the door.
"Come in."
Hobert pushed the door open and stepped inside. The heavy wood closed behind him with a thud.
The guards took their places on either side of the door, straight-backed and silent.
For a short while, there was nothing.
Then voices rose inside.
The king's voice came sharp with anger. The queen's was colder, harder. Not wild shouting, but controlled and cutting.
Words blurred through the thick wood, broken by distance and stone.
"…how long…?"
"…under your roof…"
"…your household…"
Hobert's voice rose in answer, strained and defensive.
"My king, I…"
The rest was swallowed.
The voices pressed on. Accusation. Denial. Something heavier beneath it all.
The guards did not move.
One shifted his weight slightly. The other glanced at him. Their eyes met for a brief moment before both faced forward again.
They were listening without meaning to.
Inside, the voices continued, then gradually lowered.
Not calmer. Quieter. Tighter.
Like something had settled into place.
A long silence followed.
The door opened.
Hobert stepped out and paused. His face was rigid, pale beneath the beard, his jaw tight.
His eyes burned with rage barely held.
The guards noticed. A quick glance passed between them, but neither spoke.
Hobert exhaled once, sharp through his nose. Then he turned and walked fast.
The guards fell in behind him at once.
They moved through the corridor with purpose now. No hesitation. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as they passed.
No one spoke.
They stopped before another door.
Lady Lynesse's chamber.
Hobert did not knock.
He pushed the door open hard enough for it to strike the wall with a dull crack, then stepped inside.
The door shut behind him.
The guards resumed their positions, one on each side.
For a breath, the corridor held quiet.
Then Hobert shouted.
"You vile, venomous woman… what have you done?!"
The rest broke apart against the door.
Another voice followed, higher and shaking.
"Hobert… I…"
His answer came louder, faster.
"Do you understand?!"
Then came crying.
Lady Lynesse's voice broke into sharp, unsteady breaths. Her words came apart before they could form.
"I didn't… I never…"
The guards stared ahead, faces blank.
They heard it.
Everyone in the corridor heard it.
The shouting. The scolding. The sound of something breaking.
And beneath it all, the sound of a woman losing control.
For the next few days, Lady Lynesse was not seen.
Lord Hobert declared that she had been deeply shocked by the sudden death of her close maid, Agnes, who had taken her own life, and was resting in her chamber, with a septa attending her.
But among the maids and guards, other whispers spread.
Some said Lord Hobert had confined his wife to her room himself. That the septa was not there for comfort, but to watch her.
There was also the matter of Agnes.
By order of Her Grace, Queen Alysanne, the girl was to be given the funeral rites of a Silent Sister.
That puzzled many.
In the end, the news of the incident did not spread far.
Lord Hightower saw to that.
Orders were given.
Tongues were checked.
Doors stayed closed.
And soon, life in the Hightower resumed its usual rhythm.
The Royal Chamber
"Miracle… a miracle… how?"
The Presiding Septon's voice trembled as he knelt before the bed.
His hands, old and thin, closed around Maegelle's left wrist. He turned it gently, almost fearfully, as though the skin might change again beneath his touch.
But it did not.
Pink. Whole. Alive.
No grey. No stone. No cracks creeping along the flesh.
The chamber held its breath.
The septon's eyes lifted slowly, searching the room.
King Jaehaerys stood near the foot of the bed, his face composed, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed him. Queen Alysanne stood beside him, one hand resting lightly against the bedpost. Prince Baelon watched in silence, arms folded.
Relief. Yes.
But also something else.
Measured. Careful.
"What do you think, Septon?" the king asked.
The old man swallowed.
"I… I do not know," he admitted. His voice shook. "This… this has never happened."
Baelon let out a short scoff.
"Do not tell me the gods' servant cannot recognize his own miracle."
The septon flinched slightly, his grip tightening around Maegelle's hand.
"It is a miracle," he said quickly. "It must be. But… how…?"
Septa Fryda stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly before her.
"I do not know either," she said. Her voice was thin from lack of sleep. "I woke this morning and saw it like this. The arm… the greyscale was gone."
She looked directly at the septon now, her gaze steady despite the tremor in her voice.
"Not just the arm," she said. "All of it. Every trace."
The septon's breath hitched.
He looked back at Maegelle's hand again.
Then at her face.
Then around the room.
His heart began to race.
A miracle.
It had to be.
What else could it be?
Queen Alysanne drew in a slow breath.
"It does not matter how," she said softly. "It has happened. That is enough."
Her eyes moved to her daughter, lingering there for a moment.
"For us. For our family."
She turned her head slightly, looking toward the king.
"Perhaps…" she said, as if the thought had only just come to her, "perhaps this is the answer to the prayers."
A quiet pause followed.
"The people," she continued. "Their wishes. Their faith."
Her voice remained gentle, but there was weight beneath it.
"Perhaps the gods listened."
King Jaehaerys studied her for a moment.
Then he gave a slow nod.
"Then we shall give thanks," he said. "And we shall not forget it."
His gaze shifted to the septon.
"This must be announced," he said, his tone firm now. "Let it be known that Princess Maegelle is free of greyscale."
A beat.
"That the prayers of the people of Oldtown have been answered."
"That their faith has cured her."
The septon nodded at once.
"Yes… yes, Your Grace," he said, though his voice sounded distant, as if he were still catching up to the moment. "Of course… it will be done."
He looked again at Maegelle's hand.
Still whole.
Still untouched by stone.
His fingers trembled.
Across the room, near the wall, Aegon stood with his arms loosely at his sides.
Beside him, Gael watched everything with bright, curious eyes.
A small smile tugged at her lips.
She glanced toward Maegelle.
The septa-princess sat propped against the pillows, her gaze lowered, carefully avoiding the eyes of everyone in the room. A faint blush colored her cheeks. Embarrassed by the performance unfolding around her.
Gael's smile threatened to break into a giggle.
Then—
Alysanne's eyes flicked toward her. Sharp. Instant.
The look was enough.
Gael straightened at once, her expression smoothing back into something more proper and solemn.
A crooked alley near the Starry Sept
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The knocking came hard enough to rattle the crooked little door on its hinges.
"Oi, Walter! Walter! Open the damn door!"
Inside, the one-room shack looked like a sty.
Old clothes lay in heaps. A cracked stool leaned sideways in one corner. An empty plate with hardened grease sat on the floor beside three bottles, two empty and one nearly so. The whole place smelled of sour drink, old sweat, and something long unwashed.
On a nest of sheets thrown together near the wall, a man groaned.
Walter dragged an arm over his face and squinted toward the door as if the noise itself were hurting him. His beard had grown rough and wild across his jaw. His hair stuck out in greasy clumps. As he pushed himself up, his hand swept across the floor and struck one of the bottles.
Clink.
Then another.
They rolled away across the boards.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Waaalter!"
He winced and bared his teeth.
"Shuddup, Willow!" he shouted, his voice cracked and heavy from drink.
Outside, Willow muttered something under her breath that sounded very much like a curse.
Walter swayed upright, one hand pressed to his temple. His head throbbed. His mouth felt dry enough to split. He staggered to the door and yanked it open.
Sunlight hit him full in the face.
He hissed and threw up a hand to shield his eyes.
Willow stood there with her arms folded, broad-hipped and sturdy, a basket of washing hooked against one side. Her brown hair had been tied back in a rough knot, and impatience sat on her face as plainly as if it had been painted there.
"Finally," she said. "Thought ye'd died in there. I'd have had your little shack for myself."
Walter smelled of stale wine and slept-in filth. Even standing in the doorway, he gave off the heavy stink of a man who had drowned too many nights in drink.
He rubbed at one eye and grunted. "What d'you want?"
Willow jerked her head toward the city.
"You should go to the sept. There's been news. They're saying someone's been cured of greyscale. Or something like that. Whole city's running there now."
Walter blinked.
For the first time since opening the door, his eyes sharpened.
"What?"
But Willow was already turning away.
"I'm off," she said. "Got more clothes to wash."
She stomped down the lane without another glance.
Walter stood there a moment, breathing through his mouth.
Then he stepped out into the alley and looked toward the wider street beyond.
Willow had not lied.
People were moving fast in one direction. More than a few. Men, women, even children half-running to keep up, all headed toward the Starry Sept.
Walter frowned.
His ears still rang. His skull felt stuffed with iron. His stomach turned under the remains of last night's drink.
Still, he started walking.
One unsteady step.
Then another.
He followed the others toward the sept.
A huge crowd had gathered before the Starry Sept.
Larger than the one that had come when the king and queen gave alms. Much larger. The square below the great white steps was packed tight with bodies, and still more pressed in from the streets behind, standing on barrels, carts, ledges, anything that might give them a better look.
Most had come for one thing.
Curiosity.
The rumor had spread like fire.
Princess Maegelle.
The septa-princess.
Cured.
Cured by the wishes of the people.
Old Walter pushed through the edge of the crowd with slow, crooked steps. People smelled him before they saw him. Faces twisted. Shoulders jerked away.
"Gods."
"Piss off."
"Seven hells, what's that smell?"
A woman pulled her child closer as he passed. A man cursed under his breath and shoved Walter's shoulder, but Walter barely noticed.
His gaze had fixed on the steps.
There stood the king and queen, high above the crowd, bright in the morning light. Beside them stood the Presiding Septon of the Starry Sept in his robes, solemn and grand. Farther back, Walter saw Lord Hightower and his son as well. Both stiff and watchful.
Guards lined the steps in a hard row, spears and mailed shoulders keeping the crowd back.
Walter kept moving until he could go no farther.
Then he stopped.
His head still pounded. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. The stink of bodies, stone and sun-warmed cloth pressed together in the air.
Up on the steps, the Presiding Septon stepped forward.
He lifted both hands.
His voice rang out over the square.
"Today, we gather here to witness a miracle!"
The crowd stirred at once. Murmurs rushed through it like wind through dry grass.
"That is right," the septon called. "A miracle! A miracle brought forth by the gods in answer to prayer. In answer to your prayers. Your wishes for the well-being of our own Septa Maegelle!"
Walter stared.
Then someone moved forward from behind the royal family.
Slowly. Deliberately.
A woman in septa's robes.
Walter's eyes widened.
Maegelle.
Septa-princess Maegelle.
Alive.
Standing.
Smiling.
A murmur swept through the crowd at once.
Her face was clear. Pale, calm, untouched by any sign of sickness. No strain. No greyness. As she stepped forward, one hand slipped from the long grey sleeve of her robe.
Pink. Whole.
A sharp breath passed through the people below.
Some craned their necks, trying to see more.
Others frowned, eyes dropping to the heavy folds of her robes, as though trying to guess what lay hidden beneath them.
A few exchanged quick, uncertain looks.
"She looks well…"
"That hand—"
"But the rest—?"
Then the Presiding Septon's voice rose again, louder now, full of force.
"Before the eyes of gods and men, I tell you this… every trace of greyscale is gone! The Mother has shown her mercy! The Seven have answered!"
That broke them.
Cheers burst upward from every side. People shouted over one another, laughing, crying, calling on the Seven. Some fell to their knees. Others lifted both hands toward the steps. A few fanatics surged forward, trying to push past the guards just to get nearer.
"The Mother bless her!"
"A miracle!"
"Septa Maegelle!"
"The Seven are good!"
The guards shoved them back hard. Spears lowered. Voices barked.
"Back!"
"Stay back!"
Walter did not cheer.
He just stared.
His mouth had fallen open. His breathing had gone strange and shallow.
The Presiding Septon was shouting again, calling for calm, beginning another speech, but the words blurred together under the roar of the crowd.
Walter heard almost none of it.
His mind had already gone somewhere else.
Why?
The word formed once.
Then again.
Why?
This time his lips moved. "Why…"
No one heard him.
The people around him were still praising, still weeping, still reaching toward the steps as though the gods themselves had appeared in flesh.
Walter's eyes stayed fixed on Maegelle.
On her living face.
On the pink hand.
On the calm smile.
His throat tightened.
"Why not my son?" he muttered.
His voice cracked.
"He was a good boy."
The cheers crashed around him.
Walter's jaw trembled.
His eyes did not leave the steps. Or Maegelle.
Something dark and bitter rose in his chest, hot as bile.
Not grief alone. Not anymore.
Resentment.
Sharp. Ugly. Alive.
Around him, the crowd kept shouting for the miracle.
But to Walter, the sound had already turned to noise. Meaningless. Distant.
He stood there in the middle of it, reeking of wine and loss, staring at the woman the gods had chosen.
And thinking of his son they had passed over.
***
📜 Milestones:
200 Power Stones → +1 Chapter
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