The hall of the Hightower glowed warm with torchlight and hanging lamps.
Wine moved first. Then laughter. Then music.
Maids and servants crossed the floor in steady streams, balancing silver trays heavy with roasted meats, spiced fish, soft bread, figs, honey cakes, and shining jugs of red and gold.
Minor lords of Oldtown and the nearby lands stood in clusters beneath the carved pillars, talking in low, careful voices. Ladies in fine gowns smiled behind jeweled cups.
Near the center of the hall, two courtesans danced with slow, practiced grace while musicians played from one side, harp and flute weaving through the murmur of noble conversation.
It was not a wild feast.
Oldtown had too much polish for that.
Even celebrations here had manners.
Queen Alysanne stood beside Gael, speaking with a small ring of noblewomen. Her smile was easy. Gentle. Kind in the way that made people lean toward her without noticing it. Gael stood close to her mother, listening, nodding when needed, though her eyes wandered often. King Jaehaerys sat a little farther off with Lord Hobert Hightower, receiving greetings from minor nobles one by one. Names were offered. Bows given. Polite words exchanged. Lord Hobert answered them all with a stiff courtesy that never quite reached his eyes. After all, Lady Lynesse was nowhere to be seen. That absence sat in the hall like a stain beneath perfume.
Aegon took a wine cup from a passing servant and drifted toward one of the side pillars. He leaned against the cool stone and lifted the cup to his mouth.
From there he could see most of the room without being in the middle of it.
Better that way.
A little distance let him breathe.
On the far side of the hall, Ser Ormund stood with a knot of young noble boys, all of them trying and failing to appear older than they were. They murmured among themselves, occasionally glancing his way, then looking off when his eyes turned toward them. One whispered something. Another smirked. Ormund did not join in, but he did nothing to stop it either.
Aegon caught one pair of eyes and gave the boy a polite smile.
The boy nearly choked on his own expression and looked away at once.
Aegon took another sip.
His gaze moved across the hall again, slower this time.
People had noticed Lynesse's absence. Of course they had. She was too visible a woman for it to pass without comment. The smiling hostess. The center of every little knot of talk. Now she was missing, and the nobles of Oldtown were doing what nobles did best.
Smiling while whispering.
A pair of ladies with goblets half-raised and brows slightly bent. Two older men speaking behind lifted sleeves. A young knight leaning close to a girl in pale blue silk. Even the servants looked quicker-eyed than usual, carrying plates while listening with every step.
So.
The rumors had spread already.
Aegon hid a small sneer behind his cup.
Good.
Lynesse had earned every whisper crawling through this hall tonight.
He let the thought slide aside and quietly turned inward.
The EXP was still rising.
Slowly now. Not the sharp surge from before. But it was rising.
As expected.
The morning's spectacle had shaken Oldtown. The miracle. The proclamation. The crowd. The belief. All of it fed to his Class Tree.
He took another slow drink.
Maegelle, the actual center of the celebration, was not even here to see it. She had chosen to spend the evening at the Starry Sept with her sisters instead. After weeks shut away, that was probably the better comfort for her. A hall full of polished strangers celebrating her cure from a safe distance would have done little for her mood.
He understood that.
Aegon tipped the last of the wine into his mouth and swallowed.
The music went on. A burst of soft laughter rose somewhere near the king. Servants moved like shadows between silk and torchlight. Ormund and his little pack still lingered together, peering now and then as if deciding whether to approach him.
He did not give them the chance.
Pushing off the pillar, cup empty in hand, Aegon passed it to a servant and began making his way toward the exit.
As he neared the doors, he felt rather than saw a glance turn toward him.
Baelon.
His father was in mid-conversation with a heavyset landed knight, but his eyes flicked once toward the doors, caught Aegon leaving, and then returned to the man in front of him.
Aegon kept walking.
He slipped out of the hall and into the quieter passages beyond.
The music dulled behind stone.
The air cooled.
Better.
He climbed to one of the upper windows. Oldtown had already spread itself beneath the night like a field of dim stars. Lamps burned along the streets. The harbor held broken strips of reflected light. Somewhere far below, faint voices drifted upward from the city.
A cool breeze moved through the open window.
Aegon rested both elbows on the stone ledge and looked out.
For a little while, he said nothing. Thought nothing. Just let the wind pull through his hair and cool the heat left by the hall.
Then the thoughts came anyway.
Maegelle's cure.
Agnes.
Lynesse's lesson.
The proclamation at the sept.
Everything had gone smoothly.
Almost too smoothly.
That was the trouble.
A part of him refused to trust it.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to quiet the old edge in his mind. Paranoia, perhaps. Or caution. The line between the two had grown thin.
His thoughts shifted.
Spells were easier to think through than people.
The spell he had used on Agnes was the [Mind Control] spell he had developed way back. In principle, it was simple enough. It overrode the victim's consciousness for a limited amount of time and forced obedience through direct spiritual domination. The victim remained aware. That was one of its ugliest parts. Aware of the world. Aware of the body. Aware of being controlled. But unable to stop it.
If the victim possessed fierce mental strength or enough raw willpower, the duration could shorten even further. Resistance could fray the hold. Break the timing.
Because of that flaw, the spell could only be used in certain situations.
Agnes had not broken it.
But she had fought.
He had felt the casting go smoothly enough at first. The mental link had formed. The override had settled. Her body obeyed. Her will did not matter.
Not until the end.
The instant Agnes understood what her body was about to do, fierce resistance had surged back through the link. Pure animal terror. A desperate, ragged refusal from a mind that finally understood death was a step away.
It had not been enough.
She still jumped.
But he had felt every moment of that resistance.
It made him dislike the spell even more.
Originally he had wanted to create a spell of long-term hypnosis after pushing [Psychic Master] to max. That path had seemed cleaner. The [Psychic Master] trait, Subliminal influence, allowed cues to be planted in the subconsciousness of others, but only with patience. Repetition. Time. It was a method for gentle shaping, not immediate control.
It could not solve urgent problems then.
So he had built the [Mind Control] spell instead. But it too failed his standards.
That frustration had led him elsewhere.
Why did the control have to remain purely spiritual?
Why did it have to remain only a spell?
Questions that had led to the [Blood Rune].
Then to fusion.
And then, finally to the [Scarlet Brand].
His mouth twitched faintly.
It was effective. Promising. The [Scarlet Brand] had already led to two later versions, the Neck-Brand and the Back-Brand. Cruder in some ways. More stable in others.
There had been a part of him that had badly wanted to press those brands into Otto Hightower and every other smooth-faced snake nesting in court.
Tempting.
Very tempting.
But in the end he had stepped back from it.
Why focus on breaking every schemer one by one when strength could make their plans worthless anyway?
Kill one snake and another slid into the grass. Tame one faction and another rose elsewhere. Better to leave known enemies where they were. Let them remain visible. Let them keep moving as heads of their little nests. Then use telepathy when needed. Check their thoughts. Learn the shape of the plot. Fine-tune the outcome. Steer rather than purge.
Less work.
Fewer unknown replacements.
More control.
"Enjoying the night breeze, huh?"
Baelon's voice cut through his thoughts.
Aegon turned his head. His father was climbing the last of the steps toward the window, one hand brushing the wall for balance. He had clearly been drinking, though not so much that his stride had gone loose.
Aegon smiled and nodded. "Yes. It's good here."
Baelon came to stand beside him and looked out over the city.
For a few heartbeats they simply watched Oldtown.
Then Baelon grunted. "You should go into the city before we leave. Mingle with the people a little. We'll be back in King's Landing in a few days."
Aegon nodded once.
"There's an inn along the Honeywine." Baelon's mouth pulled into a knowing smile. "Quill and Tankard. Good strong cider there. Better wenches too. Some of Oldtown's finest."
Aegon felt the turn in the conversation before it fully came and regretted not leaving the window sooner.
Baelon glanced sideways at him. "Have you had your first woman yet?"
Aegon raised a brow and gave him a wry look. "Umm… no."
Baelon barked out a laugh.
"It's time you did. Your brothers already have." He said it with the easy confidence of a man passing down hard-earned wisdom. "A boy has to have a woman before he becomes a man. And you're engaged, not chained. There's no harm in a few mistresses before marriage."
He nudged the stone with one knuckle, still looking outward.
"Makes you better in bed too."
Aegon managed a smile. Forcefully.
"Very useful knowledge," he said.
Baelon laughed again, clearly pleased with himself.
A quiet stretch followed after that. Just the wind. The city below. Father and son looking out over the lights.
Then Baelon let out a breath and pushed himself upright from the ledge.
"Well. I'd better get to bed. Had too much to drink."
He took a few steps away, then stopped and turned back as if only just remembering something.
"Oh. Aegon."
Aegon looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"
Baelon scratched at his jaw. "Keep the blood magic business under wraps for now. From your brothers too."
His tone had sobered.
"Say it was healing magic. Or something of that sort."
Aegon nodded. "Right."
Baelon smiled faintly. "Night then."
"Night."
Baelon turned and went back down the steps, his footfalls fading slowly into the quiet below.
Aegon watched him go.
A small smile touched his lips.
Then the smile vanished.
His eyes widened.
The change came sharp and crawling at once.
A sense of danger rose in his spirituality.
Cold.
Immediate.
A warning.
A few minutes earlier.
Starry Sept
Maegelle smiled as her sisters clustered around her once more.
They had not let her go easily all evening. One had clung to her arm. Another had kept touching her sleeve as if to make certain she was truly there, truly whole, truly warm. Their voices had risen and fallen around her in soft bursts of laughter and wonder, questions asked twice over, little stories shared simply because they had missed the chance to share them before.
It had been a long time since she had sat among them like this.
Too long.
At last she drew back a little, still smiling.
"I should offer my evening prayers," she said gently. "It has been some time since I last prayed in the hall."
One of her sisters made a small face, disappointed but understanding.
"Will you come back after?"
Maegelle's smile softened. "If you are still awake."
That earned a quiet laugh.
She turned then to Septa Fryda, who stood a little apart, older eyes watching everything with the weary fondness of someone who had carried too much fear for too many days.
"You should rest tonight," Maegelle said. "Truly. There is no need to keep hovering over me now."
Fryda gave her a look.
"I hover because I am old enough to know that joy makes people foolish."
Maegelle laughed softly.
"And I am well enough to walk to the altar alone."
The older septa's expression eased.
"Very well," she said. "But only because I am tired enough that my knees may betray me if I argue longer."
One of the other septas let out a quiet chuckle.
Maegelle stepped forward and squeezed Fryda's hand.
"Rest," she said again.
Fryda nodded. "Do not stay overlong."
"I will not."
With that, the older woman turned away, the other septas moving with her. Her sisters lingered a moment more before being drawn off as well, their soft voices fading down the stone passage.
Maegelle watched them go.
Then she turned toward the prayer hall.
The hall was not empty.
That pleased her more than she had expected.
A few women knelt in silence near the front, heads bowed beneath the candlelight. Two old men were farther back, stiff with age, lips moving in soundless prayer. Wax burned in thick clusters before the altar, and the air held that familiar scent of smoke, old stone, and quiet devotion.
It felt right.
Familiar.
Safe.
Maegelle drew in a slow breath and stepped inside.
Her soft shoes made almost no sound on the floor. She passed the first row of benches and moved to the side of the altar, where fresh candles waited in their iron stand. She chose one, lit it carefully from another flame, and set it among the rest.
Its light trembled for a moment.
Then steadied.
Maegelle lowered herself to her knees.
She bowed her head.
For a little while, she said nothing at all.
The silence of the hall wrapped around her gently. Somewhere behind her, cloth rustled. Someone coughed once, low and dry, then fell still again. Candlelight flickered against the pale stone walls.
Maegelle closed her eyes.
Her prayer came slowly.
Not because she lacked words.
Because she had too many.
She thanked the gods first.
For life. For breath. For waking without pain crawling through her flesh. For hands that no longer shook when they reached for her. For the simple mercy of being able to kneel here again beneath the Seven-pointed star instead of rotting behind closed doors.
Then her thoughts turned.
To Aegon.
Her lips moved silently.
She thanked the gods for letting him cure her. For putting such impossible knowledge into his hands. For guiding him where no maester could. For giving her back the days she had thought were gone forever.
And because she could not stop there, she prayed for more.
For the children too.
For those whose skin still hardened while the world stepped away from them.
If such a cure had been made for her, then let it not end with her. Let some path be found. Let some mercy remain.
After that she prayed for her family.
For her mother, whose smile had carried too much strain beneath it these past weeks. For her father, who hid grief behind firmness so badly it almost pained her to watch. For Gael, sweet and bright. For her brother, Baelon…
When at last the prayer thinned, Maegelle opened her eyes slowly.
The candle flames swam for a moment in her vision.
Then settled.
Her gaze dropped by chance to her right arm.
To the narrow bronze bracelet circling her wrist.
A small smile touched her mouth.
Aegon had insisted she wear it.
For protection, he had said.
He had been so adamant about it that she had almost laughed at the time. Yet he had watched until she put it on, with that quiet stubbornness of his that made refusal feel foolish.
Her fingers brushed lightly against the bronze.
Warm from her skin.
The smile lingered.
Then she rose.
The movement was slow, more from habit than weakness now. She turned from the altar, meaning to leave the hall while the peace of it still rested over her.
A sound reached her.
Footsteps.
Unsteady.
Slow.
At first she thought little of it. A worshipper, perhaps, coming late to prayer. Someone from the city. One of the faithful drawn by the miracle they had all spent the day talking about.
Then came a voice.
Low.
Broken.
Muttering.
"…why…"
Maegelle stilled.
The hairs along her arms lifted.
She turned.
A man stood several paces away.
Disheveled. Reeking faintly even from here. His clothes hung crookedly from his frame, stained and slept in. His beard was rough, his face grey with drink and old misery. But his eyes...
His eyes were fixed on her.
Not with awe.
Not with devotion.
With something darker.
"…why…" he muttered again. "Why not my son…"
Maegelle did not move.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither did he.
Then their eyes met fully.
He moved his hand behind his waist.
Maegelle's breath caught.
He drew something free.
Steel flashed in the candlelight.
A dagger.
***
📜 Milestones:
200 Power Stones → +1 Chapter ✅
***
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