Oldtown City Hall, VIP parlor.
Ser Baelor Hightower and Ser Garth "Grey-Iron" Hightower never showed.
Still, Arthur had already tasted Oldtown's legendary wealth.
The guest house Gunthor and Lynesse arranged inside the municipal complex was bright, spacious, and more luxurious than most lords' private manors.
Rolly, Clarence, and Lothor—once threadbare hedge knights—now ate and drank like kings and no longer looked the part of penniless wanderers.
A man dies for the lord who values him.
These three were now Arthur's fiercest hounds, itching for a chance to bare their teeth and prove their worth.
"Just give the word, young master. Tell us who you want removed," they thought.
"No rush," Arthur told them with a smile. "There'll be plenty of throats to cut when the ironborn land. My Dark Knight company is going to give those Riverlands weaklings a lesson they'll never forget."
After all, how many first-rate fighters did the Riverlands even have left? Old Walder Frey's private army was probably the only real competition.
Even Hoster Tully—now that the Blackfish had stormed off to the Vale—had precious few blades worth mentioning.
The scent of Lynesse Hightower's delicate perfume still lingered in the air after the golden-haired beauty departed.
"They just… left?" young Lucas Roote grumbled. "The Hightowers aren't exactly overflowing with courtesy."
"Maybe they think we're upstarts," Arthur chuckled, unbothered. "Baelor and Garth are already famous in their own right."
House Dayne, House Hightower, House Stark, House Lannister, and the long-extinct Durrandons—all ancient names that commanded respect.
"Gunthor's just a third son chasing necklaces, while you're the actual tourney champion," young Lucas pointed out. "Even his brother Garth is only a middling knight at best."
"Or maybe they simply didn't want to see Starfall's sigil," Ser Lucas Dayne said with a smirk.
The bad blood between House Dayne and House Hightower ran centuries deep.
"Lord Leyton's daughter is stunning," Wylis Wode sighed wistfully. "But she didn't seem very interested in you, Arthur."
"She's beautiful," Ser Lucas agreed, "but she's only the eighth daughter. Leyton has children to spare."
"Limited value," Arthur said simply.
Marriage was a transaction, and Lynesse knew it better than anyone.
She was lovely, yes, but she brought almost no political weight—especially now that Baelor effectively ran Oldtown.
Only a backwater lord like Jorah Mormont would ever be blinded by the Hightower name. Back then Jorah had still been a tourney champion and hero of the Greyjoy Rebellion.
"True," Ser Lucas said. "The age gaps among Leyton's children are ridiculous."
Alerie's son Willas was nearly the same age as his youngest uncle Gunthor. The Hightowers truly had uncles younger than their nephews.
The first four children—Baelor, Malora, Alerie, and Garth—had received the lion's share of Hightower resources. The six younger ones were left scrambling for scraps.
They were still highborn, of course, but inheritance and real power were far out of reach.
Lynesse's three older sisters had all made merely decent matches.
Leyton had already secured the Tyrells, Rowans, Redwynes, and Florents. With those alliances locked in, he had simply lost interest in arranging anything spectacular for the later children.
"What do you know about Baelor and Grey-Iron?" Arthur asked.
"I know a little," Ser Lucas Dayne replied.
The Daynes and Hightowers lived close enough that the former kept a sharp eye on the latter.
"Laughing Baelor is handsome, charming, and runs Oldtown's commerce, city hall, bank, and fleet. On the tourney field, though, he's thoroughly average. As for Garth, he's a knight with some reputation—but nothing extraordinary. Solid first-rate at best."
Wylis added, "Grey-Iron isn't outstanding, but the Hightowers' coffers are bottomless. They can supposedly field three times the troops of any single Tyrell vassal."
"They could raise even more if they emptied the city's treasury and called every sailor and longshoreman," Ser Lucas pointed out, "but sheep can't produce lions. Knights earn their names with steel, not coin."
The Hightowers had never truly conquered the Reach, let alone the realm. That was why so many lords both envied and quietly dismissed Oldtown.
They controlled a wealthy city, a major port, and a bank—more like a Free City magistate than a traditional lord. Their martial record was mediocre. In three centuries they had produced exactly one true legend: the White Bull.
Of course, everything the public saw was smoke and mirrors. The real Hightower secrets lay deeper.
Arthur had little desire to tangle with these people directly, but as a business partner Baelor could be useful.
"We need to recruit a maester—someone skilled in medicine and ravenry," Arthur decided.
His Dark Knight company was currently all muscle. Ser Lucas brought experience, but the rest—Wylis, young Lucas, big Rolly, and the three hedge knights—were pure frontline fighters.
A proper dark knight needed a seneschal and a counselor.
...
The next morning, Arthur traveled light to the gates of the Citadel.
Flanking the entrance stood two towering green sphinxes—lion bodies, eagle wings, serpent tails.
One had a man's face, the other a woman's.
Arthur climbed the steps and studied the massive stone guardians.
Sphinxes were everywhere—Dragonstone, Essos, the Citadel. One prophecy spoke of stone beasts spreading their wings from a smoking tower and breathing shadow flame.
If that tower was Oldtown, Arthur was very curious where the Hightowers or the Citadel had hidden their pet monster.
True dragons were born of blood and fire and breathed real flame.
Stone beasts were creatures of pure magic and breathed shadow.
Arthur reached out with his senses. The sphinxes gave no response. Too many ancient wards, or perhaps they were simply dead stone.
He walked between them and entered the Citadel.
Just inside the gate was the scribes' plaza, where smallfolk came to have letters read or wills written by novice acolytes.
Seven or eight bored scribes sat at open stalls waiting for customers.
"Books! Cheap books!" other stalls sold ordinary volumes. Arthur glanced over them—nothing special. The truly dangerous tomes were locked away in the vaults.
"I'll take this map," Arthur said, buying several hand-drawn charts: the Citadel itself, Oldtown, Dorne, the Reach. The prices were reasonable.
"Give the gatekeeper Roacas one silver stag," he told Wylis. "Tell him we need a maester skilled in medicine and ravenry. Any willing candidate should come to the municipal guesthouse. Money is no object. We want real talent and a clean background. Also ask about a man named Qyburn—see if he's still here."
If Qyburn hadn't started his human experiments yet, he was probably still a respected doctor of medicine.
Mysticism was too dangerous to mention openly; few in the Citadel truly understood it, and word traveled fast.
For now, medicine and ravenry were the priorities.
Roacas the gatekeeper had spent thirty-seven years as an acolyte and hated noble-born novices with a passion—yet he loved their coin and was always happy to serve for the right price.
The Citadel was no paradise; it had its share of corruption, ambition, and vice. If Varys could buy secrets from the Conclave itself, the Citadel was clearly riddled with leaks.
"It's done," Wylis reported a short while later. "Roacas guarantees he'll find the right man. He only provides the introduction, of course, and he still gets paid whether we hire anyone or not."
"Good enough," Arthur said, then turned and left the Citadel.