287 AC, late in the year. Oldtown City Hall.
Out of courtesy, Arthur first stopped at the municipal hall to wait before boarding a large oceangoing ship from the docks.
Oldtown was the Hightower family's stronghold—the very heart of the Green faction that had backed Alicent during the Dance of the Dragons.
Compared to the warm welcomes in Bitterbridge and Highgarden, the reception here felt noticeably cool.
The Hightowers had always been famous for their ancient pride. After the Dance they had slipped back into their traditional low-profile stance, acting as if they had no interest in worldly affairs at all.
They minded their own corner and barely bothered with either the roses or the king. Such arrogance was only natural.
"Please wait a moment, young lord Arthur. Lord Leyton's third son will come to receive you shortly," the city-hall official said politely.
"It seems both Ser Baelor and Ser Garth are quite busy," young Lucas Roote remarked.
The Old Man of Oldtown had withdrawn from public life. Baelor now ran Oldtown's commerce, the city hall, and the Oldtown bank. Grey-Iron Garth commanded the city watch, while their third son was rumored to be in charge of the docks in the future.
Oldtown was obscenely rich; Leyton could easily find places for six or seven sons.
There was also the Citadel and the Faith, after all.
"We'll wait," Arthur said, unconcerned.
His gaze drifted toward the towering Hightower that pierced the clouds like the Lighthouse of Alexandria.
The moment he had entered Oldtown, Arthur had felt a ripple of magic brush against him—something trying to observe him. But the sensation vanished almost instantly.
No matter. His Greenhand power had flared and neatly blocked the prying gaze.
"Greens, Blacks, and Blackfyres," Arthur murmured, looking at the beacon fire burning atop the tower.
It was said the Hightowers only changed the flame to green when they were preparing for war.
"Although the Dance of the Dragons ended long ago, the Hightowers clearly learned from their defeat. Greens, Blacks, Blackfyres—as long as you peel away the dragonlords' allies, House Targaryen will collapse," Arthur thought.
...
Atop the Hightower.
The top-floor chamber was laid out like the Painted Table hall on Dragonstone.
In the center stood a large round stone table carved with the Hightower beacon sigil.
On the table sat a green glass candle, along with many books and scrolls.
Silver-grey Myrish tapestries hung on the curved stone walls behind the table, covering certain things.
The green glass candle stood ninety-one centimeters tall, slender as a sword.
Its spiral edges were sharp as blades and shimmered with a faint green light.
"Ah!"
Malora's pale hand brushed the candle's body and was instantly cut. Red blood flowed silently into the glass and disappeared without a trace.
The flame brightened a fraction—stronger than usual from a blood offering.
The flame's color was strange: white as fresh snow, yellow as molten gold, red as raging fire. Yet the shadow it cast was pitch black, like a hole torn in the world.
Even when wind howled through the chamber, the candle flame remained perfectly still.
"Let me see who has come to Oldtown today. The glass candle actually felt joy," Malora muttered with a touch of madness, staring at the candle. But the vision quickly dissolved.
The flame died out again, leaving her with nothing.
The Old Man of Oldtown, Leyton Hightower—silver-grey robe, silver-white hair—stepped into the room.
"Was there anyone special today, Father?" Malora asked. "My candle reacted slightly."
"The flame burned brighter than usual?" Leyton asked.
"Yes," Malora nodded. "It was the light and heat, the power and blood in a person that awakened the candle."
"Arthur Whent. The rising star of the tourney field, said to possess the martial prowess of Maegor and the Blackfyres," Leyton Hightower said indifferently. "He just visited Highgarden. He traveled from King's Landing through Bitterbridge and Highgarden and is now in Oldtown."
"How do you know?" Malora asked.
"The roses have spies in Oldtown. I have spies in Highgarden," Leyton sighed. "Though these days I am more interested in the unpredictable future than in power."
"A distant relative of the evil bats. How could that boy make my candle react?" Malora frowned, genuinely puzzled.
"Harrenhal is an extremely strange place. It lies far too close to the Isle of Faces on the Gods Eye—the ancient pact ground of the Children of the Forest and the First Men. The castle was built by Black Harren with blood and tears. It still reeks of sorcery and dragonflame. The Hoare kings never truly believed in the Drowned God; they were cunning pragmatists," Leyton continued. "Harrenhal is a place that echoes with magic and curses. It has produced many strange people."
"Of course, he may also carry some dragon blood," Lord Leyton mused. "The 'Pimp' Lothston's wife and daughters all slept with the Usurper, and House Whent is a cadet branch of the bat family. As for Arthur, his mother came from House Butterwell. The Mad King slept with three of the 'Milk-Blood' daughters and left descendants. It's perfectly normal for the boy to have a trace of dragon blood."
"So it's dragon blood?" Malora asked. "There are plenty of distant dragonblood lines. The Velaryons of Driftmark, the seahorses of Driftmark, the Plumms of the West, the Tarths of the Stormlands, the Penroses, the Martells of Dorne, even the sisters of King Aegon the Fifth. And of course, our own Hightowers and the Baratheons. The Black Pearl of Braavos and the descendants of the whore-princess of Volantis…"
The Mad Maid had made meticulous records of all these cadet dragonblood lines.
Even excluding the obvious Brightflame and Blackfyre descendants, the various princesses had left many offspring.
"Dragon blood is nothing special," Leyton said contemptuously. "Aside from the Beggar King and his siblings, who were refined through two generations of close marriage, the blood in these cadet lines is thin as water. It shouldn't be enough to excite the flame."
After generations of marriage, blood purity naturally diluted.
"Exactly. That's why I'm curious. I used to believe even the main dragonblood line had grown too weak. But if someone's talent is so great that even diluted blood can produce such brilliance… then perhaps we should offer more dragon blood to awaken the flame?" Malora said, staring at the glass candle while stroking her chin.
She had once dismissed dragon blood, but now considered that quantity might trigger a qualitative change.
"Never mind. Let's continue experimenting with our own bloodline first," Leyton said, looking at his daughter.
"You don't want to sacrifice. You're afraid," the Mad Maid snarled madly.
"I am willing to sacrifice, but the kind of sacrifice you suggest would expose us to the public eye. That goes against our family's ways," the Old Man of Oldtown rejected firmly.
"Then how long must I wait? Magic is returning, but it lacks a spark. The glass candle has not fully ignited, and the dragons have not hatched," the Mad Maid roared.
"We wait. There is no other choice," Lord Leyton said helplessly. "But you know I have always believed in you. You are not the heir, yet you know all these secrets."
"Then I suppose I should thank you, Father," the Mad Maid laughed coldly. "Compared to marrying that fool Mace, magic is far more attractive to me."
The Old Man of Oldtown remained silent.
Abandoning marriage for magic—whether it had been the right choice for his daughter, even he could not say.
But he could see the growing madness in her eyes.
Leyton walked to the stone wall, lifted the tapestry, and used his secret key to open the hidden door.
Behind the cabinet lay the true core inheritance of House Hightower.
A cedarwood box containing a petrified dragon egg.
Several wooden carvings made from old ship masts depicting ancient scenes.
A Valyrian steel sword with a pommel shaped like the Hightower beacon—Vigilance.
The Old Man of Oldtown gazed at these treasures. No matter how the outside world raged, he remained unmoved.
"I'm going to see your brother. Continue your research," Leyton told his daughter.
The Mad Maid nodded and watched him leave.
"Secrets… You're hiding things from me, Leyton. You have the bloodstone but won't let me see it. A deep green stone flecked with many red blood spots—an extraordinary bloodstone. You never gave me the key to the inner chamber, nor told me about the dragon inside the stone or the sphinx's secret," the Mad Maid muttered discontentedly to herself.