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The Hightower rose above Oldtown like a finger pointing accusingly at the heavens, its ancient stones bearing witness to centuries of Hightower ambition and careful stewardship. In its highest chamber, Lord Leyton Hightower had not descended in four years, surrounding himself instead with books, charts, and correspondence that spoke of a world growing increasingly incomprehensible.
"The northern trade figures are impossible," he said without looking up from the parchment before him. His voice carried the hoarse quality of someone who rarely spoke aloud anymore. "White Harbor's exports have increased forty percent in six months. Steel weapons of superior quality, tools with designs I've never seen, medicinal compounds that our alchemists cannot replicate, preserved foods that remain edible for months longer than conventional methods allow. Either their reports are fabricated, or they've developed production techniques that violate every principle I understand."
His daughter Malora moved through the chamber with the distracted grace of someone whose mind occupied multiple planes of thought simultaneously. At thirty-two, she had earned her nickname "the Mad Maid" through her obsession with obscure texts and her tendency to speak truths others found uncomfortable. Her fingers traced the spines of ancient volumes as she responded.
"Not impossible—innovative. The reports mention workshop systems that allow multiple smiths to work simultaneously on standardized components, then assemble them into finished products. Mass production rather than individual craftsmanship." She pulled a book from the shelf—something about the Age of Heroes written in archaic script. "It's not magic, Father. It's rediscovered knowledge from the First Men, combined with systematic organization that the maesters never thought to preserve."
"The First Men," Leyton repeated, his interest sharpening. "You believe these techniques originate from the ancient builders? The ones who raised the Wall?"
"The texts speak of 'lost arts' that allowed them to accomplish what seems impossible by modern standards. Not sorcery, but structured disciplines—methods for enhancing human capability, forging superior steel, creating compounds with properties beyond conventional alchemy." Malora opened the book to a marked page. "If Arthur Snow has somehow accessed that knowledge, perhaps through northern traditions passed down outside the Citadel's records, it would explain everything we're seeing. Enhanced warriors, superior products, economic expansion that seems unnatural because we've forgotten how such things were originally achieved."
A knock interrupted them—respectful but firm. Baelor Hightower entered without waiting for acknowledgment, his handsome face carrying the sort of practiced charm that made him popular at court but left Malora wondering if anything genuine existed beneath the polish.
"Father, the Citadel's representatives are here for the meeting you requested. And Lord Tyrell's envoy has arrived with—" He paused, his expression suggesting excitement barely contained. "—with a proposal regarding Alerie."
Leyton finally looked up from his papers. "Regarding marriage?"
"A potential betrothal to Mace Tyrell. The envoy suggests it would strengthen the alliance between our houses and provide mutual benefits in these... uncertain times." Baelor's smile was bright as his nickname suggested. "An excellent match, Father. The Tyrells control the Reach's agricultural production, and we control its primary port. Together—"
"Together we create an economic bloc that could rival the Crown's direct holdings," Malora finished, her tone making it unclear whether she considered this good or bad. "Though I suspect Lord Tyrell's sudden interest has less to do with long-term economic planning and more to do with northern developments making everyone nervous about their relative positions."
"Does it matter?" Baelor asked, and there was something sharp beneath his pleasant exterior. "Whether motivated by opportunity or fear, the alliance serves our interests. We'd be fools to dismiss it because we don't like the circumstances that brought it about."
Leyton studied his heir for a long moment. Baelor was capable, charming, and ambitious—all qualities necessary for maintaining their house's position. But he sometimes confused expedience with wisdom, treating every decision as a transaction rather than considering deeper implications.
"What does Alerie think of this proposal?" Leyton asked.
"I haven't told her yet. I wanted your approval first before—"
"Then you should speak with her before making commitments on her behalf." Leyton's voice carried steel beneath the hoarseness. "Your sister is not a trade good to be exchanged without consultation. She has her own mind and her own preferences, both of which matter in decisions that will shape her entire life."
Baelor's expression flickered—embarrassment, perhaps, or irritation at being corrected. "Of course, Father. Though surely she understands that strategic marriages are part of our duty to the house?"
"Understanding duty and being denied any voice in how that duty is fulfilled are different things." Malora's tone was mild, but her eyes were sharp. "Or do you believe women exist solely to be bargaining chips in men's negotiations?"
"I believe," Baelor said carefully, his charm reasserting itself, "that we all have roles to play in maintaining our house's strength. Mine is to eventually lead our house and make decisions that benefit everyone. Alerie's is—"
"Is her own to define," Leyton interrupted. "Inform the Tyrell envoy that we're willing to discuss the possibility, but no commitments will be made without Alerie's explicit consent. And send word that I wish to speak with her before any such discussions advance further."
After Baelor left—his disappointment barely concealed despite his diplomatic smile—Malora settled into a chair across from her father.
"You're being unusually considerate of Alerie's preferences," she observed. "Any particular reason?"
"Because I made assumptions about your preferences years ago and drove you into isolation as a result." Leyton's admission came without drama or self-pity, just a statement of fact. "You wanted to study, to learn, to develop your considerable intellect. I wanted you to marry well and produce heirs. The conflict between those desires created the situation we now have, where you're brilliant but alone, and I'm left wondering if I sacrificed my daughter's happiness for ambitions that may prove irrelevant."
Malora was quiet for a moment. "That's surprisingly introspective for someone who hasn't left this tower in four years."
"Isolation provides considerable time for reflection. And recent events suggest that perhaps your approach—studying what others dismiss, considering possibilities others reject—may be more valuable than I acknowledged." He gestured at the correspondence covering his desk. "The North develops capabilities we don't understand. The maesters respond by attempting to suppress rather than study. Meanwhile, you've been reading texts they declared useless for decades, and now those texts may be the only resources that offer insight into what's actually happening."
"So my obsessions are suddenly valuable because they're convenient to your current needs?"
"Your scholarship is valuable because it represents genuine intellectual curiosity rather than institutional dogma." Leyton met her gaze directly. "I was wrong to dismiss it, wrong to pressure you toward a conventional life, wrong to let others call you mad when you were simply more perceptive than they were. I'm acknowledging that now because I need your help, yes. But also because you deserve the acknowledgment regardless of my needs."
Malora studied her father's face, searching for deception or manipulation. She found only exhaustion and what might have been genuine regret.
"What do you need from me?" she asked finally.
"Analysis. The northern developments—are they sustainable? Can they be replicated? Do they represent genuine advancement or dangerous instability?" Leyton gestured at the papers surrounding him. "The Citadel wants to suppress them. I suspect that's the wrong approach, but I need to understand what we're actually dealing with before committing to any course of action."
"And if my analysis suggests the North has indeed rediscovered techniques that could benefit the entire realm?"
"Then we consider very carefully whether opposing them serves our actual interests or merely protects institutional pride." Leyton's expression was grim. "House Hightower has survived for millennia by adapting rather than rigidly clinging to failing strategies. If the world is changing, we change with it."
In a more comfortable chamber several levels below, Alerie Hightower sat with her younger sisters Denyse, Leyla, and Alysanne, ostensibly practicing embroidery but actually discussing the rumors that had been circulating throughout the tower.
"They say Lord Tyrell is considering you for Mace," Denyse said, her needle moving with practiced efficiency through silk that would eventually become someone's wedding dress—possibly Alerie's own. At eighteen, Denyse understood the marriage market better than any of them, having watched three potential matches collapse due to various political complications.
"They say many things," Alerie replied, her own embroidery sitting neglected in her lap. At twenty, she had already declined two marriage proposals—one from a minor lord whose lands bordered nothing important, another from a wealthy merchant's son who would have been acceptable if not for his tendency to treat women as decorative property. "Whether those things are true is another matter."
"Mace Tyrell would be an excellent match," Leyla observed. At sixteen, she was the practical one, always calculating advantages and weighing options. "He's heir to Highgarden, well-regarded at court, and by all accounts a decent man despite his mother's... strong personality."
"And marrying him would tie our house to the Reach's most powerful family," Alysanne added. At fourteen, she was the youngest of the group but possibly the most observant. "Which matters more now that the North is making everyone nervous about their relative positions."
Alerie set aside her embroidery entirely. "Does no one else find it troubling that we're discussing my potential marriage primarily in terms of house alliances and political positioning? As if whether I might actually want to spend my life with Mace Tyrell is a secondary consideration?"
"Of course it's troubling," Denyse said. "But it's also reality for women of our birth. We have privileges and protections that common women don't, but we pay for them by having less freedom to choose our own paths. That's the transaction we're born into."
"Is it, though?" Alerie looked at each of her sisters in turn. "These reports from the North—they speak of women training alongside men, developing capabilities that have nothing to do with marriage or childbearing. Of opportunities based on skill rather than birth. What if there are other possible realities than the one we've always accepted?"
"What if Father hears you talking like this?" Leyla's practicality reasserted itself. "He's already dealing with enough complications without his daughter declaring sympathy for northern radicals."
"I'm not declaring anything. I'm asking questions." Alerie stood and moved to the window, gazing out over Oldtown's sprawling cityscape. "But yes, perhaps I am sympathetic to the idea that women might be more than decorative alliance-builders and heir-producers. Is that so radical?"
The silence that followed suggested her sisters weren't entirely sure how to answer that question.
Finally, Alysanne spoke. "What will you tell Father if he asks your feelings about the Tyrell match?"
"I'll tell him the truth—that I don't know Mace Tyrell well enough to have feelings about him beyond general information. That I'm willing to consider the possibility but refuse to be treated as a commodity to be traded without consultation." Alerie turned back to face them. "And that I expect to be part of any discussions about my future rather than informed of decisions made without my input."
"Brave," Denyse observed. "Also potentially futile if Father has already decided the alliance serves our house's interests."
"Perhaps. But I'd rather be futilely honest than successfully silent about things that matter." Alerie returned to her chair but didn't pick up her embroidery. "And if nothing else, the northern developments prove that assumptions about how the world must work are less absolute than we've been taught. If they can question conventional wisdom about martial training and enhancement techniques, surely we can question conventional wisdom about women's roles and agency."
In the great hall, Baelor Hightower entertained the Tyrell envoy with the sort of effortless charm that made people forget they were being carefully managed. Lord Tyrell's representative—a distant cousin named Gormon—seemed genuinely pleased by the reception.
"Your father's consideration of the proposal honors our house," Gormon said, accepting wine that probably cost more than most men earned in a year. "Lord Tyrell believes the alliance between Hightower and Tyrell could bring unprecedented prosperity to the Reach. Our agricultural production combined with your commercial connections..."
"Would create economic power that could rival even the Lannisters," Baelor finished smoothly. "I agree entirely. And the personal connection between our houses—Mace and Alerie are well-suited in age and temperament, from what I've observed at court."
What he didn't mention was that his observations of Alerie's temperament suggested she might not appreciate being discussed as a commodity, or that Mace Tyrell, while decent enough, was largely controlled by his formidable mother Olenna. Those were complications that could be managed later, after the initial agreements were reached.
"There's also the matter of the northern developments," Gormon said, his voice dropping slightly. "Lord Tyrell is... concerned about the expansion of capabilities outside traditional structures. He believes that strong, united houses in the south will be necessary to maintain balance should the North continue its current trajectory."
"A reasonable concern." Baelor topped off their wine, his mind working through implications. "Though I wonder if opposition is the most productive response. House Hightower has always prospered by understanding and adapting to change rather than rigidly resisting it."
"You suggest we should emulate northern innovations?"
"I suggest we should understand them before deciding whether to oppose or adopt them. Ignorance is rarely a strategic advantage." Baelor smiled his bright smile. "But such considerations can wait until after we've established the foundation of our alliance through this marriage. First principles first, after all."
Gormon raised his cup in agreement, and Baelor matched the gesture while privately wondering if his father's insistence on consulting Alerie would complicate what should be a straightforward negotiation. Women's preferences were all well and good in theory, but practical politics sometimes required prioritizing house interests over individual desires.
He'd learned that lesson from his father, though apparently Leyton was now questioning his own teachings. Baelor wasn't sure what had prompted that change of heart, but he suspected Malora's influence—his eldest sister had always had an uncomfortable talent for making people question assumptions they'd rather leave unexamined.
In the tower's middle levels, the younger Hightower children pursued their own interests with varying degrees of success. Garth, at seventeen, trained in the courtyard with a dedication that suggested he was trying to prove something—perhaps that he could be valuable to the family despite not being the heir. His swordwork was competent but not exceptional, and everyone knew it.
Lynesse, at thirteen, was already showing signs of the beauty that would make her sought after in a few years. She practiced her courtly manners with the same focus Garth applied to swordwork, understanding that her path to relevance lay in making an advantageous marriage rather than developing martial skill.
Gunthor and Humfrey, the youngest boys, were still finding their ways. At ten and eight respectively, they had the luxury of time before decisions about their futures became urgent. They spent their days in lessons with the household maester, learning history and arithmetic and proper behavior, not yet understanding that their real education was in watching their older siblings navigate the complicated politics of a great house.
All of them felt the weight of their name—the expectation that they would contribute to House Hightower's continued prominence, that they would find some way to prove their worth and justify the resources invested in their upbringing. The pressure manifested differently in each of them: ambition, anxiety, determination, resignation.
None of them yet understood that the world was changing in ways that would make all their careful preparations for conventional success potentially irrelevant. They studied the old rules while new ones were being written in distant northern castles, learned to play a game that might not exist in the same form by the time they were ready to compete.
As evening fell over Oldtown, Lord Leyton Hightower stood at his window, watching the city spread out below. Lights began to appear as families lit their hearth fires, as taverns welcomed evening customers, as the great city transitioned from day to night.
Malora joined him, carrying a stack of books that looked older than the Hightower itself.
"I've reviewed the texts," she said. "The techniques described match the fragmentary reports from the North remarkably well. If Arthur Snow has indeed rediscovered these methods—or developed new ones based on similar principles—then what we're seeing isn't magic in the fantastical sense. It's structured discipline, energy manipulation, systematic enhancement of human capabilities."
"Can it be replicated?"
"Theoretically, yes. Practically?" Malora set the books on a nearby table. "That depends on whether the knowledge can be transferred, whether the techniques work for everyone or only those with specific aptitudes, whether there are dangers we don't yet understand. The texts are clear that advancement carries risks—physical, mental, even spiritual according to some accounts."
"But possible," Leyton pressed.
"Possible, yes. Though the Citadel's decision to oppose rather than study may make that possibility harder to realize. If they succeed in suppressing northern developments, we lose the opportunity to learn from what Arthur Snow has accomplished." Malora's expression was troubled. "Father, I understand the impulse to maintain control over knowledge. But sometimes that impulse leads to stagnation rather than stability."
"You think the Citadel is making a mistake."
"I think the Citadel is responding according to their nature—preserving institutional authority rather than pursuing truth. Whether that's a mistake depends on what we value more: control or advancement." She met his gaze directly. "What do you value more?"
Leyton was quiet for a long moment, watching the city lights multiply as darkness deepened.
"I value House Hightower's survival and prosperity," he said finally. "Which means adapting to changes we cannot prevent rather than rigidly opposing them. The Citadel wants to suppress northern innovations. I think we should study them, understand them, and determine whether we can develop our own versions."
"That puts us at odds with the institution that has made Oldtown the center of learning for generations."
"Perhaps it's time Oldtown became a center of innovation rather than just preservation." Leyton turned from the window. "Contact the northern representatives quietly. Make it clear we're interested in understanding rather than opposing their work. And begin preparing proposals for how House Hightower might develop similar capabilities—not through theft or espionage, but through legitimate study and research."
"The Citadel will view that as betrayal."
"The Citadel can view it however they wish. I'm responsible for my house's future, not the maesters' institutional pride." His voice carried finality. "If the world is changing, we change with it. That's how House Hightower has survived this long. That's how we'll continue to survive."
Malora nodded slowly, and for the first time in years, something that might have been respect showed in her expression when she looked at her father.
"I'll prepare the necessary correspondence," she said. "Though Father... Alerie. The Tyrell match. Will you give her the choice you denied me?"
"Yes," Leyton said quietly. "I will. And if she chooses differently than I would prefer, I'll respect that choice rather than forcing compliance. Some lessons are expensive to learn, but that doesn't make them less valuable."
Outside the Hightower's windows, Oldtown continued its evening rhythms, unaware that within the ancient tower, decisions were being made that would reshape the balance of power throughout the realm. The game of thrones continued, but the players were beginning to realize that the board itself was changing, and old strategies might no longer guarantee survival in a world where human capability could be deliberately enhanced and systematic training could create advantages that birth and gold could not.
In his chamber, Baelor Hightower wrote letters to potential allies, building networks that would serve him well when he eventually inherited. In her room, Alerie considered her options and wondered if there might be ways to have both duty and agency rather than being forced to choose between them. Throughout the tower, the younger children pursued their various paths, each trying to find their place in a family and a world that seemed increasingly complex and uncertain.
And at the top of it all, Lord Leyton Hightower made his calculations, placing bets on a future he couldn't entirely predict but refused to face unprepared. The North had proven that change was possible. Now the question was whether the South could adapt quickly enough to avoid being left behind—or crushed by forces they'd been too proud to acknowledge.