Grand Maester Pycelle did not share Ser Gerold Hightower's penchant for early work. Instead, we were seen to by a few of his attendants, younger maesters fresh off getting their full chains, or perhaps older ones who'd never earned enough accolades to get a keep of their own.
They worked efficiently, though, directing us to sit at opposite sides of a long table covered in dried herbs and various medicinal implements.
One of them, a thin man with nervous hands and a short chain that made it look like he was wearing a choker, began applying salves to my split knuckles. Another brought steaming cups of tea that smelled like dirt and tasted worse.
"Drink," the thin man said. "It will help with the swelling and pain."
I would have counted it all as primitive herbalism if Maester Rowen hadn't already fixed me up so much after a childhood's worth of scrapes and bruises back on Tarth. So I knew the maesters were actually exceptionally good at this kind of healing.
Most of the herbs had Earth-like counterparts, to be sure. Willow bark for pain, something that looked like comfrey for bruising, what might have been yarrow for the bleeding. But I expected that a few of them were native to this world and might have actual magical properties when it came to healing. Or at least properties that medieval Earth herbalism never discovered.
The tea was vile, but I drank it. Almost immediately, I felt a spreading warmth through my chest and a loosening of the tension in my muscles.
My face felt half-numb by the time one of the attendants started wrapping a bandage around my forehead. Gerold had split the skin above my brow with a glancing jab that I hadn't seen coming. But I could already feel the swelling reducing, the throbbing pain fading to a dull ache.
Whatever was in that tea and the salve, it worked.
I looked across the herb-strewn table to Ser Gerold Hightower. He sat perfectly still while another attendant worked on the cut on his cheekbone, his expression stoic. If he felt any pain, he didn't show it.
"Now that that's over with," I said, testing how my jaw felt. Sore, but functional. "Can I get my sword back now?"
Ser Gerold's eye twitched as the maester applied something to his cut. "You already have."
I blinked. "What?"
"Ser Barristan handed it over to a steward last night. If you haven't gotten it already, it's because they didn't want to bother you in your sleep. Would have delivered it this morning." He paused. "It was too early when you left your rooms, but it's likely there by now."
That...
I sighed. "I see."
My eyes shot across the table again. The pieces were starting to come together, and I didn't like the picture they were forming.
"Did you..." I started. "Did you think I went down to the White Sword Tower before dawn to goad you about your sword? Is that why this whole thing happened?"
The tiniest of smirks appeared on Ser Gerold Hightower's lips. "Perhaps."
I shook my head, half in disbelief, half in grudging respect.
I leaned back in my char. "What was the real reason, then?" I asked. "Not that you could actually cripple me if we used swords, mind you. I'm not even sure your creaky joints can handle swinging a blade properly anymore. But I was curious about the actual reason."
A low chuckle escaped him. "Ah, the overconfidence of youth." He looked back at me and raised an eyebrow. "And you can't think of it yourself? Truly?"
"Is this meant to be some kind of riddle, Lord Commander?" I let out a breath. "If you had the night I had, you'd be done with riddles for the next decade."
Gerold opened his mouth to answer, but the door to the chamber banged open.
Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled in, his voluminous robes trailing on the floor behind him. He moved with the slow, deliberate gait of extreme age, though I suspected at least some of it was exaggerated for effect.
"Lord Commander!" he exclaimed, his voice high and reedy. "What brings you to my humble rookery at such an early hour? And in such a state! My attendants should have fetched me immediately upon your arrival. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard deserves the personal attention of the Grand Maester himself, not these... these apprentices."
He waved dismissively at the attendants who'd been treating us. They bowed their heads and stepped back, properly chastised.
"Grand Maester," Gerold said flatly. "Your apprentices have done fine work. We required only basic treatment."
"Nevertheless, nevertheless." Pycelle shuffled closer, his chains clinking. Then his watery eyes landed on me. "And who is... ah! The boy from Tarth, no? Ser Galladon, yes. I heard about your heroics yesterday. Most impressive. Most courageous. To stand before the king's justice and claim your boon with such... such boldness." His smile was oily. "Though I must say, one wonders if such boldness might one day stray into recklessness."
"Grand Maester," Gerold cut him off, standing abruptly. The attendant who'd been working on his cheek stumbled back. "We thank you for the use of your facilities and the work of your underlings. But we must be going."
"But Lord Commander!" Pycelle reached out with one age-spotted hand. "I should examine you myself. Ensure that everything has been properly treated. You are far too valuable to the realm to trust to mere helpers."
"I'm fine." Gerold was already moving toward the door. "And I have duties to attend to."
Pycelle tried to block his path, but it wasn't going to be the already decrepit Grand Maester who stopped the White Bull. Gerold simply walked around him, not roughly but with absolute certainty of movement.
I stood and followed, nodding to the attendants. "Thank you for your help."
They bowed in return, looking relieved to be dismissed from this increasingly awkward situation.
Soon we were back at the White Sword Tower. This time, Gerold actually let me inside past the threshold.
The first floor was dominated by a large round table carved from weirwood, shaped like a shield. Wooden knights and stallions formed the table's feet, intricately carved. Everything in the room was white: white table, white wool hangings decorated the whitewashed stone walls, a white shield with two crossed longswords mounted over the hearth.
It was both impressive and slightly unsettling. Like stepping into a place that existed outside normal reality. A sanctuary for men who'd given up everything to serve.
I took a seat at the table, running my hand over the smooth weirwood. This thing would cost a small fortune these days. My eyes were drawn to a corner of the room where the White Book sat in an open case.
The book was massive, taller than a small child. Bound in white leather with silver clasps. Filled cover to cover with white vellum pages recording the deeds of every man who'd ever served in the Kingsguard.
"That's it, then?" I asked, nodding toward the book. "All of them? Every Kingsguard who ever lived?"
"Every one," Gerold confirmed. He settled into a chair across from me. "Their deeds, their accomplishments, their failures. All recorded for history."
"Must make for interesting reading."
"Some days." He was quiet for a moment, studying me. "You truly don't know what I meant? About why I wanted to fight you?"
"No, ser."
Gerold hummed, a low sound in his chest. "You know our vows, I expect. Much like the Night's Watch, we swear to take no wife, father no children, and hold no land." He looked past me, toward nothing in particular. Maybe toward memory. "I was as young as you are when Ser Duncan the Tall put a white cloak around my shoulders."
I raised a hand. "Forgive me, Lord Commander, but while I believe there is great honor in serving in the Kingsguard, I'm my father's heir and have no wish to part with my birthright. Even for a gleaming cloak."
Gerold gave me a strange look. Almost amused. "Do not flatter yourself overly much, Tarth. We have an open spot, true, but we're not that desperate quite yet."
I snorted. "Fair. Forgive me. You were giving me your tragic backstory about not fathering children or some such."
"Watch your tongue, brat." But there was no heat in it. He shook his head. "Aye, that's what I meant. I have no children of my own. But my brother did. One boy only. You might know him as the Lord of Oldtown, Leyton Hightower."
"I've heard the name."
Heard of it, as though I had met his oldest children, I had not seen the Old Man of Oldtown himself when I stopped by.
"And he had children of his own. Many, in fact." Gerold's expression softened, just slightly. "I'm ever so thankful that Leyton never let them forget about their old grand uncle here in King's Landing. They write to me often. Baelor and Alerie and even the little ones." A fond smile crossed his weathered face. "It brightens a man's day to read a little boy or girl's scribbles talking about whatever adventure they just had or what they learned in a maester's lesson."
I frowned, genuinely confused now. "Their concern for the elderly is touching, ser, but I do not see your point."
Gerold's eyes locked onto mine. "Do you know which of them has never written to me before? And suddenly decided to send a letter just a few days before you arrived in King's Landing?"
It took a moment to click for me.
Oh no.
"Oh," I said aloud. "Malora."
"That's Lady Hightower to you, Tarth." Gerold's voice had gone flat. "But yes. Little Malora wrote to me about you. A boy I had never even met before. Asking to be kept abreast of your comings and goings in the castle. Asking me to keep an eye on you."
Maybe it was the repeated punches to the head before I ever had any breakfast, but I felt my earlier headache come roaring back with a vengeance.
What the hell was Malora trying to accomplish by writing to her grand uncle about me? This was insane. As close to cyber-stalking as one could get in Westeros.
It made no sense.
Then again, nothing about Malora Hightower made sense. Despite using the glass candle myself a few times already, I'd never understood why she'd gifted it to me in the first place. A priceless artifact just handed over. And of course, doing it in the strangest, most obnoxious way possible with no reasoning or explanation offered.
What was her game plan here? What did she stand to win? I couldn't wrap my mind around it.
Had she seen something in those flames? Some vision of the future where I was important? Where I mattered to whatever grand designs she was working toward?
Or was this something else entirely? Something I was missing because I didn't understand how magic actually worked in this world?
Then Ser Gerold Hightower was leaning across the table, his massive frame seeming to fill my entire field of vision.
"Listen to me, Ser Galladon Tarth." His voice had gone cold as a northern winter. "Know that when I ask you this, I do it not as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, but as a man who sees his nephew's brood, even the ones who used to never write to me before, as his own children."
Oh gods. Oh no. I knew where this was going.
"What are your intentions with my grand-niece?"
My brain malfunctioned. Just completely shut down for a second.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again like a complete idiot.
What was I even supposed to say? Even if I tried to explain the truth—that Malora had given me a magical artifact for reasons I didn't understand, that I'd never even really spoken to her beyond that one bizarre encounter, that I had no intentions whatsoever because I barely knew the woman—it would sound like madness. Or worse, like lies.
"If I ever hear of you dishonoring her, Tarth..." Gerold leaned even closer. His eyes hard as flint boring into mine. "I swear to all seven gods, you're going to wish I had crippled you today. You're going to wish you had fallen into those flames yesterday. You're going to beg for the black cells before I'm done with you."
I raised both hands in surrender, still reeling. "I swear to you, Ser Gerold, truly I do. It is not my intention to dishonor Lady Hightower whatsoever."
Gerold squinted at me, trying to spot any signs of deceit. His gaze was like a physical weight, pressing down on me.
Then he nodded, apparently satisfied.
"You'll ask for her hand soon, then?"
"I—what?"
He sat back in his chair, the tension leaving his shoulders. "House Tarth does not stand beside House Hightower in terms of power or prestige, it is true. But your future holdings are not insignificant. Tarth is a valuable island, strategically positioned. And I'm sure Leyton would not spare expense on his oldest daughter's dowry. The Hightowers are nothing if not generous to their own."
No. No, no, no. This was not happening.
"We could petition the High Septon for use of the Great Sept of Baelor," Gerold continued, warming to the subject. "Though actually, Leyton would likely want to have the wedding at the Starry Sept in Oldtown. That's where all the important Hightower marriages take place. The family seat, you understand."
"Ser Gerold," I tried.
"The Starry Sept can hold thousands. We'd need to invite half the Reach, of course. All of Leyton's bannermen and allies. The Tyrells would expect an invitation, though between you and me, old Luthor is a pompous ass. His wife is a sharp one, though."
"Lord Commander!"
"What?" Gerold looked at me, eyebrows raised. "You didn't think they'd hold it in some tiny sept on Tarth, did you?" He chuckled. "You're marrying a Hightower, boy. Best get used to grand gestures and big ceremonies."
He continued planning. Talking about guest lists and dowries and whether spring or autumn would be better for the ceremony. Something about the weather in Oldtown and how it affected the harbor traffic.
I sat there, frozen, as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard planned out my entire hypothetical wedding to a woman I'd spoken to exactly once.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"I just remembered," I said, words tumbling out too fast. "I have an appointment. With a friend. I only meant to grab my sword, so I'm quite late already."
Gerold frowned. "What friend?"
"Gerion. Ser Gerion Lannister. Training. We have training scheduled." None of this was true. Well, we did have training scheduled, but I didn't expect him to show up this early. "And any matter of marriage would have to go through my lord father first. That's the proper way to do these things."
"Well, yes, but—"
"So you should write to him if you wish to discuss this further. And he can write to Lord Leyton. Yes. That is sound. They can work out whatever arrangements they see fit." I was already backing toward the door. "But I really must take my leave, Ser Gerold. Forgive me. Thank you for the... the educational experience. Very enlightening."
"Tarth!"
I was out the door before he could finish. Practically running down the stairs and out into the morning sunlight.
Behind me, I heard Ser Gerold Hightower's voice, calling after me with something that might have been amusement:
"We'll speak more on this later, boy!"
Not if I could help it.
I stormed away from the White Sword Tower, feeling more beat up than when I'd had a man punching me up and down the courtyard. At least getting hit in the face was straightforward. Honest.
This? This was a nightmare of an entirely different kind.
Malora Hightower. Writing to her grand uncle. About me. And now said grand uncle thought we were courting or betrothed or, gods help me, practically married already.
I needed to figure out what Malora's angle was. What she wanted. Why she'd given me that candle and why she was apparently now involving her family in... whatever this was.
I laughed despite myself. A slightly hysterical sound.
What a morning. And the sun wasn't even fully up yet.
xxx
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