Branston Hightower watched as his father, Lord Byren Hightower, spoke with the esteemed and most holy High Septon. The High Septon was an old man, his face lined with age, but his eyes and voice burned with fervent conviction. He leaned forward in his chair, his jeweled sept pendant swinging as he spoke.
"You must put pressure on King Mern, my lord," the High Septon said. "The Heartlands, with its horrid king and his pet traitor septon, are spreading heresy like a plague. Now they have conquered Blackwater Bay, bringing more faithful souls under their corruption."
His voice rose, shaking with righteous fury. "The reports we receive are nightmarish. Horrid magics that defy the natural order. Corpses desecrated and consumed in foul rituals. Unholy acts of sex and debauchery that would make even the old Valyrians blush with shame. They combine our holy Faith with tree worshipping paganism, an abomination that insults both the Seven and the very concept of divine truth."
Branston watched his father listen carefully, his face impassive and revealing nothing of his thoughts. Beside him sat Uthor, Branston's elder brother and heir to House Hightower, his expression equally controlled.
Lord Hightower finally spoke, his voice measured and diplomatic. "Your Holiness, I understand your concerns, and I share them. I plan to put pressure on King Mern regarding this matter." He paused. "However, it can only be done after we deal with the invasion from the Lion. King Loren's ambitions threaten the Reach directly. At this point, war with the West is inevitable."
The High Septon sighed deeply, raising his hands to the heavens in a gesture of supplication. "The faithful should be united at this moment. Why, gods? Why do you test us so? When heresy rises in the very heart of our promised lands, when sorcery is practiced openly in the light of day, when the very foundations of the true faith are under assault, why must we fight amongst ourselves?"
"It is unfortunate," Lord Hightower agreed. "But perhaps there is opportunity in this as well. After we defeat King Loren, and we will defeat him, Your Holiness, you should bring King Mern and King Loren fully into the fold. Make them understand the true threat. That could be the beginning of a grand alliance against the heresy. The Reach united with the West, perhaps joined by the Stormlands once their succession crisis is resolved, and by the Vale once they pacify their savage clans."
The High Septon nodded slowly, placated for now by this vision of future unity. "Yes. Yes, that is wisdom, Lord Hightower. First we deal with the immediate threats, then we turn our attention to the greater evil."
Branston had always been a pious man, devoted to the Seven with a fervor that sometimes concerned even his father. He had raged when he first heard of the Leonite Heresy, of this sorcerer king who dared to combine the Faith with pagan tree worship, placing himself at the center of it and proclaiming that he was the champion of the gods. They should have all united immediately and snuffed it out the moment it began, crushed Harald Stormcrown before his power could grow, before his corruption could spread.
But instead, they had fractured.
The Vale was embroiled in war against the wretched Mountain Clans, who had somehow united under what they claimed was a divine mandate from the Old Gods. The Stormlands were on the verge of civil war over succession, their strength turned inward. His own kingdom, the mighty Reach, was going to war against the West instead of marching to the source of heresy in a holy calling.
There was also Dorne and the North. They did not matter. Dorne was more concerned with its own affairs. The North was a frozen wasteland ruled by tree worshippers who would likely support the heretic if given the chance.
Branston dreamed of what would come after. After they crushed the Lannisters, ground Loren's golden host into the mud, and seized Lannisport for the glory of the Reach. Then the Reach would unite all the faithful kingdoms, convince the new Storm King to join, bring the Vale into the fold once they crushed the savage clans, and perhaps even convert some of the more pragmatic Riverlords away from the heresy.
The Reach would stand at the head of the greatest holy calling Westeros had ever seen, marching on the Heartlands with the combined might of the faithful kingdoms. They would burn out this cancer, this corruption, this abomination that called itself the Covenant. They would execute the sorcerer king, scatter his demon children back to whatever hell had spawned them, hang that traitor Leobald in front of the sept he had defiled, and restore the true faith to—
His thoughts were interrupted by a guard who entered the solar nervously, clearly reluctant to disturb such an important meeting.
"What?" Branston snapped, annoyed at the interruption of his righteous fantasies.
"Your lordship, there is something..." The guard hesitated, glancing at Lord Hightower and the High Septon.
"Out with it!" Branston demanded.
The guard swallowed hard. "There are reports from the vigils, my lord. From the depths. Strange noises again. From the forbidden levels."
Branston felt ice water flood his veins. "Say no more," he said sharply, standing abruptly. "I will handle this."
He walked out of the solar in anger, his mind racing. The depths of the Hightower were forbidden to enter, absolutely and completely forbidden. He and every Hightower had been taught this from childhood. The lower levels of their ancient seat, the sections that descended deep into the rock of Battle Isle, were sealed for reasons lost to time but preserved in family tradition.
Even after countless requests from the maesters over millennia, requests to study the architecture, to excavate, to explore, to research, the family had kept that promise. Whatever their ancestors had sealed away was to remain sealed.
Then, a moon ago, they had caught some maesters in the depths. Caught them red handed, carrying lanterns and tools, exploring levels that had been locked for thousands of years. They had come through a newly discovered tunnel connecting the Citadel to the depths, a passage that must have been excavated in secret over years, perhaps decades.
It was something that had been handled privately within the family. The maesters were put to death quietly, their bodies thrown into the sea with stones tied to their feet. The Citadel was warned in no uncertain terms that any further incursions would result in open war between House Hightower and the order of maesters.
The Archmaesters had claimed they had no knowledge of it, that these were rogue elements acting without sanction, and that they would investigate internally and ensure it never happened again.
His father had accepted their words publicly while privately increasing the guards on all known entrances to the forbidden levels.
Tensions had been high ever since. Maesters and Hightowers regarded each other with suspicion. The easy cooperation of centuries had been replaced by wariness and distrust.
And now it seemed the maesters had broken their word once more.
=========
Branston arrived at the entrance to the depths, his breath coming hard from the rapid descent through the Hightower's many levels.
The guards who stood watch here were called the Vigils, an ancient title passed down through generations. They were men sworn to House Hightower for life, their sole duty to ensure that nothing entered or left the forbidden levels. Branston knew what lay beyond this entrance: a winding staircase that descended deep into the bedrock of Battle Isle, carved from black stone in an age before memory. The staircase ended at a great door, sealed with mechanisms that had not moved in thousands of years, a door made of the same black stone and white weirwood, a door that could not be opened.
At least, that was what they had always believed.
"Open the way," Branston commanded, and the Vigils moved to unlock the iron gate that barred the entrance.
Branston led his men inside, taking a torch from one of the guards. The air grew colder as they descended, the walls pressing in around them. The staircase spiraled down and down, each step worn smooth by unimaginable age. How deep did it go? He could not remember. A hundred feet? Two hundred? More?
As he neared what should have been the sealed door at the bottom, Branston stopped so abruptly that the men behind him nearly crashed into him.
The door was open.
The massive door of stone and wood, which had not moved since the Dawn Age, stood ajar, and an eerily light radiated from inside it.
"Seven preserve us," one of the guards whispered, his voice breaking.
Branston could feel his heart beating faster, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal trying to escape. His hands were shaking, from fear or cold or both. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to flee back up the stairs and seal this entrance forever, to pretend he had never seen this.
But he was a Hightower. He was pious, devoted, and brave. He would not run.
Then he heard it.
Voices from inside the opened door.
An oily, slick voice that sounded inhuman, wrong in ways that made Branston's skin crawl and his stomach turn. It spoke in the Common Tongue but with an accent that belonged to no nation, no people, no world Branston knew.
"We must go to Stygai then, my champion," the voice said, each word dripping like poison. "There is nothing here that interests me for now. We must begin at the source and work our way forward."
"Yes, my lord," a more human voice replied.
Some of the guards behind Branston broke and ran, their boots clattering on stone as they fled back up the stairs. Branston could not blame them. He wanted to run too.
But he had to know. Had to see.
Slowly, his sword drawn but feeling useless in his trembling hand, Branston made his way to the opened door and peered inside, into a space where no man since the Dawn Age had entered.
What he saw stole his breath.
A chamber vast beyond imagining stretched before him, carved from black stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The walls were covered with statues of dragons, hundreds of them, thousands perhaps, in every size and pose imaginable. Dragons in flight, dragons at rest, dragons locked in combat, dragons coiled around pillars that reached up into darkness.
In the center of the chamber sat a massive orb, perhaps ten feet in diameter. It was made of something like glass. Within the orb, shapes moved.
As Branston entered slowly, transfixed by horror and awe, he saw him.
A man in black robes stood there, and with him—
Branston's mind refused to process what he was seeing. A shape that was there and not there, that existed in too many dimensions at once, that made his eyes water and his head throb simply from trying to perceive it. Tentacles of oily darkness writhed around it like a crown, like robes, like wings.
The thing turned toward him, and Branston felt its attention fall upon him like a physical weight.
"Ah," it said in that horrible, slick voice. "A Hightower."
Branston tried to speak, to scream, to pray, but his throat had closed.
An oily tendril of pure darkness lashed out faster than thought, punching through his chest with a wet, tearing sound. No blood came. The tendril seemed to drink it as it emerged, absorbing his life, his warmth, his very essence.
The men with him were struck as well, three more tendrils shooting out and impaling them through hearts, throats, and stomachs. They died without even having time to scream.
Branston fell to his knees, trying to speak but only managing to gurgle blood. His vision was fading, darkening at the edges. Behind him, he heard the massive door begin to close with the grinding of stone on stone.
The last thing Branston Hightower heard before darkness claimed him was a slick, oily laugh that exploded through the chamber.
.
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Well, Hermaeus will not be in this story for some time(He has helped out the measters but now looks elsewhere). He will only show up during the final arc, where I have planned for Harald to explore the world of Ice and Fire.