Chapter Text
House Hightower was one of the two most ancient houses in Westeros alongside the Starks.
After the Starks went extinct, they became the oldest house.
And now they were the only surviving house left in Westeros.
The old Lord of Oldtown, Leyton, shed no tears as he looked upon the frozen corpse of his son Baelor.
It had been an honorable death. Baelor had refused to board a ship and flee, and had fought upon the walls of Oldtown until the bitter end.
“Any news from Dorne?” he asked the crowd of lords gathered in the hall.
“Sunspear fell without offering much resistance,” said Lord Costayne. “House Dayne made a good stand at Starfall. They used the advantages of their hilly position very well and employed the firearms we gave them in quite creative ways, but in the end they fell as well.”
Lord Leyton could only let out a deep sigh. Firearms had become the greatest invention of the last thousand years. House Hightower could have conquered all of Westeros using those weapons, yet against the Others they did little more than provide some measure of resistance.
The Others never tired, never hungered, and attacked without stopping for even a single second. Their numbers were endless. For any castle to resist them for even one day was nothing short of a miracle.
Oldtown had resisted for an entire month.
“Then we are the last humans left alive in Westeros,” said Lord Hightower as he stepped onto the balcony. “A fitting end for my family.”
You would think Oldtown would be in chaos, but it was not. Instead, a heavy atmosphere of grief and mourning had descended upon it. Nearly all of the men, women, and children had died fighting in defense of the city. Only old men like Leyton remained.
Some still tried to flee aboard ships, but Leyton knew very well that it was no solution. The White Walkers… somehow, they had learned how to use ships, and they had already reached Essos. Pentos had fallen. Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and Norvos had fallen. According to the latest reports, the White Walkers had begun battering the walls of Volantis, while Braavos still seemed to be resisting somehow.
“When will they arrive here?” asked Leyton.
“At most, one hour,” said Ser Chester.
“How many White Walkers are there?”
The Others themselves were nothing but puppets and corpses. Leyton knew the true threat was the White Walkers who commanded them. In truth, the only reason Oldtown had survived for a month was because they constantly killed those generals. When one died, its servants died as well and the assault halted. Yet for the people of the city it merely provided a brief moment to breathe, for before long another White Walker would appear.
“Five,” said Ser Chester.
“I see,” said Leyton. House Hightower had slain five White Walkers so far, and now they would add five more to that number. Ten generals dead in total. Hopefully it would be enough to irritate the Night King.
“Take everyone remaining in the city down into the castle vaults, beside the wildfire caches.”
“My lord…” the surrounding knights looked ready to object.
“Wildfire explodes with tremendous force, my lords. Those people will die before they even realize they are burning. A merciful death,” said Maester Wulkan.
“Then will you be joining them there, my lord?” asked Lord Peake.
“No,” said Leyton firmly. “House Hightower may perish today, but the last Lord Hightower will not die hiding like a rat in the vaults.”
“Then allow us to fight beside you, my lord,” said Lady Bulwer.
“Yes, we are descended from Garth the Gardener. We shall die in a manner worthy of our ancestors,” declared Lord Crane.
“So be it,” proclaimed Lord Hightower. “Our ancient families and histories may fall today, but humanity shall remember our glorious resistance.” If humanity survived to remember it.
The knights, lords, and ladies in the hall drew their swords and roared in fury.
Leyton quickly slipped away from among the lords and entered his chambers. For the first time in many years, he would wear his war armor again.
“At least did you enjoy yourself?”
A mocking woman’s voice echoed through the room. A voice Leyton knew quite well.
“A glorious death for our noble houses, is it? I wonder which death mine counts as. The last Redwyne, or the last Tyrell?” asked the Queen of Thorns.
“Lady Olenna.” Leyton spoke her name, but did not bother looking at the woman as he reached for his armor. “I would greatly enjoy a pleasant conversation, but I fear neither of us has the time for it.”
“You knew this would happen.”
This time Olenna Tyrell’s voice was filled with fury and hatred.
Leyton’s hand froze upon the sword. He looked at the old woman in shock.
“What?”
“You heard me, Beacon of the South,” spat the Queen of Thorns angrily. “I saw your firearms. I saw the hundreds of thousands of swords and arrows made of dragonglass taken out from the castle vaults. I heard of the magic you used against Euron Greyjoy. Ah yes, of course the High Septons called it the blessing of the Seven, but I never believed it for even a second. The Seven do not send giant waves and krakens against their enemies.”
The woman rose to her feet.
“Your freak daughter who never left the library, and Maester Marwyn, the man known as a sorcerer, died during that attack. They sacrificed themselves for your magic.”
Leyton’s hand trembled.
“That was not the plan,” he could only mutter.
Leyton’s plan had only been to use massive waves to sink the Iron Islands fleet beneath the sea. At first it had worked, but then suddenly the kraken had appeared and begun attacking the walls of Oldtown. How could enormous waves possibly affect such a creature? It had seemed as though the Drowned God himself had manifested upon the earth.
Leyton remembered the day he saw the kraken as though it were yesterday. In that moment he realized what a fool he had been to underestimate Euron Greyjoy, the man who had explored ancient Valyria, and understood he had become the victim of his own arrogance.
He had thought the city would fall that day.
But it had not.
The kraken had suddenly changed sides and begun attacking the Ironborn fleet instead. Leyton knew Malora and Marwyn had done it. He did not know how, but they had cast some spell to turn the kraken, and they had sacrificed their lives for it.
“I heard the tale of the Lord Hightower who never involved himself in politics. He merely stayed inside his chambers and read books. Some claimed he read books of magic and prophecy.” The old woman approached Lord Hightower and stared directly into his eyes. “You knew these things would happen, didn’t you? The Others and the White Walkers?”
“This was not how it was supposed to happen,” said Leyton in a helpless voice.
A loud slap echoed through the room.
Then another.
“You knew everything. You knew they were coming!” roared Olenna. “Why did you do nothing?”
“What do you think would have happened if I told people the White Walkers were coming?” said Leyton. “They would have called me mad and removed me from my seat.”
“You are the Lord of Oldtown, you senile fool! Lord of the house that secretly controls the Faith and the Citadel! Master of the only banking house in Westeros! You possessed enormous resources. Why did you not use them?”
“What exactly did you expect me to do…?” stammered Leyton.
“You could have prevented us from supporting the Lannisters,” spat the Queen of Thorns. “The Starks would have survived. The North would have remained strong. The Wall would not have fallen. If we had defended the Wall, Westeros could have survived.”
“The Starks are the only family older than us, and Moat Cailin is an impregnable fortress. I thought they would survive regardless,” muttered Leyton. “How could I have known the Red Wedding would happen?”
“Then while sitting in your chambers waiting, did you at least think about how we were supposed to fight all these monsters?” asked Olenna.
“Daenerys Targaryen… she is the Song of Ice and Fire,” said Leyton. “She was supposed to stop the Others. She was supposed to save us. House Hightower was going to support her.”
“Are you speaking of the woman who burned one million people alive in King’s Landing with dragonfire?” asked Olenna mockingly. “If the savior was to come from the Targaryens, then why did you not prevent their fall? Had you insisted, the Reach would have continued fighting for Viserys.”
“One must not interfere with prophecy,” said Leyton, repeating the same refrain he had spoken for the past thirty years. “Everything Daenerys suffered was necessary for the Song of Ice and Fire to come to pass.”
Another slap echoed.
“Damn you, Leyton Hightower,” cursed Olenna as she stormed out of the room. “I hope you die in agony.”
As Leyton took up his sword and returned to the throne room, he could only let out a deep sigh. There was no point dwelling upon things that had already happened.
It did not take long for the White Walkers to enter the hall.
The first to charge and the first to fall was Lady Talla Tarly. All of her Florent relatives on her mother’s side had perished heroically fighting the Others upon the Wall alongside her eldest brother Samwell. Her father and only brother had betrayed House Tyrell for the Lannisters and occupied Highgarden. In the end, both were executed by Daenerys Targaryen, burned alive in dragonfire.
Then Paxter Redwyne rushed forward. He had lost his sons and wife during Euron Greyjoy’s invasion of the Arbor.
Olenna behaved in a manner worthy of the Tyrell name. She attacked with a thorn made of obsidian in her hand and even managed to kill one of the Others. She smiled as the Other’s blade pierced her neck. The old woman could finally rest now.
Jousa Willum charged while shouting the words of his house. Leyton still remembered the young man who had once sworn to be the first atop the walls of King’s Landing for King Renly. Back then he had inwardly laughed at that green boy who knew nothing of war, but in the past three years that green boy had become a true man and warrior.
Martyn Mullendore, Lord of Uplands, attacked while failing to hide the trembling of his hands. His father had died of old age during the War of the Five Kings. Lucky bastard.
Leyton did nothing.
He merely sat upon his throne and watched.
He had lost both his sons fighting against the Lannisters. Baelor and Humfrey had fallen defending Oldtown. Gunthor had fled to Essos by his father’s orders, and Leyton had not heard from him in a long time.
Malora sacrificed herself trying to protect the city from the Greyjoys. Alerie had died alongside her husband and children during the explosion at the Great Sept of Baelor. Lynesse had been killed by pirates years ago. Denyse and Leyla had fallen defending their husbands’ homes. Alysanne had escaped to Essos with Gunthor.
A single tear fell from Leyton’s eye as he drew his sword.
Then it was heard.
A rumble.
First came the fire, and it hurt.
It hurt so very, very much.
But it did not kill him.
Then the castle collapsed upon Leyton, and the old man’s breath was crushed from him.
A beam from the castle had pierced his chest. If Leyton had been capable of moving, he would have chuckled. A poetic death for the last Lord of Oldtown.
It was a shame no one would ever know.
The final thing Leyton Hightower thought before dying was that he most certainly deserved this.
Oldtown had fallen into great turmoil ever since Lord Leyton Hightower’s sudden health crisis, and the task of restoring order had fallen to Baelor.
It had all begun one week ago.
That night, his father had gone to sleep normally in his bed, only to suddenly begin screaming. The screams continued until Maester Wulkan forcibly made the old lord drink milk of the poppy.
Even the milk of the poppy did not cure his father’s episodes. Even while sedated, Lord Leyton constantly trembled and suffered epileptic seizures.
The finest maesters of the Citadel had examined the lord thoroughly, yet none could determine the illness. Septons of the Most Devout prayed beside the lord from morning until night, but it was useless.
Even during his healthiest days, his father muttered nonsensical things no one could understand.
House Hightower was devastated. Lady Hightower and Malora did not leave Lord Leyton’s side for even a moment and constantly wiped down his body. Alerie had rushed to Oldtown the instant she heard the news and spent the entire day begging the gods for mercy inside the Starry Sept. Alysanne was too young to understand what was happening.
Baelor and his brothers tried to maintain control amidst the chaos. Already many lords had begun sending marriage proposals alongside letters of condolence.
Shameless bastards.
As Baelor struggled to remain strong, every single day he cursed the Seven in his heart.
What had his father done to deserve this?
The only thing that had given him hope during the past week were the maesters’ words. Lord Leyton’s episodes were becoming less frequent with each passing day. Recently, even the epileptic seizures had nearly ceased altogether.
Then the news arrived.
“My lord! Lord Leyton has awakened!”
Baelor ran toward his father’s chambers in a manner unbefitting any lord and found him awake in bed.
He was stroking Malora’s face. As Baelor’s sister cried and spoke to their father, an expression of confusion appeared upon Lord Leyton’s face.
“Father.” Unable to restrain his tears, Baelor rushed to his father’s side and embraced the old lord, kissing his face.
“Baelor… you…” Lord Leyton stammered incoherent words to himself. “My son… my heir… my pride…” He suddenly gripped Baelor’s arm like a claw. “What… what year is it?”
Baelor assumed his father had lost his sense of time during the past week and answered quickly.
“277 AC.”
Yet his father still seemed unable to comprehend what he had heard. He continued stammering.
“Harrenhal… the tournament at Harrenhal…”
Baelor leaned close to his father and whispered into his ear. He did not want his brothers to realize their father had lost his grasp on time and become worried.
“Father, there was no tournament at Harrenhal.” He paused for a moment, assuming his father was trying to recover his memories by recalling recent events. “A few months ago, Elia Martell became betrothed to Prince Rhaegar.”
His father stared at Baelor with wide eyes.
First came a chuckle.
Then a coughing laugh followed.
“Seven… Seven… thank… thank you…”
Those were Lord Hightower’s final words before he fainted once more.