Fear spread through the tower

Hawk-like eyes sat in sockets surrounded by wrinkled skin.

Pitch-black veins writhed like living snakes through that gaze devoid of warmth.

Baelor recognized those terrifying eyes.

They belonged to his father, Earl Leyton Hightower.

The face that abruptly appeared in the shadows startled the heir to the Hightower.

He instinctively stumbled back several steps, nearly missing his footing and falling.

Though it was daytime, the top of the tower, which should have been the brightest place of all, was pitch-black.

It seemed his father had deliberately blocked out the light.

Baelor could not say for certain.

He stared for a long time at that familiar yet unfamiliar face, soothing his pounding heart, before Baelor Hightower forced a stiff smile:

"Ah... ha, Father... you... you're here."

Earl Leyton Hightower showed no response to those pointless words from within the darkness.

His eyes remained motionless, unblinking, simply watching his son.

His hands and feet gleamed faintly, and Baelor's lips had gone somewhat pale:

"Father... where is Moroia? Is she all right?"

Silence.

Deathly silence.

Just as the thick darkness was about to engulf Baelor entirely, plug his nostrils, and suffocate him, he heard a slow reply devoid of sorrow or joy:

"Moroia... is well."

"You... need not concern yourself with these matters."

Having lived beneath his father's imposing authority for so long, Baelor immediately lowered his head:

"Yes, Father."

He had wanted to ask why the top floor had to be so dark, but the thought of the "spells" his father studied made him abandon the idea.

Not all the spells House Hightower studied were necessarily fit to see the light of day.

After all, no one knew the true purpose of the things left behind from the age when magic had ebbed away.

All the blood spilled studying these things throughout the family's history ought to be remembered; outsiders simply could not be allowed to know.

"Father... you and Moroia don't seem to have been eating much lately. Is the kitchen's food not to your liking?"

Baelor composed himself and, seeing that Earl Leyton was all right, asked the question he had come to ask.

What exactly the old man was doing at the top of the tower was not something he could interfere with.

So long as no rumors spread about a son starving his father to death, that would be enough.

Another long silence followed.

Then Baelor heard an answer that chilled him to the bone:

"No, the kitchen is doing well."

"I am very satisfied with the food. There is no need to worry, Baelor."

"Leave. Attend to your affairs. Remember, have all the tower's children return."

"Remember..."

Footsteps sounded in the darkness.

Leyton Hightower's face had disappeared.

Only the heir to the Hightower remained, standing frozen in place, his face pale.

Once again, he caught the increasingly strong smell of blood.

Fear wound around him, eating into every inch of his skin.

Blood... whose blood?

In one panicked glance, Baelor had caught sight of a fleeting stain on his father's robe.

Though it had long since dried, faded, and oxidized, Baelor could still recognize what it was.

A thought lingered in his mind, making him feel as though he had plunged into an abyss.

No... that was impossible!

Baelor told himself over and over.

Yet his feet retreated uncontrollably down the steps.

At last, he left the upward spiral staircase and stood in the light again.

The sea breeze seemed to return his nearly scattered soul to him.

He looked out past the colonnade at the surging Sunset Sea.

Heavy clouds were gathering over the water.

It was going to rain!

"Damn it, why is it raining again!"

Looking at the unbroken curtain of rain outside the wooden house's window, Margaery Tyrell seethed inwardly.

The rain clouds that made landfall in the Reach had given no warning.

Margaery and Darean had been touring the homes under construction when, following a guard's pointing hand, they saw the dark mass rapidly approaching over the sea.

To avoid losing their noble dignity in the downpour, the two could only turn around at once and return to their lodgings.

Not long after they had a roof over their heads, torrential rain came hammering down, as though a river in the sky had burst its banks.

That thoroughly washed out their plans to learn more about this territory, in every sense.

Margaery had originally thought she could question some servants and learn things Darean was unwilling to tell her.

Yet this youngest son of the Hightower gave her no such opportunity.

Almost everyone selected to serve her knew nothing, no matter what she asked.

More precisely, they were all ordinary village women from the fringes, not only clumsy but utterly ignorant of anything important.

Now Margaery understood: everyone in the Hightower had long since prepared for her unexpected visit.

It had begun when Baelor Hightower intercepted her at Oldtown's gates and insisted on sending three hundred elite men along.

And this sudden downpour had trapped her in this wretched wooden house.

Baelor had been right about one thing he had told Darean: Highgarden would never allow the little rose to remain on a nobleman's lands for long.

After all, House Tyrell had poured far too much effort into her.

They would never allow anything to go wrong before the fruit ripened.

Margaery had a headache, little knowing that Darean had one too.

He had already spent three or four days putting on an act with this Rose of Highgarden.

Seriously, Baelor, why haven't you sent any word at all?

You promised to get her out of here as soon as possible. If this goes on, I'll forget how to smile, you know?

Leaning back in an uncomfortable wooden chair, Darean watched the mud churn beneath the curtain of rain outside the window, grumbling endlessly to himself.

The old Darean had been a brute who only knew how to grab a weapon and charge in, whatever the problem.

Though he had now recovered his brains, he truly could not stand spending every day forcing smiles.

It really was torture.

Tomorrow would make it five days.

Seemingly unwilling to let the atmosphere in the room grow too dull, Margaery Tyrell turned to Darean and raised a topic:

"Darean, we both know that the current Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, is already very old."

"One of these days, he may be called by the Seven. Who do you think will be the next Hand?"

Darean looked in surprise at the little rose and her audacious words, then glanced around, only turning his gaze back after confirming that the two of them were indeed alone on the second floor.

Wait... you're opening with something this explosive?

Are we really close enough for you to discuss something this daring with me?

Darean grumbled inwardly.

Still, when it came to external affairs, the interests of House Hightower and House Tyrell were largely aligned.

So the little rose's words were not quite so outrageous.

After a moment's thought, Darean made a joke:

"Who knows? The choice of the kingdom's Hand rests entirely on the king's will. Perhaps our king will make the Kingslayer his Hand."

"All he needs to do is persuade Lord Tywin to send a few more Gold Dragons to the royal treasury."

Margaery chuckled softly, but said:

"Our king is not quite that foolish yet."

"I think that if the eagle finally loses the strength to fly, the direwolf will head south."

"He has no one else to turn to."