The Feast
Laenor groaned, "Ah! For the love of god. This feels good."
He didn't even know when he had stopped walking — the sheer bliss of relieving himself was extraordinary. Maybe he'd had too much wine… or too much water… or both. Either way, gods, this was a relief.
He coughed again. Seven hells, that spice must have been too much.
Well, no one could blame him. He had been in far too merry a mood to notice whatever was going on in his stomach. And he was hungry too — hungrier than usual, in fact. Probably thanks to all the hunting, chasing, and skinning he'd done throughout the day. With everything finally done, Laenor put his own dragon back into his breeches and made his way out to return to the feast.
Laenor wandered back into the hall and rejoined the others at the high table just in time for Viserys to rise and announce the betrothal between him and Rhaenyra. The reaction was… mixed, to say the least. Many had predicted it. Some were shocked. Many were disappointed. And a handful — mostly the Reach lords — looked ready to storm off and strangle someone.
Then came the dancing. Laenor and Rhaenyra danced as well. The bard was… meh. Not terrible, not exceptional — simply surviving his job.
Laenor switched partners more than a few times, drinking and eating far too much, exactly as one should during a grand feast. By the hour of the bat, half the hall was either stumbling out or slumping over from too much wine. Laenor, meanwhile, was laughing with Daemon and a couple of Crownlands lads when the thought of retiring finally crossed his mind.
After some convincing — and after prying Daemon away from another tankard — Laenor was finally able to stand up and retire to bed. He made his way toward Maegor's Holdfast, feeling pleasantly exhausted and buzzing from the wine.
And thus ended the feast that announced his betrothal.
The Oldtown
Lord Hobert Hightower stood before the window of his solar while two old men behind him bickered like fisherwomen at a market stall. Titles, offices—none of it changed the blood in a man. Both are wise and devout men, yet they carry themselves with no dignity that should be present in a man of office whom they hold. Then again, Nobles bickered the same way; the only difference was that they only did it when the grudges were old enough. But the two behind him were currently quarrelling over their second failed attempt to poison the Velaryon boy.
They could believe whatever nonsense soothed their pride or were more inclined to their belief, but Hobert agreed with Otto on one thing: poisons simply did not affect the boy; he was immune to them. A blessing for the Velaryon lad, since he never had to fear any cup or slice of meat might be his last. Perhaps magic granted him this immunity. The Seneschal denied that such a thing was possible, but how would he know? He wasn't the mage — the Velaryon boy was.
And not just any mage, but a mage of remarkable power, if the spawn of Redwyne was to be believed. Hobert certainly believed it. Too many others who were there in the war of Stepstones had whispered the same. And there were the signs: Valyrian steel the Targaryens and Velaryons traded, those cursed swords, the fused black stone of Poseidon Tower and Bloodstone Isle… Valyrian arts restored by a family who did not know possess knowledge of them until a few years back.
The Citadel and the Faith might think killing Laenor would solve everything, but Hobert knew better. Even Queen Alicent had admitted — though in a fury — that Aegon was learning magic at Dragonstone, despite all her protests about "vile forces." That alone told Hobert the truth: magic had already spread beyond Laenor, and killing him would not unteach it.
But killing him would halt further knowledge. And that, Hobert knew, was enough.
That was why he had agreed to send his own distant cousin, Jared, to Braavos. If a mage had to die, it must be by a blade that understood magic. A Faceless Man never failed. And the coffers of the Faith and the Citadel ran deep — payment would not be an issue. Yet a moonturn had passed, and no word had returned.
The door creaked open. Hobert turned. The two old men froze mid-bicker. A stranger stepped inside: boiled leather, sword at his hip, brown hair, brown eyes. A common guardsman by appearance — except Hobert had ordered that no one should enter. And he trusts his guards to follow through on his words unless they are dead or awake no more.
"Who are you?" the Seneschal demanded.
"Valar Morghulis."
The single phrase drained the room of breath. Sweat bloomed across wrinkled brows as both old men stiffened like dying hares. Hobert himself felt a chill before moving to take his seat. It seems Jared had done his task.
"Valar Dohaeris," Hobert replied calmly. His High Holiness sent him a displeased look but wisely held his tongue.
"Lord Hightower," the man said, voice devoid of emotion, "you sent a man to our House with a request — to give a gift to Laenor Velaryon."
"Yes," Hobert answered. "The man was sent by me. But it is not House Hightower who wishes to hire you." He gestured toward the two old men in the room.
"Was it you both who desired the death of Laenor Velaryon?" the Faceless Man asked.
The two exchanged a tense look. Then the Seneschal cleared his throat. "Yes. We are the ones. Whatever the price may be, we are prepared to hear it."
The Faceless Man regarded them in silence. Hobert saw sweat trickle down the High Septon's temple when the flame of the hearth had long since died out. Winter winds aren't kind at this height on the Hightower either. And even then, his High Holiness seems to feel the heat somehow.
Finally, the assassin spoke.
"There will be no price. And no gift will be given to Laenor Velaryon — nor to any member of his House. If you have another name to offer, speak it. Otherwise, I leave."
"Why not? Why not the Velaryons?" the High Septon snapped, face blotched red with fury. "They are heretics! Dragonlords who practice vile magics! You should be grateful to be paid to kill their kind—"
"I do not owe you an explanation."
The voice remained cold, flat. "If you have no other name, I will depart."
And without waiting for a reply, the Faceless Man turned and walked out.
"Essosi heathens," the High Septon hissed, before bowing stiffly to Hobert in gratitude and stalking out. The Seneschal followed, leaving Hobert alone.
"The Faceless Men never refuse to give the gift, never," the Seneschal muttered at the threshold, troubled.
"Indeed," Hobert murmured once the door shut. "Laenor Velaryon is far more enigmatic than we first believed."
He rubbed his temple as new calculations formed in his mind. Perhaps it was time to write to his brother. The more he learned, the more Hobert felt certain of one thing:
Openly opposing House Velaryon — without understanding the storm gathering behind them — might not be beneficial for House Hightower.
What Hobert and the two old men do not realize is that they should have stopped after their first two attempts. While Laenor may not have suspected poison in his drinks, he would certainly be aware of people hiring the Faceless Man, especially after a word from the House of Black and White would reach him.
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