For seven days the vessel glided over sapphire-blue waters, carried along by gentle currents and warm summer winds.
In the latter half of the journey, the fertile lands of the Reach slowly unfolded along the riverbanks. Sunlight poured generously over endless fields, where emerald ridges crisscrossed like veins of the earth. Rolling hills, cloaked in deep green forests and lush meadows, dotted the landscape. Farmers labored in the fields, fishermen cast their nets across rivers and lakes, butchers' creaking donkey carts wound along country lanes, and merchants' cries echoed through the marketplaces—all alive with vigor and abundance.
Amid this serene, almost languid countryside, Lo Quen and Janice's ship entered the harbor of Oldtown.
That morning, a thick, milky fog hung low over the sea and the city, wrapping everything in hushed stillness. Only the coarse, energetic cries of gulls pierced the haze, ringing through the damp air.
On the bow, Lo Quen and Janice stood side by side, their robes fluttering in the salt-heavy breeze. Their eyes strained past the shifting veil, drawn to the massive silhouette rising above the mist on Battle Island—the High Tower.
Seven hundred feet tall, its structure was built of fine white marble, radiating a soft, sacred glow even within the fog. At its peak, a blazing fire cut through the haze, guiding ships and wanderers alike.
Its history stretched back to the Dawn Age. The grand white tower that now stood was the culmination of countless expansions by House Hightower. The first watchtower had been a mere fifty feet, a crude wooden structure. In those days, Hightower ancestors still huddled within shadowed halls, domed chambers, and fortresses of rough black stone.
Through generations of rebuilding, the High Tower was reborn into the colossal stone stronghold it became—an enduring symbol of House Hightower's glory and power.
As the ship passed the towering stone sentinel guarding the mouth of the Honeywine River and drifted toward the bustling harbor of the Whispering Sound—a sea of masts, sails, and clamorous voices—Janice's violet eyes lit with curiosity and a touch of familiarity. She turned to Lo Quen.
"My lord, is this the High Tower, the stronghold of Lady Lynesse's house?"
During their days in Torturer's Deep, she and Lynesse had grown close. The melancholic Hightower girl had often shared tales of her family's ancient and noble history.
"Indeed."
Lo Quen nodded, but his gaze was fixed not on the shining marble spire above, but on the immense foundation beneath it.
There, a square fortress sprawled, built of massive, rough-hewn black stones, dark and heavy. It clung to the jagged rock of Battle Island, its lines stark and ancient, radiating a raw, primal force in sharp contrast to the purity above. The black base bore the tower's splendor in silence, its formidable walls concealing whatever secrets lay within.
Janice noticed where Lo Quen's eyes lingered and followed his gaze. She studied the black stone for a long moment, her brows furrowed in thought, before murmuring softly:
"The texture of that black stone is so similar to the walls of Tyria..."
Lo Quen inclined his head. "The cutting and stacking of this black stone is nearly indistinguishable from Valyrian craft. Beyond Tyria's walls, the Black Wall of Volantis and the Valyrian roads all share the same style."
Janice's violet eyes widened, astonishment flashing across her face. "Are you saying... that long ago, the Valyrians came to Oldtown and built this black stone foundation?"
Lo Quen slowly shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the colossal structure. "The chronicles say that even before the Dawn Age, the ancestors of House Hightower built this fortress. At that time, the Valyrian Freehold did not yet exist. Which means the knowledge of this black stone craft did not belong to Valyria alone."
Confusion lingered on Janice's face as her slender fingers traced the ship's rail. "But, my lord, to cut, transport, and fit such enormous stones so perfectly—without magic, it would be nearly impossible."
"Magic?"
A faint, knowing smile curved Lo Quen's lips. "Tell me then, Janice—where do you think Valyrian magic came from?"
Janice froze. Memories of old bloodmage records she had once glimpsed surged to mind, and she gasped.
"You mean... House Hightower and Valyria share a common origin?!"
Lo Quen's smile deepened.
Until now, his suspicions had been only theory drawn from ancient texts. But here stood the proof, silent and immense: a fortress of black stone, radiating ancient power, its craftsmanship indistinguishable from Valyrian ruins.
House Hightower and Valyria were bound by a hidden tie—one far deeper, and far more profound, than anyone dared imagine.
"Janice, you've studied the Valyrian secret histories preserved by the bloodmages.
They clearly state that the ancestors of Valyria came from Yi Ti, far east of the Bone Mountains. More precisely, they were descended from the royal bloodline of the legendary Great Empire of the Dawn—the offspring of the Amethyst Empress and the Bloodstone Emperor.
The Bloodstone Emperor murdered his sister and lover to seize the throne, turning his faith to powers from beyond the stars, and thus brought about the Long Night.
His descendants fled in desperation. One branch crossed the Bone Mountains westward and founded the Valyrian Freehold in the Lands of the Long Summer. Which means House Hightower is very likely descended from another branch of those exiles."
A wave of shock crashed through Janice, as if calm seas had been torn open by towering storms.
She had never imagined that here, in the distant south of Westeros, thousands of miles from Valyria's ruins, the lords of the white tower rising at the mouth of the Honeywine River might share blood with the Valyrians—bound by the same origin.
The threads of history suddenly stretched before her—clearer, yet infinitely more tangled.
Lo Quen too felt the stir of unease, though his thoughts ran along a different line.
What astonished him most was the timing. House Hightower had come to Westeros far earlier than the Valyrians had reached the Lands of the Long Summer.
As descendants of the Great Empire of the Dawn, why had they remained so subdued on Westeros's stage for thousands of years?
They had never wielded power like the Valyrians—never soaring on dragonback, never burning cities to ash, not even famed for sorcery. Instead, they were known for wisdom, wealth, and unwavering faith.
So what had they truly carried away from that ancient realm of blood and magic?
Or what had they hidden?
Did the silent black stone foundation, or the fire blazing atop the tower, conceal another legacy of the Great Empire of the Dawn—one the world had yet to see?
As Lo Quen pondered this vast mystery of origins and power, the ship around him suddenly grew loud with movement and voices.
He drew back his gaze and saw they had docked smoothly at Oldtown's crowded wharf.
Pushing aside the tumult of thoughts, he turned to Janice. "We're here. Let's go ashore."
For now, the secrets of House Hightower could wait—there were more urgent matters ahead.
Together they followed the throng down the gangway, leaving behind the port with its press of bodies and mingled scents of fish, sweat, and foreign spices.
They walked along the cobbled street by the Honeywine, its stones worn smooth with age, heading toward the heart of Oldtown—the Citadel.
Mist still clung to the damp, chilly streets, and a flicker of surprise crossed Lo Quen's face.
Compared to Volantis, which he had seen before, Oldtown revealed a strikingly different character.
It was cleaner, fresher, almost orderly in its very air.
Stone houses, three or four stories high, lined the riverbanks in neat but varied rows, their roofs covered with dark red tiles.
Though slick with mist, the streets were free of filth and stagnant puddles.
What struck him most was what he did not see—no ragged beggars slumped along the roadside, no gangs of idlers stirring trouble. The peace was remarkable.
And unlike Volantis, there were no slave masters cracking whips, no slaves cowering beneath them.
Here, only the cries of vendors filled the air as they hawked melons, peaches, apples, and fireplums from the Reach.
The fragrance of fruit and the warm scent of fresh bread drifted on the breeze.
From the Quill and Tankard, perched on its river island, laughter and the clinking of glasses floated faintly across the water.
Lo Quen paused at a fruit stall, bought a few ripe, glistening pieces, and handed them to Janice.
For the girl who had spent so long in Torturer's Deep, when had she last tasted anything so fresh, so sweet?
Janice accepted them eagerly. As they walked, she bit into a juicy peach, its nectar flooding her mouth.
Her eyes closed with delight, and a pure, joyful smile lit her face, as if it banished both the chill of the mist and the weariness of their journey.
The heavy fog above the city seemed to lift, drawn away by an unseen hand.
On the eastern horizon, the rising sun tore free of its shroud of clouds, spilling gold and crimson light across the world.
Morning spread like a brushstroke over Oldtown's bustling streets, its tall towers, its clustered rooftops—draping them in warmth and brilliance, while casting long, deep shadows across the ground.
Lo Quen's eyes were drawn to the grand silhouettes of faith that loomed against the sky.
The solemn spires of the Sept of the Seven, the sweeping arches of the Lord's Sept, the sigil of the Sailor's Sept, and the great dome of the Starry Sept, symbol of the endless heavens...
These temples rose vast and commanding, their scale immense.
In the morning light, intricate carvings seemed to stir with life, and domes soared upward as though to pierce the sky itself.
Then, sunlight broke fully through the clouds, bathing the whole city in a sacred blaze of gold and crimson.
Dong—dong—dong—
At that moment, solemn bells rang in turn from the towering septs, their deep voices reverberating across the air.
The sonorous chimes wove together above the city, as though a grand hymn were rising to greet distant travelers.
And so, accompanied by the roll of the morning bells, Lo Quen and Janice at last reached their destination—the Citadel.