Light fell through the tall arched window in a soft yellow band across the oak desk. Dust drifted in it. Outside, gulls cried over the harbor.
Lord Hobert Hightower sat writing. The scratch of the quill was steady and dry. He did not look up when the door opened. He knew that step.
Lady Lynesse entered without knocking. Her gown rustled as she crossed the room. She stopped before the desk, her shadow falling over the parchment.
"Why did the Targaryens have to bring their daughter into our house?" she asked. Her voice was clipped, edged with annoyance. She stood with her hands clasped tight before her.
Hobert kept writing.
"It is a family wishing to be near their dying daughter," he said.
"Then my lord could have advised them to remain at the sept." Lynesse's tone turned dry. "Under the gods' gaze. Where such things belong."
Hobert paused. He set the quill down and looked at her.
"You expect me to say that to a grieving king?" he asked. "Or deny his wish?"
Lynesse's lips tightened.
"And what of your own family?" she said. "What if it spreads? What if the servants carry it through the kitchens, through the halls, into our own chambers?" Her voice stayed low but quickened. "They brought a plague into our home, Hobert. They might as well have lit the bed on fire and called it warmth."
Hobert reached for a folded parchment and slid it forward.
"The servants are separated," he said. "The chamber is isolated on the eastern corridor. Only the Targaryens and their assigned maids may enter. You need not go near it. None of our household must."
Lynesse glanced at the parchment, then back at him.
"But they even dismissed the maesters," she said.
"And what use would they be, even?" Hobert replied. His tone was flat. "The Archmaester himself said there is no cure. The greyscale has taken her arm, her ribs, half her chest. She is turning to stone while breathing. What use are leeches and poultices against that?"
Lynesse said nothing. Her fingers tightened again. She looked toward the window.
Hobert watched her.
"It seems something else troubles you," he said.
Her gaze snapped back.
She gave a short scoff. After a brief pause, she spoke more carefully. "I learned who your son has been sneaking off to see."
Hobert rolled his eyes faintly and picked up the quill again, turning it between his fingers.
"And?" he said. "Did you send someone to follow him?"
Lynesse ignored that.
"A blacksmith's daughter." Her voice carried open disdain. "Broad as a barrel. If he must take a lover, he could at least choose one worth the name."
Hobert looked at her for a moment. Then back at the parchment.
"Broad as a barrel," he repeated mildly. "Perhaps the boy wants someone like his mother."
Silence followed.
Lynesse went still.
Then she spoke. Her voice was quiet, tight with restrained anger.
"Is that meant to slight me?"
Hobert dipped the quill into ink.
"Spare me, Lynesse," he said. Irritation edged his voice now. "Why fret over where the boy beds a girl? I told you already… I will see it handled. No scandal will touch this house." He set the quill down more firmly this time. "Go attend the queen. Show some courtesy on behalf of our house. That is what matters now."
Lynesse stared at him. Her chest rose once with a sharp breath. Anger.
She turned. Her gown brushed a chair. Her steps were quick and hard across the stone. The door opened. Then it shut.
The sound lingered for a moment and faded.
Hobert sat alone.
Light crept across the desk. The gulls cried again outside.
Septa Fryda walked quickly through the eastern corridor.
The passage felt colder than the rest. Her sandals made soft, quick taps against the flagstones.
At the far end, the door waited. Two guards stood near it. Fryda slowed, then stopped. She drew a breath, steadying herself.
Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was simple, but it felt heavy with the presence of the men who ruled the realm.
King Jaehaerys stood near the center, hands clasped behind his back. Prince Baelon stood a pace behind and to one side. Prince Aegon stood quietly near the wall.
Fryda lowered her head at once. "Your Grace," she said, then turned slightly. "My princes."
Jaehaerys looked at her and held her gaze. His eyes were tired, but sharp.
"Septa Fryda," he said. His voice was even, carrying a dignified weight. "Maegelle has mentioned you often in her letters." He paused, as if measuring the room, then added, "We have not been introduced properly before. And Baelon… was harsh."
Baelon's mouth tightened. He did not deny it.
Fryda's throat felt dry. She wet her lips. "I am… flattered, Your Grace," she said softly. Then she turned her head slightly toward Baelon, respectful, careful. "And I understand. Any brother would be angry, given the circumstance."
Baelon's eyes flicked to the floor and back. A short breath left him through his nose.
Jaehaerys nodded once. He took a step and spoke with a serious tone.
"I called for you," he said, "because something is required of you that demands… absolute discretion. It cannot be heard by another outside this room."
Fryda's hands gripped inside her sleeves. Her gaze moved… King, Baelon, and Aegon. This was the royal family, and whatever they were about to ask carried vital importance.
Jaehaerys watched her carefully. "Maegelle considers herself closest to you," he said. "So we chose you. And we do so with her well-being in mind."
Fryda blinked. With her well-being in mind. The words landed with the severity of the matter.
She swallowed. "I have known Maegelle for many years," she said, her voice firmer now, because she had to make it so. "Yes. We were very close. I will do everything in my power to help her."
Jaehaerys' shoulders eased, just slightly.
"Even so," he said, and his eyes did not leave hers, "we will require an oath from you. On your gods." He paused, then continued, slower, forcing each word into place. "That you will not mention a word of what you are going to witness. No matter how outrageous…" Another pause, sharper. "…or how blasphemous it may be."
Fryda's breath caught.
Blasphemous.
Her skin prickled. Things the Faith condemned with fire and iron.
She stared at the king, then at Baelon, then at Aegon. Her resolve wavered.
Prince Baelon's voice cut in, blunt and direct. "You can leave," he said. "If you do not want this."
The offer was real. That made it worse.
Fryda's gaze dropped to the floor. For a moment, she could only hear her own pulse. Then, like a hand reaching into memory, Maegelle came to her.
Maegelle in the Starry Sept, sleeves rolled, washing a child's hands while another septa stood back, pale with fear. Maegelle speaking softly to a girl crying from fever, smoothing hair away from a damp forehead. Maegelle laughing, quietly, late at night when the sisters were exhausted and the candles were low, sharing a small joke to keep the air from turning too heavy.
Her student.
Her friend.
Fryda lifted her head.
Her fear did not vanish. It remained in her chest like a stone. But her will set around it.
"I swear," she said. Her voice shook at first, then steadied. "I swear upon my gods." She drew a breath, deep enough this time to hurt. "I have not known a more devout person than Maegelle. If I must do something to save her, I will. I do not believe the gods would make me choose otherwise."
Jaehaerys looked at her, and something eased in his face. Relief. He glanced at Baelon, then at Aegon.
Aegon promptly stepped forward.
"This way," he said quietly, his tone gentle. He moved to the side door and opened it for Fryda. She hesitated only a heartbeat, then followed him.
The next room smelled different.
The air was warmer, thick with herbs and sweat and old stone. Candles burned low.
Maegelle lay in the bed.
Even asleep, she looked feverish. Her skin shone with heat. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. One arm lay outside the covers, and the greyscale there was unmistakable: hard patches, dull and cracked, like stone.
Queen Alysanne sat beside her, posture bent forward, one hand resting near Maegelle's wrist as if the touch could keep her anchored. Princess Gael stood near the head of the bed, pale and tight-lipped, her hands clenched in her cloak. She looked up when the door opened.
Alysanne turned her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but focused.
Aegon and Fryda stepped in.
Alysanne gave a small nod. Gael did the same. Neither spoke, as if a word might wake Maegelle.
Aegon looked to Gael. His voice was quiet, polite.
"Gael," he said, "wait outside."
Gael's eyes tightened for a moment. She looked like she wanted to refuse. Then she glanced at Maegelle, and whatever fight was in her loosened.
She nodded once and stepped out without a word, closing the door behind her.
Now only Alysanne, Fryda, and Aegon remained, gathered around the bed where Maegelle lay.
Aegon turned to Fryda.
"You must have heard about my pyromancy," he said.
Fryda's gaze dragged away from Maegelle and fixed on him. She had heard, yes. Everyone in Oldtown had heard. Fire shaped like a living thing.
She nodded slowly.
Aegon's face stayed calm, almost thoughtful. His eyes held hers.
"What do you think of it?" he asked.
Fryda's mouth opened, then closed. What was she meant to say to a prince? That she feared it? That she did not understand it?
"I… I do not know," she said at last, and hated how small it sounded.
Aegon's voice stayed soft, but a faint eerie blue light flickered in his eyes representing the use of the Tier 3 [Psychic Master] class.
"I believe," he said, "that if the gods are always blessing us, and are omniscient… then maybe magic, sorcery, and other things also fall under their will."
Fryda frowned slightly, caught off guard by the direction. She had expected defiance, or pride, or some royal declaration.
Instead, he spoke like someone trying to fit a strange shape into a familiar frame.
She listened, uneasy, because his words brushed close to something true.
Aegon continued, still calm. "Maybe everything is God's will," he said, "and only men fear magic. So they spread it so."
Fryda's hands tightened inside her sleeves. She wanted to reject it. That would have been simple. But she could not. Not fully. The scriptures did not speak plainly of magic. They warned against pride, against false idols, against men who claimed to be gods. But the words did not name sorcery as sin in the way the smallfolk spoke of it.
Her heart beat harder.
She looked at Maegelle on the bed. The stone on her skin did not care about doctrine.
Fryda spoke, her voice careful. "My prince… do you intend to use pyromancy to help her?"
Aegon shook his head. "Pyromancy can't help her."
The bluntness of it made Fryda's stomach sink, confused.
Then he went on, and his next words were quieter, yet heavier.
"I am going to try another form of Valyrian magic," he said. "Blood magic."
Fryda stepped back without thinking. Her breath came sharp through her nose. Her eyes went wide. Blood magic meant screams. It meant knives. It meant stories so vile the Faith would not even repeat them from the pulpit.
Aegon lifted a hand slightly, to calm her, steadying the space between them.
"It is not the magic you have heard of," he said. "No sacrifices. No harm."
Fryda's breath slowed by a fraction. Her fear did not leave. But it shifted. It became something watchful instead of panicked.
The faint invisible blue light flickered more strongly in Aegon's eyes.
"I am only planning to help Maegelle," he said, his voice even, "and there will not be any harm to anybody." He paused, then added, quieter still, "Moreover… it may be helpful. As greyscale might be solved."
The words landed like a crack in the world.
Solved.
Fryda felt the weight of every sick child she had seen in the Sept. Every arm wrapped in cloth. Every face turned away in shame. Every prayer whispered with no answer.
She found herself listening in a way that felt different, more opened. His words seemed to bypass her defenses and settle somewhere deeper, like rain finding cracks in dry ground.
Queen Alysanne leaned forward slightly, joining the space of the conversation, her voice controlled but hoarse.
"We would not use it if there were any other remedies," she said. Her eyes flicked to Maegelle. "You know her. Maegelle would refuse such a thing and choose to die." Her throat tightened around the words, but she kept going. "That is why we chose you. To help us persuade her. To proceed with the trial."
Alysanne's hand hovered near Maegelle's wrist again, but she did not touch. It was as if she feared even that might wake her.
"We can trust no other to keep such a secret," Alysanne said, her voice lower now. "No other to understand."
Fryda stood very still.
A heavy weight settled onto her shoulders, heavier than all her years. Heavier than her vows. She felt it press down until her breath shortened.
Then her mind filled with faces.
Children. Men. Women. The ones who came to the Sept with hope still in them, and left with cloth wrapped tight around stone-hard skin and terror behind their eyes. She saw Maegelle among them, day after day, refusing fear, refusing distance, paying for mercy with her own flesh.
Fryda looked at Maegelle on the bed.
She thought of the oath she had just sworn.
Slowly, hesitantly, Fryda nodded her head.
***
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