King's Landing.
The sun had already set, and the towers of the Red Keep had turned black against the fading twilight.
The clamor of the streets gradually died away, replaced by the curfew decreed by Prince Regent Aemond.
Inside a room somewhere in King's Landing, Ormund Hightower still didn't know why he had come to keep this appointment.
The note had contained only a single line: "What happened in Oldtown concerns the very survival of House Hightower."
But instead of a signature, it bore the symbol of a seven-pointed star.
The symbol of the Faith.
Ormund was not a man easily deceived.
He was the Lord of Oldtown, head of House Hightower, and one of the Greens' most important supporters.
But he was not the Prince Regent's confidant.
He knew that well.
Queen Alicent—no, the Queen Dowager Regent—had once been House Hightower's most reliable ally at court. But ever since King Viserys died, she had withdrawn from all affairs of state.
Now His Grace lay gravely wounded. Real power rested in the hands of her son, Aemond.
And as for Aemond's attitude toward House Hightower...
The Lord strongly suspected that the moment the Hightowers stood in Aemond's way, their house would simply be kicked aside.
He had been raised within House Hightower from childhood, taught that the Hightowers were one of the oldest noble houses in Westeros—even older than the Targaryens.
House Hightower guarded Oldtown.
It sheltered the Citadel.
It faithfully served the Seven.
But none of that meant anything before the Targaryens.
The Targaryens had dragons.
The Targaryens did whatever they pleased.
Ormund pushed open the wooden door leading into the underground passage beneath the room and stepped into a small stone chamber.
Candles burned inside, their flames flickering as they cast twisted shadows across the walls. Several figures dressed in black robes stood in the center of the chamber, their hoods concealing their faces so that only their chins and lips were visible.
"You came."
The man at their head lowered his hood, revealing an aged face lined with deep wrinkles.
Septon Owen.
The Septon of King's Landing, and one of the most influential figures within the Faith of the Seven.
Ormund's heart sank.
He had long suspected that the Faith secretly harbored resentment toward Aemond.
"Septon Owen," Ormund said quietly, keeping his voice low, "why did you summon me here?"
Owen did not answer immediately.
He walked over to the table in the stone chamber, poured a cup of wine, and offered it to Ormund.
Ormund did not take it.
"Lord Ormund," Owen began.
"Do you know what day today is?"
"I don't," Ormund replied.
"And I have no desire to."
Owen smiled.
It was a gentle smile.
"Today is the Day of the Stranger," he said.
"It is the day when the Seven walk among mortals."
"On this day, lies are exposed, and sins are judged."
A trace of impatience crossed Ormund's face as he looked at Owen.
"So..."
"You called me here just to preach a sermon?"
"No, my lord." Owen shook his head.
"I called you here to save your soul, Lord Ormund."
"And to save all Seven Kingdoms."
From beneath his robe, he withdrew a rolled parchment and spread it across the table.
By candlelight, Ormund saw that it was a map.
A map of King's Landing.
The Red Keep.
The Dragonpit.
Flea Bottom.
The Iron Gate...
Every important location had been marked with dense clusters of symbols.
"What is this?" Ormund asked.
"A plan," Owen replied.
"A plan to make you Prince Regent."
Ormund's eyes widened in shock.
"You're mad," he blurted out.
"I am not."
Owen answered calmly.
"I have merely done what any devout servant of the Seven should do."
"I have witnessed the wars the Targaryens have unleashed..."
"I have seen Targaryen tyranny. I have seen oppression."
"And our king, Aegon II, is nothing more than a puppet—a marionette manipulated by his own brother."
"The true tyrant behind it all is Aemond Targaryen."
He raised his head, his gray eyes locking onto Ormund's.
"It is time..."
"To remove him."
The air inside the stone chamber seemed to freeze.
The candle flame flickered once.
Ormund stared at Owen, his throat suddenly dry.
He had known the Faith was dissatisfied with Aemond.
But he had never imagined they had become bold enough to plot the assassination of the Prince Regent.
"Have you all gone mad?" Ormund stared at the septon across from him in utter disbelief.
"He's a dragonrider! He rides Vhagar!"
"The largest dragon in all of Westeros! How do you intend to kill him? With prayers?"
Owen smiled.
"Lord Ormund."
"Have you ever considered..."
"...how Maegor met his end?"
"A dragon may seem invincible..."
"...but its rider is still only a mortal."
He rose to his feet and walked toward a corner of the stone chamber.
A wooden chest sat there. He opened it and took something out.
It was a crossbow.
Not an ordinary one.
Its string had been twisted from some kind of silvery metal wire that gleamed coldly in the candlelight.
The bolt was equally unusual. Its black tip glistened with an oily sheen, as though it had been coated in some deadly poison.
"What is that?" Ormund asked.
"A gift the Citadel prepared for the Prince Regent," Owen replied. "The prod was crafted from weirwood."
"And the bolt has been coated with..."
He paused.
"...manticore venom."
Ormund stared at the crossbow, a chill running down his spine.
"You..."
Owen cut him off without hesitation.
"A dragon is nothing more than a beast. Without its rider, it's simply a larger wild animal."
"Aemond Targaryen is the true key. Once he dies..."
Owen set the crossbow down, returned to the table, and looked directly at the lord.
"Lord Ormund, have you ever wondered why the Targaryens' very first act after conquering Westeros was to embrace the Faith of the Seven?"
"Why did they abandon the Valyrian gods they had worshipped for thousands of years?"
"Because they understood that without the Faith's support, Targaryen rule was nothing more than a castle built on air."
"If the Faith refuses to recognize the Targaryens, then they are nothing but heretics... invaders."
"But unfortunately, the Targaryens possess dragons. Even the Faith has been forced to bow its head before them."
Ormund fell silent.
Owen stepped up to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Lord Ormund."
"House Hightower has sacrificed so much for the Greens."
"And how has Aemond repaid you?"
"By treating you like a household servant. A tool."
"Do you really think he won't turn on you?"
"Once the Blacks have been wiped out, who do you think he'll deal with next?"
Owen removed his hand from Ormund's shoulder and took a step back.
"All of us," he said.
Ormund's body trembled ever so slightly.
"You need only do one thing," Owen continued. "On the day we rise in King's Landing, bring your men to stand with us."
"You won't need to dirty your own hands."
"Once Aemond is dead, we will nominate you as Prince Regent at the Small Council."
"House Hightower will become the most powerful house in the Seven Kingdoms."
Ormund raised his head and met Owen's eyes.
"You certainly dare to dream," he said quietly. "The Prince Regent has a dragon."
"So did Maegor," Owen replied. "The Black Dread, Balerion."
"Bigger than Vhagar."
"Stronger than Vhagar."
"And how did Maegor end?"
"He bled to death upon the Iron Throne."
"No one remembers Maegor's achievements. They remember only his atrocities."
"No one sings his praises. They only curse his name."
A fanatical gleam flickered in Owen's gray eyes beneath the candlelight.
"We can drag him down, Lord Ormund. As long as we have faith, courage, and a plan. The Seven stand with us."
Ormund remained silent for a long time.
But in the end, he said, "I will not gamble House Hightower."
His voice was calm, but unwavering.
"I will not wager my family on this."
"Besides... Aegon, Aemond, Daeron, and Helaena—they're all my kin."
"I will not help outsiders murder my own family."
"Your family?" The corner of Owen's mouth curled upward into a meaningful smile as he looked at him.
Ormund drew a deep breath before finally speaking.
"As of today, I know nothing of this."
"And I will take no part in it."
With that, Lord Ormund pushed open the door and strode away.
Owen watched his departing figure and let out a sigh.
Then he unrolled the secret letter the Faith had sent him.
Lyonel Hightower.
Ormund's eldest son.
The heir to Oldtown.
And his relationship with his stepmother, Samantha Tarly...
Ormund... you chose this yourself.
For the sake of the Faith, I have no choice but to do the same.