It was a night of tide just like yesterday, the full moon shining bright above. Its light was the only illumination in the dim cell, rays slipping through a thin gap high on the wall. Where they fell Alyx was sitting on her knees, eyes closed, hands gathered, calm and bored.

  For quite a time, the only sound was the tapping sound of water somewhere in the dungeons.

  But then, the heavy oak door clacked from the otherside. Alyx opened her eyes, rising onto her feet. The door creaked open, revealing a man of old age. He entered with a highborn's image: poised, hands behind, gray hair combed back neatly, trimmed short beard and moustache marking around his mouth. He was wearing a red vest over a dark green, extravagant caftan, and a cloak of the same color followed his shoulder.

  "Alyx Vendavell, am I correct?" He asked, his tone measured with years of diplomatic experience.

  Alyx inclined her head slightly.

  “I am indeed. And who might you be?”

  The man studied her in silence before stepping fully into the cell. The torchlight from the corridor followed briefly before the armored guard blocked the way out.

  “I am Jon Hightower.”

  Alyx folded her hands before her calmly, smiling. “You took quite a trouble coming to this pit, then.”

  “Same could be said to you.” He nodded implicitly. “What does a Dornish noble seek here in these lands, acting the merchant?”

  “Am I not allowed?”

  He huffed. “You speak as though you don’t know why you are brought here.”

  Alyx shook her head dissapointedly. “But I don’t…”

  “The circlet.” He stated instantly. “It was stolen from The Citadel. You collected it.”

  Alyx stopped only for a moment, not giving anything away. “I do not own a circlet.”

  “It seems you hid it well.”

  “Must you be so sure I am guilty of a crime? I am here on bussiness and I can call many vouchers to prove that.” Alyx frowned.

  “The witness who reported of your crime… it cannot simply be ignored.”

  Alyx blinked fast for the next blank second, her mind processing the words.

  Was she… betrayed?

  It was a fearful thought, but she couldn’t speak the question to him.

  She only sighed. “I cannot believe someone would try this.”

  “Hm,” he nodded once, his eyes still. “Do you think of it as a slander?”

  “What else?” Alyx faced his brown eyes with her own dark blue.

  “What is your case for it, then? Why would anyone do that?”

  Alyx looked down, feigning vulnerability. “All the dirty business happens in trade...”

  Jon Hightower did not spoke. He only stared, his eyes sharp, observant, and very awake for the late hour.

  “Is Elissa okay? Where is she?” Alyx lifted her gaze again, insistent with her eyes.

  “The woman with you is safe. As you are.” He stared at her with eyes as still as a rock. “There is word from Citadel that some maesters would prefer otherwise. The entire Citadel has gone quite uneasy about the circlet matter. Some are even asking for… a drastic approach with you. Harsh interrogation, if my words are not clear.”

  Alyx’s throat knotted. She held the urge to gulp. “I am highborn.”

  “Indeed, you are.” Jon Hightower curtly confirmed.

  But no other words followed. Silence was increasing the pressure on Alyx.

  “To think men of wisdom would suggest… torture.” Alyx managed to utter in disbelief.

  “I wouldn’t allow that. For now, some certainly suggest leaving you without food or water until you speak.”

  “Should I take that differently?” Alyx raised a brow.

  “No.” His lips twitched into a smile before turning stone again. “But there are a few others who are intrigued by you or outright favor you, since you saved my grandson.”

  Alyx met his eyes with quite stillness. “I did, indeed.”

  An almost imperceptible sigh escaped from the lord. “It is why I am indebted to you. Still, even though I do not have to please the Maesters every time, the circlet matter is delicate. In the name of the gods, my lady, if you know anything about it, pray tell.”

  Alyx immediately shook her head. “I have nothing.”

  The words lingered between them.

  Jon Hightower did not react at once. He walked slowly along the curve of the stone wall, fingertips brushing the damp surface as though testing its age.

  “You are either very brave,” he said at last, “or very foolish.”

  “Or innocent.”

  From somewhere deeper in the dungeons, water struck stone in a patient rhythm.

  “My grandson breathes because of you,” he continued. “He sleeps. The maesters claim his fever has broken. They argue still about how.” He almost smiled, circling back. “They do not enjoy being unable to explain things.”

  Alyx allowed a thin smile. “I would expect so.”

  He stopped before her. “Tell me what you are.”

  Alyx shrugged. “I just know about herbs. And matters of the body.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Or it was sorcery.” His eyes sharpened.” The witnesses who spoke of your treatment… they certainly hint it so.”

  Alyx shook her head in denial. “It was a simple treatment. I know nothing of sorcery.” She kept her mask, meeting his sharp eyes with her same confident stillness. “First the circlet, now this. My treatment was right, but I am dissapointed with the treatment I am getting. Do you seek to chain me deeper in a way you can relieve your conscience? Is that it?”

  Lord Hightower held her gaze, the silence stretching taut between them. He did not look angry at her insolence; rather, he looked profoundly stony.

  "My conscience is entirely at peace, Lady Alyx," he said. "Do not mistake my gratitude for gullibility. I am the shield standing between you and men who dissect corpses in the dark to learn their secrets. The wise are made of both the humble and the crazy.”

  Alyx felt a cold prickle at the base of her neck, but she did not let her mask slip. She raised her chin a fraction. "Then I should thank you for your protection, My Lord. Even if it looks remarkably like a dungeon.”

  "It is a sanctuary, for the moment," he corrected, turning his back to her. He took a slow step toward the heavy oak door. "The Maesters demand you be handed over to their custody by the morrow. They claim their jurisdiction over stolen Citadel property supersedes my hospitality."

  "And what will you do?" Alyx asked, the subtle edge of genuine fear slipping through her composure.

  He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. "I am the Lord of Oldtown, not an errand boy for the Conclave. My grandson breathes, and so shall you." He gave a sharp nod to the unseen guard in the hall. "You will be provided with proper food, a blanket, and fresh water. For now, I’ll allow a ransom for your freedom. A word will be sent to your family.”

  “Not them.” Alyx took a step forward, opposing.

  Alyx quite doubted that they’d pay, or even if they did, it would do well to her.

  “The Beachcastle. And put a ransom on my friend as well, please.”

  “The Beachcastle,” he said again, questioning. “Near Oldtown?”

  “Yes.”

  “You refuse your own blood?”

  “I just don’t prefer it.”

  Lord Hightower did not answer her at once.

  At last, he inclined his head. “Very well.”

  So days had passed, and tomorrow followed the next day. Alyx spent most of her time meditating, listening the silence the world was offering to her. It was both calm and terrifying.

  And then, the door creaked open once more. An armored guard entered. “The lord wants to see you.”

  That was quick.

  She was brought to the heart of fire: the High Tower. Never had she thought she’d come to see this place firsthand, no less after rotting in a cell.

  The corridor smelled of brine and smoke.

  Alyx walked between two mailed guards. The dungeon air had been thick with damp and silence; here the scent changed, salt from the Whispering Sound, old incense from septs above, and something older still, like scorched oil soaked into ancient brick.

  The spiral stair within the High Tower seemed to have no end. Narrow windows slit the wall at intervals, each offering a blade of moonlight and a glimpse of the dark tide rolling far below. The moon remained full. The same tide as the night she had healed the boy.

  Coincidence, she told herself.

  When they reached the upper levels, the air grew warmer. Lanterns burned clean here, glass chimneys steady against the drafts. The guards halted before a carved door banded with black iron.

  One knocked.

  A voice from within: “Enter.”

  The chamber was vast yet restrained. Tall windows faced the harbor; beyond them, Oldtown shimmered silver beneath the moon. A brazier glowed low. Shelves of ledgers and bound parchments lined one wall; a narrow table bore maps weighted with stones. No ostentation of gold — only controlled wealth.

  Jon Hightower stood beside a tall window, hands clasped behind him.

  Beside him was a middle-aged highborn, clad in gray and drak gray. He had longer hair than Jon Hightower. Alyx narrowed her eyes a moment, then recognized him as Ser Abelar from the Ashford Tourney, downed by Valarr in two tilts at first joust.

  They turned to her as she was brought near.

  “You look less diminished than most who pass nights in my cells,” he observed.

  “I was told it was a sanctuary?” Alyx replied.

  He met her eyes with that familiar stone stillness. But almost a faint curve touched his lips.

  Hands clasped back, he walked toward the center. “Maesters do not recognize the boy’s illness. There might be no cure, they say.”

  A dark shadow fell over Abelar’s face. Alyx caught the glint in the glare he subtly sent sideways. She saw the frown. Jon Hightower was a difficult man to read, but this man seemed less refined with his feelings.

  “You might have failed, after all.” Lord Jon stood, turning toward Alyx. Abelar followed his father’s motion.

  “Has his situation worsened?”

  “It has!” Abelar responded, raising a threatening finger. “If you did any sorcery on him…”

  “Calm down, Abelar.” Jon gripped his son’s shoulder. He grunted, but calmed.

  “I can heal him still.” Alyx stepped forward. “Allow me.”

  With that one moment, Abelar grew angry immediately again. “We don’t even know if you were the one who—”

  “Are you certain?” Jon asked. “If so, how are you so certain?”

  Alyx held his gaze a moment longer before shrugging. “It’s my specialty in healing,” she answered, and did not elaborate.

  “Specialty in what?” Abelar demanded elaboration.

  “Deadly fever.”

  “We have the Citadel ten rows away from us.” Abelar frowned. “How are you better than the Maesters if you are not a witch?”

  “I am not a witch. But I claim to have succeeded where they failed,” Alyx countered. She didn't look at Abelar; she kept her eyes on the patriarch. “The fever broke when I treated him. It returned when I was locked away. You do not need a Maester to see the correlation, My Lord. You only need a father’s eyes.”

  Jon Hightower moved then, silencing his son with a simple raising of a hand. The room fell into a heavy, suffocating quiet.

  “The Maesters have bled him,” Jon said softly. “They have applied poultices of mustard and garlic. Septons have prayed to the Crone for illumination day and night. Yet, my grandson’s skin is like parchment over embers. He speaks of shadows in his sleep.”

  “Then let me see him,” Alyx insisted. “Before your 'wise men' bleed the last of his life into a bowl.”

  Abelar took a step forward. “How can we be so sure after his fever returned in a few days? The maesters insist the humors were merely disturbed and have now corrected themselves toward their proper course.”

  “And what do you insist?” Alyx did not smile.

  “I insist that if this is some eastern trick, some poison and antidote—”

  “It is not,” she cut in, quietly but firmly.

  In truth, it was an eastern trick. Somewhat. But who doesn’t lie in Westeros?

  Abelar was quite shocked; his frown turned to a scowl. “How dare you cut my words, woman? Do you have a sense of your place?”

  Jon sighed. “I will grant you a room in the tower.”

  Abelar turned immediately, his shock profound now. “Father! Not the tower!”

  “The tower. An immediate treatment from her might be required to save the boy.” Jon turned to Alyx, meeting her eyes. “Two Maesters will be observing your treatment at all times. And two guards will stand by the door inside and out.”

  Alyx would certainly like some more privacy… these conditions would restrict her healing.

  “Sounds quite exhausting for everyone involved,” Alyx commented with a subtle smile. “But I understand. May the seven help with the boy.”

  Alyx kept her gaze so still on Lord Hightower’s as she faux-prayed.

  “Do you have any queries?” Jon Hightower asked after a moment’s silence.

  “Yes. What happened, exactly?” Alyx was curious. “With the boy, I mean. Where did the illness come from? Why was he with a Maester’s novice?”

  Another moment’s silence followed. It was as if every moment was still between Alyx and him: calmly and terrifyingly.

  “It is connected with the circlet matter, if you must know.”

  “The one I’m falsely accused of?”

  An annoyed laughter escaped from Abelar.

  “The circlet is not the only item stolen from The Citadel,” Jon said. “Quenton was pursuing a case from a different route. The novice was pursuing a thief hot on the heels of escape. He took himself out of The Citadel on the pursuit, brave boy he is. I’d reward him handsomely, but Maesters doesn’t let lords get involved in The Citadel’s inner business. But I’d be surprised if they’d had the guts to punish a Targaryen Prince still.”

  “A Targaryen Prince…?”

  Jon nodded. “Aemon. Maekar’s third son.”

  A brother to Aerion Brightflame… studying in The Citadel? Targaryens were full of surprises.

  “But how had Quenton fallen ill?”

  Jon Hightower’s eyes narrowed as if calculating how much truth to offer.

  “According to the novice, a glass-made pot of crimson-dark water was thrown at him.”

  “What I don’t understand is how that kid didn’t get infected already?” Abelar commented.

  Perhaps the sickness doesn’t spread through touch? Alyx thought. She was fine, too, after all. However, a Maester apprentice should’ve been more cautious, perhaps. He took a great deal of risk there.

  “In any case,” Jon Hightower straightened his moustache. “You shall help him now.”

  "What about Elissa?" Alyx asked lastly.

  "She will be allowed a stay outside the High Tower, with tight watch. You can see her when my son is well."

  Things seemed brighter now.

  “Very well."