Among Oldtown's many wonders, none was more striking or awe-inspiring than the Hightower.
The great tower was a marvel of near-miraculous craftsmanship, its sheer scale leaving onlookers stunned. It rose skyward, as though intent on piercing the heavens themselves. From its base, one could only crane their neck upward, unable to even glimpse its summit.
It was not only Oldtown's defining landmark but also the tallest man-made structure in all of Westeros, a monument to the city's ancient and mysterious legacy.
Oldtown itself exuded an air of age, secrecy, and quiet wisdom—worthy of its reputation as the "brain" of Westeros in centuries past.
...
At the city's gate, the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven appeared with a procession of priests, bowing respectfully to greet the king and his retinue.
Aegon, mounted on horseback, gave the man a slight nod.
The High Septon before him was utterly unremarkable—a man of average build and plain features. At first glance, only one impression lingered: ordinary.
To Aegon, the man at least seemed sensible. All he desired now was to ensure a peaceful transfer of power within the Faith. Since the current High Septon was willing to cooperate, Aegon had no reason to make trouble. His expression remained mild, showing no trace of hostility.
This High Septon, timid by nature, was widely dismissed by his peers. Not long ago, he had been driven back to his very doorstep by the Moon Septons and a mob of peasants—an episode that had earned him the mocking epithet of "Big Bootlicker."
The humiliation had been profound, stripping him of dignity as if his face had been ground into the dirt for all to see.
As the spiritual leader of every diocese, the High Septon should have commanded unmatched authority. Yet the truth was very different. Local septs had begun asserting independence, and his decrees, once they left Oldtown, were treated as worthless scraps of parchment.
Now, upon Aegon's arrival, the man dropped hurriedly to one knee, his voice low and deferential.
"Your Grace," he murmured, "we are honored by your presence."
Aegon's tone was calm as he answered, "Rise."
He even extended his hand to help the old man to his feet—a gesture that gave the High Septon no small amount of face.
Seeing this, Lord Hightower stepped forward at once, inviting the King, the Queen Regent, and the rest of the royal party into Oldtown. Together they moved toward the famed Hightower overlooking the harbor.
With the new King's arrival, throngs of townsfolk crowded the streets, commoners and citizens alike pressing along the route. Their eyes brimmed with curiosity and reverence as they watched the procession pass.
...
At the base of the Hightower stood the Blackstone Fortress, its foundation built of coarse black stone of unknown origin brought from Battle Isle. The fortress itself was square, its inner chambers a bewildering labyrinth.
Inside the great tower, the Lord of Hightower, the High Septon, and the king's advisers gathered to deliberate on matters of state.
At the heart of their council lay a single issue: how to deal with the rogue armed forces of the Faith scattered across the realm.
The High Septon, face deferential, spoke first.
"Your Grace, the Great Sept no longer has the strength to command the local dioceses. You yourself saw what happened with the Poor Fellows outside Oldtown."
"The great Faith of the Seven, reduced to being bullied by a mob of peasants? Pathetic." Duke Rogar sneered openly, his eyes full of contempt. "Is this truly weakness—or sheer incompetence on your part?"
The High Septon's expression dimmed at once. He lowered his head slightly, casting a furtive glance at Lord Hightower from the corner of his eye, but said no more. He simply stood in silence, enduring the rebuke.
Sensing the heavy silence, Aegon interceded, his tone solemn.
"The kingdom is in dire straits. Our people suffer daily from war and chaos. Such days must end.
What matters most now is that we stand united, resolve these crises, and restore peace and prosperity to the realm."
His falcon-like gaze fixed sharply upon Lord Hightower.
Everyone present understood: the High Septon was nothing more than a puppet of House Hightower. The true power rested in the hands of the enigmatic Lord of the Hightower.
Lord Hightower remained composed, his face calm as still water. At the king's words, he gave the slightest nod, then half-closed his eyes and turned his gaze toward the High Septon with a look heavy with meaning.
The High Septon immediately caught the signal and quickly spoke.
"The Great Sept shall dispatch letters to every armed host of the Faith, inviting them to attend Your Grace's coronation as High Septon."
Inwardly, he sighed. He knew well enough that this was no more than an order passed down from the Hightower's summit—he himself was only the mouthpiece.
"Should they accept the invitation, it will show that they may be swayed by gentler measures.
Your Grace, what do you think of this arrangement?"
Aegon's face lit with satisfaction.
Though the Great Sept lacked true command of arms, it still carried the weight of legitimacy.
With that authority, any campaign against the Faith's militias would be justified—without needlessly inflaming the zeal of the Seven's followers against the Crown.
By issuing the summons in the form of a decree, ordering all militant orders to attend his coronation, the Faith had provided him with the perfect pretext.
If those armed hosts failed to attend, they would be branded traitors and blasphemers. Then Aegon could move against them under the righteous banners of both the Church and the Crown, eliminating them in the name of divine and royal authority alike. That was the true path of kingship.
Rogar, the Hand of the King, spoke up.
"Let the coronation be held one month from now. That will give the Faith Militant time to assemble."
Duke Hightower gave a small nod of assent.
"An excellent arrangement," the High Septon quickly added.
...
With matters of state agreed upon, Aegon turned his attention to Oldtown itself. While waiting for the militant orders to gather, he chose to visit the Citadel, curious about the mysterious tomes said to be stored there.
The Citadel's gates were grand, flanked by two towering green sphinxes. Beyond them lay the Scribe's Hearth, where apprentice maesters offered writing services to the townsfolk.
At his side walked Lady Elena, moving with quiet grace as she guided him through the halls.
As the eldest daughter of Duke Hightower, Elena's noble birth afforded her unusual privilege within the Citadel. Wherever she passed, scholars and apprentices alike cast her respectful glances.
It did not take Aegon long to realize her father was subtly "presenting" his daughter to him.
He was young, still unmarried, and in a court where power interwove with marriage, such arrangements were as much political weapons as personal unions.
Aegon made no comment, nor did he reject the gesture outright. He simply continued the tour with calm composure.
Lady Elena herself proved to be of a singular temperament. She had no interest in the Seven-Pointed Star or in the prayers of the Septas. Instead, she was enamored with the Citadel's novels and travelogues, losing herself in tales rather than rituals.
The two walked at an unhurried pace, speaking lightly as they strolled.
On either side rose towering rows of shelves, as dense as a forest. They groaned under the weight of countless books—so many that it was impossible to tally them. From where they stood, the volumes seemed endless.
Each spine was chained with polished links, glinting coldly in the dim light—precautions to prevent thieves from spiriting books away.
After a while, Elena released Aegon's arm, turned slightly, and pointed ahead.
"The Mysteries section is just there," she whispered.
Aegon's eyes lit with quiet anticipation.
They approached the entrance side by side. An old man sat there, slumped in a chair like he was dozing.
Elena's face softened with respect. She bent slightly and spoke politely.
"Master, we would like to borrow some introductory works on ritual sorcery."
The old man stirred, lifting his head with agonizing slowness, as though a breeze might topple him. Sparse hair clung limply to his scalp, giving him a pitiful look.
After a long silence, he rasped, "The key... where is the key?"
At once, Elena drew a red copper key from her breast and offered it with both hands.
This was no ordinary key. It was a pass to the Mysteries section, and its metal determined the tier of texts one could access. A copper key permitted only the most basic of arcane works.
The distinction was not trivial. Unlike ordinary scholarship, the mystical collection was priceless. With magic in resurgence, every grimoire—indeed every page—was worth a fortune. Access was tightly controlled.
Such keys were rare in the extreme. To enter, one needed either immense wealth to cover the staggering fees or the right connections to open the way.
The old man's claw-like hand trembled as he took the key. He squinted at it, holding it close to his eyes.
With a faint hum, the copper shimmered softly, a halo rippling into the air as though unlocking an unseen gate.
"Only one book may be borrowed at a time," the old man croaked. "Return it within a month. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Elena replied gently.
The elder raised his skeletal arm and pressed it against the frame of the door.
At once, silvery light rippled across the wood like water disturbed, glowing faintly.
"Go in," he said.
Elena dipped her head with elegance and stepped lightly into the section set apart from the rest of the library.
Aegon followed close behind. The moment he entered, his eyes swept over the shelves, dazzled by what he saw.
Towering cases, ten meters high, loomed before him, their rows crammed with books upon books. A single glance told him the collection numbered in the thousands.
He and Elena wandered there for the better part of half an hour.
Aegon leafed quickly through volume after volume, only to find that many of the texts had lost their power. Much of their content traced back to the bloodlines of demigods from the Age of Heroes.
He could not help but wonder if this was because the great houses of the Reach all traced their descent to those very demigods.
...
Time passed swiftly, and in the blink of an eye, a month was gone.
At the dawn of the forty-ninth year of the Conquest, Aegon's coronation as High Septon was held with magnificent ceremony in the Starry Sept.
Only the most distinguished figures of the realm were permitted within the holy temple.
There were rulers and envoys from Essos across the Narrow Sea, bearing the blessings and goodwill of their nations; tribal chieftains representing the diverse powers of the vast lands; Most Devout of the Faith; crown princes; and other members of royal houses.
All gathered together to witness this sacred and solemn moment.
...
For the Targaryen court, the anointing ceremony held the utmost importance.
In their hearts, only by completing this rite could the king truly be said to bear the mission of the gods—and only then could he rightfully be called the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven.
The weight of the ritual was self-evident. It would decide not only whether Aegon could command the Faith of the Seven and wield its mysterious and formidable power, but also whether he could rightfully ascend as the heir to the Conqueror's imperial throne.
The Emperor was meant to embody the perfect union of crown and faith. Only by possessing both could one truly rule the vast expanse of Westeros.
At the heart of the coronation, the anointing stood supreme, and at the heart of the anointing was the holy oil.
High Septon "Big Flatterer," his face grave, stepped forward personally to anoint the young King Aegon.
His movements were slow and reverent, each one performed as if fulfilling a divine mandate.
Aegon stood silently, receiving this "baptism" from the gods.
Unlike other coronation rites, the anointing was stark and unique. It set aside jeweled crowns and costly ornaments, discarding displays of wealth and splendor.
As the rite began, four solemn Septas moved gracefully to the king's side.
With careful, practiced hands, they removed the royal robe, the glittering crown, and the ornate jewelry that symbolized supreme authority. In their place, they dressed him in the simple "anointing vestment."
It was plain and unadorned: a white linen robe with a low, rounded collar. Its simplicity stood in sharp contrast to the regal finery that had come before.
The holy anointing unfolded within the quiet sanctity of the Motherhouse.
There, save for the king himself, only the High Septon remained.
Bearing the sacred duty, the High Septon took the golden dragon-shaped flask in hand and carefully poured the precious holy oil into a gilded silver spoon.
Then, with meticulous care, he traced seven-pointed stars with the oil upon Aegon's open palms, broad brow, and bared chest. Each stroke seemed imbued with divine will, each star carrying the weight of heaven's blessing.
When the king had once more donned the coronation robes of authority, the anointing was complete.
At the final stage of the ceremony, the High Septon, his expression humble, lifted the papal crown of the Faith of the Seven in both hands and made to place it upon Aegon's head.
But Aegon raised his hand in gentle refusal.
He looked out over the gathered assembly, his voice carrying strong and clear:
"The crown of the Emperor—only the Seven themselves may place it upon my head."
...
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