Chapter Text
The first thing Marie noticed was her brother - proudly carrying the Targaryen banner, a symbol heralding the arrival of Princess Maegelle to Oldtown.
Her family was gathered around her, assembled beneath a temporary pavilion that was made just for this occasion. Martyn, stoically staring off into the distance, was lost in thought. He rarely enjoyed social events like those, where he was forced to actually speak to people instead of simply barking orders at them. At least this time around he would not be expected to lead the charge on the conversation with their guests - or more accurately, no one would begrudge him for leaving that task to Marie.
After all, her brother was assigned as the Kingsguard to Maegelle.
Otto and Hobert stood beside her, striving to emulate their father's composed behavior. Otto succeeded much more convincingly, standing as still as a statue, blinking so infrequently that one might mistake him for a stone effigy. Hobert, on the other hand, fidgeted incessantly, his nervous energy manifesting in the way he shifted from foot to foot, his fingers restlessly fiddling with his belt buckle.
Following her brother, a procession of mounted guards clad in the crimson and black livery of House Targaryen rode into view. Marie didn’t bother counting their number, though she instinctively knew it was divisible by seven - symbolism was deeply ingrained in such ceremonies. Behind the guards, Princess Maegelle’s carriage appeared, rolling into the town square, which had been cleared out for the event, with only the Old Guard and a myriad of servants standing vigil alongside their lord. Marie put her Yi-Ti fan away as her brother approached her.
“It is a great honor for House Hightower to welcome a member of the illustrious Kingsguard to our humble city, Ser Ryam,” Marie greeted her brother with a warm smile. Ryam, returning her smile, dismounted gracefully and quickly closed the distance between them, pulling her into a tight embrace.
“It’s wonderful to see you too, Marie. You’re as radiant as ever,” he said, his voice full of affection.
Marie bit back a teasing remark about the peculiar customs of the Targaryens rubbing off on him - she knew her brother had never gotten used to them, even after spending over two decades in King’s Landing first as a squire to Father, then as a Kingsguard. Frankly speaking, Marie still found the Targaryen consanguineous customs distasteful, and to some extent, horrifying - everyone knew that the Seven-Who-Are-One viewed such marriages with contempt, and frequently cursed children born from such unions.
The two stillbirths that the Queen had suffered were the obvious proof of this.
“I am glad to see you too, Ryam, but can you unhand me, please? I can’t breathe.”, Marie playfully protested, a hint of mirth in her voice. Ryam quickly complied. Marie glanced at Martyn from the corner of her eye - he was still staring off into the distance, as if trying to see the Wall from where they were standing - before setting her eyes back on Ryam.
“It is very fortuitous that His Grace chose you as his daughter’s protector, Ser Ryam.”, Martyn said, giving Ryam a slight nod. Ryam mirrored the gesture. “I was happy to volunteer, Lord Martyn. I couldn’t miss the chance to finally meet the nephews of my favorite sister.”
Martyn snorted softly, an expression of mild amusement flickering across his usually impassive face. Marie, meanwhile, fluttered her fan and let out a soft chuckle. “Your favorite sister? I never knew I had rivals. Is Father keeping something from me?”, Marie japed. A gendarme shifted beside them, but Marie paid it no mind. Arthur had hand-picked the surrounding guards, and she trusted their discretion. Even if word of her familiarity got out, there would be hardly any consequences - close relationship between a lady and her Kingsguard brother was nothing to be ashamed of.
Ryam laughed softly - like only he could - and turned his head away from Marie towards her sons. “Well, will you introduce us?”
Marie didn’t need to look to know that Hobert was already brimming with excitement, likely on the verge of launching into an enthusiastic tirade about his uncle. “Let’s wait for the guest of honor to arrive first.”, she suggested, leisurely fanning herself. “There’s no need to repeat introductions twice in such a brief span of time. And take care of Ser Ryam’s horse, will you?” she added, gesturing to a stableboy.
As if on cue, Princess Maegelle’s carriage came to a halt in front of the pavilion. Ryam strode forward and opened the door, offering his hand to help a young, and undoubtedly Valyrian girl descend. Otto inhaled sharply beside Marie. Was this the result of the fabled Valyrian charm? Marie couldn’t help but smile behind her fan - she had rarely seen Otto display any emotion since that visit to the theater.
The princess was dressed in a simple yet elegant violet gown, its hue nearly matching the color of her eyes. She cradled a book in her hands - the Seven-Pointed Star. Marie recognized the familiar cover instantly; it was almost identical to the ones produced by the Starry Sept, each book carefully crafted to be indistinguishable from the others. She was clutching it to her chest as if it was a shield, her fingers gripping the leather-bound cover so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
Marie’s eyes softened at the sight. It was easy to forget that behind the Targaryen mystique and royalty, Maegelle was still just a child - anxious and far from the comforts of home.
Marie glanced sideways at Martyn, who gave her a slight nod. “Welcome to Oldtown, Princess Maegelle.”, Marie said warmly, stepping forward to greet the girl. She offered a graceful curtsy, bowing her head slightly in deference. “I am Marie Hightower, Lady of Oldtown. This is my husband, Lord Martyn Hightower, and these are our sons, Otto and Hobert. We are honored to have you as our guest.”
Maegelle hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of how to respond, before offering a small, shy smile. She attempted to mirror Marie’s curtsy, though her movements were slightly awkward, perhaps slower than what Marie would have expected. Still, the effort was there, and Marie appreciated the gesture. “Thank you, Lady Marie. It’s an honor.”, she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced nervously at Martyn, whose imposing presence seemed to intimidate her, then quickly looked away, focusing on Marie instead. The girl’s delicate frame seemed almost lost in the heavy folds of her violet gown, and Marie noted the slight tremor in her hands as she stood before them.
Sensing the girl’s unease, Marie gently extended her hand. It was a slight breach of decorum, but something told Marie that the Princess would appreciate the gesture. “You must be tired after such a long journey. Oldtown may seem overwhelming at first, but I assure you, it’s just like King’s Landing.” Martyn bristled beside her, and whispered something about undeserved comparisons. “Come, let us get settled. Your chambers are already prepared, and you can rest before dinner.
Maegelle blinked up at her, relieved by Marie’s words. With a tentative nod, she took Marie’s outstretched hand. As they began to walk towards the grand entrance of the Hightower, Marie felt the slight weight of Maegelle’s small palm in hers and the lingering tension in the girl’s posture.
Martyn stayed behind with Ryam, to arrange accommodations for the Targaryen guards, but Otto, Hobert and several Hightower guardsmen followed close behind.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Marie, but I thought I would be staying with the rest of the septas.”, Maegelle asked unsurely, tracing her thumb over the spine of the Seven-Pointed Star.
“Yes, you will - when you begin your path as a novice.”, Marie replied easily. “We can arrange for your admission to a convent without the usual tests, but I thought it best to leave that decision to you.”
“N-no, no need. I’ll go through the same process as everyone else.”, Maegelle responded hastily, a note of determination in her voice.
Hobert, unable to contain his enthusiasm, finally spoke up, his voice brimming with excitement. “My Princess, what’s it like living in King’s Landing?”
Maegelle seemed momentarily caught off guard by the question, but quickly relaxed. “I… don’t know. I rarely left Red Keep.”, she said softly, her eyes flickering to Hobert.
Hobert beamed at the response, eager for more. “The Red Keep? I heard Maegor the Cruel built a lot of secret passages in its walls, have you ever found one?”
At the mention of Maegor, Maegelle’s expression darkened slightly, and she seemed to retreat into herself, the earlier spark of interest quickly fading. Marie squeezed the girl’s hand gently, steering the conversation away from what was clearly a distressing topic. Otto whispered something to Hobert, before he could press further.
“Perhaps we can continue our conversation over dinner.”, Marie interjected smoothly. “I’m sure the Princess would prefer a more comfortable setting to share her stories.”
Maegelle glanced up at Marie with a look of quiet gratitude, relieved to be rescued from the uncomfortable topic. She nodded, her posture relaxing as they continued their walk towards the Hightower’s grand entrance. The massive doors loomed ahead, intricately carved with scenes from Oldtown’s storied history, and as they approached, a pair of servants swung them open with practiced ease.
“Otto, Hobert - if my memory serves me correctly, you have training with Ser Jean-Luc this afternoon, don’t you?” Marie said, glancing back at her sons. Otto, thankfully, understood what Marie wanted of him and his brother. He took Hobert by the arm and departed - quite hastily, actually. “I’ll show you to your chambers myself,” Marie said, turning her attention back to Maegelle. “You can freshen up, and if you wish, I can have some refreshments brought to you.”
“That would be nice.”, Maegelle said, smiling.
As they ascended the stairs, they stayed silent for a little while. To be frank, Marie was still somewhat surprised at this turn of events - a Targaryen princess, coming to Oldtown to become a septa. She always thought Targaryens paid lip service to the Faith - and the Doctrine of Exceptionalism didn’t alleviate her beliefs - but it seems that she was wrong. Or maybe Maegelle was simply an exception to a rule, or a way for the King to display piety to the world.
“My brother told me you’re quite the reader.”, Marie finally broke the silence, glancing down at the book still clutched in Maegelle’s hands as they reached the top of the stairs. Ryam wrote to her frequently, and quite often the centerpiece of his letters was the Royal family - which was to be expected from a Kingsguard.
Maegelle looked up, her eyes brightening slightly. “Yes, I love reading.”, she admitted readily. “The Seven-Pointed Star is my favorite.”
“Well, you are in luck. We have a magnificent library here at Hightower. Perhaps you’d like to visit it during your stay?”, Marie said with a smile.
Maegelle’s eyes widened slightly at the prospect, and she gave a shy nod. “I’ll… think about it. Thank you for your offer.”
As they reached the door to Maegelle’s chambers, Marie released her hand and turned to one of the waiting servants. “Please see that Princess Maegelle has everything she needs.”, she instructed. “And bring up some refreshments, along with a selection of sweet cakes. Traveling always makes me crave something sweet.”
Maegelle managed a small, genuine smile at that. “Thank you, Lady Marie,” she said, her voice just a bit stronger now.
“You are very welcome, My Princess.”
“Being a patron of arts is not simply a matter of charity or even self-aggrandizement; there is a certain expectation that a leader will provide for the great minds of the time, so they may express themselves with no need to waste time on an unartistic endeavor of begging.”, Marie explained to Maegelle.
She took the girl into her favorite part of Oldtown - the Maiden’s Quarter. Despite the name, its population was mostly male, for this was the quarter where artists and artisans of every kind - painters, sculptors, actors, poets - came to live and work. The first theatre in all of Westeros, a grand structure commissioned by Marie herself, stood proudly at the heart of this quarter. Sadly, Marie would not be taking her there this time around - one of the artisans she was sponsoring sent a note about a supposed breakthrough he had with one of his projects.
Though the message had been frustratingly vague, it had piqued Marie’s curiosity. The last time she had visited Pierre, he had been working on some kind of harp. That had been nearly three months ago, and she wondered what progress he might have made since then.
As they walked, Marie made a mental note to check on her other sponsored artists. She suspected that not all of them were making the best use of their stipends - some, she feared, were likely indulging in drink rather than dedicating themselves to their work.
Maegelle’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she found a topic she could engage with. “Mother tries to do the same thing in the Red Keep. She brings in singers, dancers from Lys, and harpists. There’s even a troupe of mummers from Braavos!”
Marie smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm but couldn’t help feeling a twinge of doubt. She knew all too well what kind of dancers Lys could provide, and it wasn’t the type suitable for courtly entertainment. Still, she kept her thoughts to herself. “Do you enjoy it?”, she asked instead, fluttering her fan.
The girl hesitated. “Not all of it. I don’t like jesters. It’s… distasteful.”, she said, unsure.
Marie nodded in understanding. “You’re not alone in that.”, she assured her. “I am not overly fond of them myself, and Martyn is the last person on Planetos that would find one amusing.”
A few minutes later, they finally arrived at their destination - an unassuming workshop, nested between a sculptor, and a painter, if her memory served her right. A young man was standing in front of it, darting his eyes from passerby to passerby, before finally settling on Marie.
“My Lady Hightower!”, he exclaimed, and tried to run up to her, but was stopped by the gendarme accompanying them. The man bristled, and before Marie would be forced to witness Ser Albert beating this boy, she interjected. “Let…”, she began, pausing to allow the young man to introduce himself.
“Jacques. Jacques of Dion.”, he said, his tone respectful though still tinged with excitement.
“Let Jacques through, Ser Albert.”, Marie commanded with calm authority. The knight nodded curtly and stepped back. Jacques cleared his throat, smoothed out his clothes and made a chivalric bow to her - the bent knee, the lowered head, the right hand on his heart. Marie hid behind her fan, and smiled - something told her that his gaze was fixed squarely on the Valeman beside her.
“My Lady Hightower-”, he started, only to be cut off by Ser Albert, who bristled at the perceived impropriety.
“How dare you, peasant!”, he growled, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if preparing to defend Marie’s honor. Marie fluttered her fan dismissively, a silent signal for the knight to stand down, and offered her hand for Jacques to kiss - who promptly did so with dramatic flair, gently taking her hand and placing a light kiss on her knuckles. “You are quite brave, Jacques. But something tells me that you are not a knight.”, Marie said, chuckling.
Jacques sprang to his feet with a mock expression of hurt. “You wound me, My Lady Hightower. I am a knight - a knight of music! A harpist, to be exact.”, he declared, placing his hand over his heart as if to pledge his loyalty to his art.
A harpist? “Are you here to test Pierre’s latest project?”, Marie asked. Jacques nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, My Lady. I’ve been working closely with Master Pierre, and he believes we’ve achieved something truly remarkable. We’ve been dying to share it with you.”
“Very well.”, Marie said, a hint of anticipation in her voice as she glanced at the door behind Jacques. “Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”
Jacques led them eagerly into the workshop, his excitement contagious as he pushed open the door. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of freshly carved wood and varnish. The space was cluttered yet organized, with tools, sheets of parchment, and pieces of various instruments laid out on every available surface. In the center of the room, a large object was covered by a cloth, its shape hinting at something far more complex than a simple harp.
Standing before the object was an older man with graying hair and sharp eyes. Marie always liked how he wore his facial hair - clean-shaven beard, and a large, bushy mustache. Made his jaw stand out more. He looked up as they entered, his expression softening into a smile when he saw Marie.
“My Lady Hightower,” Pierre greeted her warmly, offering a respectful bow. “It is always an honor to have you visit my workshop.”
“It’s great to see you too, Pierre.”, she said, walking up to the covered object. “Your note was very light on details. I was quite intrigued before, but this man, Jacques, inflamed my curiosity even further. What do you have here for me?”, she said, running her hand over the cloth.
Pierre cleared his throat and walked up to the object. “Well, My Lady Hightower, behold -”, he declared, and with a flourish, pulled back the cloth, “ clavecin !”
The instrument was beautiful, crafted painstakingly well - she was patronizing Pierre for a reason - but without any ornamentations. Noticing Marie’s confusion, Pierre rushed to explain. “It is the first working prototype , My Lady. The final version, of course, would be much more magnificent, provided you enjoy it.”
Marie nodded, accepting the explanation. Sometimes she forgot that money was a limiting factor for smallfolk. “How does it work?”, she asked instead, looking it over. It resembled a long, narrow table, but with a strange gently sloping top, like a lid of a chest. Pierre walked up to the clavecin , and opened the lid, revealing rows upon rows of strings stretched tightly across the inside, much like the strings of a harp, but lying flat.
“It is a mix of an organ and a harp. A press of a key plucks a string inside, producing a sound. Would you like a demonstration?”, Pierre asked. Marie nodded - obviously she would, she came here for this. Pierre waved Jacques over, who sat down in front of the clavecin , his earlier bravado replaced with a quiet reverence for the instrument. He placed his hands gently on the keys, glancing up at Marie for permission to begin. She gave another nod, and with that, Jacques began to play.
The room was immediately filled with rich sounds, familiar, but at the same time unlike anything Marie had ever heard before. They were sharp - sharp and clear, but with a unique twang of lively, almost metallic quality. The sounds faded out with a clarity that was both haunting and beautiful, each one lingering in the air before fading into the next.
Maegelle’s eyes widened in amazement, her earlier shyness forgotten as she was drawn into the music. The sound was enchanting, a perfect blend of the familiar and the new, and it captivated everyone in the room. Even Ser Albert, who had been standing stiffly by the door, seemed momentarily transfixed by the ethereal melody.
As Jacques’ fingers danced across the keys, the music grew more complex, the melody weaving in and out of harmonies that sent shivers down Marie’s spine. The man was skilled - skilled enough to play like this on an instrument at most three months old. Granted, this was probably the only melody he could play with such mastery.
When the last note faded into silence, the room remained still for a moment, as if everyone was reluctant to let the music go. Then, slowly, Marie began to clap, the sound breaking the spell that had fallen over them. Maegelle followed suit, her applause quiet but sincere.
“Marvelous.”, Marie said, her voice filled with genuine admiration. “Absolutely marvelous. You’ve outdone yourself, Pierre.” Pierre beamed at the compliment, his chest swelling with pride. “And you, Jacques - that was a beautiful melody. You are quite talented.”
Jacques bowed deeply, his earlier bravado replaced with humility. “Thank you, My Lady. We’ve poured our hearts out creating something worthy of you.”
And that was it, wasn’t it? This was made for her . No, it was made because of her . This was hers . Martyn had his reforms, Otto - his scribe school. But this - this clavecin - this was Marie’s legacy. Her mark on Oldtown, and perhaps one day, on Westeros itself.
Her eyes were drawn to the lid of the clavecin, now fully visible. The polished wood gleamed under the workshop’s soft light, and as she looked closer, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before - carved into the bottom of the lid, in delicate script, was a phrase:
Beauty will save the world.