A Fever for Gold

by LeonardoSV

In the forests surrounding one of the quietest towns of Westeros, two friends who have always struggled to eat find the opportunity to live with wealth. Meanwhile, a young lord with a thirst for power threatens the delicate balance of one of the Seven Kingdoms. Their fates are connected by something all Men share: A Fever for Gold.

1. Chapter 1 - 2

10

A Song of Ice and Fire

- A Fever for Gold -

- THE REACH AND SURROUNDINGS -

- House Tyrell of Highgarden -

"Growing Strong"

Lord Garner of House Tyrell (100AL-166AL).

Lady Ellaine of House Baratheon, his wife, aged 53.

Ser Randell of House Tyrell, their firstborn son, aged 24.

Cedric Tyrell, their second-born son, aged 15.

Delayah Tyrell, their first daughter, aged 11.

- Yvonne Hightower, Ser Randell's wife, aged 21.

- Ser Harkin Varner, sworn sword and captain of the Tyrell armies.

- Maester Edmund, sworn to the lords of Highgarden.

- House Hightower of Oldtown -

"We Light the Way"

Lord Folke of House Hightower, aged 71.

Lady Allyah of House Mullendore, Lord Folke's first wife. (99AL-148AL).

Lady Elinora of House Costayne, Lord Folke's second wife (100AL-159AL).

Lambert Hightower, Lord Folke's firstborn son of his first marriage, aged 21.

Yvonne Hightower, twin sister of Lambert.

Perce Hightower, Lord Folke's second born son of his second marriage, aged 16.

QUINN

It was near sunset of a very hot day not many weeks after a fairly short, four year winter. The heat of the fire that had been welcomed for so long was now felt as repellent, and Quinn and his friend Lowis had spent the entire day slaving in front of their respective furnaces. So, when Quinn's father was distracted by the clientele, him and Lowis managed to sneak out. Quinn, son of Nigel, was a baker, just like the rest of his family. They owned a small bakery in Honeyholt, a town close to Brightwater Keep ruled by House Beesbury, who in turn served the Tyrells of Brightwater. Quinn and Lowis always passed the Beesbury mansion when they walked to the tavern and envied the wealth it showcased. Both of them were equally poor. Lowis was a blacksmith: He had a little forge his father had left him after he died. He worked alone, all day, trying to get business with no success. There was little demand and too much competition for his product at Honeyholt, and at twenty years of age Lowis was still a novice.

But none of that mattered that day. They had managed to steal some apples at the market, which they now ate while they walked and told vulgar jokes on their way to the waters of the Beruna river. Their friendship was an unusual one, for Lowis was four years older than Quinn, but it would be difficult to find one as sincere as theirs. This was not the first time they had done something similar — it had become a summer tradition. Quinn would race Lowis for about a mile or two down the river, and he usually won. Although Lowis was stronger, Quinn was much slender and thus faster.

This time was no different. A mile and a half down the Beruna, Quinn had to await a good while for the tired Lowis to arrive. When his friend did manage to crawl to the margins out of breath, Quinn mocked his friend. "This time it didn't even feel like a competition! What has happened to you?"

Lowis had to take a few deep gulfs of air before he could answer. "I guess I'm too heavy to carry — Unlike you, I do have some muscle."

Quinn shook his head. "You ought to be able to come up with something better than that, Lowis."

Before Lowis could come up with something clever, they heard a noise at their backs. They turned, but saw nothing. Quinn's eyebrows were flexed together in worry, as he tried to see into the woods. "What was that?" Lowis asked.

"Don't know, but I want to." Said Quinn, as he got up.

"Quinn! Stop! Don't do this again! It's near sundown, we gotta get back to the town…" Shouted Lowis with worry as his friend entered the enclosed trees.

"Don't be such a little girl, Lowis. Come on!"

With reluctance, after a few looks at the forest's edge and a few seconds later, Lowis followed Quinn.

Quinn was on his knees while he analyzed a footprint in the grass. It was not very big, about the size of a broad man's hand. It had the markings of claws. "What do you think? Bear?" Asked Quinn.

"Too small for a bear… But I'm no hunter to say." Replied Lowis.

Quinn nodded. "Uhum. Yes, I think so too. I'm no hunter either, but this is clearly not a bear's footmark. It has to belong to something else…" He said it with the tone of someone who hinted to know more.

Lowis was eager with curiosity. "What is it, then?"

Quinn let a dramatic pause slip by before answering "A lion's."

Lowis laughed so loud he was probably heard all the way to Honeyholt. "What?!" Said Quinn, with anger for not being taken seriously. "It has to be!"

After Lowis managed to stop his cackle and wipe a few tears, he refuted his friend's flawed reasoning. "What's house Tyrell's sigil, you dumb boy?"

"Don't call me dumb or a boy! And what does that even have to do with anything?"

"Answer!" Insisted Lowis.

"A golden rose. Everyone in the Reach knows that, and you call me the dumb boy?!"

Lowis chuckled a little more. "Yes, a golden rose, not a lion, because lions used to live in the Westerlands. That's why houseLannister, not Tyrell,has it as its symbol. Now, the lions have been nearly all dead even in the Westerlands for centuries now. Everybody in the Seven bloody Kingdoms knows that."

Quinn was not intimidated by Lowis' argument. "Ha! But there are still some lions alive."

Lowis hesitated now. "Well, yes, but…"

"So there is a possibility that this is a lion's footprint."

Lowis rose his hands in frustration, as if he could not even believe he was being forced to have such a discussion. "Aye, aye, maybe it could be, but what are the chances? The only lions people see nowadays are the ones they keep at the cages in Casterly Rock!"

Quinn smiled. "And those lions have to come from somewhere, don't they?" He said, as if he had helped Lowis to see the irrefutable truth he believed to possess.

"That somewhere is not the Reach!" Shouted Lowis, for Quinn was already in front, following the trail. "Where are you going? It's getting dark, for fuck's sake!" Quinn did not answer, so Lowis followed, but not without letting out a loud sigh first.

º º º

Quinn smiled with satisfaction while Lowis' mouth hung open with dismay. "Seven hells… I'll be damned." He whispered.

The light of the full moon feebly illuminated a scraggy lion. It laid on the floor, and was breathing with difficulty next to the entrance of its den. After a short while, Quinn spoke first. "Do you think it's dying?"

"Certainly seems so." Lowis answered.

Again, Quinn nodded. "I think so too…" And, right after saying that, he got out of the bushes where they were hiding and stepped dangerously close to the agonizing beast. Lowis tensed his entire body, but was not able to say anything out of fear that the lion might hear him and attack.

Yet the lion did not react. It did not even seem to notice Quinn, nor the knife he took out of his belt for it was too close to its own natural demise. Swiftly, Quinn cut the beast's stomach open — it howled with pain, and but a brief moment later, it was dead. Lowis came out of the bushes right after, screaming "Are you fucking mad? Son of a whore!"

Quinn laughed, loud and with satisfaction. "Such a frightened little cunt you are, Lowis! Behold Quinn, son of Nigel, Lion Slayer!"

Lowis rolled his eyes. "Are you done, Ser Quinn? Let's get going before we are mauled by a bear."

"Not before I get my spoils of war." Replied Quinn. He began to cut out the lion's head, making a literal bloody mess in the process. "Do you know how to do this?" He asked.

Lowis did not answer. He was inside the den, looking around, searching for his own loot. It was dark and close to impossible to see: He was only able to explore using his tact. He touched moist, rocky walls, the dirty floor, some small bones and, finally… a skull. He jumped and screamed, frightened by it. Quinn yelled from the outside "Are you hurt? What is it?"

"No!" Shouted back Lowis. "It's only the dead…"

"What is dead may never bite!" Said Quinn, this time at the entrance of the cave, holding the lion's head. "Isn't that what the Ironborn say?"

Lowis did not bother to correct his friend. He kept searching, until he felt the skeleton's ragged clothes. A few inches away, he found the dead man's backpack. Lowis took it out of the cave, where he could see what was inside. Besides him, over his shoulder, Quinn observed with eagerness. Lowis turned it upside down, letting its contents fall on the grass: A pickaxe, lighting stones and three small torches. "Looks like he was about to explore that cave…" Murmured Lowis.

"Why do you think he would do that?" Asked Quinn.

"Let us see." Replied Lowis after he finished lighting one of the torches.

Quinn grinned. "Who would have thought Lowis would ever explore a lion's den!"

"Aye… Who would have." Answered Lowis before going back into the cave, holding a torch with one hand and the pickaxe with the other. He illuminated the walls around them as they walked the downwards path that went deeper into the earth. It did not take too long before they found its dead end, with several markings on the stone's face.

"Appears to be an attempt at doing some mining." Said Quinn. "Do you imagine there is something to mine here?"

"Shall we find out?" Answered Lowis before striking the wall as hard as he could with the pickaxe.

º º º

Several minutes later, both of them stared, stupefied, at the glimmer of the gold they had exposed.

PERCE

Perce Hightower sat in silence next to his brother Lambert and to his father's deathbed. Lord Folke of House Hightower was taken by a fever that had stormed swiftly. He was dead in the earliness of the summer of the 168th year after King Aegon's Landing, at the age of seventy-and-one. His last words to his sons which patiently had been awaiting his passing by the bedside were incomprehensible gibberish — it was the sickness speaking, not the father Perce remembered.

At the very moment when the light in Folke's eyes went out, Lambert got up from his chair and out of the room. Perce stayed, alone. After he closed his father's eyes, he noticed how cold the castle was, even during the summer. The thick stone walls of the Hightower Keep left the warmth and almost all the light outside — the only illumination of the room was a thin line of sunshine sneaking through a high window. In that isolated place, Perce remained. He did not cry. He simply waited, yet for what he did not know.

Later, Lambert returned with the Maester of the castle. The old man, bent over the years by time itself and his chain, stepped close to his fallen sire. "Is he really dead?" Asked Lambert from the door's archway.

The Maester tried to feel Folke's pulse to no avail. "Yes, my Lord. I am afraid he is." He answered with the jarring and low voice of someone who has just received terrible news.

Lambert let out the gulf of air he had been holding and passed his fingers through his long, dark hair. "Well. That is unfortunate." He paused for a brief moment. Perce looked up to his older brother, the new Lord of Oldtown, from where he sat and thought he did not look the part. The image he had of rulers were almost opposite to what his brother was: Tall, strong, young, proud, but above all, unwise and impulsive. He can inspire devotion, certainly, Perce thought; but can he make decisions as their father would have made them?

While Perce wondered, Lambert spoke up again. "Maester, send ravens to all the prominent houses who have given us oaths of allegiance. Lord Hightower requires audience with them to discuss a matter of importance."

"What matter specifically, my Lord?" Asked the Maester in response, confused.

Lambert looked at his servant, stone faced. "Send the ravens."

º º º

Perce sat next to his Lord brother at the great hall of Hightower a week and a half after their father's passing. It was near the middle of the night, and almost all Lords sworn to House Hightower drank ale and ate at the banquet Lambert had organized, but Perce did not eat nor drink any of it. He observed the faces of those present — many for the first time even though most were obliged by oath to give their lives for his if necessary. All the families who possessed any power in the Reach but the Tyrells of Highgarden were represented there: House Beesbury of Honeyholt, House Bulwer of Blackcrown, House Costayne of the Three Towers, House Cuy of Sunhouse, House Mullendore of the Uplands and many others as well. They came from the Arbor, Bitterbridge, Old Oak, the Shield Islands, Goldengrove and other such places in the far corners of the Reach.

When the fires started to run low and the conversations to die, Lambert Hightower ordered silence from the bards and his guests. He stood up, wearing his plate armor in its entirety, the sigil of his house forged on the iron at his chest and shown behind him in an enormous banner. Lambert rose his arms and spoke. "My Lords! Welcome to the Hightower halls. I trust you have enjoyed the hospitality that has been offered to you, as I see you have drunk all of my fine ale…"

When he said this, many laughed and hit the long table with their wooden mugs. After they were done, he rose his own cup and proceeded. "Tonight, we drink to honor the memory of my father." The hall rose theirs in answer and Lambert completed. "In his honor!"

And the hall repeated it after him, loud and in unison: "In his honor."

As Perce swallowed his own ale, he saw that Lambert's mug was empty.

When the toast was finished, Lambert continued. "I loved my father my Lords, just as you did love him as your sire." He looked in their eyes, his expression stern and resolved. "Yet, he was weak. Weak! He did not realize that our proud banners flutters too low — That there are some who ruled over ourselves and our loyal subjects and yet, did not deserve it. The actions of a mere steward and an opportunist, Harlen Tyrell, that and Aegon the Conqueror's indifference is what made the Tyrells the Lords of the Reach and Wardens of the South. Why should we bow to them, my Lords?"

Only his words reverberated through the halls now. The tension and the silence was palpable. Lambert knew that all he said had been through their heads. He rejoiced in their undivided attention, and it gave him more than enough confidence to continue. "The ties all your houses have with us, the Hightowers of Oldtown, are much stronger! Where were the Tyrells the Pentoshi pirates raided the Arbor? Or when the Dornish sacked our borders? Nowhere, and why?! Because they lack the strength! The reach of their sword is short! They rely on us, the Hightowers, to do their bidding, all of their biddings, yet they are the ones to rule?"

He spoke with hatred and passion. Of sudden all the warriors and knights present seemed prepared to draw their swords if commanded. "The Tyrells are allied to the Targaryens first and to the people of their own land second. They have raised the taxes on wheat and cattle thrice the last year, and why? To finance the wedding and feasts of some prince who has never set foot in the Reach! No, this is not justice! They have done nothing to deserve our allegiance, for they lack strength!" And, as he said this, Lambert drew his own blade of valyrian steel and raised it above his head.

"Join me! Join the fight for true justice! Join the ones who have always protected you, truly, the strong side! King Baelor is a foolish lover of peace — the fire of his dragons shall not come to aid the Roses, nor will the fury of the crippled or the eldest Stag! Our time has come!"

And thus all the men rose and chanted, their new allegiance just declared to those who light the way. But not all were as ecstatic.

"You shall never survive this insolence, boy! Your time runs short from now!" Screamed Ser Galeren, eldest of the Tyrells of Brightwater Keep.

"You loyalty inspires us all, Ser Galeren the Fair, and shall continue to do so in our dungeons." Said Lambert. As a dozen of the men stood to take hold of Galeren, the Lord sitting on the next chair unsheathed his double-edged axe and buried it in one of the henchman's left shoulder. All those around were blinded from the splattered blood for a moment. Galeren seized the opportunity to take a soldier by his head and brake the edge of the hall table with it.

It was a heroic struggle but ultimately pointless. Ser Galeren was beaten unconscious in but a few moments while Lord Warren Beesbury was beheaded with his own axe.

The Hightower Rebellion had begun.