A Fallen Tower The Lord of the Hightower was dead. The weeping bells of the Starry Sept rang throughout the streets of Oldtown. A somber crowd, journeyed from far and wide, gathered before the God’s Place of Worship. Inside, Gawen stood over his father’s still corpse. He looked upon his pale face, and as mournful eyes met those of stone, the young Lord’s heart swelled with sadness. “Father”, he whimpered. With an open hand, he hesitantly reached forth and caressed his father's cheek. It was cold to the touch. Gawen took a deep breath, as the aromatic air of the Sept filled his lungs. He struggled to hold back the flood of despair, straining under its weight. I will do you proud, he promised. He turned from his fathers corpse, his hand trailing behind. For but a brief moment, it lingered on the edge of the altar. A refusal to say goodbye. Gawen's family followed in kind. His mother, brother, and sister, each paid their respects. An emotional goodbye was said by each to the patriarch of House Hightower. Thereupon, Gawen motioned to his House Guard. “Let them in." “My Lord.” The lumbering doors of the Starry Sept opened to the nobles of Westeros, who wished to offer their condolences to House Hightower.