Gawen swung down from his horse, his eyes locking onto the largest of the bandit leaders.
The man was still desperately resisting alongside a handful of followers.
Judging by the way he handled his blade, he had at least some formal training.
“My lord, be careful!”
Ser Harwyn dismounted as well, respectfully taking up position behind his young master.
By now, there was no longer any doubt in his heart.
If anyone could restore Goldengrove to greatness…
It was Lord Gawen Rowan.
Silently, he swore to lay down his life before allowing any harm to come to the young heir.
“I will.”
Gawen answered simply.
Then, with a sudden sidestep, he launched himself into a bandit blocking his path.
The outlaw hastily raised his shield.
It was a wooden shield reinforced with iron bands—solid enough by ordinary standards.
But Gawen’s sword crashed down with overwhelming force.
The reinforced shield exploded apart.
Splinters flew in every direction.
The impact shattered the man’s arm beneath it, leaving it hanging limply at his side.
Though stunned, the bandit grit his teeth and somehow managed a desperate counterattack.
Gawen was faster.
One clean slash severed the man’s sword arm.
His returning stroke sliced neatly across the bandit’s throat.
Blood erupted.
The outlaw collapsed with wide, disbelieving eyes.
The entire sequence was swift and efficient.
Like a butcher slaughtering livestock.
For a heartbeat…
Everyone froze.
Not only the Rowan knights…
Even the bandits themselves.
But battle waited for no one.
The Rowan guards immediately pressed their advantage, forcing the outlaws steadily backward.
Pinned down by superior numbers, the bandits could only retreat.
Meanwhile, Gawen headed straight for their leader.
The bandit chief wielded a massive two-handed greatsword.
Its reach exceeded Gawen’s hand-and-a-half sword by nearly a foot—a considerable advantage on open ground.
Ordinarily.
But Gawen’s footwork was extraordinary.
Sidestep.
Slide.
Lean.
Turn.
Again and again, the massive blade whistled past him, barely brushing his clothing.
It never touched him.
“Too slow.”
With his heightened reflexes and uncanny perception, Gawen evaded every strike effortlessly.
A faint smile remained on his face.
“Stop struggling.”
“You little bastard!”
The enraged chief roared, launching into a frenzy of savage chops.
Gawen retreated while fighting, deliberately widening the distance between the chief and his followers.
Then…
The opportunity appeared.
With perfect timing, Gawen knocked the greatsword aside.
The chief had never expected such a direct clash.
The tremendous impact numbed his hands.
His blade swung wide.
For a brief instant…
His guard was completely open.
The chief was still recovering from the recoil.
Gawen, however…
Had no such delay.
His sword remained in his right hand as he drove a crushing punch into the man’s armored abdomen.
The breastplate caved inward with a heavy crunch.
The sword’s crossguard punched a small hole through the dented steel.
The blow drove every ounce of air from the chief’s lungs.
His body convulsed.
He nearly collapsed.
Then Gawen’s left fist crashed into his face.
The bandit chief toppled backward like a felled tree.
Unconscious.
[Rebirth Incarnation Proficiency +3]
[Wild Affinity Proficiency +2]
“My lord…
your swordsmanship is magnificent.”
Removing his helmet, Ser Harwyn looked at Gawen with unconcealed admiration.
“Thank you, Ser Harwyn.”
Gawen calmly wiped the blood from his blade.
A slight frown crossed his face.
He had intended to kill the chief.
But at the last moment, he suppressed the urge.
A living prisoner…
Was often more valuable than a dead one.
Interrogation.
Ransom.
There were many uses.
At the same time, the fighting inside the woods finally came to an end.
The guards emerged, dragging several wounded bandits behind them.
The resistance in the forest had been fiercer than expected.
The archers had prepared traps and carefully planned escape routes.
Clearly…
This wasn’t their first ambush.
Even so, the Rowan knights had broken them.
A handful escaped into the wilderness.
That hardly mattered.
“Report the casualties.”
Gawen’s gaze shifted toward the fallen.
One body lay farther down the road.
An arrow had pierced the man’s eye.
A painful death…
But a swift one.
The second corpse lay much closer.
A dagger through the throat.
He had bled out where he fell.
“Only Tyren and Myles.”
One of the knights lowered his head, frustration evident in his voice.
“My lord.”
Harwyn stepped forward.
“Shall we make camp farther down the road?
“Agreed.”
Gawen nodded before turning toward the captured bandits.
His eyes swept over each of their faces.
“You were bold enough to attack an armed noble escort?”
“My lord.”
One knight shrugged.
“I’d wager they wanted to capture you for ransom.”
“Your father is wealthy enough to pay a mountain of gold dragons.”
“Bah!
To hell with you!”
The bandit chief regained consciousness just long enough to spit out a curse.
“If it weren’t for those damned Tarlys…
you little pups would’ve—”
“Tarly?”
One of the knights burst into laughter.
“You idiots actually chose to operate in their territory?”
The others immediately joined in.
Everyone in the Reach knew House Tarly of Horn Hill.
Their heavy infantry was legendary.
Their formation was considered one of the finest-trained infantry formations in all of Westeros.
One of their regular training exercises…
Was hunting down bandits within their own lands.
Provoking House Tarly…
Was little different from digging your own grave.
“Go to hell…”
The chief cursed again.
“Enough.”
A guard casually punched him in the back of the head.
The bandit collapsed unconscious once more.
The spoils were divided without complication.
The dead bandits were tossed into roadside brush.
The Rowan knights dug graves within the nearby woods and buried their two fallen comrades with full honors.
The surviving prisoners were bound securely under heavy guard.
There was little worth taking from the bandits.
A handful of battered swords.
One serviceable bow.
The chief’s greatsword was the only weapon of real value.
Their clothing, however, was little more than worthless rags.
“Keep everything.”
Gawen said simply.
“Treat it as a bonus.”
Several knights visibly brightened.
Their respect for their young lord climbed another step.
Gawen had no use for such loot.
But a few silver stags—or perhaps even a gold dragon—meant a great deal to ordinary knights.
They soon established camp in a clearing not far from the road.
Most of the journey was already behind them.
Horn Hill lay far to the northeast.
Gawen refused any noble luxuries.
No silk bedding.
No private tent.
He shared the same stew as everyone else and slept beneath the open sky.
The knights quietly approved.
Their young lord was frugal.
Unpretentious.
Most importantly…
He could fight.
As an old soldier, Ser Harwyn knew this had been only Gawen’s second—or perhaps third—real battle.
Yet throughout the fighting, the young heir had displayed astonishing composure.
There had even been…
A faint hunger for battle in his eyes.
His earlier duel against House Hawke, and the bandit hunt organized by Lord Mathis five years ago…
Were nothing compared to today’s brutal combat.
“My lord…”
Harwyn asked with concern.
“Weren’t you wounded?”
He distinctly remembered Gawen taking arrows.
His clothing still bore the holes.
“I wasn’t.”
Gawen calmly rolled up his sleeve.
Smooth, unblemished skin greeted them.
Not even a scar remained.
“My lord…
it’s as though you were born wearing a shirt woven from pure fortune.”
Harwyn laughed.
“Or perhaps the Seven truly favor you.”
“Perhaps it’s my ancestors.”
Gawen replied casually, brushing the matter aside.
“How badly are the others hurt?”
“The men who entered the woods only suffered cuts and scrapes.”
Harwyn gestured toward another knight.
“Moren took the worst of it.
His arm was slashed open.”
The knight named Moren was removing his armor to examine the wound.
A gruesome gash stretched from his wrist nearly to his elbow.
Muscle lay exposed beneath torn flesh.
Blood still seeped steadily from the injury.
Several others were wounded as well.
But none as seriously as he.
Gawen rose and walked toward the wounded knight.
“I’ll treat the injury.”
“There’s no need, my lord,” Moren said with a strained smile.
A sharp stab of pain twisted the corners of his mouth.
“Just wrap it up.
Once we reach Oldtown, I’ll be fine.”
Gawen raised an eyebrow.
“Would you like me to explain how people die from infected wounds?”
Moren blinked.
“It starts with a raging fever.
You burn so hot you begin raving nonsense.
Then the wound festers, fills with pus, and maggots start feeding on the flesh.
Finally, after three days—or perhaps a week if you’re fortunate—you die in agony.”
He smiled faintly.
“Would you like to experience that for yourself?”
“…”
Even Ser Harwyn was momentarily speechless.
Scratching the back of his head, he finally said, “I think you’d better listen to my lord, Moren.
The young master isn’t traveling to the Citadel for nothing.” The source of this chapter is g.com.
“…Very well.”
Moren sighed in resignation.
“I’ll leave it to you, my lord.”
“Harwyn, fetch a bucket of water and set it over the fire.”
Gawen immediately began issuing instructions.
Medical care in this era was primitive.
Fortunately…
He had magic.
His traveling kit contained a basic field medical pouch, complete with needles and thread he had borrowed from Maester Corlin.
His plan was simple.
Treat the wound using ordinary surgical techniques while secretly supplementing them with druidic healing magic.
That way, the treatment would appear completely natural while guaranteeing an excellent outcome.
Once the water reached a rolling boil, Gawen carefully cleaned the wound.
Someone handed him a bottle of wine.
The alcohol wasn’t particularly strong, but it served well enough for appearances.
Silently, he cast a purification spell.
Every trace of harmful bacteria vanished without anyone noticing.
[Life Manipulation Proficiency +3]
Then he began stitching the wound.
Before starting, he infused a tiny amount of natural energy into Moren’s arm, dulling the pain.
The knight merely felt the area grow numb.
Assuming the wine had finally taken effect, he clenched his teeth and endured the procedure without complaint.
An hour later, the wound had been neatly stitched and securely bandaged.
Before finishing, Gawen discreetly accelerated the healing process.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Moren’s gratitude was completely sincere.
“No need.”
Gawen stood and looked around.
“What about the prisoners?”
“They’re tied up over by those trees,” Harwyn replied, pointing into the distance.
“Four guards are watching them.
The leader’s being kept farther away, just in case.”
“We’ll hand them over to the city watch once we reach Oldtown.
They’ll likely end up serving with the Night’s Watch.”
“Good.”
Gawen had no objections.
He then called everyone over for supper.
…
The remainder of the journey passed without incident.
Now and then they encountered merchant caravans, exchanged a few polite words, and continued on their separate ways.
The bandit ambush proved to be the only real disturbance.
Then…
Oldtown appeared on the horizon.
Every rider instinctively slowed to admire the breathtaking sight.
The towering lighthouse of House Hightower pierced the sky itself.
At its summit, a great beacon blazed against the gathering dusk.
Ordinarily, its flame burned bright red, guiding ships safely into harbor.
Only when House Hightower summoned its bannermen would the beacon burn green.
To the north lay the sprawling complex of the Citadel.
Domes.
Towering spires.
Ancient walls of black stone.
Even from afar, the place radiated an unmistakable sense of authority.
The Honeywine shimmered beneath the evening light, dividing the city into several districts.
Stone bridges stretched across the river like a spider’s web, linking the mainland to the islands scattered throughout its waters.
“There.”
Harwyn smiled.
“Oldtown.”
Gawen narrowed his eyes.
A notification quietly appeared before him.
[Environmental Compatibility Updated: Oldtown…
Good.]
“Ser Harwyn…”
He turned toward the knight.
“Have you been here before?”
“A few times.”
Harwyn nodded.
“It’s one of the greatest cities in Westeros—the commercial heart of the south.”
“You’ve traveled to many places?”
“Not all that many.”
He counted them off.
“Lannisport.”
“King’s Landing.”
“Highgarden.”
“And here.”
“As far as major cities go…
that’s about it.”
Gawen smiled.
“Then, before we leave again, would you mind showing me around?”
Harwyn looked almost offended.
“Of course, my lord!”
“We’ll be staying here for quite some time.
There’s plenty of opportunity to explore before we continue.”
“My thanks, Ser Harwyn.”
Oldtown possessed a grandeur unlike anything Gawen had seen before.
For this era…
For this world…
It was truly awe-inspiring.
They entered the city without encountering any trouble.
Part of the escort headed to an inn to arrange accommodations.
The rest escorted the captured bandits to the city watch.
Riding slowly along Oldtown’s cobbled streets, Gawen watched merchants, craftsmen, sailors, septons, and townsfolk going about their daily lives.
This city…
Would become his training ground for the next two years.
The Citadel’s vast library.
The heart tree hidden within the rookery gardens.
The colossal Hightower itself.
Everything he sought…
Could be found here.
A new notification appeared before him.
[Main Quest Activated: The Wisdom of the Citadel]
Objective: Raise at least three of the five core specializations to Level 5 during your time at the Citadel.
Reward: Unlock Second-Tier Class — Wilderness Walker
The corners of Gawen’s lips lifted into a faint smile.
“Come, Ser Harwyn.”
“Let’s settle in first.”
“And then…”
He looked toward the distant Citadel.
“Take me to see the heart tree.”