After leaving their luggage at the inn, Gawen followed Ser Harwyn through the winding streets of Oldtown.
As they walked, the veteran knight enthusiastically pointed out everything he knew about the city.
“I’ve been to Oldtown more than any other city,” Harwyn said proudly.
“Counting this trip, it’s my fifth visit.”
He suddenly stopped, pointed toward an ordinary-looking alley, and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“Now, this is important, my lord.”
“If you head down that alley and take the first left…”
“You’ll find the finest brothel in all of Oldtown.”
He delivered the information with the solemnity of a man passing down sacred wisdom.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gawen’s expression remained perfectly calm.
Privately, however, he questioned the reliability—and usefulness—of that particular recommendation.
At least for now…
The pleasures of the flesh ranked very low on his list of priorities.
“This is the harbor district…”
“Make way!”
A shout rang out as several dockworkers carrying heavy crates squeezed past them.
Harwyn stepped aside.
“One of the largest ports in Westeros,” he explained while scratching the stubble growing along his jaw.
“It’s almost always this chaotic.”
He gestured toward the distant waterfront.
“The shipyards are over there as well.
Most of the ships are built there.”
“How large are they?”
Gawen immediately showed interest.
Ships fascinated him.
Combining what little naval knowledge he retained from his previous life with this world’s craftsmanship…
Perhaps there was room for meaningful innovation.
Harwyn shrugged.
“I know of at least two really large ones.”
“There are probably plenty of smaller vessels too.”
“I’m no shipwright, though.”
They continued touring the city.
The bustling commercial district.
The craftsmen’s quarter.
The magnificent Starry Sept.
Although Gawen held little reverence for the gods of Westeros, he couldn’t help admiring the grandeur of the ancient cathedral.
Its architecture alone inspired awe.
Eventually…
They arrived before the Citadel’s main entrance.
“We’re here, my lord.”
Harwyn extended a hand toward the imposing gateway.
“The Citadel.”
Before them stood a pair of enormous gates.
On either side rested colossal sphinx statues.
One bore the face of a man.
The other, that of a woman.
Gawen couldn’t identify the stone from which they had been carved.
But he was almost certain their gleaming eyes were fashioned from black onyx.
The surrounding walls, built from weathered black stone, radiated immense age and quiet dignity.
Ancient.
Unyielding.
They seemed to carry an invisible weight accumulated over thousands of years.
“Remarkable…”
Gawen murmured in genuine admiration.
Yet he made no move to approach the gates.
Nor did he reach out to touch them.
Keeping a low profile was the wiser course.
For now, simple observation would have to suffice.
“I suppose that’s everything.”
Ser Harwyn let out a quiet sigh.
“It has been an honor escorting you here, my lord.”
The veteran knight gave him a heartfelt bow.
“The honor was mine, Ser Harwyn.”
Gawen smiled sincerely and extended his hand.
After a brief hesitation, Harwyn clasped it firmly.
With that, the two parted ways.
Standing alone before the gates of the Citadel, Gawen rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Now then…”
“What should I do first?”
Humming a light tune, he made his way back toward the inn while organizing his plans.
“First…”
“I’ll deliver those letters tomorrow morning.
One to Lord Hightower, and one to my cousin Rhonda.
No point delaying.”
“After that…”
“I can officially enroll at the Citadel.”
His thoughts continued to race ahead.
“I should start building connections as soon as possible.”
“I’ll definitely need information about the shipyards.”
“And I should begin sketching some ship designs.”
“Then there’s the library…”
“I want to search for every record related to gunpowder.”
He frowned.
“I refuse to believe no one has discovered it after thousands of years.”
“If it exists…”
“Why has no one ever used it?”
The question had lingered in his mind for years.
He had considered countless possibilities.
Others reached far beyond the boundaries of this world itself.
Perhaps some local deity had deliberately suppressed its development.
Perhaps the laws governing this universe simply prevented such discoveries.
Or…
Perhaps people were simply shortsighted.
Or foolish.
Returning to the inn, Gawen finished dinner before collapsing onto his bed.
…
Dong—
Dong—
Dong—
The ringing bells woke him the following morning.
Though the chimes were surprisingly pleasant…
They still irritated him.
“I really dislike religious fanatics.”
He muttered under his breath.
His opinion of organized religion hadn’t been favorable in his previous life.
This one had done nothing to improve it.
The inn itself occupied a rather unusual location.
It stood upon a small island in the middle of the Honeywine.
The old timber building leaned ever so slightly toward the south.
According to the innkeeper, it had stood for more than five centuries.
Most of the staff were young women dressed in flowing medieval gowns.
The elegant garments subtly accentuated their graceful figures.
Gawen hadn’t paid much attention the previous evening.
Only after coming downstairs for breakfast did he really notice.
A cheerful young waitress quickly took his order before hurrying off to another table.
While waiting for his meal, Gawen quietly observed the other patrons.
Most appeared to be students or members of the Citadel.
Several merchants occupied nearby tables.
One guest, however, immediately caught his eye.
A Dornish youth.
His distinctive olive complexion stood out sharply among the pale-skinned people of the Reach.
The young man looked about Gawen’s age.
Lean.
Athletic.
Despite his youth, he carried himself with the effortless grace of a natural predator.
“Your breakfast, my lord.”
The waitress returned with his food.
Gawen thanked her and began eating.
The meal was surprisingly good.
Even so…
His gaze repeatedly drifted back toward the Dornishman.
It wasn’t because the young man openly flirted with every serving girl who passed.
Rather…
Something about the way he carried himself felt strangely familiar.
He reminds me of my brother…
The thought softened Gawen’s expression.
Back in his previous world…
His closest friend had possessed that same carefree confidence.
Even if this Dornish youth happened to wield the exact same weapon in battle…
Gawen wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Hey!”
The Dornishman suddenly called out.
“You’ve been staring at me for quite a while.”
A broad grin spread across his face.
“Not that I mind.”
“You’re rather my type, actually.”
He burst into laughter.
“My apologies.”
Gawen answered calmly.
“You simply reminded me of someone.”
He paid little attention to the implications behind the man’s teasing.
“Really?”
The Dornishman raised an eyebrow.
“I always thought I was one of a kind.”
He winked at a passing waitress.
“What do you think, beautiful?”
“Have you ever seen anyone like me before?”
“N-No, my lord…”
The poor girl blushed bright red before fleeing in embarrassment.
“That’s what I love about Reach girls.”
He laughed.
“They’re so wonderfully shy.”
Taking another long drink, he turned back toward Gawen.
“So…”
“What’s your name?”
Without waiting for an invitation, he rose from his chair and dropped into the seat opposite him.
“Gawen.”
The heir of Goldengrove deliberately offered only his given name.
“Now that’s a memorable name.”
The Dornishman lifted his goblet.
“I’m Oberyn.”
“A pleasure.”
At that name…
He studied the smiling young Dornishman across the table.
Information surfaced almost instantly.
Oberyn Martell.
Younger brother of Prince Doran Martell.
Brother of Princess Elia Martell.
The man history would one day remember as…
The Red Viper.
Brilliant.
Passionate.
Infamously promiscuous, caring little whether his lovers were men or women.
Hot-tempered…
Yet cunning as a serpent.
He would travel throughout the Free Cities.
Serve as a sellsword.
Fight—and kill—in the fighting pits.
His favored weapon was the spear.
Its blade almost always coated with deadly poison.
Even the smallest scratch from it could become a death sentence.
Gawen quietly reassessed him.
A dangerous man.
Quick to anger.
But far from foolish.
Raising his own cup, Gawen returned the toast.
As he continued observing Oberyn, he compared every detail with the memories he possessed.
Most Dornishmen shared similar bold personalities.
Yet this coincidence felt almost too perfect.
The spear.
The name.
The unmistakable appearance.
What Gawen didn’t know was that, in the original history, Oberyn Martell had indeed spent time studying at the Citadel.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Gawen smiled.
“You’ve traveled quite a long way from Dorne.”
“Not really.”
Oberyn waved dismissively.
“I’m simply passing the time here at the Citadel.”
“So am I.”
Gawen revealed a little more about himself.
“I’ve come here to study.”
“Really?”
Oberyn examined him carefully.
His eyes lingered on Gawen’s hands.
His posture.
The way he moved.
“You don’t look like someone who spends all day reading books.”
“You train with a sword?”
“And you…”
Gawen smiled.
“I’d guess you’re a spearman.”
Oberyn snorted approvingly.
“Sharp eyes.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’ve had a bit of experience.”
Gawen answered modestly.
“Hmm…”
Leaning back lazily in his chair, Oberyn looked every bit like a snake coiling before a strike.
“I propose a spar.”
“So soon?”
Gawen chuckled.
“No need to worry.”
“It can be tonight.”
“Or tomorrow.”
“I simply need a worthy opponent.”
He rolled his eyes dramatically.
“The local guards talk as though they’re legendary warriors.”
“They’re not.”
“The rest are either soft-handed apprentices…”
“Or elderly maesters.”
He laughed loudly.
“I’m not quite desperate enough to start beating up old men.”
His goblet tapped the tabletop, splashing a few drops of wine.
“Fair enough.”
Gawen nodded.
“Tonight, then.”
“I have a few errands to finish first.”
“It’s settled.”
The two shook hands before going their separate ways.
Oberyn immediately resumed flirting with the unfortunate waitress, much to the tavern owner’s obvious exasperation.
Stepping out into the streets of Oldtown, Gawen pondered quietly.
Oberyn Martell.
The future Red Viper.
A peerless spearman.
Wild and free-spirited.
Fiercely loyal to his friends.
Absolutely ruthless toward his enemies.
If he could earn Oberyn’s friendship…
It might one day become a valuable bridge to Dorne.
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