Gawen’s gaze settled on the younger Garth Hightower.
The boy was several years younger than his older brother, Baelor, yet he already possessed a broad-shouldered, powerfully built frame.
His short, dark chestnut hair stood stiffly upright, framing a wide forehead, square jaw, and pronounced brow.
The youthful flush still lingering across his high cheekbones made him look even more energetic.
His bright blue eyes burned with excitement as they remained fixed on Gawen, as though he wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and challenge him on the spot.
A faint, eager grin tugged at his lips, while his fingers unconsciously drifted toward the hilt at his waist.
Gawen immediately understood.
This boy is going to grow into an exceptional warrior.
With a casual smile, he replied,
“I’d say I’m fairly skilled with a sword…
though perhaps that’s a rather bold claim.”
Baelor chuckled before making a suggestion.
“You’re not in any hurry, are you?
Why not stay here a few more days?”
It was obvious he had noticed his younger brother’s desire to test himself against their new acquaintance.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
Gawen shook his head apologetically.
“I still need to report to the Citadel today.”
“But I’ll be living in Oldtown for quite a while.
How about we spar a week from now?”
“You’re welcome here anytime, Gawen,” Baelor said warmly, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“After all…
we’re practically family.”
Even as he spoke, however, his eyes kept drifting toward his wife.
Rhonda was standing close beside him, her hand wrapped affectionately around his arm.
With the experience of two lifetimes, Gawen noticed the small exchange immediately, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
Perhaps…
House Hightower could become an ally in its own right—rather than simply another ally of House Tyrell.
A thought flashed through Gawen’s mind.
After all, House Hightower’s heir had married into House Rowan—not House Tyrell.
“Thank you, Baelor.”
Gawen shook his distant cousin’s hand warmly, making sure not to neglect his younger brother.
“We’ll be waiting for you,” Rhonda added with a smile.
“Until next time.”
After bidding the three farewell, Gawen followed Steward Nylen out of the audience hall.
As they descended the tower, his thoughts remained fixed on House Hightower.
Nylen noticed his contemplative silence and wisely refrained from interrupting.
A single Hightower was worth two—or even three—of the Reach’s other great noble houses.
The prominent families of the Reach were all wealthy, but House Hightower stood in a league of its own.
They were an extraordinarily valuable potential ally.
Just how did Father manage to marry Rhonda to the Hightower heir?
Gawen silently gave Mathis a mental thumbs-up.
A masterstroke.
…
After leaving the Hightower, Gawen headed straight for the Citadel.
Occupying the entire northern district of Oldtown, the Citadel stretched across both banks of the Honeywine and several islands scattered throughout the river.
Its domes and soaring towers could be seen from almost anywhere in the city.
Using both Ser Harwin’s directions and the aerial perspective provided by a helpful raven, Gawen soon arrived at the eastern gate—
The gateway bustled with people coming and going, most of them headed for the Hall of Scribes.
It served as both a post office and a public notary, reading and writing letters for the illiterate, drafting wills, and handling all manner of official documents.
Business was thriving, and a long line had already formed.
There were no particularly strict guards at the entrance, so Gawen walked straight through without delay.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d finally show up!”
A cheerful voice called from nearby.
A heavy hand landed squarely on his shoulder.
“Oberyn?”
Gawen looked genuinely surprised.
“The one and only.”
The Dornishman answered with an exaggerated, elegant bow.
“What are you doing here waiting for me?”
Gawen asked as they passed through the open gates.
The two guards merely glanced at them before returning to their duties.
“I figured you’d need a guide.”
Oberyn fell into step beside him.
“If you think the Citadel is any easier to navigate than the rest of Oldtown, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“If anything, it’s worse.”
He wasn’t exaggerating.
The Citadel was another maze of tightly packed buildings, narrow stone streets, and twisting passageways.
The only difference was that everything was noticeably cleaner.
Walking side by side, Oberyn casually pointed out various landmarks—the Weeping Harbor, Blood Isle, the Vaults…
The Citadel was filled with strange and fascinating places.
The Weeping Harbor was a small internal dock that connected the Citadel’s many islands, including Blood Isle.
Then there were the Vaults.
“They have a rather peculiar tradition here,” Oberyn said with open mockery.
“Anyone who wants to become a maester has to spend an entire night down in those vaults.”
“No light.”
“Nothing but a single Valyrian glass candle.”
He snorted.
“Some fools even try to light it.”
“I wouldn’t waste my time.”
“So you don’t intend to take the maester’s vows?”
“Of course not!”
Oberyn exclaimed indignantly.
“Do I look like an idiot?”
Gawen understood perfectly.
A free spirit like Oberyn Martell would never willingly submit to the Citadel’s rigid rules.
“Not particularly,” Gawen replied with a grin.
“But you never know.”
“I can already picture it…”
“Maester Oberyn.”
“Teaching philosophy one moment…”
“…and cracking people over the head with a spear shaft the next.”
“Pfft—Hahaha!”
Oberyn burst into booming laughter and slapped Gawen firmly across the back.
After crossing several more courtyards, they stopped before a large stone building with a modest courtyard.
“There.”
Oberyn nodded toward it.
“They call this the Seneschal’s Court.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“I’m off.”
“I’ve shown you everything worth seeing.”
“You won’t get lost.”
“See you around.”
With a casual wave, he disappeared around the nearest corner.
Gawen watched him leave before entering the building.
Like everything else in the Citadel, it was built entirely of stone.
A small square stood before the entrance.
At its center sat a set of stocks, where an unfortunate student hung his head miserably while serving some disciplinary punishment.
“Until next time.”
Gawen murmured before stepping inside.
The entrance hall featured a high vaulted ceiling and large circular windows that flooded the room with natural light.
Inside, the atmosphere was even busier than outside.
Apprentices hurried in every direction while several maesters worked diligently at their respective tasks.
At the far end of the hall stood a reception counter, manned by someone who appeared to be the Seneschal’s secretary.
“What can I help you with?”
A young apprentice approached Gawen first.
“I’d like to enroll as a student,” Gawen replied politely.
“And if possible, I’d also like to meet the Seneschal.”
“Archmaester Ryam is currently giving a lecture.”
“He won’t be finished for at least another hour.”
“I can wait.”
“Or perhaps schedule an appointment?”
“Certainly.”
The apprentice nodded.
“New student registration doesn’t require the Seneschal’s approval.”
“Come with me.”
“As for meeting the Seneschal, you’ll need to speak with his secretary at the reception desk beside the staircase.”
The rest proved to be little more than routine administrative formalities.
His name.
His house.
His parents’ names.
His age.
All common information was carefully recorded in the Citadel’s registers.
Once the paperwork was complete, another apprentice escorted the newly enrolled student to his assigned room.
It was tiny.
Just enough space for a narrow single bed, a small desk with one chair, and a slender wardrobe.
Gawen sat down on the bed.
The mattress was stuffed with straw and hard as a plank.
The pillow and blanket weren’t much better.
“Hmm…”
He muttered under his breath.
“This feels strangely familiar.”
After a moment, he shook his head.
“No…”
“My school back in my previous life had far more space…”
“…and was definitely much more comfortable.”