Gawen fell silent for a moment.
He hadn’t expected his father to know even that.
“Though the northern marches of the Reach are remote, the blood of House Rowan is inferior to no one else’s,” Mathis said earnestly.
“I need a clever heir, not merely a skilled warrior.
The Citadel can offer you things I never could—knowledge, connections, and a deeper understanding of the world.”
“You’re right, Father.”
Gawen nodded.
“I’ll go.”
“Good.”
A satisfied smile appeared on Mathis’s face.
“You’ll leave when spring arrives.
I’ll have Ser Harwyn escort you to Oldtown with twenty knights.
Once you arrive, write to me.
I’ll arrange for you to meet the Hightowers.
Rhonda will look after you.
At least in this matter, you can trust her.”
“There are still three months before spring.
Isn’t this a little early?”
“I’m simply giving you time to prepare.
The steward will handle everything else.”
Mathis rose and stepped outside, gazing toward the shimmering waters of the Mander in the distance.
“When I was young, I traveled across the Reach.
I’ve seen the blooming gardens of Highgarden and the towering stone monuments of Oldtown.
They’re wonderful places…”
He smiled faintly.
“I think you’ll like them.”
Gawen stood and followed his father onto the castle battlements.
Ever since Mathis had returned from King’s Landing in September—after narrowly surviving an ambush along the border between the Crownlands and the Reach near King’s Ridge—he had carried an ever-growing sense of unease.
The attack had been no ordinary bandit raid.
Among the attackers were Lannister household soldiers, Dornish sellswords, and remnants of the outlaw bands from Duskendale.
Each group had its own motives, but they all shared one objective:
They did not want House Rowan gaining the king’s favor at court.
Before one captured assassin died, he confessed that someone had secretly coordinated forces from the Westerlands, Dorne, and various outlaw bands to stir unrest along the Reach’s northern frontier.
The trail pointed, albeit indirectly, toward a faction within Highgarden itself—the Florents, long-standing rivals of House Rowan.
“Gawen…”
Mathis suddenly broke the silence.
“You’ve been spending more and more time beneath the heart tree.”
“The maester says that’s normal for boys my age.”
Gawen sat atop the stone wall, gazing toward the broad canopy of the Golden Tree.
The magical apple tree—symbol of House Rowan—had gone more than half a century without bearing fruit.
The world’s dwindling magic had left it dormant for generations.
Yet now…
Tiny golden apples were quietly beginning to form among its branches.
“Hmm…”
Mathis’s eyes widened as he noticed them.
“Remarkable…”
He looked from the Golden Tree toward the nearby weirwood.
“The weirwood has blossomed…
and now this tree is bearing fruit as well.”
His voice was filled with disbelief.
“Perhaps…”
“…perhaps this is an omen.”
Gawen smiled faintly.
He neither confirmed nor denied it.
“Back to what Maester Corlin mentioned,” Mathis said.
“What do you think?”
“I’ve simply been thinking.”
“Corlin says you’re exceptionally good at that.” Mathis noticed the faint smile on his son’s face.
“One day you come up with a better plow design, the next you’ve invented another useful tool.”
“Everything I’ve proposed has been for the good of our house.”
Gawen recalled the improved plow he had designed over the past few years, along with several practical agricultural reforms that had already begun benefiting the local farmers.
Mathis fell silent for a moment before speaking thoughtfully.
“I’ve thought about it for a long time…
I simply can’t picture you serving beneath another lord.
You’re too clever for that.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“But don’t let it go to your head.”
“So that’s why you want to send me to the Citadel?”
Gawen muttered, “How long will you allow me to study there?
I’m not sure how much time I’ll need…”
Although this world’s magic and technology lagged far behind those of his previous life, the Citadel still fascinated him.
Its accumulated knowledge alone was priceless.
The local understanding of herbs and wildlife could easily form the foundation of an entirely new branch of alchemy.
And as a druid…
…he suspected he could accomplish far more with alchemy than ordinary scholars ever could.
“Hmm…”
Mathis turned to face him, studying his son for a long moment.
“I’ll give you…”
He paused.
“Three years.
Will that be enough?”
Three years.
Gawen lowered his eyes.
He understood the unspoken meaning behind those words.
His father believed he could hold House Rowan together…
for only three more years.
King Aerys had shattered the marriage alliance painstakingly arranged by Tywin Lannister between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei Lannister, instead announcing Rhaegar’s marriage to Princess Elia Martell of Dorne.
He had publicly humiliated Tywin by mocking him as “the King’s servant.”
From that moment onward, the relationship between king and Hand had completely collapsed.
The Small Council fractured into three competing factions:
Tywin’s pragmatic supporters.
The Mad King’s paranoid loyalists.
And Varys’s network of spies.
As one of the Reach’s greatest banner houses, House Rowan occupied an impossible position.
They owed loyalty to the Iron Throne.
They could not afford to offend the mighty House Lannister of the Westerlands.
Nor could they ignore the authority of their liege lords, House Tyrell of Highgarden.
Supporting any one faction meant making enemies of the other two.
Their troubles didn’t end there.
House Rowan also carried an old grievance against the Lannisters.
Decades earlier, during the generation before Tywin rose to prominence, a marriage had been arranged between House Lannister and a daughter of House Rowan.
The agreement had been broken after the Lannisters chose instead to marry into House Reyne.
Though many years had passed, resentment still lingered among the lesser nobility.
Knights from the Westerlands frequently clashed with Rowan retainers along the border.
Meanwhile, Tywin—commanding the richest treasury and strongest army in the Westerlands—had gradually expanded his influence eastward.
Using the pretext of reinforcing the frontier on behalf of the Crown, he stationed troops along the border and quietly absorbed small estates, pastures, and villages belonging to House Rowan.
If Goldengrove retaliated militarily, it would appear to be defying the Iron Throne.
If they endured in silence…
…they slowly lost more land every year.
The aftermath of the Duskendale Defiance had only made matters worse.
Bandits now plagued the inland trade routes leading toward Riverrun and Casterly Rock, crippling commerce throughout the region.
For House Rowan, whose wealth relied heavily on horse breeding and trade, the damage was devastating.
Years of military levies, crushing taxes, and Dornish raids had further reduced the incomes of their sworn knights and lesser lords.
Discontent among their bannermen was steadily growing.
“Not even close.”
The young Gawen frowned.
Three years still wasn’t enough.
But compared to the single year—or perhaps two—that he had feared…
…it was far better.
The road ahead remained long.
Fortunately, he wasn’t in a hurry.
His previous life had taught him one lesson above all others:
Rushing only led to failure.
“Excellent, Gawen.”
The Lord of Goldengrove smiled with satisfaction.
“Come with me tomorrow to inspect the western villages.
Several tenant farmers reported that their wheat has developed black spot disease.”
“Of course, Father.”
A faint smile crossed Gawen’s face.
Black spot disease…
With Flora Mastery, he should be able to detect infected plants directly.
He might even discover the root cause of the outbreak.
“The heart tree blossoming…”
Mathis looked at him curiously.
“That truly has nothing to do with you?”
“…How could it?”
Gawen smiled knowingly.
“I simply pray there every day.”
“When did you become so devout?” Mathis asked jokingly.
“I’ve always been devout.”
Gawen grinned.
“I’ve just never made a show of it.
In fact, I’m planning to go pray again in a little while.”
That, at least, was the truth.
He didn’t pray to the Old Gods very often.
But every prayer he offered was sincere.
The difference was that his prayers bore little resemblance to those of ordinary nobles in Westeros.
He never prayed for victory.
Nor for wealth.
He prayed only that his journey as a druid would continue without obstruction.
“Off you go, then.”
Mathis waved him away.
“But don’t miss dinner.
Your mother is making braised lamb herself…”
His expression turned amused.
“…You’d better not keep her waiting.”
Gawen chuckled softly before taking his leave.
Rather than returning to the grove, he sought out Ser Harwyn Grey.
“Ser Harwyn.”
Lowering his voice, Gawen stepped beside the knight.
“I need your help acquiring a few things.”
“What do you need, my lord?”
“Some herb seeds…”
Gawen paused in thought.
“…and a book about the ruins of Valyria.
One published by the Citadel.”
Ser Harwyn frowned.
“What do you need those for, my lord?”
“Research.”
Gawen answered simply.
“I’m preparing for the future.”
The old knight studied him for a long moment before finally nodding.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Gawen stepped out through the gates of Goldengrove.
The cool air of late autumn brushed across his face.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp scent of the season.
Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier.