The dust outside the Gate of the Gods slowly settled, and the black specks on the Kingsroad finally vanished beyond the northern horizon.
The stone walls of the Red Keep regained their usual solemnity, though a lingering sadness of parting still hung in the air.
Some had laid down their burdens in this midsummer farewell, some remained in the shadows with guilt in their hearts, and some departed in dejection, their names stained by disgrace. Meanwhile, in Oldtown, a thousand miles away, a long-simmering fury erupted with the arrival of news from the Red Keep.
That was how it went: joy for some, sorrow for others.
A few days earlier, in Oldtown, in the Reach.
The salty sea breeze blew in from Whispering Bay, brushing past the Citadel's forest of ivory-white towers and House Hightower's sky-piercing Hightower.
The beacon atop the tower burned year-round, like Oldtown's undying heart. Yet in a study midway up the tower, the air was as cold as a winter in the North.
The former Hand of the King, Otto Hightower, stood before his desk, clutching a thin sheet of parchment.
His knuckles had turned bluish-white from the force of his grip. The parchment's edges were crushed into wrinkles, and even the ink had begun to smudge.
It was a secret letter that his most trusted informant in King's Landing had just sent by the fastest raven a few days earlier-at that point in time. It contained only a few short lines recording the rumors circulating through the Red Keep, but they seared his heart like a red-hot branding iron.
The next instant, he jerked his hand up and hurled the parchment onto the cold stone floor.
It spun through the air before drifting down among the scattered books and scrolls.
Then, with a tremendous bang,