Oldtown, the Citadel

As effectively the largest city in the Seven Kingdoms, Oldtown offered a far better living environment than that cesspit, King's Landing.

Long before the Andals landed in Westeros, the beginnings of Oldtown had already taken shape where the Honeywine emptied into Whispering Bay.

As a born-and-bred native of Oldtown, Dareon Hightower knew very well just how proud its people were.

The Hightower, one of the nine wonders recognized by Lomas "Longstrider," stood here.

The Citadel, which held the accumulated knowledge of all Westeros, was here.

The great sept named the Starry Sept, once a place blessed by the Seven, still stood here.

The richest and most prosperous city in the entire kingdom was here, too.

King's Landing?

What sort of dump was that?

Whenever Oldtown's high society spoke of it, they always sounded as though they were discussing some nouveau riche upstart.

But on this trip back, Darean had no intention of getting tangled up with those people.

He had not even sent word of the matter to the Hightower.

He would make off with a maester and leave. He did not want to stay a moment longer.

As for whether he could accomplish that smoothly, his captain of the guard had asked him no fewer than eighty times on the journey from his domain back to Oldtown.

Dressed in the ordinary clothes of a minor nobleman, Darean rode through Oldtown's southern gate with Clyson.

He had left the rest of his guards in his domain.

Too many people would only draw attention and invite unnecessary trouble.

Besides, his domain could not afford to be left without defenders now.

"Oh, Seven above, isn't that Septon Derrian? Is he preaching to the sailors near the docks again?"

Clyson recognized the old man standing on a raised platform at a glance amid the crowd gathered ahead.

In the narrative of the Faith of the Seven throughout Westeros, Oldtown roughly occupied the position of an "old capital."

The religious atmosphere here was quite strong.

Following Clyson's pointing finger, Darean found Septon Derrian in his white robes amid the crowd.

His gaze suddenly sharpened.

He had seen something utterly unexpected.

Through Darean's eyes, all of Oldtown was shrouded in a faint magical mist, compared with his own domain and the places he had passed through on his journey.

The difference was quite obvious.

Darean had seen no magical fluctuations in Oldtown's residents, whether they were devout followers of the Seven or not.

Yet he saw a faint response from this Septon Derrian, whom he barely knew.

Although that trace of magic was even thinner than his own, and he was a mere dabbler who had only gained magic a little over a week ago, its presence was its presence, and its absence was its absence.

His hand unconsciously rubbed his chin, where a soft stubble had begun to grow.

"Could it be... the Seven really do exist?"

Muttering to himself, Darean knitted his brows in thought.

All along, he had believed that the so-called Seven, who had never shown any miracles, were merely a tool used by a great bunch of fat, greedy men to fool the common people and help kings rule their kingdoms.

Now, however, his own eyes clearly told Darean that things did not seem to be as he had imagined.

"Interesting. The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, or the Stranger-which one are you? Or are you all of them?"

Darean shook his head. He had no time now to delve into what lay hidden behind this.

Perhaps once he had developed his domain, the priests of the Seven would appear on his lands.

"My lord, what are you looking at?"

Clyson's voice interrupted Darean's thoughts.

He had stared at Septon Derrian for a long time, completely forgetting that he had halted his horse in the middle of a busy street.

Many pedestrians and carriages were blocked behind him.

Had they not seen the family sigil of a white tower on gray engraved on the shield fastened to Clyson's saddle, they would have started cursing long ago.

A guard of House Hightower was escorting a young nobleman dressed in fine clothes.

Whoever this man was, the common people were unwilling to make an enemy of him lightly.

Noble blood, power by birthright.

These rules had been enforced on this land for thousands of years and had long since seeped into everyone's flesh and bones.

No one thought there was anything wrong with them.

"Oh, nothing. Let's go."

Coming to his senses, Darean glanced back and gave a slight nod by way of apology, then headed with Clyson toward the Citadel on the eastern side of the city.

Oldtown's walls had swallowed almost the entire Citadel within them.

House Hightower rarely involved itself in the affairs of the Seven Kingdoms, leading the world to believe that its military strength had declined and that it sought only to live in wealth in its corner of the Honeywine.

But as a son of the house, before he had lost all his power, Darean had been able to glimpse, in certain respects, the strength held by this ancient, thousand-year-old family.

From the day the Citadel was founded, the house's armed forces had never allowed any outside invader to set so much as a foot inside.

Members of House Hightower were always honored guests at the Citadel.

The current Earl Hightower, Darean's father, was even obsessed with magical research and would often emerge from the top of the Hightower to visit the Citadel and discuss it with archmaesters in the relevant fields.

"Clyson, have you ever been inside the Citadel?"

The two rode along the Honeywine, winding this way and that, until they finally saw the two green sphinx statues crouching before the Citadel's gates.

The sight of these monsters, one male and one female, with lions' bodies, eagles' wings, and serpents' tails, meant they had finally arrived before the halls of knowledge.

"No... my lord, I can read, and both my parents are alive."

Clyson honestly gave an answer that seemed entirely beside the point.

In truth, however, to ordinary people living in Oldtown, the Citadel had never meant books bound in chains, gathering dust among rows of shelves.

Still less did it mean a life of study so consuming that one forgot to eat or sleep, all to forge one's own maester's chain.

In fact, when they walked through these gates, it was generally to find the cash-strapped, financially struggling acolytes at the Scribe's Desk near the entrance and hire them to read letters from friends and relatives.

Or they had a headache or fever and wanted an inexpensive remedy.

Or, feeling that they would soon return to the embrace of the gods, they would have these men whom no one dared provoke draw up the most rigorous of wills, to prevent others from seizing the property they left behind.

In short, a place of dazzling glory was inevitably supported by countless silent people hidden in the shadows.

"Then that works out nicely. Today I'll take you inside to see the world beyond the Scribe's Desk."

The two arrived at the gates, where an observant stableboy had already spotted them and immediately came forward, his face wreathed in smiles.

Darean swung down from his horse, handed the fellow the reins and two copper stars, and offered little further response.

People who did such work always tailored their treatment to the person, presenting what they considered their finest smiles to the noblest guests.

So there was no need to do more than take it in.

They climbed the stone steps as the slanting sunlight stretched the sphinxes' shadows long across the ground.

It had already been afternoon when they reached Oldtown.

When they reached the Scribe's Desk, Darean bypassed the bustling area where acolytes and commoners crowded together.

He climbed the raised platform step by step and handed the steward of the Scribe's Desk a small arrowhead from his pocket, along with the white tower badge representing House Hightower.

"Sorry for the trouble, but please give these two things to Archmaester Marwyn and tell him that Darean of House Hightower has come to visit him."