They met after all

"You... Seven above, wh-what is this?"

The old man was already becoming incoherent.

Darean had known, of course, that Archmaester Marwyn would react this way.

But there was no helping it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Although the analogy was questionable from every angle, it got the point across.

Gritting his teeth, he carefully pulled out the roots that had pierced his skin.

Darean grimaced.

He handed Marwyn the Sprout Seed, still stained with a faint trace of crimson.

An inscrutable expression appeared on his face.

"Nothing more than the noble blood of House Hightower. Look at you, acting as though you've never seen anything."

But Marwyn, whose eyes had gone slightly red from staring, was not buying any of it.

He snorted and snapped:

"You're still trying to fool me, boy? Your House Hightower may have a long history, but how much outside blood has mixed into it over these thousands of years?"

"Even Targaryen descendants can lose the ability to command dragons after a few generations."

"And you're talking to me about bloodlines?"

"Let me tell you, apart from sharing a name, you have almost nothing in common with your ancestors!"

Having said all that in one breath, the old man exhaled, stared at the tender shoot that had already broken through its shell in his hand, and fell silent.

He suddenly realized something:

Whether Darean told him today or not, their wager had already been made before the Seven.

Ordinary people in Westeros rarely broke their oaths.

The gods' punishment might not descend from the heavens like thunder.

But oathbreakers would surely pay a terrible price for betraying their promises.

Even the finest summer red could suffocate a man if it went down his windpipe.

The fragility of an ordinary person's life could not withstand a single blow from the gods.

Almost everyone in Westeros believed this.

Yet there was no sour look on the old man's face.

He was the sort of man who could spend eight years roaming Essos in search of lost things and return in one piece.

In his pursuit of magic and the occult, he was willing to risk even his life.

Since Darean had shown him a little of a power he had never seen before,

what did it matter if he went to some little village?

Even a trip through hell would not be out of the question.

He was a very single-minded man.

"So, our wager is settled. A bet's a bet, old man."

Darean wiped the sweat that had seeped from his forehead.

He sat down opposite Marwyn.

The increase in magical power the Book of Strange Script had given him was simply too small.

Neither the rate at which his magic accumulated nor its maximum reserves allowed him to do more.

Marwyn, opposite him, took it in stride and nodded at once.

"Of course. The Seven bore witness. Naturally, I cannot break my oath."

His brown eyes fixed keenly on Darean, and he said solemnly, enunciating every word:

"But I need to know what that power you just showed me was."

The young nobleman smiled.

"You will. You'll find out."

The news that Marwyn, an archmaester of the Citadel's Conclave, was leaving the Citadel to conduct "research" in the countryside caused little stir.

For one thing, the old man was among the most reclusive people in the Citadel.

Moreover, his field of study was far too bizarre, and he had a foul mouth that could dismiss every other maester as a "grey sheep."

Almost no one liked him.

For Seneschal Theobald, who managed the Citadel, Marwyn's departure would save him a considerable sum in research funding.

It could be called a happy outcome for everyone.

At most, people heard about it and made a comment or two.

Then they put the matter out of their minds.

Apart from the customary entry made in the seneschal's office, soon no one remembered it anymore.

However, there were always restless eyes looking about in Oldtown.

Darean had thought his arrival had been discreet enough.

Yet two days later, when he arrived at Oldtown's south gate, dragging along Clyson, who looked as though he had not had nearly enough and kept looking back, with Archmaester Marwyn following behind, packed and hooded,

he still encountered the one person he least wanted to see.

House Hightower's white tower banners on grey fields fluttered above Oldtown's walls.

A large company of armored knights had already sealed off the south gate.

Pedestrians and merchant caravans had all been driven aside, with no regard for what anyone wanted to do or was already doing.

House Hightower was the undisputed master of this city.

And these knights were clustered around a young man clad in blue velvet.

Humfrey... why him?

Darean frowned.

Meeting the gaze that swept straight toward him, he knew he was the other man's target.

There was no point turning his horse around now.

Besides, from childhood onward, he had never lost a clash with this "older brother," who was two years his senior!

"Tsk, tsk, tsk... look who it is. Some country fellow reeking of mud. Why is he allowed to use our House Hightower crest?"

The loathsome, flippant voice drifted over on Oldtown's clammy sea breeze, enough to turn one's stomach.

"Still far better than that gaudy, preening getup of yours. Dressed so prettily-are you hoping some lord will give you a nice 'reward,' Humfrey Hightower?"

Darean showed him no courtesy at all, urging his horse two steps forward and firing straight back.

The fellow had a foul mouth and an effeminate manner, always thinking nobles ought to be elegant and delicate.

Who knew where he had picked up that strange manner of speaking, putting on a pinched voice all day long.

Yet as a noble son of House Hightower, he had no one who dared rein him in.

Back when they met Elia Martell, the princess of Dorne, his eldest brother Baelor Hightower had made a fool of himself at the feast.

But the one who had truly been more embarrassing was this fourth brother of his.

His eldest brother had lost a marriage match to an ill-timed stomach problem, while Humfrey had been privately described by Elia Martell as an idiot who was not right in the head.

Do not ask how Darean knew.

"Privately" did not necessarily mean something had to remain secret. Unkind words traveled very quickly.

His face darkening at once, Humfrey, who had no control over his expression whatsoever, was momentarily lost for words.

"You... you just... would you sully the honor of the House of the Tower with such words?"

Hearing such a foolish, childish remark, Darean could not even be bothered to respond.

Trading barbs with someone like this was a complete waste of time.

"Humfrey, just tell me what you're here for. If you've come to have a look, you've seen me now. I'm doing perfectly well."

He squeezed his horse's flanks again, making the warhorse advance another few steps.

Darean could already see Humfrey's meticulously trimmed little mustache.

His flagpole-like build was hardly intimidating.

Overawed by Darean, who was two years younger but a full size larger, Humfrey found the white horse beneath him backing away uneasily as well.

"Garth sent me to tell you that we're all Hightowers, bound by blood. Why didn't you report to the family when you returned to Oldtown?"

"He told me to bring you back so he could ask you properly about how you've been lately..."

The fellow delivered that last sentence through gritted teeth.