The will of the tower

House Hightower's "civil war" was like a rainstorm drifting in from the Sunset Sea.

It quickly spread throughout the city.

It was embellished and altered into countless versions.

House Hightower remained utterly silent on the matter. Apart from the furious Humfrey, no one stepped forward to stop the rumors from spreading.

Better to let them run their course than try to block them. Once the excitement passed, they would slowly dissipate like water on the ground.

Yet Lord Leyton Hightower, who had long been absent from the family's table of power, soon conveyed his will through a slip of paper.

"Humfrey Hightower has tarnished the family's reputation. Reduce the allocations under his management, and strip him of the wool textile industry, placing it under Baelor Hightower's management."

There was not a word of criticism, nor a word of reassurance.

The Old Man of Oldtown simply made his arrangements.

And these sons of his, who ordinarily swaggered about, could only obediently carry them out.

The family council chamber, Hightower.

The weather was poor that day. Brooding rain clouds unleashed an endless curtain of rain, completely enveloping Oldtown, the jewel of the entire South.

Full-figured serving women lit candles and silently set them on the long mahogany table that represented the family's power.

Once the last flame had been set in place, everyone immediately held their breath and withdrew, leaving everything there to the three men sitting quietly in their seats.

Baelor, Garth, and Guncer.

"Where is Humfrey?"

Though known as Baelor the Laughing, the family's heir wore little expression at that moment.

Pale light filtered in from beyond the stone corridor and fell on his face, though it scarcely showed.

His hand, bearing a jeweled thumb ring, tapped against the dim tabletop. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at Garth across from him and broke the silence.

"I've confined him to his room for now. Sent him one of the Rose Brothel's finest to keep him entertained."

The slender Garth Hightower spoke casually, as though doing as he pleased with a member of the family's direct line was no great matter to him.

"Humfrey should be at this table too. It is his right."

Guncer, concealed in the shadow of a pillar, spoke flatly.

All he received in return were contemptuous snorts from his two elder brothers.

He was always like this, forever claiming the moral high ground whenever he spoke. It was tiresome.

A slip of paper from Earl Leyton had effectively suspended Humfrey's right to participate in family affairs.

Stripped of the wool textile industry, which brought in vast sums of gold dragons each year, he was now worth very little.

Unwilling to waste time on Humfrey, Garth pinched the bridge of his nose and asked:

"Baelor, why did you call us here?"

Now that they had reached the matter at hand, Baelor Hightower wasted no words. He slid a sheet of paper in front of his younger brother.

"Father says Darean has done well, and we should give him some necessary assistance. The family needs stronger control over the Redwyne Straits."

Raising his eyebrows, Garth took the paper and glanced over it. After tossing it to Guncer, he fell silent.

He had never concerned himself with the precise location of Darean's fief before. It was merely a stretch of worthless land in the countryside.

Only now did he realize that things might not be so simple.

"This was... Father's intention?"

It was Guncer's voice.

They were both speaking of "Father's intention," but the two references did not concern the same thing.

Baelor Hightower shrugged, his lips curling into an inscrutable smile.

"Who knows? In any case, I wasn't the one who arranged it."

"And besides..."

He turned to Garth again, his voice losing its warmth.

"Isn't Brandon Cuy one of your men? Wasn't it your idea to choose that fief for Darean?"

Seeing Garth at a loss for words, Baelor lost interest. He waved a hand and brought the conversation back on course.

"All right. We need to discuss the assistance now."

With his palm pressed against the table, Baelor leaned forward in an imposing posture.

"My suggestion is to select a contingent of elite troops from Oldtown and send them over to serve directly under Darean's command. People, craftsmen, grain-we need to give him all of them."

The moment he finished, Garth objected.

"No. That's too much! Give him the family's elite troops, then people and grain as well? Are you trying to establish another branch of House Hightower north of the Redwyne Straits in a few years?"

"I object as well."

Guncer merely stated his opinion without giving a reason.

Baelor had been making an exorbitant demand to begin with, waiting for these two to bargain him down.

Shaking his head, he said:

"Think carefully before you speak. This is not my will."

Glancing at the slight changes in their expressions, he continued:

"Since you object, send Darean a letter and ask him what he wants."

"We must still maintain our family bonds."

"The fire that lights the way must warm the waters of the Redwyne Straits. Otherwise, everything we do is meaningless."

With a rumble, lightning flashed through the clouds.

It illuminated three faces bearing different expressions.

In silence, the ancient name turned its gaze southwest.

"We're here. This is Darean's knight's fief. My land!"

Heavy horseshoes tore up the turf as the party finally reached a place that truly belonged to them.

Spreading his arms and breathing in the fresh fragrance left by the clearing rain, Darean smiled at Maester Marwyn, who was looking all around.

The old scholar of the Conclave dismounted and stepped onto the damp ground.

Nearby, five riders came galloping toward them.

They flew the banner of House Hightower.

"They're here for you. Don't mind me. Just have all my things brought back and put away. Remember, handle them carefully."

The old man spoke.

"Give me three men to show me around this land of yours. Since I've become your maester, I ought to know the basic state of the fief."

Darean nodded and relayed Marwyn's wishes to Clyson.

He was not worried about him in the slightest. When it came to surviving in the wild, ten of him together would be no match for Marwyn.

When Darean actually entered his fief and saw the original temporary camp, the sight before him made him pause briefly.

An earthen wall two men high already enclosed more than half the camp.

Straw mats had been laid over it, presumably to cope with the heavy rain that had just ended.

"They've worked this fast?"

Darean asked one of the family cavalrymen accompanying him in surprise.

The young man spoke proudly:

"Of course, my lord. Old Ham-oh, that's the fief's head craftsman-said the outer wall should be more or less closed off in another week. After that, all that'll remain is rainproofing and reinforcement."

Darean was very pleased.

"Excellent. That will give everyone some protection."

Clearly, an entirely new place was like a blank sheet of paper on which one could draw at will. Construction was moving faster than he had imagined.

His new home was already beginning to take shape.