Darean's fief lay on a headland west of Sunflower Hall and south of Three Towers.
To the west lay the Redwyne Straits, facing the Arbor far across the water, while to the south stretched the boundless Summer Sea.
Although there were no major rivers within its borders, the streams marked on the map and the abundant rainfall meant it was fundamentally no different from the rest of the Reach.
Fertile and prosperous.
Darean was full of anticipation for his new home.
Yet when his warhorse carried him over the low hills, all those wonderful hopes vanished like fleeting bubbles amid the rising smoke.
According to the map, the place before him should have been the only village in the entire fief.
Yet it no longer existed!
All that remained was a stretch of ruins none of them had expected.
The embers had yet to die out. Clearly, it had all happened only recently.
Darean sucked in a cold breath and exchanged a glance with Clyson, who had caught up with him. They immediately reached a conclusion:
"It wasn't our people. However much of a bastard Brandon Cuy is, he wouldn't attack the Reach's commoners. He couldn't bear the consequences if Hightower held him accountable!"
"Pirates from the Summer Sea. Those damned Dornish!"
In the language of Reachmen, the Dornish were a catchall for anything bad.
This time, however, Darean clearly had not accused them unjustly.
From his elevated position, he could faintly make out sails dwindling on the distant sea.
As for what emblems were on the longships' sails, that hardly mattered.
With the Ironborn of the Iron Islands not coming to cause trouble, only the Dornish, with their small, fast ships, could have done this right under the Redwyne Fleet's nose.
Darean drew the hand-and-a-half sword at his waist.
The gesture immediately spurred the small company of knights beside him into action.
A chorus of blades leaving their scabbards rang out. They were not equipped with heavy lances for charging, but a dozen or so gleaming blades were imposing enough.
Then Darean gave a cold order:
"Clyson, there are eighteen of us. Take ten men and follow the road into the village immediately. Don't concern yourselves with whether anyone is still alive yet. Secure your own safety first."
"I'll protect the people here and wait for your report."
Who knew whether the uninvited guests had left? For heavily armored cavalrymen to dismount rashly would be gambling with their lives.
An iron gauntlet struck a breastplate bearing a white tower, producing a dull clang.
Clayson Hightower nodded silently, then lowered his visor.
His lord was right. This was no time to show mercy. If they could not even ensure their own safety, they would be failing the others who had followed them here.
That would be foolish.
Heavy horseshoes tore through the grass. Though there were only ten men, they still made an imposing sight on the broad plain.
Watching them ride away, Darean immediately led the remaining seven cavalrymen to gather the somewhat panicked people together under their protection.
Truthfully, this was not because he felt such a strong sense of responsibility as their lord.
At this critical moment, if the people scattered, the seven men would have no hope of keeping track of them.
Clearly, neither Sunflower Hall nor Hightower would readily offer Darean any further assistance in the days ahead.
Thus, every one of the hundred-odd able-bodied young adults who had followed him was an invaluable asset.
Pairs of frightened, bewildered eyes fixed on Darean's face.
He knew what he had to do.
A young, powerful voice rang out:
"I! Dareon Hightower of Hightower, your lord!"
His black warhorse snorted heavily as it carried Darean around the outside of the crowd.
He continued loudly:
"In the name of the Seven, I swear upon my family name that I will keep you safe."
"With my sword, I will defeat anyone who dares threaten us and defend the honor of Hightower!"
Everyone's eyes gathered on the sharp steel sword the young nobleman held aloft.
Though such words might have sounded like a joke elsewhere, the lowest-born Reachmen clearly responded to them.
The crowd's agitation visibly subsided.
Breathing a slight sigh of relief, Darean turned his gaze back to the little village less than two kilometers away.
Suddenly, he felt warmth beneath the lining over his chest.
Darean froze briefly, then immediately realized it was the book he carried against his body!
Pulling it out with some difficulty, Darean guided his horse a little way from the crowd and quickly turned past the cover and title page.
Sure enough, right before Darean's eyes, lines of strange, twisted writing grew little by little from the ocher-yellow pages:
[Prologue-Green Lands.] Section one: An ancient claim As the heir to a noble bloodline, your name naturally holds an indisputable right to this land. Thus, you will establish your own realm upon this still-fertile soil! [Obtain your own fief. Reward: magic tide revival accelerated by 1.2 hours, white frost intensity reduced by 0.00002%, mana concentration increased slightly!]
Huh?
Darean stared fixedly at those few short lines.
The antlike scrawls seemed to possess some kind of magic that prevented anyone but him from perceiving their existence.
He recalled the so-called "tasks" mentioned in the writing on the title page, which might have been a language.
Darean understood.
Perhaps this was what the book wanted him to do right now.
Darean understood what the concept of the magic tide's revival meant, but...
What was this "frost of the end" about?
Wasn't the cold wind from Beyond the Wall supposed to be unable to reach the warm south?
Unable to make sense of that question, Darean found his attention drawn to a searing symbol growing beneath the passage.
"What is this?"
Darean frowned.
A few breaths later, Darean finally made out what the symbol depicted.
It was an arrow!
But... what did that mean?
He reached toward the arrow symbol. The instant his fingertip touched it, an intense burning pain made Darean instinctively pull his hand back.
At that same moment, however, information appeared in his mind:
"Force of Sharpness?"
"Mana can be applied to a weapon to enhance its armor-piercing and penetrating capabilities. The effect increases with the amount of mana the user expends."
Drawing in a slight, sharp breath, Darean read the information in disbelief.
Magic certainly existed in Westeros. House Royce of Runestone possessed an enchanted suit of armor passed down through the family.
This was hardly the first instance.
Before he could feel pleased, Darean immediately realized a problem:
He had no mana!
In the world of ice and fire, at least at this point in time, there was certainly no such thing as mages roaming everywhere.
Only a scant few people had truly demonstrated supernatural powers, and their powers all had clear affiliations.
Whether they were apostles of R'hllor or the last Greenseer.
Then what did that make him?
Before you continue