The guidance of blood

The chaotic night finally passed.

Before the grave of the sole guard who had died, Darean ordered the prisoners' throats slit.

He had no desire to hear the feeble pleas for mercy of these butchers, who had who knew how many blood debts on their hands.

It would have been nothing but a waste of time.

Since they had chosen this path, they should have been prepared to face true judgment at any moment.

Darean would never allow such destabilizing elements in his new domain.

Even if these men were, in fact, prime able-bodied laborers.

The enemies' blood would console the dead and lay restless souls to rest.

Unfortunately, Darean had no maester accompanying him at present. Otherwise, this should have been the maester's work.

Once the crowd dispersed, Clyson brought a bowl of freshly made hot soup to Darean and asked quietly:

"My lord, if what those men confessed before they died was true, someone really is offering gold dragons for your life."

"This has nothing to do with honor, my lord. With so few men, we cannot protect you at every moment. I suggest you..."

Before he could finish, Darean cut him off with a wave.

Looking at this captain of the guard, so skilled in combat yet so inept at politics, with something almost like a smile, Darean said coldly:

"Suggest I return to the Hightower to seek support?"

Fortunately, Clyson was not hopelessly stupid. He knew his lord must have a deeper meaning in saying this.

After a moment of frowning thought, his face stiffened. His chapped lips parted slightly, and undisguised disbelief filled his words:

"My lord, you mean... this was the Hightower..."

Raising a hand to stop Clyson from continuing, Darean shook his head.

"It is too early to draw conclusions, but I do not believe Brandon Cuy has the nerve."

With his hands clasped behind his back, the young noble looked toward the northwestern sky.

That was the direction of the Hightower.

"One of my dear elder brothers does not want me returning to join their game of fighting over power."

"It does not matter. I have no desire to feed on scraps tossed out of pity, either."

The information wrung from the prisoners was not always comforting.

Still, having dealt a heavy blow to the claw reaching for him this time, this new domain should gain some time to develop.

Killing those men was meant to tell his subjects, and to warn the eyes watching him:

The people here were not to be trifled with. They had better weigh things carefully before coming again.

An unremarkable gray raven flapped its scrawny wings and landed atop the tallest building in the city center, just before the storm battered Oldtown's walls.

Its cloudy eyes reflected the largest city in all Westeros apart from the capital, King's Landing.

Its yellow beak preened its wind-ruffled feathers, entirely oblivious to what was approaching through the darkness behind it.

Suddenly!

A gaunt hand reached out of the shadows and seized the poor creature in its grasp.

Ignoring the harsh, hoarse squawking, pale fingers grasped the copper tube tied to the raven's leg.

It was gently opened, and a letter was tipped out.

"Tsk... what dreadful weather."

Having read the letter, the hand's owner murmured while gazing at the clouds drawing ever closer above the Hightower.

Someone failed to deliver my greetings to Dareon Hightower.

How troublesome. Baelor Hightower is keeping a close eye on me. There may not be a suitable opportunity for a while.

Very well. Let that little fellow live a while longer.

Book of Strange Script

[Prologue-The Green Lands]

Section two: The guidance of blood

When the ancient bloodline finally returned to its promised land, the great undertaking at last began.

Yet the journey of pioneering will never be smooth. Defeat the beasts that dare bare their fangs at your people!

[Let the glory of your ancestors guide you, and prove your valor with blood. Reward: Magic Tide revival advanced by 2 hours, frost intensity reduced by 0.000025%, mana concentration slightly increased!]

Once again, the script was one he could confirm by sight he had never seen before, as though molten gold had flowed across it.

When Darean killed the first invader with his own hands, these words had begun slowly growing out of the once-blank pages.

It was just that Darean had had no chance to examine them at the time.

And after this second section, an emerald-green hand had already finished inscribing itself.

Now experienced, Darean immediately pressed his fingers against it.

The familiar stinging sensation flooded his mind along with a stream of information.

"Garth Greenhand's Gift..."

"Well, that is quite an illustrious name."

His eyebrows rose. The name this time surprised him somewhat.

Then Darean carefully explored the capabilities of this new spell.

[In the name of the ancient king of the First Men, the user concentrates mana in their palm. Any plant they touch will grow faster, with the rate of acceleration determined by the user's mana output.]

Garth Greenhand was a man almost all the nobles of the Reach claimed as their common ancestor.

In legend, he was a High King who led the First Men across the Arm of Dorne.

In the ancient legends of Westeros, his standing was little different from that of a god.

Garth himself taught people how to farm, bestowed seeds, and taught them to tend crops and harvest them.

Wherever Greenhand went, farms, villages, and orchards flourished.

He always carried a cloth sack full of seeds, handing them out wherever he went.

The Citadel's oldest texts described the sack as containing an endless supply of seeds for all the world's trees, grains, fruits, and flowers.

And Garth's named descendants were more remarkable still.

There were Garth Gardener, the founder of House Gardener; Gilbert of the Vines of House Redwyne; Owen Oakenshield of the Shield Islands; and others.

This was also why the nobles of the Reach looked down on the present House Tyrell.

How could a steward usurp his master's place?

In terms of noble blood, the present Roses of Highgarden were not even worthy of carrying those lords' shoes.

Of course, this was an outcome Aegon Targaryen the Conqueror had deliberately brought about.

Every king who sat upon the Iron Throne regarded this southern behemoth with apprehension and vigilance.

After all, it had the largest population in the Seven Kingdoms, the greatest grain production, and the largest total armed force.

Had the gods not refused to grant the people of the Reach a true hero, thorned roses might long since have bloomed across every brick and tile of King's Landing.

Returning to the matter at hand, the spell [Garth Greenhand's Gift] was quite useful.

At least in these early days, when everything needed to be built anew.

Full granaries would serve as stabilizing ballast anywhere.

Of course, that depended on whether he had the mana reserves to sustain its use.

"Speaking of which... Clyson, how many more days will our food last?"

Darean asked.