The cawing of ravens was something calming to Theomore, something he needed more and more these stressful days.
He stood in the middle of the grand rookery of the Citadel, breathing in the musky scent of feathers, droppings, and old parchment. All around him were cages stacked in endless rows, the black-feathered birds shifting, hopping, and flapping, their calls echoing through the stone halls. Acolytes bustled about—some training young birds to fly from perch to perch, others writing down feed records or practicing the binding of messages to claw and wing.
This was Theomore's domain. As Archmaester of Ravenry, he was one of fifteen Archmaesters who wore the highest chains of knowledge in the Citadel, each a master in his chosen discipline. Others held the lofty titles of Archmaester of History, Economics, Medicine, Warfare, and more. But Theomore had always considered Ravenry among the most vital of them all.
And how could he not? Was it not the ravens that bound the kingdoms together? Through their wings, kings and lords communicated across leagues of wilderness and sea. Sometimes a single flight of black feathers had been enough to stop a war before it began. They were not just birds, they were threads in the great loom of power that wove the Seven Kingdoms into one fabric.
Yet the birds served another purpose too, one far more subtle, and far more dangerous. They were a weapon, wielded not openly but in the shadows, by order of the Citadel. The ravens were one of the many tools by which the maesters exerted their influence over lords and kings. Never outright control Theomore would never call it that, for such a thing was impossible but influence, yes. Vast influence, carefully hidden, quietly applied.
The Citadel had always been careful never to overreach, never to abuse its hidden strength. Too much interference drew suspicion, and suspicion was poison to their work. Yet sometimes… sometimes bold action was required.
Theomore's lips pressed thin as he thought back. Princess Branda of Winterfell the child had been a greenseer. Maester Harris, Winterfell's maester, had recognized it and quickly sent word to the Citadel. It was a dangerous ability. Like skinchangers and other dark practitioners, such talents threatened to pull the realm backward into superstition, chaos, and the wild dominion of old magics. He and the five others who sat on the secret council—founded six thousand years ago by the greatest and smartest of the order to cleanse the world of magic—could not allow it. For generations they had labored to blunt those powers, choking them from the bloodlines of men and women from the North to the southern kingdoms.
And so Branda Stark had to die.
The official word was that she succumbed to winter fever, a common affliction in the North. Her family mourned. None questioned the maester who tried his best to save her—the very man who was also her executioner. With that, the world was made safer.
Theomore clasped his hands behind his back as he walked slowly through the rookery toward the exit, ravens shifting restlessly in their cages. He would have to write to Maester Harris soon—discreetly, of course. He needed a fresh report on the Starks, especially with recent changes in the world.
He walked out of the rookery. Recently, his thoughts and those of the five others who shared his burden had been consumed by troubling reports. Their mission seemed under greater threat than ever before.
His mind replayed the news again and again: the kingdoms of the Isles and Rivers had fallen, and in their place had risen a new realm, boldly renamed the Heartlands. A new king sat the throne, and with him had come a new faith that spread like wildfire, entwining the Old Gods, the Seven, and strange foreign divinities into a single creed.
But worse far worse was that this king was no ordinary man. He was a sorcerer.
The tales chilled Theomore's blood. This man, who styled himself "Dragonborn," could apparently use his voice to topple castles; he had, according to reports, reduced Harrenhal to rubble. Rumor held that he could command fire, earth, water, and ice with equal mastery. Reports from Maester Waldon of Riverrun spoke of impossible feats: stone giants building the sorcerer's new seat of power, marble and granite transported across impossible distances by magic, fields transformed from barren to bountiful overnight.
At first, Theomore and the others had dismissed such accounts as hysteria peasant gossip. But then came more and more. Dozens. Hundreds. Each corroborating the last. Too many to ignore.
The Secret Council had spent millennia quietly pruning away such threats, skinchangers in the North, secretive blood mages, even Valyria itself a hundred years ago. Each time, the Citadel had guided the hand of history, ensuring that reason and knowledge triumphed over sorcery and chaos.
But this… this was different.
This was not a hedge-witch in a snowbound hut, nor some greenseer child. This was a man crowned, a king anointed, a realm transformed in the span of six short moons. Already, Harald Stormcrown had become the center of a religion, and that made him the greatest threat they had ever faced.
Theomore's breath caught as a darker vision seized him: the sorcerer conquering Westeros, unleashing all manner of terrible magics, the world sliding back into the grip of horrors best forgotten. He shivered at the thought.
Not since Valyria had the Secret Council faced so dire a threat.
Unless they found a way to act.
=========
Night fell as Theomore made his way down into the lower levels of the Citadel. Torches flickered along ancient corridors, their smoke curling across stone older than most kingdoms in Westeros. These were the same halls where Peremore the Twisted had gathered wise men, teachers, priests, healers, singers, alchemists—even sorcerers—thousands of years ago: the small company that would one day grow into the Citadel, founders of their order, from a prince's playthings to the hidden masters of an entire continent.
He descended through narrow stairwells that few were permitted to tread until, at last, he reached one of the deepest vaults. There, hidden behind a weirwood door bound in starsteel, lay the secret chamber. A single stone table dominated the center, ringed by six carved chairs. Around them stood several artifacts the Council had collected through the millennia.
This had been the meeting place of the Secret Council for six thousand years ever since the Citadel first bound itself to the mission of cleansing the world of magic.
Theomore stepped inside and saw the others already assembled.
Quenton, Archmaester of Faith and Theologies. Moryn, Archmaester of Economics and Trade. Yarrick, Archmaester of Healing and Medicine. Eddard, Archmaester of Astronomy and Astrology.
But Tyrek, Archmaester of Law and Governance, was absent. His chair remained empty.
"Am I the last to come?" Theomore asked, his voice echoing faintly in the chamber.
"No," Yarrick replied with a weary sigh. "Tyrek is later than you."
Theomore's eyes narrowed. Tyrek was always punctual more so than any of them. His absence set a knot of unease in Theomore's stomach.
Quenton gave a sharp snort. "I care not whether Tyrek joins us or no. Have you not heard what has happened? Heresy festers in the Riverlands—"
"Heartlands," Eddard corrected mildly, without looking up.
"I do not care what that vile sorcerer dares to name it," Quenton snapped, his voice rising. "He has undone thousands of years of our work. They worship him like a god. Millennia of teaching peasants the dangers of magic vanished in an instant."
"Perhaps," Moryn interjected coolly, "this sorcerer has indeed addled their minds. A man with such power could twist thought itself to obedience. There may be compulsion at work."
Theomore raised a hand for silence. "Whatever the method, my brothers, this is the gravest threat we have faced in all our long years. Do not make the mistake of dismissing him. This Dragonborn is not to be taken lightly."
Quenton leaned forward, eyes flashing. "It was folly to place only one of our own within the Riverlands. Had we stationed more loyal eyes, we might have strangled this madness before it spread."
Theomore grimaced; he could not deny it. Quenton was right. The Council had always placed six of their own loyal only to the Council across every kingdom in Westeros, to watch and guide events by their design. But the Riverlands had been neglected, their attention consumed by the Ironborn. That oversight had birthed a disaster.
Theomore straightened his chain and fixed the others with a hard look. "Let us discuss how to combat this, my brothers."
Yarrick was first to answer. "Perhaps… assassination. A knife in the dark. Even the mightiest sorcerer bleeds."
Theomore shook his head firmly. "We cannot risk Waldon in Riverrun. Any plan that relies on him for such a deed may prove fatal. The sorcerer is powerful—too powerful. If we send one of ours and fail, it will not be only he who pays the price, but the whole of our order."
Quenton leaned forward, his sharp eyes glittering. "Then perhaps we should approach the House of Black—"
"No!" Theomore's voice cracked like a whip, startling even the calm Eddard. "We will not deal with them again. Once was enough." His lips pressed tight, his voice lowering. It had been nearly a century since they last used the Faceless Men's services. It was not the Council's way, but their predecessors had broken their rules and gone to them to finally purge the world of the greatest threat it had ever known—the Valyrians. That act was the Council's greatest achievement… and also its greatest sin.
Their discussion carried on plots and counterplots traded between them: poison, perhaps; using the Faith or the Storm King as proxies until, suddenly, a sound cut through the chamber.
A low hum, like a thousand bees trapped in glass.
All turned as the relics stored along the walls began to stir. The glass candles, long-dead remnants of Valyria, flared to life with green fire. The Horn of Winter rattled on its hooks, as if some unseen hand sought to claim it. Crystals from Asshai began to keen. Tomes bound in dragonhide fluttered their pages, though no wind stirred.
"What is this?" Yarrick cried, stumbling to his feet. "What is happening?"
Quenton's face went white with rage and terror. "The sorcerer! The damned sorcerer!"
Theomore felt his throat tighten as he and the others huddled together at the table. The green flames leapt higher and higher, and within them Theomore saw the shapes of weirwoods.
Then, one by one, the lights died. The crystals quieted. The artifacts slumped back into their lifeless state once more—all save the relics of the First Men: the carved weirwood masks, the stone idols of the Old Gods, the bronze sickles buried with ancient greenseers, the Horn of Winter itself. Those still pulsed faintly with unseen power, throbbing like the beat of a heart.
Theomore's palms were damp with sweat. He hated this hated not knowing. He was Archmaester of Ravenry, master of secrets, keeper of knowledge. But now, for the first time in his long life, he felt like a child fumbling in the dark.
They were startled again as the sound of the heavy weirwood doors opening echoed through the chamber. Theomore felt his pulse leap as the hinges groaned.
In strode Archmaester Tyrek, the youngest of their Secret Council, his face alight with a grin. He did not come alone; someone lingered in the shadows behind him, an armored man.
"Tyrek," Quenton snapped. "Where have you been?"
Tyrek bowed his head slightly, though his grin never faded. "Finding a solution to our problems, brothers. And I have found one."
Eddard frowned, his chain clinking as he leaned forward. "What are you on about?"
Tyrek spread his hands. "I have found someone who has had close contact with the sorcerer, one who can reveal to us his secrets. One who carries an artifact that belongs to him."
Theomore felt his heart soar. Could it be? Could Tyrek truly have brought them the key they needed? "How did you find this man? Can he be trusted? And what artifact do you speak of?"
Tyrek turned toward the shadows and spoke. "Come forward, my lord."
The figure stepped into the light. His armor bore the sigils of House Hoare, blackened and dented. In his hand he carried a great black-covered book, its surface strange and alien, unlike anything Theomore had ever seen.
"My brothers," Tyrek said with pride, "allow me to introduce Prince Harren Hoare."
Theomore's eyes went wide. Harren? The youngest son of Harren the Black alive?
The prince gave a stiff bow, his voice respectful. "Honored maesters."
Quenton's lips tightened. "This… is unexpected."
Tyrek nodded. "I, too, was astonished when I learned of his survival."
Harren lifted the book slightly. "I have seen what the sorcerer-king can do. He is a danger to the world greater than you yet imagine. And he has stolen from me: my brothers, my father, and many of my kinsmen." He held the book higher. "This contains knowledge of how to defeat him his power, his secrets laid bare for those wise enough to find it…wise men like you…"
Theomore's throat went dry, his eyes fixed on the black tome.
Yes, he thought. This is it. This is what we need.
The Order would not falter. Their quest would continue.
The sorcerer would fall, as all things magical had before.
.
.