In recent days, the bleak and desolate Citadel seemed to have found a stroke of fortune.
The Lord of the Reach, Mace Tyrell of Highgarden, had finally agreed to the maesters' request and sent a cavalry squadron of three hundred men.
They were to replace the armored maester guards in defending the Citadel and to protect the maesters whose names were on the Holy Light Protector's "List of Sinners" from harassment by so-called "knights of honor."
Then, the acting Regent of the Iron Throne, Queen Dowager Cersei, officially declared that the Dragon Queen's judgment against the Citadel was invalid.
In other words, the Citadel would not be dissolved. It was permitted to reopen and resume its role as an official institution of the Seven Kingdoms.
Good fortune came in threes: even Dr. Walgrave, who had been in a daze for nearly a year, recovered his sanity, adding another capable scholar back to their ranks.
That day, a warm breeze blew outside, birds sang among the blossoms, and laughter filled the chamber of the Grand Maester.
The maesters' gloom had lifted, and their moods shone as brightly as the sunlight in the courtyard.
"At last, the Iron Throne has made its official declaration. The Citadel is still the Citadel, and we are still maesters. Our dignity and honor have been restored," sighed Archmaester Theobald.
"And the Tyrells have shown their stance as well. Three hundred cavalrymen—enough to defend the Red Keep. We no longer need to live in fear or sleepless nights!" said Maester Lyon, the scholar of economics.
"Even Dr. Walgrave has recovered. Three blessings in one day—cause for celebration!" added Benedict, the maester of history, as he turned toward the elderly scholar sitting to the left of the Archmaester.
"Dr. Walgrave, how are you feeling?"
"Do you remember what has happened these past days?"
Prompted by Benedict, the others began expressing their concern for the gray-haired old man.
A faint glimmer of violet flickered in Walgrave's clouded eyes. "I'm all right," he said slowly. "But I'm afraid you all won't remain so optimistic for long."
"What do you mean, Dr. Walgrave?" Lyon asked.
Walgrave said nothing. He merely tapped two sheets of parchment lying on the table.
The others fell silent with a sigh.
The two letters came respectively from Highgarden and the Iron Throne—from the Queen of Thorns and from Cersei.
Cersei demanded that the Citadel publicly support her return to the Red Keep and her reinstatement as Queen Regent.
The Queen of Thorns urged the Citadel to launch a propaganda campaign to rally the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms to drive Cersei Greyjoy out of King's Landing.
Once a queen dowager married into the Iron Islands, she was no longer a queen dowager, and certainly had no right to rule as regent.
The reasoning was simple: though there was no Baratheon left in King's Landing, the legal authority of the Seven Kingdoms still belonged to House Baratheon.
Even the Targaryens had merely been remnants of a previous dynasty.
Everyone knew Tommen was a Lannister by blood, but the only reason he could sit the throne was because he bore the name Baratheon.
So on what grounds should the Lady of House Greyjoy be allowed to act as regent of a Baratheon throne?
As the saying went, no matter how tarnished the Citadel's reputation might be, it still controlled every raven in the Seven Kingdoms.
To command the ravens was to command half the kingdom's public opinion.
Not to mention, every noble lord had a maester by his side.
A maester's views could easily sway his liege's decisions.
Thus, in this crucial battle for influence and propaganda, both the Iron Throne and Highgarden sought to curry favor with the Citadel.
Only a short while ago, the Citadel had been utterly disgraced. With the Queen of Thorns' shrewdness and old Kevan's cunning, how could either of them have risked their family's honor to defend the maesters?
Truth be told, even they had been appalled by the Citadel's supposed crimes.
But now that the Iron Throne and Highgarden had each offered their goodwill, the Citadel was expected to respond in kind.
They had to take a side.
Highgarden—or Cersei?
"The Citadel's roots lie in Oldtown. Oldtown belongs to the Reach. And the Reach is ruled by Highgarden," said Maester Lyon slowly.
"The Lannisters hold King's Landing."
"But King's Landing depends on the Reach for its grain."
"Cersei is mad. The Queen of Thorns is rational. And no one can predict what happens when you offend a madwoman."
"If Highgarden withdraws the cavalry protecting us, I can tell you your fate immediately: you'll be captured by bounty hunters calling themselves 'knights of honor,' then paraded through the streets under the monks' command."
One by one, the maesters began arguing heatedly over which side to choose.
"Dr. Walgrave, what is your opinion?" asked the Archmaester.
Obeying the whisper that rose from the depths of his soul's core, Walgrave answered blankly, "The Citadel is weak. We can't afford to offend anyone. It's better to minimize our presence—avoid taking any side."
"That would be ideal, but how do we manage that?" another maester asked.
"If Maester Lyon and the Archmaester quarrel and come to me for judgment," Walgrave said, "but when they reach my tower, they find me overwhelmed with some other dire matter—what will they do then?"
No one in the room was a fool. They quickly fell into thoughtful silence, faintly understanding his implication.
After a long pause, Lyon asked quietly, "Then… should we continue condemning Braavos for violating guest rights?"
"We never stopped denouncing the Braavosi for their shamelessness," another maester reminded him.
Lyon waved his hand sharply. "Then we'll intensify it. The Iron Throne and Highgarden both know that's what we've been doing lately. If we use that as an excuse to avoid choosing sides, they'll find it acceptable."
"There are already at least fifty different stories spreading through the docks and taverns about Braavos breaking oaths. What more can we do? The propaganda front is saturated!" said the Archmaester helplessly.
"Unless we find something new to ignite it."
"And what would that be?"
The maesters looked at one another in silence.
They had already fabricated hundreds of tales about Braavosi oath-breaking and the cruelty of the Faceless Men. By now, anything they could invent would be repetitive. What good would it do?
Walgrave let out a long sigh that echoed through the quiet council chamber.
"At this point," he said gravely, "I might as well stop hiding it."
"What do you mean?" asked the bewildered Archmaester, turning to him.
The old man leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I'll be honest with you. Besides the regular Maesters, there's also a special group—and I'm the leader of that group.
"Conveniently, our special group knows quite a few secrets about the Faceless Men.
"You want something explosive? I'll give you something explosive—how about a list of assassination targets from the Faceless Men?
"Names, dates, places—all of it. It'll shake the whole world. Even the Iron Throne and Highgarden will be left dumbfounded."
Whether Cersei and the Queen of Thorns would actually be dumbfounded was uncertain, but the Maesters present certainly were.
"Archmaester… are you all right?"
The Grand Maester cautiously pointed to his own temple, careful not to agitate the poor old man.
By the Mother's mercy, the old man had just recovered from dementia—now he was acting insane again?
"You think I'm insane?" Dr. Walgrave's eyes were filled with contempt.
Aren't you?
That was the thought running through the minds of all the Maesters.
"Hmph. At this point, I might as well tell you. The War of the Usurper wasn't an accident—it was the result of our Maesters' careful planning.
"Rickard Stark's Maester, Vyris, was one of ours.
"Rickard was ambitious, and Vyris fueled that ambition, eventually forging the alliance between the Starks, Tullys, Arryns, and Baratheons."
Dr. Walgrave spoke fluently and passionately, describing in detail how the four great houses had united to start the war.
The conference room fell silent, like a morgue. The Maesters sat pale-faced, eyes wide, jaws nearly hitting the table.
Their eyes were filled with suspicion, their expressions with pure horror.
"Archmaester, are you sure? This is serious. You can't joke about something like that."
After a long silence, the Grand Maester finally lifted his jaw from the table and stammered.
"Do I look like someone who's joking?" Walgrave shot back.
I wish you were joking.
No—I wish you'd stayed senile forever, taking the damned secrets of that 'special group' to your grave. Even if it meant never learning the secrets of the Faceless Men, it would be worth it.
The Grand Maester's face turned ashen as he clenched his teeth in bitter resentment.
The other Maesters exchanged uneasy glances.
It had been a long journey—from the sanctuary beyond the Wall, to the Wall itself to revive Jon, to meetings with the Two Bucks and Lord Eel, and finally to restoring the soul of the senile Maester and leaving behind a single thought. Long story short, it had only taken three days.
By the evening of the fourth day, Dany was back in Astapor.
"Dany, did Brynden do you any harm?"
As soon as she jumped off her dragon, the old Aemon, dark circles under his eyes, hurried over in worry.
"He did, but it was worth it."
Old Aemon breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, "And Jon?"
Dany sighed. "Jon Snow is gone."
"What!" Aemon and Tyrion exclaimed at the same time, their faces changing color.
"R'hllor couldn't bring him back? The Red Woman broke her promise?" Tyrion asked, trembling.
"I didn't know you and Jon Snow were so close," Dany said, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't know why, but the first time I saw him… maybe it's because I'm a dwarf and he's a bastard. In a father's eyes, a dwarf and a bastard are much the same," Tyrion said with a sigh.
Aemon glanced at the dwarf, wanting to say: that's the bond of blood. When I look at you and Jon, I feel the same sense of kinship.
But Jon had—
"Jon isn't dead. The one who died was Lord Commander Jon Snow. When he came back, he became King in the North—Jon Stark," Dany said with a smile.
"Oh," Aemon and Tyrion rolled their eyes in unison. "You could've finished your sentence. Nearly scared us to death."
"Do you know why Jon died?" Dany asked meaningfully, turning to Aemon. "For the honor and vengeance of House Stark, he broke his Night's Watch vows and, as Lord Commander, led the Watch and the wildlings south to take revenge on the Boltons."
"Blacksmith Donal told me Jon was a true Stark, with the Stark family's inherited 'blood of the running wolf.'"
"Impulsive indeed—just like his uncle Brynden and his aunt Lyanna. Definitely the blood of the running wolf," Tyrion nodded in agreement.
Aemon frowned, glancing at Dany and then at Tyrion, and sighed inwardly.
Jon had risked everything for the Starks, breaking his oath; Tyrion, only days earlier, had risked angering the Dragon Queen herself by flying a wyvern to King's Landing to meet Kevan and secure a future for the Lannisters.
He might look like a Targaryen, but he had the appearance and spirit of a Stark. And though he was a Targaryen, he resembled Tywin far more than Cersei or Jaime—caring deeply for the future of House Lannister.
Should I tell them the truth?
If only the love they held for the Targaryens were even half as strong as that for their mother's families, Dany's conquest would be unstoppable, and House Targaryen would rise again.
"Aunt, what kind of tree is this? Where did it come from?"
Aemon turned his head to see Aegon curiously examining the bundle of red-leaved saplings in Mormont's arms.
A sour feeling rose in the old man's chest.
Whether the boy was truly a Targaryen or not, he bore the name—but his love for House Targaryen was not even half as deep as his lust for the Iron Throne.
The contrast was too displeasing.
"They're all weirwoods. Dany, are you planning to plant them?" Aemon asked.
"The thick one's for magical materials—I plan to use it for a sword sheath. The smaller ones I'll plant in the pyramid garden, see if they can take root."
The greenseers' influence only extended across Westeros, but if the weirwoods could truly be transplanted, perhaps Dany could become the 'Tree Whisperer' of Essos.
"Your Grace, our men have been waiting for days. Should we still go ahead with the 'cargo ship plan'? And what about New Ghis—do we still attack?" the Crab came forward, frowning.
(End of chapter)
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