The man was so unkempt he drew every eye. His neck was thick as a bull's, his jaw heavy as a whetstone. A round, swollen belly jutted forward, absurdly paired with a chest and shoulders that were broad and solid. Coarse white hairs, like stubborn weeds, sprouted defiantly from his large ears and wide nostrils.
But it was his face that lingered in memory. His forehead jutted out unnaturally high, his nose broken more than once and now crooked, caved in at the bridge. When he grinned, his twisted smile revealed teeth stained a dark red, as though steeped in blood by some sour herbal juice.
The old man ambled over to Lo Quen, listening with interest to the red priestesses's hoarse, frenzied cries from atop the platform. After a while, his small, sly eyes shifted slowly toward Lo Quen, his throat rasping as he spoke.
"Eastern boy, I'd wager you come from Yi Ti."
Lo Quen gave a slight nod, keeping his manners.
"Yes, sir."
"Ah-ha!" The old man let out a sharp, cryptic sound, shaking his shaggy head with a knowing air. "Then you shouldn't linger long in this cursed place. Trust me, I wandered the East for years—far more comfortable than here."
He dragged out the word "comfortable," his tone hinting at much left unsaid.
Lo Quen didn't press him, but turned his gaze back to the red priestess waving her arms on the platform.
"Do you know what she's saying?"
The old man's face darkened at once, like the sea before a storm.
"If I were you," he muttered low, his tone edged with warning, "I'd keep my mouth shut and pretend I heard nothing. Sail from the Jade Sea toward the Summer Sea, and you'll see plenty of their kind in the port cities.
They call themselves the Church of Starry Wisdom, also the Cult of Starry Wisdom. When I lived in Asshai, I often saw their priests atop towers, staring at the stars to divine omens. On nights full of stars, they'd sometimes chant together, strange songs and prayers that kept me awake."
He spat with open disgust.
"Best keep your distance, boy—especially since you're Yi Ti."
"What's wrong with being from Yi Ti?" Lo Quen's brows knit tightly.
The old man stared, startled, his small eyes flying wide as he looked Lo Quen up and down.
"What? You don't know? Their first priest was the 'Bloodstone Emperor'—the one who brought the Long Night, dripping blood from every pore. He founded this cult and spread ruin everywhere. Back when I was in Yin, even three-year-olds on the street could hum a bit of that tale!"
His voice was thick with disbelief.
Lo Quen's heart gave a jolt, but his face stayed calm as he lied smoothly.
"I traveled the West with merchant caravans since childhood. I never had the chance to return to Yi Ti."
Inwardly, he frowned. The body's original owner had only been a village smith's apprentice, spending his days at the anvil and forge. His parents had died young, leaving no one to teach him such things. As for the plot details he recalled from his past life, he could hardly remember them all.
The old man narrowed his eyes, studying him. The youth's silk robes were spotless, sharply pressed. Staring at that Eastern face, Marwyn felt a flicker of memory stir from his own years spent in the Further East.
He asked roughly, "So then, boy of Yi Ti—are you bound for that distant, unfamiliar home, or will you stay in this glittering world?"
Home? The word struck a raw nerve. Lo Quen's mind held only the ruins of a village drowned beneath Dothraki war cries.
He watched the sharp-tongued old man warily, choosing not to answer. His eyes instead slid to the necklace dangling from the man's greasy neck—a chain of interlinked metal rings that caught the sunlight and shone with the glint of knowledge.
Lo Quen's gaze froze for a moment. Realization dawned instantly, and he smoothly switched to fluent Common:
"Master, forgive my boldness. The design of the necklace around your neck—could it be a maester's chain from the Citadel of Westeros? Are you from the Seven Kingdoms?"
The old man blinked, then burst into a loud, foul-smelling laugh, laced with wine and bitter herbs. "Hahaha! Sharp eyes. I haven't even introduced myself yet—name's Marwyn. I'm a Archmaester from the Citadel."
Marwyn!
Lo Quen's heart jolted, though he kept his face calm.
That name carried serious weight in the fragments of memory from the original story.
This man wasn't an ordinary maester.
Marwyn was a key figure in the original work. Unlike most of the Citadel's maesters, he didn't reject magic. On the contrary—he was obsessed with it, deeply devoted to studying the arcane and the unknown.
Lo Quen clearly remembered the details about him.
Qyburn had once told Jaime that among all the Citadel's archmaesters, only Marwyn entertained the idea of ghosts. He also called the rest of the maesters "gray-robed sheep." After an eight-year journey through the Further East, Marwyn returned to Oldtown, where Archmaester Vaellyn—nicknamed "Vinegar"—mockingly dubbed him "Marwyn the Mage." Marwyn himself suspected the Citadel had played a shady role in the extinction of House Targaryen's dragons.
All signs pointed to a deep divide—perhaps even a schism—between him and the rest of the Citadel.
Lo Quen couldn't help but think: if he could secure such an experienced scholar as an advisor while establishing himself in the Stepstones, it would be a tremendous advantage.
But the Citadel only assigned maesters to legitimate lords of the Seven Kingdoms. There was no way they'd send one to assist a foreigner who posed a potential threat to Westeros.
Aside from Qyburn, the only maester Lo Quen could possibly approach was this very man—Archmaester Marwyn, who only maintained the thinnest of ties with the Citadel.
And besides, an archmaester was far more capable than an ordinary maester.
Only those who had mastered a subject to an exceptional degree were granted the title of archmaester.
Marwyn had no idea that the moment he said his name, Lo Quen had already marked him as someone he must recruit.
Lo Quen gave him a sincere smile tinged with respect.
"Esteemed Archmaester Marwyn, my name is Lo Quen. It's an honor to meet you today. If the opportunity arises in the future, may I visit the Citadel in Oldtown to pay my respects?"
Marwyn nodded, clearly enjoying the Eastern youth's respectful tone.
"The Citadel's doors are always open to seekers of knowledge. So, you're not planning to return to the Sacred Grounds?"
"No, Archmaester. I plan to travel through Westeros first," Lo Quen replied calmly.
Marwyn grinned, revealing dark red teeth. "A living Yi Ti native in Westeros? Ha! That's rarer than seeing a live dragon!"
"Have you ever seen a dragon, Archmaester?" Lo Quen asked, seizing the moment.
"Dragons?" Marwyn shook his head, his eyes flickering with a scholar's hunger. "No, but I've seen their bones. And if corpses could speak, they'd agree with me. You showing up in Westeros is going to make waves."
His tone carried a peculiar dark humor.
Lo Quen laughed. "Archmaester, I imagine your sense of humor must be well-loved at the Citadel."
"Loved?" Marwyn reacted like someone had stepped on his tail. He flailed his short arms, nearly spraying Lo Quen with spit. "Those gray-robed sheep would've preferred I drowned out east, feeding the fish! If I ever returned alive, all that awaited me was a room full of sour barbs and a pile of cruel nicknames. That's how they comfort themselves when their schemes fail!"
His bitterness was practically tangible.
Lo Quen smirked inwardly but kept a sympathetic look on his face.
"Sounds like things aren't exactly harmonious with your colleagues?"
"Worse than terrible!" Marwyn snapped, jaw tight as stone.
A sly curve lifted Lo Quen's lips. "Archmaester, you may not believe this, but my intuition is usually spot-on. I think I can guess what nickname they gave you."
"Oh?" Marwyn leaned forward, curiosity fully piqued, his murky eyes fixed on Lo Quen. He even held his breath. "Say it—what is it?"
Lo Quen lowered his voice, a mischievous glint in his smile, and clearly spoke the title etched by fate:
"Marwyn, The Mage..."