William walked alongside Malora's new handmaid, Dora, through the corridors of the High Tower. Since the first handmaid had been driven away, the second tossed into the Honeywine River, and the third fainted in terror and afterward refused to ever return to the chamber, it was Dora—who had gagged but still forced herself to finish cleaning—that became Malora's fourth personal maid. In the servants' circles of High Tower, this was nearly a meteoric rise.
"And my lady even rewarded me with a golden dragon! Seven above, a golden dragon!" Dora's face brimmed with irrepressible excitement. Before being promoted to lady's maid, her yearly income did not amount to even one golden dragon.
"That's well earned, Dora." William meant it sincerely—he himself would never want to clean up that mess. He recalled how, when Dora first spoke to him, she stammered nervously, but now she was far more confident. Suffering truly did harden people.
As they walked, the two spoke of recent news in the tower—though it was mostly Dora talking while William only feigned confusion or dawning understanding, letting her chatter on without pause.
"Did you know, ser, Ser Baelor was confined by the lord for three days?"
"Did you know, ser, that charlatan was executed by the young lord?"
"Did you know, ser, …"
…
"I didn't know any of this—but now I know everything."
Not until they reached the chamber door did Dora finally stop, though reluctantly, while William wore a faintly regretful smile.
"The magical aura I sensed last time is gone… it seems that trap was meant for the Shadowbinder alone."
Entering the room, William noticed that all the furnishings and carpets had been replaced. He could not help but think to himself: it's good to have coin. Dora led him across the chamber to the balcony.
The balcony was vast, draped with tapestries. Its railings overflowed with lush greenery, and the breeze carried a fragrant scent. At its center stood a broad round table laden with fresh fruit and delicately crafted pastries.
Malora sat by the table, gazing over the Honeywine River. From the balcony, the river's surface shimmered, dotted with white sails pursued by flocks of waterfowl, wheeling and diving, free beneath the blue sky.
As William approached and bowed in greeting, she shifted her posture slightly. The wineglass in her hand trembled, scarlet liquid rippling like the beauty of a rose. "Sit, William." Even seated, the commanding aura around her did not diminish in the slightest.
Remembering the tales of Countess Dannell, William stole a glance at her delicate red lips before sitting down. The chair was broad and comfortable, yet he felt as though sitting on needles, recalling the unease of his childhood when facing elders.
After Dora poured him a cup of red wine and curtsied her farewell, she left the chamber.
Malora set down the wineglass, its contents like blood. "Well done with last time. The trial was a success—we are one step closer."
"A trial? So everything that happened was arranged by you?" William had suspected as much, but asked only to confirm it, showing little surprise.
"The moment she arrived in Oldtown, I knew she would come here… and become my subject." As Malora's words faded, that eye suddenly crawled up from the side of the table, halting beside a platter of fruit. Its tendrils writhed gently, the pupil rolling as if to ask, 'Who speaks of me?'
Though William had sensed its presence, he had not expected it to appear outside its bottle, and the sudden sight startled him.
"I am a forest witch—I can see the future." Malora rested her chin on her hand, her gaze toward William laden with meaning.
Countless tiny tendrils writhed, carrying the eye in a circle across the table before it stopped, staring straight at William.
Clearing his throat a bit awkwardly, William lifted his wineglass and took a sip. The taste was mellow and lingering—truly a fine vintage.
Yet he was not one to put much faith in prophecy. Leaving aside whether Malora before him even deserved the title of forest witch, even the so-called greenseers, judging from descriptions in books, seemed less like seers of the future and more like masters of vast stores of history, allowing them to make strikingly accurate predictions.
As for the matter last time, Malora had clearly enjoyed the full support of the Hightower lord, giving her the advantage of intelligence. The Shadowbinder had likely grown stronger by stealing others' powers. Hearing Malora's legends, it was only natural she would be tempted—setting a snare for her had not been difficult. The only question was whether Ser Baelor had known.
William set down his glass. "You were testing the rune's effect?"
"Bright child." Malora straightened in her chair. "That rune was newly designed but never before used. This trial was invaluable."
The eye spun quickly, turned toward Malora, and its tendrils waved joyfully. To William, it looked like a pup fawning at its mistress.
Malora even smiled back at the eye, and in that moment, she bore a faint resemblance to Margaery. Of course, being the elder sister of the Little Rose's mother, such similarity was hardly strange.
"What exactly does this rune do?" William could guess that one effect was causing magical power to go out of control, but he could not understand the origin of the grotesque eye on the table. Was it a product of the rune—or of the Shadowbinder's sorcery?
"You will know in time." Malora's smile faded as she leaned back in her chair. "I hear you have advanced to assistant maester at the Citadel?" The eye swiveled in time with her voice, as though appraising him.
Its gaze felt alive.
Suppressing his unease, William briefly recounted his experiences at the Citadel.
Wary that earning only a Valyrian steel link might draw unwanted attention, he had also applied for the mechanics examination. His old steam engine model contained many advanced designs—after all, in his previous world, steam engines had been widely used, far beyond Westerosi knowledge. His explanations and demonstration during the trial left the observing archmaesters and maesters deeply impressed. With Archmaester Mollos sending letters from Harrenhal vouching for the steam engine's practicality, the Citadel had granted him a brightsteel link without hesitation.
The occult examination had only a handful of spectators, but he passed smoothly when tested on Qarthian spells and knowledge of dragons. The runic test, however, was much more difficult, and William thought Marwyn would use it to block his progress. Yet, unexpectedly, Marwyn declared him successful.
Thus, William had earned four links: bronze (history), black iron (warfare), brightsteel (mechanics), and Valyrian steel (mysticism). By Citadel custom, he was now raised from acolyte to assistant maester—an unexpected delight.
"That is indeed worthy of celebration." Malora's tone, however, betrayed no trace of it. "How goes the matter?"
The day after receiving the Valyrian steel link, William had followed Marwyn into a sealed chamber of the Citadel, where he perused certain manuscripts. Though forbidden to copy or remove them, Marwyn could not have guessed that William, poor student though he once was, possessed a fine memory. Each night, he would carefully rewrite the important points from memory, turning them into notes.
The table was broad. William drew out his notebook, ready to rise and present it to Malora—when suddenly the tendrils squirmed, and the eye darted toward him. Several tendrils rose high without touching the surface, the eyeball rolling twice.
Seeing Malora give a slight nod, William placed the notebook atop the waiting tendrils. The book was large enough to cover the eye entirely, yet as soon as his hand let go, the notebook glided swiftly across the surface, as if moving on its own, until it lay before Malora.