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The buildings of the Citadel were never meant to impress at a glance. No one here had chased grandeur for its own sake.
To the minds of the maesters, the towering spire of the neighboring Hightower already reached high enough to touch the heavens. If the Citadel had chosen the same style, they would have been bound to raise something even taller than that pale giant.
First of all, the Hightower family would never have agreed. The Citadel owed its very beginnings to their generous support, and the Hightowers remained the true stewards of Oldtown. Courtesy demanded that a measure of respect be shown.
And second, suppose the maesters poured their skill and wealth into a tower higher than the Hightower itself… what would that prove? People would only whisper that the scholars of the Citadel were driven by rivalry and pride.
The maesters cared for their own dignity. To have their motives questioned in that way was unthinkable.
So the Citadel kept its outward face plain and unadorned, while within those walls they revealed their real distinction. Halls of quiet mastery stretched inward like a hidden maze, every chamber designed to display the craft and intellect that defined them.
How many gold dragons had it cost to build such a place?
A soft click of the tongue answered the thought. To speak of coin in the affairs of scholars was far too common.
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When Theobald reached the hall of the Conclave, guards stood at their posts, a rare and solemn sight within the Citadel.
This was the true heart of the order. The archmaesters gathered here were treasures in their own right, and should an assassin ever slip through these gates, the loss would reverberate across all of Westeros.
Not that the archmaesters were cowards, of course.
The moment the guards recognized Archmaester Theobald, they bent low.
By rule even a Seneschal of the Citadel had to submit to inspection before entering the Conclave. Yet who among these guards truly dared?
The title of "Seneschal" marked Theobald as the hand that governed every matter of the Citadel, great or small, save only the Conclave itself.
To crush a common guard would cost him no effort at all. He would not need to raise a hand. A single gesture, the faintest look, and some ambitious soul eager for promotion would step forward to handle the matter perfectly on his behalf.
"Have all the archmaesters arrived?"
Theobald asked quietly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of command.
"Yes, Seneschal. They are all here, waiting for you," the guards answered quickly, almost tumbling over themselves in their haste.
Theobald's brow creased slightly. He disliked their over-eager manner, but with no personal force of his own, the soldiers hired from outside could not shed their ingrained habit of flattering those above them.
He had a short temper by nature, and in the past he would have surely reprimanded them sharply. Yet now, he had no mind for it.
"Stand aside."
His tone was flat and unyielding.
The guards moved instantly, parting to clear the path to the Convocation for their superior, the Seneschal of the Citadel.
At the door, Theobald pushed it open gently. A thick, pungent scent of burning herbs hit him immediately, mingled with the occasional cough.
No doubt it was Archmaester Marwyn once again testing some experiment in his tobacco studies.
Many of the archmaesters could not tolerate the smell, yet none could deny the value of his research. After countless arguments and failed protests, they had long since resigned themselves to let it stand.
"Theobald, we have been waiting for you," said Archmaester Norren, the head of the Conclave. His voice was calm and faint, but it carried just enough weight to settle the entire room.
Theobald gave a slight nod and walked steadily to the chair that had been reserved for him.
Every archmaester of the Citadel had the right to attend the Conclave if they chose to, and as a Seneschal of the Citadel, Theobald naturally held that privilege as well.
This hall was the very heart of the Citadel. The title of Seneschal was little more than a designation for the one chosen to execute decisions. True power lay in the Conclave itself.
Once everyone was seated, Norren cleared his throat, drawing all eyes toward him.
"Archmaesters, the purpose of this meeting should be clear to all of you, right?" he began.
Though phrased as a question, his tone remained calm and composed. Clearly, anyone who had made it this far already understood why they were here.
He scanned the room, noting that even the more obstinate archmaesters showed no sign of challenging him. Satisfied, he continued.
"The latest intelligence confirms that two dragons have appeared on the battlefield at Harrenhal. Tywin Lannister has suffered devastating losses. His forces have broken, and only a portion of his army managed to escape under his command."
The words sparked an immediate hum of chatter throughout the hall.
In truth, most archmaesters of the Conclave devoted themselves entirely to the pursuit of wisdom and knowledge. Their understanding of current events across the Seven Kingdoms was slow at best, lagging far behind the pace of war.
In their minds, Tywin Lannister had always stood as the very image of a cunning schemer bound to a ruthless military mind. Yet now, even his armies had proved powerless against dragons.
Now, the tension in the room was palpable.
The reactions of the archmaesters came as no surprise to either Norren or Theobald. In fact, the head of the Conclave had spoken precisely the words he had meant to speak.
The Citadel might be wealthy, yet even its coffers could not rival the iron vaults of Braavos. Every year, the funds granted to the archmaesters for their research consumed a considerable share of resources. Without pressing the immediate danger of dragons, how could Norren and Theobald hope to loosen a single gold dragon from the lips of these stubborn old men?
At last, after a low rumble of murmurs and whispered debates, one of the more impatient archmaesters lifted his voice toward Norren.
"Hey Norren, what exactly do you mean by all this?"
After all the back-and-forth within the Conclave, the gathered scholars already sensed the head archmaester's intentions. Yet none could deny that he spoke the truth.
The dragon had indeed reduced Starpike to ashes, cutting short the battle at King's Landing and undoing King Renly's efforts before they could bear fruit. Now Tywin Lannister's proud army had also been broken beneath dragonfire. Across all of Westeros, it seemed the only forces still capable of marching were the northern host and the Riverlands coalition led by Clay Manderly.
"Nothing personal," Norren said, his voice calm and deliberate. "I merely wish to remind everyone that the dragons have returned. The Citadel must consider where we stand in this new age, and we must reach a conclusion together."
No power ever favored an ally who joined at the last moment. All preferred the hand that offered help in the snow rather than one that arrived merely to share the spoils.
They felt no fear that the results of their deliberation might leak beyond these walls. It was easy enough to sway ordinary scholars, but the Conclave itself was another matter entirely.
A simple scholar might serve a Targaryen, a Lannister, or a Tyrell. But in the end, what carried greater weight… the name of a family or the oath of a scholar? Only the individual could know the answer.
But to become an archmaester meant being recognized as a true master in one's chosen field, a distinction marked by a ring, a rod, and a mask that each corresponded to that domain.
The cost of granting such honors was staggering.
And who could guarantee that the candidate one supported would succeed? If they failed, every coin and favor spent beforehand would be wasted.
For that reason, the Conclave remained unnaturally clean, as if scrubbed of all meddling, even without deliberate counterintelligence.
To the archmaesters who attended, the thought of acting as a house's agent or of gathering and selling intelligence was almost unthinkable.
What kind of scholar could find joy in such things? It was hardly an honorable pursuit. True, the Grand Maester sent to King's Landing, Pycelle, seemed to be an exception, but that was only because he had gone to that cesspit himself, embracing disgrace in the process. No one else had ever stepped forward to accept such a cursed burden.
"I've reviewed the old research records," said Archmaester Perestan, a respected historian. "A hundred years of archives, and almost no one has touched them. Many are already damaged beyond repair."
He specialized in history and sought answers in the past. The return of dragons was such a monumental event that he naturally thought of the Citadel's predecessors, who had spent two centuries studying the dragons of House Targaryen. Surely there must have been some knowledge preserved.
Yet he was unprepared for the truth. With the last dragon gone, all studies of dragons over the past hundred years had become essentially useless dead knowledge.
Every day they studied dragon-slaying, and yet there were no dragons in the world.
The manuscripts and books, long shelved and forgotten, had endured a century of neglect. Many had been ruined by worms, rats, or water damage over the years.
The role the Citadel once played in the extinction of dragons was now lost to history.
"How could this happen? Who was responsible for maintaining these records?"
Archmaester Norren snapped, the urgency in his voice cutting through the hall. This was no small matter. It was not simply about the dragon records… it showed that vast portions of the Citadel's archives had quietly disappeared.
What gave the Citadel its reputation across Westeros? It was the claim that they safeguarded the entirety of human knowledge, a mantle that allowed them to rise above the noble hierarchy. Even the lords who wielded secular power could only grit their teeth and acknowledge it.
But now, if it became known outside that the knowledge stored in the Citadel's libraries was no different from the collections in a noble's private castle, how much of that prestige would remain?
Did they really think the lords would have no opinion about the scholars, these keepers of knowledge, ravens, and medicine?
The implications were enormous. No one could bear the responsibility for destroying the entire repository of human civilization's knowledge… not even a king.
Yet if this fragile barrier of secrecy were to be breached, imagine the bold fool who would seize the opportunity to raze the Citadel entirely.
That was why the head of the Conclave had lost his composure.
Those who attained the position of head archmaester were people who understood the broader picture. They were not like the rest, who only knew how to conduct research in their own narrow fields.
"Head," Archmaester Perestan said, sighing, "I don't see the point in tracing this. These events happened over a hundred years ago. How far back do you go? How many hands have touched these records since then? Chasing the person currently responsible for maintaining them changes nothing. It is not his fault."
Though a historian, Perestan's focus was on the Targaryen dynasty and the even older histories of the First Men and the Andals. These records were far more valuable than the "dragon knowledge" that no one reads and naturally received proper care.
Archmaester Theobald spoke up. "The situation is clear. Either we bend the knee to the dragons once again and invite the Dragonlords here, offering the Citadel's knowledge to the new ruler… or we refuse to bow to these monstrous dragon spawn. In that case, we must use whatever Archmaester Perestan has uncovered to devise means capable of countering dragons. Otherwise, the destructive power of dragonfire… surely no one has forgotten what we learned in history lesson?"
That set the tone. Resistance meant that those who had spent their days chasing research funding had better focus and unite their efforts to deal with the immediate threat of dragons. If they did not resist, then everyone would lose face, and when the Dragonlord decided how to handle the Citadel, they would only be able to grit their teeth and accept it.
This was precisely the meaning behind archmaester Theobald's words.
Head Archmaester Norren, who had remained silent until now, clearly agreed with the Citadel's Seneschal.
The chamber, louder than even the women's branch of King's Landing, had carried on for hours until the older archmaesters finally grew tired of bickering.
Those seated at the front, however, had long grown accustomed to this scene.
Pointless quarrels were one of the basic rules that kept the Convocation running.
After all, the place renowned as the pinnacle of human intellect could hardly claim its stature if people were not allowed to speak freely and express their thoughts. It would seem hollow and absurd otherwise.
After a few quiet coughs, Archmaester Norren scanned the room, taking in the flushed, red-necked archmaesters gulping down water in preparation to continue their speeches, and he decided the time had come.
It was already late at night, and if the meeting dragged on any longer, who knew which archmaester obsessed with life-extension studies might, come morning, write a paper condemning him for not managing the session properly, thus supposedly shortening their lifespan? The thought of yet another round of pointless arguments was tedious.
"All right," he said, "since everyone has exchanged their opinions fully, this discussion has served its purpose. Now, we will vote."
In truth, over ninety percent of the Conclave's decisions were finalized during the voting stage.
Without this, it might take half a year or more for a single matter to come to fruition within the Conclave.
No one objected, as this was an unspoken, expected ritual. One by one, delicate slips of paper were distributed to each archmaester.
And, of course, there were always a few brazen ones trying to peek at their neighbor's answers.
After the brief flurry of shuffling and murmuring, all the votes were collected and handed to Norren.
The number of participants was not large, so the tally was completed within ten minutes.
Knowing that every archmaester was waiting for him to announce the result so they could finally return to sleep, Norren wasted no time. He spoke immediately:
"According to the opinions expressed, the final decision of the Conclave is:"
"Resistance."
As he pronounced the verdict, a slight twitch appeared at the corner of Norren's mouth.
Did these people truly have no idea what they were up against?
Yet this was the way the Citadel functioned. As head, he could not alter it.
And the decisions made by the Conclave effectively represented the will of the Citadel itself.
In other words, from this moment forward, the Citadel would begin preparations to confront the dragons of House Targaryen.
Once the announcement was finished and the meeting officially concluded, a large group of archmaesters, seemingly unconcerned with the matter, yawned and filed out one after another.
This was because the Citadel had given them the comforting illusion of safety.
After all, no matter the conspiracies, dynastic shifts, or bloodshed spilling across the land, none of it had any real connection to a single golden dragon in the Citadel's custody.
Archmaester Norren knew that many had chosen the option of resistance simply because it felt bold, because they had no desire to bow to the Targaryens.
Although they were fully aware of the immense risk, as a guardian of the system, he had to support the choice that the Conclave had made through its vote.
With everyone gone, only Seneschal Theobald and Head Archmaester Norren remained.
As the heart of the Citadel, it was now up to the two of them to have a proper conversation.
"Head," Theobald began, "I have received another piece of intelligence. It seems… there are actually two Dragonlord."
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[Chapter End's]
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