The Reach. Oldtown.
The Citadel.
The waters of the Honeywine were black.
Not because they were dirty or polluted—on the contrary, the river flowing past the western walls of Oldtown was crystal clear, and many fish could be seen swimming in its depths. But when night fell, when the sky retreated and the city's lights had not yet fully kindled, the river's surface took on a deep, almost ink-blue hue.
The Citadel stood on the western bank of the river.
From a distance, the oldest seat of learning in Westeros looked less like a castle and more like a stone forest. Towers intertwined with low buildings; there was no uniformity, no symmetrical beauty. Maesters had studied here for thousands of years, and each generation had built a floor, a tower, a library, according to its needs. Thus the Citadel had become what it was today.
The Citadel's residential halls were built upon stone arch bridges. The bridge with the widest arch had a broad platform the size of a square; the maesters had built houses upon it, turning the bridge into a street, and the street into a hall. When the night wind blew, the river flowed silently beneath, while the maesters on the bridge studied ancient scrolls by candlelight.
The main gate of the Citadel faced east, overlooking the widest stretch of the Honeywine. On either side of the gate crouched sphinxes. These were the oldest statues in the Citadel—older than any document kept by the maesters. The sphinx on the left had a male face with a thick beard, high brow, and eyes like a hawk's, fixed on its prey. The sphinx on the right had a female face, her features soft, but with an elusive smile at the corner of her lips. Both statues had the body of a lion, the wings of a giant eagle, and the tail of a serpent. The serpent's tail coiled around the stone pedestal; its scales were still visible after thousands of years of wind and rain.
Ten thousand years ago, in the Age of Heroes, according to legend, these creatures called sphinxes had warded off evil and taken sin from the world. These creatures loved to tell riddles to the world. Those who guessed their riddles would be blessed with knowledge. Some also claimed that these two statues had been placed here first, and the Citadel had been built around them.
The truth had long been buried in the dust of time.
At this moment, the eyes of the two sphinxes were lit by torchlight. It was light coming from inside the main gate.
The captain of the guard on duty yawned. He belonged to the Oldtown garrison, guarding the gates of the Citadel. He had seen countless maesters come and go, seen the ravens take flight like black clouds. He had seen so much that it was hard to surprise him anymore.
He turned his head and noticed that tonight was a little different.
Nearby, in the Honeywine, there was a small island called Raven Island. And on that island, the Ravenry was lit.
The Ravenry was not a place any maester could go. Only the senior members of the Citadel could travel to the island. This was the heart of the Citadel, where the Conclave met. Its decisions could affect the entire continent of Westeros.
It was already late at night. The bells of Oldtown had struck seven times.
The captain of the guard wrapped his cloak tighter and decided not to think about it. It was not his place to question the maesters now. His only duty was to stand this watch, wait for his brother to relieve him, and then return to the barracks for a cup of mulled wine.
He did not know that in the Ravenry, four men of the highest status in the Citadel were present. And a fifth had just arrived by night boat across the Honeywine.
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The Ravenry was not large.
It was an octagonal stone hall with a dome shaped like an upside-down wine goblet. The long table was made of ebony, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine.
Four maesters sat on either side.
At the head sat an old man with white hair and beard, gaunt and thin, his eyelids lowered as if asleep. This was Archmaester Vaermond, the head of the Citadel's Conclave. He had served the Citadel for seventy-four years and was now ninety-seven years old. He had witnessed the reigns of five Targaryen kings: Aegon the Conqueror; Aenys the Weak; Maegor the Cruel; Jaehaerys the Conciliator; and the recently deceased Viserys the First. Now he was witnessing a sixth, Aegon the Second.
He could not help but shake his head. The Targaryen dragonlords were disruptors and outsiders. In his view, the Targaryens were unpredictable, half virtuous and half mad. He had seen how ill it could be to let a Targaryen rule the Seven Kingdoms. But the key was that the Targaryens commanded dragons. Over the years, the Citadel had tried to educate the children of the royal house. But the three Targaryens who had given him the most headaches were Daemon, Aemond, and Rhaenyra.
Across from Vaermond sat a middle-aged man with a round face, the corners of his mouth naturally upturned, always wearing a slight smile. His name was Garth. He handled correspondence between the Citadel and the great noble houses; no one in all Westeros knew more about the kinship and feuds between the great houses than he did.
To the left sat a bald, short maester with a grim expression. His name was Norren. He was responsible for all things within the Citadel and also managed its finances.
To the right sat the youngest, about forty years old, with a few strands of silver in his black hair, his brows and eyes sharp as knives. He had no name—at least, not in the official records of the Citadel. When the maesters mentioned him, they only said his epithet: the White Raven. The White Raven handled all the secret reports sent to the Citadel by the great houses.
These four rarely appeared in the same room at the same time. But tonight, they were all here.
At the head of the long table, there was still an empty seat. It was for a guest who had not yet arrived.
Archmaester Vaermond sighed.
"He is late."
Maester Garth smiled. "My lord, the High Septon is old. It will take him an hour to come from the Starry Sept in the city."
"Why must we take such pains to meet in the dead of night, my lord?" Maester Norren did not look up, still leafing through a book.
"Take pains?" Archmaester Vaermond opened his eyes. Those clouded eyes made all three feel an invisible pressure. "Norren, what we are doing now—if we make a mistake, it will be irreversible."
Under the rebuke, Maester Norren looked up, set down the book in his hands, and said, "Forgive me, Lord Vaermond."
Old Archmaester Vaermond said nothing.
Suddenly, a soft knock came at the door.
Maester Garth rose quickly and went to open it. Night wind rushed in, scattering a few scrolls on the table.
The High Septon entered the Ravenry.
He wore a dark brown monastic robe, his cowl covering most of his face, revealing only a well-defined jaw. Behind him followed a young monk carrying a copper chest.
The High Septon raised his hand in a signal. The young monk set the copper chest on the table, bowed his head, and left the Ravenry, carefully closing the door behind him.
The High Septon pushed back his cowl.
His face was kindly, but the old maester knew he was over ninety, as old as himself. His brows and eyes were gentle, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He looked at the four maesters and nodded slightly.
"The Seven Above."
But only Garth replied with a smile: "The Seven Above."
The other maesters simply nodded. They had religious freedom—a privilege granted them by the Faith.
The High Septon was not offended. He walked to the empty seat at the head of the table, sat down, and pulled the copper chest before him.
"Let us begin," he said.