The High Septon was silent for a moment, then asked:
"Then will he win?"
Archmaester Vaermond did not answer immediately. He slowly leaned back in his chair.
"The Blacks have only the Riverlands and the Vale," he said. He paused, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly. "The North is neutral. The Stormlands are neutral. The Greens control the Crownlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach. Aegon the Second's coronation is a fact."
He lowered his gaze.
"But the war will not end soon. The Greens have the advantage, but the Blacks have more dragons. The hatred between the two sides runs deep. There is no way out."
"But if Aemond ultimately wins..." Vaermond's voice dropped. "He will use this war to forge his prestige and his crown. Now all the Crownlands nobles follow him. The southern nobles have also submitted to him. Governance, military power, decrees, intelligence—all flow from his own hands. Aegon the Second is only a puppet."
He shook his head.
"This is not aristocracy... He wants all of Westeros to obey his will."
He paused.
"That would be an even greater disaster."
The old maester raised his eyes.
"We should... secretly aid the Blacks."
All were silent.
Then Maester Norren opened a ledger.
"The North," he whispered. "House Stark. Winterfell."
Maester Garth answered immediately. "Maester Red, who serves at Winterfell, has served for more than thirty years. There are also four acolytes. Additionally, White Harbor, Karhold, Deepwood Motte, Bear Island, Last Hearth, Torrhen's Square... there are maesters there."
Maester Norren did not look up. "And their reports?"
He turned a page and pointed to a row of small figures.
"The North's population. The last time the maesters reported secretly was ten years ago. At that time, the total population of the North was approximately 1.12 million. Winterfell's domain held 180,000. White Harbor had about 100,000. The rest are scattered among the vassal houses."
He paused.
"Grain production. The North's arable land is only seven percent of its total territory, concentrated along the White Knife. The annual grain harvest is less than two-tenths of the Riverlands' yield. The northerners depend on livestock, fishing, and hunting, and exchange for grain from the south for their survival."
Maester Norren closed the ledger and looked up.
"The long winter is coming."
Archmaester Vaermond asked, "How long until it arrives?"
"The astronomers' star records show that the next long winter will begin in thirteen months."
He paused.
"According to comprehensive judgment of the stars, this winter... will last no less than four years."
Four years.
Maester Norren opened the ledger again.
"The North's tradition of grain storage is excellent. Every noble house has winter stores. Winterfell's ice cellars can supply the city's needs for two years—grain, dried meat, oil, and cheese. But that is what Winterfell has prepared for itself."
His finger crossed a line of figures.
"The North's overall grain reserves—if there is no free import of grain from the southern kingdoms in winter, and no trade with the South—even with strict rationing, can supply the entire population for at most two years."
Maester Garth interjected, "This winter will last four years. A two-year shortfall."
"More than that," Maester Norren shook his head. "In the first half of winter, most outdoor work in the North will have to cease."
He closed the ledger.
"Nearly two years without food. The North has 1.12 million people. If there is no food from the South..."
He paused.
"By conservative estimate, at least half will starve to death."
After these words, all fell silent.
After a long time, the White Raven spoke.
"What if the Iron Throne cuts off food supplies to the North at that time?"
Maester Norren's finger lay on the cover of the ledger.
"...Stark will have to choose. Either stand by and watch half the North's population starve to death. Or..."
He paused.
"March south."
The High Septon nodded slowly.
"That is exactly what I want."
Archmaester Vaermond closed his eyes.
"Your Holiness," the old maester's voice was very soft. "Do you know what you are doing?"
"I know," the High Septon said. "We are forcing Stark to raise his army."
"It is not about raising an army," Vaermond opened his eyes. "It is about survival."
He looked at the High Septon.
"And those who have provoked all this—you, me, everyone here—we are all complicit in the deaths of those people."
The High Septon did not retreat.
"Archmaester Vaermond. You are right. The people of the Crownlands will die. The people of the Vale will die. The people of the Westerlands will die. The people of the Reach will die. The northerners will die. The people of the Riverlands will die. There will be even more people dying beneath dragonfire, dying in war, dying of starvation and disease. This war will bleed the Seven Kingdoms dry."
He paused.
"It will also bleed the Targaryens dry."
The High Septon paused and repeated.
"But it was the Targaryens who caused all of this."
His voice was not loud.
"A hundred years ago, Aegon Targaryen conquered on dragonback. For a hundred years, the Targaryen kings have been wise and mediocre, kind and tyrannical. But whether wise or mediocre, kind or tyrannical—they all share one common trait."
He raised his eyes.
"They can destroy any who disobey them at any moment."
His voice rose slightly.
"That is the problem. These madmen with dragons can decide the life and death of tens of millions of people based on their moods. They regard the Seven Kingdoms as their playground, to give and take as they please."
He looked at Archmaester Vaermond.
"You asked if I know what I am doing. I know."
He paused a long time.
"I am simply using these people's lives for the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused.
"Archmaester Vaermond. If it were you, would you do the same?"
The old maester was silent a long time.
"...I do not know."
He lowered his eyes.
"I have lived more than ninety years. I have seen too many deaths."
He looked at the High Septon, his eyes not accusatory, only weary.
"Perhaps you are right. But I am not certain whether it is right. Is it worth so many people dying?"
The High Septon did not argue.
Archmaester Vaermond sighed softly.
"But I know I cannot stop you. The Faith and the Citadel have cooperated for hundreds of years, but never have we been so open as tonight. You have been preparing for a long time. You will not abandon all of this because of an old man's doubts."
He paused.
"So I will not stop you. I will ask one more question."
The High Septon nodded.
"Do you do this for the Faith? Or for the Seven Kingdoms?"
The High Septon was silent a long time. Then he spoke two words in a deep voice.
"The Seven Kingdoms..."
Hearing this, Archmaester Vaermond nodded.
"The Grand Maester to the Iron Throne," he said. "Today, that position is vacant. That man will become our eyes and ears in the heart of the Greens."
Vaermond turned to the one called the White Raven.
"Are you willing to take on this burden?"
The maester did not answer immediately. He knew where he was going and what he would face.
"If you are unwilling..."
The middle-aged maester, the White Raven, spoke.
"I will do it."
Vaermond looked at him.
"Very well."
"Prince Aemond is not a fool. He is very clever. But his brother, Aegon the Second, is a fool. Though the North has not openly taken sides, neither the Blacks nor the Greens dare to pressure them. What you need to do is very simple..."
He paused.
"Wait until Prince Aemond leads his army out of King's Landing. Then find an opportunity to persuade Aegon the Second to stop sending free winter grain to the North."
"Will Aegon the Second do that?"
"He is a fool. That is for you to decide."
"At the same time, ensure that all the southern kingdoms send no grain northward."
He paused.
"Stark will be angry. Stark will raise his army. The northerners will think the Iron Throne has betrayed the North. That it is deliberately starving the northern people."