The last of the candles in the acolytes' study was dying out; a tiny speck of comforting light wavering under the cold breath of the night. Samwell Tarly was slouched in his seat, fighting the waves of fatigue, eyes glazing over the same page he has been staring at for hours.
There is still time. Hours yet before the dawn breaks. It will be done.
The last link in the maester's chain.
Absentmindedly, Sam's fingers run across the small heap of metal links resting on the table. Black iron for ravenry. Bronze for astrononomy. Silver for medicine and healing.
A brief, tired smile crossed his lips. Mastering ravenry was relatively easy, given the experience he brought forth from Castle Black, although he did wish Maester Aemon had shared some insight into training those bloody things to fly to the desired destination and back without getting lost or killed.
He shook his head and turned back to the dusty, heavy pages of an ancient tome he pulled out from one of the highest shelves in the Citadel library almost forty-eight hours ago.
Two days and two nights – all an acolyte has to complete a task in order to gain an addition to his hard-earned chain.
Samwell frowned. According to the ancient custom, the archmaester of the skill in question would set such task. And although the Citadel had no shortage of archmaesters, there was only one who could help him acquire the last link – Marwyn. Except that Marwyn has been gone for almost two years now. Spurred by Sam's arrival to the Citadel and his stories of White Walkers and dragons, Marwyn boarded Cinnamon Wind, determined to reach and counsel Daenerys Targaryen in the wars to come. Just as Maester Aemon had wished it.
Marwyn the Mage, one in one hundred to own a link of Valyrian steel.
That was until Sam expressed the desire to follow in his footsteps. Jon had clearly instructed him to find as much information about the threat beyond the wall, and this was the most obvious route. With Marwyn gone, however, and the study of magic being frowned upon by the rest of the order, Sam has pushed the matter aside, and focused on some of the more common, more accessible chain links.
Iron for warcraft. Red gold for the knowledge of human anatomy. Copper for history of Essos and Westeros.
Still, the idea of mastering the area of "high mysteries" has never left his mind.
"If you wish to waste your time on that nonsense, by all means do so," was all Archmaester Theobald had to say, "but expect no help from me. Marwyn wouldn't listen to me and you won't either, judging from the stubborn look on your face."
Sam desperately wished he could argue his true reasons for needing to explore the murky waters of magic lore. It was not that he enjoyed it – deep down, Sam still feared anything unnatural and inexplicable – he had to understand. He promised Jon he would try to find the answers. But he also swore to Marwyn he wouldn't betray a word about what he'd seen and heard in the North. Whenever his determination wavered, he thought of the spine-chilling screech the ice demon made as he met with Sam's dragonglass dagger. He thought of the hundreds of pale blue eyes of the raised dead; men, women and children alike. He thought of Jon, Gilly, little Sam, and all the living souls in Seven Kingdoms who would perish should the Night King with his army ever emerge on the other side of the Wall.
And so he kept silent and patiently waited for Marwyn's return, collecting one link after another, even gaining some respect from some of his fellow acolytes and a few maesters who noticed his hard work and perseverance.
"It would seem you have been destined to become one of us, Samwell," Archmaester Vaellyn, the stargazer, said to him as they sat on the Citadel steps one warm evening. The rough stones still radiated the heat of the day, and the air smelled of sea and spices from the harbour. "Why leave so soon? You could forge yourself a dozen links. Two dozen, with your spirit and determination." Sam observed the slightest touch of sadness and nostalgia in his voice. The archmaester sighed and turned his gaze upwards in search of the first twilight stars, as he had done for as long as he could remember.
"My place is on the Wall, Archmaester," Sam replied with some sentiment of his own; the Citadel did feel like a home to him. A place he finally felt he belonged to. He found his life's purpose.
The guttering candle quivered one last time and finally went out in a thin wisp of smoke. Sam muttered a curse under his breath and reached across the table to replace it with a fresh one. As he rose, however, a sudden surge of dizziness overcame him, and he tumbled backwards. As his knees gave way, he had just enough time to wonder whether the lack of sleep and food was to blame, or the sheer magnitude of the task at hand. Then oblivion took him, dark and sweet and heavy as the night itself.
When he woke up, the room was filled with grey light.
The dawn will be breaking soon. Samwell the Tart has failed.
He started scrambling about, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was lying on the floor, a ragged tablecloth tangled in a heap around his legs. Scattered around were scrolls, letters, an inkpot and other small items he swept off the table as he pulled the cloth down on top of him.
Then his eyes found the ancient text, lying in a pool of wine dripping from a broken jug nearby. His heart sank.
Damn you, you fat, clumsy fool, he thought to himself.
Two days and two nights he has been trying to find the answers, convinced this tome was the key after he ruled its siblings out one by one over the past few months. With Marwyn absent, time running out, and no other archmaester able to set the task in order for Sam to gain his final link, he has turned to the only other option there was.
Understanding one of the three Ancient Mysteries the scholars of the Citadel haven't been able to explain or comprehend, but of which their annals spoke repeatedly throughout history. Sam could see the words in front of him even now:
One. The art of bringing the dead back to the land of living (known to have been performed by a handful of red priests and priestesses from Asshai; opposes all laws of nature).
Two. The means of making and shaping obsidian, also known as dragonglass or frozen fire (a number of maesters claim the last of the obsidian was forged thousands of years ago in the fire of gods, far below earth; unconfirmed sources).
Three. Reviving the lost art of forging Valyrian steel.
According to the Citadel's code for acolyte's training, coming just one step closer to solving any of these would grant an acolyte a link of any metal desired. That's because the bunch of old bastards know it's bloody impossible, Sam thought bitterly. Obsidian and Valyrian steel, hardly a coincidence, was his next thought.
For days he scourged the Valyrian library section, turning over every scroll, searching for something, anything... But then he remembered that almost two hundred years before the Doom, Valyrians built their first and only outpost in Westeros, and it was that same handful of fortunate souls and their descendants who eventually escaped the inferno that wiped out an entire civilisation.
Interestingly, the Citadel library held only one item concerned with the history of this particular place.
The light in the room grew lighter by the minute. Sam hoisted himself up, scooped the book off the floor, and gingerly examined its stained pages.
His heart sank deeper still; some of pages in "The Ancient History of Dragonstone, the Westernmost Outpost of the Valyrian Freehold" were beyond saving, including the chapter he was studying just hours ago. Gently, he peeled each soaked page away, feeling the tears well up in his eyes. The Founding of Dragonstone Fortress. The Rules of Succession. Dragon Lore.
"You are a fool, Samwell Tarly," novice Skeras told him the night before as he fetched his supper, "Anyone who truly knew anything about the origins of dragonglass or Valyrian steelmaking is long dead. And even if someone in this wretched world still had the slightest idea, do you really think they would write about it in a history book?"
His fingers got stuck on a couple of pages that would not part; not even when he pulled with all the strength he dared to exert on such a fragile parchment. Even the cursed wine isn't this stubborn, Sam thought angrily. That is unless...
He shifted his seat closer to the window and squirmed at the page in the growing light.
Outside, the Citadel was coming to life; the morning breeze was carrying distant shouts of merchants, clacking and scraping of hooves on the cobble stones, and squabbling of children from the streets below.
There was something odd about this part of the book. The pages were wrinkled by the moisture, but not quite in the same pattern as the rest. Upon close inspection, Sam realised the parchment used here was much thinner than the rest, and what was more, there seemed to be another, slightly smaller shape folded in between the two pages; he could see it protruding against the soaked parchment.
The first tentative rays of the morning sun were slowly creeping along the windowsill. Samwell Tarly straightened up in his chair and let out a breath he did not realise he was holding. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, sharp knife, trying to steady his trembling fingers.