The sun shines through the wooden blinds of Archmaester Marwyn's room. Waking up, he sees his clothes already prepared by the Citadel's servants on a table. Stretching, his Valyrian steel chains clatter against his chest. He needs to look presentable today as he will be supervising the birth of a new maester. Just yesterday, the up-and-coming scholar was left in the dark vaults of the Citadel with nothing but the clothes on his back. The man was to stand vigil to the dragonglass candles of Valyria, trying to set them alight.
And again, Marwyn will be disappointed for the new maester will have not lit a single one. Nevertheless, he has to conduct them to the order; no one has lit any candles since the death of the last dragon. He won't expect anyone to do it.
Donning his mask, he grips his Valyrian steel staff and heads out to work. As an Archmaester, even one specialising in the dark arts, Marwyn receives certain privileges unlike those of other maesters. He has his own private quarters, complete with a study, a small collection of books, and a nice view over Oldtown. But Marwyn's not one to stay still; there are still many mysteries out there. His favourite activity this early in the morning is to visit the harbours and talk with people who came across the Narrow Sea. Unlike in Westeros, those in the east are far more open in their magic practices. He'll usually talk with drunkards and sailors regarding tales of maegis and warlocks. Though not all the tales are to be believed, some do corroborate his own findings. He would talk with them hours on end.
But he has no time today; Archmaester duty comes first.
Entering the gates of the Citadel beneath the gaze of great Sphinxes, Marwyn sees that the maesters are moving about quite quickly. Maybe they're excited about a new maester, Marwyn ponders. It is quite an occasion, one worthy of celebration. It's not uncommon to later find those recently conducted indulging in liquor and whores; though against a maester's sacred vows, he can overlook such things. He took part in similar activities back when he was young. The memory brings a grin to his face.
But upon seeing the old maesters running, his nostalgia quickly turns to worry. Marwyn quickens his pace, fearing that the worst may have occurred. Though rare, some aspiring maesters have spilt blood in the effort to light those candles. And with no intervention, they'll be dead in the morning. A tragedy to be sure; one he hopes to not find.
Passing by the great library, he sees the figures of his fellow Archmaesters. Marwyn has never felt close nor friendly to them; they hold disdain towards his research after all. Yet, as professionals, they must begrudgingly respect each other's respective expertise. "Ah, Marwyn the Mage," the one wearing a silver mask calls out. "It's strange for you to be late to this meeting. Getting complacent, aren't we?"
"Save it, Ebrose. Tell me, did the man kill himself?"
Though the Archmaesters give no answer, Marwyn can see them frown beneath their masks. Ebrose gestures him to follow them deeper into the Citadel.
It's clear by this point that they're not taking him to the vaults, but instead the Conclave. Truly, the only time Archmaesters are present in that place is for conducting a new Archmaester or if the Grand Maester has died. Did Pycelle die? Or...
"I apologise for the detour, Marwyn," Ebrose speaks, leading the way. "There are birdies everywhere."
Moving away from the bustling crowd, the hall darkens. Their footsteps echoing through the empty halls, Marwyn feels a pit in his stomach. No, this is something else. It's as if he's being watched from above. Something hungry. A dragon.
He shivers, the atmosphere not all that different to the time he visited Qarth's House of Undying. But that was in Essos.
Reaching the great doors of the Conclave, Ebrose steps aside. "I shall give you the honours, Marwyn," the man speaks, tiredness lining his words. "This may be something in your expertise." Raising an eyebrow, Marwyn pulls out his large keys and inserts it into the lock. It opens with a loud clang. Breathing in, he steels himself for whatever he may see.
The hall of the Conclave is brightly lit. Arranged in a semi-circle, all but three seats are filled by Archmaester. Many are deep in thought, others grimacing at the sight before them. Archmaester Perrestan, the current Seneschal, raises his head. Even behind the mask, it's easy to see his frustration. "You're late, Archmaester Marwyn."
Marwyn does not answer for he's focused on the vista before him. Standing in the middle of the room is a whirling black candle holder, forged into the shape of a dragon. And on its four arms are the dragonglass candles, holding above them strange balls of flame. One burns bright white, like a field of snow in the sun. Another in bloody red, and another in deep blue. Lastly, a great whirling void above the last candle, threatening to consume all light.
Marwyn the Mage falls to his knees, tears flowing beneath his mask. "It's here," he whispers, barely audible to the other Archmaesters. "Magic has returned."
King's Landing - 295 AC
A seat on the Small Council is not one to be taken lightly. Unlike its name, the council holds one of the greatest responsibilities in the Realm, second only to the king himself. With that, it's not uncommon for the commonfolk to dream of holding such a position; dreams of power and wealth are common within everyone.
Of course, they are just that: dreams. Even Varys the Spymaster, who is not a lord over lands and has the commonfolk's best interest in mind, can't guarantee such a position to them. And perhaps it's for the best; things have not been great for the past few years. With the Greyjoy's rebellion quenched, the king often takes no interest in the matters of the Small Council. And when he does attend them, he brings along his favourite companion: a goblet of arbour gold. It's not uncommon to see him drunk after discussing the matter of finances. And rightfully so; they are millions of dragons in debt, not helped by King Robert's frivolous spendings in tourneys and the like. But life goes on in the Small Council.
And for Varys, it could not be better. Seeing the usurper King drunk atop the Iron Throne pleases him. If the man is to fool around and act like a drunkard through his reign, then Varys' role in bettering the realm will come much easier. With his little birds and plans, nothing will escape the web of the Spider.
Even so, recent news is quite troubling.
Jon Arryn, the King's Hand, gathers up the document before him. As the Hand, he speaks on behalf of King Robert who, while present physically, might not be there in spirit. Although old, the man has a sharp wit that's comparable to the Warden of the West, Tywin Lannister. A problem for Varys. One that I'll have to take care of myself.
"Before we conclude this meeting," Jon speaks, "Does anyone else have matters to be discussed?"
Varys stands from his seat, righting his gold and purple robe. "If I may speak, Your Grace."
"You may, Spider." There's a trace of venom in his words.
"Thank you." Varys addresses King Robert, who seems to be half asleep. No doubt from the girls he brought in last night. "Your grace, it may be of interest for you to know that there are strange happenings in the Riverlands."
The words sway Robert from his stupor. "Geh, speak louder Eunuch. I can barely hear you from my thoughts. What of these happenings?"
"My little birdies have told me of someone who has laid claim to Harrenhal and its surrounding lands." The statement brings shock to everyone present. Well, all but Petyr Baelish. He has his own birds, after all. "Alas, I have no birds within the castle, so I have no information regarding who these people are. However," he pulls out a parchment from his sleeve, "they are prideful enough to erect a flag at the tallest tower. If you would..." Handing the parchment to Petyr, the Master of Coins stares at the image with an amused look. He hands it to Jon, earning a frown, and then passes it over to King Robert atop the Iron Throne. Upon looking at the picture, he snorts and laughs.
"Spider," he chuckles, "did you draw this?"
"No your grace."
"Good, because this is a shit drawing!" Robert holds out the image for all to see. On the parchment is the outline of a flag. But the shape of the emblem itself is all squiggles and lines with no real discernible shape. "Tell me, Lord Varys, did you not train your birds to draw?"
"I did not your grace," Varys answers with a slight bow. "However, I'm confident in what my little birds tell me."
"Heh, is that so..." Robert examines the drawing closely, rubbing his beard. "Then what in the Seven Hells could this be? I haven't seen a symbol like this before. All those lines look like-" He cuts himself off as a sudden realisation dawns upon him. He grits his teeth and crumples the paper in his hand. "The damned squids!" he bellows. All flinch at his shout. "I should have known. Those blasted Greyjoys will not quit until they have conquered and pillaged everything in my Realm. Should have killed them off when I had the chance!"
"Your grace," Varys smiles, "I don't believe it's the Ironborns."
Robert looks incredulous and red-faced. "What do you mean? Does this," he shakes the parchment at them, "not look like a squid to you!?"
"The Ironborn suffered a significant loss during their rebellion, your grace," Stannis cuts short his brother's shouts. "Most of their ships are beneath the waves, in the company of their Drowned God. The same is true for their warriors. There's no logic in attacking with such numbers, knowing the consequences from just a few years ago."
With this, Robert calms down and takes a sip from his goblet. His brother sighs; Varys reckons that Stannis is used to these kinds of outbursts.
"I concur," Jon adds. "It would be exceedingly stupid for the Ironborn to betray the Iron Throne again. Now, if I may ask Lord Varys, do you have any additional information regarding these... invaders? Especially with the present state of Lady Shella Whent, the current owner of Harrenhal?"
Varys shakes his head. "No ravens have been sent from Harrenhal, your grace. I fear the worst has befallen House Whent." The solemn words bring silence to the Small Council. A small house though it may be, House Whent is still a member of the Realm and vassals to the Iron Throne. "Furthermore," he continues, "there have been no words from the invaders either. No declarations other than the flag. From what my whispers told me, House Roote of Harroway took it upon themselves to send a hundred men to the castle. None have returned."
There's a grave look on the king's face. Varys can tell he's serious as Robert seems to forget about his goblet of wine. "Jon," he commands, "send a raven. Tell the Tullies to get off of their sorry asses and go to Harrenhal with an army of some kind. It's clear that whoever these people are, they have no respect for Westerosi lords. Let the Lord Paramount of the Trident show them who rules these lands."
"Yes, your grace."
"And you Spider," he turns to Varys, "get your fucking birds in there and tell me what's happening, you hear? We're already dealing with the Targaryens across the sea. I don't want another trouble arising from some shitty hallowed castle."
Varys takes a deep bow. "Yes, your grace."
"Is there anything else you want to add, Lord Varys?" Jon asks.
Varys contemplates for a moment. He remembers the many whispers he received in the past two weeks. The rumours in the Citadel. The flag on Harrenhal. The strange apparitions appearing in the surrounding lands bearing great shields. The strange flying creatures. The quick and panicked scrawls of the whispers. The many claiming death has come upon Westeros. "Nothing comes to mind, Lord Jon. That is all I have to say."
"Great," Robert says as he stands up from the Throne and takes a sip from his goblet. "Then this meeting is finished. Get to your tasks."