Hello, all! Happy October!

Guess who is quitting her job next week, and starting a new, more interesting, and higher-paying one? I am! So the days of staying up until 2 in the morning to work should be over...fingers crossed!

I've noticed a bump in story views, so if you've been sharing this story with friends, thanks! I saw two people recommend it on tumblr, and strangely enough, someone is translating my story into Russian on ficbook! I had no idea it was happening, but some curious Google-fu revealed all. So if you're Russian and you'd like to read this in your own language, go and check it out; the translator linked back to my story, so they're not claiming it as theirs or anything. I'm getting a kick out of the Google-translated text. It's translating to "EYEMON: The Dragon is the Wolf"!

I can't believe more than a thousand of you are following this. I haven't been this popular since my Harry Potter fanfiction days, and now the pressure is ON! I promise I will do my best, though it's been 115,000 words and I still haven't used 'nipples on a breastplate', 'nuncle', or overlong descriptions of food. My bad, guys.

Alright, so if you're a show-only reader, there are a couple of things you don't know:

First, Pate is dead. A guy named 'the Alchemist', who looks suspiciously like Jaqen H'ghar's second face, killed him with a poisoned coin and took his place. What is a Faceless Man doing in Oldtown? That is a book mystery that hasn't been revealed, so I've come up with my own take on it.

Second, Oberyn's daughter Sarella Sand is missing. It's likely that she is disguised as a man (Alleras) and studying at Oldtown, but this hasn't been confirmed in the canon. I'm going to say they're the same person.

Who is Marwyn? Marwyn the Mage is a book-only Archmaester, the one with the Valyrian Steel rod and mask. Basically he's the maester of magical studies. He's well-traveled and connected to people like Mirri Maz Duur and Qyburn. He's the maester who believes in impossible things, and mistrusts the others. In the books, he sails off to meet Dany after Sam arrives. My accelerated Dany timeline means that he doesn't need to go; Dany is coming to him.

Fun fact: In my History of the Late Middle Ages class in college, I learned that medieval university students were expected to write down a copy of each textbook their professors used. It makes sense in a pre-printing press world, but still. My right hand is cramping just thinking about it! And what if your handwriting is terrible?

Samwell I

Being the new boy in a new place was always unpleasant. In his youth in the Reach, Sam's father had always ensured that his sparring partners—or bullies, more like—would know they faced a useless coward. At the Wall, Sam had been Ser Alliser's favorite target until Jon had stopped it. Nothing had changed, really, except that Citadel acolytes used words rather than fists, and none could ever be as cruel as Randyll Tarly had been.

He'd had a solid week of nightmares upon his arrival. Sam's father had once chained him up in Horn Hill's dungeon for days, when he'd expressed a desire to earn a maester's chain. He hadn't told Jon this, but it hardly mattered now. Oldtown in the daylight looked nothing like the dungeon of his memory. The bad dreams had passed, and Sam's father had no power over him anymore. He'd ensured it by banishing his son to the Wall.

"Help! Help, the fat whale has come ashore!" Leo Tyrell said, feigning surprise as Sam passed him in the hall. "Please don't eat me, Whale!"

Sam ignored him.

"What an ass," Alleras murmured on Sam's left. Archmaester Marwyn had asked the acolyte to show Sam around until he'd gotten his bearings, and Alleras had more than delivered. Sam had long since memorized the paths to each classroom, library, and dining hall, but the dark-skinned trader's child had stuck by him, striking up a friendship. The Sphinx's friends had followed suit, from burly, club-footed Mollander to the studious Armen and shy Roone. Even Pate was friendly.

Sam missed Gilly fiercely, especially after their long voyage together. She'd been forced to find employment in Oldtown, to feed herself and little Aemon while Sam studied. Most respectable establishments would not hire a woman suspected of loose morals, so Gilly had passed herself off as a war widow. She now worked as a laundress in a wealthy spice merchant's home, and spoke as little as possible to hide her Free Folk accent.

Sam had been loath to leave her in a new city by herself, but it would have been impossible to sneak a small child into the Citadel. A woman, on the other hand…

He glanced at Alleras out of the corner of his eye. Sam had always been thirsty for knowledge. Though he'd been ordered to come here, Sam had not wasted the opportunity to get lost in faded parchment and crumbling texts, and had earned respect from his masters and fellow acolytes for studying hard. As he worked on his silver link, he'd read quite a bit about human anatomy, and the differences between men and women. Archmaester Ebrose, noting his interest, had invited Sam to an advanced lecture a few weeks ago. There, the kindly maester had shown the skeletons of a man and a woman, boiled clean, and pointed out where they differed, and what tales the bones could tell of the person's age and health.

Alleras was a woman; there was no doubt in Sam's mind. He also suspected that she was of higher birth than she claimed to be. And yet, there was no reason to expose her. She'd been a good friend to him, and Sam saw nothing wrong with a woman studying as much as she liked. On occasion he wondered what her family thought of her path, if they were as she described them, but then he'd remind himself that it was not his business.

His new group of friends had been in Mollander's quarters, studying geography together, when the news had come of the murder at the Wall. Sam had burst into the room, wide-eyed and pale, and Roone had taken the raven scroll from his clammy hands, reading it to the group.

To Acolyte Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch,

There has been a mutiny at Castle Black. Ser Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, and others stabbed Lord Commander Jon Snow to his death last night.

I hope you're finding a solution to our northern problem, because our low numbers will be even lower after the mutineers are punished.

Eddison Tollett

Sam had taken the news hard. He'd known that Jon was leaving himself too isolated, with his plans to re-garrison the abandoned forts and splitting up his friends. A nagging voice inside his head told him that he should have known this would happen! Too many hated Jon; some for his bastardy, some for being a Stark, others for having lain with a wildling girl and treated with Mance Rayder, and yet others for being elected Lord Commander over older, more experienced men.

The last two Lord Commanders had died from mutinies, Sam thought angrily. Good men, both, and what else could one expect from a force made up of rapists, thieves, and murderers, the scum of the Seven Kingdoms all in one place?

He wondered what had happened to Ghost, and hoped for his friend's sake that the direwolf had escaped into the wild. Had the Starks not suffered enough without slaughtering the last of their pets, too?

His new friends had been quietly supportive, especially Pate. He seemed curious about the Starks and the Wall, and often questioned Sam about both topics. Alleras said little, but left him to grieve in peace, unless he'd wallowed in misery for too long and was in need of a bath. On those days, she'd drag him to the bathhouse and lock him inside until he'd washed and shaved.

And then, just as Sam had decided to honor Jon's memory by becoming the maester his friend and Lord Commander had wanted, another raven had come.

To Acolyte Samwell Tarly of the Night's Watch,

The Red Witch Melisandre brought our Lord Commander back to life. I don't understand how or why, but he's not a wight. His last act as commander was to execute the mutineers, and now his watch has ended. His sister Sansa arrived a week ago, and they are taking many of the wildlings south to fight for Winterfell. I need hardly mention that they are hopelessly outnumbered.

Hurry up with the research, Sam. Three more rangers have gone missing north of the Wall since I last wrote.

Eddison Tollett

The letter had left Sam's brain spinning. Jon had come back to life? He'd left the Night's Watch for good? He was suicidal enough to take on the Boltons in Winterfell? What in the seven hells was going on in the North?

He'd written a blistering letter back, and Sam hoped his confusion had come across well enough, because he had no idea which way was up and which was down anymore. At least his studies were familiar and normal; spring followed winter, an adult human had two hundred and six bones, and bronze was made from copper and tin. The deep magical mysteries, excluding the White Walkers, could wait.

Sam had discovered fairly quickly that the books about magic in the main libraries were scarce in number and dismissive in tone. The books all acolytes could access were skeptical of the higher mysteries, rather than educational. He suspected that there was at least one hidden library with the serious magical volumes, and Alleras had all but confirmed it. Archmaester Marwyn kept his keys close, however. Alleras often said that he was suspicious of the 'gray sheep', as he called the other Archmaesters.

Sam persevered, studying as much as he could. Before long, he'd forged links for history, arts and literature, and mathematics, which he wore on a leather cord along with his ravenry link. He was an eager student of healing, but that link would take far longer. There were so many diseases of the body, so many herbal cures, surgeries, and injuries, that a man could work for years to earn his silver. Many acolytes chose to specialize, and once they were fully-fledged maesters, would consult each other on the proper techniques and tinctures as needed. Some became masters of battlefield healing, while others studied only rare diseases, like greyscale and Naathi butterfly fever. Most chose to learn the basic healing that would serve in a lord's castle.

Sam was so fascinated that he couldn't choose. Perhaps this, he thought, is what I've been meant to do all along! He observed surgeries as often as he was able, and spent hours in the herb room, preparing milk of the poppy and sweetsleep, burn paste and antidotes for different poisons.

"You'll be a great healer someday, Samwell," Archmaester Ebrose had told him once, after supervising his attempts. "It's a shame your talents will be wasted at the Wall."

Sam often heard phrases like these. Most of the maesters had no idea what was happening to the North, and they refused to listen when told. He had tried twice with Ebrose, all for naught.

"My boy, I'm sure something is happening up there, but what you say is simply not possible," the old man had replied, kindly but firmly. "The White Walkers are an old wives' tale, nothing more. Now put it out of your mind. If you keep spreading that tale, you'll be thought a madman, and your studies will have been for nothing."

Lazy Leo Tyrell had heard the tales as well. He never missed a chance to mock Sam, though it no longer bothered him. It was plain that Leo thought very highly of himself, and had made himself so unwelcome among the other acolytes that no one could stand him. Unfortunately for Sam, being the son of a Reach lord made him worthy of Leo's notice, unlike 'pig boys' and 'trader's whelps'. The flower was a constant thorn in his side.

Even more unfortunate was that Leo, under all his mockery, believed in magic. He didn't say so in front of the Archmaesters, but he often told the acolytes about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, visions he'd had through glass candles, and other fanciful tales. He was more interested in Sam's tales of dead men and White Walkers than any other acolyte.

Alleras believed Sam, too, in her own quiet way, or at least she pretended to. It was no wonder that Marwyn the Mage had chosen her as his personal acolyte, just as Pate was for Walgrave. Marwyn still had his wits, but he used Alleras as his errand-runner, and often called her into his solar to quiz her about magical topics and spark a debate. Sometimes her friends were invited as well, Sam included.

Weeks passed, and Sam was so busy that he'd almost forgotten about the North. After practicing on cloth arms stuffed with wool, Archmaester Ebrose had allowed Sam to stitch a real knife wound closed, and praised his neat stitching. Archmaester Vaellyn, known as Vinegar Vaellyn for his acid tongue, had judged Sam worthy of a bronze astronomy link. He'd spent a miserable night outdoors for this, shivering in the chilly sea breeze as he rattled off the names of stars and constellations, and showed Vaellyn how one might navigate by them.

He had taken his friends to the Quill and Tankard to celebrate, wishing Gilly could be there as well. The cider at the inn was incredibly strong, but Sam liked it better than anything Castle Black had to offer. He could also afford it for once, having spent a profitable afternoon at the Scribe's Hearth. Alleras had declined the cider as usual, choosing wine from the Summer Isles.

"To Sam the Stargazer!" cried Mollander, raising his tankard.

"Sam the Stargazer!" joined in the others.

Sam drank his cider, fighting a grin. Life was so easy here. All he had to do was study hard, and he earned himself praise and respect. If he spent a few hours at the Scribe's Hearth, he could earn some coins as well, to buy a round of drinks for his friends, a pair of sweet buns for himself and Gilly, or any little thing he wanted. But all of that made it harder; he knew he couldn't stay forever, and so did everyone else. Thanks to his father, Sam belonged to the Watch, and soon enough he'd need to return to the Wall. Not for the first time, Sam cursed Randyll Tarly and his disgust for maesters and their servitude.

Oh, if he'd only come here before taking the black!

The Citadel's infirmary was a spacious, airy building. There, the people of Oldtown and the maesters and acolytes of the Citadel went to receive treatment, recover from injury, and most often, find out what was wrong with them in the first place. Healing maesters, those who wore silver links adorned with gems, treated their patients here, and took their acolytes for instruction and observation.

Some of the patients were dying of rare and incurable diseases; they remained in the infirmary to isolate themselves, and avoid spreading the affliction to their loved ones. It was as good a place as any to die; at least the sick had good food and a view of the bay, and a fresh sea breeze to fill their lungs and sweep away noxious smells. Half of the upper floor was currently occupied with long-term patients; Archmaester Ebrose took his acolytes there for his lecture one sunny morning, and presented his students to the inhabitants.

To Sam's great surprise, one of these unfortunate patients was the son of his former Lord Commander.

"And here, we have an adult male afflicted with greyscale," Ebrose told his flock of students. "Ser Jorah Mormont, aged one and fifty, and infected a few moons past. Would you remove your shirt, ser?"

The knight did so, and Sam cringed at the sight.

"The initial infection entered through a small scratch on the arm," the archmaester said, pointing to the darkest, scaliest patch of skin without touching it. "The superficial infection spreads quickly across the skin, as you see here. If caught quickly enough, a skilled healer can amputate the limb, and save the patient's life."

"How quickly must it be done, Archmaester?" asked Armen.

"Within a few minutes for a large wound, or hours for a small one. The most important detail is the blood. Once the disease is in the patient's bloodstream, nothing will remove it. At least," he amended, "nothing we know. While the disease is on the skin, and the skin only, it may be treated and stopped. Does anyone know of such a case?"

Sam raised his hand. "Lady Shireen Baratheon, Archmaester."

"Correct, Samwell. The princess touched an unclean doll as a babe, but there was no wound for the disease to enter her blood. The greyscale remained on her skin, and a team led by Maester Cressen was able to stop the spread of it with a medicinal paste, which Maester Pylos developed centuries ago. We will make a batch of it later; it is good for killing many afflictions of the skin."

"Archmaester?" Alleras asked, raising her hand. "What can we do for patients with a more advanced case, such as Ser Jorah's?"

Ebrose's face was grim. "Let them end their lives with dignity. We cannot stop the spread, and we cannot halt the sickness of the mind that will follow. Even our potions for pain relief will only work for so long. They are meant for organs of flesh, not stone."

Ser Jorah said nothing; he looked resigned to a miserable death. Sam remembered the Old Bear, and felt awfully sorry for his son. Not only was he dying, he was alone and friendless in a sickroom. The only choice left to him was the day of his death, unless he waited too long and his wits had gone. Then the decision would be made for him.

"Thank you, Ser Jorah. You may dress. An acolyte will come by later with more pain relief for you."

"My thanks," the knight replied with a grimace.

They moved on to the next patient, an Oldtown banker's wife heavy with child. The maesters thought she might have twins or triplets in her belly, and she was so small and narrow-hipped that the birth would be extremely dangerous for both mother and children. There was nothing to do for her yet; the Archmaester quizzed his students about the stages of pregnancy, and asked the woman what she was feeling. Emarla allowed the acolytes to feel the babes kicking, and showed them her swollen ankles and stretch marks with a hint of shame.

Ebrose considered Mistress Emarla an excellent case study, or so he told his students. Many of the acolytes would one day serve in a lord's manor, and would assist the noble lady of the family as she bore her husband heirs. There were few duties more important, though admittedly, this one would be less frequent than training injuries and childhood scrapes.

Three hours later, Sam was settling in after supper. He had two pages of law vocabulary to define, and the law dictionary was written in the tiniest script he had ever seen. Unfortunately, that was when a servant knocked on his door.

"What is it?"

"Acolyte Samwell," the servant boy replied, giving him a small bow. "The Conclave wish to speak to you in the second hall."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. The Conclave meant all of the Archmaesters together! Something big must have happened, and he had no idea why they'd call him, of all people!

"When do they wish to see me?" he asked the boy.

"Now, Acolyte," the servant answered. He looked nervous; Sam gave him a copper for his trouble, and told him he'd be there directly.

He dressed in his cleanest robe, and set off toward the second hall. The first hall was where the Conclave held their closed meetings, but the second hall was larger, enough for all of them and any guests they chose to invite. Sam ran through several ideas in his head, and discarded them all in disgust. He doubted very much that the Conclave was about to admit the existence of White Walkers, and he couldn't think of anything else that involved him.

He knocked on the heavy door to the second hall.

"Enter!" barked Archmaester Theobald.

Inside, Sam found a brightly-lit room, highly decorated with tapestries and carvings. The Archmaesters sat on throne-like chairs with their masks and rods, forming a large semicircle in the center of the room.

"There you are, Acolyte," the Seneschal spoke. "Take a seat," he ordered, pointing to the plain chair set across from the maesters' own.

Sam obeyed, puzzled.

"Samwell, it has come to our attention that you are a close acquaintance of Jon Snow, bastard of the late Lord Eddard Stark. Is that not so?"

Sam blinked in surprise. This was about Jon? Had he survived the impossible battle against House Bolton?

"Y—yes, that is so," he answered. "I met Jon at Castle Black; he was one of the few men who volunteered to take the black, because his father's wife would not permit him to stay at Winterfell."

"Go on," said Archmaester Perestan when Sam paused. He was taking notes, as one might expect of the historian.

"What is it you wish to know, Archmaesters?" Sam asked. "Jon told me quite a bit about his family, but is that relevant—"

"We will decide what is relevant, Acolyte Samwell. Tell us everything you know about this man," Perestan answered.

Sam noticed immediately that not all of the maesters were happy about that. Even though they were masked, some were slumped in their ornate chairs; others had closed their eyes. A few were scowling. Marwyn the Mage, behind his mask of Valyrian steel, was upright and alert. As Sam's eyes fell on him, the old man gave him a slight nod.

He wished they'd just say what was going on. Was there war outside the city of Oldtown? Had the Wall come crashing down?

But Sam knew they wouldn't answer until it suited them. So he took a deep breath, and spoke.

He told them of his meeting with Jon, and how he'd stood up for Sam against Ser Alliser and their fellow trainees. He told them Jon's story, and everything he remembered about the Stark siblings and their direwolves, Jon's uncle the Ranger and his father, the Lord Hand. He spoke of the wight Jon had killed in Mormont's chambers, and the Valyrian steel sword he'd earned as a reward. Feeling a bit sorry for it, he told them about Jon's near desertion, and how he'd allowed his friends to bring him back. He told them about Jon's direwolf, Ghost, and how clever the beast was.

Sam spoke of the Great Ranging, and Jon's mission with Qhorin Halfhand. He told them about Craster and his daughter-wives, and the sons the old man sacrificed to the 'cold gods.' He spoke of Mance Rayder, and Stannis Baratheon's arrival at the Wall. He told them of Jon's election as Lord Commander, his pact with the wildlings, and how he'd switched Mance's babe with Gilly's, to protect him and the aged Maester Aemon from Melisandre.

He didn't mention Edd's ravens. If the maesters didn't believe in White Walkers, they wouldn't believe a man could return from the dead, either. Sam wasn't sure if he believed it!

"He is the reason I am here," Sam finished, hoarse from talking so much. "Maester Aemon was blind and dying, and the Night's Watch desperately needs a replacement maester for Castle Black. I did not thank him for it, not at first, but Jon always knows what is needed, and he doesn't shirk from unpleasant duties."

"That is quite a tale, Acolyte," Walgrave said, his tone giving nothing away.

"Thank you, Samwell. You may return to your studies," added Theobald, the Seneschal.

Sam wished he were brave enough to shout at them, or refuse to leave until they told him what was happening. But he knew he'd never do it. He bowed, and left the room without a word. Perhaps he could wheedle the information out of Marwyn later.

He returned to the acolyte cells, but knocked on Alleras' door instead of his own. She opened it quickly, looking rather bored, but perked up as she saw him in his best robes.

"Have they interrogated you yet?" she asked, confirming that Marwyn had known something.

"Yes," Sam replied, "but they never told me why they're so curious about Jon. I thought you might."

The Sphinx gave him the cryptic smile she was so famous for. "Mayhaps I copied some raven scrolls I found on the Mage's desk when he left...and mayhaps I didn't."

"Please?" Sam wheedled. "I'm so curious that I'll never be able to concentrate on inheritance law."

Alleras laughed. "That's difficult on the best of days." She gave an over-dramatic sigh. "Very well, then."

She reached into her desk drawer and pulled something out, tossing it to Sam with a casual flick of her arm. The item was a bundle of tightly-rolled raven scrolls, he noted as she returned to her bed and sat.

"That should explain a few things," Alleras told him.

Sam felt a bit awkward sitting with a woman, alone in her bedchamber, but he'd do nothing to expose her secret, or let on that he knew. He sat next to her on the edge of her bed, and read the letters by the light of the single rush candle provided to acolytes. All of them had been written in High Valyrian.

M,

C Lannister has blown up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire and seized the Iron Throne for herself. Queen M and much of her family, the High Septon, Grand Maester Pycelle, Kevan Lannister, and many other nobles and important folk perished in the explosion. King T apparently fell to his death from a high window. C has appointed Qyburn as both Hand and Grand Maester, and allied with Euron Greyjoy. He is sailing to Oldtown now. The Kingslayer has disappeared.

T

Sam's breath caught. Many lords of the Reach had been cruel to him, but Willas and Garlan had been kind, allowing him to hide in their library and cheering him up after a particularly harsh training session. He wondered if either of them had survived; Willas hardly left Highgarden these days, but perhaps he'd visited Loras and Margaery?

"Does Leo know about this?" Sam asked Alleras.

"I don't know," she answered. "He receives more ravens than the rest of us put together. But even if he knows, he's being his usual charming self."

"True," Sam agreed. Leaving that thought for later, he moved the raven from Marwyn's informant to the bottom of the pile.

The next letter was even more interesting.

Brothers,

Queen Daenerys Targaryen has arrived in Sunspear with three dragons, thousands of Unsullied, tens of thousands of Dothraki screamers, and a fleet under the command of the so-called Queen Yara Greyjoy and her brother. Her Hand is Tyrion Lannister, the imp and kinslayer.

The Prince of Dorne has offered his hospitality and an alliance as she brings war to Westeros. I would be grateful of the Conclave's advice in this matter.

Yours in fellowship,

Caleotte

"Well, that's not very loyal to his assigned lord," Sam said with raised eyebrows. "Isn't a maester supposed to serve whoever rules the castle, and keep his secrets? I understand informing the Conclave that Daenerys Targaryen is here, but writing of his master's loyalties seems a bit..."

Alleras scoffed at that. "You've been here long enough to see what they're like. Everything is politics; the ones with powerful friends and a head for scheming get assigned to the great lords. The quiet ones who just want to study and heal get minor castles in the middle of nowhere, or they're stuck at the Citadel forever. And they're constantly talking to each other, sharing secrets, without their masters' knowledge. How many lords bother with High Valyrian these days?"

She paused, and Sam saw an odd bitterness in her dark eyes. "To serve a house as important as House Martell, Caleotte had to prove his loyalty to the Citadel, first and foremost."

"It's not exactly unpredictable, however," Sam said, moving the letter to the bottom of the pile. "Everyone knows what the Lannisters did to the Martell princess, and King Robert rewarded them for it. So the fact that Prince Doran and the Targaryen queen are allies shouldn't surprise anyone."

The woman nodded at the last letter in Sam's hands. "Go on, then. That one will surprise you."

Brothers,

The Northern force holding Winterfell under Lord Ramsay Bolton in the name of King Tommen has fallen. The invading army, led by Jon Snow and his half-sister, Lady Sansa of House Stark, contains wildlings from beyond the Wall, Vale knights led by Petyr Baelish and Lord Yohn Royce, and other Northern houses. My lord Glover tasked me with serving Winterfell until the Citadel provides a new maester for the castle, as Ramsay Bolton murdered Wolkan before the battle, and the Greyjoys killed Luwin long before that. The Bastard of Bolton also executed Rickon Stark, the last living son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. The Starks executed Lord Ramsay directly.

The Northmen and wildlings have declared Jon Snow King in the North, with the full support and friendship of the Vale. Though the man was sworn to the Night's Watch, there are several eyewitnesses who claim he was killed at his post, then returned to life by Stannis Baratheon's red witch, who is in the castle now. I have seen the scars with my own eyes, and I don't understand how His Grace lives. One of the knife wounds lies directly over his heart, and there was no maester at Castle Black at the time of the mutiny.

I would be grateful of the Conclave's advice in these matters, as well as the selection of a new maester for Winterfell Castle (and Castle Black). I would also recommend sending as many of the standard books as may be spared; the Winterfell library burned years ago, turning many priceless treasures to ashes.

Yours in fellowship,

Rawlys

The letter fell from Sam's limp hands. He couldn't believe what he'd just read.

Jon was alive.

Jon was alive!

Jon was King in the North, just as his brother had been!

Before he knew it, Sam was laughing hysterically. His brother, his friend, the one he'd been mourning for weeks, was alive!

"Pull yourself together, Sam!" Alleras cried, alarmed. "Do I need to pinch you?"

"No, no, I'm well," he answered, still grinning. "So that's why they wanted to know about Jon! He's a king now, and they have half a dozen of those to choose from!"

"Stannis is dead; Cersei Lannister is mad," Alleras said, nodding. "Daenerys Targaryen is the Mad King's daughter, so she is probably mad. Euron Greyjoy is certainly mad, though I don't know much about his niece. If your friend is the dullest monarch who ever lived, but of sound mind, he might have the backing of the entire Conclave soon."

"To do what?" Sam cried. "The last thing the North needs right now is another war with the rest of Westeros. They have their own problems to deal with."

Alleras raised a dark eyebrow. "Do you really think the likes of Cersei would just leave them alone, other problems or not?"

"This is ridiculous!" Sam protested, burying his face in his hands. "We don't need another civil war when an army of undead wildlings is headed our way!"

"That means nothing to us southrons who have never seen them in the flesh, and you know it," Alleras argued. "Besides, the Wall stands between us and them, doesn't it?"

She paused, then gave him a light shove. "Now go away; I need to finish my sums before bed."

Life went on as usual after the Conclave summons. None of the Archmaesters mentioned the meeting to Sam in the weeks that followed, though some watched him with renewed interest. Lectures and examinations took all of Sam's concentration, leaving little time to worry about other things. The only bit of news he heard was that three maesters had been selected to go north, to the Wall and to Winterfell.

He knew Rodwyle well. Though quite young, the Northman was clever and well-read, and a good helper to any acolyte who asked. He had a brilliant mind for architecture, engineering, and mathematics, and Sam knew that if the North survived the war against the Others, Rodwyle would see Winterfell repaired in no time.

The other two were strangers, and despite their assignment to the Watch, neither Morn nor Andros had spoken to Sam. He wondered if they expected their assignment to be temporary, until Sam himself completed his training, or if they were going north forever, and resented the fact.

He kept at his studies, diligent as always. Unlike many of his peers, Sam had received an heir's education, giving him an enormous head start in the core subjects. All of the links he'd earned so far, except ravenry and astronomy, were things a lord's son was expected to learn before inheriting his father's seat. The High Valyrian he'd learned back at Horn Hill was also proving immensely helpful, enough for Archmaester Castos to place Sam in his fourth-level class.

Archmaester Cetheres, on the other hand, was going out of his way to be difficult. The mild-mannered stormlander was as devout as a septon, and he'd been cold to Sam since his interrogation by the Conclave. Mayhaps he misliked the thought of a southron swearing his vows to the weirwoods, but he no longer called on Sam during his lectures except to mock him. Sam's exams and essays returned to him covered in red ink, scrutinized to within an inch of their lives.

Though the Citadel taught acolytes about all of the religions of Westeros, it was clear that Cetheres had a favorite; most of the Northmen at the Citadel eventually gave up the subject in disgust, Rodwyle included, and Sam finally saw why. Perhaps he'd forego the copper link. Who needed it, anyway? Castle Black had the drunken Septon Cellador to serve worshipers of the Seven; they certainly wouldn't need Sam to explain their own faith, or pray over their corpses.

Unless he was one of the mutineers, the acolyte realized. He had no way to know who they all were, but Cellador had never liked Jon. Could he have been one of the murderers?

Archmaester Garizon brought Sam back to the present with a loud thump; it was the sound of a heavy atlas falling onto his desk. The man had quickly become one of Sam's favorite masters; he was kind, funny, and had fascinating stories about every place he'd visited in his travels. Geography lectures often felt like adventures, and his maps were colorful works of art.

"Alright, boys," the Archmaester was saying. "I'd say we've covered the Reach well enough, wouldn't you?"

There were chuckles and murmurs of exhausted agreement from his audience.

"Where shall we turn next, then? Dorne? The Westerlands?"

Before anyone could reply, an alarming cry rang through the halls.

"IRONBORN! THE IRONBORN ARE COMING!"

Bells were ringing, both inside the Citadel and out in the city and harbor. Garizon's friendly, wrinkled face turned grim.

"Let's see what is going on out there," he said. "Class dismissed."

They ran, pushing and shoving each other out of the way. Sam couldn't keep up for long. The Citadel did not require acolytes to perform any physical training; the most they did was run to classes, and carry heavy books in and out of the library. Fifty feet from the classroom, he'd already run out of breath.

Pate and Roone grabbed his arms, pulling him away from the stampede of acolytes and novices.

"They'll go to the Outer Bridge, because it's closer," Roone told him, "but we'll have a better view from the West Tower."

Sam cringed inwardly at the thought of all those stairs, but followed his friends. Alleras appeared soon enough, bringing Armen and Mollander with her. Together, the six climbed up the spiral staircase to the white ravens' domain. Only then, panting heavily and with aching legs, did Sam look out over the water.

The first thing Sam saw was fire. Far in the distance, on both sides of the Whispering Sound, the docks and seaside villages were ablaze, sending plumes of smoke into the sky. A large enemy fleet approached, led by Euron Greyjoy, though Sam noted with dread that there were Lannisport sails among the krakens. The few Redwyne ships that had remained in port were trapped, and woefully outnumbered.

"Seven save us," breathed Armen, pale as milk.

Mollander, the oldest of them all, looked furious.

"Those bastards!" he shouted into the wind. "The Westerlanders are friends with those sons of whores? Don't they remember what happened last time the Greyjoys got ideas?"

"No offense, Pate," Alleras murmured, though the boy didn't react. Sam hadn't even realized he was a Westerlander.

"None taken," Pate replied, shrugging. Alleras shot him a confused look, but said nothing.

"So what happens now?" asked Roone. "They wouldn't make us fight, would they? Will we have lectures as normal, with a battle happening outside the walls?"

"I doubt Ebrose would lecture when there are real wounds to tend," Sam offered. "But I don't know about the others."

"I suspect old Marwyn will act like everything is normal, but hatch some scheme in secret," Alleras confided. "I just don't know what."

"Sorcery?" asked Pate curiously.

The Sphinx snorted. "Not unless his glass candles can summon Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. If that were the case, she could just burn our problems to ashes," she added, gesturing toward the enemy fleet. "It's the Targaryen way, isn't it?"

"Careful, Alleras," Roone muttered. "That could be the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Aha!" she replied, triumphant. "I knew you were sneaking into my drawer of stolen letters!"

Roone shrugged, unrepentant. "You never tell me anything. Besides, I overheard some of Perestan's underlings talking about her in the privy."

Mollander cracked a grin at this. "It seems a bit disrespectful to talk about the future queen while taking a shit."

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," Roone answered, smirking.

"Well," Alleras told them all, "I've had enough. If we stay here, we can watch the Ironborn murder and rape and reave from afar, but what's the point? We might as well get some food and rest, and see what the Archmaesters will do about this."

Sam and the others agreed, and they walked back down the tower stairs, unusually quiet. The city bells were still pealing madly, and there was no doubt in any of their minds: Oldtown was under siege.

Poor, poor Sam. He'd do so well if he could swap places with LoTR Bilbo, and just hang out in Elrond's library, soaking up knowledge!

Alright my dears, that's it for today! Stick around for Samwell II, where Sam and his friends get up close and personal with the Siege of Oldtown, Marwyn gets sneaky, and the kraken racks up property damage. Let me know what you think, and as always, thanks for reading!