Ebrose
Old Town was, at its height, once considered the intellectual capital of the world. The mighty Citadel, an old fortress and tower, once stood over the city containing the world's foremost academics. The War had destroyed most of the thousand-year-old tower, leaving only the ruined base intact. The upper levels of the library had also succumbed, taking with them numerous tomes and books of old. Ancient knowledge and records were lost forever. The Grand Maester had lamented the loss, saying at the time that "the world just suffered permanent brain damage."
The modern Citadel sat near the ruins of the old. The campus was now a center of education for all of the students of the world. Young men and women from all walks of life attended lectures and studied in laboratories under the watchful eye of their professors, still called Maesters in honor of the founding men. Dr. Ebrose had entered the university at the young age of 17. He studied medicine, as had his father, and generations before him. Ebrose Hall, one of the dormitories on campus, was named after his great-great-grandfather, the first Grand Maester to serve after the admission of women. Supposedly, the Maesters of the Citadel had also been barred from marriage or having children long ago, becoming one of the first lifetime-membership institutions to allow it, only to become one of the last to allow the women to actually join their husbands. Life loves irony.
Now, aside from the university, the city was in a sharp decline. As global temperatures and sea levels continued to rise, people fled the cities in search of a cooler climate. Only we stubborn old men still cling to the history of this place, though we've lost most of it. He sat at his desk in the Medical Sciences building, the air conditioning whirring loudly. The temperature outside had reached 41 degrees today. In old Sun Pier, the last still-inhabited settlement in Dorne, the temperature had reached 50. At times like these, he envied the people of the North with their temperate summers. The last winter, which had ended only four years ago, had seen no snow at all in Old Town and even the folks of Winterfell had laughed saying "Autumn straight back to spring."
He glanced at the clock and sighed. It was after seven in the evening, and he was no closer to discovering any records in the Citadel's medical records for a disease that matched the description of the infected: waxy, pale skin with eyes glazed over and hazed with blue who refused all food, drink and socialization. If this has ever existed before, we probably lost all records during the War, he considered before resigning himself to the possibility that the disease was simply a new and terrifying development. He closed his laptop and rose from his chair, stretching away the fatigue. He turned to look out of his window over the campus. The last bit of light was retreating beneath the horizon and students were beginning to depart the campus for the evening. Friday. I'll see a number of intoxicated future leaders and Maesters in the pub district tonight. He turned away from the window and made his way to the door.
Before he could close the door behind him, his phone began to ring. He groaned and returned to his office, turning the air conditioning and lights back on before answering the phone and sitting back in his plush, leather chair.
"Dr. Ebrose," he sighed into the phone.
"Sorry to bother you, Maester, but I've just spoken to Grand Maester Gorion," the timid voice came from the other end. "He wishes to inform you that your request to examine the private collection has been granted, however he wishes to speak with you in person... tonight."
"Tonight?" Dr. Ebrose questioned, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Rather late, isn't it?"
"He asked me to inform you that while he would typically allow you unfettered access to the collection, your particular request merits special circumstance," the answer came. Ebrose frowned.
"Very well, I'll head to the library now. Can I expect him soon?"
"He's already there, sir, as am I," the voice confirmed.
"Very well," Ebrose confirmed. "Thank you." With that, he hung up the phone and once again rose from his chair. Special circumstance to view the private collection? The private collection was all that remained of the original books, tomes, grimoires and scrolls that hadn't been lost in the War. Most of it was largely considered fantastic or mundane. A collection of family lineages and records of the former noble houses – most of whom had long perished – were the bulk of it. They had uncovered the treatment process and eventual cure for lithiodermititis from the private collection – written and recorded by a former Maester named Pylos who had apparently succumbed to the disease himself. Will that be me? Ebrose snickered as he left his office.
Leaving the Medical Sciences building, he was hit with a blast of heat from the stagnant evening air. He frowned and quickly moved towards the old library, darting between students and other faculty members. Anything to get out of this heat. The large, wooden doors to the library were heavy, but unlocked as he let himself in. There was no air conditioning inside, but there were numerous fans blowing the warm air about in a vain attempt to keep the occupants cool. Standing near the reception desk was his faithful assistant, with whom he had just spoken.
"Ah, Maester," the younger man greeted. "Right this way, please." The two entered the hallway leading into the library proper. There were a few students inside studying, but for the most part the two men scarcely saw anyone until reaching the lowest level. In the basement, there was air conditioning and humidity control to protect the books – some of which had been dated to more than two-thousand years old. They were kept in a vault specifically designed with their preservation in mind. In front of the vault door, the elderly Grand Maester stood, his glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights.
"Grand Maester," Ebrose greeted, bowing slightly. The Grand Maester did not smile, but instead waved off the assistant.
"You're free to go now," he commanded. The younger man flinched and offered a slight bow before walking away as quickly as he could. Ebrose turned to watch him go, grimacing at the lack of respect shown to his assistant. When he turned back, the old Maester was at a small keypad, punching in the code to unlock the door. As the last key was entered, a loud, electronic beep confirmed the successful password. The door lock clicked over, a heavy thud echoing through the small antechamber they stood in. The sleek, black door slid open, first by releasing itself from its tight grip on the frame, then sliding into the wall, out of view. Ebrose moved towards the door as the Grand Maester stepped in and beckoned Ebrose to follow. He did not make the old man wait.
The found themselves in a small antechamber with an identical black door in front of them, with yet another electronic keypad. A small red light above the buttons pierced the otherwise dim room. The Grand Maester pressed a single key on the pad, closing the outer door behind them. It slid from the wall and pressed itself into the frame, sealing with an air-tight gasp. The red light turned green, and the second door opened.
The private collection was cool and dry. The room itself seemed sterile, with white tile floors, white walls, and a solid white ceiling. The bookshelves inside ranged from relatively new to clearly ancient. There were hundreds of them. Despite the numerous times he'd entered these rooms, he was always humbled at the amount of history and information that could be taken from these old books. The Grand Maester began walking towards the end of the hall, passing dozens of shelves. Ebrose followed silently. The old man had always been a bit dour, but today he seemed especially on edge.
Finally, they arrived at the end of the room, where a second, smaller door awaited. This door had no electronic keypad to unlock it. Instead, a single keyhole penetrated the handle. The old Maester fished in his pocket for a moment before producing a single, golden key. He gently inserted it into the lock, feeling it click into place before turning it. Ebrose felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. This wasn't merely the private collection. These are the Black Books. The old man opened the door and ushered Ebrose inside.
Inside, the old man turned on the lights to reveal four large bookshelves filled with ancient tomes on both sides, rusted chains hanging from them. In the center of the room, a single modern desk and two chairs sat unused. The old man motioned to one of the chairs, which Ebrose sat in as instructed. The old Maester moved to one of the shelves and began perusing the collection.
"Grand Maester," Ebrose began, calling over to him.
"I know what you need," he replied wistfully, as if he were searching for a memory more than a book. "Which is why you didn't find it in the Medical Sciences library."
"Our founders knew of this condition?" he asked. The Grand Maester grunted in confirmation.
"Tell me, Maester Ebrose," he began, taking a book from the shelf and examining the cover before smiling and placing it back in position. "Do you know who our current Seneschal is?"
"Of course," Ebrose answered, his voice betraying the confusion he felt at such an obvious question. "Seneschal Meadows was recently chosen to take the position."
"Indeed, he was," the Grand Maester confirmed. "And do you know from which field he obtained his Archmaester's Staff?"
"He is a noted, if eccentric, historian," Ebrose offered, attempting to be polite. The man thinks dragons still fly in Valyria.
"A historian of ancient Westerosi history," he agreed. "Eccentric may be a kinder adjective than others have used," he continued, slowly scanning the shelves. "He is also of noble birth," the old man then announced, stopping at the end of the shelf. "His lineage is proven to descend from Samwell Tarly himself. You are aware of Grand Maester Tarly, yes?"
"He was the first Maester to allow the Men of the Citadel to marry," Ebrose answered, somewhat amused that Meadows – a proper lunatic – would be descended from a thousand-year-old Grand Maester. The old man pulled a large tome from the shelf and smiled uncharacteristically, returning to the desk and slowly taking a seat, placing the book in front of Ebrose.
"He's not the only noted academic here with an illustrious ancestor," the Grand Maester offered. Ebrose took a look at the book without touching it. His eyes grew wide as his mouth opened slightly. A Song of Ice and Fire by Archmaester Ebrose.
"Is it possible?" Ebrose gasped as he took it in. The old man nodded.
"That he is your earliest male ancestor? It is possible. It's highly probable that you two do share blood. The Ebrose name is not exceedingly rare but uncommon enough that it's safe to assume relation," he reasoned. "Tradition runs deep in your family," he added, noting the look of awe on the face of his companion. "Go on," he then urged. "Open it. Take a look." Ebrose needed no further invitation. He quickly reached out and carefully opened the tome. "This book was reproduced many times over the centuries, but since the Last Kings of Westeros it fell out of fashion. This one," he motioned. "This is the original, written in possibly your greatest-grandfathers' own hand." The writing was faded, and the words and spelling were obviously of an ancient dialect, but he was still able to easily read the large, black words on the yellowed parchment.
A history and chronicle of the events following the fall of King Aerys II Targaryen, including but not limited to the reigns of the Baratheon and Lannister Kings and Queens, the Long Night and Battle of Winterfell, the destruction of King's Landing by Daenerys I Targaryen and the coronation of Bran the Broken following the destruction of the Iron Throne. Amended shortly thereafter to recognize the efforts and contributions of Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King.
Ebrose stared at the words and breathed heavily before looking up at the Grand Maester, who smiled at him.
"This book..." he began, trailing off as he looked back down at it.
"Is only one of three sources here in the Citadel that may assist you in uncovering what Seneschal Meadows and I think is the only true answer to the question you are looking to answer," the Grand Maester finished for him. Ebrose looked back up in confusion as the Grand Maester stood again and moved back towards the shelf. It can't be. It's a tale to scare children, and even then, no children are frightened by the thought of the Long Night anymore. This is a jest. A poor jest. The Seneschal has poisoned the mind of the Grand Maester, beset by age. Nothing more.
"It's fiction, surely," he reasoned, tempering his words compared to his thoughts. The old Maester laughed softly. The man seemed unusually jolly about this. Ebrose didn't care for it.
"Careful, Dr. Ebrose," he chided. "You insult your own blood."
"Grand Maester," Ebrose continued, forcing himself to remain calm. "While I do appreciate this opportunity to learn of my family's lineage – especially regarding this institution – I cannot imagine for a moment that you're honestly suggesting a fairy tale is the reason why a few dozen people have become ill. This is the most... illogical leap I can imagine." The Grand Maester frowned slightly.
"Fairy tale?" he scoffed, rising from his chair and returning to the shelf. "Unlikely." Unlikely? The old man has gone mad. Meadows is to blame.
"With respect, Grand Maester –" he began, before being cut off by the determined old man.
"This collection contains two more sources for the Long Night. Both of whom are direct, first-hand accounts from the battle itself," Gorion added, pulling another book from the shelf, and then another after that. "Unfortunately, the references to these books and other notable works that reference the battle have been long lost in our collection, though some of the references to those books still exist, so we know that there was a time when this was confirmed to have actually occurred." He went back to the desk where the befuddled doctor sat, staring in disbelief at the words he was reading. He placed the two other books down.
"The Long Night by Ser Davos Seaworth," he read aloud, looking at the first book. He then glanced at the second. "A Feast For Crows by Grand Maester Samwell Tarly." He grimaced and looked up at the old man. "Alright," he agreed. "I will read these as a man of science, and I will use modern thought and knowledge to try to understand the mysteries of their time. Out of respect for you." The old man nodded before sliding the golden key from his pocket and placing it on the table. Without any further words, he stood and departed. Ebrose looked down at the ancient words.
"Chapter One: The Fall of the Mad King,"