AN: I've decided to end this chapter with two updates focusing on Marwyn arriving at Astapor and meeting the Targaryens. In the next chapter we'll see what's happening in Westeros when credible news of Astapor finally reach the place.
Obligatory reminder for Marwyn – what he believes in, and what's true aren't necessary the same things. In other words: Prepare your tinfoil hats people, you are about to learn all about the conspiracies of Oldtown courtesy to our special guest Maester Marwyn! You'll hear it here first! It was the Maesters, the Faith, and those dastardly Hightowers! Proof? What do you mean we need proof? It can't be all coincidences, surely! Master Marwyn will explain everything you ask him to, worry not!
Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, the Game of Throne or the Star Wars books, TV series or games. They belong to their creators, publishers and/or copyright owners. This story is not for sale or rent.
Chapter 8 Part 5
=Sith=
291 AC
Astapor
A few months after Prince Oberyn and his Dornish party left Astapor, another unexpected and unforeseen Westerosi arrived.
It was early in the evening, and like usual, Viserys was busy overseeing Dany's training as a Sith Acolyte. Her progress remained slower than would be expected at Korriban or one of the smaller academies across the Empire; however, considering her young age, it was still impressive.
Typically, no one so young ended up as an Acolyte in training unless they were expendable with origins of no consequence. That was usually the fate of Force Sensitive slaves, children of regular people with no connections in either the military or, more importantly, the Sith Dynasties of the Empire.
The children of Sith, even if they were new blood, instead from lineages as old as the Empire, were, as a matter of fact, not expendable chaff. From a young age, they received training in handling all kinds of weaponry, basic instructions on harnessing the Force, and the best education money could buy. That way, such scions had all the tools they needed to prosper and excel as Acolytes, Apprentices, and eventually Sith in their own right. If they failed, it happened because they were not good enough to make the cut, not because they weren't given the opportunity to harness their potential.
A lucky and sometimes unlucky few ended as personal projects of family members. Such youths were either kriffed beyond belief or forged as some of the deadliest weapons in the Empire's arsenal.
For Viserys, remaking Dany into the best sane Sith she could be was a privilege. Doing so was challenging and only made the end product more desirable.
After months of trial and error, Dany could harness the Dark Side under pressure without immediately losing control due to the emotions fueling her power. Viserys could sense her anger and determination to overpower Ser Richard. This time, she wasn't relying on her speed and agility, further enhanced by the Force to make her nearly untouchable. The purpose of tonight's exercise was different.
Dany met the knight blow for blow. Their practice swords shook with each strike, nearly cracking. Dany parried each attack, holding her ground, then pushed back with Force-enhanced muscles. Her size should have made a context of strength madness due to the leverage Ser Richard's larger frame allowed him, even before considering how much stringer Lonmouth was. Instead, Dany used his advantages to unbalance himself and gain an advantage. She pushed aside Lonmouth's sword, briefly overpowering the knight and making him stumble. Her dull blade blurred and slammed into Ser Richard's armpit. Despite his chainmail, such a blow with a real blade would have been crippling, if not outright deadly. Even with the dull practice sword, Dany's strike had enough force behind it to leave behind a nearly crippling bruise.
"Your Grace, there is a man claiming to be a Westerosi Maester wishing to speak with you," A Royal Guard announced after the sparring bout was over.
"Escort him to my solar. Sir Richard, go have a healer see your arm. Dany, well done. Calm yourself down and go get a bath," Viserys ordered.
Dany flashed her brother a victorious grin. Her eyes burned with the power of the Dark Side before she let go of the Force, and they 'dulled' into their natural bright purple.
"Sister, if you are feeling particularly full of yourself, you'll be sparing with me first thing in the morning," Viserys promised.
"Yes!" Dany gleefully bounced out of the sparring ring to put down her training sword with practice weapons on one of the racks.
"You'll also be sparing with Ser Richard without heavily relying on magic," Viserys added. "The better conditioned you are, the less you need to enhance yourself with the Force. That, in turn, allows you to do more with it outside of ensuring you can keep up with physically superior enemies."
"The likes of him will always be larger and stronger! He's damn fast too!" Dany pointed at Lonmouth.
"That's precisely my point. There will always be someone faster, stronger, better. Blades will often be waiting in the dark to strike when you exhaust yourself. That is one of the major reasons why you should learn to pace yourself and keep a reserve of power to draw on. And why you should have reliable swords to guard your back."
"I don't have to like it, all right!?" Dany pouted.
"We've covered that point before. You certainly don't have to enjoy your training; merely endure and excel in it," Viserys pointedly let his amusement show. Predictably, Dany growled at him. She shoved her training sword into the rack and stormed in the general direction of the baths.
That was why most Sith avoided training moody teenagers. Even when they were family said Sith cared about, enduring their moods without doing something regrettable would sooner or later become nearly impossible. It didn't really help that, for the time being, Viserys' primary source of relief was fucking the brains out of the Green Grace. It was far less fun after he finished subverting her a few weeks ago.
=Sith=
Viserys picked up a cool cup of lemon water, lamenting that he couldn't get his hands on properly chilled ale, Corellian preferably. Most available spirits and other drinks left much to be desired, undoubtedly due to a lack of proper quality control, substandard equipment, and ingredients. He was self-aware enough to know that he was contemplating pushing for an industrial and cultural revolution, not to mention a medical one, to increase his quality of life instead of the inevitable military benefits.
Viserys pushed the lamentations about his situation aside. He drew on the Dark Side enough to chill the solar, in general, and his cup in particular. Hoarfrost formed on the top of the water, encasing a slice of lemon in a thin sheet of ice. He wondered if any other Sith in recorded history had to go to such lengths for simple creature comforts when one of the Royal Guards announced his visitor.
"Maester Marwyn to see you, Your Grace!"
Viserys pushed the Dark Side aside and waited a few moments for its tangible effects to dissipate. "Let him in."
An old man in a dusty cloak walked in, leaning on a rough wooden staff. Viserys decided that his guest's weathered face and dirty appearance made him look a bit older than he really was. He had a squashed face and nose and a large forehead that looked even larger due to slowly receding hair.
He carried a leather satchel swung over one shoulder and a large book he clung to as if it was precious.
"Your Grace," the Maester bowed, using his staff for support. "We have much to discuss, my Prince."
"Am I your Prince?" Viserys asked while focusing on the man through the Force. His signature was curious – it was brighter than most. Still, he had no more connection with the Force than the average organic. The man was clearly tired, but below that weight, he appeared vibrant – nothing like the nearly robotic Unsullied.
"You were since you were born, even if we Maesters are not supposed to take sides in the political games of the Seven Kingdoms," Marwyn snorted at his own words. "Which is, of course, a big pile of horseshit."
The man was blunt; Viserys had to give him that much. Thus, he was unlikely to waste his time with empty platitudes, which he always appreciated.
"I have no need of a court jester," Viserys told his quest.
Marwyn stretched a bit, using his staff as leverage. His back cracked, and he sighed in relief.
"I am not here to entertain you, Your Grace. I've come to warn and advise you if you have me."
"What do you want in exchange? You aren't here of the goodness of your heart," Viserys reasoned.
"I am no saint, Your Grace. Neither am I your enemy. I wish to uncover the world's mysteries, which is why I've been traveling all over Essos for the past six years. I want to learn about the magic you are said to wield and the changes you've brought to Slaver's Bay. Slavers stir in Meereen and Yunkai, discussing war. They're afraid, the bastards," Marwyn smiled, clearly pleased at such a development. "Everything I've learned at the Citadel and during my travels will be at your disposal if you have me."
The Maester clearly took pride in his achievements—that emotion swelled like a balloon in his chest as he spoke.
"What ill tidings do you bring, Maester?" Viserys sipped chilled lemon water, studying Marwyn like a bird of prey examining possible lunch.
"There is a disease festering at the Citadel. Some of the gray sheep there have no use of magic in the world they are building," Marwyn's face twisted into a mix of a crooked smile and a pained grimace. "We are supposed to be Knights of the Mind," he scoffed. "Instead of studying the world with all in it as it is, some among my colleagues," he spat, "had been shaping it as they saw fit for longer than you Dragons have been in Westeros."
One thing was clear: Marwyn believed what he was spouting. The trick was that his belief didn't make his words true. He could be mistaken, deluded, or possibly mad, too.
"You are one of the last two Taragaryens in the world, Your Grace. The last of the Dragons, and perhaps, the last Valyrian sorcerer. Who do you think killed off the dragons back home the last time around? It wasn't gallant dragonslayers with magic swords; I can tell you that much!" Marwyn proclaimed with utter conviction. His gaze focused on Viserys, and he pointed at him with his staff. "There is no place for sorcery, prophecy, or dragons in the world certain gray sheep are determined to build!"
Marwyn's staff came to the floor with a clack of wood hitting stone. He leaned forward and offered a knowing smile.
"Six years ago, when I left on my quest for knowledge, there were three Targaryens left in the world, my Prince. You. Your sister. And Maester Aemon Targaryen, left to rot at the Wall when he should by rights have been an Archmaester like Vaegon two centuries ago! The blood you share is the why. He couldn't be trusted at the Citadel, and it might have been for the better. He was safer at the Wall, as you are safer here, far away from the Citadel and Westeros."
Viserys had to admit that Marwyn was weaving a fascinating tale—and it might even be true. He knew that ancient conspiracies and cults could be real. Revan's cultists, which he once joined before his idol returned, showing his true face, were one example. The heretical Banites, who, despite their failures, eventually led to Sidious becoming Chancellor and setting the galaxy on fire, were another example.
"Maester, get a bath and something warm to eat. We'll speak again tomorrow when you've rested," Viserys decided. Westeros might just prove even more of a headache than he suspected.
If Marwyn was right and there was a rot in the Citadel, that might explain what happened with the letters Ser Lonmouth sent for Rhaegar. Or perhaps the explanation there was more mundane, but even if that was the case, that alone wouldn't be proof one way or another.
=Sith=
Chapter 8 Part 6
=Sith=
291 AC
Astapor
The following morning, after breaking their fast, Viserys met Dany and Ser Lonmouth at the sparing ring. The knight's left shoulder was still stiff after last evening's spar – a testament to how well the little Acolyte got him. To Dany's credit, she was elated at her victory and slightly contrite at hurting their loyal Lord Commander.
Viserys took one good look at the knight through the Force and shook his head. "You're resting today, Ser Richard. Chose one of your people to spar with my sister after we're done."
Lonmouth moved his shoulder up and down, frowned, and nodded in agreement.
Viserys telekinetically pulled two practice swords out of their racks and threw one at Dany. She scrambled to catch it. The Force swelled around her, fueled by surprise and irritation. The wooden sword clattered on the stone floor before jumping in the air, summoned by the Princess.
"Better. Your performance is not remotely good enough, but it's better. When we are done, summoning the Force should be your second nature. Unless you intentionally keep it at bay, it should be your constant companion," Viserys reminded his sister, even though that wasn't entirely true.
With sufficient practice, the Force was always at your beck and call, but you weren't constantly aware of it. That was particularly true for experienced Sith, who had to learn to ignore the constant whispers of the Dark Side. Otherwise, all the information bombarding them, not to mention the Dark Side, would be overwhelmingly distracting and might just drive them insane. The downside of that approach was that things could and would slip past them unless they were a clear and present threat. The more powerful a Sith was, the fewer things could threaten them. Yet, lesser dangers remained perfectly deadly for everyone else around.
Viserys raised his blade and saluted his sister with it. She automatically returned the gesture and drew deeply from the force. Dany's eyes bled into the color of molten metal, making her look even more like a fierce little dragon. Viserys stalked forward, unleashing a flurry of blows. It was a standard opening meant to test your opponent's reaction times and strength. The kata could also be deadly, for it aimed to create an opening towards the left side of the neck and shoulder, perhaps even opening the opponent's heart for a fast jab. Armor would significantly decrease the threat. However, neither of the sparring partners wore one that morning.
First and foremost, this was a contest on mastery over the Force and the skill with a blade. Allowing the opponent's blade to touch you was an abject failure.
Dany parried the first attack and deflected a second slash. The Princess stumbled when her brother locked their blades together, breaking the pattern she was familiar with. The Force did warn her it was coming, yet she simply lacked the time or reaction speed to do anything about it. Viserys leveraged his taller frame, greater physical strength, and mastery over the Force to shove his sister's sword aside, pushing her further off-balance. Dany was open, struggling not to fall. She got a glimpse of a wooden blade flying at her shoulder – an attack that would have taken a chunk of it if this was a real fight, and let herself fall.
Viserys' sword swished through the air, and for a moment, he was out of position and balance. Dany didn't think but reacted, guided by the Force. She surged to her feet, pushing all her weight and strength behind a wild stab.
In an impossible display of strength and agility, Viserys reversed the trajectory of his blade, remaining in place as if stuck to the floor. His sword battered Dany's weapon away, and she flew face-first to the ground.
The Princess let go of her sword and used her hands to cover her face just before she hit the ground – a feat that would have been impossible if the Force flowing through her didn't enhance her reflexes. She hit the floor with enough strength to bruise and scrape her knees. A heartbeat later, Dany felt the dull top of a practice sword tapping her neck.
"Dead," Viserys declared gravely before moving away. "Nevertheless, this was a good effort, Little Dragon," he praised and waited for Dany to get up and be ready for the next round.
"It wasn't good enough!"
"You are two and ten, sister. At this rate, you will have good mastery over the Force years before your body has fully developed, allowing you to be a master of yourself and the weapons you've trained with."
=Sith=
Early in the evening, Viserys retreated to his solar with Ser Lonmouth. Beforehand, he spent hours holding court and dealing with the grievances of his people before busying himself with efforts to establish a proper security service for Astapor. The Temple of the Graces was one pillar of those efforts. Old Theo's administrators and the fledgling City Guard were the other two. The former provided actionable information, with the latter offering the muscle needed to act upon it. Unsurprisingly, finding the right people for the right jobs was the hardest part. After all, there was no institutional knowledge to rely upon – just fresh bureaucracy, old friends networks, and the basic efforts of the Green Grace to gather information through her Priestesses. Forging these three groups into a cohesive whole involved multiple full-time jobs, so it went much slower than Viserys was happy with. And that was just internal security. His efforts to establish a foreign intelligence service wouldn't really get off the ground anytime soon.
In that regard, all he had to work with were his envoys and merchants and the various rumors they brought back. Frankly, Viserys was getting more, if outdated, information from foreign merchants visiting Astapor.
All that was an acute reminder that competent subordinates were worth their weight, gold, and then some. That was one of the reasons why he was interested in Marwyn. He could prove helpful if the man was sane and knew what he was babbling about.
A bath, clean clothes, food, and rest did wonders for the Maester. He was hardly recognizable, even if he was back with his staff and book.
"Your Grace," Marwyn bowed.
"Take a seat, Maester," Viserys offered and sat behind his desk."You too, Ser Richard."
Lonmouth reluctantly joined them, making himself comfortable in another chair. Viserys pointedly levitated a cup of cool lemon water before the Lord Commander and their guest. He didn't miss how the Maester's eyes lit up at this small display of telekinesis.
Marwyn reverently picked up the offered cup and examined it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
"No chants, no sacrifices…" the Maester muttered.
"Power and intent. It's ancient magic you have to be born with, and it is perilous to master. Frankly, what my ancestors achieved in awakening it in Dany and I should have been impossible, judging by the knowledge they granted me. I shouldn't have been able to wield it as if I've been doing it for decades, yet here we are," Viserys expertly mixed truth and lies.
"All the things that have been lost with the Doom… I fear we might never recover the full scope of that knowledge…" Marwyn whispered to himself while staring at something far away. "Unless…" He stared intently at Viserys.
"For all its perils, the magic I can wield is more practical than blood magic. It doesn't require sacrifices to work. Otherwise, we would have died in the Flatlands outside Pentos or worse. The fail-safe contained knowledge about combat, strategy, and warfare in general. Everything else came in bits and pieces from the memories of warriors and generals. Some of those memories are conflicting, which is to be expected, for Old Valyria existed for thousands of years."
Marwyn's expression dropped, and he sighed. "That would have been too easy and good to be true, wouldn't it?"
"One day, my magic might allow me to visit Old Valyria and return intact, but such a possibility lies years in the future. I already have too much to deal with as things stand," Viserys admitted, laying bait for the Maester.
Marwyn perked up at the Prince's words. "It has been a very long time since someone credibly claimed to have returned from Old Valyria… the treasures and knowledge it might contain…" he moaned at the prospect of so much lost knowledge just waiting to be recovered. "If I had any idea how to get there and back intact, I would have dedicated my life to uncovering Valyria's secrets!"
"My Prince, as the Lord Commander of your Royal Guard, I am obligated to tell you that going there is not a good idea," Lonmouth pipped up, exasperated. "The rewards might be worth it, but they would be of no use to a dead man."
"I wouldn't mount an expedition to Valyria unless I am damn certain I will come back intact, Ser. I have no death wish," Viserys countered. He looked back at Marwyn. "You mentioned a warning, Maester. Out with it."
Marwyn took a fortifying sip of lemon water and braced himself for whatever he was about to share.
"Your Grace, you must understand I am not talking about a grand conspiracy led by a cabal of easily identified villains. It might have been better and safer that way. Many Maesters at the Citadel have conflicting views of the world and ideas about how it should be. As Maesters come and go, the various factions at the Citadel grow, wane, and sometimes disappear only to be born anew," Marwyn explained. "The Starry Sept is in Oldtown as well. It has been the center of the Faith of the Seven for as long as the Andals held sway across most of Westeros. The Faith has no use for magic, sorcery, or witchcraft of any kind. Finally, we have the High Tower and the Hightower family, who have been there for more centuries than I care to contemplate. All in Oldtown, inevitably mingling, interacting, and influencing each other," Marwyn smiled bitterly at that. "Then your family came. Aegon the Conqueror forged the Seven Kingdoms and reshaped the Reach with the Field of Fire. His grandson Maegor shattered the power of the Faith and ended the Faith Militant."
"Queen Ceryse Hightower," Ser Richard interrupted. "One of Maegor's Queens was a Hightower."
"No matter which version of the story you believe, Ser, Maegor mistreated her gravely and earned the enmity of the Hightowers… or perhaps it was the other way around? Did the Queen Ceryse pay for the games of her family and their entanglements with the Faith?" Marwyn looked at Lonmouth. "Pray tell me, Ser, who writes the history books everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is learning from? Who ensured King Maegor was remembered as a cruel, perhaps even a mad tyrant? And let us not forget Tyana of the Tower, his Witch bride, who nursed him to health after barely winning a Trial of the Seven."
"That was when Maegor's tyranny began, wasn't it?" Viserys inquired. He had to admit that his knowledge of his family's history wasn't as good as it should be. He knew the essential facts or believed he did but never learned many details.
"Isn't it curious who he fought as perhaps the greatest tyrant the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen?" Marwyn asked. "He fought the Faith until he broke the Faith Militant. Oldtown politics almost certainly killed the High Septon, who condemned Meagor's multiple marriages to spare the Starry Sept, the Citadel, and, by extension, the Hightowers. Wasn't it interesting that Prince Aegon rose in rebellion while King Maegor was still at Oldtown, surrounded by Hightowers, Maesters, and the weakened Faith? It might be a coincidence, of course," Marwyn allowed. "But who knows what missives reached the rest of the realm while Maegor celebrated his victory and reconnected with his Hightower Queen?" the Maester sighed. "There's no doubt that King Maegor did terrible things. But why did he do them? What information prompted him to act in such a way? Was he merely a mad tyrant, or was there much more to the story that has been buried centuries ago?"
"Those are some wild claims, Maester!" Sir Richard pointed out.
"Do you believe in coincidences, Ser? How many coincidences do you need to see before you call them a pattern?" Marwyn countered.
"Coincidences happen all day, every day," Viserys noted. He raised a hand before anyone could speak. "Trusting them is another matter entirely. Make your point, Maester."
"I am merely laying down a pattern," Marwyn stated gravely. "The Conquest. Maegor. The years leading to the Dance of Dragons and the dance itself. The Hightowers supported both sides during the Blackfyre rebellion, pitting dragon against dragon…" the Maester trailed off and looked intently at Viserys. "Your father was a good, charismatic King until Duskendale. It is very convenient that everyone blames that mess on Sarela of Myr. The last, Lord Darklyn, is wildly considered a fool, ensnared by his wife's cunt. And no one ever remembers they had a Maester or confidants of the Faith who emerged from the Defiance unscathed. Did imprisonment drive your father insane, Your Grace? Was it torture or something more sinister? Poisons and other concoctions wildly known at the Citadel can affect the mind. Calm it, or even shatter it," Marwyn sighed. "I know some, suspect much, and fear more, My Prince."
"All I hear are accusations and theories, Maester Marwyn," Viserys interjected. "Do you have any proof?"
It was plain to see that the man believed his conjecture. That didn't make it true.
"When I wanted to study glass candles and magic, I was dissuaded by some of my colleagues. They warned me that until two of the Archmaesters passed or lost their wits, such studies would be hazardous to my health," Marwyn smiled in triumph. "That didn't dissuade me. For forbidden knowledge is the sweetest of them all! I was careful. I dug in and kept my head low and my ears open. Among the factions in the Citadel, there is a group with no use of magic. The only reason they still have knowledge about it at hand is so they can better know their enemy. But I wasn't careful enough, and I had to leave, which was the best decision in my life! All I learned in Essos," He shook his head in appreciation. "My colleague would dismiss it as common superstition. Healing and birthing songs! Knowledge of herbs and surgeries dismissed by the Citadel as barbaric nonsense! And so much more!"
Another mad scientist in the making, though not quite mad yet, that at last was new, Viserys decided. Marwyn could be very useful but would need close and careful supervision. He also believed everything he said, yet whether there was an actual conspiracy at the Citadel or if he was jumping at shadows remained to be seen.
"We'll have to be even more careful than anticipated when we return to Westeros then, Maester. I am willing to offer you a position in my court in exchange for your knowledge and skills. You will also tell me who you suspect at the Citadel and beyond," Viserys offered. "In exchange, you will have access to the libraries at my disposal and all the magical knowledge we might recover in the future. You are free to learn from all the scholars and healers working for me."
Marwyn beamed at the offer, obviously feeling like he got the better end of the deal.