He wore a dark purple mask that resembled a gas mask, revealing only a pale, wrinkled forehead and a pair of eyes glowing with a faint icy blue light.
A thin layer of fragile white hair lay atop his head. He was dressed in a double-breasted white velvet suit, with both sleeves hanging limp as if he had no arms. Below, he wore white lambskin trousers and brown high boots.
"Seven above!" Sam's small eyes widened in terror as he stumbled back several steps. His plump face drained of color as he cried out, "That's a White Walker. You released a White Walker! You've betrayed the people of the Seven Kingdoms and sided with… the Cold God?"
No matter how gentlemanly the figure was dressed, even with the mask on, Sam recognized its identity immediately through those glowing blue eyes.
A White Walker.
"Fool!" The maester with triangular eyes, the one who had met Sam at the docks and escorted him into the Citadel, shouted angrily. Pointing at the White Walker dressed like a Westerosi lord, he barked, "This is Ser Ice. Show some respect."
"He's clearly a White Walker. Changing clothes won't fool me," Sam said, his round face trembling.
"I… am… a clansman… from beyond the Wall," the White Walker stammered from behind the iron bars.
Sam's pupils tightened. In disbelief, he blurted, "You… can speak?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he realized how foolish they were. Of course White Walkers could speak. They were a highly intelligent species.
"Aren't you only capable of speaking the ancient tongue?" Sam asked again, suddenly noticing that the White Walker's voice no longer sounded like the soul-splitting crack of shattering ice. "What happened to your voice?"
"Ser Ice's voice naturally carries a spiritual attack. After studying it, we discovered that dragonglass can effectively block the sound waves harmful to humans," an elderly, hunched scholar said excitedly.
"This is Dr. Hadong Yin, a scholar of the occult," Robert Frey whispered to Sam.
"As long as a language exists in the world, the Citadel has mastered it. The so-called ancient tongue is merely the language of the First Men, nothing difficult for us.
Since we can speak it, teaching Ser Ice some basic Common Tongue was simple enough," a tall, thin scholar said proudly.
"Dr. Gui Lei, double-major in History and Ancient Languages," Robert added.
Sam stared blankly. "Why would you teach him the Common Tongue?"
"To pursue truth, and restore the real history," said Theobald, the head of the scholars. He rose from his seat and gave Sam a few light pats on the shoulder, praising, "Thanks to you, we finally have Ser Ice. He will help humanity uncover the secrets of the Long Night and the White Walkers."
"What secrets?"
"Ser Ice, please introduce yourself. It will also help ease the misunderstandings between the Night's Watch and your tribe," the scholarly overseer said gently to the elegantly dressed White Walker in the small cell.
"My name… is Ice. I am the Magnar — the chieftain — of the Everwinter Tribe. We invaded the North, but we are not… the demons who bring the Long Night.
We are also human, like the Children of the Forest, a subspecies from the previous era."
The White Walker, dressed with impeccable manners, spoke clearly about himself, his tribe, his race, and the origins of the Long Night.
In short, they had always lived in the Lands of Always Winter. They were neither the ice-magic First Men described in The Lies of the Ancients nor the evil beings the Night's Watch blamed for "bringing the Long Night upon the world."
"Ser Ice is also a lord beyond the Wall. He deserves the title 'Ser.' We should treat him with the respect due to a noble prisoner," said the tall occult scholar.
"This is unbelievable. You people are actually believing a White Walker's lies?" Sam shook his head repeatedly.
"At the very least, they did not bring about the Long Night. Ser Ice came to Oldtown, and all he has done is lower the temperature in the basement a little. The Long Night has not arrived.
And for thousands of years, his tribe has survived in the far north. They worship the Old Gods. They are not First Men, but they differ little from them," the scholarly overseer said.
"You've never seen a White Walker infant. They turn human babies into White Walkers. Could the First Men have done that?" Sam said heatedly.
"Even if what you say is true, what does it prove? Legends say that mischievous forest spirits once stole human children too.
And cannibal tribes among the wildlings are hardly rare.
At most, Ser Ice is an enemy of the North.
But blaming them for bringing eternal winter to the world is excessive."
"I'm not here to debate the cause of the Long Night," Sam said, shaking his head. "The Wall is threatened by White Walkers. I brought one to the Citadel for a single purpose — to use the maesters' connections to rally the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, end the civil wars, and fully support the Wall.
Whether the Long Night comes or not, and whatever its origins, the White Walkers intend to breach the Wall. That is a fact."
"The wildlings once tried to take the Wall and invade the North. Yet now they are allies of the Night's Watch.
Why can the icy folk of Everwinter not also become friends instead of enemies?" the overseer asked.
Sam looked around in shock and fury, seeing that many scholars either nodded in agreement or remained silent. Anger surged through him. "You're all mad. I'll tell Lord Hightower. I'll tell the Dragon Queen on Dragonstone. I'll tell the Night's Watch on the Wall."
"Ser Ice, excuse us for a moment."
The scholarly overseer bowed politely to the White Walker, then grabbed Sam by the arm, dragged him out of the chamber, and led him through the dim corridor for fifty meters before entering a small, well-lit room.
"Are you brainless?" the overseer exploded. "Do you think I don't understand the principle that those unlike us must harbor different hearts?"
"What?" Sam, who had been fuming moments before, suddenly looked completely lost.
The thin lips of the chief maester moved up and down like a machine gun as he spoke rapidly:
"Whether the creature you brought is a White Walker, a First Man, or—as he claims—one of the ancient remnants, it is a fact that humanity knows nothing about them.
Now that he is willing to talk, whether his words are true or false, we can still extract useful information to understand the social structure of his kind, their population, their reason for marching south, and the secrets of the Long Night. No, wait, there is no Long Night!"
"You are tricking him into giving information?"
Sam suddenly understood and felt a surge of admiration for the maesters of the Citadel. The older the ginger, the spicier it is. He had completely failed to notice all this earlier.
"Will a White Walker really fall for it?" he asked doubtfully.
"Natural selection ensures the survival of the fittest. Since humans are the protagonists of this world, it means we are superior to other species—either stronger or more intelligent.
That creature was born with powerful ice magic and is stronger than humans, which means it must be less intelligent, and maesters are the smartest among all humans.
Is it not natural for the clever to trick the foolish?"
The maester's square face was filled with pride.
Sam nodded repeatedly. Looking at the long chain around the maester's neck, he felt it was truly deserved. The reasoning was so coherent and logical that he couldn't find even the slightest flaw.
"Dr. Theobald, you must be careful. A White Walker's ice magic is formidable, and steel cages cannot contain it," Sam reminded him.
"Don't worry. Everything is foolproof. We buried more than a hundred pounds of wildfire in the ceiling," Theobald said confidently.
"What?" Sam jumped in shock. "The meeting room we were in earlier?"
"Of course. Besides wildfire, there is lamp oil and gunpowder. Once ignited, he will certainly die."
"But we were just…"
Sam felt a wave of lingering fear. If the White Walker had suddenly erupted and the maesters activated the trap, the creature would surely die—but wouldn't he also…
Seven hells. During the entire conversation earlier, those maesters had all looked completely calm. Not a single one of them even glanced at the ceiling. What kind of nerves did they have?
No wonder they could plan the Dance of the Blood Dragon, plot against the Dragon Queen, and fight the Faceless Men head-on.
Fat Sam suddenly felt genuine respect for these maesters. Setting aside character, who could compare to their fearless, death-defying recklessness?
"Did the maesters manage to extract anything useful?" Sam asked.
"Of course. Ais is merely a minor lord. Above him stands a king of monsters, and all lords obey the monster king completely."
Dr. Theobald's expression grew more solemn than ever as he slowly revealed the information he had obtained.
It might not be entirely complete, but it was organized. Clearly, the maester had been questioning with purpose and had targeted his inquiries precisely.
To be honest, the maester had indeed wanted to destroy the body earlier and prevent the White Walker from ever reaching Oldtown.
Acknowledging the White Walkers would be equivalent to admitting that the Citadel's centuries-old belief in a "real world" was a joke.
If the threat of White Walkers truly existed and only extraordinary powers could counter them, then the act of eliminating magic from humanity was essentially self-castration.
If their "real world" was a joke, then the maesters' role in orchestrating the Dance of the Blood Dragon would become a crime, one severe enough to shut down the Citadel entirely.
However, once the White Walker appeared before them, some maesters remembered their responsibilities. When a maester earns his chain, he swears a sacred oath to serve the people (and the nobles).
Furthermore, as scholars, they also possess a dedication to seeking truth.
Does this seem contradictory?
It is not.
"Maester of the Citadel" is a collective title, but in reality they are divided into two generations—those of the past and those of the present.
Their experiences differ, so their understanding naturally diverges as well.
In the past, with no White Walkers emerging and the Long Night seeming vague and unreal, the maesters could take it for granted that the White Walkers were fictional and that magic was merely a tool used by certain bloodlines to commit evil. From the perspective of humanity as a whole, extraordinary power brought more harm than good. Creating a world without magic or gods would be paradise for ordinary folk.
But now, reality was teaching the maesters harsh lessons again and again.
Rationally, they no longer insisted on the "real world" concept of their predecessors. Unfortunately, their predecessors had already driven the carriage into a dead end. There was no way to turn back—they could only keep going blindly forward.
The sins were committed by the older generation, and the younger generation now hated the very notion of the "real world."
Admitting their wrongdoing would not only be humiliating; it would destroy the Citadel entirely.
Thus, they could only bear the burden and try desperately to maintain appearances.
The maesters of the Citadel wished for a time machine. Ideally, they would travel to before the Dance of the Blood Dragon and beg their predecessors to stop their foolishness. If not, they would at least go back to the moment before ambushing the Dragon Queen, fall to their knees, surrender, and beg for mercy so she would spare the Citadel.
Without a time machine, the maesters could only publicly deny the Long Night while privately studying the White Walkers with utmost seriousness, suffering in their own contradictions.
The chief maester said, "Originally, I did not intend to involve you at all, but you insisted on making a fuss.
Since that is the case, you will cooperate with us. The maesters will play the harsh role, and you will play the kinder one, so we can uncover the monster's secrets."
Sam thought about it. The Dragon Queen had also wanted to uncover the secrets of the White Walkers but had failed. If the "smartest people in the world" could do it, it would indeed be a good thing. So he nodded and agreed.
However, he also made a request. "I came to the Citadel for two purposes. One of them has already been accomplished. The remaining one is to persuade the Citadel to send ravens far and wide, warning all nobles of the White Walkers."
"That won't do. We haven't learned enough yet. It may very well be a false alarm. The White Walkers might not even be able to cross the Wall." Theobald shook his head repeatedly.
(End of the chapter)
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