The evening sunlight had already dimmed beyond the windows.
Inside the King's bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast, however, it remained as bright as midday. This unnatural luminescence came not from the red glow of flames, but from the clear, white light emanating from dragon crystal orbs embedded in the vaulted ceiling.
In a side hall adjoining the royal apartments, Archmaester Marwyn—known to many as "the Magician"—awaited the King's summons. His gaze was fixed upon the glowing dragon crystal orbs overhead, his weathered face illuminated by their steady radiance.
This was magic, was it not? Or perhaps what King Joffrey had termed "divine grace"?
How did these dragon crystal orbs emit such perfect light? Why could the similar orbs at the riverside gate record information when visitors entered the city?
Was the King's rumored transformation into a giant truth or falsehood? Had Qyburn truly witnessed the light and flames with his own eyes?
Marwyn sank deeper into contemplation, his brow furrowed.
Servants brought tea to the three visitors, then, as if by unspoken agreement, began to observe the strangest among them—Archmaester Marwyn, who continued to stare upward, seemingly entranced.
The man wore a leather jerkin that had seen better days. He was short, stout, and powerfully built, with a large head, thick neck, and square, jutting chin. Rather than resembling a maester who wielded wisdom as his weapon, he looked more the part of a dockside brawler who frequented waterfront taverns.
Only the chain of many metals that hung around his neck matched his purported station.
This was a maester's chain, the visible symbol of his learning. Each different metal represented mastery in a specific field of knowledge, signifying that the wearer's attainments had been recognized and verified by the Citadel.
Marwyn had also been awarded a Valyrian steel link, along with the accompanying ring, rod, and mask.
These rare honors acknowledged him as a master in the esoteric fields of magic and the higher mysteries—a designation that earned him the title of "Archmaester" and permitted him to sit on the Conclave, help govern the Citadel, and participate in the election of the Grand Maester.
Despite these accolades, Archmaester Marwyn's life at the Citadel had been far from comfortable.
Marwyn understood the reason all too well.
The Citadel had long despised and actively opposed witchcraft, prophecies, and magic in all its forms. The order was committed to building a world that pursued rational knowledge and rejected mystical powers as superstition.
Because of this, the other archmaesters regarded him with exceptional revulsion for his obsession with magic and arcane knowledge. Archmaester Vaellyn, known for his sour disposition, had even bestowed upon him the mocking title "Marwyn the Magician."
Yet Marwyn embraced this name gladly.
For one who believed in and recognized the power of magic, the title of magician was no insult, but rather a blessing and a mark of distinction.
Magic—this was precisely the purpose and motivation for his long journey.
Qyburn's letter had mentioned many intriguing matters: the prophecies of the shadowbinders of Asshai, the bloodline of the Targaryens, King Joffrey's extraordinary coronation, mysterious flames and light, divine grace, a screen of light capable of transmitting messages instantaneously, and a newly formed research department dedicated to studying these phenomena.
Ordinary scholars would dismiss such claims as nonsense, but Marwyn was inclined to believe them.
He understood Qyburn's mind.
Qyburn and he were kindred spirits, both willing to face uncomfortable truths and pursue them relentlessly. Qyburn's only fault was his excessive zeal, which had made him unacceptable to conventional society—particularly to those gray sheep who populated the Citadel.
Marwyn was certain that Qyburn would not jest about matters of such gravity, and reports trickling out of King's Landing seemed to corroborate the most fantastical claims.
Compared to his own eight-year journey across the Narrow Sea—long, perilous, and ultimately fruitless in its exploration—Qyburn and King Joffrey's invitation was undeniably worth investigating.
It was like flipping an uncertain coin.
Heads, and his lifelong dreams might be realized. Tails, and he would merely lose some time—though perhaps face unknown dangers as well.
Marwyn had decided to toss this metaphorical coin.
The coin awaited him in King's Landing.
To reach it, his primary challenge had been leaving the Citadel and Oldtown without arousing suspicion.
The archmaesters of the Citadel were, in his estimation, nothing but gray-robed sheep, skilled only at poisoning, debating, and scheming against one another. Marwyn held little concern about the Citadel's attempts to obstruct him.
But these were times of war.
With the exception of Lord Paxter Redwyne, whose two sons were hostages in King's Landing, all the lords of the Reach had pledged loyalty to King Renly—including the Hightowers of Oldtown.
The movements of an archmaester would surely attract the attention of powerful families like the Hightowers.
Had he attempted to travel north to King's Landing by land, Marwyn doubted he would even have reached the Roseroad before being intercepted. The roads were crawling with soldiers who asked few questions before acting.
Marwyn had wisely chosen the sea route.
Under the pretense of exploring the Free City of Pentos, he had taken ship southward, circumnavigating Dorne before sailing north along the eastern coast to King's Landing—a reasonable plan that aroused minimal suspicion.
Unfortunately, Oldtown's harbor boasted only a few oared merchant vessels willing to sail so far north.
The numerous oarsmen aboard such ships lent them flexibility in navigation, but also necessitated frequent stops to replenish food, fresh water, and other supplies.
Both Dorne and the Stormlands—territories they would skirt on their journey—maintained unfriendly relations with King Joffrey's court. Though the true purpose of their voyage remained concealed, the risk increased with each landfall.
As a precaution, Marwyn had brought with him two acolytes of special backgrounds who shared his passion for adventure and magic.
Alleras, half-Dornish and known as "the Sphinx," had smoothed their passage through Dornish inspections.
Leo Tyrell, scion of the ruling house of Highgarden, had secured hospitable treatment at various ports in the Stormlands.
Their journey had proceeded without incident.
What pleased Marwyn even more was that the coin he had metaphorically tossed had indeed landed heads up.
Qyburn had not lied—at least, not entirely.
King's Landing truly seethed with mysterious power. Divine grace, magic—whatever name one gave it—years of searching had finally yielded tangible results.
Marwyn could scarcely wait to immerse himself in the study of this power, to glimpse the fundamental truths of the world that had eluded him for so long.
The sheep of the Citadel still dreamed of eliminating magic from the world? What folly!
The knowledge of the maesters might have contributed to the decline of dragons, but it could never truly alter the nature of existence. The world had always been what it was—a realm where magic, mystery, and mortal affairs intertwined inseparably.
After witnessing the changes in King's Landing firsthand, Marwyn felt even more certain of his convictions.
Had magic returned? No—it had never truly departed.
Marwyn's gaze finally moved away from the dragon crystal orbs. He stared into the depths of the bedchamber beyond, as if he could somehow perceive King Joffrey waiting within.
When would the summons come?
He could scarcely contain his impatience. He yearned to strike an agreement with the King this very night. Any conditions would suffice, provided they did not delay his meeting with Qyburn on the morrow.
After what seemed an eternity, a young handmaiden finally entered the side hall. "His Grace summons you," she announced. "All three of you together."
Marwyn rose immediately, took two steps forward, then turned back to beckon his companions. "His Grace summons us. Come quickly."
Alleras sprang up with nimble grace.
Leo Tyrell stretched lazily before rising to his feet with deliberate slowness.
. . .
"Greetings, Your Grace."
The three visitors stood at the center of the hall and offered their salutations in unison.
The King sat upon a throne at the chamber's far end. The young handmaiden who had led them and another girl with silver hair and violet eyes attended him closely.
Marwyn glanced to his left, where Qyburn stood with his gray-white hair. The former maester smiled at him—he had grown old in the years since they had last met.
Joffrey studied the two youths flanking Marwyn with careful attention.
The fair-haired young man on the left wore clothing of green and gold, his features bearing some resemblance to Ser Loras Tyrell. This would be Acolyte "Lazy" Leo Tyrell.
The slender youth on the right possessed black curly hair and light brown skin, with uncommonly bright eyes, and wore close-fitting green garments. This was Acolyte Alleras, called "the Sphinx," half-Dornish by birth.
Alleras, Joffrey pondered, recalling theories and conjectures from books he had once read. His mind swiftly calculated possibilities as his gaze swept over the youth. Indeed, a girl concealed beneath those masculine garments.
How interesting.
Alleras shuddered suddenly, as if sensing the weight of scrutiny upon her.
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