He stood frozen for several seconds before snapping back, blurting in a tone of disbelief, "Sheer madness! A dream fit for fools! Even the Valyrian Freehold, at the very height of dragon might and magical glory, never managed to conquer the world.
Do you have any idea what that would mean? The lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms, the howling warriors of the Dothraki, the mercenary fleets of the Free Cities... Boy, even if you told me you meant to conquer Westeros, it would sound more believable!
But even if such madness festers in your mind, why come to Oldtown—why to the Citadel—why to me? What cursed magical riddle could possibly demand the help of the old fool they scorn as the 'Mage'?"
Lo Quen did not answer him directly.
Instead, he glanced at Janice.
She understood at once, carefully drawing from her leather satchel a heavy book.
Lo Quen accepted it and, with solemn hands, placed it before Marwyn.
Marwyn frowned as he took the volume, but the moment his eyes fell on the script upon its cover, his clouded gaze flared wide with shock.
He knew those letters—High Valyrian.
His breathing grew ragged in an instant.
Forgetting Lo Quen and Janice entirely, he tore the book open with the desperation of a man dying of thirst stumbling on a spring, plunging headlong into its pages.
At times he slapped his bald head in sudden revelation, laughing aloud as pieces of long-puzzling mysteries clicked into place. At others, his face drained pale as he sucked in a horrified breath at the chilling details of forbidden rites. Then again, he would pound the table in triumph, muttering feverishly as age-old magical riddles unraveled before him.
In the dim chamber, only the rasp of turning pages and his broken gasps filled the air.
Time slipped away unnoticed.
When at last he tore his eyes from the text, the shock etched on his face had not waned—it had deepened, carved even sharper into his features.
Clutching the tome with trembling hands, he spoke hoarsely, breathless with urgency.
"This book... filled with such forbidden sorcery... where in the Seven Hells did you find it?"
His gaze burned into Lo Quen, raw with hunger and demand.
The book Janice had carried for him was none other than the forbidden grimoire drawn from the very depths of the Valyria ruins, its pages detailing the use of black stone in blood magic.
Meeting Marwyn's searing stare, Lo Quen smiled lightly and gave the answer Marwyn most craved yet least believed.
"The ruins of Valyria."
"Impossible!"
Marwyn's denial was instant, shouted in reflex. He lurched to his feet so suddenly the book nearly slipped from his hands. "Utterly impossible! No one walks out alive from the Smoking Sea—no one! That place is cursed, forsaken by gods and men alike. Any who enter are—"
His tirade broke off mid-sentence.
For Janice had drawn the sword at her waist.
When the blade slipped free, it was not with a harsh scrape of steel, but with a ringing, resonant hum that filled the room.
A chill light burst forth—cold, pure, so sharp it seemed to freeze the soul—searing through the gloom.
The brilliance was blinding, its edge unmistakable, its power undeniable. Marwyn squinted against it, his eyes stinging.
"This... this is..."
The words choked in his throat as his gaze locked on the ancient, elegant blade in her hands. His pupils shrank with shock. "Valyrian steel?!"
"The lost house sword of House Lannister," Lo Quen said evenly. "'Brightroar.' The legendary blade Tommen II carried into the ruins of Valyria, vanishing with him into that cursed land."
Marwyn stood as though spellbound, staring at the sword's cold radiance, then at Lo Quen's calm, confident face, then at the forbidden tome trembling in his grip.
Every doubt, every "impossible," melted away like frost beneath the sun.
The raw shock on his face slowly ebbed, giving way to something else—a dazed, disoriented haze, as though his very world had been upended.
At last he slumped back into his chair, eyes fixed on Lo Quen, his voice rough with awe.
"Never did I think you'd return alive from that land of death, spurned even by the gods... and bring these back with you."
His gaze swept once more over the Brightroar and the black book, his expression shaken beyond words.
"Archmaester Marwyn."
Lo Quen's voice carried the weight of command. "In the Stepstones, grimoires like this lie stacked high as mountains. They record Valyria's lost knowledge and seal away power that could reshape the world. Here in the Citadel, the truths you've pursued your whole life are dismissed as heresy—locked away, scoffed at, ignored."
He stepped closer, his gaze burning. "Come with me, Archmaester. There you'll find the magical mysteries you've dreamed of, ancient prophecies waiting to be unraveled, and treasures enough to reveal the world's true face. That's where you belong—not in this prison that shackles the mind."
Marwyn's eyes flickered with hesitation. "But I am of Westeros. I swore my oath at the Citadel, to serve its lords..."
Lo Quen answered bluntly. "If oaths truly mattered, the Iron Throne would still belong to the Targaryens. And more than that, Archmaester... your name. You were never meant to be accepted here."
Marwyn froze, staring in disbelief. "You... know my name?"
Lo Quen smiled. "Marwyn Velaryon. A descendant of House Velaryon, who survived the Doom. And Maester Aemon of Castle Black—I know his true identity as well."
Marwyn could no longer maintain his composure. A bead of cold sweat slid down his brow. "How do you know of such secrets, buried for so many years?"
In truth, Lo Quen was only speculating. He remembered from the records that both Marwyn and Maester Aemon had been pushed aside by the Citadel.
"Anything real leaves traces in this world," he continued. "Come with us, Archmaester. Stay here, and you'll never have what you seek. In the Stepstones, you'll find everything you've ever wanted."
Marwyn met Lo Quen's gaze, his eyes torn with conflict. At last, obsession with truth outweighed every hesitation.
He exhaled heavily, as if setting down a great burden.
"You've convinced me, boy. Seven hells, you really have... If you truly went to Valyria's ruins and brought these back..."
He gestured toward the sword and the book. "Then I have reason enough to believe the treasures you speak of are real. For those long-buried truths... I'll go with you."
The decision was made.
A genuine smile spread across Lo Quen's face. "Welcome, Archmaester Marwyn. Your wisdom will be our greatest treasure."
"By the way," Lo Quen added as if casually, "do you know a maester named Qyburn?"
Marwyn's face darkened instantly, as if he'd swallowed a fly.
"Qyburn? Why do you ask?" His tone was sour. "That man was just expelled two days ago. The Conclave found him guilty of an experiment that... well, grossly violated the Citadel's laws. He was cast out, and right now he's probably skulking in his stinking quarters, stuffing his rags into a bag before being shown the door."
Lo Quen's smile deepened. "That's perfect."
"We're taking him with us." His tone was light, almost playful.
He intended to recruit Qyburn as well. As for the man's fascination with human experimentation, Lo Quen already planned to provide him with condemned criminals for his studies.
"What?!"
Marwyn nearly sprang from his chair, staring as though Lo Quen had gone mad. "Boy, do you have any idea what foul experiments he was conducting? And you'd dare take him in?! That man's a lunatic, a danger to everyone."
Lo Quen's smile turned enigmatic, almost knowing. "I'd guess forbidden experiments with necromancy?"
Marwyn's jaw dropped. He jabbed a trembling finger at Lo Quen, voice caught between shock and despair.
"Why is it you always guess so damned well?! Back in Volantis, you said I'd earn some ridiculous title at the Citadel—and sure enough, that Vinegar Vaellyn stuck me with 'the Mage,' a laughingstock to all.
And now you've guessed the truth of Qyburn's madness too! I... I don't even know what to call you!"
His tone dripped with frustration and disbelief.
Lo Quen's smile only grew steadier. "That just proves you've made the right choice. Here in the Citadel, you'll only be mocked, pushed aside, your talents wasted. With me, you'll face true magic, decipher lost prophecies, and uncover the world's ultimate secrets. Qyburn's methods may be extreme, but his research direction—under the right guidance—might yield breakthroughs no one else could achieve. We need his talent."
Marwyn was left speechless. With a groan, he rolled his eyes and slumped back into his chair. "Fine, fine! I can't argue with you. Take whoever you damn well please. Just tell me—what else? Say it all now!"
Lo Quen's smile faded, replaced by solemnity. "There is one more thing. Before you leave the Citadel, I'll need your help. Can you use your authority to access a specific record for me?"
"A record? Whose?" Marwyn frowned, irritation sharp in his voice.
"Of a former High Septon."
Lo Quen's eyes darkened. "Maynard. I need to see his private diary."