Beyond the Citadel's high walls, the noise of the city faded.
Lo Quen slipped into a narrow alley and stopped before a shabby wooden door, its paint peeling. He raised his hand and knocked.
The hinges creaked open to reveal a tall, thin old man with a slight stoop. His weathered face was lined like a parched riverbed, blue eyes sunk deep beneath folds of skin, sparse gray-white hair clinging flat to his scalp. Most striking of all was the faint smile at his lips, at once kindly and quietly shrewd.
"Hello," the old man said gently. "Who are you looking for?"
Lo Quen returned the smile. "Forgive the intrusion. Are you Maester Qyburn?"
The old man's expression did not change. He gave a small nod, then slowly shook his head. "Three days ago, perhaps. But now the Conclave has stripped me of the title."
His voice was calm, as though stating something of no consequence.
Meeting those mild blue eyes directly, Lo Quen spoke without preamble. "Maester Qyburn, if I were to give you full support—resources, a secure place to work, even experimental subjects—for your research into necromancy and other fields, would you join my cause?"
For a moment the smile in Qyburn's eyes wavered, a sharp glint flickering beneath it. He showed no outward surprise, only tilted his head, studying the stranger with quiet curiosity.
"And who might you be?" His tone remained level, but carried a probing weight.
"I am from the Stepstones," Lo Quen replied evenly. "I came to the Citadel to seek out minds like yours—men driven to uncover the world's deepest mysteries, yet bound and scorned by prejudice."
He mentioned nothing of Marwyn, but the words alone were enough to stir something in Qyburn.
The smile at the corners of Qyburn's mouth deepened slightly. He asked no more questions, nor did he hesitate. He simply nodded. "I understand."
Stepping aside, he gestured toward the interior. "Wait here. I'll pack my things. I can leave with you now."
His tone was as casual as if he were stepping out to buy bread.
Lo Quen paused, surprised by how swiftly—and eagerly—he agreed. But he understood at once.
This "madman" cast out of the Citadel was, at his core, a pure scholar consumed by obsession. Give him the means to pursue knowledge, and reputation, identity, even morality itself meant nothing.
Such a man, once his true need was recognized, was easily won.
Lo Quen watched him turn back into the cramped room and begin gathering his possessions—jars, odd specimens, papers covered in strange symbols—with a speed that was orderly, not frantic. The sight only strengthened Lo Quen's conviction.
Soon Qyburn emerged with a worn leather case in one hand and a bulging canvas bag in the other—clearly filled with his cherished notes and tools.
"All set. Let's go."
The same calm smile remained on his face.
Lo Quen nodded and quietly led this freshly "recruited" talent from the alley. He escorted him to the oared galley moored at the harbor, guarded by picked men, and ordered the sentries to keep him safe. Only then, reassured, did he turn back toward the Citadel.
When he pushed open the door to Marwyn's cluttered chamber—a mix of alchemical workshop and storeroom—the air inside was utterly changed.
Marwyn sat hunched in his battered chair, surrounded by mountains of books, his face lit with a focus and solemnity Lo Quen had never seen before, even tinged with humility.
He was firing off question after question about blood magic at Janice, seated opposite him.
She answered calmly, violet eyes shining with intelligence, her replies measured and precise. Now and then she quoted directly from the forbidden tome, and each time Marwyn's eyes went wide with sudden comprehension, his palm slapping against his thigh in delight.
When he saw Lo Quen return, Marwyn's head snapped up, his whole face alight with near-manic excitement. Pointing toward Janice, he cried out in his rasping voice, overflowing with awe and exhilaration:
"Eastern lad! You're back at last! Gods, you've opened my eyes! Miss Janice... her grasp of magic's essence, her command of Valyrian sorcery—she could forge a Valyrian steel link here at the Citadel. No—two! This girl is a genius!"
His tone rang with the joy of a man who had stumbled upon buried treasure.
Janice flushed faintly at the praise, pale cheeks tinged pink, though her bright eyes never faltered.
Lo Quen gave her an approving glance, then turned to Marwyn and went straight to the point.
"Archmaester Marwyn, what of High Septon Maynard's diary? Did you have it sent over?"
"Diary? Ah! Yes, yes!" Marwyn smacked his shiny forehead as if just remembering, then leapt from his chair and lunged toward the desk that looked like a disaster zone.
Both hands rummaged through the heaps of parchments, glass vessels, and mineral samples, muttering under his breath. "I remember… Petyr brought it over and I just tossed it… Seven hells, where did it go? Petyr swore it was under this stack of drafts..."
"Petyr?" Lo Quen's heart gave a jolt.
That mediocre apprentice who had lingered in the Citadel for years without achieving anything, never forging even a single link?
The name pulled loose fragments of memory about that "nobody."
Petyr had been obsessed with Rosey, the serving girl at the Quill and Tankard, desperate to claim her maidenhood.
To get the coin he needed, he struck a deal with a mysterious alchemist.
He traded the master key stolen from Archmaester Walgrave—the key that opened every door in the Citadel—for a single golden dragon.
In the end, Petyr died a fool's death, losing both life and fortune.
But Petyr's fate was not the point.
What mattered was that the so-called alchemist—almost certainly Jaqen of the Faceless Men—likely assumed his identity after his death, using the key to slip deeper into the Citadel.
Why would the House of Black and White go to such lengths, sending one of the Many-Faced God's finest servants into this fortress of knowledge?
What was their true aim?
One theory lingered in Lo Quen's mind: Euron Greyjoy had once boasted to his brother Victarion that he owned a dragon egg, claiming he tossed it into the sea in a foul mood.
But that had been a lie. The truth was that Euron, eager to rid himself of his brother Balon, had hired the Faceless Men.
And the price he paid was likely that very dragon egg.
If that were true, then Jaqen's infiltration of the Citadel had a clear purpose.
The Faceless Men needed a way—some lost secret, or some powerful relic—to awaken that fossilized egg.
Lo Quen's thoughts raced like lightning until Marwyn's gravelly cry snapped him back to the present.
"Ah! Here it is! Seven bloody hells, how did it end up under this pile? I swear I checked here already."
He pulled out a book with an ancient binding from beneath a mound of mineral samples, clutching it as if it were treasure.
Its cover was deep red leather, trimmed with faded blue thread, solemn and mysterious.
Lo Quen stepped forward at once and took High Septon Maynard's diary from Marwyn's hands.
Panting, Marwyn wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, peering at him suspiciously. "High Septon Maynard served more than ten years ago. Where in the seven hells did you dredge up this old business?"
Lo Quen didn't answer. He flipped through the fragile, yellowed pages swiftly, his eyes skimming the faded ink with precision.
At last, near the end of the book, in a corner where the paper was frayed and curling, one entry seized his attention.
The script was clear, written with solemn care:
"...At the earnest request of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, I dispatched a septon to the shore of Gods Eye to officiate the sacred marriage between him and Lady Lyanna Stark, binding them in an eternal vow before the Seven..."
Has Rhaegar gone mad?!
A storm of shock roared through Lo Quen's mind.
He had always believed the story of Rhaegar and Lyanna's marriage—shown in the series—was mere invention. Yet here it was, in black and white.
But there was a difference. The diary didn't say Rhaegar sought to set aside Princess Elia. He meant to follow Aegon the Conqueror's path—two wives.
"Impossible! No, this can't be true! How could this be?!"
Marwyn leaned over, cloudy eyes locking on the words.
His face went ashen, drained of all blood. With shaking hands he tore the diary from Lo Quen's grip, clutching it so tightly his fingers trembled. His voice rasped, cracking under the weight of disbelief.
"Rhaegar... he actually wed Lyanna... before the Faith of the Seven... bound in marriage under the gaze of the gods?! Gods above!"
The shock nearly knocked him off his feet, his body swaying.
If this diary were ever revealed, it would set all Westeros aflame.
Robert's rebellion had been justified on the claim that Rhaegar kidnapped and imprisoned his betrothed Lyanna. This diary would tear that justification to shreds.
...
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