"Archmaester Marwyn..."
Lo Quen's voice was steady. "The evidence speaks for itself. You've read the High Septon's own words. Prince Rhaegar did not abduct Lyanna Stark. At least on that day by the Gods Eye, they were of one heart, freely joining as husband and wife under the gaze of the Seven, swearing a sacred vow."
Marwyn slumped into his chair as though his spine had been ripped away. Clutching his head, he groaned in anguish. "But why? Why would Rhaegar do this? He already had a lawful wife, Princess Elia Martell! She gave him Rhaenys and Aegon! Why?!"
He could not understand. As a Velaryon of ancient blood, his loyalty naturally aligned with House Targaryen. To him, Rhaegar's actions were nothing short of self-destruction.
Lo Quen stepped closer, his tone carrying the weight of history. "The dragon has three heads, Archmaester. You and Maester Aemon were close—you must know the prophecy. After birthing Aegon, Princess Elia was frail, unable to endure another child.
Rhaegar... he must have believed it utterly, convinced he bore the duty of saving the world by bringing forth three children, three heads of the dragon. And it would not have been without precedent. Did not Aegon the Conqueror wed both his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys?"
Marwyn lifted his head, sorrow and confusion filling his eyes. "I know the prophecy. Aemon cherished Rhaegar, believing him the prince that was promised... But does prophecy excuse betraying his marriage vows, trampling on Dorne's loyalty, and enraging the wardens of the North? He was a fool! He could have secured his throne first, then considered it! And he should never have chosen the betrothed of one of his bannermen's heirs. Gods!"
He shook his head in despair. "And the Faith—the sanctimonious hypocrites! How could they consent to preside over such a blatant act of bigamy? Was Maynard mad?"
Lo Quen considered for a moment, then said thoughtfully, "Prince Rhaegar was no fool. He may have promised High Septon Maynard some great boon—perhaps special privileges for the Faith once he took the throne. But the Targaryen downfall came too swiftly. Under the stag's crown, those promises could never be honored.
For the Faith, revealing this truth would be a scandal of the gravest sort, one that would shatter its sanctity and authority. So the survivors, and the Faith itself, chose silence, burying the secret forever."
Lo Quen mused privately that Maynard must have been a rare sort of man—writing everything down in his diary.
He patted the old Archmaester's shoulder, trying to pull him back from his grief.
"Archmaester, enough. The past is done. What matters is the future."
Marwyn let out a bitter laugh. "The future? You uncovered this book for one reason only—to use it when you invade Westeros, didn't you?"
Lo Quen shrugged. "If Aegon the Conqueror could do it, why shouldn't I try?"
Marwyn barked out a laugh, incredulous. "Aegon had three dragons. How many do you have?"
Lo Quen met his gaze calmly. "That depends on your brilliance, Archmaester."
Marwyn glared at him, struck speechless, unable to fathom what trick this cunning Easterner was preparing.
"Enough, Archmaester Marwyn."
Lo Quen cut the tension with a timely shift. "Let us set aside this unpleasant lesson in history. I have one last request—something that requires what little influence you still hold within the Citadel."
Marwyn's face darkened at once, suspicion sharpening his eyes. "You... you want to dig through someone else's diary now?"
Lo Quen shook his head, his gaze settling on the ring of keys at Marwyn's belt. "I've heard that each Archmaester possesses a unique master key, able to open nearly every door in the Citadel—even those forbidden halls closed to ordinary apprentices."
His voice carried a quiet curiosity. "So tell me, Archmaester, what secrets are hidden in the deepest vaults of this fortress of knowledge?"
Marwyn sprang upright like a cat with its tail stepped on. "I knew it! I knew you weren't here for honest reasons. You're after the Citadel's hidden hoards!"
He jabbed a finger at Lo Quen furiously. "Even if I gave you the key, it wouldn't help. The Citadel is full of eyes—apprentices everywhere. Your face stands out too much. You wouldn't even reach the locked gates of the Forbidden Books before guards or meddling students stopped you!"
Lo Quen said nothing. He only smiled faintly, raising his hand and brushing the ruby hidden in his sleeve.
A faint, almost imperceptible ripple of magic spread across his body.
In the next instant, before Marwyn's horrified eyes, Lo Quen's features, build, even his clothing twisted and changed.
In just a breath, the figure standing before Marwyn had become another "Archmaester Marwyn."
The same shabby clothes. The same crooked nose. The same protruding brow. Even the sharp, irritable glint in his eyes was mimicked to perfection.
"Gods... seven hells!"
Marwyn's eyes bulged round as saucers. He pointed a trembling finger at the mirror image before him, struck dumb.
Lo Quen rolled his neck, adjusting to the new body, then raised his hand, palm up, calmly meeting the real Marwyn's gaze.
Marwyn's face twisted through several emotions before collapsing into a sigh heavy with defeat and resignation.
With a bitter curse, he yanked a key from the jangling ring at his waist—the oldest-looking one, etched with fine runes across its surface—and slammed it into Lo Quen's palm. "Take it! Go on then! I'll never set foot in this damned Citadel again. Do whatever you please."
Lo Quen closed his fingers around the cold metal, then, imitating Marwyn's gravelly voice, assured him, "Don't worry. I'll just have a look around, satisfy my curiosity. I won't cause trouble."
"Hmph! You've stirred up more than enough already!"
Marwyn rolled his eyes, slumping back into his rickety chair and turning his back with a scowl, as if to say, "Out of sight, out of mind."
Lo Quen didn't linger.
On his way out, his sharp gaze caught a rolled parchment on Marwyn's cluttered desk. He tugged it free and unrolled it—it was a detailed map of the Citadel, carefully drawn, marking every tower, library, and hall.
"I'll borrow this," Lo Quen said, giving the map a shake. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed open the door and strode into the maze-like corridors, wearing Marwyn's face as his disguise.
With the map as his guide, he headed straight toward the restricted libraries marked with special symbols.
His steps mimicked Marwyn's impatient, distracted gait. Apprentices and junior maesters hurried past, but when they caught sight of his familiar face, they simply bowed respectfully and scurried aside. None dared question where the eccentric "Mage" was going.
Yet after checking several rooms labeled "Secret Treasures" and "Ancient Manuscripts," Lo Quen felt only disappointment.
The books and scrolls were ancient and rare, some filled with forbidden knowledge, but none contained the crucial secrets of dragon incubation or taming—especially nothing on reawakening "dragon egg fossils."
It seemed that after the dragons' extinction, the Citadel had deliberately suppressed, sealed away, or even destroyed such lore.
Standing in a quiet corridor, map in hand, Lo Quen frowned, weighing whether to abandon the search. Then his eyes strayed to the map's edge, where the Honeywine split around a small island within the Citadel's grounds.
The island bore a name: Isle of Ravens.
At its center was a lone building marked with a symbol. Ravenry.
Ravenry?
Lo Quen's pulse quickened.
He remembered now. One of the Citadel's oldest buildings, once the stronghold of a pirate lord, later converted to house the most ancient and least-used records.
The most obvious places were often the most secure, but the forgotten corners of history... those might hold real treasures.
He changed direction at once, following the map across a wooden bridge linking the main campus to the Isle of Ravens.
The island was quiet, shaded with trees.
At its center rose an ancient tower of dark gray stone, its walls draped in vines, radiating the weight of centuries.
The Ravenry.
Lo Quen approached its heavy, green-patinated doors and drew out the brass master key.
The key slid into the lock with a click, and the bolt gave way.
He pushed the door open.
Inside was dim and thick with the smell of old paper and dust.
The ground floor was large but sparse and untidy, littered with scrolls and books long abandoned.
Lo Quen did not linger.
He found a narrow spiral stair, just wide enough for one man, and climbed.
The Ravenry wasn't tall, perhaps fifty feet.
He soon reached the top floor, where a single oak door waited, bound by an ancient lock.
The master key turned smoothly, and the door swung open with a groan.
A heavier, mustier smell of decay greeted him.
It was a low attic, thin light slanting in through small, high windows, shafts of sun illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air.
At its center stood a single massive oak bookshelf, draped in cobwebs.
The shelves held only a few scattered books and scrolls, their condition worse than anything below. Pages curled and yellowed, covers torn, worm-eaten, all cloaked in thick dust.
Lo Quen held his breath and stepped closer, brushing dust aside and turning through the books one by one.
Most contained trivial records from the Citadel's earliest days, or theories long since disproven.
Then his fingertips brushed a thick tome with no cover, its spine bare and rough.
He slid it free, blew off the dust, and opened it.
With a single glance, his heartbeat quickened.