The Citadel's library always smelled of two things: the musty odor of ancient parchment and the never-extinguished scent of beeswax candles. Samwell Tarly's fingers brushed against a faded copy of "The Westeros Chronicles," his fingertips coated in fine dust—he had been buried in these books for three days, even having meals delivered to his table by an apprentice, all to find a single mention of "Others."
"Maester Tarly, the Archmaester wants to see you in the restricted section." The voice of a young apprentice from the doorway broke Samwell's concentration. He hastily stuffed the recently found "A Study of Eastern Dragon Traces" into his robes, and when he stood up, his knee clicked—the stiffness from sitting for so long reminded him of his frozen joints during his Night's Watch days at Castle Black.
The restricted section was in the deepest part of the library, with thick oak doors carved with the High Valyrian phrase "None but Maesters may enter." The Archmaester was an old Maester with graying hair, holding a scroll bound with a silver chain, his eyes behind his spectacles as sharp as a hawk's: "You've been researching 'dragons' and 'Others'? The Citadel does not study nonsense."
Samwell's palms instantly became sweaty, the "A Study of Eastern Dragon Traces" in his robes pressing painfully against his ribs. He thought of Jon's predicament at the Wall, and of the Night's Watch brothers torn apart by the Others, and suddenly mustered his courage: "It's not nonsense, Archmaester. I saw wights with my own eyes at the Wall; they fear neither swords nor knives, only wildfire and dragonglass—and the Free Cities are all abuzz with rumors of a woman in the East who rides dragons, a descendant of Targaryen."
The old Maester sneered, throwing the silver-chained parchment onto the table: "Targaryen? They should have died out three hundred years ago. This scroll, 'The Stark-Targaryen Alliance Record,' dates back to the time of Jaehaerys I, speaking of the two great Houses joining forces against pirates from the Iron Islands—it's nothing but waste paper now."
Samwell's gaze, however, was drawn to the pattern on the parchment: a Direwolf intertwined with a three-headed dragon. Though the writing below was blurred, he could make out "...dragonflame can break the Others' bodies, House Stark guards the northern border, House Targaryen quells the southern rebellion..." His heart leaped, and his fingers trembled as he traced the words: "Is this true? dragonflame can fight the Others?"
"Just an ancient's fancy." The old Maester turned to leave but was stopped by Samwell. He pulled out Jon's reply from his robes—the edges of the letter still stained with snowmelt from the Wall, on it a crooked Direwolf, next to it a small flame, and on the back only one sentence: "News from the East, dragonflame may aid the North. Quickly find the connection between dragons and Others."
"Jon is the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch; he wouldn't lie to me." Samwell's voice was soft but carried an unprecedented determination. "The Others have already passed the Haunted Forest and will soon reach the Wall. If dragons truly exist, if dragonflame is truly effective, we cannot stand idly by."
The old Maester stared at the Direwolf sigil on the letter, silent for a long time, then finally sighed: "In the third row of the restricted section, there is a scroll called 'the children of the forest's chronicle.' It mentions 'the cold darkness' and 'the burning light.' You can go look—but don't tell anyone else; the old conservatives of The Citadel won't accept these things."
Samwell practically ran into the restricted section. The bookshelves in the third row were covered in dust, and it took him a great effort to pull out "the children of the forest's chronicle." The parchment was made of tree bark fiber, so fragile it might crumble at a touch. Ancient symbols were written on it with charcoal, with scattered annotations in the Common Tongue: "...the Night King was born from ice, fearing the ancient flame—that flame carries the power of blood, it is the breath of the dragon..."
"The breath of the dragon..." Samwell murmured, suddenly remembering a story Maester Aemon had told him at Castle Black: The Mad King Aerys was obsessed with wildfire, saying "fire purifies everything." At the time, he thought it was madness, but now he understood that it might be an instinctive recognition of dragonflame within the Targaryen bloodline.
"Maester Tarly!" The apprentice's voice came again, this time with urgency. "A traveler from Meereen says he wants to see the Maester who studies Eastern affairs; he has news about the Mother of Dragons!"
Samwell immediately put down the chronicle and hurried to The Citadel's reception room. The traveler was a merchant dressed in Slaver's Bay attire, his face showing the fatigue of a long journey. In his hand, he held a black scale—the scale had a metallic sheen, and its edges still carried a faint scent of flame. "This was picked up on the battlefield in Meereen," the merchant said. "That woman named Daenerys, riding three dragons, liberated the slaves and is now preparing to fight the Golden Company. She has a man with a dragon-sigil necklace by her side, and he even asked about House Stark in the North."
Samwell took the scale, his fingertips feeling the lingering warmth, as if he could still smell the scorched scent of dragonflame. He suddenly remembered the flame mark in Jon's letter, and the pattern on "The Stark-Targaryen Alliance Record." All the fragments connected at this moment: the Targaryen dragons, the Stark North, and the impending Others—these three would eventually intertwine.
"I need to write a letter to the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Samwell told the merchant. "Can you take the letter to the Wall for me? I will pay you handsomely."
The merchant nodded: "I'm going to the North to find my family; it's on my way."
Samwell returned to the library and quickly wrote by candlelight. He included the records from "the children of the forest's chronicle" about dragonflame fighting the Others, as well as the news about Daenerys brought by the traveler, all in the letter. Finally, he attached a copy of "The Stark-Targaryen Alliance Record," carefully sealed it in an envelope, and drew a Direwolf and a three-headed dragon at the seal—a symbol of the two great Houses' ancient alliance, and a hope against the coming winter.
The candlelight flickered, illuminating Samwell's shadow. He looked at the pattern on the envelope, suddenly feeling that he was no longer the bookworm hiding behind Jon, but a Night's Watchman, a Maester, a bridge connecting the Eastern dragonflame with the Northern ice. He knew that this letter might change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, allowing dragonflame and the Direwolf to stand side by side once more, to fight the darkness that was about to engulf the world.
The moonlight from outside the window spilled into the library, falling on "A Study of Eastern Dragon Traces." Samwell gently stroked the pages, as if he could see distant dragon shadows soaring across the sky, and hear the horns of the Wall echoing in the wind. He took a deep breath, handed the letter to the merchant, with only one thought in his mind: Jon must receive this letter, dragonflame and the North must unite, and this last hope must be preserved.