Marwyn the Mage
The world split before his eyes.
On one side of the dancing tongues of flame stood young, fragile Daenerys Targaryen, guarded by three dragons who from time to time exhaled bursts of fire.
On the other side stood a tall, slender youth, wearing a faint, distant smile touched with thoughtfulness. Determination and resolve were frozen in his green eyes. A small dragon—barely more than a hatchling—clung to his shoulder with its claws and stared straight into the old mage's soul.
Gray sheep squeeze their eyes shut, but the mastiff sees the truth. Ancient powers are awakening; the shadows are stirring. An age of wonders and horrors approaches, an age of gods and heroes.
So it was before. So it remains now. But where had this new face in the tragedy come from?
A short, broad-shouldered man with an exceedingly wide chest and an enormous head crowned by a bulging brow, powerful arms, and a solid beer belly stepped back from his candles and thoughtfully scratched a nose that had been broken more than once. One could tell at a glance that its owner was fond of drink and swinging his fists.
This was the great—though to many incomprehensible and even terrifying—Marwyn the Mage, archmaester of the Citadel in Oldtown, who outwardly resembled a dockside laborer far more than the most powerful sorcerer of his generation.
Despite his appearance, he commanded a good dozen languages, possessed an excellent knowledge of human anatomy, and was deeply versed in history, geography, astronomy, and a host of other sciences. He knew of things and places that existed only as legends to most.
Thousands of leagues of roads and countless seas lay behind him. Over the years he had visited every corner of Westeros and Essos, the Summer Isles, the Shivering Sea, the Narrow Sea, the Smoking Sea, the Summer Sea, and the Jade Sea—and had even reached Asshai, at the Shadow Lands. Of that place he did not like to speak or even to remember.
"And what the hell am I supposed to do with all this shit now?" Marwyn threw back his head toward the ceiling and, in his long-standing habit, asked the question aloud. At times it seemed to him that the gods not only heard, but might even answer. And why merely seemed? Someone had to be sending the visions in the candle flames.
This time no answer came, though a hint would not have gone amiss. Marwyn crossed to the table, seized a large clay jug with two handles, and fastened himself to its long spout like a leech.
Belching, he set the nearly empty jug back down and surveyed the room thoughtfully. At first glance,amazing objects lay scattered in apparent disorder—skulls, fangs, bones, and animal hides; strange mechanisms; piles of books and scrolls; maps; glass and obsidian trinkets; writing implements; a cyvasse set; a staff; clothes—everything strewn here and there, and only their master knew where to find what he needed.
The scent of old, yellowed books and of dusty roads bleached by snow and rain seemed to have seeped into the chamber long ago and settled there forever.
"What the fuck?" Marwyn muttered again to himself as he paced. Beyond the narrow window, night had fallen and the stars were shining. Yet brighter than any of them blazed the signal fire atop the immense lighthouse tower of the Hightower, standing upon the storm- and time-carved cliffs of Battle Isle. Learned men knew—and had long since calculated—that in height it surpassed even the Wall in the North.
From here, from the upper floors of the Citadel, its light washed over a quarter of the western sky.
"The road east runs through the capital. I'll go there first, take a look at this princeling. And if he turns out to be a worthless little bastard, then I'll sail to Meereen from there," the Mage decided after another turn about the room.
The following morning he infOrmd a pair of archmaesters—those few who did not wrinkle their noses at the sight of him—that his affairs required his presence in King's Landing.
His colleagues received the request with full understanding. Many maesters, not to mention those of higher rank, frequently set out on journeys to satisfy their geographic, scientific, or historical curiosity.
Then Marwyn summoned his closest pupil and attendant.
"May I enter?" After a knock, the heavy door creaked open, and a slender, handsome youth appeared on the threshold, with dark, coffee-colored skin, black curls, a sharp chin, and bright green eyes. Rumor had it his father was some Dornish nobleman, while his mother was a black-skinned woman of the Summer Isles.
"Here's the matter, Alleras," Marwyn grunted instead of greeting him, continuing to pack his bag. "Go gather your things. After dinner, we leave for King's Landing. I've notified everyone who needs to know."
"King's Landing, Archmaester?" Alleras displayed concern mixed with curiosity. Emotion flickered across his face, and for a moment he looked nothing like the Sphinx—that was the nickname the other novices had given him.
"Aye."
"I am, as it happens, preparing to sit my examinations and forge my chain, Archmaester," the youth said, doubt creeping into his voice.
"Never mind, that can wait. Besides, I'll teach you on the road. Don't worry—everything's been arranged! And it's not a short journey. With luck, I'll even have time to teach you Valyrian along the way, and you'll be able to forge another link for your chain."
"That sounds appealing," Alleras smiled faintly and went off to prepare.
Though "prepare" might be too grand a word. To toss a couple of shirts and pairs of breeches into a travel bag, along with writing tools, a few books, and money not yet miraculously drunk away—that was the extent of it. And of course, he said his farewells to his friends: Roone, Mollander the Apple-Eater, Armen, and Leo Tyrell, son of Moryn, who now commanded the city watch in Oldtown.
(End of Chapter)
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