Marwyn the Mage
The capital greeted them with an unusual quiet and calm. No, of course it was still noisy and crowded—but in fOrmr visits, and Marwyn had been there more than once, everything had been far louder and brighter. It seemed the Lannisters had managed to impose a measure of order.
And the slaughter that King Joffrey had arranged not so long ago for the rising opposition had clearly left its mark on the people. The townsfolk had learned that it was better to keep their heads down and shout less loudly. Marwyn himself had heard of what had happened from Lord Tarly, who fully supported the king's decision. The smallfolk, incidentally, had already given the event a name: the Sparrow Song.
Marwyn did not give a damn about courtesy and did not even consider paying a visit to the Grand Maester—his direct superior. Pycelle, as was said quite openly in the Citadel, had long since become useless, and the only thing that genuinely puzzled the Mage was why, in seven hells, King Joffrey still tolerated that old, worthless goat.
Marwyn intended to rent a room at one of the inns and take his time deciding what to do next—follow after the king or remain in the capital and gather the necessary information here? Both options had their advantages and drawbacks.
On the road, Marwyn had learned a good deal about Joffrey, and now much required careful thought.
He took a room at the inn called The Cup and the Maiden, bathed, dined well in the common hall, and drank a considerable amount of wine while listening to the many gossips and rumors. There was much talk—of the war that had begun, of the king and his dragon, of the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Tullys, the Arryns, and many others.
He returned to his room well past midnight. Alleras and Pate helped the thoroughly bleary archmaester find his way and avoid mistaking one door for another.
To his surprise, the following morning a polite, unremarkable man knocked at his door and invited him to accept the hospitality of Ser Harald Orm.
Marwyn considered it and agreed. Why not? No one was going to kill him, and the conversation might prove useful. At first, the Mage assumed they were heading for the Red Keep. But no—he was led instead to a spacious yet deliberately inconspicuous townhouse located in a district inhabited by people of moderate means.
His host—a fit man with fine features and long hair held back by a band across his brow—rose from behind the table as Marwyn approached.
"Harald Orm, Crown Guard," he said. He wore an ordinary doublet, trousers, and boots with the tops rolled down. A dagger hung at his belt. Just an ordinary sort of man—you might look at him and think him some unremarkable fellow, perhaps even a hedge knight who, judging by his intelligent gaze, had managed to read two or three books somewhere. "I believe you've heard of us."
"Archmaester Marwyn," the Mage introduced himself with a smirk and settled into the offered chair.
Had he heard of the new service? Of course. There was never a shortage of fresh news in the Citadel, and this one had not failed to reach its walls. The king did not exactly advertise the new organization, yet neither did he conceal it. Most people seemed to think the boy on the throne had decided to play at soldiers and that nothing serious lay behind the endeavor.
But only now, looking into Orm's attentive eyes—slightly puffy from fatigue—recalling what he had already noticed: the two guards at the entrance, the young man emerging from a side corridor carrying a leather folder that likely contained documents, the quiet and order within the townhouse—Marwyn began to understand that Crown Guard was by no means a pack of layabouts and drunkards, as one of his colleagues at the Citadel had assured him.
"I would like to inquire about the purpose of your visit," Orm continued calmly, steepling his fingers.
"I need to meet with King Joffrey."
"For what purpose?"
"To discuss certain matters."
"Specifically?"
"Various issues. In particular, those concerning magic. Have you heard of it?" Marwyn replied somewhat brusquely. He could have told his interlocutor to go to hell, as he was under no obligation to report to him. Yet his plans had not fully taken shape, and there was no need to quarrel unnecessarily with one of the king's men.
"Yes, I have heard something of it," Orm replied impassively. His eyes, outwardly calm and even friendly, fixed upon his guest. "So, you wish to speak with the king?"
Marwyn understood people well, and now he recognized that the man sitting before him was serious—and in many respects dangerous. The modest clothing, the simple furnishings of the townhouse, the outward politeness—none of it deceived him. Now he was speaking with someone who possessed considerable authority and commanded substantial resources.
During his travels in the East, he had met all sorts. Some were like open books, everything on display—numerous bodyguards, rich garments and palaces, throngs of servants, magnificent women, or men — depending on who preferred whom and from which side. These people seemed to be trying to force those around them to believe in their own power and grandeur.
And then there were others—like this Orm—those who disliked undue attention and even preferred to be underestimated rather than overestimated.
"Yes, that would be desirable," Marwyn said, folding his hands over his belly.
"Do you intend to wait here, or follow after him?"
"I'll follow tomorrow," Marwyn answered firmly. The previous evening and night at the inn had convinced him of that course. The locals had spoken much about King Joffrey—and even more about his new toy: a dragon named Turquoise.
(End of Chapter)
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