Oldtown
The waters of the Honeywine River were black.
This is not to say they are turbid or filthy; on the contrary, the river flowing outside the western walls of Oldtown is so clear that one can count the fish swimming within.
But when night falls, and the daylight recedes, before the city's lanterns are fully lit, the surface of the river takes on a deep, ink-like indigo.
The Citadel sits upon the western bank. From a distance, this oldest hall of learning in Westeros looks less like a castle and more like a forest of stone.
Towers and low-slung houses intermingle without a unified plan or symmetrical beauty.
Maesters have studied here for thousands of years, with each generation adding a floor, a tower, or a library according to its needs.
Thus, the Citadel became the sprawling labyrinth it is today.
The residential halls are built upon stone arch bridges.
On the bridges with the widest spans, the surfaces are as broad as plazas; there, the Maesters raised houses and buildings, turning bridges into streets and streets into halls.
When the night wind blows, the river flows silently beneath while the Maesters above study ancient scrolls by candlelight.
The main gate of the Citadel faces east, looking out over the widest reach of the Honeywine.
Two sphinxes crouch on either side of the entrance. These are the oldest statues in the Citadel, more ancient than any document preserved by the Maesters.
The sphinx on the left has a male face, with a thick beard, a high brow, and eyes like a hawk scanning its prey. The one on the right is female, her features softer, with an inscrutable smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Both statues possess the bodies of lions, the wings of eagles, and the tails of serpents. The serpent tails coil around the stone plinths, their scales still distinct despite a thousand years of wind and rain.
Legend says that ten thousand years ago, during the Age of Heroes, these creatures called sphinxes stood against evil and carried away the sins of the world.
They loved to pose riddles to mortals, and those who answered correctly were blessed with knowledge.
Others say these two statues stood here originally, and the Citadel was merely built around them.
The truth has long since been buried in the dust of time.
At this moment, the eyes of the sphinxes were illuminated by lamplight, the light spilling from within the main gate.
The captain of the guard stifled a yawn.
Belonging to the Oldtown City Watch, he had stood guard at these gates many times; he had seen countless Maesters come and go, and watched ravens take flight like black clouds blotting out the sun.
He had seen too much to be easily surprised.
He turned his head, noticing something different tonight.
Not far away, in the middle of the Honeywine, lay a small island called the Isle of Ravens.
On that island, the Ravenry was ablaze with light.
The Ravenry was not a place just any Maester could visit. Only the core members of the Citadel were permitted on the island.
This was the heart of their order, where meetings were held that could influence the entirety of the Westerosi continent.
The night was late. The bell towers of Oldtown had already struck seven. The guard captain pulled his cloak tighter and decided not to dwell on it.
The business of Maesters was not for him to question.
He only needed to finish his shift, wait for his brothers to relieve him, and return to the barracks for a cup of mulled wine.
What he did not know was that inside the Ravenry sat the four highest-ranking men of the Citadel.
And a fifth man had just emerged from the darkness of the Honeywine.
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Inside the Ravenry.
The Ravenry was not large. It was an octagonal stone hall with a dome shaped like an upturned wine cup.
The long table was made of ebony, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Four Maesters sat along the sides.
At the head sat an old man with hair and beard as white as snow. He was thin, his eyelids drooping as if he were half-asleep.
This was Archmaester Vaemond, the Seneschal of the Conclave. He had served the Citadel for seventy-four years and was ninety-seven years old.
He had witnessed five Targaryen Kings: Aegon the Conqueror, Aenys the Abomination, Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and the recently deceased Viserys I.
Now, he was witnessing a sixth: Aegon II. He couldn't help but shake his head. To him, the Targaryen Dragonlords were invaders and outsiders.
In his view, the Targaryens were unpredictable, half-sages, half-madmen. He had seen firsthand how poorly the Seven Kingdoms were ruled when a Targaryen "freak" was in charge.
But the key was their dragons. For years, the Citadel had tried to "civilize" the royal scions, but of the current generation, three caused him the most headaches: Daemon, Aemond, and Rhaenyra.
Opposite Vaemond sat a round-faced middle-aged man whose mouth naturally turned upward in a perpetual smile.
His name was Maester Garth, and he was responsible for the Citadel's correspondence with the great noble Houses.
No one in Westeros knew the tangled webs of marriages and blood feuds better than he.
To the left sat a bald, short Maester with a deeply furrowed brow named Noren, who managed the Citadel's internal affairs as its High Steward.
To the right was the youngest, in his early forties, with streaks of silver in his black hair and eyes as sharp as knives.
He had no name, at least none in the official records. The Maesters referred to him only by his moniker: "White Raven."
He handled all secret reports sent back by Maesters serving the noble Houses.
These four men rarely appeared in the same room at once, but tonight, they had all gathered.
One seat at the head of the table remained empty, reserved for a guest who had yet to arrive.
Archmaester Vaemond sighed.
"He is late."
Maester Garth smiled. "My Lord, the High Septon is of advanced age. It takes an hour to travel here from the Starry Sept."
"My Lord, why must we be so cautious as to hold this meeting in the middle of the night?" Steward Noren asked without looking up from his ledgers.
"Cautious?" Vaemond opened his eyes.
They were clouded, yet they exerted an invisible pressure on the other three.
"Noren, if we take a single wrong step in what we are doing, we face total ruin."
Faced with the rebuke, Noren set down his book.
"My apologies, Lord Vaemond."
The old Archmaester said no more. A soft knock came from the door. Maester Garth rose quickly to open it.
The night wind rushed in, swirling a few raven-feather quills on the table.
The High Septon stepped into the Ravenry. He wore a deep brown monk's robe, the hood concealing most of his face and leaving only a sharp jawline visible.
A young brother followed him, carrying a bronze chest in his arms.
The High Septon signaled; the young brother placed the chest on the table, bowed, and withdrew, gently closing the door behind him.
The High Septon removed his hood. It was a well-maintained face, but the Archmaester knew he was in his nineties, the same age as himself.
His eyes were gentle, his mouth curved in a smile. He looked at the four Maesters and nodded slightly.
"The Seven be praised."
Only Garth smiled in return. "The Seven be praised."
The other Maesters merely nodded.
They valued their freedom of belief, a privilege granted to the Citadel by the Faith.
The High Septon's smile faded. He walked to the empty seat at the head of the table, sat down, and pulled the bronze chest toward him.
"Let us begin," he said.
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