Chapter Text
Oldtown.
Even though winter was approaching, the evenings in the south of the Limit remained warm and almost moonless.
Life in Oldtown wasn't exactly hectic, but it was definitely different from life outside the city, which was considered the largest city in Westeros, after King's Landing. The great distance from the battlefields of the War of the Five Kings made this city somewhat careless. Even the threat of a Greyjoy invasion seemed remote.
It couldn't be said that the residents were stupid or blind when they didn't take these dangers seriously. Oldtown was a big city. A little smaller than the Capital, but the garrison was bigger than there, and Lord Hightower was rich enough to compete even with the Lannisters.
Many residents of the city reasonably believed that the high walls, the forces of Lord Hightower, which were only in the number of spears more than in all the Iron Islands, as well as the wealth of the city would be able to scare off pirates.
It got to the point where the Tower's ships openly sailed in the nearby coastal waters, and merchant ships even from Essos itself could dock at the port despite the war.
If there was a threat from the islanders, it clearly didn't bother even those who lived far from this place, although according to rumors, the inhabitants of the neighboring continent had much more problems with piracy.
However, Samwell Tarly might have thought about it a lot if he hadn't been very tired and tired.
He sat in his room, trying to focus on the ledger on the architecture of Braavos that the Archmaester had given him to study.
The bright flame of a candle was the only source of light in a room in one of the taverns, which the Citadel allocates to its novices. Despite this, the candlelight was so bright that it was enough not only to read the book clearly, but also to dim the lighting of the entire room.
For about six months now, he had been studying to become Maester of the Night's Watch, replacing the deceased Maester Aemon. Trying to urgently study not only what anyone who associates life with this craft needs, but also what will somehow enlighten his knowledge about the Long Night and the White Walkers, he nevertheless did not come one iota closer to information about the last war with the dead.
To be completely honest, there was information, but it was not much different from what Sam found in the library of Castle Black. In the Citadel, Sam was even able to find out that in a separate section there are many scrolls and manuscripts about the magic of Old Valyria, the Priests of the Red God, and the sorcerers of the Shadowlands, far away in Essos.
And he was sure that there was the information he needed there, which would clearly tell him something new. Information that will interest him.
However, a separate section was closed. The elderly Maester Walgrave, because of his senility, did not trust his keys much, even to those who had lived and studied at the Citadel for a very long time, and certainly not to those like Sam.
A small sound came from the edge of the room, where the bed was. He snapped Sam out of his reverie, forcing him to look around. Craster's baby was tossing and turning and making light sounds of displeasure. Gilly went over to him and started cradling him.
Sam looked at Gilly and it seemed to him that only now he realized how extremely smart the girl turned out to be.
Being a wildling, she was ready to learn everything he knew himself. Nevertheless, he taught her to read and write back in Castle Black, but here, under the walls of the Citadel, she learned to read and count more confidently.
And she was good at it. And quite quickly, as a result, Samwell thought about allowing her to study more exact sciences. Healing, collecting and studying all kinds of flowers and mushrooms. He understood that a girl's entire life would not be enough to study all kinds of sciences, and one year was even less. Lily knew the language of the First People, which Sam found very useful because even in the Citadel no one knew or could speak this language, and most of the scrolls from ancient times were written in this language.
Instead, Lily spent most of her time sitting in the room for hours, cooking for him, washing his clothes, and playing with her child.
The girl didn't complain, she was too kind and modest to openly express her emotions, but Sam suspected that she expected something else from the Citadel.
By the way, he is too...
Of course, Samwell understood that girls in the Citadel were forbidden to train as masters, and he found this decision strange. He hadn't thought about it before.
Not when he was a brother of the Night's Watch. Not when he was Randyll Tarly's son.
However, the example of Lily made it clear that the women of this world are also worthy of the secrets of the cradle of the maesters of all Westeros.
Sam's morning began with lectures on the hardening properties of And steel, the trade relations between the houses, and the architectural features of the Free Cities of Essos. Maester Davion was about as boring and arrogant as Leo Tyrell, but he was more reserved about Sam because of his noble background. Gormon Tyrell's nephew, by the way, did not attend the lectures. Due to the nature of the man, Sam understood that the native of Highgarden considered this a waste of time, because Leo was confident in his knowledge, although Sam was ready to swear that the guy knew much less than he was trying to seem.
Two hours later, when the lecture was over and the students began to disperse, Sam plucked up the courage to approach the meister.
"Do you have a question for me, student?" The meester's voice was sharp as a creaking branch.
"Y-yes, Maester," Sam stammered.
"Then speak up, don't waste my time."— there was a note of displeasure in the old man's voice.
"Of course. You may not remember me very well, my name is Samwell Tarly. I am Randyll Tarly's son..."
"Oh yeah! I know! You're new. I used to know your father. He was grumpy and boring, but I respected him," Davion drawled casually.
Samwell Tarly did not love his own father. He didn't hate him, but he couldn't forgive Lord Tarly for being almost forced to serve on the Wall.
However, he didn't like Davion's words either. Of course, Randyll Tarly was not a good father, but Sam was sure that otherwise, Maester Davion would hardly have changed his contemptuous tone even if Randyll Tarly had become kinder to Sam.
“Yeah. I'm here on a very important matter. I need to get into a special section."
"A special section? You don't even have to try to search. It is unlikely that you will achieve more in studying the properties of Andals steel.
"I beg your pardon? I don't understand?" Sam asked, confused.
"Don't pretend like you don't know what this is about. After all, you are not the first one who is confident that he will be able to comprehend all the mysteries in this matter. And far from the last one, I'm more than sure of it."
The last words even sounded with a note of despair in his voice, as if the maester had long since come to terms with something.
"But Maester, I didn't say..."
"Oh Seven! I'm not an idiot, Samwell Tarly! Meister interrupted Sam irritably. Our lecture today is about the properties of steel. I've been teaching for many years now, and it's not the first time students have approached me after lectures on forging material, asking me to let them explore this topic more deeply. They expect that the special section has the knowledge that will allow them to make Andal steel equal in strength to Valyrian steel. There are even idiots who sincerely believe that they can turn and steel into Valyrian steel, can you imagine that?"
Sam, who had been listening to the maester in disbelief up to this point, now looked at him with shock and disbelief.
"Therefore, I advise you to immediately address the topic of our lecture, so as not to take up extra time..."
"I'm a brother of the Night's Watch," Sam blurted out.
"Uh... what?" asked Davion. The student's sudden and loud confession threw him off his train of thought.
"I'm saying that I'm a brother of the Night's Watch," Sam repeated patiently.
He hadn't planned on interrupting the maester, but he was already tired of the old man's tedious and arrogant speeches, who wouldn't let him insert a word to finish his thought.
"Uh... Well, yes... So what?" the interlocutor asked awkwardly and confused.
"It's simple... It was no accident that I was sent to the Citadel.
"Your maester has died and you will become the next maester of Castle Black," Maester Davion said as if it were obvious.
"That's not all. Sam added, and the maester fell silent. — It's about the threat from beyond the Wall. I need to find a way to defeat the dead, and I was sent here in the hope that I would find information about it. I've heard that there are ancient scrolls about these legends in the special section. If you'd let me..."
However, Sam was silenced by the Master's hoarse laughter.
"The dead? Are you serious, Samwell Tarly? I thought a lot better of you, man! Studying iron and steel would be much more useful to you than searching for fairy tales and legends that would confirm the tales of northern superstitious savages and their stupid old women. That's enough! I will go. I've already been late with you."
"But wait, Maester..." Sam tried to stop him.
"I don't want to hear anything," Davion said, picking up the hem of his robe on the way.
Sam could only watch in silence as the meister left the auditorium.
A few minutes later, he walked out of the auditorium himself, holding an armful of parchment and rolls of writing paper.
He wasn't too upset when Davion didn't believe him. Deep down, he knew that the maester, like everyone else, didn't believe him, but it would be a lie to say that Sam didn't have much hope. Maybe he's just in a hurry. Perhaps the fear of the dead is to blame for everything. After all, six months of training is too little to become a maester, and even less to convince everyone of the existence of the dead.
But surely this case must have at least some kind of beginning. Of course, Sam didn't waste any time and, in addition to this assignment, he was actively engaged. He already knew a little about the art of healing. He knows a little about wound dressing and how to remove weak poisons. He knows a little about herbs and which ones treat and which ones cause poisoning.
But it wasn't enough, and Sam began to doubt that he would have enough time to find at least one link in the chain.
If only Maester Davion would let him study the scrolls from the Special Branch temporarily. On the other hand, Davion was less skeptical about his alleged fascination with the properties of Andal steel than he was about his words about the dead. Perhaps if he had persistently begged the meister, the latter would probably have given him written permission to visit the section.
"Oh, you're a fool, Sam! Well, what prevented you from agreeing with his words?!" Samwell chided himself inwardly.
He was slightly comforted by the fact that the Citadel was full of masters, and he didn't have to focus solely on Davion. For example, Archmaester Ebrose.
Archmaester Ebrose was the next person he was going to see. Ebrose was responsible for medicine and the anatomy of the human body, and Sam understood that in the future he would need more knowledge about this. The situation was improved by the fact that the archmaester was kinder than many with whom Tarly communicated.
No, he wasn't kind and wise enough like Maester Aemon, but he was a gentle man. His quiet and gentle nature captivated Sam, who was almost the same as Ebrose himself.
He walked up to the Archmaester's office. Unlike Davion or the other maesters who taught in the classroom, Ebrose wanted Sam in his office. This meant that there would be no lectures, which meant he would be helping the archmaester with practical work.
Sam couldn't help but feel a surge of enthusiasm and excitement at the idea. He enjoyed reading, but doing things with his hands always made him look at the learning process with animation.
Even before he knocked on the door, he heard a commotion going on in the room, as if the archmaester wasn't alone there. His knock on the oak door of the room did not stop this strange movement, but nevertheless Sam got permission to enter.
The open doorway greeted Sam with the acrid smell of alcohol, vinegar, and..
Blood.
Sam looked inside the office and what he saw made him shudder.
While serving in the Night Watch, he had already seen dead people and a huge pool of blood. Nevertheless, he couldn't get used to either.
Therefore, when he watched the body of the person being autopsied, it was difficult for him to concentrate.
"Ah, Samwell Tarly. Come on in, you're just in time. I've been missing your company right now," the Archmaester's soft voice brought Sam to his senses.
Besides him and Ebrose, there were two other novices in the room. They were younger than Sam and did odd jobs. It seemed to Sam that Ebrose was not at all embarrassed by their presence. They didn't look into his eyes or even say a word, which made them look very much like Silent Sisters.
As if coming to his senses, Sam put down the scrolls and parchments. He put on his robe and gloves and looked at the Archmaester.
"Maester Weyland. He was repeatedly told about the dangers of alcohol, but few people would have thought that everything would turn out that way... Truly, the gods have a strange sense of humor," the Archmaester said casually, as if answering Sam's question.
The Citadel forbade official autopsies of dead people. Faith in Seven was very closely connected with the Hightower house and had her own residence in Oldtown. They did not approve of the meisters' working methods, which could somehow discredit the religious processes associated with burials.
However, Maester Wyland took care of this problem, even though he was dead. Being drunk, he inadvertently inflicted a wound on himself, which turned out to be fatal.
Since he did not die a natural death, an autopsy before burial could be considered a good opportunity to circumvent the rules and dogmas of the High Septon. However, even in this situation, a meeting of the archmaesters was held, and in the late afternoon of that day, having received official permission from the Septon of Oldtown, they took such a step.
And right now, Sam, wincing at the sight of the deceased's entrails, was weighing his liver.
"At least his death won't be in vain for our house of knowledge," the Archmaester said, pulling Sam out of his reverie.
If Samwell hadn't been so focused on his goal, he would have found the Image's words extremely cynical.
"I'm sorry, Archmaester. I would like you to consider one of my requests," Sam began very diplomatically.
The Archmaester was making notes in a book at that moment.
"And what kind of request is that?"
The Archmaester didn't even turn his head in Sam's direction, still engrossed in his notes.
"This case concerns a Special Section," Sam said, awkwardly moving his legs as he lowered the liver onto a tray and placed the heart on the scale instead.
"A Special Section? But that's for the maesters. Are you a maester, Samwell Tarly?" the old man asked, still not looking at the fat young man.
“no. Sam replied, "But I was sent to study to be a maester for a reason. The Night Watch wants to figure out how to defeat the main threat. They're sure I can find answers here, but I've been here for about six months now and I've found nothing but ridicule and disbelief. I get the feeling that I'm not welcome here."
"It's ridiculous to think that. Everyone who tries to follow the path of a maester is welcome in the Citadel," the Archmaester chuckled. He looked at the scales and, seeing the result, bent over the book again to take notes.
"Yes, I understand. However, with all due respect, Archmaester, I'm telling the truth. I've seen them. The White Walkers."
Silence reigned in the room. The Archmaester finally raised his head and looked at him with blue-gray eyes. Even the novices became quiet and somehow reduced the activity of their work.
Sam's words sounded as brave as he could. It seemed very strange and stupid to him that the mockery and disbelief of the maesters could frighten him more than the wild thanes rushing at him with an axe.
"Leave us alone!" said the Archmaester, without taking his eyes off Sam. The unusually firm tone in the voice of such a gentle man as Ebrose acted like a slap in the face.
It wasn't hard to guess who exactly he was addressing. The two novices obediently bowed their heads and left the room.
Sam was still standing there, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. The Archmaester, meanwhile, just stood silently and looked at him with his head slightly raised. It seemed to Samwell that there was a reproach in the Archmaester's eyes.
"I know what you're thinking. It seems to you that the whole Citadel is mocking you. They're laughing. And why is that? Because they don't believe you?"—Ebrose's last question didn't require an answer. Sam was confused by the Archmaester's level of observation.
Ambrose took a rag and, wiping the blood from his gloves, raised his head slightly higher than before.
"I know this because I experienced it myself, a long time ago. When I was your age, I first came to the Citadel."— his quiet and cold voice cut through the silence of the room.
"Grand Maester, I..."
"Shut up. I haven't said everything yet." The old man abruptly interrupted Sam, continuing to wipe his leather gloves.
Sam trailed off, feeling even more embarrassed by his own outburst of excessive vehemence. It was extremely important for him to gain access to a Special Section and spoil a conversation with a man who, as it seemed to him, was one of his last hopes, he had no need.
"Youth is filled with a rebellious spirit, my young Samwell Tarly, and even a timid and obedient person like you is not without it. Arguing with people over your age is normal for young men."
The Archmaester stopped kneading the cloth. He weakly threw it on the table, on which he placed his palms the next second and fixed his gaze on Sam. For some reason, this whole picture suddenly became too private for Sam. It even seemed to him for a moment that the novices standing outside the door were listening to her in the hope of hearing something.
"It's okay to question the actions of the maesters. It's also right that everyone here will doubt your words. This is the Citadel." — the old man's voice was calm and reasonable, and Sam noticed once again how much easier and easier it was for him to communicate with him.
"But not I," Ebrose said, and Sam looked up.
"I know how you feel, young Tarly. However, I was there when you first visited the Citadel and tried unsuccessfully to convince everyone of the existence of the threat you mentioned. I knew that the words you said were not an invention of your imaginary fantasy, nor was it an attempt to argue with the maesters for the sake of the argument itself, as is usually the case with young people," Ebrose said, and it seemed to Sam as if time itself had stopped for him.
"I found this situation very strange, and therefore I began to search for information about your problem from various sources," said the Archmaester.
"From the sources of the Special Section?" asked Sam cautiously.
"Including them. Various rumors, letters from Castle Black, and more. Many of my colleagues in the craft would disagree with me. Many people wouldn't even listen or even look for an explanation for the various phenomena that explain your problem. Except for me. I've studied everything you've said, and I can conclude that what you're saying is true. You've actually seen what you're saying, or at least believe it. Your words weren't a lie, and I'm still able to notice it a little bit."
Sam's heart was about to jump out of his chest with joy. Has he really found a man who not only doesn't laugh at him, doesn't question his words, but even agrees with them? It seemed to him that only now he realized how difficult his task was initially. From such a confession by Ebrose, it seemed as if a heavy weight had been lifted from Sam's shoulders. For a moment, he even forgot about his original request.
"So you believe me?" Sam put all caution and tact into the tone of his question, as if he was afraid of scaring off his luck.
"Yes, I do. Are you happy now?" said Ebrose, although it was impossible to tell from his face whether he was annoyed or pleased.
The old man turned to the notes and began to look at them, although Sam was sure that his interlocutor had not lost the thread of the conversation.
"I... thank you, Archmaester. I think you're one of the few people who believes me. At least south of the Isthmus," Sam smiled sheepishly.
"I don't think many people believe you north of the Isthmus either. Isn't that right?" the old man objected, dipping his pen into the inkwell.
Sam just nodded. Even among the northern, there were those who did not believe in the White Walkers, although their existence was confirmed by other brothers of the Watch.
Ebrose moved the subject's heart from the scales to the tray.
"We, Samwell Tarly, are not from the North or the South. We are the people of the Citadel, and the Citadel lives its own life. Without us, Westeros would be no better than what people had here a thousand years ago. Commoners tend to panic at any problem that they are unable to foresee. When the Andals invaded the continent, everyone was afraid that the end of the world would come, but it did not. When Aegon the Conqueror conquered Westeros, everyone was afraid that the end of the world was near again, but it never came. When Robert Baratheon overthrew a dynasty that had ruled for three hundred years, everyone was also waiting for the end. But it never came. And for thousands of years, we will allow them fear and ignorance, because it is difficult to expect anything else from them. The wall will withstand everything. And all the winters and the horrors that come with winter, too."
Silence fell, and the Archmaester straightened up again. Sam stood motionless, but Ebrose washed his gloves and then took them off and washed his hands.
"Please help the guys embalm the body and put these remains in jars with vinegar, and then clean up here," said the archmaester and went to the door.
The old man opened it and nodded his head towards the office, and he went out. As it turned out, the novices weren't standing under the door and eavesdropping on the conversation, but Sam didn't even seem to see it. He was still standing there. His mind was empty, and the Archmaester's words gave him an unpleasant feeling of hopelessness.
***
It had been several days since his last conversation with Archmaester Ebrose. Despite the fact that Sam had several more meetings with the head of the Conclave after him for healing, Sam tried not to bring up the subject with him anymore. Although, as it turned out, the Archmaester himself had already safely forgotten about it. Nevertheless, Sam was sure that another conversation like this would piss him off, and Tarly didn't want that.
He tried not to think about asking the maesters and archmaesters directly. By that time, Sam was generally skeptical about asking them for anything directly.
He remembered his conversation with Maester Davion and thought again that he should have lied. After all, it doesn't matter how to get permission to visit a Special Section. If it provides him with the information he needs, then he will do it. Such an action could hardly be called honest, but he found that he didn't care. He respected honor and it was unpleasant for him to feel that he looked a lot like a thief or a robber. The only thing that comforted him was that his actions were nothing compared to the meanness and treachery he had seen in Castle Black.
Sam was walking to one of the lectures, holding an armful of rolls of paper and parchment. What many novices and students especially liked about the lectures was that they didn't have to attend them. Students could skip absolutely any lecture and no one judged them for it, but those who needed to become a master tried not to miss any of the classes.
It wasn't the lecture that was important to Sam, but the opportunity to get permission from the Maester to record a Special Section. Listening to a tedious lecture for an hour wasn't such a high price to pay, if it guaranteed his success. He knew that he had become a little famous in the Citadel by asking almost every maester for access to private records. He was afraid that his request to the maester would be quickly exposed as a lie. He prayed to all the gods that he would not be ridiculed at this lecture.
However, he was not destined to reach the audience.
"You're breathing so nervously that I got the impression someone was running after you." A voice cut through the silence of the hallway.
A swarthy young man was pressing his back against one of the side pillars of the Citadel. Thin and handsome with a dark complexion, he strongly resembled a native of the Summer Islands.
"I'm sorry, Alleras! What are you doing here? I thought you were spending time with your campaign," Samwell asked delicately.
He was referring, of course, to Alleras' constant companions. Pate, Rooney, Armen, and Mollander were regular participants in all of the guy's harmless activities. Although among the entertainment of these guys there were those that were definitely not harmless.
Knife throwing, light poison trials... All this was part of their entertainment, which the Citadel did not approve of, but could do little to counter because there were no special incidents after them.
"You know as well as I do that their excessive fascination with my pranks prevents them from focusing on their studies," Alleras said.
Sam was confused by this statement. Alleras didn't look like the kind of person who would care much about the performance of novices, even if they were his friends. On the other hand, he has studied much longer than Sam himself, and according to the amount of knowledge he has, he should have already become a candidate for one of the links in the chain.
Nevertheless, Alleras lived quietly and studied various sciences in the Citadel. And it didn't bother him that, unlike the others, he was in no hurry to receive one of the insignia that said he had passed any of the sciences he had studied. If the maesters themselves didn't pay any attention to it, then the students themselves probably noticed it. At least, Alleras' friends are for sure. They probably asked him about it, and Sam, too, by the way, but Alleras, as always, answered evasively or waved off some unimportant remarks.
Although it didn't have much to do with the case, Sam still didn't bother pestering him with such questions.
"So... So do you think they will succeed?" Sam asked delicately.
The question seemed silly even to him. Alleras' friends showed more interest in entertainment and carousing than in books. Perhaps even more than anyone else in the Citadel. If Pate couldn't get any of the chains, despite studying for over a year, then others didn't show much interest.
"Speaking of which, they have no more chance than you do of becoming maesters by the end of the year." A smile appeared on Alleras' face.
The guy's words sounded soft and harmless, but for some reason Sam felt uneasy.
"Before I forget, I should warn you that Archmaester Marvin was looking for you," Alleras said.
Sam looked at him in surprise. Archmaester Marvin was one of the first people Sam met at the Citadel, but at the same time, he was one of the people Sam talked to the least.
"But why would he want me?" Young Tarly asked cautiously and somewhat confusedly.
"I have no idea. It's your business with the archmaester," the other man said casually, but Sam was sure that Alleras was hiding something from him. Alarm flashed in the dark-skinned youth's eyes.
"But I have to go to class." Can't the Archmaester wait another hour? Samwell asked.
In truth, that wasn't the reason Samwell didn't want to go to Marwyn. Marwyn had an extremely bad reputation for his craft. He did not shy away from associating with courtesans, thieves, drunkards, vagabonds and beggars. Although he had no particularly close contacts with such people, he was nevertheless not loved or respected by the maesters, and the archmaesters generally despised him. It was rumored that he was especially knowledgeable in magic and even communicated with sorcerers and warlockes from the far Shadow Lands of Asshai, and this, in principle, few people would like in Westeros.
Samwell was wary of him, of course, but not of the rumors of his sorcery or even of his questionable connections. Samwell, despite his clumsiness and insecurity, was in good standing with many maesters and even archmaesters. The same Ebrose would not have hired him as his assistant for nothing. Samwell wasn't sharp enough, but at least he understood this detail about the Archmaester's actions.
He was afraid that communicating with people like Marwyn would risk greatly disappointing himself in the eyes of such Ebrose. Sam wouldn't want to stay here indefinitely just because it would take a long time to get to the Special Section because of Marwyn.
"He said that this case is very important to you. And don't worry about the lecture. I'll let you copy off some of my notes," Alleras said.
***
Archmaester Marwyn's office was not like the usual offices of maesters and archmaesters. Instead of the usual lighting with numerous lamps and candelabra, Marwyn's office was dimly lit. Instead of permanent jars of liquids and alcohol-soaked body parts, the Archmaester was full of various artifacts and souvenirs from the distant lands of Essos. Wooden, ceramic, stone, and even iron crafts. Armillary spheres, various tablets with inscriptions in the languages of Old Gis and Old Valyria. Everything here suggested that the Archmaester had traveled a lot in his youth. Sam was most interested in the large round table in the middle of the room, on which a straight and even candle made of polished obsidian stood in the very center on a brown saucer.
It burned with a murky pale green flame, which nevertheless illuminated not a small part of the office space.
"You're more restrained. Many of my students would have already tried to touch the candle."— a voice was heard from which Sam flinched.
Sam was too fascinated. Too much to notice right away that there was a middle-aged man sitting across from him, on the other side of the table, at the edge of the lighting. He was a half-bald man with sparse and unruly hair on top of his head and thick gray hair on the sides of his head. His thick face with coarse stubble, bags under his eyes, and a perpetually greasy look made him look like a penniless drunk, which, in Sam's opinion, did not fit the archmaester's image. Nevertheless, Sam understood that this was a deceptive image, and behind this facade there was a man who knew a lot, and maybe more than most archmaesters of the Citadel.
Archmaester Marwyn's body was also deceptive. He was a well-fed man, but that didn't stop him from jumping up from his chair so quickly that Sam even jumped in surprise.
"Surely you want to hear how I managed to light it? Are you hoping for some exciting story? Alas, there's nothing exciting about this story," Marwyn said, rounding the table and pointing at the candle.
"Yes, Archmaester. It would be interesting, but you took me away from my studies for something else," Sam said bluntly, confident in his words.
"Not at all. That's exactly why I called you. Marwyn said and continued. I never thought that I possessed any abilities for secret powers, but when this candle lit up, a vision came to me in the glow of its fire."
"A vision?" Sam asked. Of course, he knew about the rumors supposedly saying that Marwyn communicates with dark forces. However, he understood that these words sounded special from Marwyn's mouth. Therefore, he involuntarily completely forgot about the lesson and the world that awaits him outside the Archmaester's office.
"Yes, Samwell Tarly. It was short-lived, but vivid."
"And about what?" asked Samwell quietly.
Marwyn looked up at him, which was no longer so good-natured.
"About the dragons. I saw the flames flare up more strongly. I saw the pyramids in the city of Essos drowning in huge columns of fire that consumed dozens and hundreds of ships off the coast. And three dragons flew up from the flames and went away to the west."
There was an unpleasant silence. The Archmaester walked over to the table and placed his palms on it, staring at the candle.
"I saw dark blue eyes burning in the darkness of the winter cold. And thousands of faceless servants, trailing behind the commander who was not a living king."
"White Walkers," Sam's words sounded like a whisper, almost soundless.
However, the Archmaester heard him.
"You saw them. Isn't that right?" he looked up at him inquisitively.
Samwell nodded uncertainly, as if he was afraid that the archmaester would laugh at him or humiliate him, as his colleagues did. However, to his surprise, Marwyn only frowned harder.
"I'm sorry, Archmaester, but I don't understand how this applies to me," Samwell asked.
"Before I called you, I got a vision again. In it, a huge octopus loomed over a tower with a torch. One of the octopus's eyes burned with blue fire and stretched its tentacles towards the tower, and a huge crow flew out of the tower and held a scroll in its beak." said the archmaester.
Sam frowned. Dragons, the dead, and a giant octopus. But what attracted him the most was the crow. The Archmaester's visions were strange in themselves, but at least they were clear. Sam didn't have to think long and wonder what the dragons and the dead were like. But the octopus made him think. And why would the crow take the scroll from the tower?
"Are you saying that the Greyjoys will attack Oldtown?" asked Sam, who was shocked by how light and casual his voice sounded.
It was only now that Sam really felt how close the threat was hanging over them. It was as if he was not in the office, but on the scaffold, where the executioner had already prepared his sword.
"That's why I called you here. Ravens arrived at the Citadel this afternoon. The city doesn't know about it yet, but it's only a matter of time. Soon, this news will be whispered on every corner," said the Archmaester and handed Sam the letter.
The letter was small and short, but the words written there were like thunder.
"Castles of the Bulwer and Costaynes... Fall? The Ironborn are looting and ravaging the surrounding area. But it's two days away from Oldtown," Sam read in shock.
"It's a grim picture, isn't it?" chuckled Archmaester Marwyn.
He sat down on a chair and began to take out a letter and a bunch of keys from his bosom. He tied the letter with a ribbon and stamped it.
"I know about your main mission. I knew that when you first arrived in the city," Marwyn said in a neutral tone.
"Why didn't you help me then?" asked Sam.
"Would you trust me? But now... I'm helping you now because I know we don't have much time. If the pirates get here, they won't spare the library either, and I won't have enough time to properly interpret all the visions that come to me. You'll have to get as much information as you can that you're looking for. Not only for yourself, but for me too. Don't waste your time on useless lectures. You haven't learned much from those old vultures anyway. It's early evening and there's practically no one in the library at this time. Hurry up."
He handed Sam a bunch of keys, and it was only now that Sam realized their necessity.
"Is that them? But ... how?" — joyful surprise overwhelmed Sam.
"Ramshackle Walgrave didn't want to give them to me, and his assistant, Pate, was no less stubborn. I'll just say that Alleras had something to put pressure on this arrogant little morel. Be careful with them and don't lose them. If you need my personal permission, then send anyone who asks about it to me. That's all, go." said the Archmaester.
Samwell didn't know what Marwyn's personal assistant had threatened Pate with, so that he immediately agreed to give the keys to the Special Section to Alleras, but he didn't care. The joy was so strong that it gave him strength that he had never found in himself before. He ran as fast as he could, and it seemed to him that he felt incredibly light, as if he had lost all the excess weight and now weighed no more than an ounce.
Marwyn just grinned as he watched the results of his motivation. He turned his gaze to the seal of the letter he was about to give to Alleras. The seal depicted a coat of arms in the form of a sun pierced by a spear.