Acolyte Qoren looked at the shelves full of wine before him, his eyes wide with wonder and growing panic.
He stood in a vast underground chamber, one of the oldest wine cellars in the Seven Kingdoms, carved deep into the bedrock beneath Oldtown centuries ago. The walls were thick stone, cool and slightly damp, maintaining the perfect temperature for storing fine vintages. Arched alcoves lined the chamber, each filled floor to ceiling with racks holding hundreds of bottles, all carefully positioned on their sides. He raised the torch he carried higher, the flame casting flickering shadows across labels written in flowing script, some so faded with age that they were nearly illegible.
The varieties were staggering. Shelf after shelf held wines from the Arbor: golden vintages, deep reds, and sweet dessert wines that the Redwyne vineyards were famous for across the known world. Qoren recognized some of the years marked on the bottles: 5267 AL, 5255 AL. These were from forty years ago, and some were even older.
But the Arbor wines were just the beginning. Other sections held bottles from across Westeros and beyond. There were Dornish reds, thick and potent. Northern hippocras from White Harbor, spiced and warming. Wines from the Riverlands, lighter and fruitier. Even some from the Vale, crisp whites from the mountain vineyards.
And then the Essosi selections. Tyroshi pear wine in distinctive green bottles. Pentoshi amber wine. Volantene reds said to be thick as blood. Wines from Qarth with labels in exotic script Qoren could not read. And there, in a corner section reserved for the truly exotic, bottles from Slaver's Bay: Meereenese wines in clay vessels sealed with wax, some marked with the harpy sigil.
Qoren was amazed. He had never been in this cellar before, had never even known it existed in his three years at the Citadel. Archmaester Theomore had summoned him with an expression Qoren had never seen on the old man's normally stern face: genuine happiness, almost giddy excitement. He had asked him to come here and fetch "the best wine from the far end."
But Qoren had been looking for some time now, and he could not choose.
"Arbor Gold, 5214 AL," he muttered to himself, reading a label. "It says here it was a particularly good harvest…"
He moved to another section. "Dornish Red, aged twenty years in oak casks…"
Another bottle caught his eye. "Pentoshi… I cannot even pronounce this. Sixty years old?"
He did not know much about wine. How could he possibly choose? What made one vintage better than another? What did Archmaester Theomore mean by "best"? The oldest? The rarest? The most expensive?
He began to panic, his breathing quickening. What if he chose wrong? What if he disappointed the Archmaester on what was clearly an important occasion?
Suddenly, Archmaester Theomore's voice came from behind him, echoing slightly in the stone chamber.
"Boy! Where are you?"
Qoren began shaking. He had failed. He would be punished for not being able to complete such a simple task. Archmaesters did not tolerate incompetence, and Theomore, for all his current good mood, was known to be particularly harsh with acolytes who disappointed him.
He turned to see Theomore walking down the steps into the cellar. What was more disturbing was that the smile Qoren had seen on the Archmaester's face was still there, unchanged, as if nothing could dampen his spirits today.
"I... I was just about to come, Archmaester," Qoren stammered, his voice breaking. "I was trying to find the best one, but there are so many, and I wasn't sure which—"
"Bah!" Theomore waved a hand dismissively as he walked past Qoren. "It was a mistake sending you. You don't know wine. How could you know where the best bottle is kept?"
He moved deeper into the cellar, to the very far end where the most exotic bottles sat in darkness. He began muttering to himself, running his fingers along dusty labels.
"I swear it was here... yes, this section... no, not that one... where did we... ah!"
He pulled a bottle from a high shelf with a triumphant cry.
"Aha! There it is! Lengii blood wine!"
He held it up to the torchlight, examining it with the care one might give a precious gem. The bottle was distinctive: dark glass, almost black, with a label written in strange characters Qoren had never seen before.
"Three hundred and seventy years old," Theomore said reverently. "And perhaps the last bottle in existence. The only wine in the world that won't be undrinkable even after four hundred years. This, Qoren, is a special one."
Qoren found his voice, curiosity overcoming his fear. "I've never heard of that, Archmaester."
Theomore laughed, a hearty, genuine sound that Qoren had definitely never heard from him before.
"Yes, Qoren, you are one of the lucky few to even know of its existence, much less see it!" He turned the bottle carefully in his hands. "This specific wine is not made anymore. It cannot be made anymore, in fact."
He moved closer to Qoren, his eyes gleaming with the pleasure of sharing arcane knowledge.
"There was a family in Leng centuries ago, master vintners who produced wines for the nobility of Yi Ti. When the Seventh Valyrian-Yi Ti War broke out, oh, seven hundred years ago now, this family found themselves in the path of dragon riders. The Valyrians were burning everything in their advance, showing no mercy to anyone who stood against them."
Theomore stroked the bottle almost lovingly.
"The family's patriarch was a cunning man. He set a trap, lured a young dragon and its rider into a narrow canyon where the beast couldn't maneuver properly, and brought them both down with poisoned ballista bolts."
He held up the bottle to the light again.
"They called it blood wine because the vintner collected some of that dragon's blood and added it to his finest vintage before the blood lost its potency. Just a single drop per bottle, mind you. The result was a wine unlike any other. It was said to grant visions, to sharpen the mind beyond mortal limits for a brief time, to taste of fire and lightning."
Theomore's smile widened.
"Well, about three hundred years ago some mad dragonlord hunted that family down to the last child. Who knows why... mad, fucking lizard fuckers. These bottles are all that remain of their craft."
"Well, now only a few know that story," Theomore said, looking at Qoren with an expression that might have been kindness. "And now you know it too."
"Thank you, Archmaester," Qoren said, still confused about why he was being told this, why Theomore was in such good spirits, and why any of this was happening.
"Now go and clean the privies," Theomore said dismissively, his tone returning to something more normal. "The ones in the eastern wing need scrubbing."
Qoren looked miserable at hearing that assignment. The eastern wing privies were always the worst. Still, he bowed and hurried away, leaving Theomore alone in the wine cellar.
The Archmaester watched the boy go, then made his way out as well.
Theomore walked into the hidden chamber of his order, the door closing silently behind him, and emerged into a circular room lit by braziers.
"Lengii blood wine to celebrate this special occasion!" Theomore announced, holding the bottle up triumphantly.
Inside sat Archmaesters Quenton, Moryn, Yarrick, Eddard, and Tyrek, all arranged around the table. They let out a cheer at the sight of the ancient bottle, their faces showing the same joy that Theomore displayed.
Theomore opened the bottle, and the moment he broke the ancient seal, a scent filled the chamber unlike anything the others had experienced. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, shivering at the aroma. He had only tasted this once before, a decade ago, and his mouth watered at the prospect of drinking it again.
He poured the wine carefully into goblets of fine crystal, the liquid flowing dark as old blood with hints of crimson when the brazier light caught it just right.
"We have done it, my friends," Theomore said, his voice trembling with emotion as he distributed the goblets. "Even though the Anathema did not die as we hoped, he is now weakened enough that we can finish him off with a final strike. The Faceless Men will succeed where our other plans have failed."
More cheers erupted from the assembled Archmaesters as they each took their goblets.
Theomore raised his high. "May Peremore's wisdom guide us."
He invoked Peremore the Twisted, the founder of the Order of Maesters and the Citadel.
The others repeated in unison, "May Peremore's wisdom guide us."
They drank deeply, and the wine was everything Theomore remembered: complex beyond description, with flavors that seemed to shift and change on the tongue, finishing with a subtle warmth that spread through the chest like liquid fire.
Theomore walked over and sat with the rest. Yarrick was busy decoding the latest correspondence from the Heartlands, his fingers working quickly through the cipher they used for their most sensitive communications. They had only recently received word about their plot: how it had half worked, how the Anathema had been able to defeat the Stark princess, and how he had also managed to stop the Warrior's Sons as well. They could not scry with the artifact anymore. The Anathema had found a way to block it.
"Are you done?" Theomore asked Yarrick, trying to keep the impatience from his voice.
"Yes," Yarrick said, looking up from the decoded message. His expression was troubled. "It looks like the Anathema has revealed the existence of our order."
Everyone looked at Yarrick in shock, goblets pausing halfway to their lips.
"So Flowers talked," Theomore said, his voice dripping with anger. "That weak-willed fool."
"Yes, it would seem he did," Yarrick confirmed. He continued reading. "It also says that Brandon Stark will not be King in the North. He confessed to being part of the conspiracy and has decided to take the black."
"This is not good," Theomore said, slamming his hand on the table. "He was supposed to die along with his father! Even if he survived, according to Morris, Brandon Stark was a thick-headed buffoon who would cling to his pride until his dying breath!"
"Grief can change a man," Tyrek observed quietly. "Watching your father die, in some ways through his own actions... that could break even the proudest."
"This is bad, Theomore," Eddard said, genuine worry in his voice. "If he's confessed, if he's corroborated the Anathema's claims about our order—"
"No, it's not bad," Moryn interrupted. "Read the rest, Yarrick."
"Moryn is correct," Yarrick said, and now there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "It seems only the Heartlands lords believe the Anathema's claims. The Northerners have left. There is no alliance. Even the young Prince Barthogan has refused any further dealings with the Heartlands, it seems."
He laughed and continued, "King Loren has also left without making any alliance. Both kingdoms do not believe the Anathema's claims about our order. They think it is either fabrication or exaggeration."
"Good, good," Theomore said, his mood improving immediately. "We can make it seem as though this was just Flowers and Morris acting independently. Two rogue maesters, nothing more."
"The lords of Westeros cannot even comprehend our existence," Quenton said with a smug smile. "Their egos would never allow them to believe they have been ruled for generations by mere scholars."
"It's a shame that the lords of the Heartlands are too far gone," Eddard said. "They believe the Anathema completely. We've lost all influence there."
"We must discuss the backlash the Faith will receive for this as well," Moryn added. "The Warrior's Sons being caught in an assassination plot, the septons involved... it will weaken the Faith's position considerably, especially in the Heartlands."
"Yes, the Covenant will grow stronger in the Heartlands," Theomore acknowledged. "But I doubt there will be any change elsewhere. The Faith is too entrenched in the other kingdoms, and our friends in Oldtown will ensure the narrative is controlled. The High Septon will denounce the conspirators as rogues and claim they acted without sanction."
Theomore smiled widely, his earlier good mood fully restored. "Come now, this is a day of celebration! We are only a knife in the dark away from finishing the Anathema off completely!"
"Theomore is correct," Yarrick said, setting down the decoded message. "According to our sources, the Anathema is bedridden. It is said he has burns all over his body, wounds that even his magic cannot quickly heal. He is weakened, vulnerable."
"Good, good," Theomore said giddily, taking another sip of the precious blood wine. "The Faceless Men will find him an easy target. And once he's dead, we can guide the Heartlands back to how it should be."
"To the end of the Anathema," Quenton said, raising his goblet.
"To the end of the Anathema," the others echoed, drinking deeply to seal the toast.
Eddard spoke up after the toast ended. "What of Loren? I am a bit behind on our work in Highgarden."
Theomore grinned darkly. "Do not worry, Eddard. By tomorrow, the Reach will begin its full preparations to face the Lion King head on."
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Nearly five hundred miles away, in the grand castle of Highgarden, inside the king's private chambers, King Mern IX Gardener was arguing with his sons.
"Loren would not dare!" Mern shouted, his words slightly slurred. "He does this every year! He raids the northern marches, burns a few villages, steals some cattle, and then leaves! There is no need to raise the entire might of the Reach over border skirmishes!"
Mern took a swig of wine, the liquid spilling over his mouth and down his chin as he lowered the goblet with unsteady hands. His doublet was already stained, his hair disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot from hours of drinking.
In front of him stood Crown Prince Edmund and Mern's second son, Gawen. Both men wore expressions of strained patience and growing frustration.
"Father," Edmund said, his voice tight with control, "I have received credible reports that Loren plans to invade the Reach fully. Not a raid. An invasion. A full invasion of our kingdom."
"Edmund speaks true," Gawen supported, stepping forward. "The reports from our spies in the Westerlands all confirm the same thing. Loren is preparing for war. Almost all his lords are raising new men. The force we estimate could be over fifty thousand."
"You are both wrong!" Mern waved his goblet, more wine sloshing out. "I am the king! I know these things! And you are ruining my night!" He gestured broadly toward the adjoining chamber. "I am supposed to be feasting on three exquisite Valyrian beauties tonight, and instead I'm listening to you two worry like old washerwomen!"
Edmund's face turned to one of disgust. Gawen's mirrored it.
"Oh, you prudes," Mern said, laughing unpleasantly. "Sometimes I wonder if you two really are my children. Where is your joy? Your passion for life?"
"We are yours, Father," Gawen said, his voice strained. "But we do take offense when the 'feast' you want to partake in consists of three women you were gifted by the Lyseni Archon. Slaves," Gawen added with emphasis.
"Former slaves!" Mern corrected, pointing an unsteady finger. "They are free now! Free to live here as they please! I've given them fine chambers, fine clothes, everything they could want!"
Edmund was about to say something when Mern interrupted, beginning to remove his doublet.
"Now, are you going to leave, or do you want to watch me plow those women and learn something useful for once?" he laughed, a crude sound, and took another swig from his goblet. "Maybe you two should learn something from me! Give your wives a good tumble! Put some more children in my line instead of standing here like septons lecturing me about morality!"
"We are leaving," Edmund said flatly, turning toward the door.
Mern laughed at that, but the sound stopped abruptly in his throat.
His throat constricted suddenly and violently, as if an invisible hand had closed around it and squeezed. His eyes went wide with shock, and the goblet fell from his hand, clattering to the floor and spilling dark red wine across the stone.
His sons noticed immediately and both turned back.
"Father?" Edmund asked, concern replacing his disgust.
Mern tried to speak but could not. His hands went to his throat, clawing at it, his face beginning to turn purple.
"FATHER!" Both sons rushed to his side.
"Guards! GUARDS!" Gawen shouted. "Get the maester! NOW!"
But it was already too late.
Black lines began appearing across Mern's skin, spreading from his throat outward like cracks in ice. They raced across his face and down his neck as they spread across his chest and arms. His eyes turned completely black, the whites disappearing entirely.
Then black ooze began seeping from his mouth, thick and viscous, smelling of rot and corruption. It bubbled from his lips, ran down his chin, staining his beard and clothes.
"No, no, no," Edmund muttered, catching his father as Mern's legs gave out.
Gawen stood frozen in horror, unable to process what he was seeing.
Mern convulsed once, twice, his body jerking violently in Edmund's arms. The black lines covered him completely now, his skin looking like cracked obsidian. His eyes, pure black, stared at nothing.
Then he went still.
Guards burst into the chamber, followed by servants who had heard the shouting. They stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene: the Crown Prince holding his father's body, the black corruption covering the king's skin, the smell of death heavy in the air.
"By the gods," one guard whispered.
"Seven preserve us," a servant breathed.
"THE KING IS DEAD…THE KING IS DEAD" someone yelled as they ran away from the scene.
Edmund looked up from his father's body, and tears were streaming down his face.
"He is dead," Gawen said, his voice hollow with shock. He was staring at his father's blackened corpse, unable to look away.
"Poisoned," Edmund muttered, looking at the spilled wine, at the goblet lying on the floor. "Poisoned."
Then his voice rose, filled with fury and grief combined into something terrible.
"The Lannisters did this! LOREN DID THIS!"
He looked around at the assembled guards and servants, his face contorted with rage.
"DO YOU SEE? The damned Lion did this! He poisoned my father! MURDERED HIM!"
Gawen stood slowly, forcing himself to look away from their father's corpse.
"The King is dead," he announced to the room.
Everyone else fell to one knee, the traditional response.
Edmund stood as well, still cradling his father's body for a moment before carefully laying it on the floor.
"Long live the King," Gawen said, looking at his brother.
"Long live the King," the guards and servants echoed.
"Long live King Edmund," they chorused.
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Next chapter: the Sealord receives a visit from his new neighbors.
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