Within the Ravenry, Archmaester Vymond drew a scroll from his sleeve.
The texture of the paper was unusual. It was not the thick parchment commonly used by the Citadel, but the kind reserved for the Targaryen royal family in King's Landing.
Its edges were stamped with dark golden flame patterns—the sigil of House Targaryen.
"A raven arrived from the Red Keep yesterday," Maester Vymond said, pushing the letter to the center of the table.
Maester Garth took the parchment and unfolded it.
The smile on his face faded slightly.
The contents were brief, but the tone was severe.
It bore the name of King Aegon II—or at least, it had been written in his name.
It demanded that the Citadel immediately issue a public condemnation of Grand Maester Orwyle, revoke his status as a maester, and declare him guilty of conspiring with Princess Rhaenyra to murder the late King Viserys by despicable means, thereby subverting the rightful succession.
At the end of the letter was an additional line. Garth read it aloud: "As the Citadel claims neutrality, it must not shelter regicides and traitors."
"Let the Citadel act with justice and declare Princess Rhaenyra guilty of heinous crimes."
Archmaester Vymond spoke slowly.
"Orwyle has already fulfilled his purpose."
"I will honor my promise. And you, Your Holiness?"
The High Septon nodded, understanding at once.
Of Orwyle's three bastard sons, one would be sent to the Citadel to become a maester, another to the Faith to become a septon.
The last would be arranged to serve as a squire to some lord.
This was the reward for what Orwyle had done.
"It seems the Greens are in a hurry," the High Septon said calmly.
"They need our position."
All four maesters turned to look at him.
The High Septon continued, "I support King Aegon II."
A flicker passed through Archmaester Vymond's brow as he fell silent.
The other three maesters also remained silent, offering no opinion.
The High Septon did not bother to conceal anything.
"The Greens are willing to acknowledge the authority of the Faith. That is a good thing."
"And now, I hope the Citadel will tacitly recognize the rule of Aegon II."
At last, Vymond opened his eyes fully.
Those clouded pupils now seemed unnervingly sharp.
"Your Holiness," the old archmaester said softly, yet his voice sent a chill through the room.
"Are you suggesting the Citadel should publicly condemn Orwyle?"
"No," the High Septon shook his head. "The Citadel need not condemn anyone."
"It only needs to expel Orwyle, revoke his maester's chain, and declare his status invalid."
"And then… delay."
Garth frowned slightly. "Delay?"
"Delay until the war ends," the High Septon said.
"The Blacks and the Greens. Rhaenyra and Aegon. Daemon and Aemond."
"Let them fight. Let them slaughter one another."
"Wait until the victor is decided. Until the last survivor sits the Iron Throne."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
It was as gentle as a spring breeze.
Silence stretched on.
Only the occasional flutter of ravens outside the window could be heard in the Ravenry.
At last, Vymond broke the quiet.
"As for Orwyle," the old archmaester said, "we can proceed as Your Holiness suggests."
"The Citadel will raise no objection."
He paused.
"But I need to know one thing."
The High Septon lifted his gaze.
"How deeply does the Faith intend to involve itself in this war?"
"Archmaester Vymond," the High Septon said softly, "have you ever seen King Maegor?"
The old man's eyelid twitched.
"That was long ago."
"I have," the High Septon said. "Not a portrait. The man himself."
All eyes turned to him.
His face was expressionless as he spoke.
"At the time, I had just been ordained a septon, copying scriptures in the Starry Sept."
"King Maegor came to Oldtown with his dragon, the Black Dread, and his army."
"Dragonfire scorched the stones of the sept square. The air reeked of sulfur."
"Maegor sat atop Balerion, looking down at us as one would look at insects."
His voice remained calm, though it slowed.
"He demanded that we hand over the High Septon."
"Because the High Septon had refused to recognize the legitimacy of his rule and his marriages."
No one spoke. All listened in silence.
"In the end, the High Septon chose to drink poison for the sake of the Faith."
"Then House Hightower surrendered the city."
"After that, all the Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows—three-quarters were sent to the Wall in black, and the rest were slaughtered."
"Tens of thousands of armed men… reduced to nothing before the Black Dread."
"From that day on, the Faith declared it would bear no arms."
He paused.
"That night, the bells of the Starry Sept rang without cease."
"Not for prayer—but to drown out the sound of weeping."
The High Septon raised his head, his pale eyes fixed on Vymond.
"You say King Maegor died seventy-nine years ago."
"But to me, he has never died."
"He merely changed his name, changed his dragon, changed his crown—and continues to ride above the heads of the people of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Prince Aemond of the Greens—the kinslayer—and Prince Daemon of the Blacks…"
"What difference is there between them and King Maegor?"
"The same arrogance. The same cruelty. The same belief that the Targaryens are born to rule Westeros."
Vymond remained silent for a long time.
"So what Your Holiness intends…" he said slowly, "Is not merely to crown a king, but to make the Targaryens pay a price?"
The High Septon did not deny it.
"Dragons should not exist in this world."
"They stand in opposition to the teachings of the Seven."
"The Seven gave mankind wisdom and hands—to till the fields with plows, to forge with hammers, to record with quills."
"But dragons bring only fear and destruction."
He rose from his seat and walked to the window.
Outside lay the night over the Honeywine, its waters reflecting the lights of Oldtown like scattered pearls.
"Aegon the Conqueror used dragons to win the Seven Kingdoms."
"His descendants used dragons to rule them."
"For a hundred years, some Targaryen kings understood that their power did not come from the love of the people, nor the loyalty of the lords, nor even the Iron Throne itself."
"It came only from the dragons beneath them."
He turned back.
"As long as dragons exist, the Seven Kingdoms will forever be the Targaryens' pasture."
"Now these madmen fight over that pasture—and the people of the realm are the grass they trample."
His voice remained calm, yet each word was like iron forged in fire.
"So I ask you all—are you willing for Westeros to remain the Targaryens' pasture forever?"
Maester Garth's smile vanished.
Maester Norren closed his ledger.
The silent maester known as "the Crow" slowly raised his head and spoke.
"Your Holiness."
"Do you have a concrete plan?"
The High Septon did not answer directly.
He took out a large sheet of parchment from a box on the table and pushed it to the center.
"This is something I have prepared for a long time."
"I will require your cooperation."
All four maesters lowered their heads to look.
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