The High Septon fell silent for a moment, then asked, "Will he win?"
Maester Vymond did not answer at once.
He slowly sat back down.
"The Blacks have only the Riverlands and the Vale in support."
He paused, the corner of his mouth curling faintly.
"The North and the Stormlands are likely to remain neutral."
"The Greens control the Crownlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach."
"Aegon II's coronation is already a fait accompli."
He lowered his gaze.
"But the war will not end quickly."
"The Greens hold the advantage in armies. The Blacks possess more dragons."
"The hatred between them runs too deep. Neither side has a way out."
"But if Aemond wins in the end…" Vymond's voice sank.
"He will use this war to forge his own prestige—and his crown."
"Now, all the nobles of the Crownlands already look to him as their leader."
"The southern lords obey him as well."
"Administration, military command, decrees, intelligence—everything flows from his hands alone."
"Aegon II is nothing more than a puppet."
He shook his head.
"This is no longer a rule of nobles…"
"He wants everyone in Westeros to submit to the will of one man."
A moment of silence.
"That would be an even greater disaster."
The old maester raised his eyes.
"We should… secretly aid the Blacks."
Everyone fell silent.
Next, Maester Norren opened the ledgers.
"The North," he said quietly. "House Stark."
"Winterfell."
Maester Garth immediately responded: "Maester Rod has served at Winterfell for over thirty years."
"There are four assistants besides him."
"White Harbor, Karhold, Deepwood Motte, Bear Island, Last Hearth, Torrhen's Square…"
"Each has a maester stationed."
Norren did not look up. "Their reports?"
He turned to a certain page, his finger pressing against a line of dense figures.
"The population of the North."
"The last confidential report from the maesters… was ten years ago."
"At that time, the total population was approximately 1.12 million."
"Winterfell's direct domain—180,000."
"White Harbor—around 100,000."
"The rest scattered under their bannermen."
He paused.
"Grain production."
"Arable land in the North accounts for less than seven percent of the territory, concentrated along the White Knife."
"Annual grain output is less than two-tenths of the Riverlands."
"The North relies on herding, fishing, hunting, and trade with the South for food."
Norren closed the ledger and looked up.
"Winter is coming."
Vymond asked, "How long?"
"The star records of the maesters of astronomy show the next long winter will begin in thirteen months."
He paused briefly.
"Based on the constellations… this winter will last at least four years."
Four years.
Norren opened the ledger again.
"The North has excellent traditions of stockpiling food. Every noble household maintains winter reserves."
"The crypt vaults beneath Winterfell can sustain the city for two years—grain, cured meat, butter, cheese."
"But that is Winterfell's own supply."
His finger traced a line of numbers.
"As for the North as a whole—if no grain is imported from the southern kingdoms during winter, if trade ceases—even with strict rationing, they can support their population for at most two years."
Garth interjected, "This winter will last four."
"A deficit of two years."
"More than that," Norren shook his head. "Half a year before winter begins, most outdoor labor must cease."
He closed the ledger.
"Nearly two and a half years without food."
"The North—1.12 million people."
"If there is no southern grain…"
He paused.
"Conservatively, at least half will starve."
When he finished, there was only silence.
After a long while, one of them spoke.
"What if the Iron Throne cuts off grain shipments to the North now?"
Norren's fingers stilled on the cover of the ledger.
"…Stark will be forced to choose."
"Either watch half the North starve…"
"Or…"
He paused.
"March south."
The High Septon nodded slowly.
"That is exactly what I want."
Vymond closed his eyes.
"Your High Holiness," the old maester said softly,
"Do you know what you are doing?"
"I do," the High Septon replied. "We are forcing Stark to rise."
"Not rise," Vymond opened his eyes.
"To survive."
He looked at the High Septon.
"And those who set all this in motion—you, I, everyone here…"
"We are all accomplices in their deaths."
The High Septon did not look away.
"Maester Vymond."
"You are right."
"Men of the Crownlands will die."
"Men of the Vale will die."
"Men of the Westerlands will die."
"Men of the Reach will die."
"Men of the North will die."
"Men of the Riverlands will die."
"And many more will die in dragonfire, in war, in hunger, in disease."
"This war will drain the Seven Kingdoms of blood."
He paused.
"It will also drain the Targaryens of blood."
The High Septon paused, then repeated: "But those who caused all this… are the Targaryens."
"A hundred years ago, Aegon Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms with dragons."
"Targaryen kings have been wise and foolish, merciful and cruel."
"But whether wise or foolish, merciful or cruel, they share one thing in common."
He raised his eyes.
"They possess the power to destroy any who defy them, at any moment."
His voice rose slightly.
"That is the problem."
"These dragon-riding madmen can decide the lives and deaths of millions on a whim."
"They treat the Seven Kingdoms as their playground—taking whatever they want."
He looked at Vymond.
"You asked whether I know what I am doing."
"I do."
He paused for a long time.
"I am merely trading these lives… for the future of the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused again.
"Maester Vymond."
"If it were you… would you make that trade?"
The old maester fell silent for a long time.
"…I don't know."
He lowered his gaze.
"I have lived more than ninety years. I have seen too much death."
He looked at the High Septon, his eyes holding no accusation—only weariness.
"What you say may be right."
"But I do not know if that right…"
"Is worth so many lives."
The High Septon said nothing.
Vymond sighed softly.
"But I know this—I cannot stop you."
"The Faith and the Citadel have worked together for centuries. Never have we been so frank as tonight."
"You have prepared for this for a long time."
"You will not abandon it for the doubts of an old man."
He paused.
"So I will not stop you."
"I have only one last question."
The High Septon nodded.
"Are you doing this for the Faith…"
"Or for the Seven Kingdoms?"
The High Septon was silent for a long time.
Then he spoke at last, his voice low.
"The Seven Kingdoms…"
Vymond listened, then nodded.
"Grand Maester."
He paused.
"The seat of Grand Maester in the Red Keep is now vacant."
"That man will be our eyes and ears within the heart of the Greens."
Vymond turned to Garth.
"Will you take this post?"
Maester Garth did not answer immediately.
He knew where he would be going, and what that position entailed.
"You are unwilling?"
Garth hesitated.
Vymond only sighed and did not press him further.
"…I will go."
The middle-aged maester—the Raven—spoke.
"Good."
Vymond looked at him.
"Prince Aemond is no fool—he is very clever."
"But his brother, Aegon II, is a fool."
"The North has not declared its stance, but neither the Blacks nor the Greens dare push them too far."
"What you need to do is simple…"
"When Prince Aemond leads his army away from King's Landing…"
"You find a chance to persuade Aegon II to stop sending free winter grain to the North."
"Will Aegon II agree?"
"He is a fool. That depends on your skill."
"At the same time, ensure that the southern regions cease all grain shipments to the North."
He paused.
"Stark will be furious."
"Stark will rise."
"The Northmen will believe the Iron Throne has betrayed them…"
"And is deliberately letting them starve."
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