The Colorful Tavern, deep in Flower Lane in King's Landing, had long been closed. The entrance to the cellar was hidden behind a stack of barrels in the back kitchen.
William Royce descended the wooden ladder first. His bronze breastplate glinted dully in the whale-oil lamplight. Medrick Manderly followed; the northerner's brow was furrowed the moment he entered the cellar. Benjicot Blackwood and Sebastian Errol came after.
Grand Maester Orwyle was already waiting below.
The old maester sat at an oak table, clad in the grey robes that marked his station at the Citadel.
"You should not have gathered together," Orwyle said. "Four men leaving the Red Keep at the same time—it is too conspicuous."
William Royce pulled back a chair and sat. "You sent word to us that this was a matter of life and death, and that it must be tonight." The heir to Runestone's voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's. "It had better be worth the risk."
Orwyle did not answer immediately. He produced from his robes a rolled parchment, its wax seal intact—the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen still discernible in the dim light. The old maester pushed the letter across the table with trembling hands.
William did not take it. He stared at the wax seal, then lifted his gaze to Orwyle.
"What is this?"
"Open it and see," Orwyle said, his voice low.
Medrick reached for it, but William caught his hand. "Wait." William fixed his eyes on the Grand Maester. "Why are you seeking us out? You are a member of the Small Council—a key figure among the Greens."
Orwyle was silent a moment. "You will understand when you have read the letter."
William finally took the parchment. First he examined the wax seal carefully—it was indeed the royal seal he had seen when receiving a royal decree in the Vale years before. He broke the seal, moved closer to the oil lamp, and began to read.
The cellar fell deathly still. Only William's breathing grew heavier as he read.
When he reached the final lines, William's hands began to shake.
"Seven save us..." he murmured, disbelief thick in his voice.
"What is it?" Benjicot asked urgently, the young man unable to contain himself.
William passed him the letter, then turned to Orwyle with a sharp look. "How did this letter come into your hands? When was it written?"
"Two days past," Orwyle said. "His Grace pressed it into my hand while I was changing his bandages. He was lucid at that moment, though he could barely speak. He said... give it to a man you trust, and not through the Small Council."
Medrick leaned over Benjicot's shoulder to read the letter. "House arrest... poisoning... revoke Aegon's succession... Rhaenyra in his place..." Medrick raised his head, fury blazing in his eyes. "And today in the throne room, Prince Aemond swore to us that His Grace needed rest and would see us in three days?"
"His Grace may already be dead," Orwyle interrupted, his voice terribly calm.
The words were like a bucket of ice water thrown over them all.
"What did you say?" Sebastian Errol could scarcely believe it.
Orwyle closed his eyes, as if needing to gather the strength to speak his next words. When he opened them, he said:
"When I went to His Grace last night, his body was already terribly weak. Faint pulse, shallow breathing. I prescribed all the usual tonics—warming and calming draughts. The students sent by the Citadel prepare the medicines; the servants of the Red Keep brew the potions; the draughts are delivered by handmaidens appointed by Aemond."
He paused, then produced from his robes a small cloth pouch, loosened the cord, and spilled its contents onto the table—several dried fragments of herbs.
"I secretly saved traces of the medicines last night." Orwyle pointed to the fragments. "I have examined them closely. There are traces of shadowleaf and forget-me-root. Each of these herbs has a calming effect when used alone, but taken together over time, they weaken a man day by day, cloud the mind, and eventually..."
"You are a maester!" Benjicot Blackwood burst out. "Your prescriptions! You just watched—"
"What could I do?" Orwyle suddenly grew agitated. "I am only a maester. I have no soldiers, no power. Should I confront Prince Aemond? Tell Queen Alicent that her own son is poisoning her husband? I would not have survived the night."
As if sensing this was not enough, Orwyle produced another item from his robes—a crown. A crown of Valyrian steel set with dark rubies, gleaming dully in the lamplight.
"His Grace's crown," Orwyle said, placing it on the table. "He gave it to me last night. He said—if I am gone, let it go where it belongs."
"Do you still doubt?"
William stared at the crown. It was indeed the crown Viserys wore on formal occasions—there was no mistaking it.
"We must go to the Red Keep tonight," Medrick proposed. "Confront them face to face."
"And then? Die?" William said coldly. "Manderly, use your head. If His Grace truly wrote this... why would Aemond promise to let His Grace receive us in three days? If Aemond already has His Grace under his control—if he has already begun—why would he promise an audience? Would that not only increase the risk?"
Orwyle was silent a long time.
"I do not know," the Grand Maester finally whispered. "Perhaps... perhaps His Grace still has some use to them."
"What are we to do?" Benjicot asked anxiously. The young man could no longer sit still, pacing in the small cellar.
Orwyle looked at them, his gaze moving across each face. "Leave King's Landing at once. Tonight. Take this letter and this crown back to your lords. Raise your banners. Join with Princess Rhaenyra..."
"But Aegon is already the lawful heir," William interrupted, frowning. "His Grace proclaimed it himself, witnessed by all the lords of King's Landing. The Greens already have the advantage. Why would they risk the condemnation of the realm by killing the king? It makes no sense."
Orwyle sighed. "Lord Royce, do you still doubt me?"
William was silent. He weighed the words, calculated. What Orwyle said made sense. But it all seemed too perfect—too neatly laid out—and this Grand Maester was giving the Blacks exactly what they needed most.
"Besides," Orwyle added, lowering his voice, "do you think Aemond would balk at it? He slew his own nephews—not one, but three. Jacaerys was cut down in King's Landing. Joffrey was torn apart by a dragon. Lucerys fell into the sea and died unknown. What else would a man capable of such deeds against his own blood dare not do?"
"I will return to gather my escort and leave the city tonight," young Medrick Manderly said, stirred to action. "This letter—Princess Rhaenyra must have it. And this crown should rest on the head of the true queen."
"We will go separately," William rose as well, his bronze armor creaking. "Manderly, take the River Gate. Blackwood, the Mud Gate. I will take the Dragon Gate." He glanced at the Stormlands representative, who had remained silent. "Errol... you may do as you wish."
William's gaze returned to Orwyle. "Grand Maester, if we manage to escape... what will you do?"
Orwyle smiled faintly.
"If His Grace is truly gone... then this old life of mine has been long enough."
He spoke his final words. "May the Seven guide you. I only hope the Seven Kingdoms... do not fall into the hands of a second Maegor."
The four exchanged glances.
The oil lamp reflected the complex expressions on their faces—anger, fear, and the glimmer of opportunity. This letter, this crown, would become Princess Rhaenyra's righteous cause against the Greens—the foundation of her claim.
William carefully folded the letter, tucked it into the inner pocket of his tunic, and wrapped the crown in cloth.
They departed at once, vanishing into the deep night of King's Landing.
Orwyle did not leave.
He sat back down at the table and produced from his sleeve a small glass vial. The liquid within was colorless, tinged faintly blue in the lamplight.
"Tears of Lys," he murmured to himself.
He raised the vial, but did not drink immediately. The old maester's hands trembled, and his eyes flickered with indecision. He thought of his family in Oldtown, of the bastard children he dared not openly acknowledge. He remembered the instructions and promises of those in the Citadel and the Faith.
Some things only he could do. If he died, he would die without leaving proof.
Orwyle closed his eyes, raised the vial, and drank the liquid in one swallow.
The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the table.
Soon, a sharp pain in his belly spread swiftly through his body. Orwyle slumped across the table, his body beginning to twitch, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
Just before consciousness faded entirely, a last thought came to him: Larys Strong—that wretched man had seemed to know already of the plans of the Citadel and the Faith. Why had he not stopped this?