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The Grind (Book 2) Ch.27
🕑 Added 2025-06-10 23:30:30 +0000 UTC— Atlas —
We walked through a picturesque scene cast in green. Some several hundred thousand people were living under the Hightower’s immediate dominion, and now, under House Hightower’s color of war in a rather literal sense. The green war flame touched everything, a constant reminder to be wary, to be vigilant, to stand ready to fight.
“Gods be good, New and Old…” Renly muttered.
“Methinks our stay here is going to be slightly eventful,” Ron said, half-joking and half-serious.
“Wands out, Hogwarts, and stick close. We don’t know what we’re getting into,” Dora warned.
“I wish I could say that caution was unnecessary in my grandfather’s city,” Willas sighed. “But I cannot, not in good conscience. I simply cannot.”
Under a gate into the city, watching the tension of the guards, we passed. Oldtown welcomed us, to an extent, but immediately, we noticed the feeling in the air. There was conflict to be found in Westeros’s Oldest Town. Some unspoken struggle amongst its storied virtues.
Without the green hue over the city, Oldtown would’ve been bright and beautiful. White stone constructions topped by pale red clay roofs under a clear blue sky. A peaceful harbor and tall walls to protect the city from any siege. A population second only to King’s Landing in Westeros. A history that far surpassed that upstart settlement. And more than anything else, a depth of riches and influence that knew no competition.
Now, that idyllic blue sky was tinted by a warning in green. If one looked straight up, they could still see the sky outside the wards, bare glimpses of clear cerulean. From any other angle, the white stone of the city reflected the hue over everything, sparkling as if carved with emeralds within. All the while, the city didn’t sleep through the conflict upon it. But business as usual wasn’t an easy ask.
Deeper, we went. Past cautioned, wary, twitching Hightower guards and Oldtown city watchmen. Past traders and merchants who seemed to be jumping at every green-cast shadow. Past Smallfolk who were just trying to go about their usual routines. Past beggars and street mummers and craftsmen and menial workers, unable to give up their livelihoods for the sake of safety.
“Yeah, this shit is tense,” Heather observed, sounding irreverent to cover the readiness in her posture that matched Dora’s constant vigilance.
“The question we have to ask ourselves…” I mused. “Where is the war?”
“Where, oh where, indeed?” Dumbledore hummed in agreement. “Certainly not without. Even the countryside around the city is as peaceful as peaceful can be. And the flame of war wasn’t visible until we crossed the ward line.”
“Why, Oldtown, of course~…” Luna singsonged, though even her usual whimsy was somewhat muted. “There is war within Oldtown’s wards, and nowhere else.”
I could see the Hightower’s domain wards as they fell upon the city, from peak to limits. They were the guiding light of that burning beacon, made manifest, the staked claim starkly visible to my Authority: < Most Learned Are Ye >. Incomprehensibly ancient workings of magical might and skill that encompassed one of the oldest cities in the world. Protection from without. The power and authority of a magical domain from within. That old Oldtown was forever under watchful, ruling eyes from on high.
Even from afar, I could see that the beacon atop the Hightower was the cornerstone of the city’s magical wards. It saw all. It guided all. It illuminated all. Our arrival had certainly been noticed. But the wards hadn’t barred our way into the city. With three of House Hightower’s grandchildren with us, I took that to mean we were at least somewhat welcome.
Looking back through the gate we’d entered through, however, I saw that none were leaving Oldtown. The city was on lockdown, magically ensured by the Hightower’s wards. That explained how news of a state of war in Oldtown hadn’t spread… I reserved my opinion on whether that was good or bad for now.
“We must reach the Hightower,” Margaery declared. “Grandfather will know all that happens in his city.”
“He won’t turn us away,” Willas nodded. “There, we can enlighten ourselves as to the contained conflict we’ve intruded upon.”
“Your grandfather’s seat of power is a marvelous thing. A wonder, Margaery,” Hermione praised, trying for comfort. “It’s just a shame we might not get the chance to truly appreciate it as things seem to be developing.”
In Oldtown, it seemed, the Hightower reigned supreme. The magical domain made sure everything came back to the tall, eternally-burning tower over it all, standing in the harbor yet feeling like the center of the city.
The island it stood on, made from a base of fused blackstone that resisted my Authority’s attempts to decipher it (fuck ALL of that noise…), was tall enough on its own to be seen from the city’s gates. And the Hightower rose even higher from that eldritch base, a stepped tower of white stone. It was pristine to the point of shining in the green-tinted sunlight. Utterly, impossibly untouched, even by its millennia of being.
The Hightower should’ve been impossible. Stone and wood construction couldn’t have hoped to support such a structure, medieval skyscraper that it was. But then, I was getting kind of used to Westerosi architecture and engineering doing the impossible in impossible ages past. Defying the cruel realities of physical limitations, the Hightower stood strong and proud, so strong and so proud…
Even disregarding the dominion wards, there was magic at work in the Hightower’s construction. Magic that even Witches and Wizards would find impressive. The hidden society we’d known in Earth’s modern age rarely got to try their hands at making massive magical monuments. Thus, even compared to Hogwarts, the Hightower was something special.
“Oh, a marvelous thing, indeed! A wonder of the world!” Dumbledore exclaimed. “A great and terrible construction, as if conquering that nastiness below!”
“Nastiness?!” Loras asked, sounding halfway to offense.
“The island at the Hightower’s base,” I elaborated. “It’s… a mysterious and incomprehensible thing, even — especially — through a lens of magic. Like… the blackstone is a null stain imprinted on the astral of the world. It yields nothing, no purchase at all, to the winds of Magic.”
Surprisingly, Bran was the first one to nod along with me, “It’s burnt there like a brand on cattle.”
“I can’t make heads or tails of the eldritch fortress~,” Dumbledore happily — too happily — admitted.
“Neither can I,” Luna said, uncharacteristically solemn.
And wasn’t that a terrifying prospect? Even with my System-granted Authority, I relied on Luna as a second perspective more often than not. The Authority was more powerful, more all-encompassing, but Luna would always have a unique and valuable way with Magic. < Most Learned Are Ye > pierced to the core of the matter, the magic, and Luna picked up the little pieces I’d missed along the way.
The blackstone didn’t seem to be an outright exception to our means of magical sight and discernment. We — me, Dumbledore, Luna, and now Bran, it seemed — still saw it clearly. We just didn’t seem able to comprehend what we saw. Not from this distance. More information was needed, a closer view, or even an internal one…
“Wonderful,” Renly deadpanned. “But it changes little. We have no better choice than to seek out the Hightowers if we hope to gain our bearings here.”
“We’ll just have to cut our way through the rest of the city to get there, then,” Ginny grinned, twirling her wand.
“Nothing to it,” Ron agreed, his hand lingering at the sword on his belt.
I blinked for a moment at the sight of it, not having noticed the blade before. The Twins must’ve forged him a new one to go with his Westerosi Knighthood. It was strong, magically forged steel, but also seemed primed to act as half a magical focus. The Twins, it seemed, had also discovered the focusing properties of Weirwood, securing the sword’s tang within a leather-wrapped piece of it to act as the hilt.
“There will be something to it, I bet,” Dora flatly corrected him. “Don’t get cocky, kid.”
“That’s ‘Ser’ Kid to you, Tonks,” Ron shot back good-naturedly.
“Ser Prat, more like,” Heather snorted. It was good to see her able to joke with Ron again. He certainly seemed to think so, cracking a small, relieved smile.
“Come now, my good children,” Dumbledore smiled indulgently. “Let us focus. A high, high tower awaits, after all.”
He took the chance to dismount the wheelhouse, leaving Margaery and the non-combatants inside. Dumbledore didn’t mount a horse or illusioned broom, though. Instead, he casually raised the stone of the street beneath his feet until he could step off his transfigured platform onto the roof of the wheelhouse. He then proceeded to conjure a lawn chair and positively lounge up there.
Renly and Loras were visibly baffled by the old goat’s almost lazy actions and casual show of magic. I just imagined Dumbledore as the turret atop a tank. The mental image fit surprisingly well. Meanwhile, Willas and Margaery took control of the 60 Tyrell men-at-arms with us and arranged them as our escort. With everything suitably managed — from wary wizards to guards on guard — we began our true trek through an Oldtown caught in the fog of war.
It began uneventfully. It didn’t stay that way for long. Soon enough, we experienced the true nature of the conflict in Oldtown.
It wasn’t a thing of professional men-at-arms or massed mobs of Smallfolk. No, it was something more… singular, and more sinister for that fact. As we moved through the streets, a pair of robed individuals with the beginnings of maester chains at the collars of their robes saw each other from a distance. And from there, it was on sight.
Both of the fledgling maesters used magic. A surprising enough sight. But where one was a bloodline magic, the other seemed to be trained and practiced sorcery. A not-so-subtle reminder that bloodline magicks were far from the only kind returning to the world.
The bloodline maester staked his colors loudly and proudly, “For Archmaester Ocley and Law!”
He conjured a dark cloud between his hands and set it flying. Immediately, acidic green rain (and not just tinted so by the Hightower’s flame) began to fall from the cloud as it expanded like a miniature hurricane. The acid rain tore up the cobbled street with smoking, dissolving stone, and the ‘Ocley’ maester stood there, arrogantly assured of his victory.
But the other fledgling maester barely even flinched at the magic sent his way. He just pulled up the hood of his robes and allowed to acid storm to come, allowed it to pass over him. He emerged from the other side unharmed, acid rolling off the protective spell I could see woven into his robes.
The Ocley maester gaped at him, “I-Impossible! M-My Wildfire Storm-!”
The other maester rolled up one of his sleeves as his opponent tried and failed to comprehend why information was so important in a magical duel. As he produced a dagger, I saw bandages covering his flesh from bicep to upper forearm. The reason for those bandages quickly became clear.
The sorcerous maester dragged the dagger along his bare skin just below the bandages and coated the blade in his blood. Then, he charged at his foe in a dead sprint. The Ocley maester panicked, trying to conjure another acid storm. It sputtered out halfway, leaving him helpless and fumbling for a blade of his own within his robes. It didn’t help.
Blood on his dagger, the other maester slid past the first, and staked the man’s shadow to the ground. The Ocley maester went painfully and unnaturally stiff, frozen where he stood. Panic overtook his eyes, but his body clearly wouldn’t respond to his own commands.
The shadow-stabbing maester rose with a second dagger in his hand, glaring and finally staking his own colors, “Marwyn the Mage sends his regards.”
For the magicks at play, the fight in the streets ended rather mundanely. The ‘Marwyn’ maester simply up and shanked his frozen counterpart between the ribs. It was a clean shank, showing rather a bit of practice with the action… Just like that, the victor collected the dead’s chain and set about cleaning and wrapping his self-inflicted wound.
Aside from us, the street had cleared instantly once the fighting started. The Smallfolk and even the Hightower guards didn’t stick around to watch in awe or horror. They just got the hell out of dodge. How long had Oldtown been in this state for that to become an almost instinctive reaction…?
Our guards didn’t have those same trained instincts, most gaping in, yes, awe and horror, and all looking lost for what they could’ve done. No one was quick to process the murder we’d just witnessed. But those of us from Earth had a strange point of reference to go off, and no biased preconceptions about maesters, at the very least.
“Ah… It’s just South London, innit?” Dora realized aloud.
“Oldtown Maester Gang Warfare of the Mystical, Magical, Fantastical Variety~!” Luna chimed.
“Merlin save us all…” Hermione muttered in horror.
“Now, this,” Dumbledore chuckled. “This takes me back. Nothing like a good old-fashioned stabbing to solve your problems and create so many more for you and everyone else around you.”
“At least they aren’t shootings,” I shook my head.
“I wouldn’t be so confident about that, Atlas,” Ginny teased. “Crossbows exist, after all.”
“Wonderful. Just the reminder I needed,” I sighed.
“Gods Above…” Renly sounded sick. “What has the world come to when our future maesters are killing each other in the streets…?”
“Maesters…?” Loras just sounded confused. “Truly? Maesters? My eyes didn’t deceive me? The arbiters of knowledge and good counsel are who bring war to Oldtown?!”
“Your eyes don’t deceive you, Brother,” Margaery said, sounding shaken but better off than I expected after that ‘duel’. “It’s almost unthinkable. Almost… But we all witnessed it. Murder in maester robes… And if I’m not mistaken, they each claimed to fight in an archmaester’s name.”
Willas kept his wits about him the best, ordering his men-at-arms, “Bring me that maester. Peacefully! House Tyrell simply wishes to talk, not arrest them, at this time.”
The men-at-arms — all of them as they found courage in numbers — moved to collect the maester before he could flee. He looked up at the sound of horses… and quickly made the intelligent decision to come quietly. As the men-at-arms fetched him, Heather mused aloud.
“What would you call a gang of maesters anyway?”
Dumbledore seemed amused by the thought experiment, “A study, perhaps? Or a tenure?”
“A seminar?” Ron suggested.
“A chain?” Margaery put forth, trying to lighten the mood for herself.
“Come now, the double entendre writes itself,” Hermione huffed. “A school. You call them ‘a school of maesters’.”
The surviving maester was brought in front of Willas. Up close, he was pretty. Much prettier than I expected for a street murderer. He had delicate and exotic features, with a pleasantly dusky skin tone and dark hazel eyes that seemed to flash gold like gilded sand when the light caught them just right.
He (and I was beginning to doubt that assumption) stared at his impromptu host for a long moment before finally speaking, “… Willas Tyrell.”
Willas’ eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, “Do we know each other, maester? You seem to recognize something in me, and I would swear I… recognized something… in you as well…”
Willas trailed off, seemingly stuck on some puzzle only he could see.
The ambiguously gendered maester was quick to answer without answering, “I’ve heard many stories about you, my lord.”
“Have you now…?” Willas’ brows furrowed further in thought.
His confusion and concentration gave the maester time to look over the rest of us. Those eyes were sharp, taking in everything. But that too-pretty face didn’t show anything the mind behind it might’ve discerned. Not, at least, until the maester came to Dumbledore.
“And you-…” The maester paused with his gaze on Dumbledore and the whole scene he had going on up there on top of the wheelhouse. “… Oh, you have to be Albus Dumbledore.”
Dumbledore chortled, “Indeed, I do. I would hate to be caught as anyone else.”
“Very boring and draining and harmful to be someone else~,” Luna nodded and nodded again. “Much more fun for everyone to be yourself~!”
The maester shifted slightly where he stood, “… Quite.”
“Your archmaester has spoken of me, then?” Dumbledore asked.
“Spoken. Ranted. Extolled your virtues and lamented ever conceiving the notion to write to you,” The maester deadpanned.
“Ah, such a shame~,” Dumbledore put on a dramatic faux-sigh. “I’ve rather enjoyed being quill-pals with that enigma of a man.”
“… He’d never admit it, but I’m confident he’s enjoyed your correspondence, too,” The maester said before finally introducing himself. “I am Alleras, one of Archmaester Marwyn’s students. The most promising of us, if I have my way.”
“Alleras…” Willas muttered the name. His eyes suddenly lit up in realization. “Aha! You’re one of Oberyn’s-!”
He cut himself off abruptly, but Alleras only sighed, “I suppose there’s not much point to the mummery with how so utterly the situation in the Citadel has devolved. Aye, the need for my deception has thoroughly passed. Aye, ‘Alleras’ is only a pseudonym. And aye, I am ‘one of Oberyn’s’.”
“A Sand Snake!” Loras exclaimed. “But which one…?”
Even Renly looked at Loras in askance and astonishment at that, “… You are so very lucky you’re pretty, my friend.”
“Sarella, Brother,” Margaery spelled it out gently for the pretty fool. “Sarella Sand, the ‘missing’ fourth bastard daughter of Oberyn Martell. Not so missing, it seems, for she has simply followed her father’s footsteps to Oldtown, and not let things like rules and tradition stop her.”
“Sneaking into the Citadel disguised as a bloke?” Heather grinned at the now-revealed Sarella. “I like your spunk, I like your style! You’re my kind of girl!”
Hermione nodded her approval as well, “The Citadel is positively asking for such a deception. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer institution. Good work.”
Sarella cracked a small smile, “Thank you. I’ve always despised how they barred the gates of knowledge to anyone but men and men alone. They were laughably easy to fool, though I will admit that Archmaester Marwyn has been a great boon in making my deception stick.”
“It might be best if you took us to meet him,” I said. “We’re going to the Hightower, but a prior introduction to the situation here and in the Citadel from ‘robes in the streets’, so to say, would be appreciated.”
“Oh my, yes, I simply must insist,” Dumbledore agreed. “I’ve been positively dying to meet Marwyn in person. It’s still half the reason I came all this way south to Oldtown, even with how otherwise eventful this trip is turning out to be.”
Sarella nodded slowly, “I think that can be arranged… If you would follow me, my lords, my ladies?”
“Lead the way, Lady Sarella,” Willas nodded. “Oberyn’s children shall always find an ally in Willas Tyrell.”
“Come up here, my girl. You can direct us from beside me,” Dumbledore offered.
“As you say, Headmaster,” The Maester-Formly-in-Disguise agreed.
She walked up to the wheelhouse and looked for a way up. Dumbledore took the pleasure of raising her up in the same way he’d risen. Without a word of warning, the street beneath Sarella was transfigured into a lifting platform that deposited her right beside him. Then, he conjured another lawn chair and motioned for her to sit at his side. Sarella, surprisingly enough, took the magic in stride. She pointed the way, and our party continued deeper into Oldtown, setting out to meet Sarella’s master and Dumbledore’s quill-pal.
“And who is your archmaester, Lady Sarella, this Marwyn?” Renly asked after we’d gotten moving again.
Sarella gave him an all-too-toothy grin from on high, “The Citadel’s premier Maester for Magic, Prince Renly. An influential if scorned man. His peers almost disavowed him before, but now that Magic has returned to the world in force, he has never been more powerful, never more set to determine the future course of the Citadel. Strife has been visited upon the Order as ugly and ambitious sects of our number rear their heads for their own gain over all others, but my Archmaester takes a different tack. For Marwyn the Mage, all of this ’tis only the beginning.”
“Different tack? What’s happening with the rest of the Citadel to bring about all of this violence?” Hermione inquired.
“As I said,” Sarella sighed. “Much strife. Magic’s return was not taken well by some of the Archmaesters, and taken much too well by others. As Master Marwyn told it, the Conclave was split. Splintered, more accurately. There were not two clear sides as with the Faith, but a dozen or more.
“Some Archmaesters denied Magic outright, denied it even when it was right in front of them, awakening in their acolytes, apprentices, and even themselves. Others embraced it too readily, letting their ambitions rule them. More still sought to control it with an iron fist. A bare few wished for no part in the conflict to come, in the conflict that has now consumed us. But with war within the Conclave, almost all were swept into its raging currents.
“It’s been a bloody affair. The Conclave and the Order of Maesters as a whole claim to be neutral and wise, but in the end, they are just men. Just old men, with their prides and egos and ambitions.
“Archmaester Ocley of Lead and Law, for example, aims to take Magic in his heavy leaden fist and use it as a stick — the biggest stick — to maintain the order of the realm. Archmaester Nymos of Tin and Logic seeks to smother it in the cradle, even as he wields magic against the concept of itself. Archmaester Castos of Electrum and Natural Philosophy has ambitions to see the whole world defined by Magic, and he will stop at nothing to see it done.
“All of them quarrel with each other and tear the Citadel apart at the seams. The maesters and acolytes have grouped together and chosen sides to see their Archmaester’s will be done. Many have awakened magicks to call their own, but even those who haven’t fight without. Already, there have been many casualties. As you’ve seen…”
“Sounds like a right situation we’ve got on our hands here,” Dora grunted.
“Aye, a fitting understatement,” Willas agreed solemnly. “Is there any hope for peace in the Conclave?”
Renly snorted harshly, “Gather them all and let me loose in their meeting chambers. I’ll win peace for the Citadel on sword’s edge and lightning’s back.”
“Hmm,” Dumbledore hummed. “In all of this, what does Marwyn claim to stand for?”
“He’s raised Magic’s banner, Headmaster. Your influence, in parts, I’m sure,” Sarella declared, sitting up straighter. “‘Magic’s magic,’ he said. ‘Let it BE, ya sanctimonious scheming sots.’”
“Good man,” Luna nodded in approval. “Smart man~! Freedom of Magic is always a worthy cause to fight for~…”
“Many in the Citadel seem to think so as well,” Sarella said. “Marwyn’s banner is the largest of the squabbling sects. Only Archmaester Ebrose of Silver and Healing has gathered more support, but he and his have secluded themselves from the actual conflict. They stand apart — healing, bettering themselves, favoring all and none.”
“That’s a good sign, if the Citadel is going to survive this,” I commented. “As is Marwyn’s claimed cause. I find myself agreeing with that philosophy more than any of the others you’ve described.”
“Many of my fellows have come around to see his wisdom. Of course, it helps that Master Marwyn can offer those without awakened magic a hard-earned alternative,” Sarella added.
Hermione nodded along, “The sorcery. Of course.”
“I noticed that,” Willas mused. “But I can’t imagine Oberyn’s blood, one so connected to Magic even before its return, failed to awaken a bloodline magic.”
“Yeah~! What gives with the slicy and the bloody and the sorcery~?” Luna curiously chimed.
“I did indeed awaken a magic of my own. My sisters write to me of the same. It seems our father’s blood runs fast and strong and true,” Sarella admitted. “But Master Marwyn insists we truly learn of Magic as well, regardless of any awakened gifts.”
“Well, you’re in good company,” Willas smiled charmingly. “Prince Renly and Margaery, of course, but I have a minor gift with my animals as well.”
Margaery blinked, “You do, Brother?”
“You’ve been gone for quite some time, Sister Mine,” Willas teased.
“He’s wicked on a horse,” Ron said. “Fast as a broom, just not as high.”
“And those hawks and hounds of his…” Ginny shuddered slightly. “Manhunters…”
“May I ask after your awakened magic, Lady Sarella?” Renly inquired. “If I recall correctly, you were the Sand Snake of Summer Islands’ heritage. I find myself interested in hearing how that ‘took’, so to speak.”
“The Rhyonish waters of my father and the salt and heat of my mother,” Sarella answered without giving much of anything away.
Renly didn’t press any more than that, though Loras bristled for him. We continued on through Oldtown at Sarella’s direction. As we did, we heard more distant ‘duels’ like the one we’d witnessed, not constant, but still more than frequent enough to take notice of. Exploding fireballs, cracking ice, claps of thunder, banshee screams, swishing spellblades, and many more; a variety and concentration of awakened magicks we hadn’t seen anywhere else. Oldtown was a battleground.
But as Sarella led us deeper, we saw that the city’s people were far from completely cowed. One maester we saw standing victorious and gloating over a corpse with a fair bit of indiscriminate destruction all around didn’t last long. A veritable posse of young Oldtown men surrounded the victorious maester and just tore into him with blades and blunt weapons. Whatever magic the maester had didn’t even have the chance to muster in his defense.
“That’s been happening to some,” Sarella simply shrugged at the scene, explaining. “Those who give no care to the collateral damage they bring are given no care to mercy in turn by the people. Magic is far from invincible or limited to just us warring maesters. But running into one of the Faithful is even worse. Either side of that schism won’t hesitate to come down hard on any maester they catch fighting, regardless of the Archmaester they follow.”
“You mentioned that,” Margaery noted, canny as ever. “When speaking of strife in the Conclave, you said, ‘Not two sides as with the Faith…’ We’ve heard news from within the Citadel, but what is happening within the Starry Sept?”
“Strife as well, in truth,” Sarella said. “But of fierce debate and impassioned rhetoric, not violence. The Faith finds itself split between those septons and septas who would damn Magic’s return, and those who would welcome it.”
“Like the one from Renly’s Trial of Combat!” Bran exclaimed.
“As you say, Little Lord,” Sarella nodded indulgently.
“One thing has managed to escape Oldtown in all of this, at least,” I pointed out. “Though that might just mean it was already a more widespread topic when the Hightower closed off the city.”
“Speaking of,” Hermione said. “I imagine that’s bred some resentment?”
“Perhaps,” Sarella allowed. “It’s certainly been a disruption, though aimed more outward than inward. Trade still comes into the city, after all. It just doesn’t leave anymore, nor do the ships, their captains, and their crews, or the landbound travelers either. Many different… people… are stuck within the city with us. Master Marwyn claims it has made the city into ‘a boiling pot waiting to pop’. I remain skeptical about how much more pressure in Oldtown there could possibly be…”
“Lovely,” Renly drawled sardonically. “Just lovely. And where are the Hightowers during all of this, other than barring the way outward?”
“That depends on which Hightower you’re asking after, Prince Renly,” Sarella shot back, just as sardonic. “Lord Leyton has quite the brood, of course. Ser Baelor Brightsmile, the Heir, can often be seen out and about the city, futilely trying to keep the peace. Ser Garth Greysteel keeps the Hightower men-at-arms at the ready but refuses to take concrete action any which way. Lady Leyla and her husband, Ser Jon Cupps, maintain close watch over the Starry Sept.
“But Lord Leyton, the Old Man of Oldtown, and his eldest daughter, Mad Maid Malora, haven’t left the peak of the Hightower, working whatever rediscovered magicks they have up there. Master Marwyn says they still see all that happens in the Hightower’s light, however…”
“With what I’ve seen of these wards so far, I’d believe it,” I sighed.
“Eye in the sky~! Eye in the sky~!” Luna singsonged. “Better come correct or else the Old Man will come collect~!”
“So that’s… gang warfare in the Citadel, tense religious debates amongst the faith, ineffective lords, and a touch of Sauron’s All-Seeing Eye to round things off?” Heather summed up.
“Don’t forget whatever’s come into Oldtown and hasn’t had the chance to leave~!” Luna chimed.
“Ah, yes, the boiling pot, not melting, inevitably set to explode. The only questions are ‘how’ and ‘when’?” Dumbledore nodded sagely. “Truly, what fun there is to be had here~…”
Eventually, Sarella led us to a nondiscript building not far from the Citadel on the Honeywine. Just a simple stone house. But Sarella didn’t look inside. Instead, she went around back and to a pair of cellar doors set into the ground. I could see some rather vicious magical defenses on and around the cellar doors that disarmed themselves when Sarella knocked just right.
She didn’t bother going down (or thankfully, inviting us down, either, ‘cause I could see how badly that would end for unkeyed visitors…), just flinging open one of the doors and shouting down into the eerie darkness, “Master Marwyn! You have visitors!”
A graveled and gruff voice shouted back, “I’ve no time for visitors! If they’re here to arrange my death, tell them to get in line!”
“Come now, Marwyn, you don’t even have time for your good quill-pal?” Dumbledore called down into the cellar.
There was a moment of silence before Marwyn’s reply, “… Hogwarts has finally descended from your magical towers to scourge this damned city and its mess from the world, eh?! ‘Bout fuckin’ time!”
Dumbledore blinked, “Why would we wish to scourge Oldtown until not even ashes remain?”
I shot him a look at how oddly descriptive that question was, but he ignored me, listening for Marwyn’s response as the mysterious Archmaester stomped up the cellar stairs.
“‘Cause it’s what I would fuckin’ do for a quick and easy end to this shite!”
He stopped his stomping ascent at the top of the stairs, still just within the boundary of his magical defenses (more curses than wards), and just glared at Dumbledore. Marwyn the Mage was a squat man. So squat that he and the tall, spindly Dumbledore made an amusing study in opposites. He had a face like a bulldog, but it was easy to see the wickedly sharp intelligence in his eyes. Intense and piercing, he looked over Dumbledore…
Until, very suddenly, Marwyn turned to Sarella and grunted, “Strike me down before I ever get to be that old, Al.”
“Rude,” Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes betrayed his amusement.
“Duly noted, Master,” Sarella’s response was dry as the deserts of her home. “But the deception is no longer necessary. I know you know who I truly am. It will be good to be going by the name Father gave me again.”
“Good,” He gave her a curt nod. “Names give us power, just as much as blood does. I never liked you using a pseudonym. Limited your potential.”
Then, Marwyn turned back to Dumbledore, “So what do you want? Letters aren’t enough anymore? Come to torture me in person now?”
Dumbledore chuckled, “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person as well, Marwyn. Now, are you going to come out into the light of day to join us, or will I have to come in there to drag you out of your basement fortress?”
“Not all of us can have a grand Wizarding tower, Dumbledore,” Marwyn spat a glob of red off to the side. “I’m safe in my basement fortress, safe from the plots and schemes and chaos of this damned city. I have it on good authority that they’re lookin’ for me.”
“They?” I cut in with a raised eyebrow.
“Aye, them,” Marwyn scowled. “With Magic come again, who better to take the fall than I? Marwyn the Mage? It’s fuckin’ simple if you stop and think about it with the proper paranoia for a single moment.”
Sarella sighed, “The worst part is that Master is not even wrong. Archmaester Nymos and his Acolytes search for Master Marwyn almost exclusively. They seem to think that the most magically learned man in Oldtown will have a way to reverse what they see as an abominable development.”
“Daft fuckin’ cunts,” Marwyn grunted. “As if any one man could hope to control Magic as a whole. Their conspiracy will go up like wildfire in their faces, and they’ll stay raging and raving all the while.”
“Constant Vigilance,” Dora nodded approvingly. “Moody would like him.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Dumbledore grinned.
“The smartest conspiracy theorist you know~!” Luna chimed, summing up what we’d seen of Marwyn quite well.
Hermione still huffed, “That’s an oxymoron.”
“Believe what you will,” Marwyn snorted right back. “The world is wider than anyone can truly know. We can only guess at the plots conspirin’ in its dark depths.”
He fixed Hermione with a piercing gaze, “Do you think the Doom was natural, girl? Do you think the Fourteen Flames just did that? Do you think there weren’t centuries of corruption and decay and perhaps something even worse behind the cataclysm that ended a Dragon-riding, slave-sacrificing, unnatural-experimenting civilization without peer?”
He turned to Bran, “And you, boy. Do you think the Starks have ruled the North for 8,000 years by being wholly ‘good and honorable’? Do you think they conquered Barrow Kings and Red Kings and the Long Fuckin’ Night without any cunning and ambitious vision in their hearts?”
He turned to the Tyrells, “Do you think the Seven just so happened to send their Old Andals on a colonizing crusade west, backed by divine visions, right as the Valyrians were at their gates? Do you think the unnamed and faceless Keyholders of the Iron Bank have no connection — none at all — to the Faceless Men who founded their city? Do you think it odd that all the silk in the world originally comes out of Yi Ti, and nowhere else?”
Finally, he swept his gaze over all of us, “Do you think the order of neutral guidance and knowledge spread across the whole realm completely forgoes its worldly ambitions right before they’re put into positions to influence them into reality? Do you think our order is somehow above it all? Above power and ambition and greed? Above Magic, now that it’s returned, most of all?”
At his conspiratorial tirade, we all just stared at him. It was rather easy to see that Marwyn was the type of man to give rude awakenings, whether they were wanted or not. The Westerosi natives stared with horror, something akin to offense, and macabre fascination. And Hogwarts, with curiosity, consideration, and some small vindication. An Archmaester was admitting to, maybe not a grand conspiracy, but countless smaller ones in the Citadel’s past and present.
“Well…” Heather said. “From what Neville, Susan, and Hannah sent back from Essos, we know the Faceless Men-Iron Bank connection is true…”
“Do you, now?” Marwyn raised a bushy eyebrow and grunted. “I’ll have to mark that one confirmed on my board.”
“Yes, yes, you do that, my paranoidly curious friend. Now, as wonderful as that peek into your mind, knowledge, and worldview was,” Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling up a storm. “We didn’t actually need it to see everything going on in Oldtown. Here, at least, the conspiracies are no longer so hidden.
“Your Archmaester colleagues bear their colors and ambitions openly with Magic’s Return. The Faith is caught up in what must be a wonderfully spirited but certainly open debate. And the Hightower beams the reality of the situation for all in Oldtown to see.”
He finished with a hum, “So, Marwyn, I believe it’s time for you to leave your rather fitting basement and face your conspiracies with the rest of us.”
A screwed up, stubborn expression settled on Marwyn’s face. But slowly and begrudgingly, he took that first step out of his basement. Sarella breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief.
“Thank the Gods… He’s been locked in there since the duels in the street began.”
“Craven?” Willas prodded, his tone perfectly calculated to give offense as a sort of test.
“Prudent,” Marwyn retorted.
“I don’t think I like you…” Bran said with a sulking sort of frown and the kind of honesty only a child could wield effectively.
“Good eyes, Little Greenseer. You shouldn’t,” Marwyn grunted.
Luna, of course, was having none of that as she smiled as bright as can be, “Well, I like you~! You’re tippily, toppily, terrifically grumpy. And that metal mask on your astral face~! So rip~rip~riply~~! Is it Valyrian Steel?”
Marwyn turned and eyed her, “… You’re a dangerous one.”
“More than you could ever know,” Margaery declared proudly as if claiming Luna to get back at Marwyn, even just a little bit.
She, along with the other Highborn, seemed to be shaken by Marwyn’s… everything. More so than by the Witches and Wizards of Hogwarts. We were outside-of-context mysteries. Marwyn was most certainly inside, and still determined to bring mysteries to light. Mysteries that the Westerosi natives had the context to actually comprehend. That must’ve… unsettling to say the least.
“Bitter, bitter, little man aside,” Renly drawled, using scorn as armor. “Shall we continue? The Hightower awaits, and it’s beginning to get dark.”
“Aye,” Marwyn grumbled. “As cursed as that tower is, you won’t like getting caught out in Oldtown come night these days.”
“Cursed?!” Loras snapped in offense.
Marwyn ignored him, not saying anything more.
As our party got moving again, I took a step back to observe our newest additions through lenses both magical and physical. Despite Marwyn’s… everything, Sarella seemed to rely on him. They were as close as I expected a magical master and apprentice pair to be. But as seen before we picked him up, she wasn’t dependent. She was honestly capable, competent, and confident, all on her own. She didn’t simper for the Prince or Heir of Highgarden, standing proud even as a female bastard. And with the War in Oldtown, she was blooded as well.
I’d need to see her bloodline magic in action for my Authority to truly pick it apart. Water, salt, and heat… I’ll admit, I was curious. But there was nothing to do but wait for an opportunity to see her in action.
Marwyn’s magic, on the other hand, seemed to be constantly active in some way. Front and center, but… up a level. He seemed to reside halfway in the astral. And there, he was a Dreaming King. A bastion of pure Mind, a colossus of the Soul, a Valyrian Steel trap for projections, prophecies, and phantasmal protections. There might’ve been a bit of bloodline magic in there, but the most impressive part was that most of his astral mask was built on sheer dedication and willpower, forged even before Magic’s Return.
Taking Marwyn’s warning about Oldtown after dark in mind, we picked up the pace down the bank of the Honeywine. We still avoided the Citadel. I had to guess it was a damned magical arena with everything we’d learned since entering the city. But soon enough, we’d made our way through twisting cobbled streets, past a few more maester duels, and to a dock at the mouth of the Honeywine. It was waving a Hightower banner, and Willas quickly negotiated our passage to the Hightower itself.
The horses were left in a nearby stable, the illusioned brooms were sneakily stowed (not that Marwyn missed a moment of that), and Dumbledore shrunk the wheelhouse down into his pocket for safekeeping. Darkness had fallen almost in full, but the city was still slightly illuminated by that eerie green flame from on high.
As we were setting off in a sizable skiff, a commotion began in the city behind us. Marwyn and Sarella — very pointedly — didn’t turn to look. The rest of us didn’t know any better. Even in the green-tinted darkness, I could see the Shadows. They stood out as if in the light of day. Writhing and waiting. I heard the bleat of a goat, a cackle from beyond the stars, and the sound of millennia spent in doomed shadows.
As one, everyone’s heads snapped back forward to mirror Sarella and Marwyn. Even Luna, especially Luna… But not Dumbledore. He continued looking backward with a slightly cocked head and interest painted across his face.
“Oh, my… Would you look at that?”
Luna was almost frantically shaking her head, “Bad juju, bad juju, ba~aa~ad juju~…~! Noooo, thank you~!”
“No, Albus, we won’t…!” I hissed. “Neither should you…!”
Unconcerned by my completely rightful concern, Dumbledore waved me off, “Oh, magical madness took me long ago. I was fine then, and I’ll be fine now.”
Marwyn snorted in something akin to humor but didn’t say a word. But Sarella, without moving her head from staring straight forward, whispered…
“I told you… The maesters, Faithful, and Hightowers aren’t the only ones trapped in Oldtown now.”
The skiff’s helmsman hadn’t looked back either, but he was much more visibly shaken than Marwyn and Sarella.
Slowly, I asked him, “Is there a sept in the Hightower? I think all of us could use a blessing right about now.”
“A-Aye, milord… I think I would join you, if you’d allow…”
“I think I would insist. Along with whatever passes for a baptism for Albus.”
“A bath does sound nice…” Dumbledore carefreely mused.
For my sanity, I decided it was best to ignore him. The Hightower grew closer, looming higher and higher above. But now, the astrally stained, branded, and null blackstone isle the Hightower rested upon didn’t seem nearly so ominous. Not compared to the Shadows in the city we’d left behind…
IIIII
Bonus Pics (sauce below)
Comments
Dan W
I’m picturing this as a city wide Wizard War. “I CAST RUBBER BONES!!!”
ExodiaTheForbiddenOne
Albus “I stared into the abyss and it blinked first” dumbledore has definitely shanked someone before and you can’t tell me otherwise
