Palette

The Citadel smelt of aged ink. Ancient parchment and candle wax~

On that day, I addressed all the maesters and their novices. It became quite the to-do event, as all the guild masters, important nobles, bank ministers, and just about any foreign dignitary that-so-happened to be in port came to hear me speak.

The Citadel, a spacious dome housing a massive library, served as the gathering place. With its multiple stairwells leading to various sections, one could only wonder about the knowledge concealed within.

My speech was marked by its poignancy. I spoke about the rich history of Old Town, its Citadel, the Faith, and the esteemed House Hightower who helped make it all possible, and how the art permeates from the city streets.

I emphasized the importance of knowledge and the benefits that arise from calm and open-minded negotiations. I commended the Hightowers for consistently prioritizing the best interests of Old Town, opting for diplomacy and assimilation rather than resorting to conflict when faced with the First Men, the Andals, or the Targaryens.

And of course, I made sure to mention that the presence of the maesters undoubtedly contributed to such intellectual discourse.

The whole thing evolved into a togetherness exercise of optimism toward our storied histories, lore, science, philosophy, and the potential of man.

I pledged to personally fund an archiving initiative. Starting from the very oldest texts in the Citadel, the scrolls and books near wilting or fading or expiration, for each of those copied, I would pay that scribe for each completion.

Such an idea served a dual purpose for me. Not only did I prioritize the preservation and safe storage of our documents, but it also allowed my people to search the Citadel for the information I required without stirring up trouble among the council members who were protective of their domain.

After the formalities were concluded, everyone returned to their daily routines, granting me the freedom to explore the library.

In a secluded and dimly lit corner of the Citadel, I discovered a corridor that led to the laboratory of my great uncle, Archmaester Vaegon.

"Mind the mess," he said in his usual dry and curt manner. Every surface was cluttered with scrolls, open beakers, flasks, test tubes containing peculiar liquids, and a cauldron bubbling with an unknown concoction.

"The mess is inconsequential," I replied. "Let's get straight to the point, shall we?"

A glimmer appeared in his purple eyes as Gruncle Vaegon remarked, "Ah, your Shade of the Evening, I presume."

"Yes," I confirmed. "How has your research progressed?"

My great uncle was renowned as an alchemist, having secluded himself even more than usual. The other archmaesters rarely saw him, as if he had ventured to another realm, though in reality he was just down the hallway.

Gruncle Vaegon shook his head "I have confidently determined the general composition of this 'Shade of the Evening.' However, due to my vows as a maester, I cannot modify it as you desire, nor am I able to test its effects even if we were to successfully recreate it."

Gruncle Vaegon gestured toward a ledger containing all his notes, which Brien promptly took and began perusing. "As expected of the archmaester," Brien remarked. "This is truly impressive."

Gruncle Vaegon's sour expression remained unchanged, "I have done all that I can in good conscience. I should report this, truthfully, and I would if it were not for your skillful circumvention of our order's rules. But let me advise you one last time, Rhaenar, to abandon the path you are about to embark, for I see no scenario where it ends well."

"I won't act recklessly," I reassured him with a smile. "You know me, Gruncle. I simply wish to meet him."

Gruncle Vaegon studied me for a moment, attempting to discern my intentions from my expression. "Very well," he conceded. Then, with a curt sigh, he slid an untitled book across the table to me.

"What is this?" I inquired.

"He whom you seek fled the Citadel, but not before failing to eradicate all evidence of his actions. This is one of his journal. Read it, if you have the stomach for it, and understand what you are getting yourself into. Consider it my one and only favor; a Targaryen's courtesy."

I chuckled lightly. "So you had a soft spot for the family all this time?"

I gazed down at the journal, its sinuous black leather cover beckoning me. For a moment, I hesitated to touch it. The journal contained the writings of Archmaester Eldric, a name whispered in hushed tones, a black stain in the history of the Citadel that they wished to erase.

"I dare not open it," Brien remarked. "Perhaps some mysteries are better left unanswered."

"I can't believe those words came from your mouth," Theodore chimed in.

But as soon as my hand touched the journal and I began to turn the page, the crowd gathered around me, eager to read its contents. It evoked memories of my time in prison, a faint echo of the days when I would sell my drawings. I could still envision the scene: a swarm of men, their eyes wide with lust, huddled together to catch a glimpse of my forbidden artwork.

Instead, its pages were filled with cryptic entries, discussing various subjects and their reactions to unknown potions. The coded nature of the writings rendered many of the details obscure and unrecognized.

['Subject: "Strawberry", girl, Mander stock, not yet ten-and-two of age: administered E-TwentySeven, unresponsive. Sharp of wit upon wakening. Must adjust dosage as per…']

"Hmmm.. 'E-TwentySeven'?" Skimming through the pages, I remarked, "Looks like he was quite busy. But with what?"

"Check the dates," suggested Gruncle Vaegon. "The entries span just two moons."

"Gods," exclaimed Brien.

"He must have written hundreds of these journals," added Theodore in disbelief. "Thousands of live subjects..."

I groaned, growing frustrated. "All I wanted was some assistance with my pet project. What has this man done?"

Brien began to explain, "I only know what I've heard. It happened after Theodore and I left the Citadel thirteen years ago—"

"Skip the preamble, please!" interrupted Theodore.

"Agreed," said Gruncle Vaegon. "Save the life story for your autobiography."

"Fine," Brien acquiesced, deflated. "Archmaester Eldric, once respected among our conclave, devoted his life to illegal experimentation, or so they say. His true nature was revealed when one of his subjects managed to escape."

"Illegal experiments?"

"We don't know the full extent," Gruncle Vaegon replied. "Eldric fled the city before we could apprehend him. Must have had an escape planned, as most of his writings were either gone or destroyed. Fortunately, he overlooked this journal."

I pressed further, "What did the escapee reveal?"

Gruncle Vaegon shook his head, "Nothing good" he said grimly, "The child had a fragmented mind. Some form of hypnotism, we think."

"Born in the wrong time," I said, "The freehold would have hailed him a pioneer of science. Very well, I will seek this Eldric out and size him up for myself. Any leads?"

"Across the Narrow Sea," guessed Brien, "I'd go to Asshai."

"No need for conjecture," said Gruncle Vaegon, "I know where he is."

"Oh? "

"Fiends are kindred creatures," said the Archmaester. "Find one, find many."

I laughed bitterly. Such an apt description of the country.

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We spent over two weeks in Old Town, and once Sundance returned, we embarked on a flight to The Arbor, an island known for producing the renowned wine 'Arbor Gold.' The island was safeguarded by a formidable fleet, widely regarded as one of the largest in Westeros, depending on who you asked.

In homage to Ser Ryam, I visited his birthplace and retraced his footsteps before rejoining the Rhaenari on our journey, not far from the end of the Honeywine.

Heading north, we resisted the temptation to linger longer in Highgarden for another brief stay. We took the Ocean Road, and I soared above the Shield Islands with Sundance carrying me swiftly. I made a stop at Lord Hewett's Town and ventured inside the magnificent Oakenshield castle, where I bore witness to those grand oaken gates.

Continuing our journey, we passed by Cobble Cove, catching sight of the mouth where the Chequy Water merged with the sea. As we proceeded along, we reached Old Oak, the ancestral seat of House Oakheart, its inner walls covered with striking artwork of their past conflicts with the Dornish.

Each evening, we were blessed with the spectacle of a breathtaking sunset that bathed our surroundings in glorious hues, the waves glistened in gold.

Leaving the Ocean Road temporarily, we ventured northeast to Red Lake, the seat of House Crane. Legend has it that in ages past, Brandon of the Bloody Blade spilt so much blood, the once-called Blue Lake was renamed in remembrance of the carnage.

Eventually, we crossed into the Westerlands. Passing by North Crakehall and journeying further north, we traversed villages and picturesque countryside until we reached our next momentous destination.

And there it stood before us — a colossal rock boldly facing the Sunset Sea — and the city of Lannisport resting below.