Chapter 3: The Labyrinth of Knowledge
Chapter 3: The Labyrinth of Knowledge
278 AC, Month of the Maiden
Oldtown was a symphony of civilization, a stark contrast to the grim functionality of the castles and holdfasts of the Riverlands. The streets were paved with smooth, grey stones, washed clean each morning by teams of workers. The air, swept by a constant breeze from the Whispering Sound, carried the scents of salt, spice, and parchment, a heady perfume of commerce and learning. Buildings of white stone, timber, and plaster, some leaning against each other like old friends, lined the winding streets. Above it all, a constant, silent sentinel, the Hightower pierced the sky, its great beacon a promise of light in the darkness of the world.
For Martyn, it was a paradise. His eyes were wide with a scholar's reverence, drinking in the sight of every bookshop, every robed maester, every heated debate between acolytes on a street corner. For Alaric, it was a target-rich environment. His gaze swept over the city not with awe, but with a cold, acquisitive appraisal.
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They found lodging in a respectable inn called The Quill and Tankard, an establishment frequented by the wealthier students of the Citadel. The innkeeper, a shrewd man with eyes that missed nothing, quickly assessed them. Alaric, using the funds his father had provided, paid for two months in advance, a move designed to project an image of comfortable, unostentatious wealth. It was a small investment in perception that would pay dividends later.
Their first official entry into the Citadel was a humbling experience, even for Alaric. They crossed a stone bridge over the Honeywine and passed through the great gates, entering a world unto itself. It was not a single building, but a sprawling complex of libraries, lecture halls, forges, and dormitories, all interconnected by covered walkways and windswept courtyards. The air buzzed with intellectual energy. Novices in simple woolens hurried from one lesson to another, their faces a mixture of anxiety and determination. Acolytes, distinguished by the fledgling chains of metal links around their necks, gathered in small groups, arguing passionately over points of law or philosophy. And everywhere, there were the maesters, their grey robes and heavy chains a symbol of a lifetime of learning.
Martyn was speechless, his hand clutching a worn copy of The Seven-Pointed Star as if it were a holy relic. "It's… it's everything I dreamed it would be," he whispered.
"It's a fortress," Alaric replied, his voice a low murmur. "But its walls aren't stone, and its weapons aren't swords. Its power is knowledge, and it guards it just as fiercely as the Lannisters guard their gold."
Their initiation was a simple, bureaucratic affair. They were brought before Archmaester Walgrave, a man so ancient he seemed made of parchment and dust. His eyes, clouded with age, held a distant, unfocused look, and his hands trembled as he signed their entrance papers. Alaric noted his frailty immediately. A system is only as strong as its weakest link, and the man responsible for the initial vetting of all new students was clearly in his dotage.
They were given the plain, undyed robes of novices and assigned a small, spartan room in the novice's dormitory. The room contained two hard cots, two small desks, and a single window that looked out onto a bleak inner courtyard. It was a far cry from their chambers at home, but Alaric didn't mind. Comfort was a distraction.
The first few weeks were a blur of introductory lessons. History with Maester Yorrick, a man with a booming voice who could recite the lineage of every Targaryen king without pause. Astronomy with Maester Gulian, who led them to the top of the Ravenry tower on clear nights to chart the movements of the stars. The basics of anatomy and healing with Maester Ellard, a kind, patient man who smelled faintly of formaldehyde.
Martyn thrived. He was a diligent, earnest student, his notes meticulous, his questions thoughtful. He absorbed the lessons like a sponge, his face shining with the pure joy of learning. Alaric, on the other hand, was profoundly bored. He had read all these books in his past life. Prometheus contained the sum of all human knowledge from a world thousands of years more advanced. He could have taught these classes himself.
His challenge was not to learn, but to pretend to learn. He had to appear brilliant, but not impossibly so. He cultivated the image of a prodigy, a boy with a photographic memory and a keen, analytical mind. He would ask insightful questions, questions that demonstrated a deep understanding of the material but were carefully crafted to seem like the products of a gifted child, not a reincarnated genius with a supercomputer in his soul.
"Maester Yorrick," he asked during one history lesson, "you speak of the Doom of Valyria as a singular, cataclysmic event. But the histories mention decades of increasing seismic and volcanic activity prior to the final eruption. Is it not more accurate to view the Doom not as a sudden act of the gods, but as the culmination of a long, predictable geological process, perhaps exacerbated by the Valyrians' own magical practices, which may have destabilized the peninsula?"
The question sent a ripple through the lecture hall. Maester Yorrick, who had been in the middle of a dramatic retelling of the Doom, paused, blinking at Alaric in surprise. "That is... an astute observation, Novice Alaric. The Archmaesters have debated that very point for centuries. Yes, a very astute observation indeed."
Martyn looked at his brother with pride. Alaric simply gave a modest nod, his mind already moving on. The performance had been a success.
The social dynamics of the Citadel were as complex as any royal court. The novices and acolytes were a mix of highborn and low, each with their own ambitions and insecurities. Alaric, with his cold intellect and quiet confidence, quickly became a person of interest.
He identified the key players within their cohort almost immediately. There was Leo Tyrell, a third cousin to the Lord of Highgarden, a boy with his house's characteristic brown curls and an arrogant smirk that rarely left his face. He saw the Citadel not as a place of learning, but as a stepping stone to a comfortable position in some great lord's household.
Then there was Pate, a boy with a perpetually worried expression and ink-stains on his fingers. He was the son of a pig farmer from the Reach, and he was acutely aware of his humble origins. He was bright and hard-working, but he lacked confidence, and the condescension of highborn boys like Leo Tyrell only made him shrink further into himself.
Alaric saw Leo as a rival to be managed and Pate as a tool to be cultivated.
The opportunity came one evening in the Scribe's Hearth, a large, drafty room where students could study by the light of a massive central fireplace. Pate was struggling with a complex passage from The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, his brow furrowed in frustration.
Leo Tyrell, passing by with a coterie of other highborn novices, sneered. "Still puzzling over that, pig-boy? Perhaps you should stick to something simpler, like counting your father's swine."
Pate's face flushed a deep, painful red, and he hunched over his book, trying to disappear.
Alaric, who had been observing from a nearby table, waited for Leo to move on before he approached Pate's desk.
"He's wrong, you know," Alaric said quietly.
Pate looked up, startled. "My lord?"
"The passage you're struggling with," Alaric said, pointing to the book. "It's intentionally confusing. Maester Yorrick assigns it to see who can spot the deliberate inconsistencies. The author was a sycophant of House Lannister. He inflates their role in the war against the Vulture King and conveniently omits the fact that Lord Oakheart's forces were the ones who actually won the decisive battle."
He then proceeded to explain the passage in simple, clear terms, pointing out the historical context and the author's political biases. Pate listened, his initial fear replaced by a dawning understanding, and then by a profound sense of gratitude.
"How did you know all that?" Pate asked, his voice filled with awe.
Alaric gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "I read a lot. And I find that history makes more sense when you understand the motivations of the people who write it. Don't let boys like Leo intimidate you, Pate. Their names give them a head start, but in this place," he tapped a finger on the book, "it's what's in your head that matters. If you ever need help with anything, just ask."
It was a calculated act of kindness, an investment. Pate, in his gratitude, would become a loyal source of information, a pair of eyes and ears in the places Alaric could not be. He had just acquired his first asset in the Citadel.
While Martyn diligently worked towards his first link—a silver one, for healing, a subject for which he had a natural aptitude—Alaric's true work began. His days were spent in classes, playing the part of the prodigy. But his nights were his own. He would spend hours in the libraries, ostensibly studying. In reality, he was conducting the greatest act of intellectual theft in the history of Westeros.
He would find a secluded corner, open a heavy, leather-bound tome, and let his eyes scan the pages. He wasn't reading in the traditional sense. He was recording.
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Page by page, book by book, he was creating a perfect, searchable replica of the Citadel's libraries within the vast storage of the AI chip. His 'photographic memory' became a legend among the novices. They didn't know the half of it.
His primary target, however, was not mundane history or economics. He was hunting for bigger game.
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He quickly discovered that the Citadel was not as open with its knowledge as it claimed. Certain subjects were walled off, their secrets guarded jealously. He learned of the 'higher mysteries,' a euphemism for the study of magic. Access to these subjects was restricted, reserved only for those who had proven their mastery in every other field. The key that unlocked this forbidden door was a single, rare link for a maester's chain: one made of Valyrian steel.
And the man who held that key, the Archmaester of the higher mysteries, was a figure of rumor and legend within the Citadel: Marwyn, the Mage.
He was a ghost, a myth. Most of the other maesters spoke of him with a mixture of fear and disdain. They called him a dabbler in dark arts, a madman who consorted with shadowbinders and warlocks. They said he was rarely in Oldtown, that he spent most of his time traveling in the far east, searching for lost books and forgotten lore.
Marwyn became Alaric's obsession. He was the gatekeeper. He was the one who had the knowledge Alaric truly craved, the knowledge of the power that had once made Valyria the master of the world.
He began to gather information on Marwyn with a spy's patience. He learned from a gossiping acolyte that Marwyn's chambers were in the Ravenry tower, but were always kept locked. He learned from Pate, who had been tasked with cleaning the Archmaesters' archives, that Marwyn's correspondence was kept in a separate, sealed chest.
One afternoon, Martyn burst into their room, his face flushed with triumph. Around his neck, gleaming against the dull wool of his robe, was a single, bright link of polished silver.
"I did it, Alaric!" he exclaimed, holding up the link for his brother to see. "I passed Maester Ellard's examination! I'm an acolyte!"
Alaric smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. For all his cold calculation, he felt a flicker of real pride for his brother. Martyn was a good person, and he had achieved something through honest, hard work.
"I never doubted you for a moment, brother," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "This is just the first of many. Soon, you'll have a chain that would make the Grand Maester himself jealous."
A week later, Alaric sat his own examination, in the field of economics and trade, under Archmaester Vaellyn, a man whose family had once been wealthy merchants from the Westerlands. The examination, which was supposed to be a rigorous, three-hour oral test, was over in forty-five minutes. Alaric not only answered every question flawlessly, but he also offered a detailed critique of the trade policies of Lannisport that left Vaellyn speechless. He followed it up with a proposal for a new system of tariffs and trade agreements for the entire Westerlands that was so brilliant, so insightful, that the Archmaester simply sat back in his chair, staring at the ten-year-old boy before him as if he were a dragon in human form.
That evening, a link of bright, shining yellow gold was added to Alaric's own, as-yet-unforged chain. The news of his performance spread through the Citadel like wildfire, cementing his reputation as a once-in-a-generation prodigy. He accepted the congratulations with his usual quiet modesty, but inwardly, he felt nothing but cold satisfaction. The link was not a reward; it was a key. A key to more libraries, more archives, more secrets.
That night, long after Martyn had fallen into an exhausted sleep, Alaric was in the deepest, dustiest corner of the main library. The yellow gold link had given him access to the economic archives, a section rarely visited by novices. It was there, in a tattered, forgotten book of trade routes written by a long-dead sea captain, that he found it.
It was a footnote, a small, almost illegible scribble in the margin of a map of the Jade Sea.
The shadow-lands are a place of death and madness, but the mage sought the city of Asshai nonetheless. He said the truth of Valyria was not in its past, but in its shadow.
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Alaric leaned back, the barest hint of a smile on his face. The trail was cold, centuries old, but it was there. Marwyn wasn't just a dabbler. He was a serious practitioner, a man who had traveled to the darkest corner of the world in search of power.
He looked out the high, arched window of the library. The Hightower's beacon cut a path through the darkness, a steady, unwavering light. But Alaric knew the truth. The real power, the real knowledge, was not in the light. It was hidden in the shadows. And he was just beginning to learn how to navigate them.