10th day of the 8th moon, 269 B.C.
The Hour of the Hearth (5 P.M.)
Seneschal Archmaester Arnel Flowers, Oldtown, The Citadel
"It is not that much of a stretch." Archmaester Gilbert defends him. "With the return of magic, having the person most knowledgeable about it by our side will be essential. Besides, perhaps... he has a point."
As always, the Archmaester of Healing was far too understanding. I hope his assistant hasn't picked up that bad habit.
"The world truly is changing. Before, nothing happened without our knowledge or influence, not even in the North, but since the passage of the comet, we are losing more control with every passing day. Perhaps we should begin to employ the glass candles, as Archmaester Culler previously advised."
He was referring to the plan presented by Culler, who had suggested hiding a glass candle in the solar of the most important Lords and dedicating a hall here, at the Citadel, to keep the other candles linked to them. There, dozens of Maesters would observe them day and night, without pause, noting any useful information.
We refused, obviously.
That plan would certainly keep us even more informed of everything that happened, but we would need to expand our circle to a very risky level to carry it out.
Furthermore, putting that plan into practice would open a door for more solutions involving magic, slowly making us dependent on it.
No one wanted that at the time, and no one wants it now.
"We have already lost one kingdom, Archmaester Gilbert. Must we let magic ruin the others as well?" Archmaester Crey, of Commerce, spoke in a visibly emotional state.
"According to the latest population count of the Iron Islands, and if the estimates of the maesters who saw the mountains of corpses at Old Wyk are correct, nearly half the population died in less than a month. That is more than eighty thousand people. And with the curse cast upon the surrounding sea, famine will take thousands more."
As the man responsible for organizing the maesters to conduct the population census of Westeros, Archmaester Crey was the one most aware of the weight of the death toll, making him the most affected by the numbers.
Hearing him, Archmaester Gilbert had the minimum sense not to argue back, retreating into his chair.
As for Crey, seeing Gilbert give up only increased his confidence, leading him, as usual, to exaggerate.
"I say we should finally push Lord Hightower to expel all foreign faiths from Oldtown." He concluded, looking at everyone present.
His eyes were burning with fervor.
"Calm yourself and think a bit more, Archmaester Crey. Doing so would only make the followers of the Seven more fervent. We would be trading one problem for another."
Being the most knowledgeable about religions and their followers, Archmaester Garret, of Religion, intervened, finding the move risky.
"And we must resolve how we will proceed with Culler before jumping to any other issues."
So easy to read—Crey was fuming and about to explode in disagreement.
"I agree." Archmaester Gormon, of Geography, spoke before Crey could embarrass himself. "Until we have a better idea of what is happening in Essos and what types of magic they have uncovered, antagonizing their religions is very dangerous. Even more so when the followers of R'hllor are stronger and more present than ever."
Receiving verbal agreement from practically everyone present, Crey was forced to withdraw in the same way he had forced Gilbert to withdraw.
"Maester Marwyn," I call out, drawing everyone's attention back to me and summoning the assistant of the Archmaester of Higher Mysteries, who was standing back in the corner with the other assistants. "Accompany Maester Culler to Lannisport and report all his actions, even the most mundane. Should he show signs of exposing the Seven Kingdoms to even more magic... he will not live to see the end of the year."
"Yes, Seneschal," Marwyn said before taking his leave.
The Archmaesters nodded and expressed support for my decision, seeing it as wise. The only exception was Gilbert, who remained in disapproving silence.
It doesn't matter. I am the Seneschal. He could judge me as much as he liked; he still had to obey me.
"Archmaester Culler." I draw his attention, causing him to turn his head toward me.
Even with the upper part of his face covered by the silver mask, leaving only his eyes visible, it was still possible to read the confusion on his face.
"You will also go to Lannisport. I want you to study the bodies of these Deep Ones and report all the differences."
His expression shifted from confusion to surprise. He likely thought I would say something else.
"I understand, Seneschal." He spoke with clear strangeness in his voice.
Doubt all you want.
"Archmaester Armen, any news?"
The Archmaester of Ravenry, who had until then been withdrawn for being partially to blame for our failure to discover the Ironmen's plans in time, narrowed his eyes upon hearing me call his name.
"Yes, Seneschal! Regarding Septon Mycah and Ser Kermit Frey."
The pair of Riverlanders. The thorn in my side that has been stoking the fire among the followers of the Seven.
"What have they done this time? Will the Septon finally heed the High Septon's call and answer for heresy?"
"No, Seneschal. According to Grand Maester Pycelle, the letter sent by Mycah to the High Septon says he refuses to answer any call while the Riverlands need him in these times of war. And Ser Kermit continues to wander, defeating the bandits who take advantage of the wartime to pillage. He attracts more and more followers."
The wretches, truly...
"So we have failed once again?"
I try to remain composed as I speak.
"We can try sending more mercenaries in search of them once more, Seneschal." Archmaester Omer, of Warcraft, suggested.
It seems I have failed.
"No. In a scenario where they survive again, they will become more untouchable, or worse, martyrs. We have to change our approach."
Everything we did failed, sometimes even in a comical manner.
Assassins? Caught by guards before they could even unsheathe their daggers.
Mercenaries? Their camp was buried in a landslide.
More mercenaries? Defeated in such an epic manner that it was immortalized in the most famous song, now being sung in every tavern in the Riverlands.
It seemed as though they truly had the Seven on their side.
And that was terrible.
Almost all the recent increase in religious fanatics among the followers of the Seven comes from the actions of these two.
The first to appear was Mycah, a septon from an irrelevant village located along the Blue Fork.
According to initial rumors, he was 'blessed' by the Seven with the power of healing while treating the wounds of the village men after it was attacked by a group of bandits about four years ago.
As magic is seen as something demonic by the Faith of the Seven, he justified himself to those who questioned him by saying his healing was not magic, but miracles, and that this ability was granted to him by the Seven so that he could help protect the population of the Riverlands.
From then on, he performed several sessions of his 'miracles' on the inhabitants of his village. But with the growing fame of a septon blessed with the gift of healing, the village began receiving more and more visitors seeking help.
Eventually, this growing fame reached the ears of one of our maesters, who sent a letter reporting the entire myth behind the septon.
Skeptical, we sent one of our own there to confirm the truth of the lie, and, to our horror, a letter delivered into the hands of Archmaester Armen confirmed not only the truth behind the rumors but also revealed far more abilities than the rumors had suggested.
At no point in the recorded history of Westeros has there been a man with the same capabilities as his. With powers to heal wounds, fix broken objects, purify water and food, and even CREATE DRINKABLE WATER.
That was unprecedented.
At that moment, we all realized that the comet had finally shown what effect it had brought to Westeros.
Since no one, other than Culler, wanted Westeros to fall into chaos as Essos had, we began to devise plans immediately. Even Gilbert participated in the planning.
Initially, we tried the most obvious route: accusing him of heresy, stoking local paranoia, and turning the people against him.
It did not work. He already had too many loyal followers, including local lords—such as those of House Paege of Fairmarket, after Mycah healed one of their own.
We could have brought the case to the High Septon then and there, but as Archmaester Garret wisely pointed out after the possibility was raised, doing so would draw too many eyes to the fact that his magic was real, which was exactly what we wanted to prevent.
Instead, we decided to hire mercenaries to attack him during his journey to Fairmarket. This was at the request of House Paege themselves, after Mycah had healed the Lord's son. With a payment of over 100 gold dragons, our demand that none be left alive was accepted with enthusiasm.
We knew he would not be alone. A member of House Paege, Ser Oscar Paege, would be with him, acting as an escort. But it was a price to be paid. For the greater good.
Even two weeks after the payment, we received no news—no letter confirming success.
This was strange. It should not have taken so long for them to contact the broker again and for the broker to send a letter with the result.
Another week later, the letter arrived. The attempt was a failure. Several were killed, even more were injured, including Ser Colmat, who was wounded protecting Mycah, but Mycah himself was alive and well.
It was here that Kermit Frey first entered our line of sight. Until then, he had been just another one of the dozens of Freys scattered throughout the Riverlands who had decided to leave his overpopulated nest to make a name for himself.
When Ser Oscar Paege was wounded and struck down by the mercenary leader, it was Kermit—a mere boy of five-and-ten years, name-day wise, and not yet even a knight—who defeated the mercenary.
From then on, they were never apart. Wherever Mycah went, Kermit followed, protecting him.
Together, they traveled through nearly all of the Riverlands, offering help to anyone in need, especially the smallfolk.
The saint and his shield.
They did not travel alone, of course. After the first attempt on Mycah's life, Lord Paege granted thirty of his men to act as his guard, commanding them to protect the... Saint with their very lives. It was a gesture of gratitude for healing and saving Ser Oscar, his brother, in addition to his son, weeks prior. Oscar himself joined the duo a short time into their journey.
But as if that were not enough, some of the peasants joined them, bringing their strength to over seventy men.
We tried to hire mercenaries once more, but once again they failed. This failure was worse than the last, as it was thanks to this event that Kermit was finally knighted by Ser Oscar, further increasing his fame.
It was too much. It was only a matter of time before their fame spread beyond the Riverlands and attracted the curious. We were—and still are—ensuring that ravens carrying news of their deeds 'get lost' along the way, but that would not work forever.
After a failed assassination attempt, we decided to take a risk and contacted the High Septon, informing him of the heresy and donating a small sum of a thousand gold dragons.
We thought that would be enough, that the power of the High Septon would resolve everything, but it seems Mycah's fame has gone to his head.
With the mounting problems I have to solve, I hope they do not add any more to my plate.
***
10th day of the 8th moon, 269 B.C.
The Hour of Twilight (6 P.M.)
Ser Kermit Frey, Riverlands, Riverrun
After successfully hunting another group of bandits, returning to the protection of a castle and being able to eat in peace—knowing we are not under the threat of attack at any moment—is an extremely relaxing feeling.
It even improved the taste of the food.
BANG!
The hall door was thrown open with a crash, alarming me, Ser Oscar, and all the other men who were eating and toasting after another victory.
Are we being attacked? Has Riverrun been taken? Did Lord Hoster Tully listen to his Maester and decide to expel us?
No.
Standing in the doorway, head turning as he searched for someone, was no warrior.
The man standing there, wearing a white tunic and advanced in years, was Septon Mycah. He locked his gaze on me, his eyes wide and his breathing rapid.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled into his eye, making him flinch. His tunic was soaked through around his armpits and neck.
What was happening?
As if he could hear my thoughts, Septon Mycah answered me.
"A tournament is to be held in Lannisport by the King, and we must be there. The Seven have given me a vision!"
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