Deep within Flower Street in King's Landing, the "Seven Colors" tavern had long since closed for the night.
The entrance to the cellar was hidden behind a stack of barrels in the back kitchen.
William Royce was the first to descend the wooden steps.
His bronze breastplate gleamed dully under the light of a whale-oil lamp.
Medrick Manderly followed close behind. The Northman frowned the moment he stepped into the cellar. The others—Benjicot and Sebaston—came down after him.
Grand Maester Orwyle was already waiting below.
The old maester sat behind an oak table, dressed in the gray robes that marked his status as a man of the Citadel.
"You should not have come together," Orwyle said.
"Four men leaving their lodgings at once—it's too conspicuous."
William pulled out a chair and sat.
"You sent word saying it concerned life and death, that we must come tonight."
The heir of Runestone spoke calmly, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.
"It had better be worth the risk."
Orwyle did not answer immediately.
He took out a scroll from his robes. The wax seal was intact—the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was clearly visible even in the dim light.
With trembling hands, the old maester pushed the letter across the table.
William did not take it. He stared at the seal, then looked up at Orwyle.
"What is this?"
"Open it," Orwyle said in a low voice.
Medrick reached for it, but William pressed his hand down. "Wait."
William fixed his gaze on the maester.
"Why did you come to us?"
"You are a member of the Small Council. One of the Greens' core figures."
Orwyle spoke quietly.
"When you finish reading, you'll understand."
At last, William picked up the letter. He first examined the wax seal carefully—it was indeed the king's seal. He had seen it years ago when royal decrees were sent to the Vale.
He broke the seal, leaned closer to the lamp, and began to read.
The cellar fell into dead silence.
Only William's breathing grew heavier.
By the time he reached the final lines, his hand began to tremble.
"Seven gods…" William murmured, disbelief thick in his voice.
"What is it?" Benjicot asked urgently, unable to hold back any longer.
William handed him the letter, then turned to Orwyle, his gaze sharp.
"How did this letter come into your hands? When was it written?"
"Two days ago," Orwyle said.
"His Grace slipped it to me in secret while I was changing his bandages."
"He was still conscious then, though speaking was difficult."
"He said… give it to someone trustworthy. Do not let it pass through the Small Council."
Medrick leaned over Benjicot's shoulder to read.
"House arrest… poisoning… revoking Aegon's succession… naming Rhaenyra…" Medrick lifted his head, anger burning in his eyes.
"Then today in the throne room, Prince Aemond swore His Grace needed rest, that he would meet us in three days?"
"The king may already be dead," Orwyle cut in, his voice eerily calm.
The words hit them like a bucket of ice water.
"What did you say?" Sebaston could not believe it.
Orwyle closed his eyes, as if gathering the courage to speak.
Then he opened them.
"When I saw His Grace last night, his body was already at the brink… his pulse weak, his breathing shallow."
"The prescriptions I gave were all mild tonics and calming remedies. The ingredients were prepared by apprentices sent from the Citadel, the decoction boiled by Red Keep servants, and the medicine delivered by a maid arranged by Aemond."
He paused, then took out a small cloth bundle, untied it, and poured its contents onto the table—dried fragments of herbs.
"I secretly kept the dregs from last night's medicine," Orwyle said, pointing at them. "Look closely—there are traces of shadowleaf and forget-root. Each of these herbs calms the mind on its own, but taken together over time… they will weaken a man day by day, cloud his mind, and in the end…"
Benjicot cut in.
"You are the Grand Maester! You prescribed the medicine! And you just watched—"
"What could I do?" Orwyle suddenly snapped.
"I am only a maester. I have no soldiers, no power."
"What—was I supposed to do? Confront Prince Aemond?"
"Go tell Queen Alicent her son is poisoning her husband?"
"I would likely not survive the night."
As if the evidence were not enough, Orwyle produced another item from his robes—a crown.
A Valyrian steel circlet set with dark red gems, glimmering faintly under the lamp.
"This is the king's crown," Orwyle said, placing it on the table. "He gave it to me last night. Said that if I did not survive, it should go where it ought to."
"Do you still doubt me?"
William stared at the crown.
It was the one Viserys I wore on formal occasions.
"We go to the Red Keep tonight and confront them," Medrick proposed.
"And then what? Go die?" William said coldly. "Manderly, use your head. If His Grace truly…"
"Then why would Aemond promise to present the king in three days?"
"If he has already taken control of the king—or even… acted—why take such a risk?"
"Wouldn't that only increase the danger?"
Orwyle was silent for a long time.
"I don't know," he finally said softly. "Perhaps… His Grace still has value."
"What do we do?" Benjicot asked, pacing restlessly in the cramped cellar.
Orwyle looked at them, his gaze passing over each face.
"Leave King's Landing immediately. Tonight."
"Take this letter and this crown back to your lords."
"Raise armies. Join Princess Rhaenyra…"
"But Aegon is already the lawful heir," William interrupted, frowning. "His Grace declared it himself. All the nobles of King's Landing witnessed it."
"The Greens hold the advantage. Why commit regicide now?"
"It makes no sense."
Orwyle sighed.
"Lord Royce, do you still doubt me?"
William fell silent.
He was weighing, calculating. Orwyle's words made sense.
But everything was too perfect—too much like a scheme. The Grand Maester was handing the Blacks exactly what they needed most.
"And besides," Orwyle added, lowering his voice further, "do you think Aemond would care?"
"He killed his own nephews—not one, but three."
"Jacaerys was cut in half in King's Landing, Joffrey was torn apart by a dragon, and Lucerys fell into the sea, fate unknown."
"A man who can do that to his own blood—what would he not dare to do?"
"I'll go gather my men now and leave the city tonight," Medrick said, excited.
"This letter—Princess Rhaenyra needs it."
"And this crown—it belongs on the head of the true queen."
"Then we leave separately," William said, rising. His bronze armor grated heavily.
"Manderly, take the River Gate."
"Blackwood, the Mud Gate."
"I'll go by the Dragon Gate."
"Estermont…" he glanced at the silent Stormlander, "do as you will."
William's gaze returned to Orwyle.
"Grand Maester—if we succeed in leaving… what of you?"
Orwyle smiled.
"If His Grace is truly gone…"
"Then this old life of mine has run its course."
He added one last line.
"May the Seven guide you. And may the realm… not fall into the hands of a second Maegor…"
The four men looked at one another.
The lamplight cast shifting shadows across their faces—anger, fear, opportunity.
This letter, this crown, would give Princess Rhaenyra the moral cause, the legal claim, and the legitimacy to oppose the Greens.
William carefully folded the letter and tucked it into his inner pocket, then wrapped the crown in cloth.
They filed out in turn, vanishing into the deep night of King's Landing.
Orwyle did not leave.
He sat back at the table and took out a small glass vial from his sleeve. The liquid inside was colorless, faintly blue under the lamplight.
"Lysene tears," he murmured.
He raised the vial—but did not drink immediately.
His hand trembled. A flicker of struggle passed through his eyes.
He thought of his family in Oldtown, of the bastards he did not dare acknowledge.
He thought of the Citadel and the Faith—their instructions, their promises.
Some things could only be done by him. Once he died, there would be no proof left behind.
Orwyle closed his eyes and drank it in one gulp.
The vial slipped from his hand, shattering on the stone floor.
Pain surged from his stomach, spreading rapidly through his body. He collapsed onto the table, convulsing, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
As his consciousness faded, one final thought crossed his mind:
Larys Strong—the cripple—seemed to have already known of the Citadel and the Faith's plan.
Why had he not stopped it?
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