TBOV: Chapter Thirteen: The Chains That Bind Us

Chapter Thirteen: The Chains That Bind Us

“Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragon-slayers armed with swords? The world the Citadel is building has no place in it for sorcery or prophecy or glass candles, much less for dragons.”

―Archmaester Marwyn (A Feast for Crows)

…

The barge cut through the green-brown waters of the Honeywine with a slow, deliberate grace, the Citadel’s white spires looming larger at each bend of the river. Grand Maester Orwyle watched from under the cover of a modest canopy, warmed by the late-autumn sun. He wore his full chain, links of black iron, brass, electrum, steel, and stranger metals clinking with every shift of his body. Today, the chain felt heavier than usual. A subconscious reminder of his purpose, perhaps—and the burden that accompanied it.

The Citadel had always been his home, though he had left it long ago to serve. Passing beneath its tall walls now gave him only a cold sense of recognition rather than comfort. In the yard, chatty novices rushed to dock the barge. Armed Hightower men—no doubt Aemond’s men in disguise—stood by with pikes.

Orwyle disembarked without fanfare. An escort of two Speakers in the royal livery—black surcoats with a golden dragon—fell in around him. Exhaling, he adjusted the chain on his neck, conscious of every link.

The Hightower men led him through the warren of passages toward the Scribe’s Hearth and then deeper into the Conclave’s inner chambers. Above them, ravens cawed in the rookery towers. Smallfolk and learned men alike watched his passing from corners and alcoves, their faces lined with curiosity.

Inside, the air tasted faintly of ink and candle smoke, that old musty tang of parchment and dust he remembered so well. He found the Conclave there gathered in a semicircle chamber ringed by shelves brimming with scrolls and tomes. The Archmaesters wore their own chains—each link a marker of higher learning. Orwyle offered a polite inclination of his head. They murmured greetings, albeit cool ones. A single novice, pale and nervous, stood by the table, arms loaded with parchments and ledgers.

“Archmaester Ryam,” Orwyle began, addressing the eldest in the room. “I thank you for granting me this audience. I have come again bearing the prince’s instructions.” He swept a glance across the assembled. “I trust you have the documents prepared for me?”

An uneasy shuffle passed through the Conclave. Finally, at a nod from Ryam, the novice stepped forward, trembling under the weight of ledgers. Orwyle took a seat, the Speakers standing sentry at the door while a scribe’s table was pulled close. The novice laid out the ledgers, accounting scrolls, rosters of novices transferred to Dragonstone, and apothecaries who had pledged to the new order.

“I brought with me additional ledgers,” Orwyle said, drawing out his own bundles from a leather satchel. “Copies of the records kept by the Alchemists’ Guildhall, and shipping receipts from the men who oversee the consolidation of equipment and research materials at Dragonstone.” He set them on the table. “I shall cross-check these against the Citadel’s documents. The Prince would have a thorough audit.”

A hush fell as Orwyle spread them out. He began in silence, scanning each line methodically. He compared sums of gold, tallies of tomes, inventories of rare metals, shipments of dragonglass, even headcounts of “volunteer” maesters. Occasionally, he would pause, frown, and trace a finger down the parchment. Tension suffused the chamber each time he lifted his gaze.

“Ah,” Orwyle murmured, lifting one scroll. Earlier, Maester Morelyn submitted a list of components—reagents, wyvern bone, Valyrian steel flecks—sent thrice over. But here,” he tapped a ledger before Archmaester Ryam, “it’s only noted once. Why the discrepancy?”

Ryam leaned forward. “We— we accounted for it on separate lists,” he answered. “Our novices are still unaccustomed to merging the alchemical ledgers with the Citadel’s own methods. The second shipments were tallied under ‘miscellaneous arcana supplies.’”

Orwyle’s lips pinched. He let the chamber stew in silence a moment, then nodded, scribbling an annotation. “Very well. You have the auxiliary ledger?”

The novice scrambled forward, producing another sheaf of parchment. Orwyle examined it. “This seems in order… let us continue.”

So it went for nearly an hour, the shuffling of papers and scratch of quill echoing off stone walls. Every so often, Orwyle would catch an archmaester or two exchanging anxious glances. They were old men, learned in many subjects, but their lives had not prepared them for such a forced union—merger, the Prince insisted—between the Citadel and the Alchemists’ Guild. And all of it done under Orwyle’s watchful gaze. Many of the Citadel’s more obstinate thinkers had denounced it as sacrilege, though few dared speak so openly now.

Eventually, Orwyle let out a measured exhalation. “I find no immediate sign of duplicity. These sums match those recorded in King’s Landing, if one accounts for how you subdivided categories. The receipts from our overseers at Dragonstone also align, by and large, with your shipping logs.” He turned his eyes on the Conclave. “It appears, this time, your maesters have done as the Prince commanded.”

A ripple of relief traveled through the circle of archmaesters—quiet enough that only one steeped in courtly nuance might see it. Archmaester Ryam cleared his throat. “We live to serve, Grand Maester.”

Orwyle beckoned the novice. “Package these ledgers, along with my notes. They will be reviewed again in King’s Landing. You will do so with care.” He saw how the youth’s hands shook—nervousness, no doubt, that one slip of parchment might be misconstrued as defiance or sabotage.

While the novice set about bundling the scrolls, Orwyle rose. His chain clinked softly. “I thank you all for your cooperation. Prince Aemond will doubtless be…pleased.” He let the word ring with the unspoken. “But remember, the prince’s memory is long, and his patience for disloyalty grows ever thinner.”

He paused, letting the words linger. “Let us not forget the—unfortunate—conclusion from the last debacle. The fates of all involved were…grisly, I think we can all agree.” His gaze swept their stony faces. “I should not like to see that repeated. We are men of learning, after all. We must learn from their example.”

In a corner, Archmaester Meryn drew a ragged breath.

Satisfied, Orwyle pressed on: “Our chains are symbols of knowledge, yes—but never forget their roots. It was the Hightowers who purchased the first men of learning and bound them to service. This Citadel stands in the shadow of their seat. The prince shares their sacred bloodline. In that same tradition, you exist to serve. We all do.”

Silence greeted him, broken only by a faint rustle of parchment from the novice. Orwyle read their faces: dread, resentment, resignation. In truth, it mattered little what stirred in their hearts, so long as their hands obeyed.

We are all chained to something, in the end, he mused, as he dipped his head in polite farewell before turning to leave. The Speakers fell into step beside him, silent as shadows. Behind him, he could sense the archmaesters exhaling, free to glower or mutter once he was gone.

That, too, mattered little. So long as they do not conspire.

The Grand Maester doubted the prince would brook another whisper of defiance against the founding of his Institute—his grand design. For good or ill, this age would see knowledge itself was harnessed under a single, consolidated power.

In that, Orwyle's task was simple enough. He need only see it done.

✥✥✥​

She stepped off the gangplank with the languid grace befitting her station, yet Mysaria felt a frown settle on her face as she looked upon the red-brick sprawl that was Astapor. The city glowed in the afternoon sun—walls the color of raw blood, towers half-sunken by heat and dust. A dry wind blew in from Slaver’s Bay, thick with brine and the sharper tang of the abattoirs where the Unsullied were forged. Her party—two dozen Red Cloaks—fanned out behind her, their armor polished to a wine-dark sheen. Targaryen banners snapped above them, the three-headed dragon painted in blood-red on black cloth.

A handful of Astapori overseers waited at the docks in bronze collars, heads bowed in false humility. Foremost among them was a paunchy fellow with a ring of gold piercings through his nose. He swept into a florid bow.

 “Welcome, my lady. The Good Masters eagerly await you in the Hall of a Thousand Thrones.”

Mysaria touched the hilt of the jeweled belt at her hips. She wore no sword—she wouldn’t be needing one. “Very well,” she said, her Lysene accent lilting softly. “Lead on.”

The Red Cloaks easily kept pace with her as she walked the long approach into the city. Every eye that turned their way was watchful. She noted the waifish forms of slaves pressed against the alley walls, gazes downcast. Twice, they passed slavers driving chained lines of half-naked men. The brassy clang of a whip made Mysaria flinch internally. This place is vile as I recall, she thought. Yet her prince had commanded she come, and so she came.

They crossed through iron-banded gates into a vast courtyard of dusty brick. Balconies of carved stone soared overhead. The Hall of a Thousand Thrones loomed at the far end, an edifice topped by rows of sculpted harpies leering down like old gods. Within its cavernous interior, braziers spat acrid smoke that stung her eyes. The Good Masters—some in plush silks, others with gilded harnesses about their chests—littered the dais, their broad seats reminiscent of miniature thrones, each vying to sit higher than the next.

She was announced in Valyrian: “Lady Mysaria, the Secretary of Commerce, and Foreign Affairs at King’s Landing, emissary of Prince Aemond Targaryen, Master of Coin.” A hush followed, and then the Good Masters began a show of welcome. They tilted their heads, pressing hands to their hearts in affected courtesy.

“We are honored to receive the emissary of the Dragon Prince,” said a lean man with a voice as sibilant as a serpent’s. “We received your message and have gathered all you require. The terms have been fulfilled. Ten thousand Unsullied, newly trained, prepared to serve.”

Mysaria studied them, her pale eyes traveling over the plump arms, the self-satisfied grins, the lurking greed in every motion. “The Prince offers gratitude for your punctual compliance,” she said evenly, “and bestows upon you his favor.” She produced a small scroll sealed in black wax, handing it to the nearest Good Master. Inside, they would find a cheque for the owed amount, signed and sealed by the prince himself.

The men nodded, some exchanging satisfied glances. Mysaria’s gaze swept the dais. A different Good Master spoke then, broad-shouldered with a chin studded in jade. “The Unsullied await you at the Slaver’s Plaza, Lady Mysaria. We have arranged for half the city watch to keep the thoroughfares clear. Our esteemed guests will have no trouble marching to the harbor.” He let the compliment sink in, perhaps hoping for a direct endorsement or some sign of favor.

Mysaria only inclined her head. “Excellent. My men will verify the count and condition.”

“Of course, of course,” the man nodded.

...

By dusk, the harbor was alive with the bellow of horns and shouted commands. Gangplanks groaned under the weight of the Unsullied marching aboard gigantic carracks. Mysaria stood at the pier, arms folded over her chest, as she watched the last lines of eunuch-soldiers vanish into the hold of the final ship.

“My lady,” one of her men said quietly, “the Good Masters would have a final word.” He gestured behind her, where half a dozen Astapori masters huddled. Mysaria turned, one pale brow arching high. She heard them out—mealy-mouthed assurances of continued trade, soft promises that Astapor would ever stand open to the Targaryens, should they desire more Unsullied. She gave them back the proper niceties, each word as hollow as a rotted tree.

At last, she took her leave. “Farewell, Good Masters,” she said. “Our Prince thanks you for the timely service.”

They took their bows. Then, Mysaria boarded a sleek galley that had ferried her to this place. The Absolution; it bobbed lightly against the pier. Beneath the Targaryen crest, the ship’s standard fluttered from the mast—a stylized dragon spewing a golden sun from its maw. A few minutes later, the lines were cast off, and sails hoisted. She felt the deck shift beneath her feet, a gentle sway carrying them out into the bay, the gloom of the open sea beyond. Above, gulls circled, cawing raucously. The breeze carried the heat of the Astapori desert behind them, but soon that would fade into the cooler airs of the sea.

Mysaria leaned against the railing, the wind playing with her pale hair, as Astapor dwindled behind them into a smudge of red. A sad and savage place. But then, so was the rest of the world, beneath polite veneers. She was no stranger to cruelty’s presence, either.

A Red Cloak approached and bowed.

"The winds are fair, my lady. The captain says we shall make Pentos within the week."

"Good," Mysaria said, her voice distant, her gaze fixed far out where the sea met sky.

"Bring me ink and parchment. I must write to the prince."