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Chapter Text

The song filled the small room with noise.

Sometimes, accompanying the small melody (which I half-hummed and half-mumbled) was the characteristic sound of a quill rasping across the edge of an ink well or the soft flik of the quill hitting the page.

The light of the sun coming from the thin window was hitting the carefully positioned plate of polished copper in such a way to light the entirety of the small room, although some candles were still burning next to me to give constant lighting from other directions as to not strain my eyes. My bed was made and the room had been dusted and cleaned to pristine conditions.

The environment gave me peace.

Let me tell you, however, that while I felt at peace, the act of copying books by hand was difficult work. One thing was reading about it in The Name of the Rose and hearing from your university professors and it was another entire thing to actually do it, all medieval/early renassaince style, inside what was essentially a fantasy university inside a fantasy lighthouse inside a fantasy world.

But never mind that for now!

Let me start where all things should: at the beginning.

In retrospect, I was born (or rather reborn, but let’s keep that between us, shall we?) with some bright star shining, or at least marginally illuminating hesitantly, upon me. (Rather the act of rebirth was luck enough, I think) I have a father, as some living things have, and a mother, as the majority of living things have. From my father I have a host of half-siblings and from both sides a horde of cousins. I was born with a quaint combination of genes with my mother being a Sand from Dorne and my father a Northern Lord who, in his attempt to enjoy everything the capital of Westeros had to offer, went to a brothel, got too deep in his cups, and forgot to pull out.

My mother fearing that the brothel mistress would offer her, or more likely force her, to imbibe certain concoctions to abort little foetus me, left King’s Landing seeking refuge with her half-brother the protector of the Boneway and Warden of the Stone Gate, the Lord Yoren Yronwood, Yes, I also chortled at the name and title (hehe Boneway…pff Yronwood, hehehe). Lord Yronwood proved himself a feal and caring brother and took care of my mother, and after my birth became the most prominent father figure in my youth. He even gave me my name: Alystair Sand.

Such was the way of the people of Dorne that I was treated certainly not worse than any of my trueborn cousins, tough at times there were certainly some moments were I was definitely not treated equally. But oh well, such is life as a bastard’s bastard. In accordance with the militaristic attitude of this world, I was taught the sword and the spear and the bow in order to, one day, serve my eldest cousin in some capacity when I was of age. Though I was good with a sword and exceled with a halberd my martial passion became archery, quickly becoming the best in the castle, even at a young age.

However, my abnormal intelligence was quickly noted by my tutors and my eternal love of books ended up pushing me in a different direction.

By the age of 10 I entered the Citadel as a Novice.

Yes, I was quite young. The Maester at Yronwood had quickly run out of things to teach me and I figured, considering my knowledge of the future of Westeros and the time I was reborn into, I wanted to be as far away from Dorne as my little legs could take me.

I was in no way involving myself with any of the Vulture Kings.

Because I did not want to be squashed by an illiterate Baratheon.

I was in no way putting myself in the position to be recruited for the War of the Stepstones.

Because I did not want to be eaten by Caraxes.

So I packed my shit and galloped to the Citadel following a trade caravan, with nothing but food, a bag of clothes, my halberd, my bow, a large amount of arrows, a few books, a letter recognizing me as Lord Yronwoods bastard nephew and a letter of recommendation by Maester Arlys of Yronwood.

Never mind that Morion’s Folly had been five years before my birth and the War for the Stepstones was scheduled to begin only 6 years after my entry in the Citadel and that the next Vulture King was only going to show up during the Dance of Dragons, I wanted out of Dorne before people got any ideas.

More precisely before Princess Mara Martell got any ideas of avenging her fallen brother.

Or any other Oberyn-esque lord with more brawn than brain and more armies than sense.

Hey, that didn’t happen in canon, but who the fuck knows.

So, while I was busy running in the opposite direction of any fire spewing lizard with wings or hammer wielding storm lords, I devised a series of bullet points.

• Enter the Citadel as a Novice;
• Become an Acolyte as fast as possible;
• Forge Links at whatever piques my interests;
• Run the fuck away when they ask me to take the Vows. (Because I am merely human and I am Dornish, why the fuck would you ask me to be chaste?)
• Somehow gain employment thanks to my resume.
• ????
• Profit!

So my short tale brings me to where I currently am.

Like I said, I became a novice at the Citadel at the age of 10.

Although there is no age requirement, the Maesters had a thing or two to say about a child entering the equivalent of an University.

Suffice to say any ideas about me being a normal child were defenestrated quite quickly.

(C’mon Archmaester Vaegon, what were those calculations again? You think because I’m ten I don’t know trigonometry? Well I shouldn’t but fuck you and your pale white valyrian ass I’ll show you that I can!)

Suffice to say I also bruised some egos.

(What? Why are you crying? What do you mean I’m a genius? I mean, I know I am, but why? ... What do you mean you didn’t know what double-entry bookkeeping was? You are the Archmaester of the Red Gold Link!)

Thankfully I managed to keep the majority of my thoughts over the proceedings to myself. I did not want to give the Maesters a reason to throw me out after all.

Anyway that was how I gained entry to the largest institution of knowledge in the known world and also immediately gained two links, one of yellow gold and another of red gold, becoming an acolyte.

To gain a link one simply had to submit to an oral exam to an Archmaester and if he thinks you are good enough he gives you a link for that particular topic. Therefore, solving several equations beyond the basic sums taught even to the highest of lordlings was already worthy of respect. After showing them a method of accounting that was never heard of before in the Citadel it was the equivalent of presenting a master thesis.

By the end of the year I gained three more links: one of black iron for Ravenry, one of copper for History and another of platinum for Geometry.

By the end of the second I gained three more links: another one of copper for History and another two of yellow and red gold to compliment the first two.

My life quickly became a matter of routine.

Between attending lectures, writing an entire book about math and economics, and participating in the only courtyard to put in practice my martial interests in the Citadel (which belonged to the Hightowers) I quickly breezed through the Citadel.

My intelligence didn’t win many friends however, plus my Dornish-ness and how easy I was accumulating links in comparison to the rest of the novices, so I found myself a target of bullying.

When the bullying went from verbal to violent I was quick to end it in every level.

In other news, I sent a letter of thanks to Uncle for teaching me how to throw a punch.

(I was one of the very few acolytes who still practised any type of martial arts and I was not afraid of throwing my weight around.)

The bullying turned to social exclusion.

Nevertheless, I was still able to make a few friends, even if with some of them the friendship began when I started tutoring them in the subjects they had difficulty with and, in turn, they tutored me in some I had most difficulty with.

The number of links continued to grow, although I slowed down when I realized there was a hard limit of links you could forge before they forced you to take a Maester’s oath so you can continue your studies.

After the initial 2 years I only had thirteen more I could forge so it becomes a full chain.

I decided to focus on three main routes: War, Medicine and the Higher Mysteries.

To my surprise, the first one was easy. I spent my first life as an economic historian who dabbled in military and political history so with enough examples of battles from my original world I gained three iron links quickly enough. This ease allowed me to focus on two more links this time of brass for Construction and Architecture and in this my otherworldly knowledge proved to benefit me once more as I formalized the Gothic style and introduced the Baroque and Neoclassical styles to Westeros.

The second proved more cumbersome. So cumbersome I had to resort to fellow novices for notes and tips. Granted even here my otherworldly knowledge proved beneficial, but even then remembering the westerosi names for each bone in my hand was beyond annoying. Nevertheless I came out with three more links.

The third discipline proved itself even more difficult. So difficult in fact I almost gave up. But I was more stubborn than a normal acolyte given the fact that I read about this entire world in another life and knew that there was some deep magical shit happening in the background. It took me two years, a lot of late nights and a personal trip to the God’s Eye but I managed to forge a Valyrian steel link which I quickly put centrefold in my chain which was still mostly rope back then.

I was 16 and had four more links to go.

Unfortunately, even in the Citadel at the height of Targaryen rule, magic was not well seen. Me taking the valyrian steel link over other subjects first put a not insignificant dent in my reputation. I was even ask by a few Maesters to abandon the subject and an Archmaester had the gall to try to psychoanalyse me and manipulate me to abandon that area of research.

Lucky for them, I had no other plans of forging more links of that steel. Officially, that is.

My final links I decided they would be on the subjects I had yet to study: one of bronze for Astronomy, another of pewter for Poisons and Herbs, tin for Commerce and Agriculture and, finally steel for Sea Faring.

I was currently 18 years of age and I am still an acolyte but I have a complete chain.

And today is the day I run the fuck away from the Citadel.

Chapter Text

“So… beautiful day we are having right?”

Archmaester Randall’s reaction was less than satisfactory to my feeble attempt at redirecting the subject.

He looked at me with a disappointed expression of someone that was just told that Christmas was being cancelled and that the presents were already on their way to the recycling factory.

We were sitting around in his study in the presence of Seneschal Elbert, Archmaester Vaegon and Maester Barthold with me sitting on a small uncomfortable chair in front of an illustrious panel of academics that seemed baffled that one amongst their herd of nerds and geeks tried to join the football team and eat in the cafeteria with the jocks.

Old sour Vaegon, in all his dour valyrian countenance, frowned at me as if he couldn’t comprehend my existence while Seneschal Elbert had an expression on his wrinkled face like Hugor of the Hill had come again. I could already hear him thinking: “Oh that boy will get it now! What sort of menial, boring but utterly back breaking work can I give him as punishment? I must think of something!”

Maester Barthold (or Black Bart, as I called him, both due to his numerous links of black steel in his chains and his status as an Ironborn) just looked somewhere between disappointed, sad and exasperated.

“Boy, what in the Gods’s green Summer were you thinking?” Randall spoke with a tone of voice of someone who just wanted to desperately wake up from a dream.

I wasn’t quite able to hide my wince.

“Well, you see…” I tried to explain. “I… might have tried to run away.”

“Aye boy! That was clear for all to see! But why?” Black Bart pleaded while looking to the vaulted ceiling as if asking the Heavens for strength.

“Well, it’s not like I am somehow forbidden to leave whenever I want.”

The expressions of the elderly around me seemed like they all had bitten the same sour lemon before the prescripted shot of tequila.

“All acolytes have the freedom to end their studies and leave the Citadel to make their own way in this world, aye, that’s true.” Black Bart spoke up once more, the movements of his mouth animating his large but well-trimmed beard causing the accessories braided into it to clink and pling against each other. Then his tone turned sharp. “But Maesters do not.”

“But I am not a Maester!”

Every single should-be-retiree in the room looked pointedly at the complete chain around my neck.

I decidedly ignore them.

“It is true you have yet to take the oaths, but they are merely a final step, mighty binding as they might be, but once you complete your chain you already are in the process of becoming a Maester.” Vaegon spoke, his voice as solid as steel with the tilting accent of the Targaryens, earning a not-so-subtle glare from the Seneschal at his seeming dismissal of the importance of the oaths.

I opened my mouth but Black Bart, the future Archmaester of the Black Steel link, cut me off before I could interject.

“By the Drowned God’s locker, if you had any problem against the Citadel big enough to leave then you should have spoken with one of us!” Then he looked at me like I was particularly dim. “Or least left before finishing your chain!”

“Why?” Randall simply spoke.

“I…” I gulped, a bit unnerved and disappointed that I was caught by such a mere thing as chance. I was hoping of leaving very early in the morning for a ship to Braavos where my skills in accounting would probably quickly give me a job in the mercantile city. I had everything ready, even put a false dummy in my bed! However, Black Bart, as mighty skilled with the Ravenry link he might be, was still an Ironborn and had not forgotten his roots earning him as many links of steel as the Archmaester of said link. So, as I entered Ragman’s Harbour, he was already there speaking with some of the captains who were about to leave before the tides changed. Suffice to say it was easy to recognize the only tall ice-eyed Dornishman in the entire Citadel carrying his entire life’s belongings in a sack. After that he quickly grabbed me by the scruff like I was a pup and dragged my ass back to the Hightower. You think I might have put up a fight, don’t you?

Well, you try fighting an Ironborn solo that looked like the embodiment of the wise buff old dude anime trope.

Didn’t help that despite his age he was slightly taller than even I was.

I sighed.

“I didn’t want to be bound by the oaths just yet” I didn’t want to give up sex no matter how little I have done it since arriving in this world. “I wanted to see the world too.” I don’t want to stay in Westeros when the entire Dance of Dragons is only a few decades or so from happening. “And the entire knowledge I have is merely theoretical, I wanted to put it in practice.” I want a good paying job where I am free to leave if I feel like it. “Staying here meant I would either remain locked in the Hightower or swear to a Lord’s castle and then stay trapped there.” To stay means stagnation.

All the venerable old geezers looked thoughtful at me after my speech.

“Hmm. Mayhap…” Vaegon muttered, clearly lost in thought.

“Vaegon?” Randall questioned.

Vaegon opened his purple eyes and looked at me with such intensity that I couldn’t help but compare the stare to that of a reptile. A very large fire breathing reptile. Whoever dubbed Vaegon Targaryen the Dragonless clearly was never a target of his glare.

“Acolyte Alystair. Please, give me a moment to speak with my colleagues. Go outside, do not go anywhere else.” Vaegon said, still looking eerily at me.

As the oak doors closed behind me, I quickly pondered running away but dismissed the idea at the look given to me by the Hightower guard that came up with me and Black Bart all the way from the harbour.

Well time to suck it up and act like an adult.

A long moment passed. At a certain point I started napping on one of the alcoves of the corridor, only to be rudely awakened by Black Bart who hurried me to Archmaester Randall’s solar.

I took particular notice that Seneschal Elbert looked particularly put out, before my attention was brought to Randall who coughed.

“Believe it or not, it is unprecedented that an acolyte who has completed his first chain wishes to leave the Citadel. Normally, if this case had happened to anyone else, we might have had to call the entire Conclave to decide upon this matter.” Randall spoke, while looking at me with shrouded eyes. “However, no acolyte has, of yet, contributed as much to the Citadel as you have in our eternal pursuit of knowledge. So, the few of us here, have decided to give you one thing.”

The question in my mind clearly showed in my face for Vaegon answered the unvoiced inquiry.

 “Time. We decided to give you time. Since you wish to experience the world we have decided to allow you this. However, for this, you will still remain an acolyte and you will give back one of your links to show your status remains unchanged.” Vaegon took a breath and continued. “My nephew Viserys currently sits on the Iron Throne and his interests in Valyria have demanded that several books to be moved from Dragonstone to the Red Keep which has caused an extra amount of burden to be added to Grand Maester Runciter’s already busy schedule. I exchange correspondence with him regularly enough that he has confessed to such difficulties in his advancing age, and he has asked for a few acolytes to join him at the Red Keep to shoulder some of his duties.”

Then Randall continued the tale.

“Runciter is a good friend of ours and he has recently read the book you have published, The Mechanics of Numbers, so he is delighted to have found a new way to organize the Red Keep’s accounts. However, most nobles do not read the recent publications of the Citadel-“

“Or read at all.” Mutters Black Bart.

“- and even more nobles stupidly dismiss our art as counting coppers, so we have decided to send you there to help the Master of Coin and the Grand Maester in overseeing the transition of the Treasury’s accounts to the new style of accounting.”

My jaw dropped.

“On top of that, you will help in anything the Grand Maester, or the Hand of the King, or the King himself, asks of you. You are a brilliant young man with several links in various subjects so do not be surprised if Runciter goes as far as giving you the task of tutoring the young princes and princesses. You should see this as an opportunity, an apprenticeship even, with Runciter and Lord Beesbury, which none before have received”

I closed my mouth and audibly gulped.

“And if I refuse?”

If Vaegon’s glare had been intimidating, then it did not compare to the combined might of the glares from all the geriatrics in the room.

“Then I swear by all the Gods, Old, New and Drowned, we will drag you to the Conclave for you to recite your vows, push you into the Candle Room, and then make you a Maester - as you, by all rights, should be by now - and assign you to Castle Black.”

Well, then it wasn’t much of a choice, was it?

“I accept.”

Chapter Text

Gods above and below, why me?

As I ponder the way my (new) life was heading, the wind picked up from the north once more throwing more dust into my face and helping a faint stench infiltrate my nose. My hands tighten over the reins as I try not to sneeze.

Oh great! King’s Landing was already starting to gain the so-famous perfume it decorated itself in the main series.

My thought must have been entirely too obvious for Lucian (my bestest friend) chuckled from behind me.

“If you find this so enjoyable, why don’t you replace me here?” I call back from the wagon’s driver seat.

“No, I think you’ll be quite alright getting a new coat of road dust. It might hide you better from all the aristocracy when you decide to run away again.” He responds from inside the wagon in a sly tone.

I looked back, my mind feeling tired from his constant snipes he’s been delivering ever since leaving Oldtown, only to see Lucian’s face closer than expected. The sudden jump I did, definitely not of surprise, startled the singular horse into neighing loudly waking up the rest of the people traveling with us.

“AH! By the golden Kraken’s tentacles, what now?”

“Sorry, Maester! It was a bump on the road!”

“Drive more carefully Alastair!” Another voice from inside piped up. Other voices soon joined it, in agreement with the previous statement.

“Sorry, sorry.”

My face red (in fury, I say), I glared at Lucian Lannister’s grinning face who was trying to restrain his usual boisterous bellows of laughter.

He sneaks a glance to the covered wagon’s grumbling interior and proceeds to join me at the front.

Lucian Lannister of Lannisport, third son of a fourth cousin to the current Lord of Lannister, was any maiden’s wet dream come true and any gay guy’s perfect Grindr profile come to life. Since he was one of the very few who still frequented the sparing arena, he had a very good physique that matched well with his chiselled face making him look like a living portrait of a mythical King Arthur. His voice matched that of any bard that you could pull off the streets and his green eyes, now filled with mirth, were very pretty, indeed, with its colour more of deep jade than shining emerald.

We became good friends in the sparing arena - my spear against his sword - and our friendship deepened after we bonded over the wonders of this world as we completed our valyrian steel links together. It also didn't hurt that he was a Westerlander with no deep seeded rivalry for the Dornish planted in his mind by sheer force of tradition and thousands of years of warring. Which, all in all, proved to be a difficult cultural hurdle to any friendship I made in a Reach infested institution.

In a quick motion, as he sits down, he kisses my cheek only for his face to immediately scrunch up.

This time I am the one who laughed, boisterously.

Ω

Because only a particularly stubborn weightlifter equipped with a crowbar and blessed by a quick-time event (or just a misogynistic Jaeherys) would be able to pry Archmaester Vagon from his place at the Citadel, it was Black Bart that had the dubious pleasure of escorting the five acolytes chosen to help Grand Maester Runciter’s efforts in preserving the books from Dragonstone (plus me of course) to King’s Landing.

When we finally arrived, the stench of medieval humanity was definitely noticeable but not to the point that it was advertised in the main series. Nevertheless, Lucian, who got to be the one driving inside the city, still had to steer the wagon very carefully not to drive over humans, cats, dogs, the occasional rat and the not so rare puddle of filth.

While the view entering the city let us see the entirety of it, enjoying all those large buildings Westeros was so fond of, from inside it looked like any other well preserved historical city centre from Europe... just ya’know... being used by its contemporaries. 

The biggest surprise was the state of dress the people were wearing. All of it was relatively well made and while they weren’t wearing any eye-watering dyes (most colours were pale but present) their style was diverse. Even for an historian such as me, it was hard to get rid of certain preconceptions and though I did know medieval people weren’t as unhygienic or as crass as thought of, it was totally different thing to actually experience it. Other such details of living in this mismatch world still surprised me, occasionally, making me feel more of a tourist in my own life than an actual native of Planetos. Even back in Dorne, though we ate mostly without forks, it was obligatory to wash our hands, before and after, eating. The only thing we didn’t do much was use soap, which I did and convinced everyone to use, but even then it didn’t take much convincing at all.

When we arrived through the Red Keep’s main gate, it was early morning, and we were directed towards the servants’ entrances with a minimal greeting from the Red Keep’s Castellan. Our luggage was taken by a few nearby servants who carefully, under all of our suspicious gazes, took our stuff to our rooms. Then, after being introduced to our new quarters we were washed, scrubbed, and violently cleaned from the harsh travel by two old maids. We were given better acolyte robes, of better quality and make, and our chains were polished. Our faces were cleaned and shaven, our hairs cut and washed thrice with different oils and perfumes and our nails trimmed. Even our eyebrows were plucked and pruned!

(If I had to intertwine my hands behind my back in order not to throttle the old hag who clucked and tsk-ed at my “Dornish-ness” no one noticed but Lucian, who side-eyed her with a scarily Tywin-like glare like she was about to be drowned in some mines any minute now. After they left, I decided to put my own touches to my vestment as a fuck-you.)

The Royal family opened Court every morning after breakfast, which started at 10 in the morning. Life at the castle, as far as the Castellan explained it, started at 6 in the morning for the servants, or even earlier if you were a cook, and then most nobles woke up at 7, the males would go to some training and sparing while the ladies went to pray and go teach or receive lessons (the already married attended their duties as ladies of their Houses); then at 9 they’d break fast, clean themselves, and dress their finest, to arrive at Court by 10. Open Court was every Father’s Day (every first day of the week) and the Small Council had the tendency of holding their meetings thrice a week, unless specifically called upon by the King or the Hand.

Other small titbits of daily life that the Castellan was informing us was soon ignored as Lucian started making faces at me from behind the portly man.
Black Bart just seemed bored with it all, watching the scene unfold with a look in his eyes of someone pinning for the fjords.

Then, after half an hour of the Castellan teaching the essential courtesies for those of us born low in the societal ladder, our time finally came.

Ω

Being introduced at Court was a rather nervous wrecking affair.

At least, to my other fellow acolytes.

The six of us, plus Black Bart, were waiting for the royal proclamations to end and for the petitions from higher nobles to be addressed for us to actually enter the Throne Room so it left plenty of time for the other members of this little posse to start sweating in their new clothes.

Meanwhile, Black Bart seemed rather engrossed analysing a particularly lurid tapestry.

The glance that me and Lucian shared spoke a thousand words.

Look, I was all for the Arts but I draw the line in having a Rule 34 Balerion tapestry straight in the entrance hall to the Targaryen seat of power.

I did not want to know if having the “blood of the Dragon” was that literal in the case of the Valyrians.

Heck, I don’t even know if dragons have dicks or not! And I don’t want to know! 

No matter how big they might be!

...

My eyes, unwillingly, went back to the tapestry.

...

Christ, can that even fit inside the poor woman?

...

I think... I think the look of... appreciation in her face just makes the entire tapestry even worse.

My careening thoughts were (thankfully) interrupted by the Castellan practically skipping at us and whispering something in Black Bart’s ear.

The Ironborn Maester nodded at the robust man and then turned to us.

“Alright, ya’ poor examples of shark bait. It’s our turn now. Questions? Any last words?”

I raise my hand.

“Any questions not about the tapestry?”

I lower my hand.

He surveyed us for a moment and then nodded.

“Time to make the Citadel proud; c’mon lads.”

Chapter Text

So, first impressions: what a waste of fucking metal.

Second impressions: the king better have some fucking binoculars when he’s purchased up there like some albino vulture because I am sure as fuck he can’t see anything clearly from up there.

Third impression: Ok, yes, sure, it’s very cool looking and my inner nerd can shut up now.

Fourth impression: what the fuck kinda timeline am I in?

Yes I see you, oddly grown up Rhaenyra and... is that Alicent fucking Hightower next to her looking younger than she is supposed to be?

That green muppet with a chain of golden hands around his neck, sitting at the bottom of the Iron Throne, must be Otto the Dickwad and the rest of the nobles around him must be the Small Council. For a moment, my eyes focus on the man slowly passing through middle age and wearing green and golden threaded robes with a large chain of hexagons that end on a beautiful rendition of a bee, who must clearly bee my new boss.

Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin who, in a couple of decades, will get a slit throat as reward for his loyalty.

My eyes proceeded to roam around the room as they announce us by name. First, Black Bart and then, by what I can only call a dick move, me last. I was the most senior Acolyte of this lot, I should be second in my announcement. And also what kind of announcement is simply yelling as an afterthought “Acolyte Alystair Sand from Dorne” even remotely appropriate for this level of fanfare?

I’m gonna find this herald in my off hours and give him a good whoopin’.

Before I can indicate my perfectly benevolent intention through my gaze to said fat and balding herald, Viserys I (of probably three and not as cool as the middle one), spoke in a surprisingly firm voice despite the elevated levels of joy in it.

“Ah, yes. I have been expecting all of you. As King I welcome you to the Red Keep and may you have a pleasant and productive stay! And as a fellow lover of knowledge let me also welcome you, personally in my office, at a later date, so we may discuss your work with me. I am very eager to see what you can do to my dear books. For those not in the know, to maintain the vast collection of old and rare books kept in Dragonstone a lot of work is required of our dear Maester and recently I have decided, just in case of disaster and also for ease of availability, to order copies to be made to be kept here in the Red Keep. So, the Citadel, has been ever so helpful in sending their best scribes here to help in this endeavour.”

Otto seemed to clear his throat, probably out of habit to keep the King from ranting on.

“And, of course, how can I forget. Acolyte Alystair, please step forward.”

I am sorry, what.

My body moves before my mind can reboot.

“Your Grace.” I bowed. Low enough to be respectful but not deep enough to be truly reverential.

At the time I didn’t notice the small smile that adorned my face.

Ω

Rhaenyra was slightly bored.

She had enough courtly manner imbued in her for that not to show to others, but it has been two hours of petitions, rarely having the opportunity to sit down, and lunch hour was approaching, so forgive her if her mind was already escaping its confines.

So, as the newcomers arrived at the Throne Room, her eyes were seeing them but not really observing them.

That is, until her Father singled someone out among the crowd of newcomers.

“And, of course, how can I forget. Acolyte Alystair, please step forward.”

From the men arranged in front of the Iron Throne, one stepped forward.

From the raised dais preceding the Iron Throne, she had a clear look of the approaching acolyte.

He was Dornish, or at least of Dornish descent, that was clear to see despite him being so tall. His skin was richly brown, almost like copper. His hair was black as night and long enough to be tied in a loose braid and put over his left shoulder to fall over his chest. On his right ear were several gold earrings piercing his ear in several locations, with one that seemed to be almost like a chain from the top of his ear to the bottom middle. His nose seemed to be pierced on his left nostril by a silver like pin. His robes were of good quality and well-kept and, from beneath the hem, peeked strange black boots with a clear metallic cover on the tip. He was certainly beautiful, almost androgynous if not for his height and the clear muscles that showed through his simple robes.

Rhaenyra observed the links in his chains: the first thing that jumped to her attention was that he lacked only one link to be named a Maester and the second thing was his possession of a link the type of which she has only seen when she was given the family’s swords to briefly wield: Valyrian steel.

As he bowed, Rhaenyra noticed his eyes as he closed them to perform the bow. Strange eyes, paler than marble and darker than milk, like two moons they were, tough they seem to flash a pale freezing blue in the daylight.

Rhaenyra felt, more than noticed, the subtle shift of Alicent’s figure next to her. Looking at her companion through the corner of her eye she noticed Alicent’s slight, almost unnoticeable, frown. Almost, that is, if she was not as familiar with her companion’s expressions as she was.

Alicent seem to be looking at the acolyte as if in... disapproval?

Looking back at the man in front of the dais. He was bowing sure,... but not as the supplicants usually did.

Not as lowly.

Rhaenyra looked at the acolyte’s face and she suddenly felt a weird shiver running down her spine. His eyes were cold, the blue tint had disappeared being replaced with iron. Cold and dispassionate.

His plump limps, once so attractive, now stretched in a thin, amused smile as if he knew a joke nobody else knew.

“Your Grace.”

He spoke in a whispery soft tone that somehow resonated within the Throne Room.

“They told me much about you, young Acolyte. So much so, that I have actually decided to read the work you published, despite it being very much outside of my area of expertise. I have to say, it was an amazing reading nonetheless! Quite engaging and I particularly enjoyed the easy manner in which you explained the various concepts you dealt in your book. So, when I heard of Lord Beesbury’s initiative to rewrite the Crown’s finances in this new style of accounting I had no other option but to accept this opportunity of having a mind as great as yours working for the benefit of the Realm.” Her Father stated his voice slightly more joyous than usual for the ending of a Court session.

“It is an honour to be invited to perform such an endeavour, Your Grace. I have nothing but great respect and admiration for Lord Beesbury. To have maintained the Realm’s funds while dealing with the current government apparatus of such a large institution is a tiresome endeavour and a great burden; one I believe Lord Beesbury and his predecessors have made it justice.” The Acolyte nodded to the Master of Coin who, with an affable smile, nodded back. “And for my book, to have reach such heights in popularity to be brought to your person, Your Grace, is a great honour which I can only hope to replicate with my next book.”

Her Father laughed a bit in amusement.

“Yes! And one can only hope your next book be as influential as this one!”

The Hand of the King cleared his throat and spoke.

“For those in Court that do not know-” Otto affirmed. “- Acolyte Alystair Sand is considered to be a genius amongst his peers in the Citadel and has devised a new, more efficient, method of accounting which will be applied to the Realms financial records in the next months of work. Hopefully, with this change our copper counting can be done faster and better. So, with this matter of affairs conclu-”

“Pardon me, Lord Hand.” Acolyte Alystair interrupted. Rhaenyra could not help but be impressed with the sheer gall of interrupting the Hand of the King in the presence of the majority of the Lords of the Realm. “But I believe I am obligated to correct you. For my own sake, and for those whose lives are spent, as you so crassly put it, “counting coppers”. You see, money makes the world go round, my Lord, and without such capable men who count the coppers that passed their way to the Crown’s Treasury, from the Honourable Rego Draz and Lord and Lady Tyrel to Lord Beesbury, the peace and prosperity that the Realm is currently enjoying would not exist. So perhaps, this passage to a new, more efficient, and more accurate method of accounting, may lead the Seven Kingdoms to an even more prosperous tomorrow. So, I believe, Lord Hand, that this occasion is not so banal as you seem to be implying it is.”

Otto immediately looked like he swallowed a lemon but before he could rebuke he was interrupted again by none other than the Master of Coin himself.

“Master Alystair is correct indeed! If not for my predecessors’ prodigious minds when dealing with the Crown’s accounts we would not be here today, for certain not as we are at least. The Dragonpit itself would have taken double the amount of time it took to build, for example. King Jaeherys’s roads, too, would not have been possible, or at least, not in the scope they are now. And I have to say, that I have great hopes on the application of the double entry bookkeeping method to the current finances of the Realm for I have run out of ways to further increase the Crown’s fortune without cutting back on costs beyond those I have already eliminated. My duties, as of late, have kept themselves to simple maintenance of the money we already have.”

Her Father quickly joined in.

“Indeed, and House Targaryen will forever be grateful for such devoted and competent Masters of Coin we have had. It is exactly in that line of thought that I have invited Master Alystair to revamp the Crown’s ledgers in this new style. Hopefully, a more comprehensive method of keeping track of the Crown’s revenues and expenditures will help the Small Council in devising new ways to invest the money back into the Realm.” Her Father rose from the Iron Throne. “Now that these introductions are taken cared of, I shall not delay your group any longer. I was informed you have just arrived from the road and you must make sure to rest to start work, immediately, tomorrow. Perhaps later, I can speak in private to hammer out any details of your tasks. However, lunch hour approaches and I have my pregnant wife waiting for me, so I declare this Open Court over for the week. May the Gods bless this meeting and the decisions therein made in the name of the Iron Throne and the King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

As Rhaenyra joined her Father at the foot of the throne, she looked back at the Dornish acolyte, only to see him being apparently admonished by a bearded Maester and another blond acolyte.

Then she linked arms with her Father and she put him out of her mind as she grew eager to see her mother again.

Chapter Text

What is honour?

What is glory?

What is power?

What makes a great man?

Why greatness, is goodness not enough?

What, then, makes a man good?

What even is a man?

Besides a miserable pile of secrets?

But, most of all, who is Viserys Targaryen?

As I look down on said monarch, the first of his name, these questions seem to dwell in me.

The alcohol of the previous night flows in my veins like slime, not making me focus beyond the conversation in front of me as these questions seem to pollute my mind.

I’m sorry; not really in a good mood right now.

My sudden cockiness in interrupting Otto Octavius’s stupider twin in the middle of Court earned me a bit of a tongue lashing and its sting still lingers.

The consequences of the decision to accept the acolyte’s invitation to explore the local taverns also still linger.

Black Bart and Visery’s conversation reaches a new crescendo in tone as only a conversation of a couple of enthusiasts can. They discuss every aspect of book making, writing and conservation; things pounded to us in a technicist, behaviourist and magister dixit kind of way since our first days inside the Citadel.

They expound further in the differences between lapiz lazuli and azurite as a pigment for painting the book’s illuminations; the type of gold leaves that had to be requisitioned from the goldsmiths down by Gold Street; the type of horse hair needed to make the brushes to paint the illuminations and handle the gold leaves; the differences between the typical parchment and vellum used by the westerosi and bravossi and the papyrus-style paper still used by the southern city states of Essos; etc etc etc…

In short? What a bunch of nerds.

However.

This enthusiasm, intelligence and excellent eye for detail is something that was never discussed in the same sentence as Viserys Targaryen when describing the king. His laziness, over-indulgence in feasts and inattentiveness to the realm, both generally and in his own home, were the characteristics usually spoken of him in A Song of Ice and Fire. Never his apparent kindness when he gave each of us acolytes water from a pitch, or his pride as he spoke of his family’s books, or his love for his wife as he apologized for being late and justified it as being with her all morning.

But then again, as I discovered, therein lied the rub: Aemma Arryn was still alive, although already heavily pregnant, so who knows if this version of Viserys would last.

Maybe, just maybe, this current version who so enthusiastically speaks of Maester Adalbert’s specific style of letter-forms, ligatures, signs, typology, fonts, graphemes, hieroglyphics, and signification forms in general, subsuming punctuation, syntagm and proxemics, abbreviations and annotations; if, maybe, this version of Viserys was the one that the Rogue Prince worked so hard to put on the throne.

My mind reconnected abruptly to reality as the subject somehow changed to dragons.

“… it’s a pity that we can’t replicate the feat. After all, I have seen how it protects the books from fire and the passage of time. It’s what makes them so valuable! But where am I going to get some? Kill one of the hatchlings and skin them like some common cattle? Never! And so few are born already. The most we can do is keep the books locked up.”

“A shame, but completely understandable.” Black Bart responds. “We will have to make do and make the covers of the new versions of these books in normal vellum.”

I blinked.

Did I understand that correctly?

Did the king and his family have books made of dragon skin? Or was it just the scales?

The skin itself? How hard would a knife or sword be for it to manage such a cut? Maybe of valyrian steel? But could Valyrian steel, fire made weapon, even harm a being of fire? They couldn’t possibly kill a dragon on purpose for such a thing and how many dragons even died of old age?

The scales then? How? By plucking them? Or do dragons shed? If they do, they don’t do it like snakes or any lizard I know of by shedding it or we would have heard about such a thing by now. Fantasy back home was never consistent in the portrait of dragons – the sheer amount of discussion over if ASOIAF’s fire breathing lizards were dragons or wyverns was a prime example – and assuming had the nice consequence of making an ass out of me.

I internally shrugged: might as well ask.

“Pardon me, your grace.”

This time it was Viserys who blinked. But his gigawatt smile returned and nodded for me to continue speaking.

I expertly ignore the side eye I was receiving from Lucian and Black Bart.

“Did I discern correctly that you have books made of dragon parts?”

Viserys’s smile turned melancholic.

“Oh, yes. There are a few books that survived from Valyria brought by the Exile himself to the island. The material they are made of I can recognize immediately!”

“And they are?” I asked leadingly.

“Why! Dragon scales of course. The whole cover of the book! They made it so it almost looks like a bag! With gold locks! Of course, the interior is still normal parchment, although of very high-quality material!”

“Ah.” I humm in understanding. So ASOIAF dragons must shed for this to be true, maybe like deers and moose as a seasonal thing but perhaps rarer. Maybe like collecting swan or peacock feathers, where it was just a labour of time and patience to collect enough to make what you want to do? “And your grace doesn’t know how the valyrians made such a thing?”

“I presume that some dragons simply died of old age. After all, back then there were a lot of them! And there is records of dragons dying during their wars. So, it is possible for it to be made, I suppose, but the event itself is so rare that it just makes the books more special beyond just their content!” Then Viserys scratches his right cheek with a thoughtful look. “When Balerion died he was cremated by Grandfather’s orders until only his bones remained, so I don’t know if it is actually true.”

“That is a very valid consideration.” I nod. It was true, I could be wrong after all. The Targaryens lived with dragons for all their lives, they surely must have noticed a lost scale, specially from the bigger dragons. “Thank you for your answers to my questions, your grace.”

“Ah! But this great conversation almost made me forget about you!” Viserys exclaims.

“Be it that it would have.” Murmurs Black Bart from my right.

“Have you already met with Lord Beesbury?” Viserys continues, not having heard the murmur.

“I have not, your grace.” I vaguely shake my head. “But he did send me a message through a courier: after this meeting I will eat and then go to him.”

“Well, I cannot wait to see what you can do together! Tell me: what types of things do you classify in the credit market – neat term for it by the by – as risks? I read the concept on your book but it’s not really my field, you understand?”

“Well, I can give you an example if you wish. Imagine the following scenario: a captain wants to make a voyage to some city or other looking for profit, however he can’t afford the trip. Between the wages of the sailors, the maintenance of the ship and his own private spending he does not have enough money to buy and sell goods to trade along the route he charted. So, he is forced to ask for money from someone. If the exchange occurs in Braavos, they maintain a somewhat medium rate of interest of 7% or below. Let’s imagine, that he doesn’t have friends so he doesn’t have anyone who gives him a rate of interest that he likes, they all give him a rate of 10% or more. Justifiably so, since they fear his ship will sink or raided by pirates and make the man unable to pay back his loans: these are the risks involved in the journey. Since those exist the merchants give a bigger rate since they fear their investment won’t be returned with profit. They can even go bankrupt depending on the amount invested.” I swallow a gulp of water from the cup in my hand. “A way to ensure that this does not happen is to pool a large number of people to give smaller amounts of money at a smaller rate of interest, so that these risks are minimized and at the end of the day everyone can turn a profit. A similar pool of merchants was probably how the Iron Bank first formed before evolving to become secure and powerful enough to act as a bank. Currently, the westerosi focus on a segregation between ships owned completely by nobility, mostly individual Houses, and those own cooperatively by merchants and citizens, so it is a mixed system as it were.”

“Really? And do you think it’s a bad thing?” The King questions.

“Not necessarily. However,– ”

This time it was my turn to engross myself in a highly enthusiastic conversation with the king.

At some point, because of my example, the discussion turned to harbour laws, the highly differing taxes maintained by the customs authority (which were very different depending whose land you stopped and which House owned it), if the customs authority should have a central building in the harbour instead of coming into each individual ship, how it should the building be made which then turned the conversation to fortress designs since the building needed to be strong enough to hold against an attack or thieving because there would be a lot of money inside said building. Then it turned into a conversation about urban planning with such a level of detail that very suddenly and abruptly it made me realise that the king, Viserys I, was not just an enthusiast in this regard but a master. He knew everything about how a city should be maintained and designed, always pushing for a distinctive valyrian design of flowing architecture and sharp angles. A keen eye for maintaining a good circulation of people and goods through the city’s arteries. The conversation then turned to architecture in general, which made me open my satchel and pick a few designs of buildings I sketched with different styles from back home, which the king took a particular liking to the flowing lines of the baroque style, although he seemed turned off by its characteristic excessiveness.

It was, surprise of surprises, an actually interesting conversation!

And again my mind turned to those previous questions.

What type of reign would Viserys have if Aemma did not die?

“You draw very well!”

“Thank you, your grace. I have been blessed with a steady hand and after a lot of rough drawings I am now able to paint well too.”

“Paint? Like the braavosi? With the wall paintings and such?”

“Yes and with wood and fabric canvasses as well.”

“Really!? Painting on wood is common, but fabric? They tend to be so small… expensive too!”

“They tend to be made of flax but the method to make it just needs to be improved to make it bigger.”

“And you can do so?”

“I have already done so. I have a painting amongst my baggage’s that I have yet to take out: I can show you if it’s your graces wish?”

“Marvelous! Of course, I wish to see it! And if it’s good who knows! I might even ask you to paint a portrait of my family.”

“It would be an honour.”

It was then that some gentle knocking came from the door to the king’s solar interrupting us.

“Your Grace?” Came a muffled masculine voice from outside.

“Come in.” Viserys ordered.

A Kingsguard’s helmet came from between the opening gap, followed by the man’s armoured body.

“It’s lunch time, your grace. The Queen expressed her wishes to eat together in the Eastern Dining Room.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll be right with her.” The King exclaimed, then he waited for the Kingsguard to leave before addressing the group inside his office. “It was marvelous to speak with all of you! This afternoon I’ll have my steward show where you will be working: it is an old dining hall not used since the days of Maegor with enough space for your materials and projects and also with a good breeze so the air doesn't stagnate. Maester Barthold, you will receive a royal permit to requisition whatever materials you need for the work; just show it to my chamberlain or my steward or even the Grandmaester and it will be given to you. And Acolyte Alystair, I do hope I’ll see more of you in the coming weeks! Perhaps once the first audit reports are delivered to the Small Council you shall accompany Lord Beesbury?”

I almost stuttered.

“Thank you, your grace.”

We were then swiftly, but not rudely, expelled from the office into a long corridor.

The two Kingsguards posted at the door nodded at us at our exit.

As I brooded, slightly stupefied, over Visery’s existence, I was met with a sneer from a fellow acolyte.

“Already kissing arse, Alystair? It seems it does not matter if its in the Citadel or in the capital, a snake does as snakes do.”

Still a bit discombobulated, I answered mildly: “Be careful, Brook, this snake has fangs; see to it that you don’t get bitten.”

“Boys.” Black Bart started firmly. “Whatever you feel, fight it out on the sparring ring. Right now, you are acolytes of the Citadel. Behave.”

He sighed.

“Alystair, go eat. I’ll meet with you in two hours by your room.”

“O-” I coughed. “Alright, Maester”

“See to that you don’t get in trouble.”

“Yes, Maester.”

He turned around and the rest of the acolytes followed him.

Brook stalled enough to give one last sneer.

I stick my tongue out at him.

He gave me a weirded out look and then left, shaking his head.

“Idiot.” Lucian monotoned at me from my right.

“I know. Your eloquent tongue-lashing last night was already explicit enough.”

“Definitely not enough.”

“Where do you want to eat?”

“I heard about a good tavern by the Red Street?”

“What does it serve?”

“Some kind of meat with potatoes; the sailors I spoke with told wonders about the place.”

“Well, let’s go then. I have two hours to eat and then I’ll have to meet with the Master of Coin.”

“Oh, horror of horrors.” He monotoned again.

“Terrifying.” I deadpanned.

We left the corridor, Maegor’s Holdfast and then the Red Keep.

We ate roasted ham with a honey glaze and potatoes.

It was good.