The "Seven Colors" Tavern, Flower Lane.
In the depths of Flower Lane, the "Seven Colors" tavern had long since shuttered its doors for the night. The entrance to the cellar lay hidden behind a stack of ale barrels in the back kitchen.
Ser Will Royce was the first to descend the wooden ladder, his bronze breastplate shimmering dully in the light of a whale-oil lamp.
Medrick Manderly followed, the Northman's brow furrowed at the damp, heavy air. Benjicot Blackwood and Sebaston Estermont trailed behind them.
Grand Maester Orwyle was already waiting. The old man sat behind an oak table, draped in his somber grey robes of office.
"You should not have come together," Orwyle began, his voice raspy.
"Four representatives leaving their quarters at once is too conspicuous."
"You sent word that it was a matter of life and death," Will Royce replied, pulling out a chair. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp.
"This risk had best be worth the reward. Getting out of the Tower of the Hand unnoticed cost us dearly in bribes."
Orwyle did not answer immediately. He produced a scroll of parchment, its wax seal, the three-headed dragon, perfectly intact.
He pushed it across the table with trembling hands.
Will did not take it. He stared at the seal, then at Orwyle.
"What is this?"
"Open it," Orwyle whispered.
Medrick reached for it, but Will pinned his hand to the table.
"Wait. Why are you bringing this to us? You are a member of the Small Council, the heart of the Green faction."
"Read the letter," Orwyle said.
"Then you will understand."
Will finally picked up the parchment, checking the seal. It was indeed the Royal Signet. He broke it, leaned toward the lamp, and began to read.
A deathly silence fell over the cellar, broken only by the sound of Will's breathing, which grew heavy and ragged. By the final lines, his hands were shaking.
"Seven save us..." Will breathed.
"What is it?" Benjicot asked, unable to contain his impatience.
Will handed the letter to him and turned a piercing gaze on Orwyle.
"How did this get to you? When was it written?"
"Two days ago," Orwyle said.
"The King slipped it to me while I was dressing his wounds. He was lucid then, though speaking was a struggle. He said... give it to someone trustworthy. Do not let the Council see it."
Medrick hovered over Benjicot's shoulder, reading the scattered phrases aloud.
"...Imprisoned... poisoned... revoking Aegon's succession... restoring Rhaenyra..."
The Northman looked up, fury burning in his eyes. "And today in the Throne Room, Aemond had the gall to swear the King merely needed rest? That he would see us in three days?"
"The King may already be dead," Orwyle interrupted. The words hit them like a bucket of ice water.
"What are you saying?" Sebaston Estermont gasped.
"When I saw him last night, his pulse was a ghost, his breathing shallow. I prescribe only mild sedatives and tonics. But the medicines are prepared by apprentices, brewed by servants, and delivered by Aemond's handmaidens."
Orwyle unwrapped a small cloth bundle, spilling dried herb fragments onto the table.
"I kept the dregs from last night. There are traces of Shadowgrass and Oblivion Root. Separately, they soothe. Together, over time, they wither the body and cloud the mind until..."
"You are the Grand Maester!" Benjicot shouted.
"You saw this and did nothing?"
"What could I do?" Orwyle snapped.
"I have no army. Should I have questioned Prince Aemond? Told Queen Alicent her son was poisoning her husband? I would not have lived to see the dawn."
As if the letter and the herbs weren't enough, Orwyle produced one final item: a crown of Valyrian steel set with rubies.
The crown of Viserys I.
"He gave me his crown last night," Orwyle said.
"He told me that if he were gone, it should go where it belongs. Do you still doubt?"
Will Royce stared at the crown. It was the King's formal regalia.
"We go to the Holdfast tonight," Medrick proposed.
"We challenge them face-to-face."
"And die?" Will said coldly.
"Manderly, use your head. If the King is truly... why did Aemond promise an audience in three days? If he killed the King, why add that risk?"
"I don't know," Orwyle whispered.
"Perhaps the King still has 'use' to him. You must leave King's Landing. Tonight. Take the letter. Take the crown. Deliver them to your Lords. Mobilize your armies. Join Princess Rhaenyra."
"But Aegon is the legal heir," Will argued, his brow furrowed.
"The King announced it. Why would Aemond risk everything with a crime this monstrous? It makes no sense."
Orwyle sighed. "Lord Royce, do you still doubt me? Do you think Aemond cares for sense? He has killed three of his nephews already. A man who can do that to his blood... what is he not capable of?"
"I'm going back to gather my men," Medrick said, his voice alight with excitement.
"Princess Rhaenyra needs this letter. This crown belongs on the head of the True Queen."
"We split up," Will said, rising.
"Manderly, the River Gate. Blackwood, the Mud Gate. I'll take the Dragon Gate. Estermont... do as you wish."
Will looked at Orwyle one last time.
"Grand Maester... if we escape, what happens to you?"
Orwyle gave a piteous smile.
"If the King is truly gone, my life has served its purpose. May the Seven guide you. And may the Realm... not fall into the hands of a second Maegor."
The four men vanished into the night, slipping out to rally what few guards they had and flee the capital.
Orwyle did not leave. He sat back down and pulled a small glass vial from his sleeve.
The liquid was colorless, shimmering with a faint blue tint in the lamplight.
"Tears of Lys," he murmured.
He thought of his family in Oldtown. He thought of the instructions and promises from the Citadel and the Faith.
Some things, only he could do. If he died now, there would be no witness to the "truth" he had just told.
He drank the liquid.
The vial shattered on the stone floor. Soon, agony tore through his vitals. As his consciousness faded, his last thought was of Larys Strong.
The Clubfoot seemed to know the plans of the Citadel, why hadn't he stopped them?
-----
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