"The day after tomorrow is Sunday, Sam. A bit more effort, if you please." Qyburn's encouragement came soft as a whisper, though it carried weight all the same.
Samwell Tarly looked up from the floor strewn with ancient tomes and faintly luminous glass plates. The old man before him wore an earnest expression, the look of a grandfather expecting great things from his progeny. It unsettled Sam more than any threat could have.
Sam forced his lips into a smile. "I understand."
Qyburn nodded, seemingly satisfied, and took his leave.
Only when the old man's back had vanished beyond the doorway did Sam finally release the breath he'd been holding. He touched his neck; the skin was slick with perspiration, his collar damp with sweat.
Thank the gods, he suspected nothing.
Sam lowered his gaze to his lap. The light from the glass plate had extinguished entirely, its surface now reflecting only his own image. He stared into those eyes—his eyes—feeling hollow and distant from himself.
He was weary. Bone-weary.
From heir to Horn Hill, to a maester's apprentice, and now to... this. Sam's expectations had never aligned with the cruel reality the gods seemed determined to thrust upon him.
He'd known well enough that his lord father despised his fat, craven self, that his younger brother Dickon would inherit Horn Hill sooner rather than later. So he'd offered little resistance to this new life in King's Landing. At least here he could continue to read and study, to become a knowledgeable maester without concern for his daily bread.
The beginning had been stable. Pleasant, even.
The Red Keep housed countless books, some exceedingly rare, tomes that might never be glimpsed beyond its walls. With Grand Maester Pycelle's permission, he'd spent days and nights buried among those precious volumes, like a ravenous little mouse gnawing desperately at the tempting knowledge within each binding.
Every biography chronicled a life lived in full. Every history depicted scenes of days long past. Every ballad sang of mankind's deepest praises or lamentations.
There had been ample food, sweet harp music, and maesters who shared his dedication to knowledge. It was nearly perfect, save for the absence of friends.
Sam had thought such days would last for many years to come. As everyone had said, the Crown Prince had likely summoned him on mere whim. After all, wasn't he just an inconspicuous apprentice serving under Pycelle?
But the changes in the Red Keep came with the swiftness and violence of a summer storm.
In a single morning, two prominent members of the Small Council were reduced to prisoners, suspected of treason. Gold Cloaks patrolled in formations, their expressions fierce and unforgiving, as though they sought to slay men with naught but their gaze.
Did this concern everyone within the Red Keep? Sam wished to believe it did not, yet it was plain that few shared his optimism.
The Grand Maester grew both busy and idle in equal measure.
To the outside world, the Grand Maester was unwell, his daily duties diminished almost to nothing.
Yet behind closed doors, Sam had witnessed Pycelle writing letter after letter at his desk. Some were committed to flame immediately, others dispatched by messenger, and a select few tied to ravens by the maester's own trembling hands. Only after watching the black birds take wing would the old man's shoulders slump in relief.
Hannah, the once-beloved Steward, now spent her days summoning the Red Keep's servants for stern reprimands.
Sam knew not the particulars. He observed only as people entered with worry etched upon their brows and emerged with faces grave as stone—or never emerged at all.
Such occurrences made Sam realize how quietly a living person could disappear.
He could but silently long for the life he had gradually adapted to, while simultaneously adjusting to new cooks, new faces, new rules, and the smothering new atmosphere.
Yet these fragile new balances, too, were swiftly shattered.
News of King Robert's death reached the city. On that day, the bells of King's Landing roared their mournful song without cease, until Sam's ears ached with their clamor. Even as he lay abed that night, he fancied he could still hear their ghostly pealing.
That night, though Sam could not see clearly what transpired, something fundamental shifted within the Red Keep. It was an indefinable sensation, yet it caused unease to seep into his bones even as he tried to lose himself in his books.
After the night of bells, people began to encourage him to venture beyond his scrolls and tomes. The Grand Maester, too, involved him in excursions with increasing frequency. Sam suspected it had something to do with the Crown Prince whom he had yet to meet.
This seemed a positive development. Sam began to anticipate the arrival of the new king with cautious hope.
Until Lord Renly, the Master of Laws, vanished without trace. Until Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, and the Redwyne twins grew inexplicably withdrawn. These events transformed the Red Keep once more into a place of whispers and sideways glances.
Sam still could not discern the truth of matters, but he sensed the gathering storm on the horizon.
He simply hadn't expected the winds of change to blow so soon.
With alarming suddenness, he was appointed as a full-time historian, tasked with recording the proceedings of Small Council meetings.
Initial excitement quickly gave way to deep confusion and dread following his first attendance at the Small Council.
Every word that fell from the king's lips was shocking, as though the boy could scarcely wait to upend the Seven Kingdoms entirely.
Lord Tywin sat proudly opposite the king. A mere glance from the Lord of Casterly Rock could sway half the Small Council, and every word he uttered was neither humble nor arrogant, but grounded in cold authority.
Lord Eddard opposed nearly every proposal set before him. Honor and tradition were the words most frequently upon his lips.
Queen Regent Cersei sometimes supported Lord Tywin, sometimes agreed with the king, sometimes mocked Lord Eddard with barbed words, and occasionally cursed those present or absent with equal venom.
And his master, Grand Maester Pycelle, remained inconspicuous among the ministers, offering little but echoes of Tywin's declarations.
Is this truly the Small Council meeting I am meant to record?
Sam shrank into his corner, daring to move his quill only with the utmost care, fearful that any sudden movement might draw the attention of the lords and ladies who decided the fate of the realm.
He keenly understood that the ministers would hardly appreciate the records made by his historian's pen. The more truthful and detailed his account, the greater their displeasure would be. Yet to obscure or omit? The king would certainly not abide such dishonesty.
Sam endured those uneasy days until, not a fortnight past, everything changed again.
For reasons unknown, after Lord Tywin departed King's Landing, the king dispatched Sam to the Research Department, calling it a "temporary transfer."
Sam had been confined to this chamber ever since, unable to escape its oppressive walls.
His duties were varied and complex.
Initially, he sorted ancient texts and scrolls, seeking specific words and phrases;
Later, he screened and entered content in prescribed formats into the "database"—the scattered glowing glass plates that now littered the floor;
Then came the testing of various "divine grace modules," scoring the user experience, offering suggestions for improvements;
This task required him to handle different divine grace modules, producing dozens or hundreds of slightly varied divine grace light screens. His responsibility was to determine which configuration yielded optimal results.
So this is the secret of divine grace. Even mortals may touch such wondrous miracles. At first, Sam had barely contained his excitement.
Unfortunately, the Research Department's work extended beyond these seemingly innocent tasks.
The kindly smiling old man was, in truth, responsible for the most critical and darkest "work" the department undertook. All experiments requiring consumption of "materials" fell under the old man's purview.
Never had Sam imagined that suggestions like "the sound is somewhat harsh," "the vibration too weak," or "the pattern grows uncomfortable after prolonged viewing" would ultimately consume five lives and leave two others raving mad.
Little wonder the old man had been expelled from the Citadel, his maester's chain stripped from him.
Sam sighed heavily and tapped the "workbench" glass on his lap. The screen illuminated, displaying the tasks he had yet to complete.
The workbench showed a merciless countdown.
Before tomorrow's end, he must divide half of King's Landing into four hundred small sectors with roughly equal populations to facilitate blockades and control. He must also mark all passages between these sectors.
Drawing lines was tedious work, but at least no one would die from it... would they?
Sam attempted to console himself with that meager thought, though the comfort it offered was as substantial as morning mist.
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New fanfic :
Marvel : The God Of Punishment System
I Am Raditz
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