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Chapter 231: The Mage Maester
🕑 Added 2025-03-27 14:02:20 +0000 UTCKevira anxiously waited for news from the men he had sent out from his estate. Although Lynd had assured him yesterday that he would take care of his troubles, Kevira still couldn't bring himself to fully trust in Lynd's abilities.
After Lynd left, Kevira had managed to recover from the initial shock of his reputation and regain his composure. While he was willing to believe that Lynd was as powerful as the rumors suggested, he also knew better than to trust rumors completely. Achievements, even small ones, tended to be exaggerated to the point of becoming legendary, and he feared that Lynd’s reputation might have been inflated in a similar way.
In his mind, if Lynd failed to resolve the situation, he would still need to find a way to save himself.
Because of this, he did not recall the scouts he had sent to monitor the lower reaches of the Little Rhoyne, nor did he withdraw the hundred Unsullied stationed around his estate. The defensive arrangements in the floating stronghold remained unchanged, and he even ignored Lynd’s order to disperse the guards within the estate.
A full day and night passed without incident. His scouts continued to report in at regular intervals, yet there was no sign of Udawu’s ship traveling upstream. Those stationed on the shore also noticed nothing unusual. This began to give Kevira a faint sense that Lynd’s words might be true, but he still had no intention of following Lynd’s instructions to retrieve Udawu’s body from downstream. Instead, before dawn, he carefully dispatched one of his men to investigate the situation.
As the sky brightened, a punted boat sped up from the lower reaches of the Little Rhoyne. Upon reaching the floating stronghold, it docked quickly, and a man leapt ashore, running straight toward Kevira’s estate.
The guards along the way all asked the same urgent question: "What’s the situation with White Skull Udawu?"
The man said nothing as he sprinted past them, weaving through the estate until he reached the entrance of the main hall, where Kevira was waiting. Gasping for breath, he finally shouted, "They’re dead! They’re all dead!"
"Udawu and all his cannibal skeletons?" Kevira stepped forward and asked sharply.
"They’re all dead!" the man panted. "They froze to death!"
Kevira was stunned. "Froze to death? What do you mean?"
"I mean… I mean… they just froze! The cold, the ice, they froze to death in the snow and ice..." The subordinate struggled to find the right words, waving his hands in frustration as he tried to explain.
Kevira understood what his man was saying, but the notion seemed absurd. The Velvet Hills were not as hot as the coastal regions, but they certainly weren’t cold enough for such a thing to happen. It had been years since this place had even seen snow.
But then, his mind turned to Lynd and what he had said. After a brief moment of hesitation, Kevira gathered his men. He left a hundred behind to guard the floating stronghold and took nearly two hundred with him, following his scout toward Udawu’s camp.
However, they didn’t even reach the camp before they realized something was terribly wrong. The riverbanks were lined with trees, their branches heavy with ice and snow—an impossible sight in this region.
As their boats continued downstream, they were soon forced to dock. The river was frozen over with a solid sheet of ice. Some parts had fractured into floating chunks, but the ice still blocked the waterway completely, making further travel by boat impossible.
Once ashore, Kevira and his men followed the scout along the riverbank toward the confluence of the Little Rhoyne and Upper Rhoyne. He remembered there was a wide riverbank there—likely where Udawu had set up camp.
When they arrived, even though they had braced themselves, the scene before them still made them shudder.
From the frozen punts trapped in the ice to the men on board, everything was eerily still. Udawu’s forces—hundreds of his strongest cannibal warriors—stood frozen like statues. Death had claimed them in an instant, their faces twisted in terror. The ice had preserved their final expressions, locking their fear and despair in a moment of frozen horror.
Udawu himself stood at the center of the icy graveyard, his frozen form standing out among the others. His arms were raised, his mouth open in what seemed to be a desperate cry. His right hand was missing several fingers, as if something had been forcefully pried from his grasp.
Kevira stared at the chilling sight and immediately thought of Lynd. No one else could have wiped out Udawu’s forces in such a manner.
And at that moment, he knew that the stories about Lynd were true. He really did possess godlike power.
Kevira also recalled the deal he had made with Lynd. Before, he had felt that Lynd was simply taking advantage of his desperate situation. But now, he realized that agreeing to those terms might have been the smartest decision of his life.
Then, he remembered the other troubles still looming over him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the iron coin Lynd had given him, staring at it in his palm. If Lynd was right, this coin would be his salvation from the Faceless Men.
As Kevira turned the coin over in his hand, he failed to notice the subtle change in his bodyguard’s expression. The man’s eyes flickered toward the coin, his face betraying a trace of surprise.
...
Meanwhile, after dealing with the river pirate Udawu the day before, Lynd returned to his small boat. Using his telekinetic power, he propelled the vessel forward, gliding along the Upper Rhoyne toward the northern edge of the Velvet Hills.
According to the information provided by Kevira, a group of Dothraki warriors who frequently roamed between Norvos and Qohor were currently camped near the bottomless pool at the edge of the Velvet Hills.
Since he only had a general location and not an exact one, Lynd spent a full day and night searching after disembarking near the arch bridge on the Valyrian road before finally finding the bottomless pool Kevira had mentioned.
The pool was located near a canyon, surrounded by a ring of standing pillars. A lone female sphinx statue stood nearby, and the markings in the grass suggested that there had once been another sphinx statue beside it—likely a male counterpart.
Near the pool, about five hundred Dothraki warriors had set up camp. They were all adult men; there were no elderly, weak, or sick among them, nor were there any wagons or supplies. What stood out most was that all of them had their braids cut off.
When Lynd first laid eyes on the Dothraki, he had planned to deal with them the same way he had handled the river pirates the day before—using thick fog and frozen dragon runes to eliminate them, leaving only one or two survivors.
However, before he could act, he noticed something unusual. Among the Dothraki was a man dressed in the robes of a Maester, carefully recording the runes carved into the stone pillars by the pool. From the way the Dothraki treated him, it was clear that he was not their prisoner but rather a guest of special status.
Lynd became curious about the Maester’s identity. Anyone who could command the respect of a group of Dothraki was certainly no ordinary person.
Instead of attacking, he adjusted his approach. He descended from the hill where he had been observing, walking openly along the path toward the Dothraki camp.
The Dothraki quickly noticed him but saw nothing particularly strange about his appearance. The only thing unusual was the two greatswords strapped to his back, but even that was not unheard of. Ever since Lynd had risen to prominence, many mercenaries had started imitating his style, hoping to become the next Lynd. Most of them had died in battle, unable to wield such heavy weapons properly, and among sellswords, those who armed themselves with two Banished Knight’s greatswords were often mocked as fools.
The Dothraki seemed to think Lynd was just another one of these fools. They didn’t react aggressively or move to attack him—not because they were kind, but because, in their eyes, he was already theirs. Once they were ready to leave, they would capture him and sell him to slavers or mine owners for some extra coin.
Their undisguised malice did not escape Lynd’s notice. He saw their intent clearly, but he felt no differently toward them. As he made his way down the slope, he discreetly crushed several wax-sealed balls of sleeping powder, manipulating the wind to keep the fine dust swirling around his body. With every step, the powder spread outward, gradually drifting toward the Dothraki.
By the time Lynd reached the nearest warrior, the Dothraki raised his curved arakh, preparing to question him. But before he could utter a word, a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. His vision darkened, and he slumped forward onto his horse, instantly asleep.
One after another, the Dothraki behind him also collapsed.
The sudden, inexplicable event sent a ripple of panic through the remaining warriors. They shouted in Dothraki—words Lynd did not understand—while some scrambled onto their horses, trying to flee.
But it was too late. The moment Lynd had approached them, the sleeping powder had already dispersed through the air, carried by the gentle breeze. It had drifted over their heads, seeping into their lungs with every breath.
They didn’t make it far. One by one, they succumbed to the powder’s effects, slipping into unconsciousness and tumbling from their saddles. Some hit the ground so hard that their necks snapped, yet they remained in deep, unnatural slumber.
In mere moments, every Dothraki warrior lay sprawled across the ground, unmoving. The only ones left standing were Lynd and the Maester by the stone pillars.
To Lynd’s surprise, the Maester showed no fear at the sight of the fallen Dothraki. If anything, he looked excited. His eyes burned with intensity as he stared at Lynd, his expression filled with barely contained exhilaration—like someone who had just found an old friend.
But Lynd was certain he had never met this Maester before.
The man was short and stocky, with a thick neck that made him look more like a farmer or a blacksmith than a scholar. His face was rough and unappealing, his nose clearly broken in the past but never set properly, leaving it crooked and misshapen. Wisps of white hair sprouted from his ears and nostrils, giving him a comical appearance.
Yet, despite his odd looks, something else caught Lynd’s attention—around his neck hung a chain of silver and Valyrian steel links.
The sight of the Valyrian steel links triggered a thought in Lynd’s mind. In an instant, a name surfaced from his memory.
So, he stepped forward and asked tentatively, "Are you Maester Marwyn?"
"Yes," the short, stocky Maester nodded, then gave a slight bow. "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Lynd Tarran, the Chosen One."
"You know me?" Lynd asked, his tone laced with suspicion.
Maester Marwyn gestured toward the unconscious Dothraki around them and said, "The power to put all these Dothraki into a deep sleep must be some form of magic. As far as I know, there is no one else in the world who can wield magical power so freely—except for you. Not even the Shadowbinders, sorcerers, or warlocks of Asshai possess such an ability."
Lynd studied the man before him—the Maester he had spent years trying to find.
Several years ago, he had inquired about Maester Marwyn from both Malora and Qyburn, intending to recruit him into the Black Cave to work alongside them in the study of the occult and mystical sciences.
However, at that time, Marwyn had already departed for Essos, spending his time exploring ancient ruins deep in the continent’s interior. He rarely visited the coastal cities, making it nearly impossible for the Miracle Merchant Guild to track him down.
Lynd had never expected to find him here—or to meet him under such circumstances.
Marwyn was said to be the foremost scholar of the occult in the Citadel, a reputation even Malora had acknowledged. She had often praised his abilities, claiming that he surpassed her in the study of ancient mysteries.
When she had been researching the Sacrificial Slab, she had repeatedly mentioned that if Marwyn had been involved, their progress would have been significantly faster.
Moreover, Malora had once told Lynd that Marwyn’s departure from the Citadel was, in part, connected to her. She had invited him to study the arcane knowledge her family had collected in the Hightower, and he had accepted the offer without hesitation.
However, after some time, their research led to a fundamental disagreement. Marwyn believed that the esoteric texts preserved by House Hightower had been altered over the centuries, distorting their original meaning. He argued that the family had been pursuing the wrong path all along, which explained why they had never been able to unlock any true magical power.
In his view, the most valuable occult knowledge lay not in books but in the ruins of ancient civilizations. He believed that only by studying those remnants of the past could one hope to rediscover lost magical arts. With this conviction, he abandoned his work on existing manuscripts and devoted himself entirely to the exploration of long-forgotten ruins. Once he had exhausted all relevant texts available in the Citadel, he left Westeros behind and ventured into Essos.
Now, looking back, Lynd had to admit that Marwyn had a point. Many of the magical artifacts produced by the Black Cave were indeed tied to the ancient relic known as the Sacrificial Slab.
But Marwyn had also been mistaken about one crucial thing—the most important research subject had been right in front of him all along. There had been no need to scour Essos in search of lost ruins. He could have simply studied the Hightower itself.
The only difference was that, unlike Lynd, Marwyn lacked the eyes to perceive the magical runes hidden within its structure.
