Fire and Blood

Chapter 8: Investigations and Ulterior Motives

Dragonstone ― Chamber of the Painted Table...

To many, the island of Dragonstone was just some damp and dreary rock in Blackwater Bay. But to those who lived there, it was more than just home, it was a place of mystery and wonder. The Dragonmont, the only volcano in Westeros loomed tall and at night a faint orange glow could be seen at the top, caused by the fire that swelled within. On the sides of the mountain, there were caves, some were home to the mighty dragons while others served as a hatchery for eggs, heated by the fire from the Dragonmont. Chunks of dragonglass could be found everywhere, in dazzling colors of green, black, red, and purple. Smooth the touch and sharper than any steel.

Small fishing villages dotted the island, occupied by men, women, and children whose blood, though diluted, was that of old Valyria. Silver hair and purple eyes were the norms among the people of this island, like those on Driftmark and Claw Isle.

But truly, the island fortress of Dragonstone was a remarkable sight. Built by sorcery and methods that were lost with the Doom of Valyria, its very presence was generated by fear and awe. Made entirely of jet-black stone, everywhere one looked, dragons dominated the architecture. Fierce beasts of every shape and size were carved into them. One could spend a lifetime there and never get a proper total of how many there were.

Dragonstone had been the last outpost of the Valyrian Freehold in the west and had thus been the only one to survive the cataclysmic Doom that had consumed the greatest empire in the world. It was to hear that Aenar the Exile had brought his family, his servants, and his Dragons. From here the last Dragonlords had rebuilt themselves and thrived until little more than a century ago, Aegon the Conqueror had set his eyes on greater glory. From Dragonstone he and his allies had turned the dream of a United Westeros into a reality. Now, while the heirs of Aegon ruled from King's Landing, their heirs resided on the island fortress as Prince of Dragonstone.

However, now, the Prince of Dragonstone was not present. And instead, governance of the castle, the Island, and all the people therein, fell to the castellan, the steward, and the maester. And at that time, the maester of Dragonstone, Alwyn was on Sea Dragon Tower. The mighty tower was shaped to look like a dragon gazing out calmly at the sea. In the topmost tower, just below the rookery, were Alwyn's chambers. The chamber was large and comfortable, though it was cramped, due in part to the many shelves that lined the walls. These shelves were crammed with books, scrolls, and maps. There were beakers and vials of various potions and medicines. Many more objects and materials filled the spaces on the shelves, each one with a specific purpose. A telescope specially modified stood by a window. There was a bed in the corner, carefully made but unoccupied. At another corner, sitting at a desk was Dragonstone's maester.

When one thought of a maester, they instantly thought of a stooped old man, with deep wrinkles and a long white beard. Alwyn was only 25 years of age, with sandy blonde hair and clear blue eyes. He had come up as the third son of a merchant in Gulltown, gone to the Citadel at the age of eight, earned his maester's chain, and was assigned to Dragonstone. His chain hung around his neck, the links clicking whenever he moved. Among the links was one of Valyrian steel, indicating his study of the higher mysteries at the citadel.

At his desk, his quill scratched on parchment. Alwyn was transcribing a book from the castle's library. It was written in High Valyrian and covered the history of the fourteen flames of Valyria. Though he could read, speak, and understand High Valyrian, many could not. He translated texts into the Common Tongue and sent them to the Citadel to be copied. He had been so engrossed in his work that he almost did not hear the knock at his door. Setting down his quill he called for the knocker to enter.

Maude, a heavy-set serving woman, entered. Her face was red and sweating from climbing the twisting steps of the tower. "Begging your pardon, but there are men here."

Alwyn cocked a brow, "Men?" He asked

"Aye, men from the capital, bearing the crest of the Hand of the King. They are in the Chamber of the Painted Table and are demanding to speak with you."

Alwyn pursed his lips together for a moment as he thought and then nodded. "Well, then I had best not keep them waiting," he said as he left his quarters. "Feed the ravens please while I am gone," he asked politely as he descended the stairs. He could guess why the Hand's men were here, news of what had happened in King's Landing spread faster than wildfire. Everyone had been gossiping and whispering about what was to happen next. Some had even suggested that war would soon follow. Alywn entered the Chamber of the Painted Table to find a group of men at arms standing there, all of them wearing the personal sigil of Otto Hightower, an open hand over the tower of Oldtown. "Gentlemen," he bowed his head "You requested to see me?"