Marwyn the Mage
Before their departure, he didn't see his friend Pate, whom everyone called Piggy. And to the seven hells with it—he had no particular desire to look at that bland, dreamy mug of his again anyway.
After a hearty al at the Citadel, they set out from Oldtown, leaving behind its narrow and winding streets. Yet every one of them, like the houses, was laid in stone. How many other cities in Westeros could boast the sa? Perhaps only one capital.
From the very first minutes, Marwyn behaved with easy, unforced confidence. The Tyrells were mustering troops at Bitterbridge. The garrison of Oldtown had not been touched by the order, but an entire train of wagons filled with whores had headed that way instead. Everyone knew—where there was war, there was gold, and wine, and lust.
The Mage imdiately struck a bargain with the master of the wagon train and climbed into one of the carts. The face of usually impassive Alleras stretched in surprise when he realized the archmaester had no intention of teaching him anything, preferring instead the comforts of paid love, wine, and won's laughter.
Still, Alleras quickly understood why Marwyn truly needed him—to buy and fetch food, learn the latest news, stitch up tears in his cloak, light the fire at camp, and roast the at. What a damned useful journey this was turning out to be, and how much he had learned about Valyrian!
Slowly and unhurriedly, their train rolled across the boundless plains of the Reach. They passed Honeyholt, the ancestral seat of House Beesbury, set on the eastern bank of the Honeywine.
There were bivouacs beneath the open sky and nights when it seed that in all the wide world there existed only the stars, the fire, and the scent of bubbling stew. Those who had never been to the Reach did not know the fragrance of its grasses and adows, the taste of honey, clover, and poppies, the endless fields of golden wheat and rye, its shady forests and gentle rivers. Not for nothing did many call it the most peaceful and beautiful place in all of Westeros. Life here was easy and tranquil; provisions and wine were always plentiful, and the girls were smiling and willing. It was no wonder that more people lived here than anywhere else.
After Honeyholt, as they made their unhurried way along the Rose Road, Alleras brought a young man to the archmaester's wagon.
Marwyn had just stepped out to breathe so fresh air and cast a fleeting, yet attentive glance in his direction. Pale from lack of sunlight, with unhealthy, acne-scarred skin and grimy clothes in desperate need of washing, the young man seed vaguely familiar.
"This is Pate from the Citadel," Alleras said, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"Hold on—aren't you Archmaester Walgrave's apprentice?" Marwyn stepped off to the roadside and, grunting with satisfaction, relieved himself.
The road was busy, but despite his high rank, the archmaester behaved with complete ease. He also let out a deafening fart at the end, loud enough for the whole world to hear.
"Yes, ser, that's !" Pate spoke uncertainly, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. He looked pitiful.
"So what the fuck are you doing here?" Marwyn yawned. By and large, he didn't give a shit about this boy. He treated the Citadel's demands for discipline with utter indifference and disliked ddling in other people's affairs.
"Well, Piggy—sorry, Pate—ran away from the Citadel," Alleras smirked. "He decided that if, after so many years, he hadn't learned a thing and hadn't earned a single link, then there was no point in studying any further. Well? Why are you quiet?" He turned to the boy. "That's how it is, isn't it?"
"Yes, ser," Pate said, shrinking into himself. "The Seven are my witnesses, my studies never went well, though I tried. And I always dread of traveling."
"Is that so?" the Mage asked absently, sniffing the air. It slled of fresh porridge and toasted bread. "Fine. Stay with us. Alleras will explain what's what. By the way, don't forget to bring breakfast."
"Of course, Archmaester," the Sphinx nodded and tugged his companion by the sleeve. A smile blood on his lips—now he knew whom he could shove the nastiest chores onto.
"Thank you, Archmaester," Pate babbled gratefully. "I'll never forget your kindness!"
"Mm-hmm," Marwyn chuckled good-naturedly and climbed back into the wagon to finish reading an interesting book.
***
So ti later, they reached Highgarden—the majestic seat of House Tyrell, drowning in gardens and parks. It stood upon the banks of the Mander, and countless boats rocked upon the river's waves. By all appearances, the locals loved spending ti on the water, resting, amusing themselves, and simply talking.
Now, in the absence of Mace Tyrell, the whole Reach and Highgarden itself were ruled by his eldest son, Willas, who took a particular interest in welcoming stargazers and scholars, minstrels and travelers.
The Tyrells' own residence sprawled across a hill and was encircled by a separate wall. They rode past it, glimpsing only its many fountains, shady gazebos, and marble columns.
The bridge over the Mander was stone and wide enough for three wagons to ride abreast. Statues and lanterns lined its railings, the latter lit at night. Beneath the piers, built of massive stone "bulls," the river carried its waters unhurriedly westward, toward the Shield Islands.
And so they traveled on. Marwyn the Mage drank wine, fucked whores, roared out songs when the mood struck him, and read abstruse books. From ti to ti—usually during halts—he would scratch out letters or add a few more pages to his new book.
Alleras and Pate attended him, washing his clothes and fetching food. And all the while, they stared about them, taking in the world that had opened before their eyes.
(End of Chapter)
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