The Ravenry, The Citadel.
The High Septon remained silent for a while before asking, "And will he win?"
Archmaester Vaemond did not answer immediately. He slowly sank back into his seat.
"The Blacks have only the support of the Riverlands and the Vale."
He paused, his lips twitching slightly.
"The North and the Stormlands remain largely neutral. The Greens control the Crownlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach. Aegon II's coronation is a fait accompli."
He lowered his gaze.
"But the war will not end quickly."
"The Greens have superior military strength, but the Blacks possess more dragons. The hatred between them is deep; neither side has a path for retreat."
"But if Aemond wins in the end..." Vaemond's voice dropped.
"He will use this war to forge his own prestige and crown. Already, the Lords of the Crownlands follow his lead. The Southern Lords listen only to him. Civil administration, military power, royal decrees, and intelligence, all flow through his hands alone. Aegon II is but a puppet."
He shook his head.
"This is no longer an aristocracy."
"He intends to make every soul in Westeros submit to his will alone." A moment of silence passed.
"That would be an even greater disaster."
The old Archmaester raised his eyes. "We should... secretly assist the Blacks."
The room fell into a collective silence. Then, Steward Noren opened his ledger.
"The North," he whispered.
"House Stark. Winterfell."
Maester Garth responded instantly: "Maester Reed has served at Winterfell for over thirty years. He has four assistants. Furthermore, White Harbor, Karhold, Deepwood Motte, Bear Island, Last Hearth, Torrhen's Square, and so on... all have Maesters in residence."
Noren did not look up. "And their reports?"
He flipped to a specific page, his finger resting on a row of fine figures.
"Population of the North. The last secret report from the Maesters was ten years ago. At that time, the total population of the North was approximately 1.12 million. Winterfell's direct holdings account for 180,000. White Harbor has about 100,000. The rest are scattered under various vassals."
He paused. "Food production. Arable land in the North accounts for only seven percent of the territory, concentrated along the White Knife. Annual grain production is less than two-tenths of that of the Riverlands. The Northerners survive on animal husbandry, fishing, and hunting, trading with the South for grain."
Noren closed the ledger and looked up.
"A long winter is coming."
"How long?" Vaemond asked.
"Star-charts from the astronomers show that the next long winter will begin in thirteen months." He paused for a beat.
"Based on celestial omens, this winter... will last at least four years."
Four years.
Noren reopened the ledger.
"The Northern tradition of storing grain is excellent. Every noble House has winter reserves. The ice cells beneath Winterfell can store two years' worth of supplies for the entire city: grain, salted meat, butter, cheese. But those are reserves Winterfell keeps for itself."
His finger slid across a line of numbers.
"Across the North, if there is no free influx of grain from the Southern Kingdoms or trade with the South, even with strict rationing, they can sustain their population for two years at most."
Garth interjected: "And this winter is four years long."
"A two-year gap."
"More than that," Noren shook his head.
"Half a year before winter officially arrives, the North must cease most outdoor labor." He closed the book.
"They will be without grain for nearly two and a half years. 1.12 million people. Without Southern grain..."
He stopped.
"A conservative estimate: at least half will starve to death."
When he finished, there was only silence. After a long while, the "White Raven" spoke.
"And what if the Iron Throne cuts off the food supply to the North at that moment?"
Noren's finger rested on the cover of the ledger.
"...Stark must make a choice. Either watch half the population of the North starve, or..."
He paused. "March South."
The High Septon nodded slowly. "That is exactly what I want."
Archmaester Vaemond closed his eyes.
"Your Holiness," the old man's voice was thin.
"Do you realize what you are doing?"
"I do," the High Septon said.
"We are forcing the Starks to call their banners."
"Not to call their banners," Vaemond opened his eyes.
"To struggle for survival." He gazed at the High Septon.
"And the people who provoked all of this—you, I, and everyone in this room—are the murderers of those people."
The High Septon did not look away.
"Archmaester Vaemond, you are right. People in the Crownlands will die. People in the Vale will die. People in the West, the Reach, the North, and the Riverlands will die. More will perish in dragonfire, in battle, from hunger, and from disease. This war will drain the lifeblood of the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused. "And it will drain the lifeblood of the Targaryens."
The High Septon paused, then repeated:
"But it is the Targaryens who caused all of this." His voice was not loud.
"A hundred years ago, Aegon Targaryen conquered the Seven Kingdoms on dragonback. There have been wise Targaryen Kings and foolish ones, merciful ones and tyrannical ones. But regardless of their character, they all shared one thing."
He raised his eyes.
"They possessed the power to destroy anyone who defied them at any moment."
His voice rose slightly.
"That is the problem. These madmen with dragons can decide the life and death of millions based on their passing mood. They treat the Seven Kingdoms as their playground, taking whatever they wish."
He looked at Vaemond. "You ask if I know what I am doing. I know."
He stopped for a long time.
"I am simply using these lives to buy a future for the Seven Kingdoms."
He paused. "Archmaester Vaemond, if it were you... would you make the trade?"
The old Archmaester was silent for a long time.
"I do not know." He lowered his eyelids.
"I have lived for over ninety years. I have seen too much death."
He looked at the High Septon, his eyes filled not with blame, but with exhaustion.
"The logic you speak of may be right. But I do not know if being 'right' is worth so many people dying."
The High Septon did not speak. Vaemond sighed softly.
"But I know I cannot stop you. The Church and the Citadel have cooperated for centuries, yet we have never been as candid as we are tonight. You have prepared for a long time. You will not abandon this because of the doubts of an old man." He paused.
"So, I will not stop you. I only ask one last thing."
The High Septon nodded.
"Is this for the Faith? Or for the Seven Kingdoms?"
The High Septon was silent for a long time. Then, he uttered two words in a deep voice.
"The Kingdoms."
Archmaester Vaemond listened and nodded.
"Grand Maester. The seat of Grand Maester in the Red Keep is currently vacant. This person will be our eyes and ears planted in the heart of the Greens."
Vaemond turned to Garth. "Are you willing to take up this mantle?"
Maester Garth did not answer immediately. He knew where he would be going and what that position would have to face.
"Are you unwilling?"
Garth fell into hesitation.
Vaemond only sighed, pressing him no further.
"...Let it be me."
The middle-aged Maester, the "White Raven," spoke up.
"Very well." Vaemond looked at him.
"Prince Aemond is not a fool; he is very clever. But his brother, Aegon II, is a dullard. Though the North has not clearly taken a side, neither the Blacks nor the Greens dare push them too hard. What you must do is simple..."
"Wait for Prince Aemond to lead his army away from King's Landing. Then, find an opportunity to persuade Aegon II to cease the free delivery of winter grain to the North."
"Will Aegon II do such a thing?"
"He is a fool; that depends on your ability. Simultaneously, ensure the Southern Lords are forbidden from shipping grain to the North."
He paused.
"Stark will be furious. Stark will call his banners. The Northerners will believe that the Iron Throne has betrayed them, that it is intentionally letting the people of the North starve to death."
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