"These… 'accessories' should not merely be cosmetics to remind others of my authority, Archmaester Gilbert, but also to remind myself. I had hoped you would have finally understood that."
Archmaester Culler gave an irritated huff and a roll of the eyes, which, though hidden by his Valyrian steel mask, was betrayed by the sharp jerk of his head and a tone of voice heavy with scorn. He walked with his crooked, shuffling gait until he was positioned exactly beside Archmaester Gilbert, staring down at the autopsy table.
"What suits you," Archmaester Gilbert replied dismissively, without so much as averting his eyes from the meticulous work his hands were performing. He made a brief gesture with his head toward the rest of the room. "You as well, Marwyn. Come closer."
Archmaester Culler's assistant, whose name now echoed in the silence of the room, moved with the characteristic, silent precision that defined him. Marwyn, with his thick neck and broad shoulders, stepped forward until he stood beside Archmaester Gilbert's assistant, Maester Ebrose. The four men formed a circle of grey robes and grim intentions around the subject of study.
The sight presented to Archmaester Culler and Marwyn was a brutal lesson in anatomy. Upon the oak table, the man was not merely dead; he had been transformed into a map of flesh and bone. The cadaver had not been opened only at the torso with the standard "Y" incision or the longitudinal opening common for examining internal organs. Archmaester Gilbert and Ebrose had gone much further. The skin of the thighs had been peeled back to the sides in perfectly symmetrical flaps, exposing the dense red fibers of the quadriceps and the white ribbon of the femoral nerve. The arms were extended and equally flayed, the epidermis detached down to the wrists, revealing the complex network of tendons that controlled the fingers and the striated musculature of the biceps.
It was a total exhibition of the human machine. The stomach and chest were wide open, the ribs sawed with surgical precision to allow an unimpeded view of the collapsed lungs and the still heart. Blood, though most of it had already been drained or coagulated, stained Archmaester Gilbert and Ebrose's hands up to their wrists. Archmaester Gilbert held a steel retractor in one hand and a fine scalpel in the other, tools that gleamed under the candlelight, ready for the next cut.
None of the four maesters showed the slightest sign of discomfort. To them, the metallic scent of blood and the sickly-sweet odor of exposed flesh were nothing more than variables in an experiment. Horror was an emotion for the uninitiated; there, in that room, there was only curiosity and the cold pursuit of answers.
Archmaester Culler tilted his head, the candlelight reflecting off the polished surface of his mask as he recognized the features of the man on the table. A flash of surprise crossed his voice, which came out higher than usual.
"Harys the Immortal? Was he finally recaptured?" The question was rhetorical, but it carried a weight of disbelief.
"He was recaptured two weeks ago," Archmaester Gilbert replied, his tone monotonous and laden with latent dissatisfaction. "This was duly reported to all members of the Conclave. You would know this too, Archmaester Culler, if you attended meetings with the regularity your position demands. Or, at the very least, if you allowed your assistant to attend and take notes on the discussion topics in your absence to pass them to you later. But your administrative negligence seems to be as vast as your knowledge of the higher mysteries."
Archmaester Culler ignored the comments about his behavior, his glass eyes, or whatever lay behind that mask, fixed on the corpse.
"Harys finally died, then," Archmaester Culler remarked, pointing the tip of his Valyrian steel staff at the man's open chest.
Archmaester Gilbert let out a long, weary sigh, the kind of sigh from a man who had already given up on trying to correct a stubborn colleague's manners. He wiped the scalpel on a cloth already soaked in red before responding.
"I decided that Harys had already performed all the necessary tests of endurance and vitality in life. He was a fascinating specimen, indeed, surviving wounds that would have killed three ordinary men, but the knowledge his survival offered reached a limit. I killed him to perform the autopsy and confirm my theories regarding the density of his musculature and the regeneration of his internal tissues."
Archmaester Gilbert finished speaking and delved back into his clinical silence. He did not reveal whether his theories were confirmed or if Harys's death had been in vain. Instead, he turned his attention to the cadaver's left arm. With almost artistic precision, he began to manipulate the tendons and exposed muscles of the opened bicep, observing how the movement of one affected the other, as if he were tuning the strings of a broken instrument.
Archmaester Culler watched his colleague's silence for several seconds. The anticipation of a scientific conclusion gnawed at him from within, contrasting with his haughty posture.
"And?" Archmaester Culler asked, the word coming out short and heavy with confusion.
Archmaester Gilbert halted his movement for an instant. He slowly raised his gaze, meeting the cold reflection of Archmaester Culler's mask. A tiny, sarcastic smile tugged at the corners of his wrinkled lips.
"So you do care," Archmaester Gilbert said, his voice dripping with subtle venom for having managed to extract a shred of genuine interest from the man who thought himself above everyone in the Citadel.
"I have been much busier with the changes brought by that meteor than you, Archmaester Gilbert," Archmaester Culler shot back, his voice vibrating with a restrained anger that made his order's chains jingle lightly against his chest. "While you amuse yourself cutting dead meat, I am trying to decipher all the changes wrought by the arrival of that meteor. The implications of that green light are vast and demand an attention that you, in your clinical myopia, could never comprehend."
Archmaester Gilbert wiped a drop of blood that had splattered onto his cheek with the back of his gloved hand, wearing a smile loaded with sarcasm.
"Certainly, your meetings with Lord Hightower are far too important to neglect your duties, obligations, and the vows you made to the order," Archmaester Gilbert said, his voice rising just enough to demonstrate his disdain. "The Hightower seems to have become your permanent residence, Archmaester Culler. Perhaps you should trade your maester's robes for the colors of House Hightower once and for all."
Archmaester Culler did not flinch. He struck his Valyrian steel staff against the stone floor, the sound echoing like a sentence through the dungeon walls.
"Ignoring the requests for meetings from my liege is what would go against the vows to place the order above all else," Archmaester Culler declared, his steel mask reflecting the torchlight in a menacing way. "Denying an audience to Leyton would place the Citadel under the direct and hostile scrutiny of the one who rules us. Furthermore, to waste the chance to guide our suzerain in the ways of the higher mysteries would be an unforgivable folly, especially in times like these."
Beside them, the atmosphere of hostility became almost palpable. Marwyn and Ebrose exchanged a quick, awkward glance. Ebrose averted his eyes to Harys's corpse, feigning a sudden interest in the femoral artery, while Marwyn simply maintained his rigid posture, feeling the weight of the argument between the two most powerful men in the room. The assistants' silence was a testament to the gravity of the quarrel; it was not common to see two Archmaesters trading insults in such a personal manner.
"The time dedicated to Leyton is not so long, nor so constant, that you cannot participate or, at the very least, stay informed of what occurs in the Conclave meetings," Archmaester Gilbert countered, his voice making it clear he didn't believe a single word of Archmaester Culler's justification. "You use politics as a smokescreen for your own absence. The Conclave demands reports, Archmaester Culler. It demands presence. And it demands that the higher mysteries not be the private property of a single man hidden at the top of a tower."
Archmaester Culler drew himself up, his hunch seeming less prominent in the face of his sudden surge of arrogance.
"The rest of my time is dedicated to my experiments, which are, without a doubt, the most important thing to me and to this Conclave," Archmaester Culler stated, with an authority that admitted no rebuttal. "What I do in my private laboratory dictates the relevance of this order to the future of Westeros."
Archmaester Gilbert stopped what he was doing entirely. He dropped the steel retractor onto the table, the metal clinking against the wood, and looked at Archmaester Culler with a smile that did not reach his eyes, the smile of someone who had just set a perfect trap.
"That is great, Archmaester Culler. Truly great," Archmaester Gilbert said, his voice now soft and dangerous. "Because I have just proven my theory, which means this research, this experiment, will be placed in your hands. I expect you to act according to your words and begin sharing your time with this experiment, because understanding how the rules of this physical enhancement work is very important, not only for the order, but also for the Lord Hightower you care so much about."
The silence in the autopsy room became as thick as the smell of blood and iron emanating from Harys's splayed body. Archmaester Culler, whose Valyrian steel mask usually projected an aura of invulnerability and absolute wisdom, felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature of the dungeons. He took a trembling step back, his Valyrian steel staff striking the stone with a hollow thud. His mind, always so organized and focused on the higher mysteries, felt like a whirlpool of fragmented theories that were now beginning to crumble.
"This... does this mean what I think it means, Archmaester Gilbert?" Archmaester Culler asked, his voice coming out in a raspy whisper. "Are you suggesting that the foundations of my research on comet-induced biological transmutation are..."
Archmaester Gilbert cut him off before he could finish the sentence, raising a red-gloved hand, Harys's blood trickled down his fingers like an hourglass that had run out of time.
"It means you were negligent, Archmaester Culler," Archmaester Gilbert declared, his monotonous voice now heavy with a gravity that sliced through the air. "After four years dedicated to nothing but this experiment, I can say with the authority that steel and flesh grant me: your explanation from four years ago, that the comet had positively altered the bodies of all living beings, was wrong. Or rather, partially wrong."
Archmaester Gilbert stepped away from the table, his old eyes fixed on the void as the memory of the last four years began to unfold before him like a stained parchment. He turned to Marwyn and Ebrose and spoke:
"You two were not yet part of the group, so I will explain everything from the beginning so that you understand. Shortly after the passage of the comet and that green light that tinted the sky like an open wound, the Citadel issued strict orders to our select sub-order of maesters who operate in the shadows and on the fringes. They were instructed to report any anomaly, no matter how small. And the reports came. Maesters in distant garrisons and right here, in the Reach, began to notice that common soldiers were performing feats that defied the logic of what they should achieve. Men whose biceps were no larger than a carpenter's were lifting iron gates; guards who should have been exhausted after a twelve-hour watch ran leagues without losing their breath. It did not align with what their muscles should have been capable of."
"That," Archmaester Gilbert remembered with a bitter smile, "piqued the voracious curiosity of the Citadel, which appointed Archmaester Archmaester Culler to verify the truth. Archmaester Culler, taking advantage of his intimate and privileged relationship with Lord Leyton Hightower, turned the Oldtown garrison into a living laboratory. He performed tests of strength, endurance, and speed. And, in his habitual haste to return to his own studies, Archmaester Culler proclaimed to the Conclave that the comet had altered the very biological essence of man. It was a mutation, he said. An evolution forced by the green light."
Archmaester Gilbert let out a dry laugh, devoid of any humor.
"I disagreed that day. I told you, Archmaester Culler, before the Conclave, that I had found no internal disparity in my autopsies. No new fibers, no denser bones. I argued that your conclusion was shallow and too fast, a convenient shortcut so you could return to your other studies without needing more exhaustive experiments. And what did you say to me, Archmaester Culler? You called me limited. You said I was out of my area of expertise, for the 'Higher Mysteries' were too complex to be analyzed with simple autopsies."
Archmaester Culler tried to look away, but Archmaester Gilbert continued, his voice rising in pitch, echoing off the stone walls.
"Your arrogance gave me the fuel I needed. The Conclave accepted your easy answer, so I dedicated the last four years to proving you were a fool. I picked up where you left off. I inherited your notes, your subjects of study in the garrison, and I began to observe what your myopia ignored. I noticed a pattern: only those of renown, the heroes, the leaders, the men whose names were whispered, possessed this strength and agility impossible for their stature. Those of lesser renown, the anonymous, did not have this gift."
He stopped before Archmaester Culler, his face illuminated by a grim satisfaction.
"For a time, I fell into a mental trap. I thought the comet had caused a person's renown to increase their physical capabilities. A mad theory, I know, which is why I did not report it. Wanting to know if the difference wasn't caused by mere laziness, I took men of lesser renown, recruits who had never set foot on a battlefield, and forced them through brutal physical exercises. At most, they equaled those of greater renown, but at no point did they gain capabilities beyond what their stature would allow. This meant that even if they reached the same physical capacities as those of renown, they were still inferior, since those with fame didn't need to perform such exhausting training to maintain their strength. Regardless, it only made it clear that the answer did not lie in physical exercise. This led me back to the question of fame, wanting to know if there was an internal difference; but since I could not dissect the men of Oldtown, I demanded that the bodies of renowned criminals be brought to me. I compared leaders and followers, people with no fame to their name... and I found nothing. Worse still: I didn't even know if those dead leaders were truly superhuman while they lived."
Archmaester Gilbert leaned over the table, pointing to Harys's open chest.
"This led me to an extreme plan: I would create my own renowned criminal. I used every favor, every debt the Citadel and Oldtown owed me to carry out this plan. You fought me, Archmaester Culler, do you remember? You were irritated at having your explanation exposed to scrutiny and tried to cut my support, but you failed. I hired mercenaries and sent them to hunt a band that was gaining notoriety in the Reach, which had Harys as its leader. After the first capture, he was nothing more than a common brute, and none of his followers exhibited physical capabilities above the normal for their build. So, I forged an error in the prison and allowed him and his band to escape."
Archmaester Gilbert smiled, a predatory gesture that did not reach his eyes.
"The last two and a half years were a theater. We tracked them, intercepted them to ensure he stayed within the borders of the Reach where I would have reach over them at all times, and we captured them only to let them escape again after performing physical exams, allowing him to return to being a criminal and raiding villages and caravans once more." He turned to Maesters Marwyn and Ebrose. "Three times. I did this three times. All with the permission of the Conclave and House Hightower, of course; without them, I would have been discovered and expelled from my position. As time passed, Harys gained fame and the epithet 'The Immortal.' He survived so many battles against knights and the forces of Lords weary of his attacks that almost all of Westeros believed he could not die, earning him the title. And as his fame grew, I tested him, and I noticed his capacity to go beyond what his body allowed was increasing more and more, to the point where he managed to cause over twenty casualties on his own during his last capture, if the reports are correct. And now, I killed him to see the final result of my research."
Archmaester Culler took a step forward, his voice trembling. "And what did you discover, Archmaester Gilbert? Did the anatomy change? Did fame turn bone into steel?"
"The theory of fame… Archmaester Archmaester Culler, I was wrong about that too. During the tests with Harys's band, I noticed something my initial theory didn't explain. Harys's followers, men whom no one knew, whose names were never spoken in taverns, also began to display physical capabilities far beyond what their bodies allowed. They were just as 'superhuman' as Harys himself, despite having no renown at all."
Archmaester Culler blinked, confused. "But if it isn't general biology and it isn't fame... then what is it? What changed in them?"
Archmaester Gilbert stepped closer, his face lit by the candlelight, his eyes shining with a dark truth.
"The struggle, Archmaester Culler. Mortal combat," Archmaester Gilbert revealed, each word weighing like lead. "According to all my tests and meticulous observations over these last four years, the only explanation for the increase in physical capacity comes from battles won. Fights where life is on the line. I discovered that only after winning mortal struggles does one receive this 'gift' granted by the comet. It is an enhancement that leaves no trace in dead flesh, but manifests in living flesh as a reward for survival and victory."
He paused, letting the implication sink into his rival's mind.
"I confused correlation with cause, Archmaester Culler. I thought fame caused strength, when, in truth, it is strength, gained through blood and victory in battle, that causes fame. The world now possesses a new and brutal rule: the more you fight and survive, the more the comet makes you capable of fighting and surviving. It is not a biological miracle, Archmaester Culler. It is another new law written into the fabric of reality. Another one you will have to study, but this time, with attention."
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